So here we are.
I've finally finished reading through each and every one of the shortlisted entries for the Peoples' Choice honor in the First Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards. Contrary to what some people may think, it's been more of a chore than anything else. These entries, no matter what Fully Booked would have us think, are still not in their final form... and I can assure you that they're far from perfect.
Taking into account that people will be voting on these entries this Saturday, I figured that it might be best to look over them anyway. I wanted to see what was good and bad about each one and see how it would apply to both my style of writing and my approach at critiquing. I wanted to write down what I wanted to see in a good story, and perhaps make sure that I applied the same lessons to my future works. That, and I wanted to make sure I was voting for the best one, too.
Before I proceed with my comments, I would just like to note that I have a particular approach when performing critiques. My viewpoint is that any short story will have some good aspects and some bad aspects -- the good aspects being those redeemable parts of the story that can be used for other works, and the bad aspects being those flaws or failures that need to be corrected or taken into account. Sometimes one side overcomes the other, giving us what we think are "good" and "bad" pieces, respectively, but the two aspects always exist in each work. With each review below, I ask myself what I think is good and bad about each short story, and tie that in to the opinion as to whether or not I like the final result.
The following entries are reviewed in the same order in which I read them. For the sake of some of the more traditional readers, I have also refrained from mentioning any "spoiler"-type details that may intrude upon their literary experience:
The Great Philippine Space Mission - I give this work points for the title alone; That was the reason why I read it first.
With that said, I feel that "The Great Philippine Space Mission" is a magical realist story in the guise of science fiction: It starts off technical and realistic (not to mention frank), but it eventually mutates into a strange combination of the two genres. As I read it, I couldn't seem to shake the feeling that it was supposed to be a completely logical story despite the fact that absolutely unexplainable events were occurring. Considering that gossip is a central theme to the piece, the two of them resemble each other in that regard: They both use information that might not really be information in the first place. They both feed us stuff and expect us to take it as it is. It's a good parallel.
The main problem I have with the story, however, lies with the social context. It's not likely to reach many international readers because it depends on details that are only familiar in a Philippine-based perception. (And despite the author's well-crafted setup, I have a hard time believing that more people gossip about Kris Aquino than they do about Tom Cruise.) Apart from this, the author has problems with grammar and verb-tense consistency in quite a few areas, and I feel that the ending is too wide open in order to work properly. (This goes in line with the work's focus, yes, but I believe that it could have been done better. At the moment, it gives me the impression that the author simply ran out of ideas for resolution.)
All in all, I think it's a good attempt at an experimental work... but it doesn't quite strike a chord with me. It's okay, I think. It's "okay", it's not quite "good", and I don't think it's certainly "great".
A Strange Map of Time - This, I feel, is definitely a strange one. It's polished, but it's not quite polished to the level of perfection. It belongs firmly in the realm of the fantastic, but whether it can be classified as fantasy or science fiction or some relatively unknown genre is really up in the air.
To be frank, I like the story. It starts off vague and confusing, but then irons itself out in the course of the tale - which is probably what it intended to do in the first place, in order to mirror the main character's journeys. It'll probably take the average person a couple of reads to understand everything completely, but in the end, everything fits together somewhat neatly. Everything eventually makes a kind of sense, as long as one has the patience to figure it out.
My primary concern with the piece is that the various stages of the main character's journey don't seem to be treated equally; Some areas get more screen time than others, and I find it difficult to see why. I believe that the story also needs to work on its setting and background descriptions a little bit, especially in the first parts of the work; The only indication I found that the main character was moving around in a future Philippines, for example, lay in an off-hand mention of hoverjeepneys in the sky.
It's a nice work, though - one of those things that you wish you had the patience and planning to put together yourself. It got me thinking, at least.
A Song for Vargas - I remember quite a few scenes from the screen version of The Last Unicorn, one of them involving both fine wine and the power of memory. I get the feeling that this author happens to be familiar with the movie as well.
"A Song for Vargas" strikes me as more of character study than a story; Not much of a plot occurs, and whatever background detail I get has more to do with events surrounding the main character's history than anything else. With that said, it's an interesting narrative rife with extensive descriptions. I particularly like the characterization of the summer wind, as well as the author's concession that a man's personality is also reflected in the view that other people take of him.
The problem I have with description, however, is that I don't like encountering too much of it in my readings. There's an oft-repeated saying that goes "show, don't tell", and I feel that whatever time spent visualizing the characters and their surroundings would be better used to advance the plot a little further. In fact, despite the richness of the background and the situation, I finished the story with a lot of questions that were never satisfactorily answered: Why is Vargas perpetually haunted by his ghosts? Does he ever find what he is seeking? What eventually happens to the island? That's not exactly the kind of closure I like to see.
Still, my quibbles could just be more of a personal opinion than a proper literary critique. If you hold more faith in description than you do in plotting, then you'll probably be fine with this story. Unfortunately, I don't... and as a result, I'm not.
Stella for Star - The idea for this story is hardly a revolutionary concept. I feel that it's been done before, although no specific examples come to mind at the moment.
Some strange voice inside my head tells me that this piece could potentially be a good one. "Stella for Star" takes a perfectly ordinary plotline and throws in a few elements that aren't quite mundane. (I'm impressed with the involvement of a contemporary gay couple, an aspect that leads to some fairly good possibilities.) These elements fit together better than expected (I particularly like the tabloid headlines), and the resulting story is entertaining enough for a quick read. To be frank, I find this to be the fastest read among all the pieces so far.
If "Stella for Star" fails in anything, however, I think it's in the pacing. I think that the work makes a significant attempt to build suspense, but that the sections read alternatively too slow and too fast. One moment we're breathlessly overseeing the interaction between Dorian and Stella, and the next, we're needlessly listening to Paco complain about his career. I feel that the character of Sophie, in particular, is wasted - she walks in for a single scene near the climax, and then we never see her again. If there's anything that I think the story needs, it's some lengthening; That way, all the folds and creases of the pacing can be smoothed out.
Basically, I'm getting the impression that this piece needs a bit of work. It's interesting, and I think it's right up my alley, but it needs some spit-and-polish before I can say that it came out right.
Atha - The author of this work and I apparently share a certain quality: We both like writing really, really long sentences.
"Atha" feels like science fiction, but it's a "dreamy" sort of science fiction - it reminds me of Terry Gilliam's "Brazil", for some reason. It's a post-apocalyptic setting where the sense of post-apocalypsis isn't too overbearing, and that's pretty rare. For that matter, while it does hover around the idea of man repeating his past sins, I believe that it also concentrates on the alternative viewpoint: That man can't help but do it, for reasons only he can understand. I find that a fresh take on an old approach.
Despite its high points, however, I think that the story actually needs some work on its setting. I spent most of the story assuming that Conrad and the main character were the only humans around; The sudden appearance of other people in the ending seems to undermine the story. For that matter, I fail to see how gunpowder-based cannons could possibly still exist there, especially when their weights and trajectories in the story feel a little too unrealistic. Some elements such as these just feel weird... or perhaps these were meant to have a slight unrealistic feel in the first place? I'm not sure in this case.
With all that said, the story feels good to me. It's a good take, although you'll have to consider things a bit in order to understand it. While I think it needs tweaking, I also think that it's quality work. It's certainly good enough to get me reflecting on it.
Monstrous Cycle - Ever gone through a short story and exclaimed "THAT'S IT?" at the ending? It can be a good or a bad indication - either the story captured your attention to the degree that you didn't expect the sudden ending, or the story didn't get enough of your interest in the first place. Whatever the case, an abrupt ending isn't a very good sign.
I like the idea behind "Monstrous Cycle". The notion of a supernatural being entering the world of show business opens up a huge can of worms: What movies would he/she make? What product endorsements would come knocking at their door? How would they compromise their usual supernatural habits? The story takes this unlikely situation into account and touches on each of those. In a sense, it makes the concept believable - I was entirely willing to accept the possibility of a winged freak of nature doing shampoo commercials, the way the work presented it.
The problem, however, lies in the "setting-story" distinction. To me, "Monstrous Cycle" doesn't tell a story as much as it presents a setting, and as interesting as the setting might be, it ultimately doesn't mean anything when it gives no substance to the events of the story. We read that something happens, and then something happens, and then something else happens, but we never see why. I feel that the result doesn't transcend anything, really. It tells me of the events that occur in the story, yet somehow doesn't make me feel as though the experience was worthwhile. It caused me to ask what the point of the entire exercise was, and that's definitely not a good sign.
Right now, I'd rank this the worst of the eight shortlisted entries. Yes, it's got some definite redeeming values, and yes, it's certainly better than a number of other pieces I've read. But I think its greatest problem lies in the fact that it needs more of a story to go along with its development, and it's a really big problem in that regard.
The God Equation - It's got shades of Dan Brown, and images of divine beings doing God's work on earth, a story idea that's been approached and used many, many times in the past.
I find the style of this story to be excellent. It reads in a far more coherent manner than any of the other seven shortlisted entries, practically to the point where it can be read aloud to a group of eager listeners. The dialogue is done well (albeit long and overbearing), and the exotic references subtly noted. There are even a couple of extremely creative touches: the systematic nature of celestial operations (which works a little like international relations), the manifestation of divine agents into human form, and the strange involvement of ice cream in the narration. It has virtually all the elements of a good piece of fiction.
Yet, for all its advantages, I don't like the short story. "The God Equation" may have the style and panaché to carry things through, but it seems to concentrate too much on the nature of its own subject matter to make for a good tale. Whole pages are spent detailing technical details that have little or nothing to do with the plot itself, and after ten pages of this or so, I was skipping over all the mentions of prime numbers, of Mandelbrot, and of Leonhard Euler. The characters feel anything but "human" to me; While they are supposed to be celestial beings, I was unable to feel the slightest empathy for what was them, or for what was going on. I got the impression that the story was both preachy and distant, and those are a couple of qualities that it really shouldn't have.
Don't get me wrong... "The God Equation" has style, rhythm, and class. I just think that it needs to get its head out of the clouds and become a lot more appealing to the average reader. What significance does a "God Equation" have, after all, if no one cares about it?
The Omega Project - I've worked with cockroaches from a literary standpoint before, although this treatment is quite new to me.
"The Omega Project" has good style and narration - not perfect, but good enough to make for a fast and entertaining read. It has good flow as well, in that it is able to alternate between two different points of view while keeping the story running. This interplay allows the story to slowly unfold, although most of the revelations appear in the first half of the piece itself. I particularly like the closing paragraphs, in that they provide excellent closure; It's been a while since I've read a satisfactory ending to a story.
For a science-fiction-centered piece, however, the "science" needs a lot more development. The story left me clueless as to how the setting came about or how the ending came to pass; There are a lot of logical disconnections in the course of the tale. There are a number of areas that seem far more developed than others, but these areas always seem to receive little more than a partial mention in the story. I constantly had the impression that something was left out of the telling, and I believe that, if there's one major flaw in this work, it's the fact that it fails to emphasize details that really should be emphasized.
In hindsight, however, that's perfectly attuned to the reality of a cockroach: Always there but hardly ever raised to anyone's attention. At least until we squish it, of course.
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That's it, ladies and gentlemen. That's how my comments go after a single read through each and every one of the eight shortlisted entries.
You may fully agree with some of my writings as featured above. You may vehemently disagree with them, or you may violently object to my opinion and immediately start plotting to kill me. I suppose that that's fine. We're each entitled to our own opinions, after all.
If you have any points to raise that require my attention, however, feel free to leave a comment below. I'm open to discussion regarding any or all of these stories, much more so if we can trade ideas about the whole review thing. The more people join in, after all, the more subjective our collective opinions can get.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Critters
It's about two in the morning, and I've read through three straight pieces of short fiction tonight. Along with the two works I went through yesterday afternoon, that means that I've got critiques for five of the shortlisted entries in the Fully Booked contest. That also means that I'll definitely be placing my notes online within the next couple of days.
It's struck me that this move could be somehow controversial -- after all, I'm a relatively unknown writer without the same level of writing chops that some of the more established people hold. These eight entries are presumably the best works submitted to a single national writing contest, possibly by big-name authors with credentials longer than my outstretched arms. What right do I have to suddenly go through them, and tell people what I think?
The answer, I suppose, lies in the fact that I'm a reader. And if anything, it's really the reader who has the last say in determining whether a work is good, or bad, or otherwise. It's the readers who curl up with your book in their hands and a bag of chips on the side, it's the readers who drive sales and put your name on the bestseller lists, and it's the readers who'll ultimately stop you in the middle of the street and tell you how much your writing affected their lives.
I find that last point important. I want to read these shortlisted works, and I want to write down what I think of them. My reviews may end up being good, or they may end up being tyrannical and scathing, but I'll have them down on (virtual) paper, and that's really all that I want to see.
It's not as much fun if I'm doing this alone, though. I invite any other readers out there to have a look at the same set of short stories, and post their thoughts on their online journals, just so that we can have a better, more subjective view of things. We can even go around and trade ideas on each of these pieces; Reading, after all, is a matter of sharing views as much as it is deciphering words and letters on paper.
That, and there's less than a week before everybody goes off and votes for their favorite author or short story at the Rockwell tent on Saturday. So if you're going to put up an opinion on something, then you'd better do it soon.
On my part, I'm going to be posting mine within the next few days... and maybe cutting some barbed wire and caltrops while I'm at it. I still don't know what the real critics out there will think, but I might as well be prepared.
It's struck me that this move could be somehow controversial -- after all, I'm a relatively unknown writer without the same level of writing chops that some of the more established people hold. These eight entries are presumably the best works submitted to a single national writing contest, possibly by big-name authors with credentials longer than my outstretched arms. What right do I have to suddenly go through them, and tell people what I think?
The answer, I suppose, lies in the fact that I'm a reader. And if anything, it's really the reader who has the last say in determining whether a work is good, or bad, or otherwise. It's the readers who curl up with your book in their hands and a bag of chips on the side, it's the readers who drive sales and put your name on the bestseller lists, and it's the readers who'll ultimately stop you in the middle of the street and tell you how much your writing affected their lives.
I find that last point important. I want to read these shortlisted works, and I want to write down what I think of them. My reviews may end up being good, or they may end up being tyrannical and scathing, but I'll have them down on (virtual) paper, and that's really all that I want to see.
It's not as much fun if I'm doing this alone, though. I invite any other readers out there to have a look at the same set of short stories, and post their thoughts on their online journals, just so that we can have a better, more subjective view of things. We can even go around and trade ideas on each of these pieces; Reading, after all, is a matter of sharing views as much as it is deciphering words and letters on paper.
That, and there's less than a week before everybody goes off and votes for their favorite author or short story at the Rockwell tent on Saturday. So if you're going to put up an opinion on something, then you'd better do it soon.
On my part, I'm going to be posting mine within the next few days... and maybe cutting some barbed wire and caltrops while I'm at it. I still don't know what the real critics out there will think, but I might as well be prepared.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
...And the Short of It
It appears that Fully Booked has set up a Peoples' Choice category for the First Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards. They've made the shortlisted entries for both categories available to the public here, and are encouraging people to vote their favorites on Saturday, July 15. (Ironically, this means that the winner of the Peoples' Choice award will be decided only by those people who happen to be in town next weekend, but I suppose that that's better than exposing it to the security loopholes of Internet voting.)
I'm fully expecting to be shut out of the competition on this one. While I did submit an entry, it was a modification of a four-year-old unpublished piece that should never have seen the light of day again. I'm also aware that quite a few other established authors don't seem to be proud of whatever they handed in, for some reason. Put that together with the sheer number of entrants to the contest, and you get what looks like a real horse race here. (That's literal, by the way; I actually have a running bet that the eventual winner will be a complete unknown.)
What I really want to know at this point, however, are the identities of the contest judges. It's difficult to put together a plausible writing competition around here, much less one that concentrates on fantastic fiction. Works that delve into social realism have been the bread-and-butter of Philippine fiction for decades; I'm not sure if I can trust these writers to judge the more "experimental" forms of literature if they haven't tried it themselves.
Yes, I know that Neil Gaiman is most definitely one of these judges, and he's certainly qualified in that respect. I just hope that he's not the only one; Otherwise, we all should have aimed for something closer to his personal tastes.
Whatever the case, I fully expect quite a bit of sourgraping to take place in the months after the final announcement. Despite the fact that I don't consider my own statements here to be sourgraping in itself, you're welcome to tell me otherwise. I can tell you, however, that if I wanted to whine about all this, I know of far more direct methods to do so.
With that said, I'm looking over the shortlisted entries for the Peoples' Choice award to see which ones make for good reads. I don't know if these are the shortlisted entries for the actual winning piece as well, but at least we get to see what a few other people put together for the contest. If everything goes as expected, I'll probably find a story that is far better than all the others on the site, and I can put in a good word for it on the fifteenth.
Seeing that I have quite a bit of free time on my hands, I'm also planning to jot down my initial impressions about each of the shortlisted entries (and possibly put them up on this blog). That way, I get to try out the old critique muscles again after months of atrophy. I'll also be able to reassess what I want to see and what I don't want to see in my stories as well, and if anyone's crazy enough to read through eight different works of fantastic fiction along with me, then we can have a nice little discussion on the matter, too. (I'd go through the shortlisted comics submissions as well, but it would probably make my dial-up connection cry.)
So you probably know that I'll most likely be hanging around the June 15 Fully Booked event, and I'm probably enough of a sucker for punishment to attend the Science Fiction/Fantasy Convention the next day. Next weekend's definitely going to be a busy one, yes, but I suppose it could be worse. For all I know, some weird Games and Puzzles Convention might pass by someday...
I'm fully expecting to be shut out of the competition on this one. While I did submit an entry, it was a modification of a four-year-old unpublished piece that should never have seen the light of day again. I'm also aware that quite a few other established authors don't seem to be proud of whatever they handed in, for some reason. Put that together with the sheer number of entrants to the contest, and you get what looks like a real horse race here. (That's literal, by the way; I actually have a running bet that the eventual winner will be a complete unknown.)
What I really want to know at this point, however, are the identities of the contest judges. It's difficult to put together a plausible writing competition around here, much less one that concentrates on fantastic fiction. Works that delve into social realism have been the bread-and-butter of Philippine fiction for decades; I'm not sure if I can trust these writers to judge the more "experimental" forms of literature if they haven't tried it themselves.
Yes, I know that Neil Gaiman is most definitely one of these judges, and he's certainly qualified in that respect. I just hope that he's not the only one; Otherwise, we all should have aimed for something closer to his personal tastes.
Whatever the case, I fully expect quite a bit of sourgraping to take place in the months after the final announcement. Despite the fact that I don't consider my own statements here to be sourgraping in itself, you're welcome to tell me otherwise. I can tell you, however, that if I wanted to whine about all this, I know of far more direct methods to do so.
With that said, I'm looking over the shortlisted entries for the Peoples' Choice award to see which ones make for good reads. I don't know if these are the shortlisted entries for the actual winning piece as well, but at least we get to see what a few other people put together for the contest. If everything goes as expected, I'll probably find a story that is far better than all the others on the site, and I can put in a good word for it on the fifteenth.
Seeing that I have quite a bit of free time on my hands, I'm also planning to jot down my initial impressions about each of the shortlisted entries (and possibly put them up on this blog). That way, I get to try out the old critique muscles again after months of atrophy. I'll also be able to reassess what I want to see and what I don't want to see in my stories as well, and if anyone's crazy enough to read through eight different works of fantastic fiction along with me, then we can have a nice little discussion on the matter, too. (I'd go through the shortlisted comics submissions as well, but it would probably make my dial-up connection cry.)
So you probably know that I'll most likely be hanging around the June 15 Fully Booked event, and I'm probably enough of a sucker for punishment to attend the Science Fiction/Fantasy Convention the next day. Next weekend's definitely going to be a busy one, yes, but I suppose it could be worse. For all I know, some weird Games and Puzzles Convention might pass by someday...
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Premise Without Plot
I believe that one of the aspects of writing fantastic fiction lies in the fact that you often have to conjure up a setting to go along with it. While setting-creation does provide another means by which you can stretch the fantastic element of any story, I figure that it simply allows us more room to fit the more integral elements that we want.
That is not to say, of course, that we have to create an appropriate setting for each instance of fantastic fiction we write. If we can write a novel about a young magician student and set it in the modern world without changing any of its current aspects, then so much the better. What I say, however, is that such a story will most likely be enriched by the addition of background elements: a hidden wizards' academy, a dark sorcerer villain who killed the protagonist's parents, and an invisible Platform 9 3/4 at the local train station.
You can think of it in terms of a playground, if you may: We can probably house a bunch of kids inside a small two-story house, but they'll probably be better off in a large sandbox somewhere, pushing each other off the swings and twisting themselves into pretzel-like shapes on the monkey bars.
Tabletop Role-Playing Games (RPGs) are probably the best testament to this subtle form of inspiration: They give you the setting and the background events, then invite you to supply the characters and the stories. You can pass on the same setting to thousands of RPG players in this way, and literally get a unique experience from each and every one. (Of late, computer games and interactive novels have also experimented with this ability to have readers create their own sequence of events.)
The importance of background and setting has increased significantly in the past few years, if only because there are now so many forays into the fantastic that each of them has to be distinct from all the others. Settings help make a difference there: a coming-of-age story in a medieval fantasy world will most definitely be distinct from the same relative coming-of-age story in a post-apocalyptic "Mad Max"-type scenario.
This situation has raised some odd problems with writers, I think. I feel as though we're depending more and more on setting and background than before, if only to provide a sort of logic to a story's events. Sometimes the setting even goes beyond that, and ends up being absolutely relevant to the given tale. And sometimes the story doesn't even come to fruition at all, leaving us with a beautiful, well-thought-out background that has absolutely no use anymore.
I've run into the latter situation numerous times, and the situation always transfixes me. What does one do with a perfectly workable setting idea that doesn't have a story to go along with it? Is it plausible to write it down, register it for copyright, and then file it away in hopes that we'll know what to do with it eventually? Or does it make more sense to disclose it to other people and expect them to visualize the tale themselves? Interesting ideas are something of a premium nowadays, and I think I'd like to see more exchanges like this.
Something in me, however, loves nothing more than to throw a little doubt into the equation: Are we, perhaps, placing too much emphasis on background and setting? After all, a number of critically-acclaimed works openly exhibit fantastic stories without bothering to make any effort to explain them. More than a few authors, for example, have thrown their efforts into the realm of "magical realism". Maybe the need to introduce logic into a story is more of a human failing than it is a step in the right direction. Or maybe the critics simply have no idea what they're talking about, and maybe the general public really can't stand the notion of fantasy without logic.
Hmmm... "fantasy without logic". That sounds all too ironic, doesn't it?
What I do know, however, is that you either have the logic, or you don't. Explaining some aspects of a fantastic story while purposely leaving others vague, for example, doesn't seem to work. It's as though the presence of logical explanation in some areas magnifies the lack of plausible reason in others, and you end up with a work that only confuses the reader. Either everything has to be logical, or everything has to be familiar enough to seemingly work without logic.
Am I making sense here? I'm starting to lose track of what I'm talking about.
Contrary to popular opinion, that happens a lot more often than people expect.
While the setting/no-setting distinction may or may not actually be a matter of introducing logic into a story, I feel that it's the only possible explanation as to why fantasy writers seem to come up with a lot of new realms off the top of their heads. What I fear, however, is the possibility that it may be a wrong direction to explore. Do readers look for logical stories? Is plausibility an important factor with regards to the quality of a tale?
The most frustrating part, perhaps, is that this could be more a question of mindset than it is a question of taste. We either notice some underlying order within the world, or we simply don't. In addition, the consideration of mindset would most likely cause additional problems for writers who are willing to experiment: How does a logical man, for instance, find a way to write a story that keeps logic loose and capricious? I think that it would have to require a massive amount of effort, or the equivalent of an existential lobotomy.
Yes doctor, I do think of stuff like this in my free time, thank you very much.
That is not to say, of course, that we have to create an appropriate setting for each instance of fantastic fiction we write. If we can write a novel about a young magician student and set it in the modern world without changing any of its current aspects, then so much the better. What I say, however, is that such a story will most likely be enriched by the addition of background elements: a hidden wizards' academy, a dark sorcerer villain who killed the protagonist's parents, and an invisible Platform 9 3/4 at the local train station.
You can think of it in terms of a playground, if you may: We can probably house a bunch of kids inside a small two-story house, but they'll probably be better off in a large sandbox somewhere, pushing each other off the swings and twisting themselves into pretzel-like shapes on the monkey bars.
Tabletop Role-Playing Games (RPGs) are probably the best testament to this subtle form of inspiration: They give you the setting and the background events, then invite you to supply the characters and the stories. You can pass on the same setting to thousands of RPG players in this way, and literally get a unique experience from each and every one. (Of late, computer games and interactive novels have also experimented with this ability to have readers create their own sequence of events.)
The importance of background and setting has increased significantly in the past few years, if only because there are now so many forays into the fantastic that each of them has to be distinct from all the others. Settings help make a difference there: a coming-of-age story in a medieval fantasy world will most definitely be distinct from the same relative coming-of-age story in a post-apocalyptic "Mad Max"-type scenario.
This situation has raised some odd problems with writers, I think. I feel as though we're depending more and more on setting and background than before, if only to provide a sort of logic to a story's events. Sometimes the setting even goes beyond that, and ends up being absolutely relevant to the given tale. And sometimes the story doesn't even come to fruition at all, leaving us with a beautiful, well-thought-out background that has absolutely no use anymore.
I've run into the latter situation numerous times, and the situation always transfixes me. What does one do with a perfectly workable setting idea that doesn't have a story to go along with it? Is it plausible to write it down, register it for copyright, and then file it away in hopes that we'll know what to do with it eventually? Or does it make more sense to disclose it to other people and expect them to visualize the tale themselves? Interesting ideas are something of a premium nowadays, and I think I'd like to see more exchanges like this.
Something in me, however, loves nothing more than to throw a little doubt into the equation: Are we, perhaps, placing too much emphasis on background and setting? After all, a number of critically-acclaimed works openly exhibit fantastic stories without bothering to make any effort to explain them. More than a few authors, for example, have thrown their efforts into the realm of "magical realism". Maybe the need to introduce logic into a story is more of a human failing than it is a step in the right direction. Or maybe the critics simply have no idea what they're talking about, and maybe the general public really can't stand the notion of fantasy without logic.
Hmmm... "fantasy without logic". That sounds all too ironic, doesn't it?
What I do know, however, is that you either have the logic, or you don't. Explaining some aspects of a fantastic story while purposely leaving others vague, for example, doesn't seem to work. It's as though the presence of logical explanation in some areas magnifies the lack of plausible reason in others, and you end up with a work that only confuses the reader. Either everything has to be logical, or everything has to be familiar enough to seemingly work without logic.
Am I making sense here? I'm starting to lose track of what I'm talking about.
Contrary to popular opinion, that happens a lot more often than people expect.
While the setting/no-setting distinction may or may not actually be a matter of introducing logic into a story, I feel that it's the only possible explanation as to why fantasy writers seem to come up with a lot of new realms off the top of their heads. What I fear, however, is the possibility that it may be a wrong direction to explore. Do readers look for logical stories? Is plausibility an important factor with regards to the quality of a tale?
The most frustrating part, perhaps, is that this could be more a question of mindset than it is a question of taste. We either notice some underlying order within the world, or we simply don't. In addition, the consideration of mindset would most likely cause additional problems for writers who are willing to experiment: How does a logical man, for instance, find a way to write a story that keeps logic loose and capricious? I think that it would have to require a massive amount of effort, or the equivalent of an existential lobotomy.
Yes doctor, I do think of stuff like this in my free time, thank you very much.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Unclean! Unclean!
About an hour ago, I received official word that I may have been exposed to a highly contagious virus as of sometime last weekend. I am therefore posting this warning on my blog as a public service, in light of the fact that I was up and running about like any normal idiot over the past couple of days.
I have been notified that the symptoms of the virus include spot formations around the arms, legs and stomach (although never in the facial area), occasional itching sensations, feverish indications, and uncontrollable flatulence. If you exhibit any of these symptoms (particularly the flatulence), it is important that you do not panic. Feel free to visit your doctor for confirmation, and remember to consume your daily recommended portion of Vitamin C.
I assure you, by the way, that I am not making this up. (Okay, maybe I made up the part about the flatulence, but everything else should be accurate.)
Again, please do not panic. We are told that this virus is relatively harmless in nature (although it most definitely won't do wonders for your social life). I will most likely be visiting another doctor for a second opinion on the matter, so hang tight.
For now, we return you to your regularly scheduled programming.
I have been notified that the symptoms of the virus include spot formations around the arms, legs and stomach (although never in the facial area), occasional itching sensations, feverish indications, and uncontrollable flatulence. If you exhibit any of these symptoms (particularly the flatulence), it is important that you do not panic. Feel free to visit your doctor for confirmation, and remember to consume your daily recommended portion of Vitamin C.
I assure you, by the way, that I am not making this up. (Okay, maybe I made up the part about the flatulence, but everything else should be accurate.)
Again, please do not panic. We are told that this virus is relatively harmless in nature (although it most definitely won't do wonders for your social life). I will most likely be visiting another doctor for a second opinion on the matter, so hang tight.
For now, we return you to your regularly scheduled programming.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Disclaimer: July 2006
If you're new to the blog, then you must know that I'm writing these monthly entries because of the plagiarism issue. I may not compare in terms of quality to most of the other writers out there (yet), but I'd at least like to know that I've got such a situation covered.
The plagiarism issue, of course, does not imply that certain people hold a monopoly on certain ideas or executions. Let's take philosophy, for example: Anyone is welcome to write about philosophy in general, or about their own personal philosophies, or about their own take on other peoples' personal philosophies. For that matter, anyone is welcome to write about more specific topics such as existentialism, or hedonism, or nihilism. Heck, we can even say that anyone is welcome to write about how nothingness relates to nihilism, or how religion relates to nihilism, or how bananas relate to nihilism. Ideas, topics and approaches are fair game that way1.
What flies in the face of fair game, however, are those incidences where entire articles or selections are appropriated by misguided individuals. I can write a short piece that somehow relates weasels, lemon meringue pie and deep holes in the ground to the notion of God as a cosmic entity, and you're probably welcome to do the same if you're crazy enough to try it. But if you copy the article virtually word-for-word and substitute your name for mine in the hopes that you'll be recognized for it, then you're definitely doing something wrong.
Plagiarism is the name that we give to this theft of time, effort and creativity. It is wrong because it causes significant damage without providing any long-term benefits. A plagiarized writer loses his work to an offender who may be seen as more believable or more powerful than him, whereas an offender loses the knowledge and experience that would have been gained if he had just done the work himself. A plagiarized writer ends up questioning his motives in coming up with new works, whereas an offender reasons that he can get by without coming up with anything on his own.
To put it simply: Plagiarism punishes dedicated effort, and rewards idle laziness.
This is hardly the sort of value we want to see among the general population.
International bloggers have seen quite a number of copyright issues over the last few years, most of them owing to people who see weblogs as convenient resources more than they see them as good reading material. One particularly prominent case, for example, notes the Associated Press copying excerpts from a weblog article, and later stating in their defence that bloggers do not need to be credited as references. It was a foot-in-mouth declaration as only a large corporate entity could possibly put it.
It was the John Wiegley case, however, that convinced me to continue enforcing my stand against plagiarism. Sometime in late 2004, Wiegley discovered that one of the essays published on his blog had been appropriated by a high school student and submitted in an obvious effort to claim the work as the student's own. Incredibly, however, the school defended the plagiarist's "work", stating that electronic logs dated his writing before Wiegley's. Unable to respond with any substantial "evidence"2 of his own, Wiegley consequently shut down his blog.
Fortunately, Wiegley had enough of an encouraging reader base to restore his site a few days later. He did, however, leave a lasting reminder of exactly how it feels to have your work stolen from you, much less have the act supported by an educational institution.
And all this finally brings me to my disclaimer. I post a facsimile of this every month, and maintain a Note of Ownership on the right-hand column just to emphasize matters. I'm glad that I was able to take some time to explain the issue once again, and hope that everybody came off with a bit more understanding on the subject.
The articles on this blog are all original writings as composed by Sean, with select exceptions where noted. All exceptions in this manner are clearly labelled or linked to their original sources so as to give credit where credit is due. These should give their authors, creators or originators the proper acknowledgements; In the event that I have failed to give the proper references for an article, please notify me and I will correct the error.
Any person who wishes to quote or reference any item in this blog is free to do so as long as they give the proper attributions and/or links. If you haven't realized it yet, I can tell you right now that I don't like people who copy my work and try to pass it off as their own. While I probably won't shut down this blog in response to their theft, I will still most likely come after them with any manner of torture implements (long needles, spiked gloves, bullwhips, Barry Manilow CDs3). I don't write these entries just so that they can be stolen, you know.
Finally, if you have any further issues to raise regarding plagiarism, then I'd be happy to discuss them if it means better information for all of us. Just put up something in the Comments listings, and I'll get to you as best I can. This is the kind of thing that should be taken more seriously than the rest of the world does at the moment.
After all, there are certain values that should be promoted among the general population, shouldn't there?
1 This is a debatable point, I'll have to admit. There are more than a few people out there, for example, who feel that the definition of plagiarism should extend to ideas or approaches: I shouldn't be able to toss an idea to a media executive and allow him to make a new TV show without my proper acknowledgement or compensation, for instance.
2 I note "evidence" subjectively here, as it's relatively easy to fake electronic logs if you know how. Unfortunately for Wiegley, however, electronic logs seemed to be the primary exhibits of proof in his case.
3 I have nothing against Barry Manilow, mind you. Please feel free to insert any other artists' names here: Right Said Fred, The Spice Girls, Britney Spears... whoever you love to hate at the moment. You know what I'm saying.
The plagiarism issue, of course, does not imply that certain people hold a monopoly on certain ideas or executions. Let's take philosophy, for example: Anyone is welcome to write about philosophy in general, or about their own personal philosophies, or about their own take on other peoples' personal philosophies. For that matter, anyone is welcome to write about more specific topics such as existentialism, or hedonism, or nihilism. Heck, we can even say that anyone is welcome to write about how nothingness relates to nihilism, or how religion relates to nihilism, or how bananas relate to nihilism. Ideas, topics and approaches are fair game that way1.
What flies in the face of fair game, however, are those incidences where entire articles or selections are appropriated by misguided individuals. I can write a short piece that somehow relates weasels, lemon meringue pie and deep holes in the ground to the notion of God as a cosmic entity, and you're probably welcome to do the same if you're crazy enough to try it. But if you copy the article virtually word-for-word and substitute your name for mine in the hopes that you'll be recognized for it, then you're definitely doing something wrong.
Plagiarism is the name that we give to this theft of time, effort and creativity. It is wrong because it causes significant damage without providing any long-term benefits. A plagiarized writer loses his work to an offender who may be seen as more believable or more powerful than him, whereas an offender loses the knowledge and experience that would have been gained if he had just done the work himself. A plagiarized writer ends up questioning his motives in coming up with new works, whereas an offender reasons that he can get by without coming up with anything on his own.
To put it simply: Plagiarism punishes dedicated effort, and rewards idle laziness.
This is hardly the sort of value we want to see among the general population.
International bloggers have seen quite a number of copyright issues over the last few years, most of them owing to people who see weblogs as convenient resources more than they see them as good reading material. One particularly prominent case, for example, notes the Associated Press copying excerpts from a weblog article, and later stating in their defence that bloggers do not need to be credited as references. It was a foot-in-mouth declaration as only a large corporate entity could possibly put it.
It was the John Wiegley case, however, that convinced me to continue enforcing my stand against plagiarism. Sometime in late 2004, Wiegley discovered that one of the essays published on his blog had been appropriated by a high school student and submitted in an obvious effort to claim the work as the student's own. Incredibly, however, the school defended the plagiarist's "work", stating that electronic logs dated his writing before Wiegley's. Unable to respond with any substantial "evidence"2 of his own, Wiegley consequently shut down his blog.
Fortunately, Wiegley had enough of an encouraging reader base to restore his site a few days later. He did, however, leave a lasting reminder of exactly how it feels to have your work stolen from you, much less have the act supported by an educational institution.
And all this finally brings me to my disclaimer. I post a facsimile of this every month, and maintain a Note of Ownership on the right-hand column just to emphasize matters. I'm glad that I was able to take some time to explain the issue once again, and hope that everybody came off with a bit more understanding on the subject.
The articles on this blog are all original writings as composed by Sean, with select exceptions where noted. All exceptions in this manner are clearly labelled or linked to their original sources so as to give credit where credit is due. These should give their authors, creators or originators the proper acknowledgements; In the event that I have failed to give the proper references for an article, please notify me and I will correct the error.
Any person who wishes to quote or reference any item in this blog is free to do so as long as they give the proper attributions and/or links. If you haven't realized it yet, I can tell you right now that I don't like people who copy my work and try to pass it off as their own. While I probably won't shut down this blog in response to their theft, I will still most likely come after them with any manner of torture implements (long needles, spiked gloves, bullwhips, Barry Manilow CDs3). I don't write these entries just so that they can be stolen, you know.
Finally, if you have any further issues to raise regarding plagiarism, then I'd be happy to discuss them if it means better information for all of us. Just put up something in the Comments listings, and I'll get to you as best I can. This is the kind of thing that should be taken more seriously than the rest of the world does at the moment.
After all, there are certain values that should be promoted among the general population, shouldn't there?
1 This is a debatable point, I'll have to admit. There are more than a few people out there, for example, who feel that the definition of plagiarism should extend to ideas or approaches: I shouldn't be able to toss an idea to a media executive and allow him to make a new TV show without my proper acknowledgement or compensation, for instance.
2 I note "evidence" subjectively here, as it's relatively easy to fake electronic logs if you know how. Unfortunately for Wiegley, however, electronic logs seemed to be the primary exhibits of proof in his case.
3 I have nothing against Barry Manilow, mind you. Please feel free to insert any other artists' names here: Right Said Fred, The Spice Girls, Britney Spears... whoever you love to hate at the moment. You know what I'm saying.
Friday, June 30, 2006
The Waiting Game
The good news: It appears that the turnover with my former company has gone smoothly. Over the last five years, we've always had trouble with employee resignations. Seeing that I was leaving my day-to-day duties to a team of people, it was pretty important that everything got taken into account in order to ensure their uninterrupted services. Apparently, everything did... and all it cost me was about a week's worth of job-hunting.
The bad news: It's been just over a week since my formal departure, and I am now thoroughly bored. Most of my reading material nowadays appears to be made up of blogs and the like; As a result, I get a lot of inconvenient waiting times on a dial-up connection. Add to that a lack of inspiration that I normally get from work, and it looks like I'm going to have to look for something constructive to do very soon.
On the job-hunting front, I've spent the last nine days sending application forms to nine different companies, and only one of them had the courtesy to send me a confirmation letter. That puts them a notch up in my estimation, yes, but I'm still wondering about the HR practices of the other eight companies. Isn't it supposed to be standard procedure to confirm receipt of any online application (even if it is an automatically-generated e-mail)? Or have things certainly changed since the last time I was on the job market?
Ah, well. I suppose I shouldn't be complaining. Interestingly enough, five years of constantly being on the job have given me license to apply for positions that require "extensive experience" in a managerial position. People would most likely ask why I would leave a company that has been my heart and soul for the last five years, but I believe that a change of pace and scenery would constitute a good reason for that. Hopefully I won't get beaten out by anyone who has more charisma than brains; I hate it when that happens.
Right now I'm doing cleanup -- not the same cleanup I was doing for five years' worth of files and papers in the office, but a general cleaning of my other idle pastimes. I've got over a thousand archived e-mails in my personal inbox, for example, and I suppose that now's as good a time as any to throw away the old, outdated ones.
For now, however, the only thing I can do is wait... and watch. Some people say that waiting is always the hardest part, and I'm starting to believe them.
The bad news: It's been just over a week since my formal departure, and I am now thoroughly bored. Most of my reading material nowadays appears to be made up of blogs and the like; As a result, I get a lot of inconvenient waiting times on a dial-up connection. Add to that a lack of inspiration that I normally get from work, and it looks like I'm going to have to look for something constructive to do very soon.
On the job-hunting front, I've spent the last nine days sending application forms to nine different companies, and only one of them had the courtesy to send me a confirmation letter. That puts them a notch up in my estimation, yes, but I'm still wondering about the HR practices of the other eight companies. Isn't it supposed to be standard procedure to confirm receipt of any online application (even if it is an automatically-generated e-mail)? Or have things certainly changed since the last time I was on the job market?
Ah, well. I suppose I shouldn't be complaining. Interestingly enough, five years of constantly being on the job have given me license to apply for positions that require "extensive experience" in a managerial position. People would most likely ask why I would leave a company that has been my heart and soul for the last five years, but I believe that a change of pace and scenery would constitute a good reason for that. Hopefully I won't get beaten out by anyone who has more charisma than brains; I hate it when that happens.
Right now I'm doing cleanup -- not the same cleanup I was doing for five years' worth of files and papers in the office, but a general cleaning of my other idle pastimes. I've got over a thousand archived e-mails in my personal inbox, for example, and I suppose that now's as good a time as any to throw away the old, outdated ones.
For now, however, the only thing I can do is wait... and watch. Some people say that waiting is always the hardest part, and I'm starting to believe them.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Exeunt Omnes
I'm sitting in an internet café right now, having just gathered the last of my belongings from the office. These aren't personal knickknacks like toothbrushes and stuffed toys, mind you. These are items that were conceived and born in the workplace -- things that I'd rather take home because they hold some sentimental value. For some reason, they all seem to fit inside a short brown envelope.
Inside:
- An ashcan-type comic book, created as a pseudo-hobby of one of the previous staff members.
- A parody L5R comic, illustrated by the same staff member. (He's a creative sort.)
- A collection of plastic forks, evidence of my typical Cup Noodle lunches.
- A coaster from Australia, a memento of my boss's last vacation. (Why I don't have any mementos from my previous vacations, I don't know.)
- A Nokia lanyard that doesn't attach to anything.
- A leather picture frame from the earliest satisfied client I ever had. (It's five years old, ladies and gentlemen. I'm either that good, or that old.)
- Various notes on Antaria characters, most of which were born and built during periods of ennui.
- About thirty pages' worth of office doodles. You know you've been working for a long time when it takes you about an hour to sort through your idle scribblings alone.
- Around eighty pesos in five- and ten-centavo coins. When we got bored, we got bored.
- A condom. (Yes, my office is weird.)
Inside:
- An ashcan-type comic book, created as a pseudo-hobby of one of the previous staff members.
- A parody L5R comic, illustrated by the same staff member. (He's a creative sort.)
- A collection of plastic forks, evidence of my typical Cup Noodle lunches.
- A coaster from Australia, a memento of my boss's last vacation. (Why I don't have any mementos from my previous vacations, I don't know.)
- A Nokia lanyard that doesn't attach to anything.
- A leather picture frame from the earliest satisfied client I ever had. (It's five years old, ladies and gentlemen. I'm either that good, or that old.)
- Various notes on Antaria characters, most of which were born and built during periods of ennui.
- About thirty pages' worth of office doodles. You know you've been working for a long time when it takes you about an hour to sort through your idle scribblings alone.
- Around eighty pesos in five- and ten-centavo coins. When we got bored, we got bored.
- A condom. (Yes, my office is weird.)
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Self, No Self
For the better part of last year and a good chunk of this year, my user profile read as follows:
As with many things in life, however, I figure that it's about time for a change. Most of us are blog writers, after all -- we're aware that every single one of our new posts inevitably replaces an old, run-down article on the front pages of our respective sites. We get a little older, we get a little wiser, we get a little more crochety, and we eventually have to change the way we refer to ourselves.
My profile, for example, references the Anito computer game. Hasn't it been two years since the game originally came out? And it's not as though it received a lot of exposure on the international front. If I raise any spectre of my work in my profile, then I should really be pointing out my more recent achievements, I think.
On the other hand, one really has to consider what the User Profile's for. People only usually read it once, and that's when they're new to the blog and wondering about what kind of person the author is. It's strange, actually, once you realize that we bare more of our heart and soul in our posts than we do in our profile write-ups.
In this light, I suspect that the profile write-up has more to do with a basic introduction than it does a personal description. It's literally an avenue by which we "sell" people the prospect of reading the blog -- much like the cliffhanger synopsis on the back of a mystery novel. "Will Sean continue his silent war against online plagiarism? Will Sean ever realize that his passion for games actually masks a critical weakness to kryptonite? Will Sean ever overcome his secret desire to wrestle naked in a kiddy pool filled with carbonara sauce?"
...
Er... feel free to ignore that last bit. I'm sure you get the idea, anyway.
This, of course, raises a particular question: Assuming that it's best to write a User Profile for the express purpose of making the author seem interesting, then what's the optimal method for writing a proper introduction? Should one reveal one's true identity, for instance? Can we brag about our achievements without alienating ourselves from the rest of society? Can we legitimately talk about our hopes and dreams without whining about our lot in life? How far should we go into the minutiae of everyday existence before the readers start getting bored?
The irony, I think, is that each of the above questions can just as easily be asked about our blog posts. The idea of our User Profiles being a summary of exactly who we are and how we write sounds more and more plausible with each passing second.
For my part, I'm going to be checking my blogroll to see how other people put together their write-ups. I don't expect that everybody will have a good, entertaining or informative User Profile, of course, but I think I should be able to identify what I want to see and what I don't want to see in a personal introduction. And if the experience only ends up confusing me further, to the point that I don't know how to rewrite my User Profile, then that'll only give me license to write anything I darn well want.
So there you have it. Now, if I could only come up with a snappy answer for all of Blogger's random questions...
I write. I draw. I plot. I scheme. I eat. I sleep. I work. I play. I live. I die.
But for the most part, I write.
I've been writing since I was 12, and I've had enough patience to write more short stories than I can count. At least half of them were good enough to publish.
I've done story work for quite a few things (including the Anito computer game), although I tend to work on many other branches of literary expression. Not many people know about me just yet, but I'm slowly gaining a reputation for hard, fast, creative plotlines and well-developed characters.
Otherwise, I'm a chronic game-player, growing up on a diet of personal diversions. I've long enjoyed stuff that makes me think, which means that you can probably say anything with the good chance that we'll find some middle ground to walk on.
If you're new here, do look around. Read up on the Antaria installments. Study the awkward treatises on writing. Get threats from the monthly disclaimers. Post whatever comments you want. I can very well assure you that I don't bite. (I disable, dislocate, shatter, hamstring and maim, yes, but I don't bite.)
As with many things in life, however, I figure that it's about time for a change. Most of us are blog writers, after all -- we're aware that every single one of our new posts inevitably replaces an old, run-down article on the front pages of our respective sites. We get a little older, we get a little wiser, we get a little more crochety, and we eventually have to change the way we refer to ourselves.
My profile, for example, references the Anito computer game. Hasn't it been two years since the game originally came out? And it's not as though it received a lot of exposure on the international front. If I raise any spectre of my work in my profile, then I should really be pointing out my more recent achievements, I think.
On the other hand, one really has to consider what the User Profile's for. People only usually read it once, and that's when they're new to the blog and wondering about what kind of person the author is. It's strange, actually, once you realize that we bare more of our heart and soul in our posts than we do in our profile write-ups.
In this light, I suspect that the profile write-up has more to do with a basic introduction than it does a personal description. It's literally an avenue by which we "sell" people the prospect of reading the blog -- much like the cliffhanger synopsis on the back of a mystery novel. "Will Sean continue his silent war against online plagiarism? Will Sean ever realize that his passion for games actually masks a critical weakness to kryptonite? Will Sean ever overcome his secret desire to wrestle naked in a kiddy pool filled with carbonara sauce?"
...
Er... feel free to ignore that last bit. I'm sure you get the idea, anyway.
This, of course, raises a particular question: Assuming that it's best to write a User Profile for the express purpose of making the author seem interesting, then what's the optimal method for writing a proper introduction? Should one reveal one's true identity, for instance? Can we brag about our achievements without alienating ourselves from the rest of society? Can we legitimately talk about our hopes and dreams without whining about our lot in life? How far should we go into the minutiae of everyday existence before the readers start getting bored?
The irony, I think, is that each of the above questions can just as easily be asked about our blog posts. The idea of our User Profiles being a summary of exactly who we are and how we write sounds more and more plausible with each passing second.
For my part, I'm going to be checking my blogroll to see how other people put together their write-ups. I don't expect that everybody will have a good, entertaining or informative User Profile, of course, but I think I should be able to identify what I want to see and what I don't want to see in a personal introduction. And if the experience only ends up confusing me further, to the point that I don't know how to rewrite my User Profile, then that'll only give me license to write anything I darn well want.
So there you have it. Now, if I could only come up with a snappy answer for all of Blogger's random questions...
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Antaria: High Fashion
Maquin Dreamweaver rifled through his collection of clothes, and as he did, he spoke softly to himself.
"Green?" he asked. "No, no... perhaps blue. Blue with a touch of... pink? White? Or perhaps a spot of charteuse..."
He posed before the full-length mirror in his chambers, inspecting the robes draped against his chest. "Perhaps green after all," he said, chuckling softly to himself. "Sea-green and rose, with a delicate pattern..."
He wondered if Giselle was already awake. Then again, it wasn't as though she was likely to help him with his color choices. Whatever, he thought. Whatever whatever whatever.
Maquin pulled the cloth over his chemise, giving the combination a critical glance in the mirror again.
"Then again," he whispered, "maybe the blue would work better..."
Maquin Dreamweaver ran one arm across the fabric, and wrinkled his nose. "It won't do," he said impatiently. "It just won't do!"
The wagonmaster clutched his cap against his chest. "Is my lord displeased?" he asked carefully.
"Oh, yes," Maquin said in a downcast tone. "But not at you. This is excellent material."
The peasant's expression brightened. "I am glad to hear that, my lord."
"I only regret that I only have a single roll of it to work with," Maquin sighed.
The peasant raised an eyebrow. "I can obtain more of it, my lord. I have a contact in the Northlands who practically has a full supply."
Maquin glanced at him. "How much of it?"
"Bales, my lord. Bales."
Maquin gave him a wide smile. "Twenty, perhaps?"
The wagonmaster nearly fell over at the mere mention of the number. "Tw...twenty?" he asked, incredulously.
"You can provide the material, can you?" Maquin asked.
"Y-yes," the peasant said. "It will run a heavy cost, though. Thirty crowns at least."
"Thirty crowns will be quite all right. How soon will it take you?"
"I can deliver the material within three weeks, my lord."
"Two weeks," Maquin interjected.
"Two weeks?"
"Within one week I can have a single ensemble made from this roll. For the week after that, the courts of Lorendheim will be whispering about the new creation," Maquin said, running his hands along the smooth cloth. "But in the week after that, the trend will have passed and the courtiers gone for other diversions. The advantage is in the timing, dear one. The advantage is always in the timing."
The peasant scratched his head, not understanding a single word.
"It is vastly important that you return from Hadrian in two weeks," Maquin concluded. "It is very, very important for the both of us."
"Ah... er... yes, my lord."
"Now," Maquin said, "how much did you say it was, again?"
The peasant thought for a while.
"Twenty crowns, was it?" Maquin interjected. "I remember you mentioning twenty crowns."
"I did?" the wagonmaster asked.
"Yes, you did," Maquin said without skipping a beat, "although that feels a little high for me. Ten crowns would be a far better price, dear one. Ten crowns."
The peasant frowned. "I couldn't do it for less than eighteen crowns, my lord."
"Twelve crowns."
"Seventeen."
"Fourteen crowns, and not a silver more," Maquin cautioned.
"Sixteen."
"Fifteen, then."
"Done," the peasant said. "Fifteen crowns."
"Excellent," Maquin acceded, bowing in deference. "Twenty rolls of the new cloth, and in two weeks' time. I shall be expecting you."
As he crossed back into his palatial home, Maquin laughed into his sleeve. With skills like that, he thought, he could be working for the Tempestite merchants. Or perhaps not.
Maquin inspected himself in the mirror. The blue wasn't turning out so well after all.
"What do you think, Giselle?" he asked.
Giselle glanced, once at the mirror and once at Maquin. She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then shrugged.
Maquin rolled his eyes. "I guess that's why I'm the maven and you're the model," he said resignedly.
He stared at the mirror for a few more seconds.
"Green," he said, simply. His robes shimmered slightly, and then turned the color of emeralds. Giselle gave him a thoughtful expression once more.
"Yes, it's a little... much, isn't it?" Maquin said. "Lighter, then."
Giselle shook her head.
"Darker, you mean?" The robes shimmered into deeper green.
Giselle nodded. Maquin continued to inspect his reflection in the mirror.
"I guess... that this will do," he finally said. "For now."
Maquin glanced up from the parchment in his hand. "That is all, Lord Gallos," he said.
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more," Maquin said.
The Lord of Masks was dressed in blue and black silk for the day, accentuated by velvet cloth. Maquin personally approved of the combination; it was one of the reasons why he admired Gallos so much. Whenever the man didn't follow the conventions of fashion, he made them up from scratch.
Maquin didn't like the mask, though. Gallos always wore a different mask each day; this one concealed his face in shadow and darkness. Although it certainly went well with the grandmaster's robes, it had a strange unnerving effect on its own. Maquin was certain that that was precisely what Gallos had intended.
"Do you have the secondary report?" Gallos asked.
Maquin nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, my lord," he said. "But perhaps it would be best to wait for a more private audience..."
Gallos waved one hand. "Every Masquer knows that I watch their moves as surely as I watch the others," he said.
"Very well, my lord," Maquin said. He turned the parchment over and cast a few whispered words upon it, causing the scribblings of ink to appear on the back. He knew as well as any other man that all this was merely confirmation -- the Masquer lord could certainly afford to acquire any bit of information on his own skills.
Still, it was good to feel useful. "Lord Nyris has not moved at all," Maquin began, "although the Council demands his attention. There have been more than a few petitions for you to remind him of his duties to the sects."
"Indeed," Gallos said, although he only appeared to feign interest in the matter.
"Lord Bane continues to hold the Allandrian court together," Maquin continued. "While he has certain members of the nobility contributing large sums of money to the deployment of forces to the southern border, he has prevented others from doing the same. We suspect that he is attempting to shift the balance of power in Queen Sasha's court to a more balanced setup."
As Maquin read out the contents of the report, his eyes wandered about the grandmaster's chambers. Unlike what most people expected, the Lord of the Masquers led a spartan lifestyle punctuated by the illusion of opulence. It was, Maquin had to admit, a very Masquer thing to do.
And then, of course, there was the matter of the man's bodyguard. Maquin didn't know her very well -- none of the Masquers did, save for the fact that Gallos seemed to trust her implicitly. She was a strange person, always dressed in the same light robes without thought as to how she looked. Maquin could easily tell a person's character based on their fashion alone, but even he had trouble reading her.
Now that he thought about it, however, she was probably like Giselle: A loyal retainer completely devoted to her master's whims. What made Maquin unconfortable was that she seemed otherwise at times -- especially when Gallos asked for her advice on matters. He asked few people for advice on anything, short of wanting to see how their thought processes went.
She caught his passing glance, and returned it with a suspicious glare. Maquin smiled back, taking pride in the resulting derisive snort.
"Maquin," Gallos suddenly said, interrupting him.
"My lord?" Maquin asked.
"Don't play with her," Gallos said.
Maquin gave him a fascinated smile. "Yes, my lord."
Maquin critically inspected his right sleeve. There was something about dark green, yes, but Maquin felt that it had overstayed its welcome. He considered giving the blue another try, but he didn't want to end up flip-flopping between the two choices for the rest of the day.
Finally he gave in and watched his robes change to match the soft tones of the earth. He wasn't sure at all about brown; it made him look like a peasant, no matter how good it tended to look on Giselle. But on the other hand, Giselle looked good in anything. He knew the type.
Maquin glanced at her. "That," he concluded out loud, "is why you can't give very good advice when it comes to color coordination."
Giselle gazed back at him, unable to give a proper answer.
The young woman stared at her reflection in the mirror. "I don't like it," she said.
Maquin all but threw his hands up in despair. Kharandon Greybane had ordered a dozen new wearables for his sister, newly-returned from the Northlands, and she was already down to the last two sets of robes. While Maquin had expected her to be non-materialistic, he didn't expect her to be practically an ascetic.
"Don't you have anything more... practical, Lord Dreamweaver?" she asked.
"Lady Octavia," Maquin said in his most patient tone, "these are the fashions that are currently in vogue across the courts of Lorendheim. While a few of the designs do reflect only recent trends, I am sure that some of them are more than passing fancy."
Octavia adjusted the bodice of her current ensemble. "In the Northlands," she said, "we wore far more clothes than these... rags."
Maquin chose to ignore the remark. "I must remind you, Lady Octavia, that the denizens of the Northlands don't have much of a choice when winter cloaks their land all year round."
She disappeared behind a paper-and-cloth screen in order to try the last of Maquin's fashions. "Most of these show altogether too much skin, Lord Dreamweaver. I'll have you know that I am not that sort of woman."
"They don't show that much," Maquin replied, picking up a jacket from where she had discarded it. "They show just enough to merit attention. Your esteemed brother could tell you himself that attention is important in many of the nobles' gatherings around here."
"I'm not looking for attention," Octavia insisted. "I'm just... here."
Maquin rolled his eyes skeptically. "Everybody looks for attention, Lady Octavia. Some don't even find it at all."
"Oh?" Octavia said in the same skeptical tone. "What about you, then, Lord Dreamweaver? Why do you seek attention? Is it for your talents? Your status? Your self-esteem?"
Maquin thought for a moment, and had to admit that despite her asceticism, she had asked an excellent question. "It is the fashion, Lady Octavia," he said. "It is always the fashion."
"Fashion," Octavia repeated.
"Yes, fashion," Maquin said. "Surely you would be familiar with the saying that clothes make the man... or woman, in this case?"
"Yes," Octavia said, dismissively. "Merely another lesson that we only see what lies on the surface of things."
"That may not be entirely correct," Maquin mused. "Fashion is a conscious choice. Style is a deliberate bearing. We present a part of ourselves to the rest of the world, but simply choosing which part to show already tells us exactly what sort of people we are."
"Mm," Octavia said, pulling something over her head.
Maquin waited patiently for the young woman to emerge. When she finally did, it was in a lovely white dress with green trimmings, exactly the sort that anyone would be delighted to wear to a royal celebration. Maquin was quite proud of it; he had chosen the colors himself.
Octavia picked at the high collar. "It's itchy," she said. "How can anyone possibly find it comfortable to wear this?"
Maquin sighed. This was going to take far longer than he expected.
Maquin Dreamweaver lay sprawled across his four-posted bed, visions of blue and green and earth tones dancing in his mind.
It had not been a good day. In fact, it had been as far from a perfect day as possible.
Maquin shuddered, and noted his schedule for the rest of the week. Here was a meeting with the Metrian Guild, which was possibly the stingiest of all the sects, according to Maquin's experience. There was a fitting with the Lady Saville, and doubtless she would try to seduce him out of his nominal fees again. Here was another dreadful meeting with the Lady Ophelia, who could wear even the finest clothes and make people wonder which unfortunate animals she had recently skinned.
Sleep did not come easily to him nowadays, and for good reason.
"Blue," he said, and his clothes shifted to the color of sapphires. Maquin went through the general spectrum from sky-blue to azure blue, then dropped the idea and went for green instead.
Then again, a quick glance in the mirror convinced him that the green looked terrible. He regretted using it for most of the day, but not as much as he regretted playing around with the earth tones. Perhaps he should have asked for Giselle's opinion, after all.
In the end, Maquin Dreamweaver resolved to sleep on it. He needed the sleep; it calmed his mind and allowed him to take on a jumble of different worries all over again.
He discarded his robes carefully, draping them over the gilded screen in the corner of his chambers near the full-length mirror. He was glad to be rid of the vestments; despite all the praise and glamor, he had to admit that they chafed from time to time.
In the end, Maquin fell asleep as he usually did -- naked, under the thick covers of three sets of blankets.
He slept quite soundly for a man who was always in a constant state of activity.
He never felt as free otherwise.
"Green?" he asked. "No, no... perhaps blue. Blue with a touch of... pink? White? Or perhaps a spot of charteuse..."
He posed before the full-length mirror in his chambers, inspecting the robes draped against his chest. "Perhaps green after all," he said, chuckling softly to himself. "Sea-green and rose, with a delicate pattern..."
He wondered if Giselle was already awake. Then again, it wasn't as though she was likely to help him with his color choices. Whatever, he thought. Whatever whatever whatever.
Maquin pulled the cloth over his chemise, giving the combination a critical glance in the mirror again.
"Then again," he whispered, "maybe the blue would work better..."
* * *
Maquin Dreamweaver ran one arm across the fabric, and wrinkled his nose. "It won't do," he said impatiently. "It just won't do!"
The wagonmaster clutched his cap against his chest. "Is my lord displeased?" he asked carefully.
"Oh, yes," Maquin said in a downcast tone. "But not at you. This is excellent material."
The peasant's expression brightened. "I am glad to hear that, my lord."
"I only regret that I only have a single roll of it to work with," Maquin sighed.
The peasant raised an eyebrow. "I can obtain more of it, my lord. I have a contact in the Northlands who practically has a full supply."
Maquin glanced at him. "How much of it?"
"Bales, my lord. Bales."
Maquin gave him a wide smile. "Twenty, perhaps?"
The wagonmaster nearly fell over at the mere mention of the number. "Tw...twenty?" he asked, incredulously.
"You can provide the material, can you?" Maquin asked.
"Y-yes," the peasant said. "It will run a heavy cost, though. Thirty crowns at least."
"Thirty crowns will be quite all right. How soon will it take you?"
"I can deliver the material within three weeks, my lord."
"Two weeks," Maquin interjected.
"Two weeks?"
"Within one week I can have a single ensemble made from this roll. For the week after that, the courts of Lorendheim will be whispering about the new creation," Maquin said, running his hands along the smooth cloth. "But in the week after that, the trend will have passed and the courtiers gone for other diversions. The advantage is in the timing, dear one. The advantage is always in the timing."
The peasant scratched his head, not understanding a single word.
"It is vastly important that you return from Hadrian in two weeks," Maquin concluded. "It is very, very important for the both of us."
"Ah... er... yes, my lord."
"Now," Maquin said, "how much did you say it was, again?"
The peasant thought for a while.
"Twenty crowns, was it?" Maquin interjected. "I remember you mentioning twenty crowns."
"I did?" the wagonmaster asked.
"Yes, you did," Maquin said without skipping a beat, "although that feels a little high for me. Ten crowns would be a far better price, dear one. Ten crowns."
The peasant frowned. "I couldn't do it for less than eighteen crowns, my lord."
"Twelve crowns."
"Seventeen."
"Fourteen crowns, and not a silver more," Maquin cautioned.
"Sixteen."
"Fifteen, then."
"Done," the peasant said. "Fifteen crowns."
"Excellent," Maquin acceded, bowing in deference. "Twenty rolls of the new cloth, and in two weeks' time. I shall be expecting you."
As he crossed back into his palatial home, Maquin laughed into his sleeve. With skills like that, he thought, he could be working for the Tempestite merchants. Or perhaps not.
* * *
Maquin inspected himself in the mirror. The blue wasn't turning out so well after all.
"What do you think, Giselle?" he asked.
Giselle glanced, once at the mirror and once at Maquin. She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then shrugged.
Maquin rolled his eyes. "I guess that's why I'm the maven and you're the model," he said resignedly.
He stared at the mirror for a few more seconds.
"Green," he said, simply. His robes shimmered slightly, and then turned the color of emeralds. Giselle gave him a thoughtful expression once more.
"Yes, it's a little... much, isn't it?" Maquin said. "Lighter, then."
Giselle shook her head.
"Darker, you mean?" The robes shimmered into deeper green.
Giselle nodded. Maquin continued to inspect his reflection in the mirror.
"I guess... that this will do," he finally said. "For now."
* * *
Maquin glanced up from the parchment in his hand. "That is all, Lord Gallos," he said.
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more," Maquin said.
The Lord of Masks was dressed in blue and black silk for the day, accentuated by velvet cloth. Maquin personally approved of the combination; it was one of the reasons why he admired Gallos so much. Whenever the man didn't follow the conventions of fashion, he made them up from scratch.
Maquin didn't like the mask, though. Gallos always wore a different mask each day; this one concealed his face in shadow and darkness. Although it certainly went well with the grandmaster's robes, it had a strange unnerving effect on its own. Maquin was certain that that was precisely what Gallos had intended.
"Do you have the secondary report?" Gallos asked.
Maquin nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, my lord," he said. "But perhaps it would be best to wait for a more private audience..."
Gallos waved one hand. "Every Masquer knows that I watch their moves as surely as I watch the others," he said.
"Very well, my lord," Maquin said. He turned the parchment over and cast a few whispered words upon it, causing the scribblings of ink to appear on the back. He knew as well as any other man that all this was merely confirmation -- the Masquer lord could certainly afford to acquire any bit of information on his own skills.
Still, it was good to feel useful. "Lord Nyris has not moved at all," Maquin began, "although the Council demands his attention. There have been more than a few petitions for you to remind him of his duties to the sects."
"Indeed," Gallos said, although he only appeared to feign interest in the matter.
"Lord Bane continues to hold the Allandrian court together," Maquin continued. "While he has certain members of the nobility contributing large sums of money to the deployment of forces to the southern border, he has prevented others from doing the same. We suspect that he is attempting to shift the balance of power in Queen Sasha's court to a more balanced setup."
As Maquin read out the contents of the report, his eyes wandered about the grandmaster's chambers. Unlike what most people expected, the Lord of the Masquers led a spartan lifestyle punctuated by the illusion of opulence. It was, Maquin had to admit, a very Masquer thing to do.
And then, of course, there was the matter of the man's bodyguard. Maquin didn't know her very well -- none of the Masquers did, save for the fact that Gallos seemed to trust her implicitly. She was a strange person, always dressed in the same light robes without thought as to how she looked. Maquin could easily tell a person's character based on their fashion alone, but even he had trouble reading her.
Now that he thought about it, however, she was probably like Giselle: A loyal retainer completely devoted to her master's whims. What made Maquin unconfortable was that she seemed otherwise at times -- especially when Gallos asked for her advice on matters. He asked few people for advice on anything, short of wanting to see how their thought processes went.
She caught his passing glance, and returned it with a suspicious glare. Maquin smiled back, taking pride in the resulting derisive snort.
"Maquin," Gallos suddenly said, interrupting him.
"My lord?" Maquin asked.
"Don't play with her," Gallos said.
Maquin gave him a fascinated smile. "Yes, my lord."
* * *
Maquin critically inspected his right sleeve. There was something about dark green, yes, but Maquin felt that it had overstayed its welcome. He considered giving the blue another try, but he didn't want to end up flip-flopping between the two choices for the rest of the day.
Finally he gave in and watched his robes change to match the soft tones of the earth. He wasn't sure at all about brown; it made him look like a peasant, no matter how good it tended to look on Giselle. But on the other hand, Giselle looked good in anything. He knew the type.
Maquin glanced at her. "That," he concluded out loud, "is why you can't give very good advice when it comes to color coordination."
Giselle gazed back at him, unable to give a proper answer.
* * *
The young woman stared at her reflection in the mirror. "I don't like it," she said.
Maquin all but threw his hands up in despair. Kharandon Greybane had ordered a dozen new wearables for his sister, newly-returned from the Northlands, and she was already down to the last two sets of robes. While Maquin had expected her to be non-materialistic, he didn't expect her to be practically an ascetic.
"Don't you have anything more... practical, Lord Dreamweaver?" she asked.
"Lady Octavia," Maquin said in his most patient tone, "these are the fashions that are currently in vogue across the courts of Lorendheim. While a few of the designs do reflect only recent trends, I am sure that some of them are more than passing fancy."
Octavia adjusted the bodice of her current ensemble. "In the Northlands," she said, "we wore far more clothes than these... rags."
Maquin chose to ignore the remark. "I must remind you, Lady Octavia, that the denizens of the Northlands don't have much of a choice when winter cloaks their land all year round."
She disappeared behind a paper-and-cloth screen in order to try the last of Maquin's fashions. "Most of these show altogether too much skin, Lord Dreamweaver. I'll have you know that I am not that sort of woman."
"They don't show that much," Maquin replied, picking up a jacket from where she had discarded it. "They show just enough to merit attention. Your esteemed brother could tell you himself that attention is important in many of the nobles' gatherings around here."
"I'm not looking for attention," Octavia insisted. "I'm just... here."
Maquin rolled his eyes skeptically. "Everybody looks for attention, Lady Octavia. Some don't even find it at all."
"Oh?" Octavia said in the same skeptical tone. "What about you, then, Lord Dreamweaver? Why do you seek attention? Is it for your talents? Your status? Your self-esteem?"
Maquin thought for a moment, and had to admit that despite her asceticism, she had asked an excellent question. "It is the fashion, Lady Octavia," he said. "It is always the fashion."
"Fashion," Octavia repeated.
"Yes, fashion," Maquin said. "Surely you would be familiar with the saying that clothes make the man... or woman, in this case?"
"Yes," Octavia said, dismissively. "Merely another lesson that we only see what lies on the surface of things."
"That may not be entirely correct," Maquin mused. "Fashion is a conscious choice. Style is a deliberate bearing. We present a part of ourselves to the rest of the world, but simply choosing which part to show already tells us exactly what sort of people we are."
"Mm," Octavia said, pulling something over her head.
Maquin waited patiently for the young woman to emerge. When she finally did, it was in a lovely white dress with green trimmings, exactly the sort that anyone would be delighted to wear to a royal celebration. Maquin was quite proud of it; he had chosen the colors himself.
Octavia picked at the high collar. "It's itchy," she said. "How can anyone possibly find it comfortable to wear this?"
Maquin sighed. This was going to take far longer than he expected.
* * *
Maquin Dreamweaver lay sprawled across his four-posted bed, visions of blue and green and earth tones dancing in his mind.
It had not been a good day. In fact, it had been as far from a perfect day as possible.
Maquin shuddered, and noted his schedule for the rest of the week. Here was a meeting with the Metrian Guild, which was possibly the stingiest of all the sects, according to Maquin's experience. There was a fitting with the Lady Saville, and doubtless she would try to seduce him out of his nominal fees again. Here was another dreadful meeting with the Lady Ophelia, who could wear even the finest clothes and make people wonder which unfortunate animals she had recently skinned.
Sleep did not come easily to him nowadays, and for good reason.
"Blue," he said, and his clothes shifted to the color of sapphires. Maquin went through the general spectrum from sky-blue to azure blue, then dropped the idea and went for green instead.
Then again, a quick glance in the mirror convinced him that the green looked terrible. He regretted using it for most of the day, but not as much as he regretted playing around with the earth tones. Perhaps he should have asked for Giselle's opinion, after all.
In the end, Maquin Dreamweaver resolved to sleep on it. He needed the sleep; it calmed his mind and allowed him to take on a jumble of different worries all over again.
He discarded his robes carefully, draping them over the gilded screen in the corner of his chambers near the full-length mirror. He was glad to be rid of the vestments; despite all the praise and glamor, he had to admit that they chafed from time to time.
In the end, Maquin fell asleep as he usually did -- naked, under the thick covers of three sets of blankets.
He slept quite soundly for a man who was always in a constant state of activity.
He never felt as free otherwise.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
On the Cheap
Yesterday, at the Powerbooks warehouse sale, I came upon a startling realization: I am, in all likelihood, the greatest cheapskate on the face of the earth when it comes to buying new books.
Now, I'm perfectly aware that most of us try to save money on reading material. We borrow comics or paperbacks from friends, we join neighborhood book exchanges, and we download "free" stuff from file-sharing applications. All that, however, doesn't automatically mean that we're total misers when it comes to books; it merely concludes that we like to read.
I'm a cheapskate, plain and simple. Whenever money finds its way into my wallet, I try to make sure that it stays there. And given the prices of quality reading material in the local bookstores, I'm more likely to browse their shelves, shudder at the numbers printed on the price tags, and leave empty-handed.
On the other hand, hanging around the air-conditioned confines of pristine shelves and hermetically-sealed displays isn't anything new. So I take things one step further: I scour warehouses, garage sales and corner stores -- all places where unsold stock and unwanted hardcovers go to die -- and still leave without finding anything of interest. I have a philosophy that dictates that I am only obligated to buy a book if I feel that it's worth keeping for the long term... and it relegates my buying habits to about one paperback every couple of months.
You want more evidence? My room was derisively called "the black hole" once, if only because I have a habit of borrowing books and then losing them in the harrowing morass that serves as my personal quarters. People literally lend me reading material and fully expect to never see them again. I strongly suspect that this is because I make sure to keep every favorite bit of reading material I find, borrowed or otherwise.
This has resulted in a couple of interesting aspects to my life: One, long-standing friends know to buy me books as opposed to lending them. Two, anyone who actually manages to borrow reading material from me should realize exactly what a rarity they hold in their hands.
Another less obvious aspect, on the other hand, cuts far closer to the bone. I've long assumed that writers and readers were one and the same: If we read, then we write. If we write, then we read. But if that were the case, then where would a miserly reader fit in?
I suppose that that would explain why I only put out a new piece of fiction about once a month. It's entirely possible that I could be just as stingy when it comes to storytelling.
And that, in a nutshell, is why I was walking around a warehouse sale yesterday, studying the titles and cover images of a thousand low-priced books while a lovely female friend piled more and more softcovers into my basket. She openly wondered why I wasn't really buying anything, and in the back of my mind, I suppose that I was wondering the same thing.
In the end, however, I did pick up a few old paperbacks that seemed interesting. They were selling for about PhP50.00 (approximately US$1.00) each, although all three were disjointed parts of a single out-of-print series. (I had seen them around the bookstores some years ago, but held off on buying them because, well... you know.)
The good news, however, is that it's altogether possible that I'll end up with more reading time nowadays, seeing that I've finally resigned from my five-year job. That means, of course, that I'll probably eventually cure myself of the horrible, terrible, miserly habit.
Then again, considering that I'm now unemployed, I'll have to keep a close watch on my personal savings. And that, of course, means that I might just have to stay a cheapskate for just a few more months.
After all, if money somehow manages to find its way into my wallet while I'm out of a job, I should probably find a way to make sure that it stays there, right?
Now, I'm perfectly aware that most of us try to save money on reading material. We borrow comics or paperbacks from friends, we join neighborhood book exchanges, and we download "free" stuff from file-sharing applications. All that, however, doesn't automatically mean that we're total misers when it comes to books; it merely concludes that we like to read.
I'm a cheapskate, plain and simple. Whenever money finds its way into my wallet, I try to make sure that it stays there. And given the prices of quality reading material in the local bookstores, I'm more likely to browse their shelves, shudder at the numbers printed on the price tags, and leave empty-handed.
On the other hand, hanging around the air-conditioned confines of pristine shelves and hermetically-sealed displays isn't anything new. So I take things one step further: I scour warehouses, garage sales and corner stores -- all places where unsold stock and unwanted hardcovers go to die -- and still leave without finding anything of interest. I have a philosophy that dictates that I am only obligated to buy a book if I feel that it's worth keeping for the long term... and it relegates my buying habits to about one paperback every couple of months.
You want more evidence? My room was derisively called "the black hole" once, if only because I have a habit of borrowing books and then losing them in the harrowing morass that serves as my personal quarters. People literally lend me reading material and fully expect to never see them again. I strongly suspect that this is because I make sure to keep every favorite bit of reading material I find, borrowed or otherwise.
This has resulted in a couple of interesting aspects to my life: One, long-standing friends know to buy me books as opposed to lending them. Two, anyone who actually manages to borrow reading material from me should realize exactly what a rarity they hold in their hands.
Another less obvious aspect, on the other hand, cuts far closer to the bone. I've long assumed that writers and readers were one and the same: If we read, then we write. If we write, then we read. But if that were the case, then where would a miserly reader fit in?
I suppose that that would explain why I only put out a new piece of fiction about once a month. It's entirely possible that I could be just as stingy when it comes to storytelling.
And that, in a nutshell, is why I was walking around a warehouse sale yesterday, studying the titles and cover images of a thousand low-priced books while a lovely female friend piled more and more softcovers into my basket. She openly wondered why I wasn't really buying anything, and in the back of my mind, I suppose that I was wondering the same thing.
In the end, however, I did pick up a few old paperbacks that seemed interesting. They were selling for about PhP50.00 (approximately US$1.00) each, although all three were disjointed parts of a single out-of-print series. (I had seen them around the bookstores some years ago, but held off on buying them because, well... you know.)
The good news, however, is that it's altogether possible that I'll end up with more reading time nowadays, seeing that I've finally resigned from my five-year job. That means, of course, that I'll probably eventually cure myself of the horrible, terrible, miserly habit.
Then again, considering that I'm now unemployed, I'll have to keep a close watch on my personal savings. And that, of course, means that I might just have to stay a cheapskate for just a few more months.
After all, if money somehow manages to find its way into my wallet while I'm out of a job, I should probably find a way to make sure that it stays there, right?
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Pffft.
Sorry, everyone.
Coming into this evening, I had in mind a nice concept for a post about blogging, random ideas, topic consistency, and mental flatulence. I wanted to explore a point of view that concerned writing about what happened to be on one's mind at any particular moment, and how such writing would end up interesting reading for any number of people. It looked like a good point of discussion, and I consequently spent the last two hours working on the draft.
The trouble is that, every time I hit the "Preview" button and went over the article itself, I didn't like how it was turning out. I don't know if it was the grammar or the phrasing or the habitual run-on sentences or what, but it just didn't read the way I wanted it to read. And if I don't like how an article reads, then I don't think it's worth putting out here.
So I did what I usually do when I come up with inferior stuff: I rolled the paper out of the mental typewriter, crunched it up into a ball, and bounced it off the rim of the nearest wastebasket. I may or may not resurrect the idea for future use, but for now, it's dead to me.
Yes, I know that it's possible to salvage bad stuff every now and then. Sometimes it just needs a little tweak, a second read, or perhaps even a fresh coat of paint. In this case, however, I not only felt that the work was distinctly inferior; I also thought that it deserved a complete re-evaluation. It's the kind of writing that you just give up and sleep on, if you get my drift.
And now that all that has been said and done, I realize that I have a sizeable gap in my blogging schedule.
I'm in the last days of my present employment right now, and I'm scrambling to finish things up so that I have as few obligations as possible after this coming Friday. In the recent past, this workload would have left me with too little time to post new entries. But I don't want another period of time where I post less than once a week, because that leaves me complacent. That leaves me idle and lazy. That leaves me rusty and atrophied. And if anything, I can't claim to be a writer if I don't write.
So this is all I have at the moment: The shreds of an article whose idea sounded pretty good, yet whose execution left a lot to be desired. That, and an apology for not presenting anything really substantial tonight. Hopefully I'll have something new in the next couple of days.
In hindsight, however, this does prove that one can technically write about anything. Even at the point where one has lost his original intended post, one can still write about losing that same post. C'est la écrit, I suppose.
Sorry again, everyone. Do check back in a couple of days...
Coming into this evening, I had in mind a nice concept for a post about blogging, random ideas, topic consistency, and mental flatulence. I wanted to explore a point of view that concerned writing about what happened to be on one's mind at any particular moment, and how such writing would end up interesting reading for any number of people. It looked like a good point of discussion, and I consequently spent the last two hours working on the draft.
The trouble is that, every time I hit the "Preview" button and went over the article itself, I didn't like how it was turning out. I don't know if it was the grammar or the phrasing or the habitual run-on sentences or what, but it just didn't read the way I wanted it to read. And if I don't like how an article reads, then I don't think it's worth putting out here.
So I did what I usually do when I come up with inferior stuff: I rolled the paper out of the mental typewriter, crunched it up into a ball, and bounced it off the rim of the nearest wastebasket. I may or may not resurrect the idea for future use, but for now, it's dead to me.
Yes, I know that it's possible to salvage bad stuff every now and then. Sometimes it just needs a little tweak, a second read, or perhaps even a fresh coat of paint. In this case, however, I not only felt that the work was distinctly inferior; I also thought that it deserved a complete re-evaluation. It's the kind of writing that you just give up and sleep on, if you get my drift.
And now that all that has been said and done, I realize that I have a sizeable gap in my blogging schedule.
I'm in the last days of my present employment right now, and I'm scrambling to finish things up so that I have as few obligations as possible after this coming Friday. In the recent past, this workload would have left me with too little time to post new entries. But I don't want another period of time where I post less than once a week, because that leaves me complacent. That leaves me idle and lazy. That leaves me rusty and atrophied. And if anything, I can't claim to be a writer if I don't write.
So this is all I have at the moment: The shreds of an article whose idea sounded pretty good, yet whose execution left a lot to be desired. That, and an apology for not presenting anything really substantial tonight. Hopefully I'll have something new in the next couple of days.
In hindsight, however, this does prove that one can technically write about anything. Even at the point where one has lost his original intended post, one can still write about losing that same post. C'est la écrit, I suppose.
Sorry again, everyone. Do check back in a couple of days...
Friday, June 09, 2006
Quiz Feature
You want a setup? Well, I'll give you a setup.
You see, I've had an entire small, two-story house all to myself for the past few days. I'll repeat that in case you didn't hear that the first time: I've had an entire small, two-story house all to myself for the past few days. And if everything goes as planned, I'll probably hold it for a couple more days... until about 6:00 pm on Sunday night when the rest of the family finally arrives home.
Yes, that's right. The rest of the family -- mother, brother, sister -- decided to fly to Hong Kong a few days ago. My sister graduated from high school this year, you see, and she wanted to have a more substantial vacation before we shunted her off to college. So they fly to the former British territory, I stick around to hold the fort, and Bob's your uncle.
Unfortunately, unlike the developments in most crazy American teenybopper movies, I have no plans of holding a massive celebration of drunken debauchery at this time. For that matter, most people who read this blog have little or no idea where I live anyway, so it's not as though I'll be looking at an extensive guest list if given the chance.
And that's too bad, really. It would have been a nice party.
But I digress.
By now, you're probably wondering exactly what I've been doing ever since they left. For that matter, you're probably wondering if I've already broken into the liquor cabinet, trotted out the illegal substances, and called the local escort services. The truth is that I'm going to remain evasive about the matter, if only because I feel like messing around with the normal writing approach tonight.
My recent activities are detailed in five multiple-choice questions below. I'll eventually get around to giving a straight answer for each question, but you at least get to look through the products of my insanity and first speculate on what the hell I'm really doing over here.
So... shall we begin the narration?
1. It's obvious that Sean's been spending his days at work. But what has he been doing every night while the rest of his unsuspecting family is away on vacation?
a. Partying at the local nightclubs.
b. Picking up loose women.
c. Watching Jeopardy.
d. Watching porn.
Answer: (c). Darn you, Alex Trebek. Why must your show be so compelling, especially when it all goes down to Final Jeopardy?
With that said, I haven't been completely glued to the TV for the past few nights. I've been tweaking some bits of Legend of the Five Rings game theory, beating some short fiction out of my head, and dozing off at two in the morning when there's nothing left to do. None of that is very constructive, no. But at least I haven't been completely glued to the TV for the past few nights...
2. Hey, wait a minute... Sean weaseled out of the family vacation because of work obligations. What's he doing that makes him so busy in the office?
a. Finishing an important project.
b. Cleaning out his work desk.
c. Nothing, actually. Sean just likes working.
d. Watching porn.
Answer: (b). I'm contractually obligated to clean out my desk and wrap up all of my concurrent assignments, since my official resignation takes effect on Friday next week.
Yes, I'm leaving my current office after more than five years of engagement. It's not because of any measure of dissatisfaction, mind you. It's just that, after more than five years' work in the same field, I'm solidly in the "burnout" phase. I'm looking at approaching a different work discipline right now, perhaps something in marketing or corporate communications.
From an ironic point of view, this also means that I'll be stranded on the other side of the job market for a while. I put together quite a few notes on job applications a few months ago; We can probably think of this as a way of putting my money where my mouth is.
3. Hey... the weekend's coming up, and there's a holiday this Monday. So what did Sean do to prepare for this long break period?
a. Collect DVDs of CSI.
b. Collect stuffed toys.
c. Collect reading material.
d. Collect porn.
Answer: (c). In the last week, I've picked up the usual cheap paperback novels, magazine back issues, and comic book manuscripts. Gem was nice enough to throw in a Madeleine L'Engle book and a Year's Best Fantasy collection into the mix, and if I can find some way to scrounge up the money, I can pick up a couple more pieces of high-end material.
I'm planning to put a bunch of stuffed toys together for another mini-comic strip, though. But I'm stopping short of actually collecting them -- I think I've got enough to work with at the moment.
4. Oooooh... stuffed toys! Where's Trevor in all this, anyway?
a. In Sean's closet... and boy, is he mad.
b. At the foot of Sean's bed, watching his every move.
c. In Cancun. Summer vacation rules, baby!
d. Watching por... ah, heck. This joke's been beaten to death already.
Answer: (b). For the record, I did stuff him back into the closet one evening. The next morning, however, I found him sitting at the foot of my bed again, just staring at me like he always does.
Yeah, that's creepy. But at least you get used to the garlic after a while...
5. Tomorrow, with his family still a thousand miles away, Sean plans to:
a. Perfect a cure for cancer.
b. Repair the hole in the ozone layer.
c. Join a threesome with a couple of Victoria's Secret models.
d. Get a haircut.
Answer: (c). It's a long story, you see, and it involves Scottish bagpipes, fine silk neckties, and ripe bananas. (Mmmm... bananas.) Suffice to say that from there, it was easy for them to fall for my manly charms, and...
Okay, so the answer's really (d). I'm probably going to spend an hour in the barber's chair tomorrow, trying not to fall asleep in the face of electric razors and liberal doses of aftershave. I'm about a week overdue for the haircut, and my scalp's starting to resemble the Amazon rain forest. It's time for me to get cleaned up a bit.
After all, I wouldn't want to look like a total slob once my family comes back on Sunday evening.
For that matter, chances are that they'll probably first inspect each and every corner of the empty house. Then they'll turn to me and ask exactly how I was able to hide all evidence of my massive celebration of drunken debauchery, in which case I'll just tell them that the stuffed bear did it.
Trevor most likely won't appreciate that, but I've got him perfectly under control.
...
Right?
...
Hello?
...
You see, I've had an entire small, two-story house all to myself for the past few days. I'll repeat that in case you didn't hear that the first time: I've had an entire small, two-story house all to myself for the past few days. And if everything goes as planned, I'll probably hold it for a couple more days... until about 6:00 pm on Sunday night when the rest of the family finally arrives home.
Yes, that's right. The rest of the family -- mother, brother, sister -- decided to fly to Hong Kong a few days ago. My sister graduated from high school this year, you see, and she wanted to have a more substantial vacation before we shunted her off to college. So they fly to the former British territory, I stick around to hold the fort, and Bob's your uncle.
Unfortunately, unlike the developments in most crazy American teenybopper movies, I have no plans of holding a massive celebration of drunken debauchery at this time. For that matter, most people who read this blog have little or no idea where I live anyway, so it's not as though I'll be looking at an extensive guest list if given the chance.
And that's too bad, really. It would have been a nice party.
But I digress.
By now, you're probably wondering exactly what I've been doing ever since they left. For that matter, you're probably wondering if I've already broken into the liquor cabinet, trotted out the illegal substances, and called the local escort services. The truth is that I'm going to remain evasive about the matter, if only because I feel like messing around with the normal writing approach tonight.
My recent activities are detailed in five multiple-choice questions below. I'll eventually get around to giving a straight answer for each question, but you at least get to look through the products of my insanity and first speculate on what the hell I'm really doing over here.
So... shall we begin the narration?
1. It's obvious that Sean's been spending his days at work. But what has he been doing every night while the rest of his unsuspecting family is away on vacation?
a. Partying at the local nightclubs.
b. Picking up loose women.
c. Watching Jeopardy.
d. Watching porn.
Answer: (c). Darn you, Alex Trebek. Why must your show be so compelling, especially when it all goes down to Final Jeopardy?
With that said, I haven't been completely glued to the TV for the past few nights. I've been tweaking some bits of Legend of the Five Rings game theory, beating some short fiction out of my head, and dozing off at two in the morning when there's nothing left to do. None of that is very constructive, no. But at least I haven't been completely glued to the TV for the past few nights...
2. Hey, wait a minute... Sean weaseled out of the family vacation because of work obligations. What's he doing that makes him so busy in the office?
a. Finishing an important project.
b. Cleaning out his work desk.
c. Nothing, actually. Sean just likes working.
d. Watching porn.
Answer: (b). I'm contractually obligated to clean out my desk and wrap up all of my concurrent assignments, since my official resignation takes effect on Friday next week.
Yes, I'm leaving my current office after more than five years of engagement. It's not because of any measure of dissatisfaction, mind you. It's just that, after more than five years' work in the same field, I'm solidly in the "burnout" phase. I'm looking at approaching a different work discipline right now, perhaps something in marketing or corporate communications.
From an ironic point of view, this also means that I'll be stranded on the other side of the job market for a while. I put together quite a few notes on job applications a few months ago; We can probably think of this as a way of putting my money where my mouth is.
3. Hey... the weekend's coming up, and there's a holiday this Monday. So what did Sean do to prepare for this long break period?
a. Collect DVDs of CSI.
b. Collect stuffed toys.
c. Collect reading material.
d. Collect porn.
Answer: (c). In the last week, I've picked up the usual cheap paperback novels, magazine back issues, and comic book manuscripts. Gem was nice enough to throw in a Madeleine L'Engle book and a Year's Best Fantasy collection into the mix, and if I can find some way to scrounge up the money, I can pick up a couple more pieces of high-end material.
I'm planning to put a bunch of stuffed toys together for another mini-comic strip, though. But I'm stopping short of actually collecting them -- I think I've got enough to work with at the moment.
4. Oooooh... stuffed toys! Where's Trevor in all this, anyway?
a. In Sean's closet... and boy, is he mad.
b. At the foot of Sean's bed, watching his every move.
c. In Cancun. Summer vacation rules, baby!
d. Watching por... ah, heck. This joke's been beaten to death already.
Answer: (b). For the record, I did stuff him back into the closet one evening. The next morning, however, I found him sitting at the foot of my bed again, just staring at me like he always does.
Yeah, that's creepy. But at least you get used to the garlic after a while...
5. Tomorrow, with his family still a thousand miles away, Sean plans to:
a. Perfect a cure for cancer.
b. Repair the hole in the ozone layer.
c. Join a threesome with a couple of Victoria's Secret models.
d. Get a haircut.
Answer: (c). It's a long story, you see, and it involves Scottish bagpipes, fine silk neckties, and ripe bananas. (Mmmm... bananas.) Suffice to say that from there, it was easy for them to fall for my manly charms, and...
Okay, so the answer's really (d). I'm probably going to spend an hour in the barber's chair tomorrow, trying not to fall asleep in the face of electric razors and liberal doses of aftershave. I'm about a week overdue for the haircut, and my scalp's starting to resemble the Amazon rain forest. It's time for me to get cleaned up a bit.
After all, I wouldn't want to look like a total slob once my family comes back on Sunday evening.
For that matter, chances are that they'll probably first inspect each and every corner of the empty house. Then they'll turn to me and ask exactly how I was able to hide all evidence of my massive celebration of drunken debauchery, in which case I'll just tell them that the stuffed bear did it.
Trevor most likely won't appreciate that, but I've got him perfectly under control.
...
Right?
...
Hello?
...
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Namespotting
JP: Hey, Sean* LG ("Lawful Good") and NG ("Neutral Good") are examples of personality alignment, usually referenced by players of Dungeons and Dragons and other similar storytelling games.
JP: I'm making a Warrior/Ritualist for the Guild Wars MMORPG.
JP: Warrior is self-explanatory.
Sean: "Zankuro" comes to mind.
JP: A Ritualist is a shaman-like character who summons spirits, including ancestor and dead spirits
Sean: Right, right...
Sean: Male, right?
JP: Does Zankuro have any special meaning?
JP: Yes, male.
Sean: No specific meaning.
Sean: "kuro" means "black" in Japanese, though, or it can alternatively mean "ninth son".
Sean: "Zankuro" just rolls off the tongue pretty easily, and is a fair choice if you want to sound intimidating.
JP: He's not really an intimidator. just a noble but down-to-earth, soldier-minded LG or NG* kind of warrior.
Sean: "Isamu".
JP: A sincerely humble samurai, so to speak
JP: What does that mean?
Sean: "Isamu" = "bravery".
JP: PERFECT!
JP: Hey, thanks a lot!
Sean: If you're looking for other possibilities, though,
Sean: I'd strongly recommend just stealing something from L5R.
JP: okay, shoot
JP: Ha ha!
Sean: Seriously.
JP: I was thinking about that...
JP: Okay, thanks a lot, Sean.
JP: Gonna go and make that character now.
Sean: That's okay. It was fun. :)
Honest, doctor. I really do run into conversations like this. :)
Now, I don't play Guild Wars like many other people do, but it's nice to run into a naming exercise every now and then. I have a tendency of naming characters on the fly, so this one happened to be right up my alley.
The catch, of course, was that JP was looking for a Japanese or Chinese name. While I like to think that I'm fairly good at transposing Western syllables into good names, Asian names are another matter altogether. With all the variances in pronunciation and whatnot, there's no telling what you might inadvertently come up with. You certainly don't want to name your character something embarrassing, or insulting.
So this is where the irony of the situation comes in: It's probably best to steal a name from somewhere, if it comes to that.
Yes, I'm aware that I'm a steadfast anti-plagiarist; My stance hasn't changed on that matter. But in cases like these, you're not looking to use the name for profit or any kind of commercial purpose. You just want a moniker that your fictional character can carry around in a fictional game world. "The Red Warlord Zankuro" certainly sounds better than "The Fair Maiden l33tb@be21", after all.
"Zankuro", for that matter, was the final boss in the Samurai Shodown III arcade game. "Isamu", from what I remember, is both a personality in the Legend of the Five Rings card game and a character from the Macross Plus animé. Both names had a fair bit of baggage associated with them, which made them easier to use -- I ended up having a feel for what their respective personalities looked like, based on this baggage, and I like to think that I was able to pass that on.
It's not stealing, no. But there's quite a fine line there, to tell the truth.
Assuming that we've all played a few RPGs here and there, it might be interesting to look back on the names that we gave our old characters. For my part, I remember using Elemen (Diablo II), Xinet (Neverwinter Nights), Zahn (Breath of Fire), Scythion (Zeus), Stryker (Wing Commander), Alexander (Final Fantasy Tactics) and Ming Xu (Vampire: the Masquerade). When taken as a whole, they'd probably say something about our own personal psyches.
Or they'd just look like a bunch of random character names all rolled together into one great big katamari. It's your call.
Then again, that's probably why I haven't gotten into MMORPGs yet: I have enough trouble keeping my current repertoire of character names straight.
I just hope that Isamu up there lives up to his well-gifted name...
Friday, June 02, 2006
Disclaimer: June 2006
Reiji raised an interesting point in the disclaimer I posted last month: I tend to come off as boastful or arrogant in these posts. I find that to be a very logical observation, for reasons that I'll outline later on.
For now, however, it might be best to take a long hard look at these monthly disclaimers. Why do I continue to write these things up, for example? I mean, I've applied for a Creative Commons License, I hold a Note of Ownership on each page of the blog, and I make it a point to encourage people to find their own voices instead of parroting what others think. On average, a monthly disclaimer post usually lasts less than a month on the front page, so it's actually far less efficient than any of the other alternatives.
All things said, there's really no reason for me to continue writing these.
And yet, here I am.
...
When I first set up this blog back in 2004, I knew that I was going to be writing in it. Not just writing, mind you, but writing writing. I was going to put up whatever happened to be on my mind at the moment, and apart from the serious reflections and the strange vignettes, that meant scribbling down my peculiar brand of fiction for the tastes of an online audience.
The catch with placing all of these things in a blog, however, lies precisely with that online audience. People see the Internet as a convenient resource: they read, they research, and they download. The Internet is a massive repository of searchable information -- it's like your school library's reference collection, in a way. And, like any massive repository of searchable information, it's easy to take for granted.
In a sense, it's not that people steal things. It's that people steal things without realizing that it's wrong to do so, especially when it comes to the Internet. When we can download MP3s, movies, scans and software hacks without giving much thought to ethics, I don't think it's difficult to see how people can copy images, essays and other literary works without regard for their context or use. Some of them even go one step farther and claim them for their own, which isn't that much of a stretch from the fourth-grader who copies an excerpt from the school encyclopedia and gets an A for his "efforts".
So I write disclaimers every month. I've found that it's actually very easy for people to miss an everpresent notice or announcement, mind you. But I figure that if I can hold their attention for a long enough period of time (about a month, in this case), then they'll probably read every post I write in the interim. With any luck, that should include any rants, threats or legal issues I end up putting online.
That only leaves the spectre of emotional impact, I think. It's easy to come off as irritating, paranoid or obnoxious when writing disclaimers like these. But how else could one possibly express oneself? These are one's own babies, after all. Everyone but the most prolific of writers out there probably knows that it's ain't easy thinking up a thousand words, organizing them, and putting them down on virtual paper for the rest of the world to criticize.
The last thing any writer wants is to see his words being claimed by some lazy idiot with too much time on his hands. And it's no picnic seeing those same lazy idiots misquote, distort, or blow those same words out of proportion, either. Is there any wonder why we come off as a bunch of overzealous elitists?
Better to show your fangs than let people know that you've declawed yourself, I say.
...
So now we come to the part of our program that deals with the legal information. If you've been reading this blog for at least a month, then this should sound familiar to you already. If not, then I hope that I've been able to entertain you so far with my mad ramblings and pathetic sob stories. Just remember not to steal my stuff, and we'll do just fine.
thinkobnoxiousthoughtsthinkobnoxiousthoughtsthinkobnoxiousthoughts
Everything that is posted on this blog is an entirely original work, except where noted. Any non-original work, or any entry that makes references to outside sources, should contain the appropriate acknowledgements. In the event that one of these posts does not have the given well-deserved references, you only have to contact me so that I can rectify the error.
Others are welcome to reference anything in this blog as long as they do so with the proper attributions and references. I do not tolerate people who quote me in a manner that is extremely inconsistent with my original point, nor do I have much patience for people who claim that they were the real influence behind my personal works. (Not that any sane person would claim to have written any of the more stupid stuff instead of me, mind you, but still...)
These are my standards, ladies and gentlemen. I have to draw the line somewhere, after all. If you're interested in discussing this further, the Comments link is right down there.
Have a nice day, everyone.
For now, however, it might be best to take a long hard look at these monthly disclaimers. Why do I continue to write these things up, for example? I mean, I've applied for a Creative Commons License, I hold a Note of Ownership on each page of the blog, and I make it a point to encourage people to find their own voices instead of parroting what others think. On average, a monthly disclaimer post usually lasts less than a month on the front page, so it's actually far less efficient than any of the other alternatives.
All things said, there's really no reason for me to continue writing these.
And yet, here I am.
...
When I first set up this blog back in 2004, I knew that I was going to be writing in it. Not just writing, mind you, but writing writing. I was going to put up whatever happened to be on my mind at the moment, and apart from the serious reflections and the strange vignettes, that meant scribbling down my peculiar brand of fiction for the tastes of an online audience.
The catch with placing all of these things in a blog, however, lies precisely with that online audience. People see the Internet as a convenient resource: they read, they research, and they download. The Internet is a massive repository of searchable information -- it's like your school library's reference collection, in a way. And, like any massive repository of searchable information, it's easy to take for granted.
In a sense, it's not that people steal things. It's that people steal things without realizing that it's wrong to do so, especially when it comes to the Internet. When we can download MP3s, movies, scans and software hacks without giving much thought to ethics, I don't think it's difficult to see how people can copy images, essays and other literary works without regard for their context or use. Some of them even go one step farther and claim them for their own, which isn't that much of a stretch from the fourth-grader who copies an excerpt from the school encyclopedia and gets an A for his "efforts".
So I write disclaimers every month. I've found that it's actually very easy for people to miss an everpresent notice or announcement, mind you. But I figure that if I can hold their attention for a long enough period of time (about a month, in this case), then they'll probably read every post I write in the interim. With any luck, that should include any rants, threats or legal issues I end up putting online.
That only leaves the spectre of emotional impact, I think. It's easy to come off as irritating, paranoid or obnoxious when writing disclaimers like these. But how else could one possibly express oneself? These are one's own babies, after all. Everyone but the most prolific of writers out there probably knows that it's ain't easy thinking up a thousand words, organizing them, and putting them down on virtual paper for the rest of the world to criticize.
The last thing any writer wants is to see his words being claimed by some lazy idiot with too much time on his hands. And it's no picnic seeing those same lazy idiots misquote, distort, or blow those same words out of proportion, either. Is there any wonder why we come off as a bunch of overzealous elitists?
Better to show your fangs than let people know that you've declawed yourself, I say.
...
So now we come to the part of our program that deals with the legal information. If you've been reading this blog for at least a month, then this should sound familiar to you already. If not, then I hope that I've been able to entertain you so far with my mad ramblings and pathetic sob stories. Just remember not to steal my stuff, and we'll do just fine.
thinkobnoxiousthoughtsthinkobnoxiousthoughtsthinkobnoxiousthoughts
Everything that is posted on this blog is an entirely original work, except where noted. Any non-original work, or any entry that makes references to outside sources, should contain the appropriate acknowledgements. In the event that one of these posts does not have the given well-deserved references, you only have to contact me so that I can rectify the error.
Others are welcome to reference anything in this blog as long as they do so with the proper attributions and references. I do not tolerate people who quote me in a manner that is extremely inconsistent with my original point, nor do I have much patience for people who claim that they were the real influence behind my personal works. (Not that any sane person would claim to have written any of the more stupid stuff instead of me, mind you, but still...)
These are my standards, ladies and gentlemen. I have to draw the line somewhere, after all. If you're interested in discussing this further, the Comments link is right down there.
Have a nice day, everyone.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Antaria: Wayward
Arianne closed her eyes. She could hear them from where she sat, and she knew that they were making no effort to hide their approach.
It was obvious that they were not here to talk. She could hear the scraping of metal upon metal as one of them -- the shorter one -- drew his sword.
Arianne opened her eyes, regarding the two men who stood before her. Both were dressed in burnished armor of silver and white, unscuffed and untainted by the rigors of the wood. Although she could not see their faces underneath their helmets, their stance was unmistakably hostile... albeit cautious.
They were almost certainly afraid of her.
Arianne smiled.
The taller of the two removed his helmet, although his companion still held his sword in a threatening manner. The knight was young, perhaps less than twenty years of age. He was handsome, olive-skinned, and almost certainly still a novice. Arianne wondered exactly why they had come here.
The knight cleared his throat. "You are a Druid?" he asked.
"Well met," Arianne answered.
"What?"
"Well met," Arianne said, with uncharacteristic patience. "I had thought that the Galenics were respectful enough to bid a proper greeting, but it seems that I was wrong."
The knight glanced at his helmeted companion, who did not relax from his hostile stance. The second man only nodded slightly at the gesture.
"W... well met," the first knight conceded. "My name is... Ostran, of the Allandrian Galenics. This," he said, gesturing towards his companion, "is Kessler. And you are..."
"Arianne," Arianne said.
"You're a Druid," the second knight said, in a muffled voice.
Arianne gave them a narrow look. "I know," she said.
Ostran cleared his throat again. "I wonder, then, if you could offer us some assistance."
"What do you think, Silverwood?" Vordan asked.
The old healer stared into his bowl of tea. "There have been more killings of late," he said. "There have been far too many killings as of late."
"Yes," Vordan said, deep in thought.
"I've seen a lot of grevious wounds in the last few months, Lord Vordan. We have acquired a certain reputation among most travelers now."
"This is wrong," Vordan said. "We're wardens of nature, not zealous murderers."
"Too many of the younger ones engage in it," Silverwood cautioned. "They claim to protect the sanctity of the land, yet kill interlopers for sport. Some of the teachers even encourage their behavior."
Vordan glanced at the healer once again. "We cannot prevent people from passing through the wood," he finally said. "I don't know how they see it, but the Druids still have to live together with the rest of the world. How can they not understand that?"
"It is the isolation, perhaps," Silverwood said, sipping his tea. "Isolation unhinges the minds of men and forces them to deal with true reality. It is our task to teach them how to live with these new perceptions."
Vordan watched the old Druid, marveling at his composure. "Do remind me why you never became Grandmaster, Silverwood," he said in passing.
"I refused," Silverwood said.
"You know you would command far better respect than I, in this position."
"The fact that you are Grandmaster in the first place, Lord Vordan, implies that the Druids hold much faith in you as it is."
"Then why do they refuse to listen to me?" Vordan snapped. "Am I the only one who sees that their hatred is tearing us to pieces?"
Silverwood remained silent for a while before finally giving his answer. "I am not afraid of the possibility that they do not know, Lord Vordan. What I fear, however, is the possibility that they simply do not care."
"What sort of assistance?" Arianne asked suspiciously.
"We're looking for a murderer," Kessler said. She could not see the expression beneath his helmet, but she knew the threat for what it was.
Ostran held up a hand. "No, no," he said, "we're... merely looking for... someone."
"A murderer," Arianne said, her eyes narrowing.
Ostran gave a nervous sigh. "A man named Yseth passed by this area about a week ago. He followed the same trail as this one. He was about as tall as I, with black hair and brown eyes, and he wore the robes of a Galenic healer."
"Yes." Arianne said, listening carefully.
"Someone killed him here," Ostran said. "The peasants found his body at the edge of the woods, rent from side to side like a slab of meat."
"You carry weapons," Kessler observed in a flat, unfriendly tone of voice.
Arianne's hand strayed towards the blades tucked into her belt. Kessler tightened the grip on his sword. Ostran tensed noticeably.
"Yes," Arianne finally said. "I carry weapons."
Ostran took a deep breath. "No bandits operate in this area, Lady Arianne," he said. "Every peasant for ten leagues knows that this is the domain of the Druids, and we know that you are very... protective of your home. What I... what we... I mean... what we mean to say is..."
"What we mean to say," Kessler said in a dead voice, "is that one of you did it. You will tell us which of you bastards killed my brother, and you'll do it now."
"The man was your brother, then?" Arianne asked.
"Yes," Kessler said, through clenched teeth.
"I saw him pass by this trail some days ago. It was perhaps a week since then, just as you mentioned."
Ostran leaned back. "So... you know?"
"He reached this same clearing in the gathering twilight, and hunted for food. He caught a baby rabbit for its meat and fur, then killed a grouse with six hatchlings. And he roasted them over a fire made from the roots of an ancient tree."
Ostran's eyes widened slightly. Arianne had to admit that he was far more perceptive than his companion.
"I felt that he would gain a far better perspective on things if he were to experience the same pain he caused the land," she said. "He asked for mercy only once, near the end. But as he showed none, so did I give him none."
The clearing was silent.
Arianne turned to the second knight, who was now breathing heavily. "What do you say, Sir Kessler?" she asked him. "Perhaps I should have let him plead for his life a little longer?"
Kessler roared, charging towards her with sword held high.
"I have a favor to ask of you, old one."
Silverwood leaned forward, and something in his eyes told Vordan that he already knew what it was. "Name it, Lord Vordan," he said, "and I shall fulfill it to the best of my ability."
"Guide my apprentice," Vordan said.
Silverwood nodded. "Arianne, you mean?"
"Yes," Vordan said, feeling the strange taste of the word across his tongue. "Arianne."
"Surely you do not mean to speak of her in that way."
Vordan closed his eyes in quiet frustration. "The bear is a peaceful animal -- great and majestic, and very protective of its family. But some bears acquire a taste for human blood, Silverwood, and those creatures threaten our way of life to the point where they have to be destroyed. Arianne has tasted the same, and I fear that she has found it to her liking."
Silverwood hesitated. "I may not be the best teacher for her, my lord. The younger ones may commit such atrocities right now as we speak, but I must admit that even I was not sheltered from such beliefs when I was young."
"You learned, Silverwood. It is far better than I can say for many of the others."
"Yes, Lord Vordan."
"She no longer listens to me," Vordan said, sadly. "You may be the only one she would listen to."
Silverwood nodded. "I understand, my lord," he said.
Arianne sidestepped the blade rather easily. Hatred focused a man, but rage quickly unlearned everything he would have known.
Kessler recovered easily, however, and swung once more. The blade passed mere inches in front of Arianne's face, although she barely noticed. She dropped to the ground, avoided another of the rampaging knight's wild strikes, drew her blades, and rolled away.
"Stand and fight!" Kessler roared at her. Arianne ignored him.
She waited in a defensive stance, watching him carefully. Her eyes flicked to the side only once, to see what Ostran was doing. The olive-skinned knight had taken a few steps back, unsure of how to proceed.
Kessler's war cry brought her attention back. He swung once, then twice from two different sides. Arianne dodged the first blow, and caught the second one on the hafts of her blades. Then Kessler bellowed his displeasure, and smashed one armored knee into her stomach. She staggered back, winded.
Kessler advanced with murder in his eyes. Arianne took two steps back, and waited for the strike.
She didn't have to wait long. The knight was gone, taken by the throes of bloodlust. He swung his blade one final time, cleaving the air where she once stood.
But by that time, Arianne was already in the middle of her leap. She cleared the path of his sword easily, brushing one gauntleted arm as she aimed for the slits in the visor of his helmet. Her weapons struck with a violent, meaty sound, and this time it was she who roared in the face of Kessler's whimpering.
The knight fell back, blood streaming from the openings in his helmet. He pulled the straps open with shuddering hands, and tore the metal gear from his head to expose the terrible wounds to the sunlight.
And in one fluid motion, Arianne buried her blades into the knight's skull. The sound of metal shattering bone filled the clearing.
Then there was nothing but a sodden, forlorn sound as Kesslar's corpse hit the forest floor.
Arianne raised her head to the heavens and howled her victory.
...
And then she remembered the other one.
She smiled.
"She has blood on her hands, Silverwood."
"We each have blood on our hands, Lord Vordan. It is merely a question of whether or not we choose to wash our hands."
Ostran moved quickly, running as fast as he dared among the rocks, the trees, and the bushes.
He didn't want to think of what would happen if she caught him. Not after what had happened to Kessler.
There was a rustling in the trees. Was it her? Was it something else? Was it the last thing he would ever see?
He had to get out of the woods. Aran help him, he would never insult another Druid again.
"Aran help me," he said.
"Aran's not here," Arianne said, from right beside him.
Ostran shirked violently, losing his balance and falling into a bramble patch. He thrashed about in confusion for a few seconds before finally locating the scabbard at his belt and drawing his sword.
And she was there, standing right before him, blood drying on the blades she held by her side.
"No," he said, nervously.
"I have no argument with you, Sir Ostran," Arianne said. "My matter, it seems, was only with Sir Kessler, and we did eventually resolve everything."
"What do you want?" Ostran asked in a shrill whisper.
"Nothing beyond what we already have," Arianne said. "This is our home, Sir Ostran. This is our land. This is our life."
Ostran shuddered.
"You only come here as guests, Sir Ostran. While you are here, you follow our rules."
The young knight paused, somehow finding a coherent moment in the face of madness. "But what are the rules?" he asked fearfully.
And to that, Arianne only laughed.
Ostran ran.
It was obvious that they were not here to talk. She could hear the scraping of metal upon metal as one of them -- the shorter one -- drew his sword.
Arianne opened her eyes, regarding the two men who stood before her. Both were dressed in burnished armor of silver and white, unscuffed and untainted by the rigors of the wood. Although she could not see their faces underneath their helmets, their stance was unmistakably hostile... albeit cautious.
They were almost certainly afraid of her.
Arianne smiled.
The taller of the two removed his helmet, although his companion still held his sword in a threatening manner. The knight was young, perhaps less than twenty years of age. He was handsome, olive-skinned, and almost certainly still a novice. Arianne wondered exactly why they had come here.
The knight cleared his throat. "You are a Druid?" he asked.
"Well met," Arianne answered.
"What?"
"Well met," Arianne said, with uncharacteristic patience. "I had thought that the Galenics were respectful enough to bid a proper greeting, but it seems that I was wrong."
The knight glanced at his helmeted companion, who did not relax from his hostile stance. The second man only nodded slightly at the gesture.
"W... well met," the first knight conceded. "My name is... Ostran, of the Allandrian Galenics. This," he said, gesturing towards his companion, "is Kessler. And you are..."
"Arianne," Arianne said.
"You're a Druid," the second knight said, in a muffled voice.
Arianne gave them a narrow look. "I know," she said.
Ostran cleared his throat again. "I wonder, then, if you could offer us some assistance."
* * *
"What do you think, Silverwood?" Vordan asked.
The old healer stared into his bowl of tea. "There have been more killings of late," he said. "There have been far too many killings as of late."
"Yes," Vordan said, deep in thought.
"I've seen a lot of grevious wounds in the last few months, Lord Vordan. We have acquired a certain reputation among most travelers now."
"This is wrong," Vordan said. "We're wardens of nature, not zealous murderers."
"Too many of the younger ones engage in it," Silverwood cautioned. "They claim to protect the sanctity of the land, yet kill interlopers for sport. Some of the teachers even encourage their behavior."
Vordan glanced at the healer once again. "We cannot prevent people from passing through the wood," he finally said. "I don't know how they see it, but the Druids still have to live together with the rest of the world. How can they not understand that?"
"It is the isolation, perhaps," Silverwood said, sipping his tea. "Isolation unhinges the minds of men and forces them to deal with true reality. It is our task to teach them how to live with these new perceptions."
Vordan watched the old Druid, marveling at his composure. "Do remind me why you never became Grandmaster, Silverwood," he said in passing.
"I refused," Silverwood said.
"You know you would command far better respect than I, in this position."
"The fact that you are Grandmaster in the first place, Lord Vordan, implies that the Druids hold much faith in you as it is."
"Then why do they refuse to listen to me?" Vordan snapped. "Am I the only one who sees that their hatred is tearing us to pieces?"
Silverwood remained silent for a while before finally giving his answer. "I am not afraid of the possibility that they do not know, Lord Vordan. What I fear, however, is the possibility that they simply do not care."
* * *
"What sort of assistance?" Arianne asked suspiciously.
"We're looking for a murderer," Kessler said. She could not see the expression beneath his helmet, but she knew the threat for what it was.
Ostran held up a hand. "No, no," he said, "we're... merely looking for... someone."
"A murderer," Arianne said, her eyes narrowing.
Ostran gave a nervous sigh. "A man named Yseth passed by this area about a week ago. He followed the same trail as this one. He was about as tall as I, with black hair and brown eyes, and he wore the robes of a Galenic healer."
"Yes." Arianne said, listening carefully.
"Someone killed him here," Ostran said. "The peasants found his body at the edge of the woods, rent from side to side like a slab of meat."
"You carry weapons," Kessler observed in a flat, unfriendly tone of voice.
Arianne's hand strayed towards the blades tucked into her belt. Kessler tightened the grip on his sword. Ostran tensed noticeably.
"Yes," Arianne finally said. "I carry weapons."
Ostran took a deep breath. "No bandits operate in this area, Lady Arianne," he said. "Every peasant for ten leagues knows that this is the domain of the Druids, and we know that you are very... protective of your home. What I... what we... I mean... what we mean to say is..."
"What we mean to say," Kessler said in a dead voice, "is that one of you did it. You will tell us which of you bastards killed my brother, and you'll do it now."
"The man was your brother, then?" Arianne asked.
"Yes," Kessler said, through clenched teeth.
"I saw him pass by this trail some days ago. It was perhaps a week since then, just as you mentioned."
Ostran leaned back. "So... you know?"
"He reached this same clearing in the gathering twilight, and hunted for food. He caught a baby rabbit for its meat and fur, then killed a grouse with six hatchlings. And he roasted them over a fire made from the roots of an ancient tree."
Ostran's eyes widened slightly. Arianne had to admit that he was far more perceptive than his companion.
"I felt that he would gain a far better perspective on things if he were to experience the same pain he caused the land," she said. "He asked for mercy only once, near the end. But as he showed none, so did I give him none."
The clearing was silent.
Arianne turned to the second knight, who was now breathing heavily. "What do you say, Sir Kessler?" she asked him. "Perhaps I should have let him plead for his life a little longer?"
Kessler roared, charging towards her with sword held high.
* * *
"I have a favor to ask of you, old one."
Silverwood leaned forward, and something in his eyes told Vordan that he already knew what it was. "Name it, Lord Vordan," he said, "and I shall fulfill it to the best of my ability."
"Guide my apprentice," Vordan said.
Silverwood nodded. "Arianne, you mean?"
"Yes," Vordan said, feeling the strange taste of the word across his tongue. "Arianne."
"Surely you do not mean to speak of her in that way."
Vordan closed his eyes in quiet frustration. "The bear is a peaceful animal -- great and majestic, and very protective of its family. But some bears acquire a taste for human blood, Silverwood, and those creatures threaten our way of life to the point where they have to be destroyed. Arianne has tasted the same, and I fear that she has found it to her liking."
Silverwood hesitated. "I may not be the best teacher for her, my lord. The younger ones may commit such atrocities right now as we speak, but I must admit that even I was not sheltered from such beliefs when I was young."
"You learned, Silverwood. It is far better than I can say for many of the others."
"Yes, Lord Vordan."
"She no longer listens to me," Vordan said, sadly. "You may be the only one she would listen to."
Silverwood nodded. "I understand, my lord," he said.
* * *
Arianne sidestepped the blade rather easily. Hatred focused a man, but rage quickly unlearned everything he would have known.
Kessler recovered easily, however, and swung once more. The blade passed mere inches in front of Arianne's face, although she barely noticed. She dropped to the ground, avoided another of the rampaging knight's wild strikes, drew her blades, and rolled away.
"Stand and fight!" Kessler roared at her. Arianne ignored him.
She waited in a defensive stance, watching him carefully. Her eyes flicked to the side only once, to see what Ostran was doing. The olive-skinned knight had taken a few steps back, unsure of how to proceed.
Kessler's war cry brought her attention back. He swung once, then twice from two different sides. Arianne dodged the first blow, and caught the second one on the hafts of her blades. Then Kessler bellowed his displeasure, and smashed one armored knee into her stomach. She staggered back, winded.
Kessler advanced with murder in his eyes. Arianne took two steps back, and waited for the strike.
She didn't have to wait long. The knight was gone, taken by the throes of bloodlust. He swung his blade one final time, cleaving the air where she once stood.
But by that time, Arianne was already in the middle of her leap. She cleared the path of his sword easily, brushing one gauntleted arm as she aimed for the slits in the visor of his helmet. Her weapons struck with a violent, meaty sound, and this time it was she who roared in the face of Kessler's whimpering.
The knight fell back, blood streaming from the openings in his helmet. He pulled the straps open with shuddering hands, and tore the metal gear from his head to expose the terrible wounds to the sunlight.
And in one fluid motion, Arianne buried her blades into the knight's skull. The sound of metal shattering bone filled the clearing.
Then there was nothing but a sodden, forlorn sound as Kesslar's corpse hit the forest floor.
Arianne raised her head to the heavens and howled her victory.
...
And then she remembered the other one.
She smiled.
* * *
"She has blood on her hands, Silverwood."
"We each have blood on our hands, Lord Vordan. It is merely a question of whether or not we choose to wash our hands."
* * *
Ostran moved quickly, running as fast as he dared among the rocks, the trees, and the bushes.
He didn't want to think of what would happen if she caught him. Not after what had happened to Kessler.
There was a rustling in the trees. Was it her? Was it something else? Was it the last thing he would ever see?
He had to get out of the woods. Aran help him, he would never insult another Druid again.
"Aran help me," he said.
"Aran's not here," Arianne said, from right beside him.
Ostran shirked violently, losing his balance and falling into a bramble patch. He thrashed about in confusion for a few seconds before finally locating the scabbard at his belt and drawing his sword.
And she was there, standing right before him, blood drying on the blades she held by her side.
"No," he said, nervously.
"I have no argument with you, Sir Ostran," Arianne said. "My matter, it seems, was only with Sir Kessler, and we did eventually resolve everything."
"What do you want?" Ostran asked in a shrill whisper.
"Nothing beyond what we already have," Arianne said. "This is our home, Sir Ostran. This is our land. This is our life."
Ostran shuddered.
"You only come here as guests, Sir Ostran. While you are here, you follow our rules."
The young knight paused, somehow finding a coherent moment in the face of madness. "But what are the rules?" he asked fearfully.
And to that, Arianne only laughed.
Ostran ran.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Connecting...
The modem's on the fritz again. This is likely to put a damper on my updates, considering that I usually write up my posts late at night on the computer at home. I could almost swear that the infernal device runs and hides every time I even so much as think about blogging.
And for the statisticians out there: This isn't the shortest post on this blog so far. I've written exactly one entry that was far, far shorter.
:)
And for the statisticians out there: This isn't the shortest post on this blog so far. I've written exactly one entry that was far, far shorter.
:)
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
The Bear in the Bubble
If my memory serves me correctly, Trevor's been sitting in the back of my closet for a couple of years now. In that amount of time, a veritable collection of knickknacks has built up around him, and it would probably have made Trevor the ruler of his own little kingdom if I had only remembered to take him out of his gift-wrapping.
Trevor's a bear, you see. He's around two feet tall, has a pink ribbon tied around his neck, and is most likely stuffed with some combination of cotton and foam. Trevor first came around as a present to one of my female friends from an unwanted suitor, and when she considered disposing of him, I pleaded for her to let the bear live. He's been sitting in the back of my closet ever since.
I'm sure we all know that time has a tendency to wear on stuffed toys. That's why Trevor was still swathed in his original gift-wrapping and hermetically-sealed plastic cover, and that's why Trevor was still in remarkably good condition when we unearthed him a couple of hours ago.
My sister was hanging around when I finally pulled Trevor out of his shell of bright-red wrapping paper, and on a whim, I posed him in front of the TV for her opinion.
She only spoke after a long, uncomfortable silence: "He has evil eyes."
I laughed. "It's not as though he's going to come around and kill us in our sleep," I told her. She had just watched an episode of CSI that took place in a creepy-looking doll repair shop, and her reaction did not surprise me in the least.
After a moment of reflection, however, I had to admit that she could have been right. I mean, how would you feel if you were rejected by your potential owner, saddled off with some literary loser, and stuffed in the back of a dark closet for two years?
You'd be homicidal, that's what.
Or you'd have a nasty aversion to bright light, at the very least.
Trevor's a bear, you see. He's around two feet tall, has a pink ribbon tied around his neck, and is most likely stuffed with some combination of cotton and foam. Trevor first came around as a present to one of my female friends from an unwanted suitor, and when she considered disposing of him, I pleaded for her to let the bear live. He's been sitting in the back of my closet ever since.
I'm sure we all know that time has a tendency to wear on stuffed toys. That's why Trevor was still swathed in his original gift-wrapping and hermetically-sealed plastic cover, and that's why Trevor was still in remarkably good condition when we unearthed him a couple of hours ago.
My sister was hanging around when I finally pulled Trevor out of his shell of bright-red wrapping paper, and on a whim, I posed him in front of the TV for her opinion.
She only spoke after a long, uncomfortable silence: "He has evil eyes."
I laughed. "It's not as though he's going to come around and kill us in our sleep," I told her. She had just watched an episode of CSI that took place in a creepy-looking doll repair shop, and her reaction did not surprise me in the least.
After a moment of reflection, however, I had to admit that she could have been right. I mean, how would you feel if you were rejected by your potential owner, saddled off with some literary loser, and stuffed in the back of a dark closet for two years?
You'd be homicidal, that's what.
Or you'd have a nasty aversion to bright light, at the very least.
Trevor, the bear with the evil eyes. He's probably plotting his revenge upon the rest of the world even as we speak. It just goes to show that you really can't trust stuffed toys, especially if they happen to big fans of Lillian Jackson Braun.
Ultimately, we did have to ask ourselves what we were supposed to do with the bear. Fortunately, I was still in contact with Trevor's former owner, and we ended up batting around quite a few ideas. There was the prospect of selling him off to a second-hand store (not likely to happen), giving him away to an orphanage (a nice default idea, really), or simply repackaging him as a present to some lucky kid (as opposed to buying them that Nintendo DS they always wanted, I suppose).
Luckily, everything became moot when my sister expressed an interest in adopting him (evil eyes and all). On the other hand, the possibility suddenly lost a lot of its appeal once I realized that her own room was already filled to overflowing with stuffed animals. As nice and cuddly as these things may look, you wouldn't want to be buried under a mountain of them.
That, and there was still the possibility of Trevor going all Charles Manson on us. It's not easy to sweep two wasted years of your life under the rug, after all. The way we saw it, it was only a matter of time before we would find him sitting among the remains of a roomful of stuffed toys with a knife in his hand and a hideous smile on his face.
Yes, we're going to keep him in that hermetically-sealed plastic bag for a little while longer, thankyouverymuch.
...
Hey... would anyone out there be looking for a stuffed bear, by any chance? We could let him go for a fairly low price, I suppose.
Just don't blame me if he does anything funny in the middle of the night.
Look at it this way: If you don't like the way he stares at you, you can always stuff him back into a dark closet for a couple more years.
:)
Ultimately, we did have to ask ourselves what we were supposed to do with the bear. Fortunately, I was still in contact with Trevor's former owner, and we ended up batting around quite a few ideas. There was the prospect of selling him off to a second-hand store (not likely to happen), giving him away to an orphanage (a nice default idea, really), or simply repackaging him as a present to some lucky kid (as opposed to buying them that Nintendo DS they always wanted, I suppose).
Luckily, everything became moot when my sister expressed an interest in adopting him (evil eyes and all). On the other hand, the possibility suddenly lost a lot of its appeal once I realized that her own room was already filled to overflowing with stuffed animals. As nice and cuddly as these things may look, you wouldn't want to be buried under a mountain of them.
That, and there was still the possibility of Trevor going all Charles Manson on us. It's not easy to sweep two wasted years of your life under the rug, after all. The way we saw it, it was only a matter of time before we would find him sitting among the remains of a roomful of stuffed toys with a knife in his hand and a hideous smile on his face.
Yes, we're going to keep him in that hermetically-sealed plastic bag for a little while longer, thankyouverymuch.
...
Hey... would anyone out there be looking for a stuffed bear, by any chance? We could let him go for a fairly low price, I suppose.
Just don't blame me if he does anything funny in the middle of the night.
Look at it this way: If you don't like the way he stares at you, you can always stuff him back into a dark closet for a couple more years.
:)
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Leonardo's Cipher
News just came in that The Da Vinci Code was given an R-18 rating by the local Movie and Television Review and Classification Board. For the people out there who aren't well-versed in the nuances of a Filipino-American grading system, that means that the movie's been restricted to adults 18 years or older.
Now, I'm not quite sure what the majority of people are going to say about this. I do think, however, that the rating is correct. At the very least, it's quite an improvement for a governing body that once gave an overblown, undeniably excessive penalty to Schindler's List.
At the moment, it's almost certain that the movie will draw large crowds despite religious leaders' opinion that the story is dirty, blasphemous, and otherwise detrimental to moral health. That won't necessarily mean that it's a good movie, of course. It would only mean that the controversy has succeeded in stirring peoples' curiosity, adults and children alike. We're likely to see a lot of crowds queueing up to see the picture, and they'll all be composed of people in varying stages of mental maturity.
It is precisely the presence of this mental variance that makes me feel that the R-18 rating is correct. It's not a question of how blasphemous the subject matter may be, or the graphic depiction of certain scenes; I think that it's more a question of how we accept the things we see on the big white screen in the middle of the movie theater.
Movies are undoubtedly a major influence on us, if only because it's easier to take their messages to heart. We may bear in mind that we're watching actors who are obviously following an indifferent script, or costumes imagined by the warped minds of studio researchers, or computer-generated special effects that only resemble the real thing, for example. But despite all that, a movie will still stick to the inside of your head. It's more memorable than reading a story because it gives you a clear visual of what the characters and the locations look like, and it's more memorable than looking at artwork because you can actually see them move, talk, and otherwise interact with each other.
We may belittle movies as a form of media alongside other literary forms, but there's no doubting their effectivity. Where everything else merely presents a story, a movie presents a simulated experience that is simply easier to keep in mind.
Is it any wonder, then, that the local clergy fears the influence that The Da Vinci Code may produce?
This is really where mental maturity must come in. The biggest argument against these fears is that the story is clearly advertised as fictitious. The major premise has extremely little in the way of evidence to back it up, the writer has quite a few previous works of fiction to his credit, and the paperback volume tends to be stored in the "Fiction" sections of all major bookstores. It's fictitious, and we know it. It's right there for all to see.
But then again, people do have a strange habit of missing the obvious. When Orson Welles debuted War of the Worlds on radio in 1938, listeners became hysterical with the belief that Martians were actually in the process of invading the Earth. Streets became clogged with people desperately looking to escape the "alien attack", houses of worship became filled with refugees waiting for the "inevitable" end, and there were more than a few panicked attempts at suicide. And all this came about despite the fact that the program was broken at various intervals for the ever-present commercials, and that the station gave regular disclaimers that the narrative was nothing more than a radio show.
When it comes to The Da Vinci Code, then, I believe that the R-18 rating shouldn't be there because of accusations of blasphemy or immorality. I believe that it should be there for reasons of mental maturity: Only those people who are capable of processing it properly should be the ones watching it in the first place. (Of course, we can't assume that all people 18 years or older are capable of such coherent thought, but it's the closest generalization we can work with.)
The problem we're looking at right now is that too many people are taking the movie's content merely by itself. But the fact is that it shouldn't be taken by itself, I think. It's only a movie, after all -- a simulated experience that just tends to sticky itself to our minds.
We need to look at things in a much bigger picture, especially with regards to matters of both religion and personal logic. Is The Da Vinci Code likely to influence our beliefs and faiths simply because it presents a fictitious theory in a fictitious plot using fictitious characters? The answer to that question really depends on how easily you accept the viewing experience, and how well your mind works on its own.
It really shouldn't, though. When all is said and done, and no matter how carefully both sides may argue or step around the real issue, the fact still remains that it's just a movie. So watch it if you want, but bear in mind that it really shouldn't exert that much influence on anyone in the first place.
Just make sure that you're at least 18 years old, though. You wouldn't want to annoy the censors, after all.
-----
If you're interested on reading up on a few of the issues described above (and you probably are, if you've gotten this far without falling asleep), I can offer you some informative links:
- A brief summary of the encounter between Schindler's List and the Philippine MTRCB, as given by The File Room, an archive of recent events regarding the issue of censorship
- An archive of news articles following the wake of the original War of the Worlds broadcast
- The official response of the Prelature of Opus Dei in the United States regarding The Da Vinci Code (which happens to be a good read)
- Dan Brown's take on the novel and the controversy
I'm also interested in reading a logical assessment of the situation from an anti-Da Vinci stance, only it's difficult to find a statement that doesn't automatically assume that the story is nonfiction. Does anyone out there know where I can find some of these?
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Booby Traps
I suspect that I may be writing too much in the way of Antaria, and too little in the way of general fiction.
It's not healthy to stay in one universe. I suppose that moving around talking to the characters and experiencing the locales makes for a very nice exercise in world-building, but there's a fine line between developing as a writer and getting stuck in a realm of your own creation.
It's "Fan Fiction Syndrome", if you think about it. Too many writers of fan fiction find themselves enamored of a certain setting, and thus spend their entire literary lives scratching out mediocre works that happen to be based on it. They neither find the inclination nor the effort to move on, and therefore never harness the true potential of their creativity.
While Antaria is an original creation (as opposed to a work created by some distant author), it may pose a similar danger. It is, admittedly, one of the crunchiest settings I've ever conceived (and I've gone through a few), but the last thing I want it to do is to prevent me from writing other pieces of fiction.
As of this post, I've written no less than thirty-one pieces relating to Antaria's story or setting for this blog, yet I've featured only two short stories ("Untitled", "Body Parts") that stand on their own. That's a huge gap.
On the other hand, the reasons for such a discrepancy may be attributed to any number of things. There's the possibility of copyright, for example: Maybe I am writing enough stories, for instance, except that I just don't put them up on this blog because of copyright worries. (In contrast, I don't hold similar concerns for Antaria because any plagiarists will have to copy a massive number of works.)
There's also the fact that a lot of writing contests have cropped up over the last year. No contributing writer is likely to place his submissions online, after all, especially when the better works are selected for publication and the worse ones are best left unread.
And then there's the nature of Antaria. It's clearly not meant to be a short story, for one -- it's a fully-realized setting with characters and places and tense political situations. Its tale is at least series-length, now that I think about it. And you really need to immerse yourself in the universe to understand what's going on.
That's probably why I only expect to come out with an Antaria post around once a month. Writing more often than that would entail a partially serious commitment (or at least an indication that I have nothing better to do), and writing less often than that would risk my losing the story completely. I'm looking at an undesirable situation either way.
It's a fine line, all right. If it were any finer, you'd string it around your knuckles and wrap it around somebody's throat.
So now there's the question of what I plan to do.
Ironically, there doesn't seem to be much that I have at the moment. If I'm inclined to write something about Antaria, then I might as well sit down and write something about Antaria. If some majestic plot for an independent short story comes to mind, then I can write that instead. There doesn't seem to be a whole lot of choices involved in an effort that depends so much on inspiration, after all.
I suppose that, while I'm languishing in this train of thought, there's only one thing that I can do: Write. The topic shouldn't matter, really.
All I ask for is this: If I seem to be leaning one way or the other, do let me know. It's probably the only way I can learn to right myself in a sea of uncertainties.
And if that somehow helps improve the pace at which I write -- Antaria or otherwise -- then I'm all for it.
It's not healthy to stay in one universe. I suppose that moving around talking to the characters and experiencing the locales makes for a very nice exercise in world-building, but there's a fine line between developing as a writer and getting stuck in a realm of your own creation.
It's "Fan Fiction Syndrome", if you think about it. Too many writers of fan fiction find themselves enamored of a certain setting, and thus spend their entire literary lives scratching out mediocre works that happen to be based on it. They neither find the inclination nor the effort to move on, and therefore never harness the true potential of their creativity.
While Antaria is an original creation (as opposed to a work created by some distant author), it may pose a similar danger. It is, admittedly, one of the crunchiest settings I've ever conceived (and I've gone through a few), but the last thing I want it to do is to prevent me from writing other pieces of fiction.
As of this post, I've written no less than thirty-one pieces relating to Antaria's story or setting for this blog, yet I've featured only two short stories ("Untitled", "Body Parts") that stand on their own. That's a huge gap.
On the other hand, the reasons for such a discrepancy may be attributed to any number of things. There's the possibility of copyright, for example: Maybe I am writing enough stories, for instance, except that I just don't put them up on this blog because of copyright worries. (In contrast, I don't hold similar concerns for Antaria because any plagiarists will have to copy a massive number of works.)
There's also the fact that a lot of writing contests have cropped up over the last year. No contributing writer is likely to place his submissions online, after all, especially when the better works are selected for publication and the worse ones are best left unread.
And then there's the nature of Antaria. It's clearly not meant to be a short story, for one -- it's a fully-realized setting with characters and places and tense political situations. Its tale is at least series-length, now that I think about it. And you really need to immerse yourself in the universe to understand what's going on.
That's probably why I only expect to come out with an Antaria post around once a month. Writing more often than that would entail a partially serious commitment (or at least an indication that I have nothing better to do), and writing less often than that would risk my losing the story completely. I'm looking at an undesirable situation either way.
It's a fine line, all right. If it were any finer, you'd string it around your knuckles and wrap it around somebody's throat.
So now there's the question of what I plan to do.
Ironically, there doesn't seem to be much that I have at the moment. If I'm inclined to write something about Antaria, then I might as well sit down and write something about Antaria. If some majestic plot for an independent short story comes to mind, then I can write that instead. There doesn't seem to be a whole lot of choices involved in an effort that depends so much on inspiration, after all.
I suppose that, while I'm languishing in this train of thought, there's only one thing that I can do: Write. The topic shouldn't matter, really.
All I ask for is this: If I seem to be leaning one way or the other, do let me know. It's probably the only way I can learn to right myself in a sea of uncertainties.
And if that somehow helps improve the pace at which I write -- Antaria or otherwise -- then I'm all for it.
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