Sailing: An Odd Essay

Good grief, has it been half a year since I've written anything in this damn blog?  What the heck have I been paying for every month?  Gads, even the "new post" form has changed almost beyond recognition.

A great deal of this comes from finding new work which I have been surprised and amazed to find myself quite happy at.  Guess I'm just one of those folks for whom happiness means death to word-count.

However and whatnot, I do have some plans for a successful and triumphant return.  Stay tuned.

Wait A While And You Can Export Your Evil Plans

There are demons who see themselves as angels.  This is not so strange, really.  Why should there be any distinction between the one and the other?  At least they are, neither of them, human.

* * *

Why is it that children are fascinated with werewolves, vampires, and other monsters?  Is it because most people are, at heart, good, and they realize they are going to spend their entire adult lives striving to be as good as they can?  So when you have the time to play and fantasize, why not spend those hours as something you'll never strive to be, in real life?  Why not let yourself be monstrous?

Is evil banal, as Hannah Arendt said?  Or is it something sharp and exciting and solid that works its fingers into us, something with weight and substance and a corrosively low pH?  Is it something we can flush our bodies free of, through spiritual detoxification and daily prayer? 

As with subatomic particles, I suspect it's both things at once.  Banal and desperately real, a wave and a particle, an idea and a substance.  I suspect it starts as the former and tends to build up over time, until it registers on our minds and so, in turning our senses to it, it finds a home with a definite location.

It is at this point that we make a choice.  We can gather, sequester, and throw the evil away.  Or - 

We can ignore it (only pretending it is still banal) and convince ourselves it isn't there.  Or -

Finally, we can embrace it and sculpt it like clay, or use it as a tool.  We can add weight and features and, hell, we can buy and sell it like a commodity, bundle it up into securities to make them seem a little more substantial, and then sell them off to foreign banks and governments who think they're just looking out for their pensioners.  We can count our money and wait and see how long it's going to take them to wake up and realize what they've bought.

Dungeons & Dragons Flashbacks & The Writing Process

Remember when you were young, and Dungeons and Dragons did your world-building for you?

Well, maybe you don't, but I know there has got to be a reader or two out there who understands: those fantasy-gaming books gave you endless ideas about what could happen in a shared, participatory fantasy universe. 

Sure, they offered a few guidelines about what probably wouldn't happen, too.  They were rule-books, after all.  But in the end, they were just suggestions. 

So that was just it: anything could happen.  It was up to the Dungeon Master, and sometimes the Dungeon Master was you.

* * *

I played during the era of the first edition Advanced Dungeons and Dragons (AD&D) rulebooks.  I had quite a few of them: all 15 hardcovers and over a hundred modules and guidebooks. 

It was the crudity of the illustrations that makes me recall that edition with such fondness.  I never purchased any of the later editions (I think they're selling the fourth edition now).  When I flip through the latest offerings at the bookstore, well, the rules seemed just as complex and earnest, sure, but the art has evolved into this slick, glossy, and soul-less illustration style, and it puts me off so badly I can't read enough to discover how other things have changed.  (That, and I don't have the time to get into D&D again at this age.)

But I do notice that the game designers seem to have shifted their focus away from the role playing and more towards game boards and miniatures.  It looks too much like playing a board game.  What I liked most about AD&D was closing your eyes and listening to the Dungeon Master, absorbing yourself in the story to the point where you inhabit the body of your character in that world, and then rolling some dice with the sense that there were definite consequences to the results. 

And because those illustrations were such crude line-drawings, they merely hinted at what you had to build in the mind's eye.  They didn't fill in too many details.

These later editions make characters and monsters look like slickly rendered cartoons; for some reason I can't take them seriously. 

* * *

The Dragon's Club met every Wednesday at the community college, all ages welcome.  About 14 years ago, a few years after I stopped playing regularly, I hauled my collection of first edition books over there hoping to dump the box on some enthusiastic collector for around $75.  Of course no one who plays D&D carries that kind of money, so I ended up setting up a cafeteria table yard-sale style and spent the evening doling books out for a couple of dollars each.  Lots of the younger kids had to wait for their parents to come pick them up before they could give me any money, so I had to stay late, but not too late.

I understand they talked about my visit for weeks, after.  "There was this guy here with first edition stuff going back to the early 80s!  He was letting it go for two dollars a book and lots of it was in mint condition!"  I ended up making a lot more than $75 and had an unexpectedly good time hanging out with everyone. 

It almost made me consider picking up the dice again.

But by the time I sold those books, the Magic the Gathering card game had grown into a behemoth that dominated most of the Dragons Club meetings.  People weren't telling stories and building worlds at the tables any more.  They were playing cards.  Cards! 

I've never been interested in card games.  They have boring, inflexible rules.  And "Magic" was crassly, if ingeniously, commercial: players had to keep buying and collecting cards in order to "build their deck" into something that gave them an advantage when they played.  It was like baseball cards, on crack, for nerds.  I wanted no part of it. 

Besides, the artwork on those cards was even worse than the second edition rule-books.

Plus, I had a girlfriend by then.  My D&D days were over.

* * *

But I had an unwarranted emotional flashback today that had me remembering them.

Summer vacation used to mean the freedom to write all I liked, and to go for long solitary walks where I could imagine I was exploring the Dragon Lance or Forgotten Realms campaign setting.  I loved hiking the rutted trails through the woods that cars had not used in decades: I could imagine that these abandoned routes had never hosted anything more serious than a horse-drawn carriage, and that some filthy hamlet was waiting over the next hill (with a fully stocked tavern, armorer, and provisioner, of course), and that every hill might be warrened with miles and miles of tunnels and chambers, and plenty of treasure to gather if you were strong enough to fight and had enough potions on hand to survive your wounds.

Then my walks would carry me out to the power lines where I could contemplate the warring wizards who had built all these mysterious towers (if you squinted and let your head play with perspective, they looked big enough to live in, and miles apart) and contemplate about their motivations and how many scrolls and gems they might be hoarding.  Then I'd go home, write it all down, and quantify it into an adventure I could run my friends through when I rode my bike to their house the next day.  (For a kid who played D&D, I was in pretty good shape.)

It was a dorky way to spend the summers, but it was rich in stories and in metaphor, too. 

* * *

Metaphors: I loved the idea that wizards studied hard every night to memorize spells, and that the knowledge of those spells wove patterns in their brains, and those patterns harnessed energy in different ways (from the raw blast of a "fireball" to the subtle domination of a "charm person").  Then, when they cast the spell and the energy was discharged, the information they gained from studying was forgotten until they studied it again.  I liked the idea that casting a spell was this draining thing, this exercise of mental muscle.  I liked the idea that as you got smarter and gained power, the simpler spells drained you less, and more powerful levels of magic opened up to you. 

Wizard magic was wild and hallucinatory, but it had an elegant logic to it which, as a piano student, I really understood.  (Playing a piece of music is draining, but the more times you study and perform a piece the easier it gets.) 

As I watch my mother-in-law succumbing to Alzheimer's disease I'm reflecting on wizard-magic again.  What vast powers has she unleashed throughout her life, that the patterns in her mind now un-weave the way they do?  Why can't she just crack open her spell-book and study to get those powers back again?

Probably because she misplaced the damn thing, is why.

Anyway, I liked that wizards started out their lives weak and vulnerable--practically useless, able to cast just one low calibur spell a day--but as they gained power and experience they came to dominate the game with magic like "fly," "polymorph other," "flesh to stone" (and its rather nauseating reversal spell), until they mastered the ultimate power-fantasy, "wish."

I rarely played wizard characters, though, because you had to earn a lot of experience points before you gained the levels that granted that kind of power.  D&D was all about levels, and a 30th level wizard represented a lot more accumulated experience points than a warrior or a thief. 

And frankly I didn't have the patience to stay with any one character all that long.   That's probably why I usually volunteered to Dungeon Master.   For some reason I did have the patience to draw elaborate maps and type up 60 page adventure modules detailing the contents of every chamber and clearing, including many that players might never discover.  (Lord, how one hopes the die-roll allows one's players to discover this or that secret door.  That's why so many DMs roll their dice behind a screen.  They need to bend the laws of probability here and there when the story demands it.)

* * *

I wonder, now, what it would take to bring that sense of obsessive passion, joy and wide-eyed discovery that motivated me to write page after page of gaming material to more "serious" writing pursuits? 

"Serious?"  Maybe that's the problem.  I'm taking the whole process too seriously.  Consider:  

1. I don't have to invent a universe whole-cloth.  Why not borrow wizards and elves and rogues if I want to--enough other folks are doing it.  (Well, I'm not really interested in writing a fantasy novel, but maybe I could loosen up with some fan-fic.
2. The prospect of sharing a story with a small group of three to five friends used to be more then enough to get me excited about fleshing out this or that villain, monster, or plot-twist.  So maybe a bit of collaboration on my writing projects might get them feeling fresh and exciting again. 
3. I'm not out to change the world.  That small audience of three to five is enough to consider when I'm pounding the typewriter.  A few interesting folks in a rich-enough world will find enough ways to get themselves into trouble if I can just learn to sit back and let it happen. 
4. I do have a day-job.  Rather than lamenting the time that eats up, why not embrace the editorial freedom granted by the fact that I'm just doing this for fun (instead of watching TV or playing video games.)  Paying my own bills does grant the freedom to around in here having fun with my typewriters.

So: embracing terrible fiction in the spirit of Dungeons & Dragons.  How's that for a resolution for the Fall? 

Or maybe I should just apply to get a job with these guys. 

(Don't tell them what I think of their artwork!)

Royal Blue Baby

It seems I've been on a half-crazed heroin drug induced orgy typewriter binge since The Wife brought me that roadside freebie IBM Electric.  We've since dug my old Smith Corona Portable out of storage and cleaned it up with rubbing alcohol (note to self: do not apply rubbing alcohol to the painted finish of any more typewriters) and brought home an Oliver No. 5 from a junk shop which needs a lot of TLC and maybe a machine shop to get it up and running again.  We've purchased an IBM Selectric I upon which I can type as fast as on any computer but with a lot more noise.  And I've discovered Monda's lovely web-site, for which I blame the full resurgence of this old obsession. 

All of this culminated in the ultimate yard-sale find: a Royal Portable in powder blue, fully functional, in near-mint condition in it's original case.  The Wife scooped it from a yard sale for the grand total price of two American dollars.

 
This thing worked out of the box case without a hitch.  (Well, I did have to adjust the margins.)  The next novel can't be too far off!  And if I can get the rest of my collection to perform as well as this old stalwart, I'll have found an obsolete trade to support me into obscure old age.

She didn't tell me about it, either.  Instead she waited for me to walk up to my desk and discover a mysterious blue briefcase, open it, and discover the surprise.  A happy blessing on a day when I was looking for blessings to count! 

Now, anyone know where I can find a spare ream or two of onionskin paper?

Typewriter Simple Text

Electric typewriters, like the one I blogged about last week, and the Selectric I've been playing with this week, have a wonderful feature: "Instant on." 

Manual typewriters go one better: you just can't turn those things off.  They're wireless!  The worst you can do to them is rip the paper out or let the ribbons fade.

I love this instant-on feature.  That's why, as we continue getting our house re-organized, I plan to have a few typewriters distributed around with paper loaded, waiting for me to pound out a few words when inspiration comes.  Typewritten grocery lists, anyone?  There's something for posterity!

There's also that "reliability" factor.  I know that these mechanical wonders require a bit of maintenance.  One of my machines has a card folded into a pocket that reads "to be removed only by certified by IBM technician."  It's like an old-fashioned library card, and it has a couple dozen service entries logged across the 1970s. 

But there's an accessibility to their mechanics that's not too daunting to someone with the time and perseverance to make things better.  You can follow a belt from a to b, and swap out a part if you can find one.  There are screws to tighten that make the keys strike harder or softer. 

You can take one of these machines apart with simple tools, confident that you'll be able to put it back together, again.

This brings me to how I write with my computers. 

This typewriter hobby is actually a return to an old obsession.  Lean living in tight spaces has kept me working on computers for the last several years, but I was 100% manual typewriter until 1999. 

And for me, it's always easiest to write when there's just words on a screen.  Is this a generational thing?  (Does it mean I'm old if I'm talking about "a generational thing?")  I can't imagine most bloggers have to black out their entire desktop to get any work done.  If I'd been born ten years later, I'd probably be a lot more comfortable with YouTube videos playing and banners flashing all across my visual field.  Alas, I grew up playing this on this. 

If I'd been born later I'd probably be more inclined to produce videos than write stories, too.  And maybe I'd be richer.

But there's enough people like me out there who crave minimalist full-screen modes they they've been built into Avenir and MacJournal.  I've recently gone to the even simpler (and free) Darkroom, since it produces plain, easily manipulated text files, and I can use it across Linux and Mac platforms.  (If someone would port MacJournal to the Asus Eee I'd still be using that.  But they'd probably have to change the name.) 

Anyway, here's an idea: why doesn't somebody build a distribution of Linux (there's enough out there) that could boot immediately into a text-only editor?  You could set it up with a boot-loader so that, when you turned on a laptop (my Asus Eee, for example) it would go straight to something like Darkroom - or even into a stripped down WordPerfect like I ran on that antique 1981 IBM.  That way, if I was at a cafe, or on a bus, I could open the thing up and be typing within seconds.  When I wanted the rest of the machine's functionality, rebooting while holding a key-combination would bring up the usual operating system.  But doing most of my composition in a primitive but distration-free OS would do wonders for productivity. 

That said, I suppose you could set up a distribution to do this from a thumb drive.  The SD card that mounts flush into the Asus would be even better.  Leave it in to boot into typewriter mode, pop it out when you wanted the full computer.

Hmm, I think I've just come up with another project to burn up some more writing time.  I'll take my old 1999 Sony Vaio and learn how to boot it from a thumb drive.  I'll install PC-DOS from 1981 on the drive.  I'll load it with WordPerfect and write a batch file to launch WordPerfect automatically on start-up. 

I know how to do a couple of those things.  Learning the rest can't be that hard. 

But it would be so much cooler to do it with Linux, no?

Typewriter Pictures

My sweet angel of a wife got me a new electric typewriter. 

Well, it was a used typewriter, actually.  And it was abandoned on the side of the road with a "free" tag taped to it.  IRREGARDLESS, it works almost flawlessly.  (There is a small problem with the comma.)  Not bad for a machine from the nineteen-sixties.  If you think I was getting overly sentimental about that old computer, you won't want to listen to me ramble on about this thing. 

Check out the PHOTO ALBUM instead.  There are landscapes and landscapes inside this thing, if you know where to look.

(And then check out the crazy crap this guy gets up to with his old typewriters.)

How To Get a Great Deal at the Staples Copy Center

1. Spend several hours, a ream of paper, and who knows how much toner figuring out how to print six copies of your novel on both sides of the paper, with two pages on a side.  Get it laid out properly, with odd numbered pages on the front, even numbered pages on the back in reverse, so that when you cut the stack the pages will advance correctly. 
2. Drive your double sided ream to the Staples Copy Center and ask them to cut the paper down the middle.
3. Watch in horror as the woman makes a cut and then discovers that the resultant piles that the piles are different sizes.  "Oh," she'll say, "was this supposed to be a book?  I'll have to charge you for another cut to match it up."
4. Realize you should have explained: "One cut, 5 1/2 inches across the paper.  You know, the middle.
5. Wait for the second cut.  Feel your horror grow as you see your pages are now sheared too close to the text for the binding to work.
6. The other copy center employee will now notice your horror and ask what the problem is.  He'll suggest you email him the pdf file so he can print it out again for you.  He'll wave off your concerns about lining up the pages right and tell you to just send him one big file with the pages in straight, sequential order.
7. Email the file with instructions to have six replacement copies made.
8. Return the next day.  The employee will tell you how he spent hours shrinking down the pages manually (actually reducing them on the photocopier bed, apparently), but since he's new to this country and this job, it was a good learning experience for him.  Shrug and feel some satisfaction that the copies actually came out pretty nice.
9. Keep in mind you are expecting to pay for a single, two dollar cut.  The employee will ask you how many pages the novel was, again?  Tell him, and wonder why that matters. 
10. Watch in horror as he rings up your total: $171.25.  He'll say, "Oh, wait, I'm not going to charge you for the first copy, to replace the one we messed up yesterday."  He'll bring your total down to $156.87.
11. Explain that they actually destroyed all six copies yesterday. That's why you're so upset.  And that's why you were expecting to pay for a single, two dollar cut.
12. The look of despair on the employee's face will feel satisfying and awkward in equal measure.  If you want to console him, offer to pay for the hard backing and clear cover he's gone ahead and cut without asking you, and buy a package of card-stock while you're there.  Total purchase price will be $12.18.
13. Take your stack of manuscripts to Kinko's for binding.

Decent Sunday

Walked around Eagle Pond with dogs, wife, and niece.

Took some lovely photos like this:

And this:

Breakfast for Lunch at Percy's.

Napped for two hours.

Ran along the Mashpee River.  (It's not the Charles, but those hiking trails are better on my knees and more exercise, too.)

Finished the third draft of my novel.  Printed out a double-sided "trade paperback" size copy to have cut and bound and give to The Wife tomorrow.

Didn't shower.

Novel Mess

Good lord, but the middle of my novel is terrible.  I was editing along at a pretty good clip, just about ten pages a day.  And then I ran into this massive train wreck of forced exposition and false flashbacks.  What was I thinking?  I spent the last three hours poring over four pages and ended up pitching three.

* Sigh *  Some of it can be saved, although I think it’s going to have to go someplace else - closer to the beginning, probably.  But most of it’s going into the fireplace.  Which means I have to find some other way of explaining why things are the way they are.  Which means...well, a whole bunch more work is what it means.  I’m just glad I haven’t inflicted this thing on anyone, yet.

Declining SciFi Journals

Cory Doctorow links to a rather sad article discussing the decline of science fiction magazines.  Or rather sad for me, at least, as it seems the journals I’ve been aspiring to write for don’t have many readers left. 

Cory’s arguments, as usual, have to do with making more material available to more people for free, and I agree with him.  The general rule for culture in the internet age, it seems, is that you have to give it away to keep it.

I think the biggest impediment to the magazines' sales is that there's no easy way for people who love the stories in them to bring them to the attention of other, potential customers. By the time you've read the current issue and found a story you want everyone else to read, the issue isn't on the stands anymore and the best you can do is to try to get your pals to shell out to pay for an ebook edition.

Contrast this with the online mags, whose stories stay online for months -- sometimes forever. If you love a story in Strange Horizons, you can paste a quote from it into your Livejournal, use the first line as your sig, email the URL to your brother, print the first page and tape it up in the toilet at work.

 
When I read Greg Egan’s mind-blowing story “Dark Integers,” in the latest Asimov’s, I immediately wanted to share it with a mathematician friend of mine, but I hadn’t read the rest of the stories in the magazine yet.  It wasn’t online (although you can read the first half of the story here) and my printer/photocopier was out of ink, so I ended up taking a razor to the spine of the magazine and giving him the first half.  It seemed a shame to butcher my copy - especially now that I realize how few of these things are printed.  But I was having the kind of experience I come to science fiction for, that feeling of wonder that you immediately want to share with friends, and getting the story into his hands was more important than maintaining my collection. 

Ironically enough I haven’t subscribed to a science fiction magazine (or any magazine) in years.  It’s too much fun to browse them at the bookstore, pick up Asimov’s this month, Fantasy & Science Fiction or Interzone next month.  And since I’m at the bookstore, cafe, or library every day writing anyway, I’m actually picking up magazines more than ever.  The fact is, I don’t mind paying for them at newsstand rates*, even if the material is available online for free.  They’re fun to collect, easy to carry on the train, and you can write notes in the margins with a pen.  And you don’t have to read long passages of prose from a computer screen.  But it would be nice if they were easier to share, digitally.

* I probably would save money and time if I just subscribed to the lot of them.  But then I wouldn’t get to walk to the bookstore and browse them first.  And as Kurt Vonnegut said, “The purpose of life is to fart around.”