Greetings, O my dear tutelae! (That means objects of my protection and patronage). It is a lovely day where I am. I never noticed before how beautiful the Spokane area is, and I don't know why. My attic commands a view of the surrounding hills and rooftops and they look very remote, enforcing the impression of a sheltered valley beyond which There Be Dragons (in the very best sense; dragons one can desire passionately, just not in one's front yard, to paraphrase the good JRR.)
This is very pleasing. And we are all about the pleasure here.
Classes proceed apace. There is something very satisfying about fall, but also something tormenting in its depths of restlessness and melancholy. For one thing, to be proceding from class to class, getting one's days into a rhythm that one manages effortlessly, as one manages one's breath, feeling the pleasant exhaustion of a full day well spent and good work done skillfully are all necessary elements of a good, happy, and productive life and autumn seems to be their season -- whether by nature or by use or both, dead leaves and crisp mornings cry out for industry. Also, jackets. These are important.
However, the weather does odd things to me. Fog, rain, twilights and grey dawns, foreign winds, the slant of the sun through the clouds, the smell of the air just after sundown before it gets really cold -- it engenders a terrible wanderlust. Fortasse (that's 'perhaps') this has something to do with Halloween, particularly black and white horror movies, the aesthetic of which I'm afraid I never quite recovered from. Fall to me says that hey, maybe your next-door neighbor really is a werewolf after all, maybe there is something in the music building watching you, maybe your lights keep going out because demon badgers are in your basement trying to lure you down to the breaker box so they can pounce on you. Maybe the whole world is illuminated with terrifying but splendid things.
For some reason, thoughts of terror are more pleasing to me in fall than in winter. I propose that there is a reason -- a complicated one -- for this. For one thing, fall is melancholy. It is the moment where summer turns, as it must, to decay, and it is the knowledge of this incipiant mortality that makes the whole three months beautifully sad. However, winter is not melancholy; it is despair. I suspect that I must have a little SAD, because sometimes it's all I can do to get through the winter months. They seem to me not sad but bitterly ugly and mundane. They inspire not reflection or restlessness of spirit but anger laid over a core of apathy. Winter says this is your life; it is miserable and changeless and terribly trivial.
Fall is, in essence, a Danish or an Icelandic warrior. It says: we are ending, we are dying, and this is a great sorrow because life is glorious, but it is also an honor and a pleasure because life is most glorious in proximity to death. The sun is most beautiful breaking through clouds; the trees are most beautiful when their leaves die. For this reason, horror as genre thrives in fall, where death is close but beauty closer. Winter is not a time to engage in horror as genre. It is horror as life, the ninth circle of hell. (Can you tell I really don't like winter?)
To sum up, contemplating fallish things, I am filled with a visceral longing for something (though I'm blessed if I know what). CS Lewis defines joy as a painful sensation that we crave; fall, then, is very joyful.
Now for a more serious matter, which I call The Snarling Id is a Misogynist Bastard Take Two.
It involves sartorial considerations and the frequent abuses of the words Modesty, Chastity, and Humility. As before, this issue seems to divide the world into two camps, both of which are, in their extremer forms, intolerably smug. I hereby attempt to hash out a via media (that's 'middle way') that, to my mind, more accurately represents what most people on both sides of the issue actually feel and do in relation to what they choose to put on in the morning.
The first camp (the 'traditional' camp) says that one should dress like a lady and/or gentleman (but mostly like a lady). It basically says that since men are pigs, women are under an obligation to cover up...and cover up... and cover up some more. There is a problem with this: in today's world (yeah, yeah, I know, modernity is bunk, but unfortunately we inhabit it, or something close thereto) the women who wear very plain-Jane clothes (invariably long skirts, shirts that are not merely reasonable but cocoon-like) run the risk of calling attention to themselves as "very definitively NOT sexual objects." I feel like this is something akin to telling all the men of the world not to think of pink...elephants. They're going to be thinking about the ...elephants -- maybe not with regards to the ubermodest one who walks by them, but all of a sudden the ...elephant of women and how they look in their clothes has been brought to mind, and the next five leggings-and-UGGs girls who walk by are going to be seen in relation to ...elephants.
Additionally, and now this is just amoral ranting and personal aesthetic preference (which is what the Snarling Id is about), there's something very off-puttingly... pious about the obviously modest girls. I don't mean pious as in having an understandable fear of and reverence for things regarded as sacred; not in the sense of "pietas Aeneas" or whathaveyou. I mean it in the worst sense, the sense that gets used most nowadays, that of holier-than-thou snobbery or smiling brainwashed obedience to arbitrary authority.
I think I've probably offended the first half of my reader base by now, so I'll clarify: I admire the girls willing to stick it to the culture that says women are only valued in relation to their boobage and do not mean to suggest that all of them are passive-aggressive snobs. But sometimes it can seem that way, and I think sometimes a "false dichotomy" is introduced (I quotesmark that phrase because someone used it near me recently and that's why it comes to mind, not because of any native genius) between the culturally prescribed clothing norms and respect of oneself and one's body.
The final issue with this is its inescapable sexism. Yes, guys are a more visual species (term used loosely) and more easily led to objectify women, so yes, chicks have more sartorial power than guys. BUT. You honestly cannot tell me that women are not... more than academically interested when guys in rather brief shorts and no shirts at all are diving and flailing upon the field of battle... or, okay, of soccer. The existence of male strippers proves that men and their clothing can be just as provocative as women. And I don't think you're going to be able to convince men to worry about their virtue. Further, what of the material goods that science says function in much the same way for women as physical, um, goods do for men? Are we going to decry Lamborghinis as immodest and unchaste? How about eye contact and romantic poetry? The color red?
On the other hand (and, again, more insidiously) there is the "modern" world which says in essence, "Hey, I dress how I feel comfortable, and that's my decision, so you have no right to judge me."
There are problems with this.
First of all, I do have the right to judge you, as a person, by the choices you make and actions you perform. I can't judge you as subhuman but I can judge you as acting idiotically. And your decision to wear bondage gear (or a sports bra and unnecessarily tiny running shorts) to statistics class today is (I'm sorry) fair grounds upon which I may judge your mental state, the message you wish to send, and your overall classiness.
So there's that out of the way.
Secondly, I'd like to discuss class, a word often tossed cavalierly about but having a variety of shades of meaning. First of all, there is the unclassiness of sluttery. This is its own special category, because most of the girls who wear the teeny tiny stuff -- you know, the egregious stuff, the stuff that makes other women go "Really?" and men... either pigs, or very sad gentlemen -- right, these girls deserve our...I don't want to say "pity" because for me that's really close to "scorn"... perhaps sympathy? I mean, they're looking for attention. We all know it's not a kind of attention we'd want, but maybe it's the only thing they can think of. I don't think they get up in the mornings and think, "Wow, I'd like some shallow offensive meaningless interaction today!" It's probably closer to what most of us are thinking: "Sweet Cheesecake, I'm so inadequate. What happens if today they find out how much I suck? Why does no one quite get me?" And I humbly suggest that the reason we're so infuriated by this kind of cry for attention is because a) it works and b) somewhere deep down inside we're all terribly jealous.
I don't know if any guys even bother reading this, but I can't speak for you. Men trying to be decent human beings will probably try to resist the urge to blatantly ogle the unfortunate, just as girls trying to be decent resist the temptation to enslave you all with our cleavage. The INdecent of both genders are more to be pitied (there, I said it!) than cast into the outer darkness.
No, the true, deep, and insidious threat to class is in the laziness to which this kind of "whatever screw you it's my choice" paradigm has led us. The problem I have with girls in Uggs and leggings is the same problem I have with guys in basketball shorts and stained tees. I mean, who are they trying to impress?
No one.
And they don't care who knows it.
The true issue for me is not whether or not one dresses in such a way as to conceal or highlight one's sexual beauty. The issue here is modesty, chastity, and humility -- in their purest sense. People seem to think that modest dressing equals blatantly prudish. For me, modesty most closely means humility. Say two people are going to be introduced to the president. One decides to be classy and dresses in a nice suit and does his hair. The other rolls out of bed and shows up in (I don't want to belabor the point) basketball shorts and a stained tee. Who has more respect for the president?
Furthermore: it's one thing to dress crappy because that's all you can afford. But I feel like next to no one in the First World has this problem. In many cases, a cheap but decent suit can be had for infinitely less than we spend on designer jeans and tee shirts or (heaven forfend) Juicy Couture velveteen sweat suits. It's like we spend more money showing how casual we are, how we don't seem to be impressed enough by anyone or anything to make an effort to neaten up.
That's why I think we should be bothered by the cult of just "letting it all hang loose": not because it will drag us down the slippery slope into moral and sexual turpitude, but because it shows how self-absorbed, lazy, and undisciplined we are; how much our self-esteem outweighs our self-respect; how numb we are to the distinctions of attitude we should have when approaching different activities. You cannot go through all of life with the same amount of concern and engagement you have on a trip to the gym or a Saturday morning hanging with your peeps in front of the TV.
A final note in defense of baring tasteful amounts of skin. As much as I want to be appreciated for my mind and heart, I also NEED to be appreciated as beautiful in the aesthetic/sexual sphere. As an incarnate person (or, to state it another way, a highly developed neurotic ape) I possess a body which itself possesses sexual traits, and these are good and beautiful. Not to be squandered in some futile plea for attention, not to be diligently concealed, but to be appreciated. It's possible I'm simply very insecure and desperately trying to justify my scandalous ways. But I'm gonna say it: I try to dress so that a) all the important bits are given their due respect and b) when I walk down the street, guys look up and maybe think, "Hm. Not bad."
So, yeah. Everyone dress up a little tomorrow. Jackets are good.
I leave you with a song that expresses the frustrations of many chicks (and maybe some guys?), a chance for P!nk to redeem herself.
Valete.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Gettin' Schooled
Today marks my survival of the third week of my junior year. And for a while there, it wasn't a sure thing that I'd make it through sanity intact.
My schedule has been tampered with (by myself), leading to a most irresponsible abandonment of social science credit for the pure pleasure that is Greek. (Divide those double consonants, my fellow Hellenist brethren!) My gluttony for punishment has led to much lunchtime and nighttime meeting for discussion with friends and club officers. My brain is overstimulated. My wallet grows ever thinner. And I have picked up a pesky tendency towards insomnia.
Despite all this I find myself radiantly happy.
I have a room all to myself this year, which is helpful when you're a privacy-craving and self-embarrassing shy creature like myself. The house on Sinto has been called a social experiment, and so far it is proving a successful one. Food is good. Classes are, for the most part, scintillating (though workload is a wee bit intense). I have...a few jobs, actually, which is good, though none of them have actually started paying me yet. That should start soon, though, and then I shall have great rejoicing and more than my currently ridiculously meagre balance to purchase Jackhammers with.
Additionally, I keep falling in love. Like a ridiculous amount. Like five times a week with different people. So far I have done nothing about this; defense of reasons below. Love is a terrible thing; never do it. But the male gender is beautiful and worshipful, especially when you catch them eyeing you with a certain dumb reverence, or when you startle them into smiling, or when you find yourself having conversations about megaphones with ones you've never (or only just) met. You know, I used to think that there were just not any good (moderately intelligent good-looking good-hearted) boys in the world. Now I begin to suspect that there are many who meet at least the minimal criteria.
To any who suffer for what seems to be a dearth of male attention I prescribe the following program:
1) Become convinced that you are a catch. It is not enough to think of yourself as tolerable, or even " better than the airhead bimbos who go through beaus like I go through Baudelaire." You are witty, smart, sensible, capable, confident, drop-dead gorgeous, and decent, and any guy with the self-awareness of a turnip would be flabbergasted by his good fortune should he land you.
2) However long you spend getting ready in the morning, take another three minutes.
3) Keep your head up and smile at everyone you make eye contact with. Smile deeply into the eyes of (and perhaps wave slightly at) anyone you think particularly interesting.
Now sit back and be astonished at the many random encounters with decent people, at least half of which should be of your gender of attraction, you have.
Not that I am saying this is a surefire way of finding one's soulmate on the first time round. In fact, being a single gal with pretensions to a wedded vocation, this idea has preyed upon my mind somewhat of late, and therefore we come to the first tentative proposition of this post.
I call it, "The Snarling Id is a misogynist bastard."
Now, ladies: the world is wretchedly unfair. Women achieve emotional maturity at around age 11, and as far as I can tell, men never do. (Poop. See, if you're a guy and you read that, you're laughing now.) Women are obliged to spend half an hour minimum every day touching up their appearances before entering the marketplace of commodified bodies, like Lady Gaga and the creepy Rape Auction in the "Bad Romance" music video, whereas men get kudos if they've showered in the past week. And added to this, women on the dating scene operate in some sort of weird limbo between different paradigms. One says women must allow men to make the decisions, because...well, to be honest, I have a hard time getting a straight answer on the "because."
However, the other is more nefarious. It tells us that we should reclaim our power when it comes to dating. It tells us men appreciate confident women who make the first move, that we can be sexy if we do that. It tells us that in addition to being fiscally independent, we should make a big deal out of this by paying our way. It, in sum, tells us that since men are so mind-bogglingly incompetent/underconfident/selfish/insensitive/ what-have-you, we should just take over dating from their sad chocolate-stained little-boy hands, like we're in the process of taking over money, the arts, higher education, ethics, and general personal development.
And all this sounds really convenient. Except now what do the men have to do except shrug off responsibility in yet another sphere?
This is where I probably start alienating the readers. And I don't want to do that, because I am extremely sympathetic to this urge. I've seen enough male incompetence in the social scene (lord, come up to my ROOM, we can TALK about male incompetence) to be extremely tempted to just say "screw it" and orchestrate a romance -- ensnare a victim. But here's the crux: I can't do it. While I'm busy showing boys how to fix their essays and arguing theology with them and writing better fiction than them and dressing far snazzier than them, I don't also have time to effect a seduction. It makes me feel all tight and sick and miserable inside when I try. I love admiring boys, but when I add "convince one to ask me out and make him think it was all his idea" to my list of "things I do with men," (minds out of the gutter) it melts my day. It turns me into an insecure and shallow person of about age 12, analyzing every twitch of the face instead of composing my epic poem about the Missoula Floods. In sum, when I try to take over from boys in the dating sphere, I just end up resubjugating myself.
(Is 'resubjugating' a word? It should be. So too should 'scagwad,' as in, 'Eat plaster, you scagwads!' I hope one of these catches on.)
Speaking of scagwads -- has anyone thought that maybe, what with all the vital societal work that women do silently, efficiently, as easily as breathing, for millenia, maybe it's not entirely too much to expect a young man, even a confused and immature young man (because is there really any other kind?) to put on real clothes, risk vulnerability and rejection, approach a nice young lady, and offer to buy her coffee? Is it SO much to ask that boys do their fair share and engage in some courtship rituals? I don't think so. And I've realized that I don't want to be in a relationship dependant on my own clever engineering and mind control. I want a boy so devastated by my grasp of literary theory (or perhaps simply my liquid eyes and slammin' bod) that he is willing and eager to make a bit of effort so he might, quote, "get with this."
So as part of my personal women's lib, I have decided to engage in a social experiment. For one year, I shall confine my boyhunting to the general 3-step program outlined above. And in terms of initiating encounters, I shall restrain myself to that. Want to talk after class? Walk fast and catch up, cause I ain't lingering. Want to go somewhere, drink something? Great, you're paying/driving/deciding what and where. I refuse to keep mooning about. I am too damn busy to chase you. I am ready to be wooed. My motives here are purely selfish and mostly worldly, so I don't want this to read like some fluffy soft prairie-skirt Christian pseudo-chivalry code. I'd just like some class, and for some reason I don't think I'm particularly out of touch on this issue.
Savvy?
And if, after one year, this has failed to get me a decent date with a guy I actually don't hate/feel super-awkward around, then, come next September, I will get schmammered and slizzared at the Honors Program retreat and make it to first base with the first freshman male who's taller than me.
As a parting shot, I offer TLC and their thoughts on the male-female dynamic and power differential. Take it away, ladies.
Good night, good luck, and everyone remember to use the word scagwad in conversation.
My schedule has been tampered with (by myself), leading to a most irresponsible abandonment of social science credit for the pure pleasure that is Greek. (Divide those double consonants, my fellow Hellenist brethren!) My gluttony for punishment has led to much lunchtime and nighttime meeting for discussion with friends and club officers. My brain is overstimulated. My wallet grows ever thinner. And I have picked up a pesky tendency towards insomnia.
Despite all this I find myself radiantly happy.
I have a room all to myself this year, which is helpful when you're a privacy-craving and self-embarrassing shy creature like myself. The house on Sinto has been called a social experiment, and so far it is proving a successful one. Food is good. Classes are, for the most part, scintillating (though workload is a wee bit intense). I have...a few jobs, actually, which is good, though none of them have actually started paying me yet. That should start soon, though, and then I shall have great rejoicing and more than my currently ridiculously meagre balance to purchase Jackhammers with.
Additionally, I keep falling in love. Like a ridiculous amount. Like five times a week with different people. So far I have done nothing about this; defense of reasons below. Love is a terrible thing; never do it. But the male gender is beautiful and worshipful, especially when you catch them eyeing you with a certain dumb reverence, or when you startle them into smiling, or when you find yourself having conversations about megaphones with ones you've never (or only just) met. You know, I used to think that there were just not any good (moderately intelligent good-looking good-hearted) boys in the world. Now I begin to suspect that there are many who meet at least the minimal criteria.
To any who suffer for what seems to be a dearth of male attention I prescribe the following program:
1) Become convinced that you are a catch. It is not enough to think of yourself as tolerable, or even " better than the airhead bimbos who go through beaus like I go through Baudelaire." You are witty, smart, sensible, capable, confident, drop-dead gorgeous, and decent, and any guy with the self-awareness of a turnip would be flabbergasted by his good fortune should he land you.
2) However long you spend getting ready in the morning, take another three minutes.
3) Keep your head up and smile at everyone you make eye contact with. Smile deeply into the eyes of (and perhaps wave slightly at) anyone you think particularly interesting.
Now sit back and be astonished at the many random encounters with decent people, at least half of which should be of your gender of attraction, you have.
Not that I am saying this is a surefire way of finding one's soulmate on the first time round. In fact, being a single gal with pretensions to a wedded vocation, this idea has preyed upon my mind somewhat of late, and therefore we come to the first tentative proposition of this post.
I call it, "The Snarling Id is a misogynist bastard."
Now, ladies: the world is wretchedly unfair. Women achieve emotional maturity at around age 11, and as far as I can tell, men never do. (Poop. See, if you're a guy and you read that, you're laughing now.) Women are obliged to spend half an hour minimum every day touching up their appearances before entering the marketplace of commodified bodies, like Lady Gaga and the creepy Rape Auction in the "Bad Romance" music video, whereas men get kudos if they've showered in the past week. And added to this, women on the dating scene operate in some sort of weird limbo between different paradigms. One says women must allow men to make the decisions, because...well, to be honest, I have a hard time getting a straight answer on the "because."
However, the other is more nefarious. It tells us that we should reclaim our power when it comes to dating. It tells us men appreciate confident women who make the first move, that we can be sexy if we do that. It tells us that in addition to being fiscally independent, we should make a big deal out of this by paying our way. It, in sum, tells us that since men are so mind-bogglingly incompetent/underconfident/selfish/insensitive/ what-have-you, we should just take over dating from their sad chocolate-stained little-boy hands, like we're in the process of taking over money, the arts, higher education, ethics, and general personal development.
And all this sounds really convenient. Except now what do the men have to do except shrug off responsibility in yet another sphere?
This is where I probably start alienating the readers. And I don't want to do that, because I am extremely sympathetic to this urge. I've seen enough male incompetence in the social scene (lord, come up to my ROOM, we can TALK about male incompetence) to be extremely tempted to just say "screw it" and orchestrate a romance -- ensnare a victim. But here's the crux: I can't do it. While I'm busy showing boys how to fix their essays and arguing theology with them and writing better fiction than them and dressing far snazzier than them, I don't also have time to effect a seduction. It makes me feel all tight and sick and miserable inside when I try. I love admiring boys, but when I add "convince one to ask me out and make him think it was all his idea" to my list of "things I do with men," (minds out of the gutter) it melts my day. It turns me into an insecure and shallow person of about age 12, analyzing every twitch of the face instead of composing my epic poem about the Missoula Floods. In sum, when I try to take over from boys in the dating sphere, I just end up resubjugating myself.
(Is 'resubjugating' a word? It should be. So too should 'scagwad,' as in, 'Eat plaster, you scagwads!' I hope one of these catches on.)
Speaking of scagwads -- has anyone thought that maybe, what with all the vital societal work that women do silently, efficiently, as easily as breathing, for millenia, maybe it's not entirely too much to expect a young man, even a confused and immature young man (because is there really any other kind?) to put on real clothes, risk vulnerability and rejection, approach a nice young lady, and offer to buy her coffee? Is it SO much to ask that boys do their fair share and engage in some courtship rituals? I don't think so. And I've realized that I don't want to be in a relationship dependant on my own clever engineering and mind control. I want a boy so devastated by my grasp of literary theory (or perhaps simply my liquid eyes and slammin' bod) that he is willing and eager to make a bit of effort so he might, quote, "get with this."
So as part of my personal women's lib, I have decided to engage in a social experiment. For one year, I shall confine my boyhunting to the general 3-step program outlined above. And in terms of initiating encounters, I shall restrain myself to that. Want to talk after class? Walk fast and catch up, cause I ain't lingering. Want to go somewhere, drink something? Great, you're paying/driving/deciding what and where. I refuse to keep mooning about. I am too damn busy to chase you. I am ready to be wooed. My motives here are purely selfish and mostly worldly, so I don't want this to read like some fluffy soft prairie-skirt Christian pseudo-chivalry code. I'd just like some class, and for some reason I don't think I'm particularly out of touch on this issue.
Savvy?
And if, after one year, this has failed to get me a decent date with a guy I actually don't hate/feel super-awkward around, then, come next September, I will get schmammered and slizzared at the Honors Program retreat and make it to first base with the first freshman male who's taller than me.
As a parting shot, I offer TLC and their thoughts on the male-female dynamic and power differential. Take it away, ladies.
Good night, good luck, and everyone remember to use the word scagwad in conversation.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Declining Pronouns is Good for the Soul!
Or, My Doomed Excursions Into the Wondrous World of Conlang.
For my sweet innocent uncorrupted readers who know not what "conlang" signifies, I shall explain: conlang is a portmanteau of "constructed" and "language." In other words, it's that making-up-private-languages thing that only really dyed in the wool geeks can get into.
I'm footling around in it right now because it's about as much guilty pleasure as watching Jersey Shore while eating Chubby Hubby from the carton, and also to see if I can. There are different varieties of conlanging -- there's "auxlang," for instance, which is the development of a sort of lingua franca (usually Romance-based)that can be used for international communication, to further human knowledge and enlightened cultural exchange. Esperanto is the most well-known of these. Then there's "artlang," which has no higher purpose than "it's fun and I can make it do what I want, vwahaha." As usual, Wikipedia has more answers on this subject, should you seek them.
I've been working on this for a while now, following in the footsteps of my spiritual bff the great Dr. JRR, but recently I've had some time to get serious, and some assistance from the Language Construction Kit (which I ordered in book form as an early Christmas present to myself; highly recommended.) Bulleted below are my reflections on this process.
First, the b!^(#ing: For the many people who do artlang right, there are so so many (published) people who do it in a way that saddens me. I do not wish to be an unmitigated sourpuss... okay, yes I do. Christopher Paolini, here's looking at you, kid. I'm looking through the appendices to Eldest right now, and though I'm getting some threads of linguistic continuity, I'm also made a bit nervous by the fact that so many of his nouns seem to be verbs too (ex. skolir is glossed as shield [the noun? the verb?] and directly under that is used as an imperative, Skolir nosu..., Shield us....). Additionally, there seems to be a fairly one-to-one correspondance between the English words and their Ancient Language correspondents...which seems a bit unlikely... and even in the fairly limited vocabulary given there's at least one unexplained redundancy that my rather cursory look-over can find: malthinae is glossed as "to bind or hold in place; confine," but elsewhere the phrase "Brakka du vanyali sem huildar Saphira un eka," "Reduce the magic that holds Saphira and me," shows no sign of malthinae for "hold." Indeed, hold is probably "huildar," since the one-to-one correspondence with the translation would seem to indicate so, and because it sounds like the word "hold" rolled around on the tongue until it sounds just different enough to be unrecognizable and then stitched into the language.
Related note: eka, presumably "me," is also used as "I" later on. Presumably the Ancient Language has no respect for grammatical case (even less respect than that shown in English). Of course, that's perfectly okay. It's just a little...well... boring, don't you think? Especially considering that the Dwarvish (Dwarfish?) language seems to have a similar problem and a not-terribly-distinct phonology.
Less-related-but-still-pertinent note: All fantasy dwarves are the same. They're gruff, cunning, conniving, gold-hungry, honor-silly buggers who fight with axes and speak Nordically with lots of x's and z's and v's. Now, granted, folklore provides us with reason for the one, and Tolkien's Khuzdul (with its Barazinbar, Kibil-Nala and felak-gundu) with reason for the other. But wouldn't it be nifty if for once the Dwarves were more poetical and spoke a fluid, flowing language, soft as the flow of magma, swift as the wind that shapes the living earth, graceful as the spires of rock that grow in the cavernous gardens of the deep? I'm just saying. If you're gonna have dwarves, and you don't want to be called out as a stereotypical High Fantasy knockoff, well, why not? (And make the Elves nasty, why don't you?)
Still-tangential-but-perhaps-slightly-more-relevant note: The Dwarvish Mythology includes a "Morgothal," god of fire and brother of the god of air. It also includes a god who secretly creates the first Dwarves, which are then supplanted by the Elves, children of the Skyfather Zeus equivalent. Someone didn't just finish reading the Silmarillion (in which Morgoth, the fiery wad of Evil Incarnate, is a "brother in the thought of Eru" to Manwe, god of winds, and Aule gets in trouble for making Durin &Co before Eru creates the Elves), did he? Oh, no....
Plagiarizing bastard.
Sorry. I really really don't like Chris Paolini. Painful lack of skill I could empathize with. Mediocrity hailed by the slavering masses as genius I cannot.
Now we've got that out of the way, let's talk about me and my problems!
~ The Language Construction Kit (LCK) advises that like all things, one gets better at doing languages as one progresses, and advises starting with perhaps an "offstage" language so you don't end up several years down the line stuck with a well-developed and frequently-used language that has at its core some newbie mistakes, while your sophisticated and fascinating later languages are doomed to languish in relative obscurity as the mother-tongues of the Long-Dead or Foreign. Fair enough; instead of jumping right in and starting work on the lingua of linguas, I 've been chipping away at a language theoretically prescribed to an culture I don't much care for, with a horrifically complex and cosmopolitan history that will hopefully disguise or excuse any errors. Problem is, my motivation at times wanes apace. I don't want to work on the language I'm specifically designing to be a little naive or ugly. I want to fill it full of liquid consonants and baroque case systems! (But that's for later, I keep telling myself. Later....)
~Cases: oh my good golly gosh. I didn't know about the ergative/absolutive alternative to nominative/accusative! Whee!
~Verbs: verbs suck. You have to make so many decisions. I'm going with a simpler model and I keep telling myself that this is okay, that English verbs are even less complex. But the siren wail of Latin with its four conjugations and its Moods and Persons and Numbers and Voices and Principle Parts cries out to me. Trouble is, I know Latin well enough to know that its motivation is to shatter me against the linguistic Jetty of Despair.
~Even though I've got a rough system worked out for the verbing, and it ought to work -- indeed, I have not (yet) seen indications that it does not work -- it looks -- icky. It looks, frankly, like something I made up, which, okay, it is. But that's not the point!
~Phonology: this sucks as well. I fear I may have too many sounds. But I don't want to just eliminate them randomly. I want it to make sense, darnit!
In sum, I fear I am attempting once again to force order onto something fundamentally chaotic, and it's going to be...fun.
Enough of that. Time for the Adorable Large Dog Breed of the Week/Month/Year!
The Neapolitan Mastiff. IT'S SO WRINKLY I'M GONNA DIE.
Thank you, once again, ladies and gentlemen, for enduring this episode of I Air My Opinions, Totally Un-asked-for.
For my sweet innocent uncorrupted readers who know not what "conlang" signifies, I shall explain: conlang is a portmanteau of "constructed" and "language." In other words, it's that making-up-private-languages thing that only really dyed in the wool geeks can get into.
I'm footling around in it right now because it's about as much guilty pleasure as watching Jersey Shore while eating Chubby Hubby from the carton, and also to see if I can. There are different varieties of conlanging -- there's "auxlang," for instance, which is the development of a sort of lingua franca (usually Romance-based)that can be used for international communication, to further human knowledge and enlightened cultural exchange. Esperanto is the most well-known of these. Then there's "artlang," which has no higher purpose than "it's fun and I can make it do what I want, vwahaha." As usual, Wikipedia has more answers on this subject, should you seek them.
I've been working on this for a while now, following in the footsteps of my spiritual bff the great Dr. JRR, but recently I've had some time to get serious, and some assistance from the Language Construction Kit (which I ordered in book form as an early Christmas present to myself; highly recommended.) Bulleted below are my reflections on this process.
First, the b!^(#ing: For the many people who do artlang right, there are so so many (published) people who do it in a way that saddens me. I do not wish to be an unmitigated sourpuss... okay, yes I do. Christopher Paolini, here's looking at you, kid. I'm looking through the appendices to Eldest right now, and though I'm getting some threads of linguistic continuity, I'm also made a bit nervous by the fact that so many of his nouns seem to be verbs too (ex. skolir is glossed as shield [the noun? the verb?] and directly under that is used as an imperative, Skolir nosu..., Shield us....). Additionally, there seems to be a fairly one-to-one correspondance between the English words and their Ancient Language correspondents...which seems a bit unlikely... and even in the fairly limited vocabulary given there's at least one unexplained redundancy that my rather cursory look-over can find: malthinae is glossed as "to bind or hold in place; confine," but elsewhere the phrase "Brakka du vanyali sem huildar Saphira un eka," "Reduce the magic that holds Saphira and me," shows no sign of malthinae for "hold." Indeed, hold is probably "huildar," since the one-to-one correspondence with the translation would seem to indicate so, and because it sounds like the word "hold" rolled around on the tongue until it sounds just different enough to be unrecognizable and then stitched into the language.
Related note: eka, presumably "me," is also used as "I" later on. Presumably the Ancient Language has no respect for grammatical case (even less respect than that shown in English). Of course, that's perfectly okay. It's just a little...well... boring, don't you think? Especially considering that the Dwarvish (Dwarfish?) language seems to have a similar problem and a not-terribly-distinct phonology.
Less-related-but-still-pertinent note: All fantasy dwarves are the same. They're gruff, cunning, conniving, gold-hungry, honor-silly buggers who fight with axes and speak Nordically with lots of x's and z's and v's. Now, granted, folklore provides us with reason for the one, and Tolkien's Khuzdul (with its Barazinbar, Kibil-Nala and felak-gundu) with reason for the other. But wouldn't it be nifty if for once the Dwarves were more poetical and spoke a fluid, flowing language, soft as the flow of magma, swift as the wind that shapes the living earth, graceful as the spires of rock that grow in the cavernous gardens of the deep? I'm just saying. If you're gonna have dwarves, and you don't want to be called out as a stereotypical High Fantasy knockoff, well, why not? (And make the Elves nasty, why don't you?)
Still-tangential-but-perhaps-slightly-more-relevant note: The Dwarvish Mythology includes a "Morgothal," god of fire and brother of the god of air. It also includes a god who secretly creates the first Dwarves, which are then supplanted by the Elves, children of the Skyfather Zeus equivalent. Someone didn't just finish reading the Silmarillion (in which Morgoth, the fiery wad of Evil Incarnate, is a "brother in the thought of Eru" to Manwe, god of winds, and Aule gets in trouble for making Durin &Co before Eru creates the Elves), did he? Oh, no....
Plagiarizing bastard.
Sorry. I really really don't like Chris Paolini. Painful lack of skill I could empathize with. Mediocrity hailed by the slavering masses as genius I cannot.
Now we've got that out of the way, let's talk about me and my problems!
~ The Language Construction Kit (LCK) advises that like all things, one gets better at doing languages as one progresses, and advises starting with perhaps an "offstage" language so you don't end up several years down the line stuck with a well-developed and frequently-used language that has at its core some newbie mistakes, while your sophisticated and fascinating later languages are doomed to languish in relative obscurity as the mother-tongues of the Long-Dead or Foreign. Fair enough; instead of jumping right in and starting work on the lingua of linguas, I 've been chipping away at a language theoretically prescribed to an culture I don't much care for, with a horrifically complex and cosmopolitan history that will hopefully disguise or excuse any errors. Problem is, my motivation at times wanes apace. I don't want to work on the language I'm specifically designing to be a little naive or ugly. I want to fill it full of liquid consonants and baroque case systems! (But that's for later, I keep telling myself. Later....)
~Cases: oh my good golly gosh. I didn't know about the ergative/absolutive alternative to nominative/accusative! Whee!
~Verbs: verbs suck. You have to make so many decisions. I'm going with a simpler model and I keep telling myself that this is okay, that English verbs are even less complex. But the siren wail of Latin with its four conjugations and its Moods and Persons and Numbers and Voices and Principle Parts cries out to me. Trouble is, I know Latin well enough to know that its motivation is to shatter me against the linguistic Jetty of Despair.
~Even though I've got a rough system worked out for the verbing, and it ought to work -- indeed, I have not (yet) seen indications that it does not work -- it looks -- icky. It looks, frankly, like something I made up, which, okay, it is. But that's not the point!
~Phonology: this sucks as well. I fear I may have too many sounds. But I don't want to just eliminate them randomly. I want it to make sense, darnit!
In sum, I fear I am attempting once again to force order onto something fundamentally chaotic, and it's going to be...fun.
Enough of that. Time for the Adorable Large Dog Breed of the Week/Month/Year!
The Neapolitan Mastiff. IT'S SO WRINKLY I'M GONNA DIE.
Thank you, once again, ladies and gentlemen, for enduring this episode of I Air My Opinions, Totally Un-asked-for.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
5 White INTJ Phlegmatic-Melancholic with Knobs On
First Themed Post, Yaaay!
One thing that always catches my eye is personality tests. They intrigue me to no end. Same holds true for sillier things, like horoscopes and numerology profiles. I'm not exactly sure why this is, but one thing is fairly certain: I am as well-informed about myself as it is possible to be by taking free internet quizzes.
Here, then, is an overview of my favorites.
Myers-Briggs: Classic and fairly well-known. Not my favorite because I find its insights a bit worthless, because I dislike the "jobs" focus (eg., people who fit this profile would be good at job x or y), and because I can never get the same result twice. The Myers-Briggs gives you a four-letter acronym that describes your preferred way to approach the world, for a total of 16 separate types. The first two letters are always easy for me -- IN (That's Introverted and iNtuitive, versus Extroverted and Sensing). But the next two letters waver depending on my mood. Usually I'm T(hinking) rather than F(eeling), but I'm always offended by being described as analytical and unemotional -- even though evidence for this being true is rapidly accumulating. And whether I am J(udging) or P(erceiving) varies on an hourly basis, so I'm really not too sure there.
Considering other tests I've taken, I'm probably INTP (at least for today). Take the test here (warning: it's a bit long) or just browse around the theory and come to your own conclusions here.
Colors: This is also a fun one with many variations. Only four basic types, but they're pretty efficient (don't worry, you can blend the colors). I am a White -- meaning I am a boring pacifist who resists change and tries to keep everyone happy (purely out of selfish motives --so they'll leave me alone). Reds are CEO-type strong personalities, Blues are nurturing and detail-oriented, and Yellows are adventurous and fun but take nothing seriously. See what color you are here.
Humours: Popular with the Catholic set, and fairly snazzy, if only for its deliciously medieval tang. Based originally in the idea that diseases and personalities were determined by different fluids, or humours, in the body, it still does a pretty good job of divvying people up (don't worry, you can blend here too). As far as I can figure it, Sanguines are extroverted and prone to be happy, Cholerics are extroverted but less happy, Phlegmatics are introverted and easy-going, and Melancholics are introverted and prone to depression and perfectionism. I am primarily Phlegmatic (because I just want everyone to get along), but have a broad streak of the Melancholic due to my occasional fits of romantic brooding and unfortunate predilection for analysis (lamented above). Try it on yourself here.
If the Catholic medieval intellectual tradition is not your cup of tea, a comparable mind-body thing is the notion of the Doshas in Ayurvedic tradition. (I'm somewhere between a Kappha and a Vata).
The Enneagram: I have not yet tortured my family with this one yet. I'm fairly new to it, and it contains complexities that are still strange to me, but it pleases me. There are nine options on this one, each described by a number (hooray). I am a 5, as far as I can figure. Be prepared to be described in terms of your primary motivation and suffer some confusion with other "points." See for yourself here.
Just for fun: Horoscopes are delightful, if invariably a load of hooey. See if you better match your "old" or "new" sign, learn how to use corny pick-up lines, and learn about the mysterious 13th sign, Ophiuchus.
Burned out on star signs? Play with numerology.
Love Language: This will explain to the others in your life how they can better express their overwhelming esteem. Short, fluffy.
The Other Color Test: Even shorter and fluffier.
Well, if you are not more in tune with yourself, your deepest desires, and your aesthetic needs, then at least you've wasted time in a (hopefully) pleasing fashion. Do stop by again, cousins.
One thing that always catches my eye is personality tests. They intrigue me to no end. Same holds true for sillier things, like horoscopes and numerology profiles. I'm not exactly sure why this is, but one thing is fairly certain: I am as well-informed about myself as it is possible to be by taking free internet quizzes.
Here, then, is an overview of my favorites.
Myers-Briggs: Classic and fairly well-known. Not my favorite because I find its insights a bit worthless, because I dislike the "jobs" focus (eg., people who fit this profile would be good at job x or y), and because I can never get the same result twice. The Myers-Briggs gives you a four-letter acronym that describes your preferred way to approach the world, for a total of 16 separate types. The first two letters are always easy for me -- IN (That's Introverted and iNtuitive, versus Extroverted and Sensing). But the next two letters waver depending on my mood. Usually I'm T(hinking) rather than F(eeling), but I'm always offended by being described as analytical and unemotional -- even though evidence for this being true is rapidly accumulating. And whether I am J(udging) or P(erceiving) varies on an hourly basis, so I'm really not too sure there.
Considering other tests I've taken, I'm probably INTP (at least for today). Take the test here (warning: it's a bit long) or just browse around the theory and come to your own conclusions here.
Colors: This is also a fun one with many variations. Only four basic types, but they're pretty efficient (don't worry, you can blend the colors). I am a White -- meaning I am a boring pacifist who resists change and tries to keep everyone happy (purely out of selfish motives --so they'll leave me alone). Reds are CEO-type strong personalities, Blues are nurturing and detail-oriented, and Yellows are adventurous and fun but take nothing seriously. See what color you are here.
Humours: Popular with the Catholic set, and fairly snazzy, if only for its deliciously medieval tang. Based originally in the idea that diseases and personalities were determined by different fluids, or humours, in the body, it still does a pretty good job of divvying people up (don't worry, you can blend here too). As far as I can figure it, Sanguines are extroverted and prone to be happy, Cholerics are extroverted but less happy, Phlegmatics are introverted and easy-going, and Melancholics are introverted and prone to depression and perfectionism. I am primarily Phlegmatic (because I just want everyone to get along), but have a broad streak of the Melancholic due to my occasional fits of romantic brooding and unfortunate predilection for analysis (lamented above). Try it on yourself here.
If the Catholic medieval intellectual tradition is not your cup of tea, a comparable mind-body thing is the notion of the Doshas in Ayurvedic tradition. (I'm somewhere between a Kappha and a Vata).
The Enneagram: I have not yet tortured my family with this one yet. I'm fairly new to it, and it contains complexities that are still strange to me, but it pleases me. There are nine options on this one, each described by a number (hooray). I am a 5, as far as I can figure. Be prepared to be described in terms of your primary motivation and suffer some confusion with other "points." See for yourself here.
Just for fun: Horoscopes are delightful, if invariably a load of hooey. See if you better match your "old" or "new" sign, learn how to use corny pick-up lines, and learn about the mysterious 13th sign, Ophiuchus.
Burned out on star signs? Play with numerology.
Love Language: This will explain to the others in your life how they can better express their overwhelming esteem. Short, fluffy.
The Other Color Test: Even shorter and fluffier.
Well, if you are not more in tune with yourself, your deepest desires, and your aesthetic needs, then at least you've wasted time in a (hopefully) pleasing fashion. Do stop by again, cousins.
Monday, June 6, 2011
On June, and Coping
First of all: Representative Weiner. He is so very unfortunate, and that is all I have to say.
That's a lie. The other thing I have to say is a hypothesis that the reason the Weiner thing has become such a big deal is because the newscasters are tickled that they get to say "Weiner" so frequently on national TV. If he had a boring name like "Smith" or one that was hard to pronounce, like "Blagojevich," it would not be so incessantly, eternally talked-about. (Of course, it would not be half so funny, either.)
I am learning how to deal with it being summer and me having nothing to do but contemplate my mortality. My attitudes toward this question are threefold, and best represented in song.
1) Violent apathy. This is a difficult emotion to achieve. It consists of not caring so fiercely that you want to claw people's eyes out. You will get the idea by listening to "Nowhere Fast" by The Smiths. Ah, Morrissey.
2) Detached benevolence. Yes, sure, the world is full of misery and woe, but we'll all be dead soon enough, right? So let's just chill and have margaritas. See "Not Gonna Let It Bother Me Tonight" from the inimicable and grossly underrated Atlanta Rhythm Section.
3) Courageous acceptance. This one is slightly more difficult, as I am new to being brave. I'm really not sure how to do it yet, but the fact that the possibility is now there is something to celebrate. IN SONG! "Let's Dance to Joy Division" by my dear Wombats.
Summer reading: I am trying to slowly gather materials for my thesis. All the books and "Best of" lists and everything recommended the Thomas Covenant Series. Perhaps I was a bit too hasty, but within the first 100 pages I was filled with a violent antipathy. I did not finish it. Lack of moral fibre (see last post)? Perhaps. But anyway, I have since moved on to the monumental Malazan Book of the Fallen, by Steven Erikson. (First volume in the series is Gardens of the Moon; get it in hardcover because the paperback has obscenely tiny print.) Now, one does not read these books to understand the story. It's too big. If I had infinite amounts of time I would read these books (each 600+ pages of, as I've said, teeny tiny print) a few times, and maybe I'd finally get the plot down. As it is, I just sort of let them wash over me, trying to read one or two a year. Each one has a moment that makes me curl up and wail with grief over the injustice of character X suffering whatever grisly fate Erikson has chosen for him. I do this very rarely for books. Also rare is my willingness to tolerate taunting for such abominable cover art (the joker who dreamt up the cover for Memories of Ice has earned my eternal wrath and The Snarling Id's very first Bad Fantasy Art Award. Yes, that man has tiger stripes. Yes, that's Canon for the series. And yes, it looks unnecessarily ridiculous).
Also trying to work up the courage to reread Game of Thrones, since apparently there's a miniseries now. (Eeee!) But more importantly: mysteries. I have been procrastinating on all my 'scholarly' reading by using frippery and Rex Stout novels. Rex Stout wrote a metric tonne of books about Nero Wolfe. I rather wish I were on Nero Wolfe's staff, because his tantrums are hysterical.
Writer's block softened, but now I am in a pickle, in which I have no idea how tightly various plot threads will be tied and how to get them to touch each other. That's all right, though... I keep telling myself it's all right, anyway.....
No new band names, but a New Blog Feature: the Obscure Large Dog Breed of the Indefinite Period of Time! The pick for this Indefinite Period of Time is the Cane Corso, an Italian mastiff-style thing that will happily tear your throat out.
It's also SO ADORABLE I'M GOING TO DIE.
Oh boy, puppy overload.
Well, this turned out longer than I thought it would, and yet I feel as though I haven't really said anything. Keep your eyes open for the next post, which will be all about Personality Tests and Other Nifty Elements.
And remember, the world hasn't ended yet!
Keep on trucking, ladies and gentlemen.
That's a lie. The other thing I have to say is a hypothesis that the reason the Weiner thing has become such a big deal is because the newscasters are tickled that they get to say "Weiner" so frequently on national TV. If he had a boring name like "Smith" or one that was hard to pronounce, like "Blagojevich," it would not be so incessantly, eternally talked-about. (Of course, it would not be half so funny, either.)
I am learning how to deal with it being summer and me having nothing to do but contemplate my mortality. My attitudes toward this question are threefold, and best represented in song.
1) Violent apathy. This is a difficult emotion to achieve. It consists of not caring so fiercely that you want to claw people's eyes out. You will get the idea by listening to "Nowhere Fast" by The Smiths. Ah, Morrissey.
2) Detached benevolence. Yes, sure, the world is full of misery and woe, but we'll all be dead soon enough, right? So let's just chill and have margaritas. See "Not Gonna Let It Bother Me Tonight" from the inimicable and grossly underrated Atlanta Rhythm Section.
3) Courageous acceptance. This one is slightly more difficult, as I am new to being brave. I'm really not sure how to do it yet, but the fact that the possibility is now there is something to celebrate. IN SONG! "Let's Dance to Joy Division" by my dear Wombats.
Summer reading: I am trying to slowly gather materials for my thesis. All the books and "Best of" lists and everything recommended the Thomas Covenant Series. Perhaps I was a bit too hasty, but within the first 100 pages I was filled with a violent antipathy. I did not finish it. Lack of moral fibre (see last post)? Perhaps. But anyway, I have since moved on to the monumental Malazan Book of the Fallen, by Steven Erikson. (First volume in the series is Gardens of the Moon; get it in hardcover because the paperback has obscenely tiny print.) Now, one does not read these books to understand the story. It's too big. If I had infinite amounts of time I would read these books (each 600+ pages of, as I've said, teeny tiny print) a few times, and maybe I'd finally get the plot down. As it is, I just sort of let them wash over me, trying to read one or two a year. Each one has a moment that makes me curl up and wail with grief over the injustice of character X suffering whatever grisly fate Erikson has chosen for him. I do this very rarely for books. Also rare is my willingness to tolerate taunting for such abominable cover art (the joker who dreamt up the cover for Memories of Ice has earned my eternal wrath and The Snarling Id's very first Bad Fantasy Art Award. Yes, that man has tiger stripes. Yes, that's Canon for the series. And yes, it looks unnecessarily ridiculous).
Also trying to work up the courage to reread Game of Thrones, since apparently there's a miniseries now. (Eeee!) But more importantly: mysteries. I have been procrastinating on all my 'scholarly' reading by using frippery and Rex Stout novels. Rex Stout wrote a metric tonne of books about Nero Wolfe. I rather wish I were on Nero Wolfe's staff, because his tantrums are hysterical.
Writer's block softened, but now I am in a pickle, in which I have no idea how tightly various plot threads will be tied and how to get them to touch each other. That's all right, though... I keep telling myself it's all right, anyway.....
No new band names, but a New Blog Feature: the Obscure Large Dog Breed of the Indefinite Period of Time! The pick for this Indefinite Period of Time is the Cane Corso, an Italian mastiff-style thing that will happily tear your throat out.
It's also SO ADORABLE I'M GOING TO DIE.
Oh boy, puppy overload.
Well, this turned out longer than I thought it would, and yet I feel as though I haven't really said anything. Keep your eyes open for the next post, which will be all about Personality Tests and Other Nifty Elements.
And remember, the world hasn't ended yet!
Keep on trucking, ladies and gentlemen.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Sunshine!
I love sunshine. It makes my day happy. And now that school has gotten out, I am at home somewhere in SE Washington, Land of the Tumbleweed and 85-degree day. Sadly, it's looking like another grim rainy spring and late, cool summer, but today, at this moment, it is sufficiently sunny to make me happy. And so I am happy.
In keeping with the unbridled hedonism of this blog, here, then, are my thoughts on happy and not-so-happy things.
HAPPY:
My dogs. I have never quite learned to trust cat people. I feel as though there is something a little...unnatural about preferring completely self-serving feline company to the genetically-programmed selfless adulation of a large dog. My irrational and chronic phobia of Dachshunds and Chihuahuas aside, dogs please me. Large dogs please me largely.
...of course, large dogs that shed all over one's black leggings, bark at shadows, beg shamelessly, and refuse to come when called can be...exasperating. But still quite lovable. And a quick Google Image search usually reminds me of that.
The Library. I know. Shocking. But it feels so good to be reading again! Of course, I have a rodent-like attention span and if I do not like a certain book I generally abandon it. I know some people regard this as blasphemy -- you should finish the book before you make judgments about it. Also there's a hint of moral disapproval that comes with the act of quitting. Not good form, old thing. Shows a serious lack of fibre.
(You'll note, I spelled "fiber" like an upper-class British twit right there.)
This is all so much baloney, though. Life is short, my reading list is long, and if you can't forcibly seduce me with your wordcraft, I will not waste my time. The barometer I use to judge whether I've given a book a fair chance is one shown to me by Nancy Pearl, that intrepid author of the Book Lust series. It operates off a keen awareness of the limitations of mortality: you subtract your age from 100, and the difference is the number of pages you must read before justifying the decision to abandon a book. (If you are over 75, says Pearl, then you know what you like and the rules do not apply any more.) Having munched through 166 pages of a 500-some page book and only caring about one of the two plots, I am currently torn, but if I do decide to scrap my current read and dive back into the warm safety of Stephen King, I shall do so with impunity.
Food. My mommy feeds me quite well. Specifically, we have met with great success in our experimentations with Cowboy Caviar. Black beans, corn, diced tomatoes and avocadoes, in a lime-and-olive-oil dressing, with cilantro judiciously applied. Good on chips.
Additionally, we are nursing a wee garden out back. It has mint in it. Every child should have the chance to grow mint in a pot. It grows like the devil, and you can munch on it or put sprigs in your ice water or lemonade. Chocolate mint is very good. Pineapple mint is fuzzy, and not as good for casual grazing on a hot day, but, as advertised, it tastes a bit like pineapple, so it might be good in teas.
Band Names: Recent additions to the list include:
Congenial Neighborhood Cat (I'm picturing jazz)
Lizard By Proxy (grunge)
Towering Eyebrow Inferno (either synthpop, death metal, or disco)
Moose Baby (a high, thin indie-rock with a female lead. From Canada, natch.)
NOT SO HAPPY
Jobs. I need one. I don't want one. I don't have one. I must now look for something I need but do not want and may not be able to get.
Summer Fashions. No matter how toned you are, in that dressing room, there is nothing you can put on that will not make you want to run home and wear clothing stiched out of black garbage bags for the rest of your life. It's something to do with the trick mirrors, or the lighting... though why stores seem determined to ensure that NONE of their clothes will look flattering on you in their store, I'm sure I don't know.
Also: No matter how tanned and muscular you are, if you are male, you have no business wearing hot pink shorts.
Out here in the real world, people are not so big into coffee. There is less of it, and it is all available before noon. This makes me sad. It also makes my family laugh at me when, at around 3:30, I express a desire for a nice iced caramel white chocolate mocha. I don't think I'm being that unreasonable!
Writer's Block. This is a bad thing. The only cure is to write, which is of course the one thing you can't do (or at least not well). "Mordor. The one place in Middle Earth we don't want to see any closer. The one place we're trying to get to. And just where we can't get. Face it, Mr. Frodo, you're in the Dead Marshes of Creative Unproductivity." Extremely vexing, considering I wanted to write a book this summer. Hopefully, the condition will prove temporary. I shall continue reading books in the interim....
Life is, as you can see, a mixed bag of awesome and less awesome. But for now, awesome prevails.
Continue trucking, and stay thirsty, my friends.
In keeping with the unbridled hedonism of this blog, here, then, are my thoughts on happy and not-so-happy things.
HAPPY:
My dogs. I have never quite learned to trust cat people. I feel as though there is something a little...unnatural about preferring completely self-serving feline company to the genetically-programmed selfless adulation of a large dog. My irrational and chronic phobia of Dachshunds and Chihuahuas aside, dogs please me. Large dogs please me largely.
...of course, large dogs that shed all over one's black leggings, bark at shadows, beg shamelessly, and refuse to come when called can be...exasperating. But still quite lovable. And a quick Google Image search usually reminds me of that.
The Library. I know. Shocking. But it feels so good to be reading again! Of course, I have a rodent-like attention span and if I do not like a certain book I generally abandon it. I know some people regard this as blasphemy -- you should finish the book before you make judgments about it. Also there's a hint of moral disapproval that comes with the act of quitting. Not good form, old thing. Shows a serious lack of fibre.
(You'll note, I spelled "fiber" like an upper-class British twit right there.)
This is all so much baloney, though. Life is short, my reading list is long, and if you can't forcibly seduce me with your wordcraft, I will not waste my time. The barometer I use to judge whether I've given a book a fair chance is one shown to me by Nancy Pearl, that intrepid author of the Book Lust series. It operates off a keen awareness of the limitations of mortality: you subtract your age from 100, and the difference is the number of pages you must read before justifying the decision to abandon a book. (If you are over 75, says Pearl, then you know what you like and the rules do not apply any more.) Having munched through 166 pages of a 500-some page book and only caring about one of the two plots, I am currently torn, but if I do decide to scrap my current read and dive back into the warm safety of Stephen King, I shall do so with impunity.
Food. My mommy feeds me quite well. Specifically, we have met with great success in our experimentations with Cowboy Caviar. Black beans, corn, diced tomatoes and avocadoes, in a lime-and-olive-oil dressing, with cilantro judiciously applied. Good on chips.
Additionally, we are nursing a wee garden out back. It has mint in it. Every child should have the chance to grow mint in a pot. It grows like the devil, and you can munch on it or put sprigs in your ice water or lemonade. Chocolate mint is very good. Pineapple mint is fuzzy, and not as good for casual grazing on a hot day, but, as advertised, it tastes a bit like pineapple, so it might be good in teas.
Band Names: Recent additions to the list include:
Congenial Neighborhood Cat (I'm picturing jazz)
Lizard By Proxy (grunge)
Towering Eyebrow Inferno (either synthpop, death metal, or disco)
Moose Baby (a high, thin indie-rock with a female lead. From Canada, natch.)
NOT SO HAPPY
Jobs. I need one. I don't want one. I don't have one. I must now look for something I need but do not want and may not be able to get.
Summer Fashions. No matter how toned you are, in that dressing room, there is nothing you can put on that will not make you want to run home and wear clothing stiched out of black garbage bags for the rest of your life. It's something to do with the trick mirrors, or the lighting... though why stores seem determined to ensure that NONE of their clothes will look flattering on you in their store, I'm sure I don't know.
Also: No matter how tanned and muscular you are, if you are male, you have no business wearing hot pink shorts.
Out here in the real world, people are not so big into coffee. There is less of it, and it is all available before noon. This makes me sad. It also makes my family laugh at me when, at around 3:30, I express a desire for a nice iced caramel white chocolate mocha. I don't think I'm being that unreasonable!
Writer's Block. This is a bad thing. The only cure is to write, which is of course the one thing you can't do (or at least not well). "Mordor. The one place in Middle Earth we don't want to see any closer. The one place we're trying to get to. And just where we can't get. Face it, Mr. Frodo, you're in the Dead Marshes of Creative Unproductivity." Extremely vexing, considering I wanted to write a book this summer. Hopefully, the condition will prove temporary. I shall continue reading books in the interim....
Life is, as you can see, a mixed bag of awesome and less awesome. But for now, awesome prevails.
Continue trucking, and stay thirsty, my friends.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
My Deepest Darkest Secret
Ready?....Here goes:
Sometimes I hate good writers.
Whew, I feel better already....
As a certified wordnerd and aspiring novelist, I usually enjoy good writing. I love finding witty, brilliant, subtle, and blood-freezing authors in libraries and on the interweb. I like them because they entertain me and take the edge of my aesthetic appetite (see blog title and overarching philosophy). And when people are reading my unfinished stuff, my favorite bit of feedback, the one that makes me toasty inside and keeps me at my keyboard, is not "This is really good and polished and stuff" but the half-exasperated "You can't DO this to me! I need more! Don't you DARE kill that character off!" That way I know it's no longer an academic exercise but an enjoyable experience for the reader. And that's what it's all, ultimately, about.
(Aside: bonus points if you started singing the Hokey Pokey song when you read that line.)
Now, there are many online writing sites out there and occasionally I get dumb enough to check them out. This is always a mistake, and a near occasion of sin, because much of the writing is SO BAD. All the authors seem to be fifteen or so. I was fifteen once, and I learned something from that horrible experience: DO NOT PUBLISH WHAT YOU WRITE AS A FIFTEEN YEAR OLD. Until you can look back at some of your angst-ridden, self-indulgent rants and cringe and want to claw your eyes out, you're still in the "tripe" stage of writing. Don't worry, we all go through it. Some of us, though, go through it publicly, and this creates a negative experience for the reader, who is forced to sit in a cold bath and put extra glass shards in her shoes to combat the rising tides of Pride In One's Developed Authorial Prowess.
My general response, then, to reading bad writing, is a wince, a swelling of vicarious embarrassment and sympathy for the fledgling author, the realization that there are some pieces that constructive criticism cannot save, and almost immediately thereafter a self-congratulatory round of "I'm not as bad as that, thank the Lord I'm not as bad as that, in fact, I'm much better than that, in fact, I'm the best ever."
Time for the cold bath.
(Intermission no.1: a trend that really grinds my gears in recent fantasy literature, professional and otherwise, is the ubiquity of exotic/archaic spellings. Vampyre. Faerie. Magick. Werwolfe. Okay, I may have made that last one up. But you get the idea. Usually it just makes people look pretentious and is an attempt to hide their hackneyed concept/plot behind "unique" or "creative" spelling. A caveat: I do prefer 'faerie' to 'fairy' IF you're talking about Wild Hunt Fair Folk type beasties and not tiny, possibly winged, Artemis Fowl-style things. But even better than faerie is fay/fae. Best of all is the euphemism -- the idea is that these fairies are so terrifying (what with their packs of ghostly mastiffs hunting the souls of dead children and hexing innocent farmers into insubstantiality) that no one wants to say their proper name aloud. Because I am a Terry Pratchett fan, my preferred euphemism is "the Lords and Ladies," but there are others. End Intermission.)
Then there are the thresholders. The ones who have clearly been writing for a while and have some sense of what they're doing, but still have a few brain-itching flaws. Everyone seems to be so kind and encouraging to these people. And sometimes, technically, there's very little wrong with their writing that could not be ascribed to a matter of taste. But when you stumble upon one of these actually-not-half-bad writers, especially after reading a few poems about how no one understands the cry of the darkness with the sweet taste of bloode and going on the inevitable resultant superiority trip... well, the defensive insecure little girl in me who read too much Strunk and White and not enough Natalie Goldberg starts to get snappy. "Oh, yes," she sneers, "that metaphor was indeed striking, but your exposition is clumsy, your voice insipid, your characterization uneven, your pacing slightly off." (All this, needless to say, in her best upper-class British twit accent).
And really, there is no call for that. The writing is decent; get over it. Yes, there are others in the world besides me and my pets capable of writing decent fiction. Are the criticisms unfounded? No. But do I perhaps need to chill out and congratulate someone on a nice piece that they've probably put more work into than you've done in a year of recreational scribbling? Most certainly.
(Intermission no.2: the above does not cancel out my belief that when it comes to writing, there comes a point where either you feel it or you don't. Some people, with hard work and dedication, can transform themselves into very good writers who nonetheless will remain very good forever and never quite get to great, because feeling the differences between the words and sensing the rhythm of sentences and the rightness of dialogue are not natural to them and can never quite be taught. Now, for every really good writer who will never be great, there are probably five potentially great writers who, because of laziness or cowardice, will never get much past mediocre. But I think it's still something to keep in mind. End Intermission.)
Finally, there are the legitimately good writers. The ones who might (gasp) be a bit better than me. More drive, more heart, more raw creativity, more experience, a more lyrical mind, better educated, snappier, more decisive. Doesn't matter, really. They're better. Or at least as good as. And these are the writers whose work we enjoy, even though we notice a resistance to that very enjoyment deep in ourselves. Definitely not charitable or in keeping with the philosophy of The Snarling Id (namely: aesthetic pleasure is to be cultivated regardless of personal prejudices). But there, and a result of that same frightened inner child that took such pleasure in tearing down the awful and OK writers. Something I'm working on, and something I wanted to get off my chest.
Any other talent-haters out there, who must struggle not to be outright envious and hateful towards people who outskill you at your chosen skill?
On the lighter side, to cheer us all up: more hypothetical band names
Life Force Cubicle -- this one is a Google translator version of the Russian word for hemoglobin. I'm thinking office industrial, with some Lady Gaga-esque birth imagery and staplers used as percussion.
Asymptote of Insanity -- if the genre mathcore has not yet been created, I propose a long-haired make-up-wearing screamer call up his bass-playing buddy and start it. Could be the biggest thing since Nirvana.
Finally: a song, highly applicable to the fifteen year old writer of tripe. (I love ya, girls. Keep on writing.)
Sometimes I hate good writers.
Whew, I feel better already....
As a certified wordnerd and aspiring novelist, I usually enjoy good writing. I love finding witty, brilliant, subtle, and blood-freezing authors in libraries and on the interweb. I like them because they entertain me and take the edge of my aesthetic appetite (see blog title and overarching philosophy). And when people are reading my unfinished stuff, my favorite bit of feedback, the one that makes me toasty inside and keeps me at my keyboard, is not "This is really good and polished and stuff" but the half-exasperated "You can't DO this to me! I need more! Don't you DARE kill that character off!" That way I know it's no longer an academic exercise but an enjoyable experience for the reader. And that's what it's all, ultimately, about.
(Aside: bonus points if you started singing the Hokey Pokey song when you read that line.)
Now, there are many online writing sites out there and occasionally I get dumb enough to check them out. This is always a mistake, and a near occasion of sin, because much of the writing is SO BAD. All the authors seem to be fifteen or so. I was fifteen once, and I learned something from that horrible experience: DO NOT PUBLISH WHAT YOU WRITE AS A FIFTEEN YEAR OLD. Until you can look back at some of your angst-ridden, self-indulgent rants and cringe and want to claw your eyes out, you're still in the "tripe" stage of writing. Don't worry, we all go through it. Some of us, though, go through it publicly, and this creates a negative experience for the reader, who is forced to sit in a cold bath and put extra glass shards in her shoes to combat the rising tides of Pride In One's Developed Authorial Prowess.
My general response, then, to reading bad writing, is a wince, a swelling of vicarious embarrassment and sympathy for the fledgling author, the realization that there are some pieces that constructive criticism cannot save, and almost immediately thereafter a self-congratulatory round of "I'm not as bad as that, thank the Lord I'm not as bad as that, in fact, I'm much better than that, in fact, I'm the best ever."
Time for the cold bath.
(Intermission no.1: a trend that really grinds my gears in recent fantasy literature, professional and otherwise, is the ubiquity of exotic/archaic spellings. Vampyre. Faerie. Magick. Werwolfe. Okay, I may have made that last one up. But you get the idea. Usually it just makes people look pretentious and is an attempt to hide their hackneyed concept/plot behind "unique" or "creative" spelling. A caveat: I do prefer 'faerie' to 'fairy' IF you're talking about Wild Hunt Fair Folk type beasties and not tiny, possibly winged, Artemis Fowl-style things. But even better than faerie is fay/fae. Best of all is the euphemism -- the idea is that these fairies are so terrifying (what with their packs of ghostly mastiffs hunting the souls of dead children and hexing innocent farmers into insubstantiality) that no one wants to say their proper name aloud. Because I am a Terry Pratchett fan, my preferred euphemism is "the Lords and Ladies," but there are others. End Intermission.)
Then there are the thresholders. The ones who have clearly been writing for a while and have some sense of what they're doing, but still have a few brain-itching flaws. Everyone seems to be so kind and encouraging to these people. And sometimes, technically, there's very little wrong with their writing that could not be ascribed to a matter of taste. But when you stumble upon one of these actually-not-half-bad writers, especially after reading a few poems about how no one understands the cry of the darkness with the sweet taste of bloode and going on the inevitable resultant superiority trip... well, the defensive insecure little girl in me who read too much Strunk and White and not enough Natalie Goldberg starts to get snappy. "Oh, yes," she sneers, "that metaphor was indeed striking, but your exposition is clumsy, your voice insipid, your characterization uneven, your pacing slightly off." (All this, needless to say, in her best upper-class British twit accent).
And really, there is no call for that. The writing is decent; get over it. Yes, there are others in the world besides me and my pets capable of writing decent fiction. Are the criticisms unfounded? No. But do I perhaps need to chill out and congratulate someone on a nice piece that they've probably put more work into than you've done in a year of recreational scribbling? Most certainly.
(Intermission no.2: the above does not cancel out my belief that when it comes to writing, there comes a point where either you feel it or you don't. Some people, with hard work and dedication, can transform themselves into very good writers who nonetheless will remain very good forever and never quite get to great, because feeling the differences between the words and sensing the rhythm of sentences and the rightness of dialogue are not natural to them and can never quite be taught. Now, for every really good writer who will never be great, there are probably five potentially great writers who, because of laziness or cowardice, will never get much past mediocre. But I think it's still something to keep in mind. End Intermission.)
Finally, there are the legitimately good writers. The ones who might (gasp) be a bit better than me. More drive, more heart, more raw creativity, more experience, a more lyrical mind, better educated, snappier, more decisive. Doesn't matter, really. They're better. Or at least as good as. And these are the writers whose work we enjoy, even though we notice a resistance to that very enjoyment deep in ourselves. Definitely not charitable or in keeping with the philosophy of The Snarling Id (namely: aesthetic pleasure is to be cultivated regardless of personal prejudices). But there, and a result of that same frightened inner child that took such pleasure in tearing down the awful and OK writers. Something I'm working on, and something I wanted to get off my chest.
Any other talent-haters out there, who must struggle not to be outright envious and hateful towards people who outskill you at your chosen skill?
On the lighter side, to cheer us all up: more hypothetical band names
Life Force Cubicle -- this one is a Google translator version of the Russian word for hemoglobin. I'm thinking office industrial, with some Lady Gaga-esque birth imagery and staplers used as percussion.
Asymptote of Insanity -- if the genre mathcore has not yet been created, I propose a long-haired make-up-wearing screamer call up his bass-playing buddy and start it. Could be the biggest thing since Nirvana.
Finally: a song, highly applicable to the fifteen year old writer of tripe. (I love ya, girls. Keep on writing.)
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