Past Holders of the Trophy of Respect
[Most Recent Entries]
[Calendar View]
[Friends View]
Below are the most recent 25 friends' journal entries.
[ << Previous 25 ]
| Friday, July 17th, 2009 |
theferrett
|
11:53a |
|
theferrett
|
11:50a |
An Announcement For Locals
It has been about six months since I last roleplayed in real life, and I am getting the itch to GM again. However, reviving my long-running Planescape campaign seems more tedious than not; don't get me wrong, I love all you local players, but trying to work around everyone's (understandable) absences in a campaign that's very character-focused is a stone-cold bitch. ("Right, this week was going to reveal the secret of Isadora's long-lost sister... What? She has to work late? So this week is about puppies. Uh, demon puppies. From Mars.") So here's my latest suggestion: Mystery Modules. As we all know, I am a freak because I enjoy reading RPG books even if I'm not going to play them. As such, I have tons of canned, one-shot adventures that I've never actually cracked the seal on. My goal is to have a beer-n-pretzels roleplaying night where between three and six people show up, I hand you character sheets, and wham. We're on for the next four to six hours. Some of these adventures may run so long they go to two weeks. No problem! Most of these adventures are Call of Cthulhu, so you'll be dead anyway. And if you know the deal is "Show up, get a sheet, run with whatever you got," then you should have no problem picking up someone else's character sheet and continuing on with a briefing about "The story 'til now..." Other systems include Unknown Armies, D&D (natch), Champions, and probably some others when I start looking. (The nice thing about CoC is that since it covers all of human history, the modules for CoC span from medieval monk clusterfucks to Cthulhu in space.) The questions for you locals are: 1) Would you be interested? 2) What day would work? Gini likes Thursday, but unless we start early (at 7:00), then we'll probably run out of time every evening. Sundays are also good and more sporadic. Incidentally, I'm going to go with my own bliss here and say that every time you show up for Mystery Modules, it'll be a surprise. Mostly it'll be horror (because those are the good modules that can be run in a single session), but you won't truly know until you sit down and choose your character sheet from the pile. Then again, this could be my adoration of Mystery Setlists on Rock Band tipping my hand. Anyway, suggestions? Feedback? Demon puppies? |
| Thursday, July 16th, 2009 |
theferrett
|
2:28p |
Movie Musings
I am convinced that Cuba Gooding, Jr. has cost more people the Oscar than any other actor in recent history. Because I'm sure the Oscar voters were thinking, "Well, Eddie Murphy did a pretty good job in Dreamgirls, and he is a talented man - maybe we should give it to Eddie." And then the TV blares: " Snow Dogs 3: The Piddling! Starring ACADEMY AWARD WINNING ACTOR Cuba Gooding, Jr.!" They shudder a little bit. Then vote for someone else. Yet the question arose of why Michael Caine, who could not accept his Academy Award for Hannah and her Sisters because he was - no joke - filming Jaws 4, does not fall into this category of Oscar-destroyers. And I think the answer is because while Mister Caine has a reputation for accepting a role from pretty much anyone who pays him, nobody wants to see an distinguished, elderly Englishman do pratfalls and do a bunch of fart jokes. It's not that Oscar winners won't appear in terrible movies, since they clearly do, but rather that those movies should at least be aiming for greatness. However, I realized that if I had the money, I would immediately commissison a movie to find Michael Caine's limits. Yes, he'll go where the paycheck is - but I would produce a film called "The Fartsmith," a comedy written by the most discarded of Wayans brothers, wherein Michael Caine would star as the greatest farting superhero in the world. He would wear a skin-tight costume with a puckered anus for a logo, and he would fly like a modified jetpack with the help of a match, and I would do my damndest to see whether I could get Dustin Hoffman to take the method acting role of The Fartsmith's nemesis. I'd pitch it to him. And every day, I'd rewrite the script to see what sorts of interesting conversations I could get Michael Caine to have with me. I would budget a million dollars simply for impromptu salary negotiations. Needless to say, the movie would tank, but the real money would come from the DVD and the many hours of featurette extras. |
mysterg
|
1:23p |
I guess I must funny lookin...
So, I go to the bank today, not my usual branch, and I show them my ID whilst making a withdrawal. The lady behind the counter sniggers a bit, and says "That's cute; did you MEAN to look like that?" My eyes go wide and I say, "Um, yeah, just being me I guess." She smiles, and doles out my money. Her co-workers, smirks on their faces, give her dirty looks and avoid my smiling gaze... I left, more laughing at what they must be thinking of her rather than being annoyed. Now, here's a question; DO I REALLY LOOK THAT FUNNY?!  I always thought I resembled a truck driver/bouncer, meself... Current Mood:  discontent |
| Wednesday, July 15th, 2009 |
theferrett
|
11:04a |
Convalescence
It's very weird, still recovering from appendix surgery. Mostly I'm fine - little twinges at the base of the cut when I get up, deep itching as the surface cuts heal. 95% of the time I forget about this thing. But there are still some things I can't do, at which point I look down at my belly and go, "Dude, that was weeks ago. Aren't you over that by now?" However, I will say this surgery has brought out deep underlying issues in my marriage. Things that, as it turns out, cannot be changed. I'm a rightie-bed. My wife's a leftie. I do not recall ever specifically choosing which side of the bed we slept on, but with the seriousness we take it these days you'd think there had been board meetings and a ratification. But no; the surgeon entered my body via the right side of my abdomen, so when we figured I was recovered enough to sleep in the same bed as my wife again, we switched sides. Our normal sleeping patterns meant that my suture would be right next to Gini's hip, where she could roll over and squish all the guts out of me like a foot stepping on a jelly donut; by sleeping on the left side of the bed, I kept my wound far away from her, where the worst she could do was slap a palm on it. And we could not sleep. Part of it was that I was unable to roll over, but there was some other mysterious malady. She thrashed. I felt like a stranger in my own bed. There was nothing inherently wrong with the situation except that something about our bodies kept waking in surprise and going, " Who's there?" We knew it could not be our beloved spouse; they'd be on the other side. After a few days, she came to me and said, "Look, this isn't working out," and we returned to sleeping in separate rooms until I could correct my bedwise manners. And when I looked in on the bedroom while she napped, I noticed that sure enough - a whole bed to herself, and she was curled up on the left side. And I slept better in the other bed - not because it was Gini-free, as I had initially surmised, but because the left side was against the wall and I was free to sleep on the right. Thankfully, all of my current loves don't mind letting me sleep on the right hand side, because I'm pretty sure that if I found a fellow right-hander it'd be a dealbreaker. But last night, I was finally recovered enough to get into bed on my proper side, and to turn over, and to cuddle as we saw fit. We slept for eleven hours. Not that we actually slept for half a day, but the two halves of us rejoined like this felt like a key fitting into a warm, snuggly lock, and we could not bear to separate ourselves. This surgery has taught us to appreciate what we have, and part of that appreciation now is knowing our role. |
| Monday, July 13th, 2009 |
theferrett
|
9:09p |
Making Myself Happy Via Egregious Spending
So I have been dispensing with my writerly income in small doses here and there - yes, they're small paychecks of $50 and $100, but I have decided that these bits are for purchasing very stupid items I might not normally grant myself. Combine this with birthday money, and I can grant myself strange indulgences for a while. For example, I am absolutely thrilled to know that my Pac Man 256th level T-shirt is on its way. All I need is a mullet and I can be Billy Mitchell for Halloween. And today, I ordered in my special box of Magic: the Gathering soda from Jones soda: Purifying Fire (Red), Beast Brew (Green), Necromancer's Tonic (Black), Elixir of Purity (White), and Illusion Infusion (Blue). As with all strange things Jones Soda-related, I will of course hold a tasting. Anyone is welcome to attend. However, anyone who does wish to attend must write down what they think each Magic color tastes like. I myself am going to have to ponder what Green mana tastes like. I know it's not minty. Maybe evergreen. Hmmm..... |
theferrett
|
11:38a |
A Thought On Fiction That's Still News To Me
"I liked your story," said Geoffrey, "But I didn't love it." He sounded quite serious, even grave, about this deep flaw. Then he gave me two pages of critique painstakingly gained from rereading it and trying to figure out why he didn't love it. A year after I've finished the Clarion workshop, I think that's the biggest lesson I took home. See, when I started out, my first act was to hand my story to my Uncle Tommy. He liked it. And then, if I thought it was good enough, I'd hand it to my friends, who also liked it. Even twenty years ago, as a teenager, I was perfectly capable of writing a story that people could get to the end of; my prose was readable, my characters not so poorly formed that people flung up their hands, the endings were a bit strained but certainly workable. I thought good was a fine, fine thing to be. Then I sent out my manuscripts, and they came back to me transformed into little pre-typed rejection slips, and I could never figure out why. These stories were perfectly good. At the time, we had no Internet, and I couldn't look around me. But these days, you have an advantage over me; go to any fanfiction site and you'll find proof that good fiction isn't that hard to write. There are thousands of stories written by a huge variety of people. And while there are laughably bad stories in any archive, there aren't as many as you'd think. Truth is, most fanfic stories are readable - start them, and if they're of a reasonable length, it won't be a trial to get to the end. Some of them have a clever bit or two that stick out - a good line, an interesting concept, a solid plot. If you were a non-writer and someone handed it to you and said "Read this!" you'd say it was good. Good like a thousand other stories. Good in that it was better than a non-author could do. Good in that it held your attention weakly for the time it took to slap your eyes on it. Good in that once you were done with it, you'd never really think about it again. What I didn't realize back then is that "good" from my friends is a damning flaw, the one that will stop you from ever getting published. Every editor worth his salt is cracking the seal on twenty good stories a day. A former editor friend of mine told me that if she had to grade most of the stories she read, the average would be a B - the competent work of a workaday writer. The thing I learned at Clarion is this: You do not want good. You want great. You want the kind of story that springs unbidden to mind three days later. You want that fabulously bleak ending that echoes in their dreams. You want the kind of story where as soon as the reader's done, they flip back to the beginning to read it again. You want the story that they hand to their friends and say, "You have to read this, because this is me." If you cannot do that, you have failed. These qualities mean, of course, that you will fail a lot. Even professional authors fail at it daily - you're lucky to find two or three stories like that in any given author's short fiction collection - so what chance do you have? Not much. But if you keep working, keep honing the craft, keep really writing stories that are reflections of you, you might grab that third rail of glory once - and then learn how to do it again. Don't get me wrong, getting to good is a struggle in and of itself. Most people can't do that; it puts you in the top 98% of society. But your fiction will not, cannot, end at a mere good. When I was younger and far more foolish, I might have written off Geoffrey's critique. "He liked it," I said. "That's fine. I got him to like it - how many people can do that? Like's great." But these days, when a crit group says it was good, I know I have more work to do. I need love. Big, gouty, gushy love from a vast majority of the people I show it to. Good is the new average. And until I get that love, I'm not good. Not yet. |
glasspinata
|
12:11a |
Constructive
 I want a house. Preferably a little house. With just enough yard for a real garden so that I can dig in the dirt again and so Murderface can hunt for bugs. I want a porch. And I want seasons so that I can sit on my porch with a beverage of choice and enjoy the changes in temperature and scenery. I want a kitchen with a working oven and a window so I can bake things while I look out into the sunlight and the changing leaves and the snow and the budding flowers. I want friends that can come over for dinner, or just to sit around. Friends that I can go places with, or not. Friends who are tangible, and not just a distant memory. I want a garage for bikes, and I want to be able to ride my bike everywhere I could conceivably need to be. I want to be able to leave my car parked for weeks at a time. I want to go back to school to get a degree that's actually useful. I want to have a job that I love and that I can depend on. It's ironic to realize that I left behind the things that I most want when I decided to come here. It's ironic that now I'm dying to get back to the place I was dying to leave. Some day I hope I can reach a point where I'm happy with what I have, and really know what I need. I'm not sure what I was looking for when I left Iowa City. I guess I felt like I needed to move on to bigger things with my life. I think I was probably wrong. I miss my small, warm, comfortable, fulfilling existence. I was happier then. Not to say that things were perfect. But I think maybe I was mistaking occasional dissatisfaction for always inadequate. It's hard to tell for sure. I'm pretty impulsive, so it's difficult to know what's going to be "enough" from one moment to the next. I'm pretty sure, though, having had this experience will make it a lot easier to tell exactly what is livable and what isn't. It's amazing the good a little perspective can do. I just wish there was a way to make Jay really understand. Current Mood:  wistfulCurrent Music: Sleater-Kinney - Lions and Tigers |
| Sunday, July 12th, 2009 |
theferrett
|
1:00p |
A Meme SStarted By My Wife
Your task: TO write an entirely journal entry, touch-typing blind. You are not allowed to go back and correct anything you ty[e once you'veseen it live. Gini tried this when she had a migraine and couldn't see the screen, so I' was curiosus to see how I did. So close your eyes and get typin'! Or not. Really, it is kindas sislly. Oh, Christ, how'd I do? (EDIT: Okay, I guess it could just be a comment. Still. It's an odd skill to have, really it is.) (EDT TOTHE EDIT: Yes, I'm typing all the edits with my eyes closed as well.) |
glasspinata
|
11:30a |
It's the little things
We are about to run out of coffee. It's weird, the things that I find the most upsetting about a given situation. Like, yeah, no money. That sucks. But I threw a crying, throwing-whatever-was-closest fit the other night because we didn't have any peppermint tea and my stomach was upset. Blah. Current Mood:  anxiousCurrent Music: Neko Case - A Widow's Prayer |
theferrett
|
10:30a |
|
| Saturday, July 11th, 2009 |
theferrett
|
10:38a |
Man vs. Wild Weasel
Watching Man vs. Wild leaves me continually flabbergasted. Because they drop Bear Grylls into some Godforsaken wilderness with nothing more than a knife, and he uses that knife to make whatever he needs. He makes a little tent out of evergreen twigs. He makes an impromptu coat out of a dead deer. He makes a rotisserie for his fish to cook on. And then, when he's done, he just leaves them there. Every time, as he walks away, I'm like, "You built that! Take it with you! You might need it - and don't you want a souvenir of this time here?" But no; Bear walks away without a care, leaving the thing he made behind. I cannot understand that. I come from a family of hoarders. When we finally moved my Grammy and Grampop out of their house to bring them to the nursing home, it took three large dumpsters to clear the detritus. I remember clearing out old business correspondence from the attic with my cousin ("Dec 6th, 1952: This is to confirm I have to received your letter") and saying to her, "Well, they kept everything but the kitchen sink." And then, not ten minutes later, discovering two kitchen sinks in a back closet. One had a hole in it. But it might have been useful later on, you know. You could have patched that up. So when Bear just walks away from that ladder he lashed together from twigs and vines, leaving it behind as if it's nothing more than a pile of twigs and vines, I'm aghast. "Don't you want that?" I cry. "You never know when you'll need a broken ladder!" And inexplicably, I feel sorry for the ladder. Bear made it, he gifted it with life, and now this poor ladder is sitting in the wilderness, never to be useful again. Never mind that it was never useful in the first place - it broke before he could climb across the river to the cave - but Bear never gave it a second chance, man. I imagine the ladder feels pretty terrible about that. Then I wonder whether this is some bizarre function of human nature. I didn't grow up in the wilderness; I had the suburbs, where the only living nonhuman creatures were dogs and squirrels and little brown birds, and that was pretty much it. Do we have some innate instinct to look for life around us? In my vaccuum of wildlife, did I map a form of low-grade sentience onto my books (who wanted to be read) and my stools (who meant to bark my shin) and my videogames (who felt left out when I didn't play with them) just because my lizard brain couldn't comprehend the vaccuum of life surrounding me? Or is that my hoarder family instinct giving me an excuse - the world itself wants to be with me! I can't just leave it behind! Bear Grylls doesn't care. The man has no trinkets, no nostalgia, no additional weight; when it's done, he moves on, leaving a trail of Stuff that instantly decays into detritus. I admire it, even as I can't understand it. |
| Friday, July 10th, 2009 |
mysterg
|
7:53p |
Con-Tired?
I have discovered something today; I'm not sure if I'm a Con person anymore. No, not the Con-spiracy (I was never for that,) I'm talking about Con-ventions... I went today to Screaming Tiki Con held at the Halle Building near Downtown Cleveland. Now, I went with the intention to really enjoy myself, and I saw a fairly cool dealer's room, and got a gander at the guests (Edward Olmos, Ray Park, Erin Gray, Helen Slater, and a couple of dudes from "Smallville",) but you know what...I didn't have that much fun. It was NOT the fault of the Con; the people were nice, the stuff was cool, and the guests seemed convivial, but you know what I missed the most? My friends. Going to things like this or MarCon are okay, but chatting with your buds, hanging with your friends, THAT is true joy to me. I didn't even buy much of anything for me (2 comics,); I had more fun getting things for other people. I think next time, I'm going with at least my Wife, whom I know would at least have some fun, but I guess...I'm not a solitary Con personf. I have much more fun with other folks hanging around and having fun, shooting the bull and looking at stuff and comparing notes. I couldn't find anyone I knew, and it all felt very...draining. I think I'm getting old. Again, it was a good start for a Con; one thing that I guess disheartened me, but was expected, was the cost of autographs and pictures; I was too intimidated to even say hi , so I kind of just admired from afar (Helen Slater and Erin Grey look GREAT, and Edward James Olmos is TINY. I mean the dude comes up to my chest!) Another thing that I have to admit; whilst in the Con, the dealer's room left me drained. I could almost FEEL the draining need for these guys to sell-sell-sell to me, and it actually left me TIRED. Now, the artist's room was more energetic, and nice; the artist folks were all cool, nice and there was so much neat, original artwork (I only wished I had more cash...) After I left, I actually felt more energetic; I think it's a sign of the times; these folks come from all over to sell to the geek masses, so they need to at least make a buck or three. All in all, I went home feeling a tad tired and feeling that I need backup next time; in future days, I shall have my Con-Posse with me, and we shall ENJOY! (after I get a nap and my Ovaltine...) Current Mood:  tired |
theferrett
|
5:00p |
A Crazy Magic Poll
For those of you who are not Magic players, the new Magic core set (M10) was released today, which means tons of new art. And after I imported the new cards, I took a look at the artwork. And I think really, we have two cards that are staggeringly creepy - but which one is worse? Poll #1427990 Creepiest M10 Art
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: AllWhich artwork is creepier? If you're in the mood, feel free to go nuts what you think is the best card in M10. You can either tell me which ones have the prettiest art or just "OMG, Baneslayer Angel is going to rock my casual table." But I gotta say, flavorwise, this one's a total hit for me. |
theferrett
|
10:32a |
My Review Of Transformers (Not 2)
ERIN: "So how was the first Transformers?" FERRETT: "Well, I was never a fan of the cartoon, but it did have one thing going for it: all the robots were pretty clearly defined. I mean, I don't know the show at all, but I can tell Optimus Prime from Bumblebee. They had different colors and clearly different shapes." ERIN: "...and?" FERRETT: "Well, in the movie, they went for 'realism,' so the robots all looked like walking garbage heaps. No colors, no particular profile, just mounds of gears smashing into each other. I honestly couldn't tell who was fighting who." ERIN: "Was it that bad?" FERRETT: "Imagine the first fight scene of Pirates of the Carribean, the one where Johnny Depp fights Orlando Bloom. Now, imagine that exact same scene, except that Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom have been replaced by two swarms of bees." |
theferrett
|
10:08a |
The Flip Side of Secrets
So a couple of days ago, I asked for secrets, and got many. Secrets are a slightly tricky thing; I usually wait a few days and then go back and respond to the people I thought might want feedback on their secretageitude. I mean, if someone leaves a feedback like, "I accidentally killed my grandmother with a bad batch of pancake mix and now I'm suicidal every time I see a tub of butter," it feels a little strange not to comment or offer suspport. That said, there is the flip side of the secret post, and it's equally traditional: Ask me something. Anything. If you think it's too private, feel free to email me at theferrett@theferrett.com and I'll answer there. But ask me, and I shall answer true. |
| Thursday, July 9th, 2009 |
theferrett
|
10:17p |
You Can Certainly Blame ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) delosd For This
So tonight, against my doctor's wishes, my Rock Band "The Overzealous Showoffs" began touring. The difference? It's a two-man band, both me. Me on guitar on Expert, me on vocals on Hard. Yes, you can thank Steve for this, because he bought me the mic stand for my birthday. And man, I pity poor Gini's ears, because a) finding the right octave to sing in for songs out of your range is capital-H hard, and b) my preference for Mystery Setlists (wherein I don't choose the songs) backfired dramatically when I got Evanescence's "Bring Me To Life" (which I knew, but was clearly not prepared to sing in her range) followed by Maroon 5's "A Little Of Your Time," which I had never heard before, ever. Yes, that's correct: I had to sight read guitar and vocals for a song I didn't know. Gini was entertained by the sheer panic on my face, but I did manage three stars (86% on guitar, 84% on vocals). I am considering that a win. In the meantime, I played until I got the van and then retired, breathless. This is a new challenge. Now I fear that "Master Exploder" will truly kill me. |
theferrett
|
5:55p |
The Teleporter
I often wish I could develop a convenient, personal teleporter. If I could, of course I'd visit my Mom and Dad weekly, and take my daughters out to dinner, and spend weekends with wolflady26 in Germany, and of course I'd do some jetsetting with my wife and visit Intarwebz friends. At this moment, however, pretty much the only place I'd like to teleport to would be to New Orleans, The Green Goddess. This menu looks right up my alley, and as much as I love Cleveland, we don't have food this experimental hereabouts. (We have some damn fine drinks, of course, but that's another matter.) I really should compile a list of all the restaurants I'd like to eat at. Just so if I find myself in the city, I could stop by and check them out. Life is too damn short. |
theferrett
|
11:23a |
A Brief Rant On Fame
Pardon me whilst I talk about Michael Jackson for a moment, but this isn't really about Michael Jackson. It's about how famous people can't act like normal people who are trapped in bizarre circumstances. See, over on Salon, they're questioning Paris Jackson's tearful goodbye to her dad, and after a long essay they ask a seemingly vital question: "Shouldn't a truly loving family know better than to spotlight the grief of an 11 year old who has just lost a parent?" And my answer is, wholeheartedly, "Fuck you and your version of a truly loving family." Don't get me wrong: I'm not going to defend Michael Jackson, who had more issues than a magazine rack. Nor am I going to claim that the Jackson family are a bunch of caring, loving individuals, because their dysfunctionality has long been on parade. As it turns out, we absolutely love the idea of The Addams Family, but when they exist in real life people get a little spooked - and perhaps rightfully so. But by all accounts, Michael Jackson was a man who inspired amazing loyalty. I never met the guy, nor would I want to - Howard Stern's description of talking to MJ as his nose peeled off is something that stayed with me - but it does say something that the people who loved him loved him powerfully, and wholeheartedly, to the point where even those eventually rejected by him still speak of him wistfully, with great fondness, as if they did something wrong to offend him. He was someone who generated love, regardless of whether he deserved it or not. The question, I may remind you, is this: "Shouldn't a truly loving family know better than to spotlight the grief of an 11 year old who has just lost a parent?" And I think of my own family, who do love each other dearly. And how hard it would be if we all woke up one morning and found that my wife - who is lovely and talented and beautiful - had been accused of something we didn't think she actually did. We'd be furious, and hurt, and not quite sure how to respond. It doesn't take that much for that kind of thing to get created when you're in the limelight all the time, you know. Cameras are watching you 24/7. They're hungry for you to do something interesting. The tabloids are looking for a place to slot you - they sell more magazines if they can find a celebrity who's pathetically hung up on their ex-husband, or a sad drug addict, or a bulimic in denial. If you don't act perfectly every moment you step out of the house, or if one of your old enemies decides to start spreading rumors, Things can start. And the important thing to know about fame is this: if you're in the spotlight at all, once you get accused of anything detrimental, it doesn't stop there. Suddenly, now that it's known that you're a nut or a violent crazy or a pill-popper, every single interaction you ever had with anyone gets revisited to see if there were any clues to your foul nature back when you were better loved. Did you have a headache at someone's house once and need pills? Well, if you're known to be a pill-popper, that's now evidence of your crazy addiction! Your entire life gets to be reinterpreted in the light of this new vision of you. Anything you ever wrote or said will be dredged up and analyzed in light of this new information. Is that interpretation fair? Who cares? It's a good story. And the people who didn't like you bring the knives out, and some of the folks who did kinda like you hear all these rumors back away, thinking maybe they didn't know you all that well, and the people who defend you are mere sockpuppets. Why would they defend you? After all, everyone now knows you're a crazy drug addict - anyone who says otherwise must be deluded, in your pocket. After a while, the rumors start to trump the actual substance. People meet you and they wait eagerly for the slip where you give them the pinball payoff that confirms that "WHOOP! YES, PILL-POPPER!" - now they have a good story they can tell to all their friends. And when you withdraw from public sight because you're tired of people continually scanning you for evidence of a bias you don't think you actually have - then guess what? Now you're a crazy recluse as well. I can envision that very clearly, yes. I'm not saying that Michael Jackson is sane - he wasn't, insofar as I know - but I am saying that one wrong-headed opinion about a sane person released into the wild could push anyone into bizarre circumstances. If you weren't crazy when the accusations started, you will be when it's over. There's a shark tank out there for celebrities, and people loooove to watch crazy celebs falling apart. They don't want to hear that Paris Hilton is getting her act together, they want to see that herpes-infected skank fly apart like a firework on the Fourth of July. And I imagine being here with my wife who's gotten caught up in this net, this strange exaggerating sheen cast upon someone who I think didn't deserve it. I imagine wanting to tell the press the real version of her, the version only I have because I've known her for years and I love her and I see how much this is all hurting her - and when I try to tell the press my story, I'm written off as some PR flack, a whoring leech desperate to protect my sugar daddy's income. Who does matter? The ones who have the negative dirt - all the strangers have the real stories. Doesn't matter how long they've been around or how reliable their knowledge is, all that matters is that they spent a couple of days with my wife, and she said one thing wrong, and boy do they have a kooky story! And that makes headlines, not the thousand ways the person I know shows love. And if my wife, miserable and lonely because she's been fucking walled off from the media, drinks herself to death? I'd be furious, and angry, and I would want the world to know the real her. Not this chew-toy they've been kicking around for the better part of three decades, but the person we knew. The person that we loved for years, tormented by all the folks who'd arbitrarily decided what he was. How could we tell people we were sane, but the world had gone crazy? We couldn't. If I got angry at the press, they'd tear me to shreds for being whiny. After all, when you're with a celebrity, the important thing to remember is that they sought fame. The world knows that they deserve every ounce of scrutiny they've ever gotten, and if you dare to say that maybe people shouldn't have been interested, well, you're just ungrateful and stupid and naive. I'd speak. But would I let my daughter? My daughter, who also knew the wife I loved, who also feels the pain of what I'm going through as keenly as anyone? God, yes. If she wanted, I'd let her say whatever she wanted to that crowd. Because this would be her moment to speak truth to people unfiltered by that toxic media reaction - for a brief time, it'd be her on stage, speaking as she saw fit, telling the world how she thought of her Mom. And if that helped her to get past it, to give her little slice of how she saw her momma, oh God I'd let her talk. Then some stupid fucking media cocksucker would post an article the next day, asking, "Aren't you just using your daughter? Don't you know what a loving family is?" And my answer would be, fuck you. It's people like you who helped put my family in a place where we do things that you can never, ever understand. |
theferrett
|
9:27a |
Clarionniversary, July Wrapup
Stories worked on this month: - "Season to Taste," Second Revision My infamous "gay cannibal rhino" story, which I revised in preparation for workshopping by the ever-vigilant Cajun Sushi Hamsters this Sunday. I think it's got a strong storyline, but I'm equally sure the Hamsters will point out what I think is lacking from it at this stage in revision.
- "Unreal Estate," Third revision. Opening line (one of my better ones) can be found here. Speaking of Hamster crits, this one was generally liked but was confusing thanks to an overly baroque structure - which I cleaned up, telling it in chronological order, and found some core emotional notes that really, really needed to be hit. It made Gini tear up a bit, so I'm countin' it as a win.
- "Pork Pie Wars" (heavily working title). This is my Story Of Doom - I was hoping to finish it before my Clarionniversary, but a) I got sick, and b) I have written the opening five times. This story seems like it should be simple - a kid who stops a long-running (and extremely stupid) war between a pair of rural towns - but I keep starting in the wrong place. Fortunately, Clarion taught me the value of being able to see that it's not the right place, and I am learning a lot about how to structure a story from this... But honestly, I prefer the easy stories that slide out.
- "Sleeping Dreamer" (Heavily working title). A flash fiction (well, sorta - 1,200 words) about a story told from Cthulhu the freedom fighter's point of view. Cute, quick, perhaps too cute and quick. Ending needs mondo work.
June Acceptances: I did get one sale - not a pro sale, but according to Duotrope, it's one of the top 20 most challenging markets in the nation. But that contract hasn't come back to me yet, so I'm gonna hold off on announcing this one. Still, if all goes well you should see it in Spring 2010. Oh, and though it's technically not an acceptance in the spirit I usually mean here - I'm paying for the privilege, after all - I did get accepted to October's Viable Paradise workshop, where I shall be taught by (among others) such Intarwebz illuminaries as John Scalzi, Elizabeth Bear, and the Nielsen Haydens. I've decided that really, I'm a workshop kinda guy - even if the amount I've spent on workshops at this point will take a looong time to make up in actual sales. Right now, I'm treating it like a modified vacation; sure, it's dough, but it's my week away from work. 'Sides, I'm middle-class and middle-aged. I gotta spend my lucre on something aside from Rock Band downloads. It's gonna be awesome. June Rejections: One for "A Window, Clear As A Mirror" (boilerplate), one for "Unreal Estate" (a personal rejection stating that he didn't like afterlife stories), one boilerplate for "In The Land of the Deaf." Hmm. Seems like there should be more, but I do have at least three stories on hold whil they go through a second editorial pass, and I was out of it for a lot of it. Stories In Circulation: "The Backdated Romance," "The Insecure Cyborg,""...At The End Of All Prophecy," "iTime," "Under the Thumb of the Brain Patrol," "Home Despot," "In The Land of the Deaf," "Amanda Rose's Travelling, Earth-Destroying Circus," "The Elderly Cyborg," "A Window, Clear As A Mirror," "What Killed Tyra Herschel?", Currently on hold: "An Excuse To Buy String." Overall... A very tough month due to the surgery - I lost ten days of writing, and then motivation was really hard to find. I have a lot of good ideas, but the stories aren't calling to me the way I want them to. (I really don't feel like I have a choice on which story I work on.) But I'm hackin' away, and looking forward to meeting a bunch of cool folks at VP. It's also a very tough month due to a secret goal I had, but I'll let you know how that went come next month. |
| Wednesday, July 8th, 2009 |
theferrett
|
10:31a |
Secrets, Secrets
It's the usual post when I feel a need for interaction but don't have much to say: Tell me a secret. All comments are, as usual, screened. I will not attempt to guilt you into providing me with secrets by pointing out that there was a 35% chance of me dying two weeks ago, and who would you have told your secret to then? Nossirree, we don't pull that kinda stupidity here at The Watchtower of Destruction. We're cooler than that. No, really. (Seriously, I'm fine.) |
theferrett
|
10:22a |
Announcements And Setch
For those interested, Rock Band Wednesday is on for tonight. Please, drop by and help me rock the artificial house! In other related news, the journal here is undergoing a bit of transformation. Time was, I felt I had to write in it every day just to do the little dance to keep people's attention - and when I wrote quickly, I wrote stuff that I didn't actually like. I have no problem saying things that offend people; I do have problems when what I say, thanks to the haste with which I wrote it, can be interpreted as saying something I actually didn't mean. There's a line there, of course; you have to deal with a small audience for years before you really realize there's no such thing as a bulletproof essay. People are remarkably willing to ignore the actual words on the page in order to bring their own grievances to your writing. These people are idiots, but they do exist. The only way to write something that's even mostly bulletproof from these folks is to write in a philosophy-style method where every thought is dissected thoroughly over seventeen paragraphs, and then it's bulletproof only because the gunmen get so bored that hardly anyone comes to the shooting range. Vibrant writing is writing that can be misinterpreted. No, really. Still, I can - and do - differentiate between people sharpening their own axe and when I misstate something. Everything in this journal is something I should be willing to stand behind, so when the inevitable shitstorm of comments arises (as it will occasionally do), it'll be for a post where I'll be able to say, "Yes, goddammit, that's the truth as I see it, and I will argue it." And to do that, I need to construct better. The more spontaneous stuff will be handled on my Twitter feed, where I can do less damage in 140 characters. But what's here in my journal should be a purer reflection of me, and I'm tired of arguing things I didn't mean to - nor should I - have said. I've been trying this for the past week or so, and have been happy with the results. You may not have even noticed a difference. But it's there. We'll see how it goes. |
glasspinata
|
1:44a |
To my adoring public:
Just in case you were still on the edge of your seat over my eyelid drama, you should know that the twitching finally subsided around Fridayish. And I didn't even have to murder anyone. Hooray! I'm feeling... better. I don't know if "better" is really the right word, since nothing has changed. I guess I'm more at peace with what my life is right now. I'm working on getting the apartment to be clean, as opposed to just kind of letting it exist in a state of controlled chaos. I scrubbed the dirt off of the windowsills today. And I've mostly tamed Jay's epic laundry drifts. ( Cut for pictures! ) Current Mood:  productiveCurrent Music: I-35 |
| Tuesday, July 7th, 2009 |
theferrett
|
8:53a |
A Thought On Health And Happiness
I used to get completely bent out of shape when my nose got stuffed up. If I couldn't breathe freely through my nostrils thanks to a cold or an allergy, I'd feel absolutely miserable. Then, one day, I said to myself: "Self, the problem is that you never remember what it's like to breathe through your nose when you're sick. So the next time you're healthy, take a couple of deep breaths and relish the feeling. That way you'll at least have some strong memory to sense-compare against when it happens." And lo! Now, when I'm feeling good, I'll sometimes just suck in a deep, lovely breath through two perfectly clear nasal canals, and appreciate how wonderful it is to be healthy. It makes me feel absolutely spiffy when I am tip-top. And when I do get stuffed up, at least I can say, "Well, I really took advantage of my nose when I had working usage of it." It makes life a little better. Likewise, now that I've had abdominal surgery, I'm mostly better, but there's still a cost involved in, say, getting up out of the chair or off the bed. It's not as bad as the day after the cutting, when it took five agonizing minutes to shuffle to the bathroom... But still. When I want to get a drink or fetch a book I have this little twinge that says, "Do you need to do this? Are you sure?" Because my shredded gutses will kick up a minor fuss. It'll cost me a squidge of hurt or two to move, now. I've had forty years of just getting up whenever the heck I wanted, treating mobility as a sort of free pass that was just given to me. Now, like my nose, once I've healed I'm going to think, "I can get up and get that damn soda, and it doesn't cause me any pain or injury at all. This is a lovely, lovely thing." Because I really should appreciate the fine way my body works, since I only have about thirty more years of it doing this at best before the opportunity cost of rising settles back in. Might as well take the time to enjoy it while it's here. |
theferrett
|
8:00a |
Word Counts, Word Bits
Every day, on my friends' list, I see the word counts from authors zipping by. "I did 2,800 words today," they chirp brightly, and then another person says, "I kicked 4,400 words out!" I drown in a sea of other people's words while I look at my own pathetic scribbles, and realize that really, I've changed. Before Clarion, I used to have these tremendous writing jags where I could turn out 4,000 words in an hour. I'd sit down at the keyboard and open up my brain, and images would just spill out from my fingers and into Word. If I had the idea and the energy, I could write three stories a week. NaNoWriMo was more like three weeks for 120,000 words. Now? My words come much more slowly. I'm lucky if I can write three stories a month (and usually it's closer to two). I pace back and forth in the basement, muttering to myself like a madman, going, "Okay, what happens next?" I craft sentences slowly, squeezing them out like the last bits of toothpaste. A good day for me is about 1,200 words, and generally I hit 800. Then the next day I wake up, realize I wrote the wrong scene, and have to write it all over again. When I left Clarion, I wondered whether this new inchy-slow pace was just a temporary recuperation period, or the new me. Almost a year later, I think it's who I am. When I wrote fast, I also wrote a lot of cliches, and I wasn't paying attention to the tiny details that make up character. Clarion taught me that I really need to investigate my own writing for honesty, to think about whether this is what this person would actually do in this situation - to rely less on plotting and more on authenticity. And delving deep to find the authenticity in my own imagination creates stories that are so uniquely me some days I worry that they're not salable, but it does take time to scrape those little bits out of m'insides. It's not a bad thing. I remember the days when I ran rampant through the writing-fields, spilling verbiage from my fingertips, and all those words were riotously wrong. I'm closer now. But still, to a certain extent I feel like my Uncle Tommy, handicapped by arthritis, knowing that he used to play crazy baseball and now all he can do is watch the kids whiz by, glove in hand. It's an illusion, though. What matters is that I apply ass to chair, and then hands to keyboard, and spend however much time I need to pouring the words into that document. This pace matters not as much as the final page. |
[ << Previous 25 ]
|
Duress
96 (36.0%)
Deathmark