Whoever knew that I would find a Sims community that is good for me and that models healthy attitudes for me? As the spousal person said - "That's unpossible!"
Will edit this entry as I think more.
One thing - I really really wish that girl I called out for saying she was tired of my drama and then stalking my blog would be my friend. I saw something in her at first, and then I was terribly disappointed, but I did go to her journal once later and I saw signs that she'd actually taken what I said to heart and thought about it, and I could really use some coaching on that right now. I think I was right when I saw something in her, when I thought that we could have been decent friends. She just...she just fell prey to the whole human condition of being ignorant and deluded.
Authors are encouraged nowadays to talk about their books, do interviews, even provide little "extras" (lost chapters, related short stories, etc.). And an author of Rowling's stature is going to have many, many people interested in the world she created. I think that such discussions are like book-club discussions. They add to the pleasure of reading; they enable us to see where else the ideas on the page can take us. But ultimately, we do have to come back to what is on the page. Outside discussions are tangents that have come from that universal starting point; they're not part of the source material. Even if those outside discussions include the author.
Do I think the author should have more weight in those outside discussions? Yes ... and no. I have sat in classrooms and book clubs and heard some readers interpret scenes in my books in ways I never intended. I don't call them "wrong." If they're interested, I tell them what I actually intended, and what the scene means to me, but I have to accept that texts are open to interpretation. Novels deal in symbolism, after all, and they don't spell out "the moral of the story" at the end.
Some authors like to second-guess themselves, or they will discuss how they might have written a book differently, if they'd written it later in life. And we all have pieces of books that lie on the cutting-room floor: the alternate ending, the deleted chapters, the character we took out. But readers don't have access to all of those thoughts, those lost pieces. They only have access to the books we publish. And at a certain point, I like to turn readers' questions back onto them and ask, "Well, where do you think that character goes after the end of the book?" or, "Why do you think he acted that way in that scene?"
When I was in high school, I thought all the teachers felt sorry for me. That was why I got A's in art and music. Then they decided I was so advanced that I was placed in senior lever art while only a freshman. That might have worked for me had the teacher actually taught. Instead, he wrote on the chalkboard all the notes we were to copy down. The notebook was to be the grade in this class. ART!!! When I brought home the note that said I was failing this class my mom went through the roof. She made me stay after school every day to catch up with that notebook. I didn't fail that class but I did learn a lot about my abilities and lack thereof. I had no problems with creativity. I was not good at taking notes, even when they were spelled out in front of me.
This book brought that nightmare to mind. I am glad I got it for free. I can't imagine spending $2.99 for this non-art book.
- Current Mood: bored
Smallest Monster woke up before she meant to, and was an absolutely miserable, sniffly terror until she took a nap (second try!) at nearly 11. I don't know what this means for her usual afternoon nap, but she's been a delight since she woke up.
We're trying Playdoh out as a new toy:
I'm not sure we're quite old enough for it - there were some attempts at eating it, and Mom's uptightness cannot handle the mixing of colors in the same tub.
Mom needs some
When I started to get interested in scriptwriting and comics, I just went out and researched the topic to learn the general infrastructure of the field. I learned a lot, some of which is useful in storytelling generally.
I can't imagine anyone approaching this without figuring out how it works first, but apparently, that's the usual -- along with people's equally insane habit of copying art/literature from the outside in. Just another example of me and my alien brain. I typically start from one of the core concepts: idea or medium. Either I have a specific kind of story I want to tell, or I want to explore a certain format. I go from whichever of those I star with to the other one, and then work my way out from there.
Another thing I've discovered is how this affects my perspective in storytelling. Only a few settings/characters seem to hit me as script-friendly. I'm not entirely sure why yet; it's new territory. But there's a definite cinematic feel to certain ideas, and it can really influence how I write about them. I like the visual aspects of Schrodinger's Heroes and The Blueshift Troupers.
Sometimes I find myself thinking about comic frames or camera angles. I think about dialog differently too. In a bifocal medium, I strongly prefer stories where the words and images are equally important, although there may be some sections where one predominates. If you're not using them together fluently, you're wasting half your opportunity for storytelling, not to mention the potential for dynamic interest as you shift the weight from one to the other.
- Current Mood: busy
I hate DST—if you want to get up earlier, just… get up earlier. Why torture the rest of us?
I’ve looked into it and the persistence of DST in the US is linked to tax credits for corporations for “energy saving programs.”
NIH and the New England Journal of Medicine have reported that DST leads to increased injury and accident rates. (There are at least 4 well-founded studies in the US that support the claim that accident rates of all kinds rise up to 10% for up to a month following the start of DST in the US every year, but there's no matching fall in accident rates at the end of DST.)
DST change-over is also associated with increases in heart attacks, cluster headaches, and “cyberloafing” (wtf?)
but many people will argue that it gives them an “extra” hour of light and it’s somehow “good” for us, though the only demonstrable thing it does is take an hour of sleep off our plates and shift our circadian rhythms.
Folks will tell you that farmers benefit and that it lowers electricity costs
but neither of those latter are any more true than the first. Farmers get up with the sun, the cost of electricity doesn’t go down due to DST,
and the length of a day doesn’t change.
the fact that corporations can claim “participation in DST” as an energy saving program for tax credits is why it’s here
I make this rant every year and about half the people who reply will say they like it.
DST makes no sense: You don’t get more light by changing the hands on your clock. and now that we're increasingly a time-independent society (even factories work 24/7 and most offices offer flex time) DST makes less and less sense.
So why do we still have it and why does it last more than 6 months?
Here is a wee poem from my poetry diary. It is a small thing, but I rather like it.
On days like this,
I wonder if
might just prevent
Not that I believe that one needs to suffer in order to create art, but there are days that are happy ones that seem to get in the way of the creative process. (I suppose there are days that are miserable that do the same thing, come to think of it.)
You can check out the other Poetry Friday posts today by clicking the box below!
- Current Mood: sore
- Current Music:Breaking the Habit by Linkin Park (brainradio)
- Current Mood:happy, but tired and sore and drained
Inside the tower, Drake huddled near the coal fire, curled to conserve its warmth. Goose call and robin song had been on the wind for the past week, but it was still too chilly for him. His wings would crack if he attempted to fly. He might make his way up to the roof to sun himself later, after the bricks had had a chance to warm, but for now, he would remain here.
Closing his eyes to slits, he hummed the fire-song his mother had taught him, crooning to the coals to stoke their flames, feel their twisting and turning light, immerse himself in their heat. Orange and red, banked for continuity, filling him.
“That’s not a wind-song, is it?”
Drat the girl! Angelica had no business here; she knew from years past that he would emerge when he was ready. He opened one eye an inch, letting the flame glint off it to spark at her, but he did not stop humming.
She ignored his truculence and sat down with her back against one of his talons. “I think Father has made a match for Verena. She’s as twittery as the birds right now, and no one in the castle has any time for me. Even my tutor has vanished!”
Drake chuckled, interrupting his song. The coals would continue to burn. “And did he vanish before or after Verena began to act so?”
Angelica snorted, a most unladylike sound that could have come from her mist cat. “What does that matter to anything?”
He didn’t answer, instead asking, “Has your father said anything about a match?”
“No, but then, he wouldn’t. I’m too young to worry about.” She shifted to look at him. “As I’m just in the way, I thought maybe you could teach me the next bit of wind-song? Whatever comes after focus?”
“Let me hear that you’ve been practicing first.” He knew she had; he could hear her every time she faltered on a note.
She sighed, but began to sing, softly at first, her voice gaining strength with each note, until they swirled through the inside of the tower, a tonal staircase of magic and sound. His voice joined hers, humming again the basic fire-song, adding warmth to the air, blending it to a place of joy. After a few minutes, they let their voices fade.
She flushed at the praise.
“Now listen carefully. This next is the song that must be sung at the turn of the seasons, summoning the good to come. You don’t have much time to master it, so you will have to practice it — not just daily, but several times daily.” That should keep her from fretting about what was going on with Verena, and she would have the time to do so if her tutor really wasn’t here to give her other assignments.
He sang it through five times before she attempted to copy it. Then they spent an hour more working on her tones, her splits, and her note carries until he was satisfied that she understood the basics of what she had to do. “Come back in three days to show me.”
She left, and he watched her go, a warm glow in his throat that had nothing to do with the coals. She would make a good singer in time. He closed his eyes and listened to the soft echoes of her song, captured in the tower by repetition. Beyond, he heard again the birdcalls that presaged spring. It was enough.
I don’t even want to think about how long it’s been since I’ve done my Friday flash, let alone a Smoke and Drake tale. Like Drake, my brain shuts down in winter.
My blog is participating in the Forward Motion Flash Friday Blog Group, a weekly flash fiction exercise (not that I’m managing weekly!). Check out the other participating blogs for more flash.