Me, I'm the last person to get gushy about prom night.
My dad isn't around anymore, so I was clearly playing the role of the dominant male parent for my sister's prom. That is to say, I felt that it was going to be up to me to unnerve the poor young man as much as possible, and I spent the last two weeks practicing my best Hannibal Lecter impression.
Unfortunately, my pre-prom plans came to a dead stop when my sister got wind of what I was planning ("Hello, Steven. Have the lambs stopped screaming yet?"), and threatened to beat me to a pulp if I even so much as considered the possibility.
Steven arrived good and early - maybe about 5:00 pm for a party that was supposed to start at 6:30. I was expecting a scruffy hairdo, a half-rumpled long-sleeved shirt, and the reek of altogether too much aftershave. Steven came with a bouquet of carnations, a well-pressed shirt, and what appeared to be his best behavior. I was profoundly disappointed.
I wasn't about to give him any satisfaction yet, though. Making sure that I was wearing the most slobbish attire possible (a t-shirt with icing stains and some old bermuda shorts), I gave Steven a formal greeting and welcomed him inside the house. I notified my mother and my sister that he was waiting in the living room, and then returned to glower at our guest.
Steven took it all remarkably well, even when my mother fussed over his looks and it took them a while to figure out how to work the corsages. He promised that he would have my sister home by one in the morning, and when I asked for a midnight curfew instead, he dutifully turned in my direction, smiled and said, "Sure, boss."
Arrogant whelp.
All throughout the entire situation, from the moment of our meeting to the point where we saw them off, he was giving me the most smug expression I had ever seen. It was the kind of expression that went, "This is going to be a good night, I'm going to make sure that both your sister and I have a nice time, and there's nothing you can do to stop us."
By that time, there was nothing left for me to do but salvage what was left of my defenses. Oh, and glower at Steven. That was even though it was obvious that the glowering wasn't having any effect on him.
So now here I am, awaiting their return. It's only a few minutes after midnight, and judging from how Steven's been doing so far, he'll probably bring my sister back right on schedule. That should cap off a perfect night for both of them. Prom Date 1, Sean 0.
On the other hand, I've got his number. I can always call him up and gently remind him to get home faster. And they are a few minutes late...
Besides, it's a shame to waste a good Hannibal Lecter impression.
Bwahahahaha.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
On the Nature of EEEAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!
Three E's, eight A's, three G's, and three H's. Not bad.
Tangible screaming isn't used very often nowadays. I think that it's because most writers have caught onto the fact that a character's tangible scream isn't as descriptive as narrating the act of the scream itself. Or maybe it's the exact opposite - that narrating a scream allows for less familiarity, which is usually the requisite atmosphere for a 'scream' moment.
I mean, look at the two statements below:
* Gareth turned, and finally saw it. He screamed.
* Gareth turned. "Eeeaaaaaaaaggghhh!" he screamed.
The first statement is a lot more acceptable by modern literary standards, whereas the second statement would probably get your editor laughing uncontrollably at its sheer cheesiness.
Tangible screams are probably put to use a lot more effectively in comics or other visual media, where you can't merely tell a reader that a character has screamed; You have to literally show it. While it's possible to frame a visual image to make an expression of fear or terror obvious, a tangible scream would make the scene a lot more understandable to any reader at first glance.
Tangible screams by themselves take a bit of work. They're probably among the most accurate of onomatopoeic devices, seeing that a tangible scream should be constructed so that the reader can hear exactly how it sounds in his mind. I'll point out the fact that the example above, "EEEAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!", emphasizes the 'A' sound above everything else. That's because the 'A' sound has to comprise the body of this particular scream. The character literally starts with a high-pitched 'E' sound, degenerates into an 'A' sound (as, presumably, his mouth opens wide to scream), and then trails off into 'G' and 'H'. The exclamation point doesn't have a sound associated with it, so I think that using multiples ("!!!") is more pretentious than realistic.
The scream could just as easily been, say, "YYYAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!", but I think that starting with a pure 'E' sound makes it more natural. The 'E' sound starts off smaller, which perfectly emulates the image of a character having to open his mouth in order to scream.
The length of the tangible scream has also shown itself to be manipulable. "ACK!", while not truly a scream, is nevertheless a tangible exclamation in the same vein - and a favorite of Archie comics. Because "ACK!" is used as an expression of sudden, unforeseen surprise, it literally doesn't seek to draw itself out over the course of a few seconds. To use the exclamation "AAAACCKK!", I think, would be to invite criticism.
I don't sit very well with the use of "AAAARRGGH!", though. Although it's a relatively well-known member of the tangible screams, it feels unrealistic to me. I can't resolve the idea of having an 'R' sound in a spontaneous primal scream because it takes at least a small amount of effort to make. 'A', by contrast, is standard issuance - it's one of the few sounds you can make when the doctor has you pinned down with one of her tongue depressors. "AAAAGGHH!", in a sense, sounds a lot better.
There's actually a distinctiveness between "EEEAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!" and just plain "AAAAAAAAGGGHHH!", interestingly enough. I've already mentioned the fact that the 'E' sound comes from a partially open mouth; "AAAAAAAAGGGHHH!", therefore, comes from a screamer who probably had his mouth wide open to start with, I think.
Tangible screaming isn't used very often nowadays. I think that it's because most writers have caught onto the fact that a character's tangible scream isn't as descriptive as narrating the act of the scream itself. Or maybe it's the exact opposite - that narrating a scream allows for less familiarity, which is usually the requisite atmosphere for a 'scream' moment.
I mean, look at the two statements below:
* Gareth turned, and finally saw it. He screamed.
* Gareth turned. "Eeeaaaaaaaaggghhh!" he screamed.
The first statement is a lot more acceptable by modern literary standards, whereas the second statement would probably get your editor laughing uncontrollably at its sheer cheesiness.
Tangible screams are probably put to use a lot more effectively in comics or other visual media, where you can't merely tell a reader that a character has screamed; You have to literally show it. While it's possible to frame a visual image to make an expression of fear or terror obvious, a tangible scream would make the scene a lot more understandable to any reader at first glance.
Tangible screams by themselves take a bit of work. They're probably among the most accurate of onomatopoeic devices, seeing that a tangible scream should be constructed so that the reader can hear exactly how it sounds in his mind. I'll point out the fact that the example above, "EEEAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!", emphasizes the 'A' sound above everything else. That's because the 'A' sound has to comprise the body of this particular scream. The character literally starts with a high-pitched 'E' sound, degenerates into an 'A' sound (as, presumably, his mouth opens wide to scream), and then trails off into 'G' and 'H'. The exclamation point doesn't have a sound associated with it, so I think that using multiples ("!!!") is more pretentious than realistic.
The scream could just as easily been, say, "YYYAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!", but I think that starting with a pure 'E' sound makes it more natural. The 'E' sound starts off smaller, which perfectly emulates the image of a character having to open his mouth in order to scream.
The length of the tangible scream has also shown itself to be manipulable. "ACK!", while not truly a scream, is nevertheless a tangible exclamation in the same vein - and a favorite of Archie comics. Because "ACK!" is used as an expression of sudden, unforeseen surprise, it literally doesn't seek to draw itself out over the course of a few seconds. To use the exclamation "AAAACCKK!", I think, would be to invite criticism.
I don't sit very well with the use of "AAAARRGGH!", though. Although it's a relatively well-known member of the tangible screams, it feels unrealistic to me. I can't resolve the idea of having an 'R' sound in a spontaneous primal scream because it takes at least a small amount of effort to make. 'A', by contrast, is standard issuance - it's one of the few sounds you can make when the doctor has you pinned down with one of her tongue depressors. "AAAAGGHH!", in a sense, sounds a lot better.
There's actually a distinctiveness between "EEEAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!" and just plain "AAAAAAAAGGGHHH!", interestingly enough. I've already mentioned the fact that the 'E' sound comes from a partially open mouth; "AAAAAAAAGGGHHH!", therefore, comes from a screamer who probably had his mouth wide open to start with, I think.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Dunking My Head in a Tub of Water on a Cloudy Afternoon
4:34:17 - Immersion.
4:34:20 - It's quiet down here.
4:34:21 - My ears are clogged. I can't hear a thing.
4:34:22 - Doesn't sound travel faster in water than it does in air?
4:34:23 - (Theme from "Mission: Impossible" plays in head.) Whatever happened to Thaad Penghlis? I liked Thaad Penghlis when he was on the show.
4:34:24 - Feels like outer space. I'm floating, but I can't breathe.
4:34:25 - It's dark down here.
4:34:26 - I can't even see the bottom of the tub.
4:34:27 - Shoe polish. That's what I need to get from the supermarket. Black shoe polish.
4:34:28 - If I can somehow look back up, maybe I'll see what used to be my reflection looking back at me?
4:34:29 - Or maybe I've become my own reflection somehow.
4:34:30 - Feels so light down here. Even though I can't breathe.
4:34:31 - Eternal Sunshine was a nice movie.
4:34:32 - How do those guys on Fear Factor do it?
4:34:33 - I mean, I think I can take the bugs and all, but put me underwater and I'll probably drown.
4:34:34 - So why am I doing this , anyway?
4:34:35 - Strange, that I can still think clearly when my head's in the tub. The only difference is that it's colder. And that I can't breathe.
4:34:36 - Why am I sticking my head in the tub, anyway? I can't breathe down here.
4:34:37 - I can't breathe down here.
4:34:38 - I can't breathe down here.
4:34:39 - Holy crap! I can't breathe down here!
4:34:40 - Surface.
4:34:20 - It's quiet down here.
4:34:21 - My ears are clogged. I can't hear a thing.
4:34:22 - Doesn't sound travel faster in water than it does in air?
4:34:23 - (Theme from "Mission: Impossible" plays in head.) Whatever happened to Thaad Penghlis? I liked Thaad Penghlis when he was on the show.
4:34:24 - Feels like outer space. I'm floating, but I can't breathe.
4:34:25 - It's dark down here.
4:34:26 - I can't even see the bottom of the tub.
4:34:27 - Shoe polish. That's what I need to get from the supermarket. Black shoe polish.
4:34:28 - If I can somehow look back up, maybe I'll see what used to be my reflection looking back at me?
4:34:29 - Or maybe I've become my own reflection somehow.
4:34:30 - Feels so light down here. Even though I can't breathe.
4:34:31 - Eternal Sunshine was a nice movie.
4:34:32 - How do those guys on Fear Factor do it?
4:34:33 - I mean, I think I can take the bugs and all, but put me underwater and I'll probably drown.
4:34:34 - So why am I doing this , anyway?
4:34:35 - Strange, that I can still think clearly when my head's in the tub. The only difference is that it's colder. And that I can't breathe.
4:34:36 - Why am I sticking my head in the tub, anyway? I can't breathe down here.
4:34:37 - I can't breathe down here.
4:34:38 - I can't breathe down here.
4:34:39 - Holy crap! I can't breathe down here!
4:34:40 - Surface.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Antaria: Profile: Atharus
Atharus, Grandmaster of the Metrians
Atharus is the latest in a centuries-old line of grandmasters, and has led the Metrians for as long as anyone can remember. Considering that many of Atharus's peers have long since passed on, he is literally the only grandmaster that almost every Metrian has known. Atharus is obviously much older than he looks, and it has been speculated that the constant exposure to the arcane energies has prolonged his life.
In his position as Metrian grandmaster, Atharus has made surprisingly few changes in Metrian policy, choosing instead to let the Guild continue operating under the same traditional methods. Atharus is primarily known for his diverse studies, and is perfectly willing to take on students as research assistants, unlike many of the other senior mages. Ever since the start of his tenure, however, Atharus has refused to take on apprentices under his direct tutelage unless such students show a remarkable degree of knowledge and understanding.
Due to his position, seniority and academic reputation, it is not surprising that many among the Metrians willingly defer to Atharus, making him a very influential man within Guild grounds. Atharus does not carry a similar reputation among non-Metrians, however, and while he is naturally respected for his learnedness, there are many who see him as merely a crusty, bookish and potentially destructive old man.
Atharus is the latest in a centuries-old line of grandmasters, and has led the Metrians for as long as anyone can remember. Considering that many of Atharus's peers have long since passed on, he is literally the only grandmaster that almost every Metrian has known. Atharus is obviously much older than he looks, and it has been speculated that the constant exposure to the arcane energies has prolonged his life.
In his position as Metrian grandmaster, Atharus has made surprisingly few changes in Metrian policy, choosing instead to let the Guild continue operating under the same traditional methods. Atharus is primarily known for his diverse studies, and is perfectly willing to take on students as research assistants, unlike many of the other senior mages. Ever since the start of his tenure, however, Atharus has refused to take on apprentices under his direct tutelage unless such students show a remarkable degree of knowledge and understanding.
Due to his position, seniority and academic reputation, it is not surprising that many among the Metrians willingly defer to Atharus, making him a very influential man within Guild grounds. Atharus does not carry a similar reputation among non-Metrians, however, and while he is naturally respected for his learnedness, there are many who see him as merely a crusty, bookish and potentially destructive old man.
Antaria: The Metrians
The Metrians comprise what may be the most traditional of all the classes of Antaria, and it is for this reason that they are closely watched. On the one hand, the Metrians are consummate scholars - researching, perusing, and scribing many works on arcane lore for the reference of generations to come. On the other hand, the Metrians wield some of the most powerful destructive magics on the face of the continent, and in some cases have been instrumental in many of its wars.
Metrians are naturally inquisitive, and have an endless fascination with the workings of sorcery. With such powerful forces at their disposal, however, the organization operates under a strict academic hierarchy that prevents inexperienced or potentially abusive mages from accessing high-level spells. A Metrian who wields such magic therefore not only has the years of experience to justify the privilege, but also the respect of his or her peers as well.
In almost four hundred years of history, the Metrians have left their mark on many of Antaria's institutions. Virtually all of the major cities of the continent have massive libraries run by the Metrian Guild, and more than a few members of the nobility have had the benefit of a Metrian education. While the Metrians are not aligned with any nation, a number of political emissaries have certainly attempted to forge military alliances with them over the centuries.
As it stands, the Metrians are an interesting contradiction: They are a sect that has made the most progress towards an understanding of arcane forces, and yet has all but set aside the use of such magics in order to seek the responsibility that must go with it. The Metrians constantly strive to reach the heights of their field... but such circumstances perhaps only mean that they have the farthest to fall.
Metrians are naturally inquisitive, and have an endless fascination with the workings of sorcery. With such powerful forces at their disposal, however, the organization operates under a strict academic hierarchy that prevents inexperienced or potentially abusive mages from accessing high-level spells. A Metrian who wields such magic therefore not only has the years of experience to justify the privilege, but also the respect of his or her peers as well.
In almost four hundred years of history, the Metrians have left their mark on many of Antaria's institutions. Virtually all of the major cities of the continent have massive libraries run by the Metrian Guild, and more than a few members of the nobility have had the benefit of a Metrian education. While the Metrians are not aligned with any nation, a number of political emissaries have certainly attempted to forge military alliances with them over the centuries.
As it stands, the Metrians are an interesting contradiction: They are a sect that has made the most progress towards an understanding of arcane forces, and yet has all but set aside the use of such magics in order to seek the responsibility that must go with it. The Metrians constantly strive to reach the heights of their field... but such circumstances perhaps only mean that they have the farthest to fall.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Antaria: Lessons
Minette peered out from between the two shelves. "Shhh," she whispered.
"I don't get it, Minette," Keiren said, hefting the book against his chest. "You heard the bells, you ran to dinner..."
"And I forgot to return the book," Minette answered.
"This?" Keiren asked, hefting the book again. "This must weigh at least twenty pounds! How could you forget to return this?"
"I... uhh... was thinking of something else at the time."
"Like what?" Keiren asked.
Minette gave him a suspicious look. "None of your business," she said.
They walked among the empty shelves in the darkened Guild libraries, watching for people at various intervals.
"What were you doing with the book, anyway?" Keiren asked, "Master Warwick hasn't given us an assignment in weeks."
"I was... reading."
"Like that's a surprise," Keiren said, skeptically. "What else would you do with a book, anyway?"
Minette stopped and turned to face him. "Look, help me get it back on the shelf already," she said.
"Not till you tell me what you were up to. Was it for homework at all?"
"Well, no..." Minette said, her voice trailing off.
"Extra credit?"
"No, not that."
Keiren raised an eyebrow. "Was it... from the forbidden shelves?"
Minette's eyes went wide. "Ah, no... it was for... ah... extra credit. Yes, extra credit."
"You just said that it wasn't!" Keiren said.
"Ah, well... so I was wrong," Minette answered. She laughed nervously.
"How did you get into the forbidden shelves?" Keiren asked, incredulous.
"Well, nobody was looking, and I... where are you going?"
"I'm going to see exactly what this is," Keiren said, heading towards a desk that had a lone lighted candle on it. "Besides, I need a rest."
"We've got to get that back on the shelf!" Minette whispered hoarsely. "Who knows if Master Zerah's still awake!"
Keiren deposited the book on the table with a loud thump. He inched it closer to the candle, trying to make out the words that were engraved on the leather cover.
"Keiren!" Minette said, approaching him.
Keiren traced the book's title, feeling both surprise and outrage at the same time. "Gale's Grimoire?" he asked.
"Shh!" Minette whispered.
"You took out Gale's Grimoire?"
"Shhhh!"
"I didn't even know if this actually existed until now!"
"Shhhhhhh!"
"Oh, knock it off, Minette. Master Zerah can't possibly be awake at this hour."
As if in perfect response to Keiren's statement, a door at the end of the room suddenly opened and a silhouette fell across the floor.
Keiren could see the outlines of the figure's thick dressing robe, as well as the strands of white hair that caught the light of the tallows in the outside corridor.
Master Zerah took a few steps towards the apprentices, stopping only when he finally loomed over book, candle and table in a form that Keiren only remembered seeing in his nightmares.
There were a few moments of silence.
"So," Master Zerah said, simply.
Minette broke and ran.
"Minette!" Keiren shouted, more out of frustration than fear. He felt a heavy hand clamp itself upon his right shoulder and looked up into the aged, scowling face of the Guild Librarian.
Master Zerah placed his other hand on the book, running it along the leather covers as if reassuring a child. Keiren felt a single sliver of terror run down his spine. He had heard some of the stories.
Master Zerah regarded him for a few minutes. Then, after what seemed like an eternity of thought, the elder Metrian let go of Keiren's shoulder. "Get back to bed," Master Zerah said.
Keiren stood there with his mouth open. "What?" he asked.
"Get back to bed."
Keiren continued to stare at Master Zerah, watching as the librarian cradled the heavy book into his arms as though it were no lighter than a feather. Master Zerah then looked into the young man's stunned expression, held up a free hand, and then snapped his fingers.
The ensuing thunderclap was the loudest thing that Keiren had ever heard, and before it had passed, he was already running back down the library in blind panic.
Master Zerah waited until he heard the sound of the door slamming behind the young apprentice, and then set about putting the book back in its rightful place.
"You ran away!"
"I did not!"
"Yes you did! I almost soiled myself standing there!"
"That's disgusting, Keiren," Minette said. "You got away, didn't you?"
"I think he only let me go because he wanted to go back to bed! I could have been missing forever, for all you care!"
"Well, I don't," Minette said unemphatically. "You can just take your book and go away."
"You took out the book! You only asked me to help you get it back!"
"Fine help you turned out to be," Minette snapped.
Both of them then lapsed into a sudden silence, which was partially because of the realization that they were passing Master Zerah's desk at the time.
The aged librarian looked up from the scrolls he had been scribing, meeting both Keiren and Minette's eyes with a gaze that haunted dreams both twilight and evening. His bone-white hair glowed softly in the morning light.
Keiren and Minette both took one look at his eyes and then ran, the sound of their falling textbooks and rapid footsteps echoing through the corridors.
Behind them, Master Warwick placed one hand on Master Zerah's desk. Both Metrians regarded one another carefully.
"Zerah," Warwick finally said, "you're a fiend."
Zerah smiled.
"I don't get it, Minette," Keiren said, hefting the book against his chest. "You heard the bells, you ran to dinner..."
"And I forgot to return the book," Minette answered.
"This?" Keiren asked, hefting the book again. "This must weigh at least twenty pounds! How could you forget to return this?"
"I... uhh... was thinking of something else at the time."
"Like what?" Keiren asked.
Minette gave him a suspicious look. "None of your business," she said.
They walked among the empty shelves in the darkened Guild libraries, watching for people at various intervals.
"What were you doing with the book, anyway?" Keiren asked, "Master Warwick hasn't given us an assignment in weeks."
"I was... reading."
"Like that's a surprise," Keiren said, skeptically. "What else would you do with a book, anyway?"
Minette stopped and turned to face him. "Look, help me get it back on the shelf already," she said.
"Not till you tell me what you were up to. Was it for homework at all?"
"Well, no..." Minette said, her voice trailing off.
"Extra credit?"
"No, not that."
Keiren raised an eyebrow. "Was it... from the forbidden shelves?"
Minette's eyes went wide. "Ah, no... it was for... ah... extra credit. Yes, extra credit."
"You just said that it wasn't!" Keiren said.
"Ah, well... so I was wrong," Minette answered. She laughed nervously.
"How did you get into the forbidden shelves?" Keiren asked, incredulous.
"Well, nobody was looking, and I... where are you going?"
"I'm going to see exactly what this is," Keiren said, heading towards a desk that had a lone lighted candle on it. "Besides, I need a rest."
"We've got to get that back on the shelf!" Minette whispered hoarsely. "Who knows if Master Zerah's still awake!"
Keiren deposited the book on the table with a loud thump. He inched it closer to the candle, trying to make out the words that were engraved on the leather cover.
"Keiren!" Minette said, approaching him.
Keiren traced the book's title, feeling both surprise and outrage at the same time. "Gale's Grimoire?" he asked.
"Shh!" Minette whispered.
"You took out Gale's Grimoire?"
"Shhhh!"
"I didn't even know if this actually existed until now!"
"Shhhhhhh!"
"Oh, knock it off, Minette. Master Zerah can't possibly be awake at this hour."
As if in perfect response to Keiren's statement, a door at the end of the room suddenly opened and a silhouette fell across the floor.
Keiren could see the outlines of the figure's thick dressing robe, as well as the strands of white hair that caught the light of the tallows in the outside corridor.
Master Zerah took a few steps towards the apprentices, stopping only when he finally loomed over book, candle and table in a form that Keiren only remembered seeing in his nightmares.
There were a few moments of silence.
"So," Master Zerah said, simply.
Minette broke and ran.
"Minette!" Keiren shouted, more out of frustration than fear. He felt a heavy hand clamp itself upon his right shoulder and looked up into the aged, scowling face of the Guild Librarian.
Master Zerah placed his other hand on the book, running it along the leather covers as if reassuring a child. Keiren felt a single sliver of terror run down his spine. He had heard some of the stories.
Master Zerah regarded him for a few minutes. Then, after what seemed like an eternity of thought, the elder Metrian let go of Keiren's shoulder. "Get back to bed," Master Zerah said.
Keiren stood there with his mouth open. "What?" he asked.
"Get back to bed."
Keiren continued to stare at Master Zerah, watching as the librarian cradled the heavy book into his arms as though it were no lighter than a feather. Master Zerah then looked into the young man's stunned expression, held up a free hand, and then snapped his fingers.
The ensuing thunderclap was the loudest thing that Keiren had ever heard, and before it had passed, he was already running back down the library in blind panic.
Master Zerah waited until he heard the sound of the door slamming behind the young apprentice, and then set about putting the book back in its rightful place.
* * * * *
"You ran away!"
"I did not!"
"Yes you did! I almost soiled myself standing there!"
"That's disgusting, Keiren," Minette said. "You got away, didn't you?"
"I think he only let me go because he wanted to go back to bed! I could have been missing forever, for all you care!"
"Well, I don't," Minette said unemphatically. "You can just take your book and go away."
"You took out the book! You only asked me to help you get it back!"
"Fine help you turned out to be," Minette snapped.
Both of them then lapsed into a sudden silence, which was partially because of the realization that they were passing Master Zerah's desk at the time.
The aged librarian looked up from the scrolls he had been scribing, meeting both Keiren and Minette's eyes with a gaze that haunted dreams both twilight and evening. His bone-white hair glowed softly in the morning light.
Keiren and Minette both took one look at his eyes and then ran, the sound of their falling textbooks and rapid footsteps echoing through the corridors.
Behind them, Master Warwick placed one hand on Master Zerah's desk. Both Metrians regarded one another carefully.
"Zerah," Warwick finally said, "you're a fiend."
Zerah smiled.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Push
Writing and drawing are two completely different animals, it seems.
That's not to say that I carry some measure of discontent against one or the other. I decided to teach myself how to write and how to draw at around the same time, so I think I've been doing both for over half my life. The irony for me is that I write better than I draw.
I'm sure that there are a lot of people out there who are in the same situation. They may claim to both write and draw their own stuff, but in reality they're a lot better at either writing or drawing. It's the rare genius who can not only write or draw well, but who can do both with equal skill.
If you still don't believe me, do run through the pages of Heavy Metal sometime. More often than not, the art is outstanding. But the stories are almost always well-nigh impossible to follow. (The dialogue, in particular, tends to be horrible.) Not that many readers notice, of course, when they usually buy the magazine to ogle the bare breasts.
That's the issue between art and writing, really. Good art leaps out at you; it impresses you with its grandeur within the first five seconds, and then lets you take the next minute or so to bask in its glory. In contrast, good writing always looks boring at first glance - you'll only know it's good writing once you've managed to convince yourself to take a while to read it.
I'm at a loss to explain why people need equal doses of good art and good writing at the moment. In essence, they're pretty much the same thing - they look into our mind's eye; they get us to conceptualize worlds we never knew existed; they cause us to spontaneously laugh or cry with the emotions that they convey. But in the way we create them, in the way we tender them, and in the way we admire them, they are almost certainly two different things.
That's not to say that I carry some measure of discontent against one or the other. I decided to teach myself how to write and how to draw at around the same time, so I think I've been doing both for over half my life. The irony for me is that I write better than I draw.
I'm sure that there are a lot of people out there who are in the same situation. They may claim to both write and draw their own stuff, but in reality they're a lot better at either writing or drawing. It's the rare genius who can not only write or draw well, but who can do both with equal skill.
If you still don't believe me, do run through the pages of Heavy Metal sometime. More often than not, the art is outstanding. But the stories are almost always well-nigh impossible to follow. (The dialogue, in particular, tends to be horrible.) Not that many readers notice, of course, when they usually buy the magazine to ogle the bare breasts.
That's the issue between art and writing, really. Good art leaps out at you; it impresses you with its grandeur within the first five seconds, and then lets you take the next minute or so to bask in its glory. In contrast, good writing always looks boring at first glance - you'll only know it's good writing once you've managed to convince yourself to take a while to read it.
I'm at a loss to explain why people need equal doses of good art and good writing at the moment. In essence, they're pretty much the same thing - they look into our mind's eye; they get us to conceptualize worlds we never knew existed; they cause us to spontaneously laugh or cry with the emotions that they convey. But in the way we create them, in the way we tender them, and in the way we admire them, they are almost certainly two different things.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Digital Pinay: The Parting Shot
The Philippine Computer Society (PCS) has just cancelled the Digital Pinay 2005 contest, citing violent public reaction and a withdrawal of sponsors as the primary cause.
I can imagine that they're feeling rather frustrated right now. The general responses to the contest weren't exactly what they expected. It appears that the current generation of IT insiders has some strong feelings about using appearance as a factor in determining 'future leaders of the industry'.
Either that, or they were running scared. Sponsors pulled out because of the growing negative association with the contest. Someone threatened to throw acid on the contestants if the contest pushed through.
Think what you will, but this feels a little like the results of mob action to me.
I'm a little surprised at the conclusion. I was at the press conference that PCS held, and it seemed as though we were able to have a nice, civilized discussion regarding the contest issues. Not that the conference fully rectified the situation, mind you, but it did show that the contest was a lot more palatable now than how it was originally presented.
There were up to eight people there who represented the blogging community, though, and I hardly think that that was a proper contingent, considering the number of angry reactions out there. If there were so many people with violent reactions to the contest, why didn't they show up at the conference?
Perhaps the momentum had grown too great by then. Perhaps PCS moved too late to stop the tide of public opinion from turning against them.
But the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that most people refused to give any ground to them. The fact that PCS answered their violent reactions and made changes to the offending portions of the contest was irrelevant - to the general community, the contest was already mysogynist, and the organizers fascist.
We pointed out everything that was wrong with the contest. We pointed out that the use of appearance to determine a winner was demeaning to the industry as a whole. We pointed out that the offending application form and mechanics never should have been released in the first place. We pointed out that the use of the word 'digital' in "Digital Pinay" did not make an accurate representation of the contest to the technical community. PCS answered all of these issues as best as they could - not necessarily to our favor, mind you, but as best as they could. But to most of the people out there, it didn't really matter.The contest was an abomination in their eyes already.
Congratulations, everyone. We put a stop to an issue that 'insulted' the dignity of women in the IT industry.
And we did it as one big unruly mob.
I can imagine that they're feeling rather frustrated right now. The general responses to the contest weren't exactly what they expected. It appears that the current generation of IT insiders has some strong feelings about using appearance as a factor in determining 'future leaders of the industry'.
Either that, or they were running scared. Sponsors pulled out because of the growing negative association with the contest. Someone threatened to throw acid on the contestants if the contest pushed through.
Think what you will, but this feels a little like the results of mob action to me.
I'm a little surprised at the conclusion. I was at the press conference that PCS held, and it seemed as though we were able to have a nice, civilized discussion regarding the contest issues. Not that the conference fully rectified the situation, mind you, but it did show that the contest was a lot more palatable now than how it was originally presented.
There were up to eight people there who represented the blogging community, though, and I hardly think that that was a proper contingent, considering the number of angry reactions out there. If there were so many people with violent reactions to the contest, why didn't they show up at the conference?
Perhaps the momentum had grown too great by then. Perhaps PCS moved too late to stop the tide of public opinion from turning against them.
But the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that most people refused to give any ground to them. The fact that PCS answered their violent reactions and made changes to the offending portions of the contest was irrelevant - to the general community, the contest was already mysogynist, and the organizers fascist.
We pointed out everything that was wrong with the contest. We pointed out that the use of appearance to determine a winner was demeaning to the industry as a whole. We pointed out that the offending application form and mechanics never should have been released in the first place. We pointed out that the use of the word 'digital' in "Digital Pinay" did not make an accurate representation of the contest to the technical community. PCS answered all of these issues as best as they could - not necessarily to our favor, mind you, but as best as they could. But to most of the people out there, it didn't really matter.The contest was an abomination in their eyes already.
Congratulations, everyone. We put a stop to an issue that 'insulted' the dignity of women in the IT industry.
And we did it as one big unruly mob.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Disclaimer: February 2005
Come to think of it, plagiarists must be some very unoriginal people.
I know, I know - big surprise. They steal other people's works, after all. But then, their methods in doing so tend to be the same throughout. Every plagiarist follows the same relatively simple progrom of cut-and-paste.
After all, if you're creative enough to produce new, innovative methods of plagiarism, you wouldn't be plagiarizing in the first place. If you're studious enough to break the security barriers that others have placed on their own works, then you wouldn't be plagiarizing in the first place, either. And if you're perhaps dedicated enough to customize pieces of stolen work to your own style, then chances are high that you wouldn't be plagiarizing in the first place, too.
Remember the villains in the old Scooby-Doo episodes? Remember that, inevitably, the scary ghost/monster/werewolf/vampire/gorilla/evil fish-man would always turn out to be an ordinary character acquainted with Scooby and the gang, only bent on scaring off meddling kids like them in favor of some criminal operation? Plagiarists are like that - no innovation beyond the names and the faces involved. Writers know who they are, and how they work.
Sean testifies that the content of this weblog is entirely original, with the exception of those bits that have been rightfully attributed to the correct sources. Those seeking to steal this content for their own purposes in any method, shape or form will eventually find themselves stalked and investigated by a gang of meddling kids who won't really do much, to be honest, because they're just there for the effect. But they'll be monitored closely by the many writers on the web, and frankly, there are worse fates known to man.
In other words, steal my stuff without my consent, and you get to be discovered in some weird gorilla suit painted luminiscent blue. With highlights.
Rooby-Rooby Roo!
I know, I know - big surprise. They steal other people's works, after all. But then, their methods in doing so tend to be the same throughout. Every plagiarist follows the same relatively simple progrom of cut-and-paste.
After all, if you're creative enough to produce new, innovative methods of plagiarism, you wouldn't be plagiarizing in the first place. If you're studious enough to break the security barriers that others have placed on their own works, then you wouldn't be plagiarizing in the first place, either. And if you're perhaps dedicated enough to customize pieces of stolen work to your own style, then chances are high that you wouldn't be plagiarizing in the first place, too.
Remember the villains in the old Scooby-Doo episodes? Remember that, inevitably, the scary ghost/monster/werewolf/vampire/gorilla/evil fish-man would always turn out to be an ordinary character acquainted with Scooby and the gang, only bent on scaring off meddling kids like them in favor of some criminal operation? Plagiarists are like that - no innovation beyond the names and the faces involved. Writers know who they are, and how they work.
Sean testifies that the content of this weblog is entirely original, with the exception of those bits that have been rightfully attributed to the correct sources. Those seeking to steal this content for their own purposes in any method, shape or form will eventually find themselves stalked and investigated by a gang of meddling kids who won't really do much, to be honest, because they're just there for the effect. But they'll be monitored closely by the many writers on the web, and frankly, there are worse fates known to man.
In other words, steal my stuff without my consent, and you get to be discovered in some weird gorilla suit painted luminiscent blue. With highlights.
Rooby-Rooby Roo!
Monday, January 31, 2005
Ficathon Blues
I've just received my story seeds for the Legend of the Five Rings Ficathon III, and judging from my experience with the last one, it appears that I am truly a sucker for this kind of punishment.
Fortunately, I've got till the end of February to submit a finished work. That means that I'll probably have even more days to goof off before attempting to cram a month's writing into the span of six hours. (Ha, ha. Seriously, though, I've already started on a couple of concepts.)
The bad news is that the others decided to get a lot more creative for this one. My seeds are as follows:
1) A day after a kobune voyage begins, two passengers who have shared intense emotion (good or bad) discover that the other is on board.
2) A monk spends weeks meditating on the nature of Rokugan whilst travelling in the Burning Sands and is dying of hunger and thirst. Does he accept the aid of a strange traveller?
A "kobune", for those who aren't in the know, is the general term for a ship in the Legend of the Five Rings universe. "Rokugan" is the name of the pseudo-medieval Japanese empire that stretches across the peninsula, and the "Burning Sands" is the vast desert that cuts it off from the rest of the world.
There's normally an unspoken prize given to those entrants who manage to meld their two concepts into a single story. Seeing that one of these involves the sea and that the other involves the desert, it's obvious that somebody has it in for me. Unless I decide to come up with a character who has acid flashbacks that place him in both locales, I'm probably going to have to work with only one of these seeds.
I suppose that I decided to dig my own grave when I joined this friendly competition for the second time, so I guess I'll just have to see if it's comfortable when I finally lie in it.
Fortunately, I've got till the end of February to submit a finished work. That means that I'll probably have even more days to goof off before attempting to cram a month's writing into the span of six hours. (Ha, ha. Seriously, though, I've already started on a couple of concepts.)
The bad news is that the others decided to get a lot more creative for this one. My seeds are as follows:
1) A day after a kobune voyage begins, two passengers who have shared intense emotion (good or bad) discover that the other is on board.
2) A monk spends weeks meditating on the nature of Rokugan whilst travelling in the Burning Sands and is dying of hunger and thirst. Does he accept the aid of a strange traveller?
A "kobune", for those who aren't in the know, is the general term for a ship in the Legend of the Five Rings universe. "Rokugan" is the name of the pseudo-medieval Japanese empire that stretches across the peninsula, and the "Burning Sands" is the vast desert that cuts it off from the rest of the world.
There's normally an unspoken prize given to those entrants who manage to meld their two concepts into a single story. Seeing that one of these involves the sea and that the other involves the desert, it's obvious that somebody has it in for me. Unless I decide to come up with a character who has acid flashbacks that place him in both locales, I'm probably going to have to work with only one of these seeds.
I suppose that I decided to dig my own grave when I joined this friendly competition for the second time, so I guess I'll just have to see if it's comfortable when I finally lie in it.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Literary Dyslexia
Sobriety.
Sobriety.
Sobriety.
I've noticed that I've had a peculiar habit of switching or substituting letters lately. Sometimes I'll advance one or more letters in a word, and sometimes I'll replace certain random letters with whatever's next to them on the keyboard.
Sobriety.
Sobritey.
Spbroety.
Sometimes, for no reason at all, I'll even fail to punch in certain letters at all. Capitals are favorite.
Sobriety.
Sobeirty.
obriety.
I wonder if it's stress. I've been through the wringer at work lately, and the wall of upcoming projects for the year doesn't bode well for my circumstances. At worst, my mind could be in some gradual process of degradation, and maybe the basic pattern-and-sequence rules would be the first to go in that case.
Or maybe I just type too fast. Odd, for a man who almost flunked his grade-school Typing class.
I've noticed that it's already affected my writing speed, although in a purely psychological way. Nowadays, I tend to look back every few words or so, just to make sure that I haven't made any 'careless' spelling errors. I most definitely don't remember having that kind of habit from last year.
I've considered shifting to a Dvorak keyboard, but then I'd need some time to learn the new layout first. I can't set it up at home because I've got siblings who use the traditional keysets, and it might not be feasible to set it up at work because wrenching the keys off and putting them back on again will eat up a couple of hours. There's also the question of juggling familiarity between the two keysets - what if I have to use someone else's computer, for example? What if I take up a post in an Internet cafe?
All that, and the notion of switching to Dvorak may be a little presumptuous at this time. I'm not even sure what's causing me to switch all these letters at the moment.
I glad for my proofreading skills. Otherwise my writings would be a mere jumbled mess.
In the back of my mind, I think that maybe I should just chuck the whole technological bit out the window and go back to writing with pencil and paper. I haven't seen a good sample of my handwriting in years. That would certainly be a lot easier.
Sobriety.
Sobriety.
I've noticed that I've had a peculiar habit of switching or substituting letters lately. Sometimes I'll advance one or more letters in a word, and sometimes I'll replace certain random letters with whatever's next to them on the keyboard.
Sobriety.
Sobritey.
Spbroety.
Sometimes, for no reason at all, I'll even fail to punch in certain letters at all. Capitals are favorite.
Sobriety.
Sobeirty.
obriety.
I wonder if it's stress. I've been through the wringer at work lately, and the wall of upcoming projects for the year doesn't bode well for my circumstances. At worst, my mind could be in some gradual process of degradation, and maybe the basic pattern-and-sequence rules would be the first to go in that case.
Or maybe I just type too fast. Odd, for a man who almost flunked his grade-school Typing class.
I've noticed that it's already affected my writing speed, although in a purely psychological way. Nowadays, I tend to look back every few words or so, just to make sure that I haven't made any 'careless' spelling errors. I most definitely don't remember having that kind of habit from last year.
I've considered shifting to a Dvorak keyboard, but then I'd need some time to learn the new layout first. I can't set it up at home because I've got siblings who use the traditional keysets, and it might not be feasible to set it up at work because wrenching the keys off and putting them back on again will eat up a couple of hours. There's also the question of juggling familiarity between the two keysets - what if I have to use someone else's computer, for example? What if I take up a post in an Internet cafe?
All that, and the notion of switching to Dvorak may be a little presumptuous at this time. I'm not even sure what's causing me to switch all these letters at the moment.
I glad for my proofreading skills. Otherwise my writings would be a mere jumbled mess.
In the back of my mind, I think that maybe I should just chuck the whole technological bit out the window and go back to writing with pencil and paper. I haven't seen a good sample of my handwriting in years. That would certainly be a lot easier.
Friday, January 21, 2005
Digital Pinay: Damage Control
Sat in on a press conference for the Digital Pinay contest today, along with bloggers Clair, Xenia and Ranulf. Representatives from the media were there as well, with Inq7.Net's Joey Alarilla and Erwin Oliva among them. All in all, a nice eight-man audience.
If you haven't heard about the initial controversy surrounding the contest in the eyes of the online public, then my initial post is here. I would highly recommend that you read it first.
Go ahead. I'll wait.
*Hums*
...
Finished? Good.
The Digital Pinay application form and its contents has touched off a firestorm in the last few days. (Clair terms it a "blogstorm", and I won't argue.) After holding an emergency meeting yesterday, the contest organizers - the Philippine Computer Society (PCS) - gave their side of the story in a small press conference held earlier today.
During the conference, PCS stated that the released application form and contest mechanics were a mistake, and that the PCS never meant for the competition to be a "beauty contest" in the first place. PCS apologized for the unfortunate occurrence, thanked the audience for their vigilance, and gave indication that they were amenable to future discussion regarding not only the Digital Pinay issue, but perhaps future endeavors as well.
I am aware that the application forms have since been rectified, with the contest mechanics likely to be amended soon. That would make it fair damage control so far. I have to say that not many people have the guts to admit an error in the face of mounting outrage, and that their handling of the situation impressed me to a certain degree.
With regards to Digital Pinay, it has turned out as a contest that seeks potential IT executive material from the ranks of the females who are currently involved with the industry. The contest thus justifies a search for personality qualities as well as intelligence - after all, a potential CEO should know how to deal with people. The text votes themselves may be seen as indicative of a candidate's ability to raise support for her bid. I figure that the contest sounds relatively logical now, albeit still a little strange.
I have the impression that the contest gave rise to controversy when the Internet audience first noticed the fields for Bust Size, Waist Size, and other physical attributes in the original application form. That elevated certain parts of the contest mechanics to greater attention, most notably a 20% allotment towards a "beauty/presentability" quality and a coronation night that planned the contestants going through such events as a "Business Suit" category and a "Sportswear" category. It was easy for readers to make the comparison to a misogynist "beauty pageant".
At the moment, only the 20% "beauty/presentability" allotment remains, although I'm fairly certain that it'll still be heavily discussed among the public. Personally, I don't like the degree of emphasis that's been given to "beauty/presentability" either, but I'm willing to let this go in favor of seeing how the contest works with it. If the aspect turns out to be too frivolous, then it can always be lessened or removed in favor of the next Digital Pinay competition.
I think that it's good to see that PCS is at least willing to listen to the reactions to the controversy. Frankly, I also think that it's good to see that, despite the knowledge that the contest will forever be marred by this issue, PCS still initiated what damage control they could, and offered sincere apologies for the rest.
More updates to come, I suppose. I'd like to see what the rest of the local blogging community thinks about this. In particular, I'd like to see what Sacha's take on these developments are, once she gets back from her little Kobe excursion.
You're entitled to your own opinion on this issue, everybody. I just try to give you the basic facts.
If you haven't heard about the initial controversy surrounding the contest in the eyes of the online public, then my initial post is here. I would highly recommend that you read it first.
Go ahead. I'll wait.
*Hums*
...
Finished? Good.
The Digital Pinay application form and its contents has touched off a firestorm in the last few days. (Clair terms it a "blogstorm", and I won't argue.) After holding an emergency meeting yesterday, the contest organizers - the Philippine Computer Society (PCS) - gave their side of the story in a small press conference held earlier today.
During the conference, PCS stated that the released application form and contest mechanics were a mistake, and that the PCS never meant for the competition to be a "beauty contest" in the first place. PCS apologized for the unfortunate occurrence, thanked the audience for their vigilance, and gave indication that they were amenable to future discussion regarding not only the Digital Pinay issue, but perhaps future endeavors as well.
I am aware that the application forms have since been rectified, with the contest mechanics likely to be amended soon. That would make it fair damage control so far. I have to say that not many people have the guts to admit an error in the face of mounting outrage, and that their handling of the situation impressed me to a certain degree.
With regards to Digital Pinay, it has turned out as a contest that seeks potential IT executive material from the ranks of the females who are currently involved with the industry. The contest thus justifies a search for personality qualities as well as intelligence - after all, a potential CEO should know how to deal with people. The text votes themselves may be seen as indicative of a candidate's ability to raise support for her bid. I figure that the contest sounds relatively logical now, albeit still a little strange.
I have the impression that the contest gave rise to controversy when the Internet audience first noticed the fields for Bust Size, Waist Size, and other physical attributes in the original application form. That elevated certain parts of the contest mechanics to greater attention, most notably a 20% allotment towards a "beauty/presentability" quality and a coronation night that planned the contestants going through such events as a "Business Suit" category and a "Sportswear" category. It was easy for readers to make the comparison to a misogynist "beauty pageant".
At the moment, only the 20% "beauty/presentability" allotment remains, although I'm fairly certain that it'll still be heavily discussed among the public. Personally, I don't like the degree of emphasis that's been given to "beauty/presentability" either, but I'm willing to let this go in favor of seeing how the contest works with it. If the aspect turns out to be too frivolous, then it can always be lessened or removed in favor of the next Digital Pinay competition.
I think that it's good to see that PCS is at least willing to listen to the reactions to the controversy. Frankly, I also think that it's good to see that, despite the knowledge that the contest will forever be marred by this issue, PCS still initiated what damage control they could, and offered sincere apologies for the rest.
More updates to come, I suppose. I'd like to see what the rest of the local blogging community thinks about this. In particular, I'd like to see what Sacha's take on these developments are, once she gets back from her little Kobe excursion.
You're entitled to your own opinion on this issue, everybody. I just try to give you the basic facts.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Digital Pinay 2005
If I were to tell you that the Philippine Computer Society is organizing a contest in order to find a woman who best embodies the skills and values of the IT industry, then what would you think?
Interesting idea, right? A copy of the application form's over here, and it deserves a good read whether you're male or female, whether you're planning on joining or not. (The link is a copy hosted on Sacha Chua's site, and it may or may not be the most recent version of the application form.)
Sacha figures significantly into this story, but I'm not about to tell you the whole thing. I'd rather have you read things for yourself and make up your own minds afterwards. Sacha's reaction to the contest announcement and application is here, and it's being echoed by various quarters around the Net. But I'd recommend that you look through the contest application form first and see if you can spot the aspect that's causing the controversy.
Interesting idea, right? A copy of the application form's over here, and it deserves a good read whether you're male or female, whether you're planning on joining or not. (The link is a copy hosted on Sacha Chua's site, and it may or may not be the most recent version of the application form.)
Sacha figures significantly into this story, but I'm not about to tell you the whole thing. I'd rather have you read things for yourself and make up your own minds afterwards. Sacha's reaction to the contest announcement and application is here, and it's being echoed by various quarters around the Net. But I'd recommend that you look through the contest application form first and see if you can spot the aspect that's causing the controversy.
Monday, January 17, 2005
Super Ultra Mega Light Battle Bikini Upgrade!
If that title doesn't get you reading this article, then nothing will.
It probably all started when I got my hands on Curse of the Azure Bonds, a rather forgettable Dungeons and Dragons adventure and novel. It was years later when I stumbled on a magazine article interviewing Clyde Caldwell, the artist of the Curse of the Azure Bonds cover. In a sidebar to the interview, Caldwell mentioned that the art for Azure Bonds was notable for him because the writer worked the female character and her depicted armor into the book itself.
That single sidebar got me to look at the cover once again. And the first thought that came to mind was, this is one of the most useless pieces of armor I've ever seen.
Now don't get me wrong. I respect skilled artists. I do a bit of drawing myself, so I know how much effort they put into their works. Heck, I'm familiar with the difficulties with drawing the female figure, so I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that I reserve the most profound respect for artists who can take on the female figure and get fantastic results.
What I don't understand, however, is how such artists can effectively distort the meaning and function of armor. Khan Online, for example, has a set of armor that looks better suited to the Carnaval in Rio than it does to the battlefield. (One wonders how she could possibly move around in that thing.)
Granted, these are fantasy universes. And I'll agree that it's possible for a story to have female characters who are willing to wear such things. And, as a red-blooded male, I'll have to admit that it isn't all that bad to have a little fanservice every now and then. But taking what amounts to a mere chainmail bikini and touting it as effective armor just shatters all logical thought.
In other words, you can call it armor all you want, but if I can drive a sword right through that spot of cleavage or punch through that bare midriff, then it ain't armor.
I like to think that female characters can usually be written well beyond how much (how little?) armor they wear. To be more exact, I prefer strong female characters, which usually means that they'd be more than willing to strap on the same full plate that the males wear should the situation demand it. It would, at least, be a lot more intelligent than those female characters who think that a metal bustier is the ultimate in defensive technology.
Female characters are usually practical enough to realize that when they mean armor, they mean armor, not these skimpy bits that are the stuff of dreams. These artists can keep their visions to themselves; I prefer to write from a more realistic standpoint, thank you very much.
...
...
...
Oh, and the first guy to mention Conan's costume gets a whack on the side of the head.
(All images presented here are the property of their respective owners.)
It probably all started when I got my hands on Curse of the Azure Bonds, a rather forgettable Dungeons and Dragons adventure and novel. It was years later when I stumbled on a magazine article interviewing Clyde Caldwell, the artist of the Curse of the Azure Bonds cover. In a sidebar to the interview, Caldwell mentioned that the art for Azure Bonds was notable for him because the writer worked the female character and her depicted armor into the book itself.
That single sidebar got me to look at the cover once again. And the first thought that came to mind was, this is one of the most useless pieces of armor I've ever seen.
Now don't get me wrong. I respect skilled artists. I do a bit of drawing myself, so I know how much effort they put into their works. Heck, I'm familiar with the difficulties with drawing the female figure, so I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that I reserve the most profound respect for artists who can take on the female figure and get fantastic results.
What I don't understand, however, is how such artists can effectively distort the meaning and function of armor. Khan Online, for example, has a set of armor that looks better suited to the Carnaval in Rio than it does to the battlefield. (One wonders how she could possibly move around in that thing.)
Granted, these are fantasy universes. And I'll agree that it's possible for a story to have female characters who are willing to wear such things. And, as a red-blooded male, I'll have to admit that it isn't all that bad to have a little fanservice every now and then. But taking what amounts to a mere chainmail bikini and touting it as effective armor just shatters all logical thought.
In other words, you can call it armor all you want, but if I can drive a sword right through that spot of cleavage or punch through that bare midriff, then it ain't armor.
I like to think that female characters can usually be written well beyond how much (how little?) armor they wear. To be more exact, I prefer strong female characters, which usually means that they'd be more than willing to strap on the same full plate that the males wear should the situation demand it. It would, at least, be a lot more intelligent than those female characters who think that a metal bustier is the ultimate in defensive technology.
Female characters are usually practical enough to realize that when they mean armor, they mean armor, not these skimpy bits that are the stuff of dreams. These artists can keep their visions to themselves; I prefer to write from a more realistic standpoint, thank you very much.
...
...
...
Oh, and the first guy to mention Conan's costume gets a whack on the side of the head.
(All images presented here are the property of their respective owners.)
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Antaria: Knives
Sometimes Rhias couldn’t sleep. Sometimes the memories wouldn’t let her.
Behind her, safe in his own personal quarters, Gallos slept comfortably. Rhias, like many other people, wondered how a man who controlled the lives of half of Lorendheim’s population could possibly rest well at night. Rhias, unlike many other people, didn’t let such innate curiosity cloud her judgment.
Gallos was just a man, she knew. Deep inside his imperious demeanor, within his seeming heart of stone, behind the polished masks, she knew that he was just a man.
She reached inside one of the hidden pockets of her robes and found one of the knives there. Carefully, she tested the edge of the blade with her fingers. The magic of the Masquers would not only ensure that no one would ever notice the knives, but would also ensure that she wouldn’t be cut by her own weapons.
She remembered Haron, but it was just his name this time. And the sound of his voice, all raw and scratched.
Try as she might, she could not remember his face. For these small mercies, she was grateful.
She left the knife alone and leaned against the doors to Gallos’s chambers. There was a stillness in the air, and Rhias was the kind of woman who knew all too well when a stillness in the air would be perfectly out of the question.
She burst into the room, drawing two knives at the same time. The lone black-clad man climbing in through the window froze at her entrance, allowing Rhias a single moment to attack.
“What’z your name?” the tall man asked.
The girl looked up at him. “Rhia,” she said, doubtfully.
“Rhiazz?” the man asked.
“Rhia,” the girl said.
“Rhiaz,” the man decided. “Why you out here, Rhiaz?”
Rhia squinted in the falling snow. “Because,” she said.
The man smiled. “Becauze what?”
“Because,” Rhia said, and couldn’t get any further than that.
“Becauze you don’tz have a home,” the man concluded. “Why don’tz you have a home, Rhiaz?”
“Rhia,” Rhia corrected. “I ran away.”
“Oh?” the man said, feigning surprise.
“I don’t like the other kids. I don’t like the food. I don’t like Sister Ilihn. And Miseth doesn’t stop making fun of me.”
“Mizeth must be a very bad boy,” the man observed.
“I knocked out two of his teeth,” Rhia said, “and I pushed his face into the coal.” Then, in a much smaller voice, she added, “But Sister Ilihn saw me and locked me in my room. She said I had to stop acting like a child.”
“That’z why you ran away,” the man said.
“The window was open,” Rhia said, as though this was a logical excuse.
“Ah,” the man said, in an understanding tone.
Rhia shivered in the cold.
“You cold?” the man asked.
Rhia shook her head. “N-no,” she said.
The man looked at her, thinking very carefully as he did so.
“Would you like to come with me, Rhiaz?”
“Where are you going?” Rhia asked.
“Nowherez,” the man said. “Everywherez. I zee the world. I go wherez the money takez me.”
Rhia hesitated.
“Better than freezing to deathz out here,” the man said.
Rhia stared at the man’s outstretched hand for a few moments, and then took it with her own, shaking as she did so. The man pulled her up.
“My name is Haron,” the man said. “Good to meet you, Rhiaz.”
The black-clad man raised one hand, feeling the two knives buried in his chest, and the wet, sticky blood that oozed from the wounds. He dropped to one knee, still reaching for his sword with his other hand. Rhias buried a third knife in the man’s sternum, causing him to twitch and finally lie still.
On the bed in the far corner of the room, Gallos still slept. Rhias wondered whether Gallos was truly slumbering, or if he merely wanted her to handle everything in this situation.
She heard a rustling sound from the window, just in time to see a single black-clad leg step down onto the windowsill. She grabbed the second man’s ankle – earning a startled cry from its owner – and then twisted it forward, throwing the man off his precarious perch and onto the hard snow-covered pavement three stories below. The man screamed as he fell.
Rhias peered out the window, looking up towards the roof of the manor house and into the covered face of a third black-clad assassin. The man’s dark blue eyes radiated fear and surprise; Rhias’s eyes were nothing but dead pools of blackness.
The third man scrambled to his feet, fleeing across the roof.
Rhias reached up, grasping the rough wood lining the window and flipping herself onto the roof in a display that would have impressed the greatest circus acrobat. The assassin turned in surprise, and then desperately began his flight along the city’s rooftops.
“No,” Haron said, holding her arm carefully, “don’tz look at the target.”
Rhia squirmed in his grasp. She didn’t like it whenever Haron touched her. “How can I hit it if I can’t look at the target?” she said, frustrated.
“Not right if you look at the target,” Haron said. “Too many thingz to keep track of bezidez the target.”
“What’z… what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Thiz,” Haron said, pulling the knife from her fingers and throwing it – almost effortlessly – towards the tree stump. The knife thunked into the center of the crude circle Haron had drawn.
Rhia stopped squirming and simply stared.
“You pick a zpot,” Haron said. “Any zpot withzin your line of zight. You don’tz look at the target. You know wherez the target is compared to the zpot you chose.”
“But you’re not aiming!” Rhia said, confused.
“You don’tz have to aim mozt of the time,” Haron said. “Thzrowing knives iz hard. You think it waz eazy? But when zomebody throw a knife at you, you get zcared. You afraid the knife hit you. That’z all zomebody need.”
“But you hit the target!”
“Lucky zhot. You juzt pick a zpot and know where your targetz are, Rhiaz. You try to hit anythzing you want. But you let the godz handle everything elze.”
Rhia stared at him. He arm reached out in a random direction and found one of her practice knives. Still staring at Haron, she slowly brought her hand back and threw, all in one smooth motion.
Haron glanced at the target. Rhia’s knife was embedded in the stump beside his own knife. He scratched his head.
“Bonez of the moon,” he swore, “how’d you do that?”
“Lucky shot,” Rhia said, staring at the target.
The man screamed in panic as Rhias’s knife went flying overhead, and in his haste he stumbled on a pair of loose shingles. As Rhias watched, the man desperately grabbed onto the slippery roof, slowing what might have been a fatal descent.
Rhias didn’t miss; that’s what everyone said. Rhias didn’t miss unless she fully intended to do so.
She stood at the edge of the roof, watching the man regain his balance in midst of the gathering snowfall.
The would-be assassin drew his sword. Rhias drew a single knife. She only needed one.
The man lunged at her, his footsteps muffled by the drifts of snow. His sword silently cut through the night air.
Rhias bent backwards as though a reed in the wind, as the blade whistled mere inches from her face. And all the while, her expression did not change.
She sprung at the man, catching a glimpse of his startled face the moment before she drove the knife into his neck.
She was aware of Haron’s breath, bitter and fetid at the same time.
“No!” she screamed, trying to find the strength to push him off. He was too heavy for her.
Haron didn’t speak, but merely sought her face with glazed eyes. He kissed her more than once there; To Rhia, they felt like little bites.
She kicked and screamed, driving her fists into him before he slapped her hard across the face and left her stunned. Then he pushed his face against her neck, and she screamed again.
“No one hear us,” Haron said, his voice muffled by her clothes. “No one hear us, Rhiaz. Pleaze, I…”
Rhia screamed again. The names blurred in the corner of her mind. Rhia, Rhias, Rhiaz. Haron. Haron. Haron.
There was the sound of cloth tearing. Rhia closed her eyes, trying to stop the tears from coming.
Her right hand reached for something, anything, and found Haron’s old leather belt. She felt the buckle, worn and rusted under her fingers.
Something hurt. She bit her lip, trying to concentrate. Trying to choose a spot.
Her eyes were still closed tightly. She stared into the darkness there.
She felt her hand grip something… familiar. Something all too familiar.
Haron screamed as she drove the knife into his neck.
She stabbed, trying to make the screaming stop. On the fourth blow, Haron’s scream finally trailed off into an obscene gurgle, and he pitched forward. Rhia crawled out from underneath him.
She pulled her clothes tighter around herself, marking them with her red hands. And there, she watched as Haron’s blood coursed into the snow around them.
When she finally stepped back through the window, she found Gallos seated at the side of his bed, looking at her. Rhias bowed low before him.
“So formal tonight,” Gallos said, the mask expressionless upon his face.
Rhias straightened. She had only seen her lord without his mask once, and the event was of no consequence.
“How many were they?” Gallos asked.
Rhias paused. “Three, my lord.” she said.
“Skilled?”
“No,” Rhias said, almost automatically. “Amateurs. Experienced with burglary, it seems, but not with the killing.”
“I see,” Gallos said. “Remind me to call on Lady Tersianne tomorrow morning at first light. I am sure that this has been particularly inconvenient for you.”
Rhias knew her lord well enough not to ask how he knew of the Lady Tersianne’s involvement. “No, my lord.”
“Are you sure?” Gallos asked with uncharacteristic concern. “Surely you were asleep when they first arrived.”
“No, my lord.”
Gallos paused, considering the matter. He looked into Rhias’s eyes.
“Do you remember when we first met, Rhias?” he asked.
“Yes,” Rhias said. “You said that you were very impressed with my skills.”
“No,” Gallos said. “That was not the first thing I said.”
Rhias gave him a confused look. “I… do not follow, my lord.”
“I asked you what your name was,” Gallos said, looking at her eyes. “Do you remember?”
Rhias stared at him, wondering what he was expecting from her.
“I asked you what your name was, and you said…”
“Rhias,” Rhias said.
“Rhias,” Gallos said at the same time.
Rhias returned Gallos’s gaze for the longest time, and then turned away. Her face remained expressionless, yet her memory told a different story. Her eyes told a different story.
“You may take your leave of me, Rhias,” Gallos said. “Hopefully your services shall no longer be required for the rest of this evening.”
“You honor me, my lord,” Rhias said, bowing low once again, and moving towards the doors to his chamber. “Sleep well,” she said.
“Sleep well, my Rhias,” Gallos said quietly.
Behind his mask, he watched until the door finally closed behind her.
Behind her, safe in his own personal quarters, Gallos slept comfortably. Rhias, like many other people, wondered how a man who controlled the lives of half of Lorendheim’s population could possibly rest well at night. Rhias, unlike many other people, didn’t let such innate curiosity cloud her judgment.
Gallos was just a man, she knew. Deep inside his imperious demeanor, within his seeming heart of stone, behind the polished masks, she knew that he was just a man.
She reached inside one of the hidden pockets of her robes and found one of the knives there. Carefully, she tested the edge of the blade with her fingers. The magic of the Masquers would not only ensure that no one would ever notice the knives, but would also ensure that she wouldn’t be cut by her own weapons.
She remembered Haron, but it was just his name this time. And the sound of his voice, all raw and scratched.
Try as she might, she could not remember his face. For these small mercies, she was grateful.
She left the knife alone and leaned against the doors to Gallos’s chambers. There was a stillness in the air, and Rhias was the kind of woman who knew all too well when a stillness in the air would be perfectly out of the question.
She burst into the room, drawing two knives at the same time. The lone black-clad man climbing in through the window froze at her entrance, allowing Rhias a single moment to attack.
* * *
“What’z your name?” the tall man asked.
The girl looked up at him. “Rhia,” she said, doubtfully.
“Rhiazz?” the man asked.
“Rhia,” the girl said.
“Rhiaz,” the man decided. “Why you out here, Rhiaz?”
Rhia squinted in the falling snow. “Because,” she said.
The man smiled. “Becauze what?”
“Because,” Rhia said, and couldn’t get any further than that.
“Becauze you don’tz have a home,” the man concluded. “Why don’tz you have a home, Rhiaz?”
“Rhia,” Rhia corrected. “I ran away.”
“Oh?” the man said, feigning surprise.
“I don’t like the other kids. I don’t like the food. I don’t like Sister Ilihn. And Miseth doesn’t stop making fun of me.”
“Mizeth must be a very bad boy,” the man observed.
“I knocked out two of his teeth,” Rhia said, “and I pushed his face into the coal.” Then, in a much smaller voice, she added, “But Sister Ilihn saw me and locked me in my room. She said I had to stop acting like a child.”
“That’z why you ran away,” the man said.
“The window was open,” Rhia said, as though this was a logical excuse.
“Ah,” the man said, in an understanding tone.
Rhia shivered in the cold.
“You cold?” the man asked.
Rhia shook her head. “N-no,” she said.
The man looked at her, thinking very carefully as he did so.
“Would you like to come with me, Rhiaz?”
“Where are you going?” Rhia asked.
“Nowherez,” the man said. “Everywherez. I zee the world. I go wherez the money takez me.”
Rhia hesitated.
“Better than freezing to deathz out here,” the man said.
Rhia stared at the man’s outstretched hand for a few moments, and then took it with her own, shaking as she did so. The man pulled her up.
“My name is Haron,” the man said. “Good to meet you, Rhiaz.”
* * *
The black-clad man raised one hand, feeling the two knives buried in his chest, and the wet, sticky blood that oozed from the wounds. He dropped to one knee, still reaching for his sword with his other hand. Rhias buried a third knife in the man’s sternum, causing him to twitch and finally lie still.
On the bed in the far corner of the room, Gallos still slept. Rhias wondered whether Gallos was truly slumbering, or if he merely wanted her to handle everything in this situation.
She heard a rustling sound from the window, just in time to see a single black-clad leg step down onto the windowsill. She grabbed the second man’s ankle – earning a startled cry from its owner – and then twisted it forward, throwing the man off his precarious perch and onto the hard snow-covered pavement three stories below. The man screamed as he fell.
Rhias peered out the window, looking up towards the roof of the manor house and into the covered face of a third black-clad assassin. The man’s dark blue eyes radiated fear and surprise; Rhias’s eyes were nothing but dead pools of blackness.
The third man scrambled to his feet, fleeing across the roof.
Rhias reached up, grasping the rough wood lining the window and flipping herself onto the roof in a display that would have impressed the greatest circus acrobat. The assassin turned in surprise, and then desperately began his flight along the city’s rooftops.
* * *
“No,” Haron said, holding her arm carefully, “don’tz look at the target.”
Rhia squirmed in his grasp. She didn’t like it whenever Haron touched her. “How can I hit it if I can’t look at the target?” she said, frustrated.
“Not right if you look at the target,” Haron said. “Too many thingz to keep track of bezidez the target.”
“What’z… what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Thiz,” Haron said, pulling the knife from her fingers and throwing it – almost effortlessly – towards the tree stump. The knife thunked into the center of the crude circle Haron had drawn.
Rhia stopped squirming and simply stared.
“You pick a zpot,” Haron said. “Any zpot withzin your line of zight. You don’tz look at the target. You know wherez the target is compared to the zpot you chose.”
“But you’re not aiming!” Rhia said, confused.
“You don’tz have to aim mozt of the time,” Haron said. “Thzrowing knives iz hard. You think it waz eazy? But when zomebody throw a knife at you, you get zcared. You afraid the knife hit you. That’z all zomebody need.”
“But you hit the target!”
“Lucky zhot. You juzt pick a zpot and know where your targetz are, Rhiaz. You try to hit anythzing you want. But you let the godz handle everything elze.”
Rhia stared at him. He arm reached out in a random direction and found one of her practice knives. Still staring at Haron, she slowly brought her hand back and threw, all in one smooth motion.
Haron glanced at the target. Rhia’s knife was embedded in the stump beside his own knife. He scratched his head.
“Bonez of the moon,” he swore, “how’d you do that?”
“Lucky shot,” Rhia said, staring at the target.
* * *
The man screamed in panic as Rhias’s knife went flying overhead, and in his haste he stumbled on a pair of loose shingles. As Rhias watched, the man desperately grabbed onto the slippery roof, slowing what might have been a fatal descent.
Rhias didn’t miss; that’s what everyone said. Rhias didn’t miss unless she fully intended to do so.
She stood at the edge of the roof, watching the man regain his balance in midst of the gathering snowfall.
The would-be assassin drew his sword. Rhias drew a single knife. She only needed one.
The man lunged at her, his footsteps muffled by the drifts of snow. His sword silently cut through the night air.
Rhias bent backwards as though a reed in the wind, as the blade whistled mere inches from her face. And all the while, her expression did not change.
She sprung at the man, catching a glimpse of his startled face the moment before she drove the knife into his neck.
* * *
She was aware of Haron’s breath, bitter and fetid at the same time.
“No!” she screamed, trying to find the strength to push him off. He was too heavy for her.
Haron didn’t speak, but merely sought her face with glazed eyes. He kissed her more than once there; To Rhia, they felt like little bites.
She kicked and screamed, driving her fists into him before he slapped her hard across the face and left her stunned. Then he pushed his face against her neck, and she screamed again.
“No one hear us,” Haron said, his voice muffled by her clothes. “No one hear us, Rhiaz. Pleaze, I…”
Rhia screamed again. The names blurred in the corner of her mind. Rhia, Rhias, Rhiaz. Haron. Haron. Haron.
There was the sound of cloth tearing. Rhia closed her eyes, trying to stop the tears from coming.
Her right hand reached for something, anything, and found Haron’s old leather belt. She felt the buckle, worn and rusted under her fingers.
Something hurt. She bit her lip, trying to concentrate. Trying to choose a spot.
Her eyes were still closed tightly. She stared into the darkness there.
She felt her hand grip something… familiar. Something all too familiar.
Haron screamed as she drove the knife into his neck.
She stabbed, trying to make the screaming stop. On the fourth blow, Haron’s scream finally trailed off into an obscene gurgle, and he pitched forward. Rhia crawled out from underneath him.
She pulled her clothes tighter around herself, marking them with her red hands. And there, she watched as Haron’s blood coursed into the snow around them.
* * *
When she finally stepped back through the window, she found Gallos seated at the side of his bed, looking at her. Rhias bowed low before him.
“So formal tonight,” Gallos said, the mask expressionless upon his face.
Rhias straightened. She had only seen her lord without his mask once, and the event was of no consequence.
“How many were they?” Gallos asked.
Rhias paused. “Three, my lord.” she said.
“Skilled?”
“No,” Rhias said, almost automatically. “Amateurs. Experienced with burglary, it seems, but not with the killing.”
“I see,” Gallos said. “Remind me to call on Lady Tersianne tomorrow morning at first light. I am sure that this has been particularly inconvenient for you.”
Rhias knew her lord well enough not to ask how he knew of the Lady Tersianne’s involvement. “No, my lord.”
“Are you sure?” Gallos asked with uncharacteristic concern. “Surely you were asleep when they first arrived.”
“No, my lord.”
Gallos paused, considering the matter. He looked into Rhias’s eyes.
“Do you remember when we first met, Rhias?” he asked.
“Yes,” Rhias said. “You said that you were very impressed with my skills.”
“No,” Gallos said. “That was not the first thing I said.”
Rhias gave him a confused look. “I… do not follow, my lord.”
“I asked you what your name was,” Gallos said, looking at her eyes. “Do you remember?”
Rhias stared at him, wondering what he was expecting from her.
“I asked you what your name was, and you said…”
“Rhias,” Rhias said.
“Rhias,” Gallos said at the same time.
Rhias returned Gallos’s gaze for the longest time, and then turned away. Her face remained expressionless, yet her memory told a different story. Her eyes told a different story.
“You may take your leave of me, Rhias,” Gallos said. “Hopefully your services shall no longer be required for the rest of this evening.”
“You honor me, my lord,” Rhias said, bowing low once again, and moving towards the doors to his chamber. “Sleep well,” she said.
“Sleep well, my Rhias,” Gallos said quietly.
Behind his mask, he watched until the door finally closed behind her.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Anito Wins Gametunnel Award
'Independent Game of the Year 2004'. There's a nice ring to that, even if it's number 6 on the countdown.
Gametunnel loved the game a lot, it seems. It's praised the two-perspective storyline above everything else, which means that Niel Dagondon must be ecstatic at the moment. (Yes, he thought of the idea, and I must say that it turned out better than I originally thought.)
I'm proud to have played a part in the game, and I'd do it again if given the chance.
As I've said before, though, I'd make sure to approach it from a more organized fashion. Even the best storylines can still be improved further, after all.
Gametunnel loved the game a lot, it seems. It's praised the two-perspective storyline above everything else, which means that Niel Dagondon must be ecstatic at the moment. (Yes, he thought of the idea, and I must say that it turned out better than I originally thought.)
I'm proud to have played a part in the game, and I'd do it again if given the chance.
As I've said before, though, I'd make sure to approach it from a more organized fashion. Even the best storylines can still be improved further, after all.
Another MMORPG?
Page C-5 of yesterday's Philippine Star contains a notice for the Pristontale MMORPG: It's a large, obnoxious, and badly-worded ad that makes you wonder how much the company's paying an editor to look over their press releases.
Snide comments aside, MMORPGs seem to be mushrooming around here. The popularity of Ragnarok Online apparently took everybody by surprise, and more than a few of the local entrepreneurs have decided to throw their lot in with the online gaming crowd. In a country of growing IT awareness, Counterstrike addiction, and rampant bandwagoneering, this does not come as a surprise.
Still, it's hard not to do a double-take when one sees all of their ads posted on the display windows of the local (computer) hardware stores, or in the various pop-culture magazines: Ragnarok. MU. Tantra. Khan. And now Pristontale (which has the strangest-sounding name among all of them yet).
At the moment, I'm wondering how far we can go without saturating the market. I fear that, given the sheer number of new MMORPGs released within a short time, we may have saturated the market already. Most likely the local audience will end up providing two or three games with significant audiences (at the moment, Ragnarok and Tantra appear to be the most likely candidates), while the others will either get along with lower subscriber numbers, or fold up eventually. I'm inclined to dismiss any future MMORPG endeavors as potential failures unless they've got "Everquest" or "Warcraft" somewhere in their names.
So there's the question that the entrepreneurs really should be asking now: How to tap into a growing market of MMORPG players. There are a lot of internet cafes around, so there's no shortage of places to play. Getting into game merchandise might be lucrative, but the rights are probably being controlled by the distributors already. I'm not sure how to go about this part, so I'll leave my nose out of it for the moment. But if there's anything that I'm sure we don't need, it's investors taking a chance on a few more dubious-looking MMORPGs for a saturated market.
Snide comments aside, MMORPGs seem to be mushrooming around here. The popularity of Ragnarok Online apparently took everybody by surprise, and more than a few of the local entrepreneurs have decided to throw their lot in with the online gaming crowd. In a country of growing IT awareness, Counterstrike addiction, and rampant bandwagoneering, this does not come as a surprise.
Still, it's hard not to do a double-take when one sees all of their ads posted on the display windows of the local (computer) hardware stores, or in the various pop-culture magazines: Ragnarok. MU. Tantra. Khan. And now Pristontale (which has the strangest-sounding name among all of them yet).
At the moment, I'm wondering how far we can go without saturating the market. I fear that, given the sheer number of new MMORPGs released within a short time, we may have saturated the market already. Most likely the local audience will end up providing two or three games with significant audiences (at the moment, Ragnarok and Tantra appear to be the most likely candidates), while the others will either get along with lower subscriber numbers, or fold up eventually. I'm inclined to dismiss any future MMORPG endeavors as potential failures unless they've got "Everquest" or "Warcraft" somewhere in their names.
So there's the question that the entrepreneurs really should be asking now: How to tap into a growing market of MMORPG players. There are a lot of internet cafes around, so there's no shortage of places to play. Getting into game merchandise might be lucrative, but the rights are probably being controlled by the distributors already. I'm not sure how to go about this part, so I'll leave my nose out of it for the moment. But if there's anything that I'm sure we don't need, it's investors taking a chance on a few more dubious-looking MMORPGs for a saturated market.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Eulogy: Will Eisner
Will Eisner has just passed away at 87, due to complications from heart surgery.
Non-comics readers will probably not recognize the name, but followers of the medium will immediately recognize the loss of a great man.
Eisner, in a sense, is credited with steering comics away from the direction of run-of-the-mill funnybooks, and more into the direction of a storytelling medium. He wrote and drew The Spirit, a comic mature enough for adults yet readable by kids, for twelve years. His efforts spurred the creation of 'graphic novels', proper character creation techniques, story pacing and other aspects of the modern comic.
Even at 87, he was still active in the community of writers and artists that he had himself inspired. For years he was the presenter for the Eisner Awards - the industry honors of quality, creativity and excellence that had been appropriately named after him. At the time of this writing, his latest work, "The Plot", should be landing in stores within the month.
The comics field has just lost one of its pioneers, a man well-respected by millions of writers, artists and readers across the world. He will be remembered in the many creations he inspired. His legacy lives on.
Non-comics readers will probably not recognize the name, but followers of the medium will immediately recognize the loss of a great man.
Eisner, in a sense, is credited with steering comics away from the direction of run-of-the-mill funnybooks, and more into the direction of a storytelling medium. He wrote and drew The Spirit, a comic mature enough for adults yet readable by kids, for twelve years. His efforts spurred the creation of 'graphic novels', proper character creation techniques, story pacing and other aspects of the modern comic.
Even at 87, he was still active in the community of writers and artists that he had himself inspired. For years he was the presenter for the Eisner Awards - the industry honors of quality, creativity and excellence that had been appropriately named after him. At the time of this writing, his latest work, "The Plot", should be landing in stores within the month.
The comics field has just lost one of its pioneers, a man well-respected by millions of writers, artists and readers across the world. He will be remembered in the many creations he inspired. His legacy lives on.
Sunday, January 02, 2005
A Distant Death
I'm sure that everyone's aware of the tsunami that swept across South Asia recently. The first identified Filipino fatality of the disaster has turned out to be Sharleen May Ang Tan, a sophomore from Ateneo de Manila University, my alma mater.
Googling for her name hasn't been of much help - I keep getting redundant newspaper reports and casualty lists. It seems that Marcelle Fabie has mentioned a Sharleen Tan in his blog a few times, however, and although I still have to confirm whether they're the same person or not, I'm getting the impression that she was somewhat active in school events.
I offer her family my most sincere condolences for their loss, just as I reflect on the many others affected by the disaster. Life moves on, and eventually, so must we.
Googling for her name hasn't been of much help - I keep getting redundant newspaper reports and casualty lists. It seems that Marcelle Fabie has mentioned a Sharleen Tan in his blog a few times, however, and although I still have to confirm whether they're the same person or not, I'm getting the impression that she was somewhat active in school events.
I offer her family my most sincere condolences for their loss, just as I reflect on the many others affected by the disaster. Life moves on, and eventually, so must we.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Disclaimer: January 2005
Out with the old and in with the new. Auld Lang Syne.
That's not to say that some things will change, though. I will continue to ensure that everything posted on this blog is entirely original in its writing, and that any items culled from external sources will be given proper reference. I wouldn't count myself among the legions of writers in the world if I wouldn't actually write.
Neither should you, for that matter. If you steal any of my writings from me, then I will come to your house, smoke in your bathroom, drink your beer, and kick your dog.
Then again, maybe not. I don't smoke, I don't drink, and I happen to like dogs.
But if you use any of the items on my site without my prior permission, or add your name to one of the writings that was definitely not one of our collaborations, then the lawyers are going to come in. There is nothing in this world that is scarier than a lawyer (although insurance salesmen tend to come pretty close). I currently make no profit on these writings so far, but if you're willing to provide me with my fortune, then I'm not going to complain. :)
You're welcome to try and hide, by the way. It makes the chase more interesting.
Happy new year, everybody.
That's not to say that some things will change, though. I will continue to ensure that everything posted on this blog is entirely original in its writing, and that any items culled from external sources will be given proper reference. I wouldn't count myself among the legions of writers in the world if I wouldn't actually write.
Neither should you, for that matter. If you steal any of my writings from me, then I will come to your house, smoke in your bathroom, drink your beer, and kick your dog.
Then again, maybe not. I don't smoke, I don't drink, and I happen to like dogs.
But if you use any of the items on my site without my prior permission, or add your name to one of the writings that was definitely not one of our collaborations, then the lawyers are going to come in. There is nothing in this world that is scarier than a lawyer (although insurance salesmen tend to come pretty close). I currently make no profit on these writings so far, but if you're willing to provide me with my fortune, then I'm not going to complain. :)
You're welcome to try and hide, by the way. It makes the chase more interesting.
Happy new year, everybody.
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