As I think about it, I will actually probably close this blog down at some point, but for now it's staying up. As I said, though, there's really no reason not to go over to the new site and read things there.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Thursday, July 30, 2015
I've Moved!
I will be leaving this blog up for now, since it's free, but I have decided to try to consolidate my online writery and geekery on my new site, [doughagler.wordpress.com]. I migrated all of my posts from this blog, as well as a couple others that have been floating around out there, so everything here can be found there, plus everything I write going forward.
As I think about it, I will actually probably close this blog down at some point, but for now it's staying up. As I said, though, there's really no reason not to go over to the new site and read things there.
As I think about it, I will actually probably close this blog down at some point, but for now it's staying up. As I said, though, there's really no reason not to go over to the new site and read things there.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
A Shot in the Dark
Let's see if I can write a thing. This seems like as good a venue as any, since at this point posting to this blog is similar to talking to myself. I think the pageviews I get each day - which are very few - are simply the Brownian motion of the Internet. Digital presences bumping into this node, and then wandering away, without an apparent order.
I went to the doctor a little over a month ago because my depression symptoms were getting worse. This was also just before things at work got really bad for about a month (and are not what I would call 'good' now, but I'm still here). I have a superb doctor, and we talked a bit, and she asked how we would know if the new regimen was working? I thought about it - one of the things that happens is that you lose interest in things you otherwise love and enjoy. So I said that a measure we could use is writing. When I'm writing again, that will tell us that the regimen is working.
I'm still not sure that this will count, but I had to try to force something out.
A friend of mine put together a G+ group for writers and game designers who also struggle with depression. It shouldn't be surprising that there would be some significant overlap there. We share a hobby that involves tons of sitting by ourselves and thinking, which is exactly the kind of environment in which depression thrives. Or maybe it's a self-fulfilling prophecy - sitting alone and thinking encourages depression, and then depression encourage sitting alone and thinking. Voila.
I'm at the stage now where it seems that everyone around me is doing well and accomplishing things and growing as persons while I am a sack of garbage slumping my way through a dreary life. That probably sounds over-dramatic, but over-dramatization, or 'catastrophic thinking', is a symptom of depression, so there you go. Subjectively, that is what it is like. The things I do and say seem, to me, like abject failures to achieve anything I want to achieve - so much so that it is pointless to try.
One of the survival methods that I have learned is to try to ignore these intuitions. To trust, somehow, that they are false, or, since I am not good at really trusting, to just move forward as if I trusted. To identify those thoughts as symptoms rather than truths. This is a challenge in a career where my intuitions about other people are very important to how I proceed. I often have to trust my intuitions about other people, to rely and act on them even, and on the other hand ignore my intuitions about myself.
For example, I am so certain I am rambling like an idiot that I actually feel a faint nausea. So I'm just going to hit "Publish" and see how I feel later in the day.
I went to the doctor a little over a month ago because my depression symptoms were getting worse. This was also just before things at work got really bad for about a month (and are not what I would call 'good' now, but I'm still here). I have a superb doctor, and we talked a bit, and she asked how we would know if the new regimen was working? I thought about it - one of the things that happens is that you lose interest in things you otherwise love and enjoy. So I said that a measure we could use is writing. When I'm writing again, that will tell us that the regimen is working.
I'm still not sure that this will count, but I had to try to force something out.
A friend of mine put together a G+ group for writers and game designers who also struggle with depression. It shouldn't be surprising that there would be some significant overlap there. We share a hobby that involves tons of sitting by ourselves and thinking, which is exactly the kind of environment in which depression thrives. Or maybe it's a self-fulfilling prophecy - sitting alone and thinking encourages depression, and then depression encourage sitting alone and thinking. Voila.
I'm at the stage now where it seems that everyone around me is doing well and accomplishing things and growing as persons while I am a sack of garbage slumping my way through a dreary life. That probably sounds over-dramatic, but over-dramatization, or 'catastrophic thinking', is a symptom of depression, so there you go. Subjectively, that is what it is like. The things I do and say seem, to me, like abject failures to achieve anything I want to achieve - so much so that it is pointless to try.
One of the survival methods that I have learned is to try to ignore these intuitions. To trust, somehow, that they are false, or, since I am not good at really trusting, to just move forward as if I trusted. To identify those thoughts as symptoms rather than truths. This is a challenge in a career where my intuitions about other people are very important to how I proceed. I often have to trust my intuitions about other people, to rely and act on them even, and on the other hand ignore my intuitions about myself.
For example, I am so certain I am rambling like an idiot that I actually feel a faint nausea. So I'm just going to hit "Publish" and see how I feel later in the day.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Whose Story Is It?
39,623
As I write my way into this fiction attempt, I've had some time to reflect on my approach - present tense, multiple viewpoints. I think that I was bouncing around, wondering whose story this actually is. One of the characters emerged, and I think this is his story. He's one of the more interesting characters, to me anyway, with lots of internal and external conflicts currently and coming his way. He has interesting relationships with the other main characters, with some nuance and potential conflict there too. He's also one of the few characters I'm sure will survive the story (not all the main characters will).
Looking ahead, I don't think he will be present for every event I have sketched out, and some of the events he won't be present for are a big deal to the story, so I may need a second POV. I'm not sure who that should be.
Writing in first person continues to open up challenges and opportunities. It's odd to be writing fantasy, which always has the artifice of being "once upon a time" to some degree in first person. It is happening both in a legendary then and yet the reader's now. There's no room for things like an imaginary manuscript history for the story, or the idea that a storyteller is setting things down on paper that happened long ago in their own life. It is cinematic, and I'm actually not even sure that this technique plays to what strengths I have as a writer (which in fiction are very few and underdeveloped).
Still, it's worth continuing. This is practice. I am still enjoying writing my way into this story, and I'm approaching 40,000 words without feeling fatigued with it. As long as I continue to learn, it's worth it.
As I write my way into this fiction attempt, I've had some time to reflect on my approach - present tense, multiple viewpoints. I think that I was bouncing around, wondering whose story this actually is. One of the characters emerged, and I think this is his story. He's one of the more interesting characters, to me anyway, with lots of internal and external conflicts currently and coming his way. He has interesting relationships with the other main characters, with some nuance and potential conflict there too. He's also one of the few characters I'm sure will survive the story (not all the main characters will).
Looking ahead, I don't think he will be present for every event I have sketched out, and some of the events he won't be present for are a big deal to the story, so I may need a second POV. I'm not sure who that should be.
Writing in first person continues to open up challenges and opportunities. It's odd to be writing fantasy, which always has the artifice of being "once upon a time" to some degree in first person. It is happening both in a legendary then and yet the reader's now. There's no room for things like an imaginary manuscript history for the story, or the idea that a storyteller is setting things down on paper that happened long ago in their own life. It is cinematic, and I'm actually not even sure that this technique plays to what strengths I have as a writer (which in fiction are very few and underdeveloped).
Still, it's worth continuing. This is practice. I am still enjoying writing my way into this story, and I'm approaching 40,000 words without feeling fatigued with it. As long as I continue to learn, it's worth it.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Weak II
36,135
The weak point? I figured it out. The POV character knew too much. I switched the scene to a character who actually knows the least, and there it is.
Oh, and happy New Year!
The weak point? I figured it out. The POV character knew too much. I switched the scene to a character who actually knows the least, and there it is.
Oh, and happy New Year!
Saturday, December 29, 2012
The Work Behind the Work
I note the current word-count for the main Dragonblade document on these posts, but there are more words that went into the project before I started on the actual narrative. Here is a look at word-counts from my notes and source-documents:
"Alchemy" 191
"Extended Character Notes" 4,298
"World Building" 6,158
"Dragonblade: Book One: Earth - Notes" 3,246
"Dragonblade Story Document" 7,220
Total Prep: 21,113 words
There they are in the order in which I last updated them in Google Docs. I'm going to need to expand some of them, Alchemy especially, in order to move forward. I tend to expand my notes when I hit a wall in writing, to the point where I know how to move forward, and I need to do that soon. I'm only going to count words from the actual manuscript, though. I can't let myself treat preparation as the same as actual writing, particularly since the preparation is by far the easiest part for me.
"Alchemy" 191
"Extended Character Notes" 4,298
"World Building" 6,158
"Dragonblade: Book One: Earth - Notes" 3,246
"Dragonblade Story Document" 7,220
Total Prep: 21,113 words
There they are in the order in which I last updated them in Google Docs. I'm going to need to expand some of them, Alchemy especially, in order to move forward. I tend to expand my notes when I hit a wall in writing, to the point where I know how to move forward, and I need to do that soon. I'm only going to count words from the actual manuscript, though. I can't let myself treat preparation as the same as actual writing, particularly since the preparation is by far the easiest part for me.
Weak
34,474
I just hit a really weak patch - or at least, one that I realized was weak while writing it. I can see that I've sort of set things up to fizzle and not really grab your attention, and what should be a tense out-of-the-frying-pan and into-the-fire scene is already falling flat (and we're barely out of the frying pan).
So the question is: how to handle this? How do you handle it? Do you grind through, produce a crappy chunk, and move on, to later 'fix it in post'? Or kind of skip over it, sketch out what should happen in the scene, and move on to something you can do better?
I decided to do the second - I sketched out the points I wanted to hit in the scene, and am going to move on. In my case, it's too hard looking at that crappy text and just adding to it. It's like continuing to cook burned food. If nothing else, I need to go back and look at how it went wrong, and figure out whether and how I can fix it. But for me, since I am grinding through a first draft, it is important for me to keep on grinding.
I just hit a really weak patch - or at least, one that I realized was weak while writing it. I can see that I've sort of set things up to fizzle and not really grab your attention, and what should be a tense out-of-the-frying-pan and into-the-fire scene is already falling flat (and we're barely out of the frying pan).
So the question is: how to handle this? How do you handle it? Do you grind through, produce a crappy chunk, and move on, to later 'fix it in post'? Or kind of skip over it, sketch out what should happen in the scene, and move on to something you can do better?
I decided to do the second - I sketched out the points I wanted to hit in the scene, and am going to move on. In my case, it's too hard looking at that crappy text and just adding to it. It's like continuing to cook burned food. If nothing else, I need to go back and look at how it went wrong, and figure out whether and how I can fix it. But for me, since I am grinding through a first draft, it is important for me to keep on grinding.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Not Another Damn Katana
Since the story that I am writing is in a fantasy-fied setting based on a mashup of various east and southeast Asian cultures and religions/mythologies, I had an important decision to make. Obviously, in pretty much every setting that has even a sliver of Japanese anything in it, you have the ubiquitous katana making an appearance. This nigh-magical blade, lifted entirely from history of physics, regularly cuts people in half, shears through armor, and is used in various impossible ways as a matter of genre convention.
I have at least one character who very well could be using a katana - he's a katana kind of guy, so to speak. So I had a decision to make. What I ultimately decided is to simply excise the word "katana", and likely even its little brother "wakazashi" from my lexicon of weaponry for this story. Certainly nothing so crass as a "ninjato" would be making an appearance. These are just things that have so much baggage that you have to dig your way out of expectations - like Elf and Dwarf and Wizard in your more traditional European mash-up settings - and I didn't want any of those expectations to be operating, if I could help it.
Fortunately, there is a wealth of terminology for swords, even just looking at Japanese history, apart from the over-utilized "daisho", and I will be drawing from these. I like using the specific terms for the various weapons, for those sword-geeks out there like me who can tell you the difference between a tachi, an odachi and a chokuto.
So far, so good. I'm also intentionally drawing heavily from non-Japanese, non-Chinese sources, so we have some Korean shapeshifters and one dude chopping up his foes with a khanda, not to mention two cultures drawn from the Mahabharata. It's kind of fun, and after all that effort to avoid typing "katana", I hardly wanted to just fall back on presenting a warmed-over Legend of the Five Rings.
I have at least one character who very well could be using a katana - he's a katana kind of guy, so to speak. So I had a decision to make. What I ultimately decided is to simply excise the word "katana", and likely even its little brother "wakazashi" from my lexicon of weaponry for this story. Certainly nothing so crass as a "ninjato" would be making an appearance. These are just things that have so much baggage that you have to dig your way out of expectations - like Elf and Dwarf and Wizard in your more traditional European mash-up settings - and I didn't want any of those expectations to be operating, if I could help it.
Fortunately, there is a wealth of terminology for swords, even just looking at Japanese history, apart from the over-utilized "daisho", and I will be drawing from these. I like using the specific terms for the various weapons, for those sword-geeks out there like me who can tell you the difference between a tachi, an odachi and a chokuto.
So far, so good. I'm also intentionally drawing heavily from non-Japanese, non-Chinese sources, so we have some Korean shapeshifters and one dude chopping up his foes with a khanda, not to mention two cultures drawn from the Mahabharata. It's kind of fun, and after all that effort to avoid typing "katana", I hardly wanted to just fall back on presenting a warmed-over Legend of the Five Rings.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Experimenting
33,365
Because it has been so long since I have attempted any kind of long-form fiction, everything I am doing is like an experiment. How will present-tense turn out? Am I showing and not telling too much, so that it won't make sense what is going on under the surface? Do I jump from point of view to point of view too often? Was that a point of view error?
It's a little daunting, but also freeing. I'm just stupid enough to not know many of the mistakes I am surely making.
Fortunately, I am still very invested in what is going on. Tonight I realized that the characters could have a full-on argument, and reveal their cross purposes, and ultimately make a bad decision about what to do next. I was excited about them getting angry at each other and making the wrong choice. So that's a good sign, I suppose.
There's also this odd sense that, since I have sketched out the whole story, I know that one of them is going to die, and another is going to be horribly injured. As a result, I want those two to be great characters - really good people, so that when horrible things happen to them, it hurts. Also maybe a good sign - of course, no idea whether I can pull any of this off in any meaningful way.
Probably not - that's why this is basically a practice novel.
Because it has been so long since I have attempted any kind of long-form fiction, everything I am doing is like an experiment. How will present-tense turn out? Am I showing and not telling too much, so that it won't make sense what is going on under the surface? Do I jump from point of view to point of view too often? Was that a point of view error?
It's a little daunting, but also freeing. I'm just stupid enough to not know many of the mistakes I am surely making.
Fortunately, I am still very invested in what is going on. Tonight I realized that the characters could have a full-on argument, and reveal their cross purposes, and ultimately make a bad decision about what to do next. I was excited about them getting angry at each other and making the wrong choice. So that's a good sign, I suppose.
There's also this odd sense that, since I have sketched out the whole story, I know that one of them is going to die, and another is going to be horribly injured. As a result, I want those two to be great characters - really good people, so that when horrible things happen to them, it hurts. Also maybe a good sign - of course, no idea whether I can pull any of this off in any meaningful way.
Probably not - that's why this is basically a practice novel.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Present Tense
31543 words, plus four or so hours in the last couple days editing chapters of Never Pray Again.
Just sitting down to write fiction, I find that present tense is what comes without me thinking about it. I'm not sure why this is. As I recall The Hunger Games was in present tense, but it is an unusual choice. In reading and getting advice, I am often told to avoid it, especially as a first-time fiction writer hoping to be published someday. On the other hand, I'm told to go with my gut and develop my own voice.
It may come from running roleplaying games for so long. Everything narrated in a game, either by players or the GM, is in present tense. Action takes place now. It's one of the things about roleplaying games that really engages me - I am not telling a story, I am vicariously living a story.
Maybe that's what I'm going for in fiction - that the reader would more directly live a story. This isn't because past-tense narratives bore me or shunt me out of the moment - quite the opposite. I have many favorite books, and I don' think any of them are present-tense.
I guess it's lucky that I don't have any intention to publish Dragonblade, whatever it turns out to be (novella, novel, series, etc.). Next time, I can try past tense. The present tense just keeps sneaking in, so for now I'm going for it.
Just sitting down to write fiction, I find that present tense is what comes without me thinking about it. I'm not sure why this is. As I recall The Hunger Games was in present tense, but it is an unusual choice. In reading and getting advice, I am often told to avoid it, especially as a first-time fiction writer hoping to be published someday. On the other hand, I'm told to go with my gut and develop my own voice.
It may come from running roleplaying games for so long. Everything narrated in a game, either by players or the GM, is in present tense. Action takes place now. It's one of the things about roleplaying games that really engages me - I am not telling a story, I am vicariously living a story.
Maybe that's what I'm going for in fiction - that the reader would more directly live a story. This isn't because past-tense narratives bore me or shunt me out of the moment - quite the opposite. I have many favorite books, and I don' think any of them are present-tense.
I guess it's lucky that I don't have any intention to publish Dragonblade, whatever it turns out to be (novella, novel, series, etc.). Next time, I can try past tense. The present tense just keeps sneaking in, so for now I'm going for it.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Fiction
I've been trying my hand at some fiction lately, but I find that I am good at starting but terrible at finishing. For the past seven years or so, I have been working daily at nonfiction writing, and I have gotten to the point where I am writing publishable material (at least, according to Chalice Press and Jolly Roger Games). For most of this time, though, the only fiction I've been writing has been for roleplaying games - character backstories and that sort of thing. I love a game that fosters creativity in the group - Heroes of Karia Vitalus is the best example of that I've ever experienced - but beyond that, almost nothing.
I was invited to write for an anthology by friend and fellow writer Sarah Hans, but was not able to actually finish anything worth submitting. I had no quality back-log of stories, so I was starting from scratch, and realized I am just too far from being up to par with regard to fiction.
As a result, I've jumped into a long-form fiction project that has been rattling around in my head for along time. I have been going through boxes, and I actually found notes from years ago for a story somewhat like what I am writing now. The working title is Dragonblade, and I have broken the narrative into six small books, something like the original Lord of the Rings layout. It is sort of like Dragonlance meets Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon meets Avatar: the Last Airbender, only it is not as good as any of those things. I have no intent to publish it - this is the equivalent of hitting the heavy bag. I am seeing whether I can complete something long-form, knowing that it will not be very good, but also knowing that if I want to write stories, I have to write stories.
I just wrote word number 30,000 on the manuscript, not counting a few thousan We'd words of notes, worldbuilding, character sketches and so on. For some reason it is coming easily right now, so I am making sure to set aside time most days to work on it. It still isn't great, but at least it's happening, and I know from hearing other authors talk about it that I will have to write at least a couple un-publishable novels before I can produce my first publishable one.
This blog has been languishing lately, but I thought I'd talk about writing here, when I get the chance and the inspiration. We'll see where this all leads. In the meantime, the toddler is still asleep, so time to write more.
I was invited to write for an anthology by friend and fellow writer Sarah Hans, but was not able to actually finish anything worth submitting. I had no quality back-log of stories, so I was starting from scratch, and realized I am just too far from being up to par with regard to fiction.
As a result, I've jumped into a long-form fiction project that has been rattling around in my head for along time. I have been going through boxes, and I actually found notes from years ago for a story somewhat like what I am writing now. The working title is Dragonblade, and I have broken the narrative into six small books, something like the original Lord of the Rings layout. It is sort of like Dragonlance meets Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon meets Avatar: the Last Airbender, only it is not as good as any of those things. I have no intent to publish it - this is the equivalent of hitting the heavy bag. I am seeing whether I can complete something long-form, knowing that it will not be very good, but also knowing that if I want to write stories, I have to write stories.
I just wrote word number 30,000 on the manuscript, not counting a few thousan We'd words of notes, worldbuilding, character sketches and so on. For some reason it is coming easily right now, so I am making sure to set aside time most days to work on it. It still isn't great, but at least it's happening, and I know from hearing other authors talk about it that I will have to write at least a couple un-publishable novels before I can produce my first publishable one.
This blog has been languishing lately, but I thought I'd talk about writing here, when I get the chance and the inspiration. We'll see where this all leads. In the meantime, the toddler is still asleep, so time to write more.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
An Update, in Lieu of Content
I'm not sure what to do with this blog right now, but I don't want it to die, and I thought I'd post a little update on what I'm doing. Parsec is done (at last!) after a very successful Kickstarter campaign, and I'm proud of the end result. I have heard from some groups that are playing it, and I'm glad to hear it, and I hope many more are that I'm not hearing about.
I still find time to listen to podcasts, mostly when I am relaxing and playing Oblivion (I finished Skyrim first and then went backwards to Oblivion). The ones that I'm most excited to find in my feed are:
Aldasaga (Tolkien and Old Norse) is a special kind of awesome, and started relatively recently. The focus of the podcast is the works of JRR Tolkien and how they draw from Norse myth. In short, they draw from Norse myth more than I'd thought, and so far the podcast is fascinating.
Freakanomics is the only way I can tolerate listening to things about economics. I know I should understand it to be a participant in society and so on, but it's just so...dismal. Freakanomics focuses on the surprising or counter-intuitive aspects of economics, including how the President of the US has almost no impact on the US economy. The topics are presented in a way that is likely to inform and entertain actual human beings.
This American Life is possibly the best podcast, period. It is Ira Glass going through amazing stories that follow a different them for each show. If you want to be moved and amazed, give them an hour and it's almost guaranteed.
WNYC's Radiolab is like This American Life's little brother. Jad and Robert, the hosts, take a theme, but their themes are often related to science, technology and a little bit of philosophy. They approach these topics through stories much the way that TAM does, and like TAM they are consistently excellent.
Writing Excuses is the best podcast on the art, craft and business of writing, period. Each episode is only 15 minutes and they are currently in season 7. If you are a writer, or are interested in writers, then this should be a number one listening priority.
On the other hand, I'm doing a lot of writing, which feels good. Well, I'm doing as much as I can, given that I'm also a stay-at-home dad most days. I have continued to work on Never Pray Again with my Two Friars and a Fool collaborators, though I have taken a break from that. I wrote a ton on it for a few months, and sort of burned myself out until I can see more from Aric and Nick that I can respond to and be inspired by. I am also collaborating on a number of projects: some supplements for Parsec focusing on Mars and the Asteroid Belt, a Victorian Gothic horror game called Clockwork, and a more-than-an-ebook adventure for bySwarm's Dark Golden Age setting. Lastly, Reckoning, our horror rpg, is limping along, mostly neglected because of all of these other things going on.
In addition, I always have a few projects on my many back burners. I've been working on a poetry portfolio, theoretically as part of a possible Master's in Fine Arts program application, and I've been learning that I am terrible at territory. I also have a few games percolating, including Fivefold Qi and still poking around with Heroes of Karia. I am also trying my hand at some fiction: a long-form story called Dragonblade and two short stories, one about a person who hires assassins to kill himself and the other about a superhero sidekick who turns villain. These are for a thematic anthology on sidekicks, and I may not finish them in time but they still interest me to see through.
Is that a lot of writing? Hell yes. And it's awesome, and I want to keep writing as much as I can for as long as I can.
I still find time to listen to podcasts, mostly when I am relaxing and playing Oblivion (I finished Skyrim first and then went backwards to Oblivion). The ones that I'm most excited to find in my feed are:
Aldasaga (Tolkien and Old Norse) is a special kind of awesome, and started relatively recently. The focus of the podcast is the works of JRR Tolkien and how they draw from Norse myth. In short, they draw from Norse myth more than I'd thought, and so far the podcast is fascinating.
Freakanomics is the only way I can tolerate listening to things about economics. I know I should understand it to be a participant in society and so on, but it's just so...dismal. Freakanomics focuses on the surprising or counter-intuitive aspects of economics, including how the President of the US has almost no impact on the US economy. The topics are presented in a way that is likely to inform and entertain actual human beings.
This American Life is possibly the best podcast, period. It is Ira Glass going through amazing stories that follow a different them for each show. If you want to be moved and amazed, give them an hour and it's almost guaranteed.
WNYC's Radiolab is like This American Life's little brother. Jad and Robert, the hosts, take a theme, but their themes are often related to science, technology and a little bit of philosophy. They approach these topics through stories much the way that TAM does, and like TAM they are consistently excellent.
Writing Excuses is the best podcast on the art, craft and business of writing, period. Each episode is only 15 minutes and they are currently in season 7. If you are a writer, or are interested in writers, then this should be a number one listening priority.
On the other hand, I'm doing a lot of writing, which feels good. Well, I'm doing as much as I can, given that I'm also a stay-at-home dad most days. I have continued to work on Never Pray Again with my Two Friars and a Fool collaborators, though I have taken a break from that. I wrote a ton on it for a few months, and sort of burned myself out until I can see more from Aric and Nick that I can respond to and be inspired by. I am also collaborating on a number of projects: some supplements for Parsec focusing on Mars and the Asteroid Belt, a Victorian Gothic horror game called Clockwork, and a more-than-an-ebook adventure for bySwarm's Dark Golden Age setting. Lastly, Reckoning, our horror rpg, is limping along, mostly neglected because of all of these other things going on.
In addition, I always have a few projects on my many back burners. I've been working on a poetry portfolio, theoretically as part of a possible Master's in Fine Arts program application, and I've been learning that I am terrible at territory. I also have a few games percolating, including Fivefold Qi and still poking around with Heroes of Karia. I am also trying my hand at some fiction: a long-form story called Dragonblade and two short stories, one about a person who hires assassins to kill himself and the other about a superhero sidekick who turns villain. These are for a thematic anthology on sidekicks, and I may not finish them in time but they still interest me to see through.
Is that a lot of writing? Hell yes. And it's awesome, and I want to keep writing as much as I can for as long as I can.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Plot, Story, Character, Person
This is a post I put in the comment thread over at Devil in my Dreams. I just thought it was interesting to think about it - I hadn't articulated these things quite this way before. Anyone else do that - figure things out in the moment?
I think that Plot is one step removed, one step into the abstract, away from Story. A Plot is a plan, a schematic, something you can diagram on a dry-erase board.
Same with Character, which is one step abstracted from Person. A Character has attributes you can list - you could fill out a character sheet.
For both Story and Person, though, you can only experience them. They exist as unabstracted as possible. You experience a Person. You experience Story.
I think it's telling that your example is presenting something on a stage - a performance piece exists only as long as the performance exists. A play or a musical performance is like a sand mandala - it is only present for a moment before it is gone. You can record it and replay the recording, but a recording is not the same as a live performance. A photograph of the sand mandala is not the sand mandala.
The Plot is not the Story. The Character is not the Person.
I think that Plot is one step removed, one step into the abstract, away from Story. A Plot is a plan, a schematic, something you can diagram on a dry-erase board.
Same with Character, which is one step abstracted from Person. A Character has attributes you can list - you could fill out a character sheet.
For both Story and Person, though, you can only experience them. They exist as unabstracted as possible. You experience a Person. You experience Story.
I think it's telling that your example is presenting something on a stage - a performance piece exists only as long as the performance exists. A play or a musical performance is like a sand mandala - it is only present for a moment before it is gone. You can record it and replay the recording, but a recording is not the same as a live performance. A photograph of the sand mandala is not the sand mandala.
The Plot is not the Story. The Character is not the Person.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
10,000 Hours
I've been reading Outliers by Malcom Gladwell - a little bit belatedly, since it's been out for a while now, but I'm a slow reader and there you have it.
One of the things that Gladwell talks about is that things like talent and genius don't really exist - or if they do exist, they don't matter all that much. We tend to attribute great success to great talent or great virtue, and Outliers does a great job of demonstrating how success has much more to do with a person's situation than a person's sole capacities. Really, it's a fascinating book, as are all of his books that I've read.
The title of this post mentions 10,000 hours - according to a lot of research in the lives of brilliant, successful people, 10,000 hours is a number that keeps coming up again and again. In brief, it takes 10,000 hours to become a virtuoso, to become good enough at something to have a huge impact through it. The Beatles had their 10,000 hours playing strip clubs in Hamburg; Bill Gates had his 10,000 hours programming by the time he got to college. (Of course, as Gladwell demonstrates, if Gates had been born three years earlier or later, his practice would have mattered much less)
But this idea of 10,000 hours got me thinking - is there anything in my life where there is a chance I'll practice that much? The only thing I've done that much is writing - and I have to say writing in general, rather than, say, fiction or nonfiction. Now, this has to be 10,000 hours of concerted effort to get better at something - so obviously I can't count things like writing letters or writing Facebook posts or things like that. Even most of my blogging probably doesn't count - at most maybe half of it. Time spent working on actual books, stories and poems for publican counts, I think. Editing other people's work counts maybe half. Writing papers for college and graduate school, half at most.
I'm too busy lately to do the math, but I wonder - how close are you to your 10,000 hours? Have you already crossed the line?
As a point of reference, 10,000 hours is full time practice at your art of craft, 40 hours a week, for 5 years straight. With no vacations.
That's a lot...but it's also a powerful number in the lives of some of the most famous people in their fields. It is also measurable, which makes it a nice goal to have in mind.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Hard Reset
Current goings-on in my corner of the world, combined with a question posed by Margaret Weis this morning in Facebook, have combined to get me thinking about the idea of the hard reset. Holding down the power button and counting slowly to ten and then powering back on. The technological nuclear option.
I think about the need, sometimes, to hard-reset a creative project. Margaret Weis's question this morning was about writer's block - when does it happen, what do you do about it, etc. I realized that writer's block happens for me sometimes (often?) because I am avoiding the fact that what I'm doing is going nowhere and a big chunk of work has to be tossed. On a few projects, this has meant completely re-writing the whole thing, starting over essentially from scratch (Epic is definitely one of those, and continues to be). Other times, a project dies on the vine because I am not willing, or ready, to prune as drastically as is required.
Ironically, I have just recently had to hard reset this very blog. It was hacked, and had was registering with Google as spyware. My RSS was spamming and soon. So I migrated, brought my posts over with me, and restarted. I have no idea if this will work out - we'll see.
I'm part of a number of institutions, one of which is the Presbyterian Church (USA). I honestly believe that this institution, if it is to return to functionality and meaning, is going to have to hard reset. One good example - of the students who graduate from seminary (which is graduate school for ministers), only 20% of them have any hope of getting a job in the thing for which they just spent tens of thousands of dollars and 4+ years training. There are only jobs accepting first-time pastors for 20% of the people looking for those jobs each year.
Life is kind of a roller-coaster sometimes. Imagine if a roller-coaster cost $40,000, not counting cost of living (you still had to pay rent and get groceries while in line), and the line lasted 4 years, and then once you got on, there was a 80% chance the ride would break down.
We would rightly shut down that roller-coaster, fire everyone involved in building it, and apologize to everyone who has ever ridden on that disaster.
For those following along at home, the roller-coaster is the PC(USA) ordination system, and among other things in the denomination, it is time for a hard reboot.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Theme is Burial
So much has been going on lately - a possible book deal with Chalice Press; three or four other book ideas with my collaborators over at Two Friars and a Fool; helping friends with a Vampire the Masquerade LARP for GenCon this year; a rough draft of the character sheet for Parsec; continuing work on a rough draft of Reckoning; and that on top of everything else.
Hence the longer-than-usual languishing of this blog.
There's a lot of writing inside me, and it is coming out like one of those old-school lawn sprinklers - in multiple streams and all over the freaking place. That being said, if I didn't enjoy it, it would be the easiest thing in the world to just...stop.
But that won't happen.
I'll be at Origins this year for at least two days - Friday and Saturday. I want to make sure I get a good look at the dealer floor, maybe try to awkwardly schmooze with people, and also check out the art room, since that was awesome last year. Also, you know, Columbus is no slouch as cities go. I wish I had more time to prep and run a game, but honestly we need a final character sheet for both Parsec and Reckoning before I want to do a full-on convention demo. I feel like, especially for a convention game where people are paying to play, there should be a baseline of quality, and we're not quite there yet. It's one thing to hand friends something you laid out yourself in Microsoft Word three years ago. It's quite another thing to do that with strangers who you want to turn into fans, you know?
Hence the longer-than-usual languishing of this blog.
There's a lot of writing inside me, and it is coming out like one of those old-school lawn sprinklers - in multiple streams and all over the freaking place. That being said, if I didn't enjoy it, it would be the easiest thing in the world to just...stop.
But that won't happen.
I'll be at Origins this year for at least two days - Friday and Saturday. I want to make sure I get a good look at the dealer floor, maybe try to awkwardly schmooze with people, and also check out the art room, since that was awesome last year. Also, you know, Columbus is no slouch as cities go. I wish I had more time to prep and run a game, but honestly we need a final character sheet for both Parsec and Reckoning before I want to do a full-on convention demo. I feel like, especially for a convention game where people are paying to play, there should be a baseline of quality, and we're not quite there yet. It's one thing to hand friends something you laid out yourself in Microsoft Word three years ago. It's quite another thing to do that with strangers who you want to turn into fans, you know?
Friday, April 29, 2011
What Would It Look Like...?
What would it look like if I got my shit together?
I have what seems like a relatively common problem - I care about too much. I want to do too much. As a result of the overload in my life, I'm either working all the time on various projects, or wasting time and trying not to think about all the things I'm not doing. The switch is on or off.
Periodically, I even finish things. Over a year ago, I finished the final draft of Parsec, and we're now working on getting it up on Kickstarter. I finished what I think is an excellent resource on the issue of the ordination of sexual minorities. Every week I finish a sermon and other stuff for worship, as well as the many other things that I do for work. I finished editing the first five chapters of a friend's novel as well as editing the system chapter of a friend's roleplaying game. I'm collaborating with two colleagues on a new website, including weekly video posts and building up a Twitter and Facebook audience.
Typing things like that makes me feel a little better about the whole situation, but I don't even want to start listing the unfinished projects - even if I limited myself to only listing ones that I'd spent, say, a hundred hours or more working on. There are - Way. Too. Many.
If I was inclined to triage well and to discipline myself, this wouldn't be a lingering problem. I have yet to figure it out.
I imagine that the answer is to say no, to say goodbye, to projects that I really care about, but which I don't have the insight or time to bring to fruition.
I really don't want that answer. Which means it is probably the right one.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Glimmer: Orphan - start on a rough draft
The season comes at last, and with it, the monsoon clouds. They sweep in from the southeast, rolling over the broad green Empire, the mangrove coastline, the terraced fields, the steep green hills and mountains, into the hinterlands, unloading torrents of warm rain as they go. Life slows; animals are brought in from the fields and mud chokes the paths and roads. Rivers swell and overrun their banks, depositing thick alluvial soil on fields, clogging irrigation ditches and drowning crops that are not prepared, or were planted late.
The rains always come - and with them, the monks.
Sliding and wallowing along choked roads, the wagons rumble down from the monastery. Each is pulled by two buffalo; driven by a family that has had this job for generations. In each is a monk, hidden from the weather by an lacquered wood awning, seated next to the driver, face serene. Despite the awning providing shelter over the seat, their robes, like everything during the monsoon season, are soaked and heavy about them. They travel to the orphanages that lie on the outskirts of the larger towns in the province, purchasing children.
**
Glimmer stands, his feet already soaked by a falling sheet or water running off the dormitory roof above him. Across the courtyard of the orphanage compound, he can barely make out the girls standing in front of their own dormitory, obscured by a similar sheet of water. The rain is ten thousand tiny hands pounding on the tiles above him, day and night, as it always is in this season. Weeks without sunlight have left the land both soaked and cold, but Glimmer knows better than to shiver where Mother can see him.
Mother is not his mother, of course - she is the headmistress of this orphanage, a member of an obscure sect of priestesses who have this calling and, if Mother is any indication, do not enjoy it. There are times when she and her novices, two younger women, endeavor to teach the precepts of their faith to the children. Glimmer does not understand any more than the other boys his age, but they know that if they listen quietly, they are fed.
He knows the wagon is approaching the courtyard because he hears the sudden lowing sound of a buffalo who has had enough of the rain. The only animals near the orphanage are chickens and a few pigs - hearing the buffalo’s voice sends a thrill through his body.
He hears its hooves striking the cobbles, obscured under a layer of mud, as it enters the courtyard. He sees them splash with each step, and one of the buffalo tosses its enormous head, snorting in the torrent, and shakes down the length of it’s body, shedding water which is immediately replaced.
The look of awe he feels on his face is mirrored by the boys around him. What a wonder! Its shoulders would loom over him if he dared to come close to it; its horns would easily be the length of his arm if they were not sadly cut off just over its ears.
And behind the buffalo comes the wagon. It is enormous - so large it barely fits through the large double doors of the compound, flung open before dawn in preparation. Its wheels are as tall as Glimmer and studded with metal - the gleam is barely visible beneath layers of mud. He sees a man sitting, holding the reigns of the pair of buffalo, his face obscured beneath a broad hat. Seated next to him is a figure Glimmer knows to be a Temple monk, layered robes plum and grey in color, her bald head gleaming like an egg. Clinging to the side of the wagon is an older boy, seated on a small wooden seat and soaked to the bone from the rain. As the wagon slows to a stop, he leaps down and fetches a stool from a shelf under the wagon and runs around to the side the monk is on, placing the stool on the swimming courtyard stones and producing a lacquered wood umbrella which he pushes open and holds out, as high as he can.
The monk leans down from her seat and climbs slowly and nimbly down. Still, the time between the awning over her seat and coming under the umbrella is enough to soak her anew. As she comes around the buffalo toward the boy’s dormitory, Glimmer stands straighter. He puffs out his chest even though beneath it he feels his heart pounding so quick and sharp it is like applause. He squares his shoulders the way he has seen soldiers do from a distance. He is not tall for his age, but it helps.
He feels Mother’s hand come down on his shoulder, surprisingly gentle. The monk’s eyes meet his. There is a moment, like a flash of lightening, when he feels he may faint, but his vision clears and he is still standing. The monk, umbrella still held over her head by the soaked older boy, is suddenly in front of him, looking him up and down.
Mother speaks up - her voice cracks slightly. “This is the one - his name is Glimmer.”
The monk stares into his eyes and he looks down after only a moment. “He is small.”
Glimmer feels Mother’s hand tense on his shoulder like a bird’s claw. “This is the boy. He is the one. He’s - “
“Very well.” The monk leans down - she smells like something Glimmer has never smelled before, a mixture of otherworldly spices. She smells like mystery. “Boy.” His eyes rise again to meet hers. Mother’s claw on his shoulder tenses to the point of being painful, and he suddenly remembers to bow, deep and low, like he practiced. “Boy. My name is Sister Grey Sky. Do you know why I am here?”
He tries to say something, still facing down in his bow.
“You mumble. Speak clearly.”
He glances up at her. “You are...a monk. You are here to take me to the Emperor.”
She shocks Glimmer by laughing at him. “No, boy, I am not taking you to the Emperor. You have been chosen to serve the Emperor. You are going to be his tool, to wield how he chooses for the betterment of all. From amongst the other orphan boys,” - she gestures around him to the only family he has ever known - “you were chosen.” She places a hand under his chin and firmly pulls him up out of his bow. “I am taking you to a place where you will learn to serve the Emperor, with other boys and girls. You will never come back here. I hope you have said goodbye.”
Mother takes this moment to speak up again, addressing the silent gathering of orphan boys around her. “The Emperor is our Father - he is Father to all of us, and he will be Father to Glimmer now. It is an honor for Glimmer to be chosen. Next year, another of you will be chosen to follow him and learn to serve the Emperor.”
The monk glances at Mother. “Even so.”
She turns to walk back to the wagon, and Glimmer realizes he is supposed to follow, rushing to catch up, and then at her hard glance, falling back a few paces, remembering his place. A monk! They are like soldiers - he has only seen them from a distance, along the road, while doing chores outside the compound, in their small fields or among the few animals. Always in the colors of dusk, always shorn of all hair, traveling in small groups or alone. His head fills with every story he’s heard of their magical powers - that their robes let them fly like birds, that the are as strong as ten men, that they can read your thoughts the way that a sage reads written characters.
None of these powers are apparent as Glimmer follows the monk to the wagon. He steals a moment to glance back - Mother stands with the other orphan boys, still as a grey statue. Like the rest, Glimmer was warned not to wave or to squirm to speak unless spoken to. He cannot see if any of the others dare wave through the sheets of rain that separate them. They are faceless, then formless, then gone.
He knows how proud he should be, but tears are hot on his face, mixing with the rain.
The monk - Sister Grey Sky she said her name was - leads him around to the back of the wagon. Glimmer glances back at the driver’s bench, confused, but the monk continues, the parasol still held over her head by the older boy, and takes a ring of keys out of her robes. There is a heavy iron lock on the rear doors of the wagon, and she unlatches it with a loud, sharp sound and swings one side open.
Inside are children. At least a dozen - it is hard to see in the muted morning light. The ones near the door shy back, pressing against the others, shielding their eyes from what is to them sudden brightness.
Glimmer’s feet feel rooted in place. He glances back at the boy’s dormitory, and can barely make out the shapes of the other orphans through the rain, filing back into the building. It will be breakfast soon, vegetables and clumpy rice, and then chores, and then lessons. Just like every day, until they are old enough to be sent on to find work in one of the nearby towns.
He takes a step back, but is stopped again by Sister Grey Sky’s heavy gaze falling on him. They stare at each other for what seems like an eternity before, sighing angrily, she thrusts out a hand and grasps Glimmer by the front of his smock and pulls him toward the crowded wagon.
She leans down and speaks in his ear, her voice like a raincloud. “This is not your home. You belong to the Emperor now, mind, life and limb. You are his.” She holds his gaze, and he sees there the utter certainty of what she is saying. “Get in.”
Blinking back fresh tears, he climbs into the back of the wagon. It is dark, crowded, and smells like sick and unwashed bodies. Someone in the back, far from the door, is coughing continually. He shuffles awkwardly until he finds a place to sit, pressed between a larger boy and a girl who looks to be about his age.
The monk speaks to the children in the wagon. “We’ll eat when we stop at midday.” She closes the rear door, and Glimmer hears the key in the heavy iron lock again.
***
The rains always come - and with them, the monks.
Sliding and wallowing along choked roads, the wagons rumble down from the monastery. Each is pulled by two buffalo; driven by a family that has had this job for generations. In each is a monk, hidden from the weather by an lacquered wood awning, seated next to the driver, face serene. Despite the awning providing shelter over the seat, their robes, like everything during the monsoon season, are soaked and heavy about them. They travel to the orphanages that lie on the outskirts of the larger towns in the province, purchasing children.
**
Glimmer stands, his feet already soaked by a falling sheet or water running off the dormitory roof above him. Across the courtyard of the orphanage compound, he can barely make out the girls standing in front of their own dormitory, obscured by a similar sheet of water. The rain is ten thousand tiny hands pounding on the tiles above him, day and night, as it always is in this season. Weeks without sunlight have left the land both soaked and cold, but Glimmer knows better than to shiver where Mother can see him.
Mother is not his mother, of course - she is the headmistress of this orphanage, a member of an obscure sect of priestesses who have this calling and, if Mother is any indication, do not enjoy it. There are times when she and her novices, two younger women, endeavor to teach the precepts of their faith to the children. Glimmer does not understand any more than the other boys his age, but they know that if they listen quietly, they are fed.
He knows the wagon is approaching the courtyard because he hears the sudden lowing sound of a buffalo who has had enough of the rain. The only animals near the orphanage are chickens and a few pigs - hearing the buffalo’s voice sends a thrill through his body.
He hears its hooves striking the cobbles, obscured under a layer of mud, as it enters the courtyard. He sees them splash with each step, and one of the buffalo tosses its enormous head, snorting in the torrent, and shakes down the length of it’s body, shedding water which is immediately replaced.
The look of awe he feels on his face is mirrored by the boys around him. What a wonder! Its shoulders would loom over him if he dared to come close to it; its horns would easily be the length of his arm if they were not sadly cut off just over its ears.
And behind the buffalo comes the wagon. It is enormous - so large it barely fits through the large double doors of the compound, flung open before dawn in preparation. Its wheels are as tall as Glimmer and studded with metal - the gleam is barely visible beneath layers of mud. He sees a man sitting, holding the reigns of the pair of buffalo, his face obscured beneath a broad hat. Seated next to him is a figure Glimmer knows to be a Temple monk, layered robes plum and grey in color, her bald head gleaming like an egg. Clinging to the side of the wagon is an older boy, seated on a small wooden seat and soaked to the bone from the rain. As the wagon slows to a stop, he leaps down and fetches a stool from a shelf under the wagon and runs around to the side the monk is on, placing the stool on the swimming courtyard stones and producing a lacquered wood umbrella which he pushes open and holds out, as high as he can.
The monk leans down from her seat and climbs slowly and nimbly down. Still, the time between the awning over her seat and coming under the umbrella is enough to soak her anew. As she comes around the buffalo toward the boy’s dormitory, Glimmer stands straighter. He puffs out his chest even though beneath it he feels his heart pounding so quick and sharp it is like applause. He squares his shoulders the way he has seen soldiers do from a distance. He is not tall for his age, but it helps.
He feels Mother’s hand come down on his shoulder, surprisingly gentle. The monk’s eyes meet his. There is a moment, like a flash of lightening, when he feels he may faint, but his vision clears and he is still standing. The monk, umbrella still held over her head by the soaked older boy, is suddenly in front of him, looking him up and down.
Mother speaks up - her voice cracks slightly. “This is the one - his name is Glimmer.”
The monk stares into his eyes and he looks down after only a moment. “He is small.”
Glimmer feels Mother’s hand tense on his shoulder like a bird’s claw. “This is the boy. He is the one. He’s - “
“Very well.” The monk leans down - she smells like something Glimmer has never smelled before, a mixture of otherworldly spices. She smells like mystery. “Boy.” His eyes rise again to meet hers. Mother’s claw on his shoulder tenses to the point of being painful, and he suddenly remembers to bow, deep and low, like he practiced. “Boy. My name is Sister Grey Sky. Do you know why I am here?”
He tries to say something, still facing down in his bow.
“You mumble. Speak clearly.”
He glances up at her. “You are...a monk. You are here to take me to the Emperor.”
She shocks Glimmer by laughing at him. “No, boy, I am not taking you to the Emperor. You have been chosen to serve the Emperor. You are going to be his tool, to wield how he chooses for the betterment of all. From amongst the other orphan boys,” - she gestures around him to the only family he has ever known - “you were chosen.” She places a hand under his chin and firmly pulls him up out of his bow. “I am taking you to a place where you will learn to serve the Emperor, with other boys and girls. You will never come back here. I hope you have said goodbye.”
Mother takes this moment to speak up again, addressing the silent gathering of orphan boys around her. “The Emperor is our Father - he is Father to all of us, and he will be Father to Glimmer now. It is an honor for Glimmer to be chosen. Next year, another of you will be chosen to follow him and learn to serve the Emperor.”
The monk glances at Mother. “Even so.”
She turns to walk back to the wagon, and Glimmer realizes he is supposed to follow, rushing to catch up, and then at her hard glance, falling back a few paces, remembering his place. A monk! They are like soldiers - he has only seen them from a distance, along the road, while doing chores outside the compound, in their small fields or among the few animals. Always in the colors of dusk, always shorn of all hair, traveling in small groups or alone. His head fills with every story he’s heard of their magical powers - that their robes let them fly like birds, that the are as strong as ten men, that they can read your thoughts the way that a sage reads written characters.
None of these powers are apparent as Glimmer follows the monk to the wagon. He steals a moment to glance back - Mother stands with the other orphan boys, still as a grey statue. Like the rest, Glimmer was warned not to wave or to squirm to speak unless spoken to. He cannot see if any of the others dare wave through the sheets of rain that separate them. They are faceless, then formless, then gone.
He knows how proud he should be, but tears are hot on his face, mixing with the rain.
The monk - Sister Grey Sky she said her name was - leads him around to the back of the wagon. Glimmer glances back at the driver’s bench, confused, but the monk continues, the parasol still held over her head by the older boy, and takes a ring of keys out of her robes. There is a heavy iron lock on the rear doors of the wagon, and she unlatches it with a loud, sharp sound and swings one side open.
Inside are children. At least a dozen - it is hard to see in the muted morning light. The ones near the door shy back, pressing against the others, shielding their eyes from what is to them sudden brightness.
Glimmer’s feet feel rooted in place. He glances back at the boy’s dormitory, and can barely make out the shapes of the other orphans through the rain, filing back into the building. It will be breakfast soon, vegetables and clumpy rice, and then chores, and then lessons. Just like every day, until they are old enough to be sent on to find work in one of the nearby towns.
He takes a step back, but is stopped again by Sister Grey Sky’s heavy gaze falling on him. They stare at each other for what seems like an eternity before, sighing angrily, she thrusts out a hand and grasps Glimmer by the front of his smock and pulls him toward the crowded wagon.
She leans down and speaks in his ear, her voice like a raincloud. “This is not your home. You belong to the Emperor now, mind, life and limb. You are his.” She holds his gaze, and he sees there the utter certainty of what she is saying. “Get in.”
Blinking back fresh tears, he climbs into the back of the wagon. It is dark, crowded, and smells like sick and unwashed bodies. Someone in the back, far from the door, is coughing continually. He shuffles awkwardly until he finds a place to sit, pressed between a larger boy and a girl who looks to be about his age.
The monk speaks to the children in the wagon. “We’ll eat when we stop at midday.” She closes the rear door, and Glimmer hears the key in the heavy iron lock again.
***
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
2010 NaNoWriMo Reflection
I didn't finish. I didn't "win" this year. Not by a long shot. I got to about 12,000 words and that was as good as I could do.
I can think of a number of reasons that I failed this year. I had an idea for a story that was already derivative - it was an adaptation of someone else's setting. Not really fanfic, but derivative enough that I couldn't send it off to publishers in the form it was taking.
It's also possible that I'm simply not a novelist, not a long-form storyteller. I don't doubt that I'm a storyteller, I just seem to have trouble with novel-length stories. When I won a few years ago, it was with a story that I thought was pretty cool. I put this huge amount of November work into it, but then when NaNo was done, I dropped it entirely. I didn't have the motivation to go back and edit the story.
Is that I'm not a novel writer, or is it that I haven't found the right novel to write? I don't have any question about whether I am a writer - I write lots of things, not just this blog, and I do a pretty good job of it. I just wonder whether novels are my thing; will ever be my thing. I love reading them - there's that at least.
Next year, I'll try it again. We'll see. Might just be a matter of a lot of attempts.
Big, big congratulations to everyone who won this year. See you all next year when I start again with page 1, word 1.
I can think of a number of reasons that I failed this year. I had an idea for a story that was already derivative - it was an adaptation of someone else's setting. Not really fanfic, but derivative enough that I couldn't send it off to publishers in the form it was taking.
It's also possible that I'm simply not a novelist, not a long-form storyteller. I don't doubt that I'm a storyteller, I just seem to have trouble with novel-length stories. When I won a few years ago, it was with a story that I thought was pretty cool. I put this huge amount of November work into it, but then when NaNo was done, I dropped it entirely. I didn't have the motivation to go back and edit the story.
Is that I'm not a novel writer, or is it that I haven't found the right novel to write? I don't have any question about whether I am a writer - I write lots of things, not just this blog, and I do a pretty good job of it. I just wonder whether novels are my thing; will ever be my thing. I love reading them - there's that at least.
Next year, I'll try it again. We'll see. Might just be a matter of a lot of attempts.
Big, big congratulations to everyone who won this year. See you all next year when I start again with page 1, word 1.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Parsec and Lessons Learned
Just like with any threshold crossed, I've been working out what I've learned from the whole process, what I can take with me as I move forward to other projects and future goals. A few things come to mind.
There is no substitute for time
Writing this book took a LONG time. I started playtesting it about 2 years ago. Now, granted, during the time I was working on this book I was also going to graduate school and simultaneously working multiple jobs on the side. I worked 80 hours a week at a hospital for a year. Then at one point I technically had 6 jobs at once. So it wasn't exactly a picnic time in my life either. But still. I have a much more realistic view of how long it takes to put together something with as many moving parts as a roleplaying game: approximately 6 times as long as I expect.
I cannot playtest too much
I actually only ran 3 or maybe 4 playtests of Parsec. I had a few people read through it and give me feedback, and I went through it very carefully many times, but playtesting was kind of a challenge to put together. Fortunately, Parsec is, underneath it all, a pretty simple game. It is a combination of things I know work from other kinds of games combined with a few things I tested in the playtests I did run to see how they turned out - things like the Initiative, zero-G combat, and Scars. Otherwise, it's a dice-pool task-resolution system most of the time - it's just the system that I've always wanted for simulationist hard science fiction. For other more innovative designs that aren't built on a dice-pool/task resolution skeleton, I know I'll have to find a way to playtest even more.
Do I want to publish, or be published?
This is a good question put forward in one of the Accidental Survivors' Collateral podcasts, and it was good food for thought in light of my recent experience with Parsec. I guess my pipe dream is to be published, but to have creative control over the entire project. Good luck with that, Doug. Instead the question is creative control OR being published by someone else. Do all the work myself, or give up some of the creative control to someone else.
That's a hard choice. Are there companies that will just put something out, unchanged but under their imprint? Maybe. That still leaves me either learning layout or hiring someone to do it; either becoming an artist or finding, recruiting and paying them.
Self-publishing is probably something I can do - but can I do it well enough, on top of everything else I have to do well (as a solo pastor, that's everything), to justify not finding and hiring someone who can do it a lot better?
I heart collaborators
Yup, that's about it. Parsec was 98% designed in a vacuum. The feedback I got from playtesting helped, but as I noted above, I didn't playtest as much as I'd like to in the future. Other feedback I got was on the writing itself, from people who are more familiar with other kinds of writing and not specifically writing gaming systems - really helpful, but not exact.
I feel like in an hour with a couple people I can hash out more good ideas than in a month by myself - maybe it's just how I work. The price paid for collaborating, though, is that things can also go a lot slower between bursts of inspiration and creativity. And yeah, sometimes you hit a snag where you just don't agree, and it's hard to see how to move forward then. Also, people can be unreliable, myself included. But there's always the chance that I get left holding the bag for a big project when collaborators find they are no longer interested. I find I have a hard time letting go, even 7 years later.
***
Well, regardless, Parsec is out, for sale at what I think is a good price-point for what it is. I come away from it a little wiser and more experienced, a bit proud and also thinking of how I can do better next time. There was nothing about the experience that makes me want to do it less, so here we go - I'm already waist-deep in the next few projects...
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Writing Well and the Art of Forgetting
The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan talks about, among other things, the importance of forgetting. We don't usually think of it this way, but forgetting is almost as important as remembering for our psychology and survival. Would you really want to remember, in detail, every single commute you ever make? Every single meal you eat? Every word you hear someone else say? Every word you read?
Forgetting is adaptive. It is the process of editing the overwhelming flood of sensory information that comes at us every moment of every day, so that it is refined down to something manageable, something that won't break our brains.
I've been editing a lot myself lately, and it made me think about how forgetting is like editing our writing. We must slow the flood of everything I want to tell you about my fascinating characters, my wondrous setting. Essentially 'forgetting' selectively until what you have left over is meaningful and beautiful and elegant - and by necessity, profoundly incomplete.
It's amazing to me that even a profoundly abbreviated expression - a snippet of poetry, a single photograph, a cartoon - can feel so complete. Through selectively 'forgetting', editing, whittling down, we come up with something that is not merely a placeholder for a more full experience. It is itself a better expression than the full experience might have been. It is evocative rather than discursive. It is beautiful rather than thorough.
Forgetting is adaptive. It is the process of editing the overwhelming flood of sensory information that comes at us every moment of every day, so that it is refined down to something manageable, something that won't break our brains.
I've been editing a lot myself lately, and it made me think about how forgetting is like editing our writing. We must slow the flood of everything I want to tell you about my fascinating characters, my wondrous setting. Essentially 'forgetting' selectively until what you have left over is meaningful and beautiful and elegant - and by necessity, profoundly incomplete.
It's amazing to me that even a profoundly abbreviated expression - a snippet of poetry, a single photograph, a cartoon - can feel so complete. Through selectively 'forgetting', editing, whittling down, we come up with something that is not merely a placeholder for a more full experience. It is itself a better expression than the full experience might have been. It is evocative rather than discursive. It is beautiful rather than thorough.
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