The Lair of the Grammar Fairy

Day 20

2008-07-15T18:20:00.003+02:00

I spent three hours yesterday writing a political rebuttal of a rabid Ron Paul Supporter. Ironically enough not about Ron Paul's policy, which I know nothing about. It focused on more basic things. Like, the difference between socialism and communism (you know you've got an idiot on your hands, regardless of their political flavour when they can't make that distinction) and the use of a dictionary. I'm not posting it but it damn well was fucking creative.

Anyway, I'm pretty much done with Chapter One, sans editing. So my thoughts are turning to chapter two, I'm not sure if I will stay with Sam and Keir for another chapter or dive in the next big thing, which is introducing the third character, and establish roughly 1/3 of the plot. Not at all intimidating. Knowing me I'll probably end up doing both somehow. My problem is that I have a lot of fragmentary visions of what I want, but very little plot-wise. I know what kind of impression I want to make, what feelings I want to evoke, what scenery I want. I just don't really know what's going to happen. It's frustrating. I'm thinking that possibly I need to do some research, I'm just not sure on what. I have research lined up, in a way. I have a book I want to buy, but I can't get it in Sweden and I'd rather wait till I got back to the US to order it to avoid the duty fees (fuck you, EU). When I get back to college I'm going to be studying the New Testament in one of my classes, which will bring a lot of needed inspiration and source material.

However, until then, what do I do? It's kind of hazardous to set a story in the UK when I hardly know anything about it, I don't know where to start. So frustrating.

Oh, and uh, hopefully I'll get back with some actual writing done later tonight.

Day 17

2008-07-12T01:07:00.002+02:00

I slumped out again. I finally decided to post it for critique. I really feel that if I want to continue on that story I need some feedback and need to do some editing before continuing. I know I know, in the meantime I could write other stuff, it just hasn't turned out that way. We'll see what happens.

Day 15

2008-07-09T23:51:00.002+02:00

It's not much, but I got something written. I'm kind of floundering right now on where to go next. I really want to get on with the editing, but I'm reluctant because I want to get as much writing done as possible for the 30 days. On the other hand I'm not sure I can move on properly without some feedback on all the stuff I've written. We'll see what I do I suppose.

***

There was a heavy groan of frustration. "Is it midnight?"
"Close enough."
"Fine" Sam emerged with all the usual elegance of the grumpy and sleep-deprived. "I'll take it from here."
"Sam," Keir begun, concerned, "there was just one."
Sam frowned at him. "How'd it look?"
"Just like a human with a funny suit."
"You must have missed the others. Troopers don't travel alone."
"Maybe," Keir shrugged uncomfortably, he didn't care much for the Good People, not that anyone did, but when they didn't behave as they ought to behave, that was worrisome. "It made sure I saw it, and that I knew it saw me too."
Sam crossed her arms and looked to be thinking. "It didn't try to force through, and yet it behaved exceedingly bold."
"So what does that mean?"
"It means they are right pissed we swiped that book and expecting us to leave it behind in the morning if we want to live, I assume." Sam shrugged, "Or something to that effect."
Keir looked at her doubtfully, it was difficult to tell what she was thinking when he couldn't see her face properly. "You're not suggesting we do that, I hope, it could fetch a pretty price."
Sam bent down and fished her gun belt out of the tent opening. "I would if I thought that would be the end of it. However, the Old Ones were never big on fair play, and famously tetchy about their secret stuff. I'll wake you in the morning."

***

I'm also beginning to suffer from some mild paranoia that this all actually sucks really, really bad. Some decent critique would let me know how it is if nothing else.

Day 14

2008-07-09T00:29:00.003+02:00

I wrote two critique's for Megaduck's Deepwater Black. And before you say anything Shut UP. It is too creative writing! It's the only thing that's going to happen today. However, I feel as if I'm on my way out of my slump. Hopefully tomorrow.

Day 13 - The Emos, they LIE!

2008-07-07T23:48:00.002+02:00

Angst is the worst muse ever. It doesn't even inspire crappy poetry, it just sort of clogs your brain up with something black and sluggish. I'm not going to rant about my personal problems. I am however displeased with how they're affecting my creative streak. I was on a roll, sort of. I managed to finish the first draft of chapter one and then I mentally sat down and said "whew!"

The problem is I needed to keep going, but I felt sort of finished, and then some things happened and now the last thing I want to do is write. Mostly I want to whine, to be truthful. That and eat chocolate. I can't even live under the pretence that I'm in a deep philosophical anguish, if I was under that particular delusion I'd be drinking whisky and smoking pipe. It's just self-pity all the way and it irks me, a lot. I'll get back to this when I get back I guess.

Day 11

2008-07-05T12:42:00.002+02:00

I missed posting yesterday, but I wrote this:

My time stuck in my first watch
My spring stuck in my first pair of shoes
My words dry in my first pen
My first pen - I won't find it again

My first kiss lost to your lips
I lost my head, but if you drowned in me
It must mean you're dead.
You're dead, I'm alive.

***

I was never a poetry kind of person. I don't think that means much more than that I never spent much effort on it once I got past my emo poetry-writing years, I often wish I was better at it. Hopefully I'll find the incentive to work more on it. As for this, it sounds emo as hell to me, it probably is. It's mostly a brain fart and bear no relation to anything actually going on in my life, I'm just trying to play around with words and see if I can do what all good poets do: Express old thoughts with new words. Old truths with new angles.

Today's (Day 12) actual entry should hopefully appear later in the day.

Day 10

2008-07-03T23:58:00.002+02:00

There will be no entry today. RL-stuff again. My brother came home from his backpacking trip in Asia, I haven't seen him since I left to go study in the US, so me and my dad picked him up at the airport, then we made dinner together and all four of us talked. Also, he brought us presents~

Day 9

2008-07-03T00:17:00.005+02:00

Sleeping on things totally work sometimes. I just had to spend some time thinking and visualising what I thought the scene would be like. And now, I think I'm finished with the first draft of chapter one! I am very excited. And hungry. I might reward myself with honey melon.

Anyway, for what it's worth, here it is.

***

"So, are you looking for anything specific?" Sam finally asked. Keir knew what she was thinking. This wasn't a quick and solid profit like the meds, and he wasn't about to argue the point. The odds weren't stacked for them to find something, and they couldn't bring even a fraction of the material that surrounded them back, they couldn't even look at a fraction of the material. He wasn't the least bit worried.
"No, not really." He responded airily, slowly taking a walk around, gingerly testing the strenght of a funny ladder on wheels. The pin promptly broke when he put weight on his hands. Whatever he'd take would obviously have to come from the bottom.
Behind him Sam snorted. "So what are you planning on doing?"
"I'm going to use my nose."
"Your nose."
"I can smell good business from a mile off. Two if the wind is right and the smog not to bad."
"Right". There was a short silence and then the sound of Sam taking a very deep and patient breath. "You do that. I'll stand guard at the door."
Keir grinned at her. "You're a goddess Sam."
"If I was a goddess I wouldn't be so keen on staying alive." And with that she turned heel and stomped back down the stairs to the door.

Keir chuckled and resumed his search of the room. He walked about the room two more times, pulling books at random. Most of them appeared to be for research of different kinds, he didn't get the cataloguing system and was, in addition, profoundly uninterested in the reproductive system of plants, educational research systems and nuclear physics.

He decided to explore the middle of the room, where a sort of research station stood, elevated a couple of steps. It consisted mostly of a bunch of tables and lamps that no longer worked, but there was also something that caught his attention, a lectern.

It was made out of some dark wood, which stood out against the bland and obviously mass-manufactured tables and chairs. Walking up to it he saw that the top had been inlaid with an intricate design of a white tree. Had he had the means Keir knew he would've picked up the entire thing and brought it with him. He ran his finger down the sleek surface, craftsmanship like that was not easy to come by and it would have fetched a pretty price at one of the bigger markets. He was, however, not at such liberty, it would have to stay. He knocked on the wood, more out of habit than anything, and was surprised by the hollow note that echoed back at him. He stared hard at it. If he was lucky, leaving the lectern behind would not even be a loss. Provided there was something in it. If he could get it out. Plenty of if's and maybe's, but, those were his preferred odds.

Twenty minuets later he could conclude that there were no hinges, no lock, no secret mechanism. The inlaid tree-pattern wouldn't budge and the wood was frustratingly dense and well kept and would not budge merely because you felt like giving it a frustrated punch.
After taking a moment to swear inwardly at himself, he went and got Sam.
"There's something in this thing" he explained as Sam went about the business of examining it. "Hear that hollow sound, yeah? It has to have a hidden compartment."
Sam hummed distractedly and continued her slow meticulous examination. Keir stared at her for a moment and then resignedly went down to the door to keep watch.

Keir considered himself patient. That didn't necessarily mean he didn't hate waiting. Consequently, it was a long time before Sam finally called out to him and startled him out of his internal reveries.
"Did you find something? Did you find the compartment?" He didn't bother masking his anxiousness, Sam looked pleased.
"Sure did, look here" she pointed, squatting down and showing right below the book rest. Putting her finger at a spot on the side, that looked no different to him than any other spot, she pushed and a small slide of wood glided to the side. "This opens the lid. It's really difficult to spot unless you know it's there."
"Have you opened the lid?"
"Generous that I am, I decided to wait for you." She shrugged, "also, if there's a nasty in there one of us should be ready to shoot it."
"Bundle of sunshine that you are, I'll let you do the shooting."
Opening the lid was profoundly unspectacular. Not unencouraging if you were expecting a curse or something with teeth he supposed. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, he couldn't say that he was surprised to see an old-looking book. What peaked his curiosity was that it had been welded shut with three bonds of steel. Whatever was in it would have to remain a riddle, at lest till they found the nearest blacksmith.

***

For those of you who are totally confused, I'm not surprised. This what happens when you write approx. 200 words at a time and jump around in the narrative. Hopefully it makes more sense when I post it as a whole.

EDIT:

And I just realized that blogger doesn't recognize my indents. I've been writing for almost 10 days now and I only just realized. Very embarrassing. I'll go fix it now.

Day 8

2008-07-02T00:07:00.002+02:00

And today I ran smack-dab headfirst into writer's block again. It's the last part I need to write in order for it all to be tied together properly. The first chapter completed. Naturally it isn't working. I have no idea how what I want to happen, will happen, without being dumb. I know I should work on eradicating the dumb when I go back to edit, but I want some semblance of intelligence in there at least.

This is where having no idea where the story is going is coming to bite me on the nose. I know they're going to find a book in that library that will be important in some ways (I don't want the plot to be artefact-driven though, it's just one of many components) but I don't quite know how, so I don't know how to write them finding it. How significant is it? How zomg!destiny is it? How random? I know it's going to trigger an "alarm" for a lack of better words, so it's probably hidden and put away in some manner but, guh. I don't think it's coming tonight either way.

Day 7

2008-06-30T22:51:00.004+02:00

I feel blah. I don't feel like writing. However, I know I should. I'm going to open up the document and stare at the place I left of (one of them anyway). It's funny, but more often than not when I bring myself to do that I come up with something. There's no guarantees it'll be good or anything, but it's something at least.

***

I wrote, and I wrote quite a bit more than I expected I would. I'm very pleased. Hopefully this means that this 30 day writing thing is providing some fruitful results. The more I write the easier it should become. It seems that way anyhow.

I continued for a bit from both the points I've left off on.

***

The stairway was rickety, though not by far as rickety as Keir had feared. Sam made a mental note to tease him about it later. She was far too intent on the silvery key and where it might be leading. She was not sure if she liked the key or not, she had no idea where it went, after all, and as such no idea what to expect. Having gone up one half-floor they followed a short corridor which ended in a white and entirely unremarkable door. Keir felt the door knob.
"Locked."
"Just be ready then" Sam muttered as she stepped forward, tentatively sticking the key in the lock. It seemed to fit. It just seemed odd that they would use such an old-fashioned design on the key, for such a regular-looking door. It gnawed at her. She heard the click of Keir's gun behind her. With one hand on her own gun she turned the key and slowly, and quietly opened the door.
She had expected it to be dark, but immediately when the door cracked open it emitted a sliver of light. She gently pushed it open all the way and with pistol firmly in hand she walked in, and up a couple of steps. Behind her she could hear Keir draw a breath of awe and excitement.
"Bloody hell." And he walked past her, gazing three ways at once.

Her own heart sunk like a stone. Books. All around them thousands and thousands of books, circling upwards on great bookshelves to a magnificent and unbroken glass-doom ceiling. How under heaven were they suppose to find what they were looking for, what Keir was looking for, in here? Knowing Keir and his hunches, Sam had the unencouraging feeling that he didn't know either.

***

Rolling around she pulled her gun, aiming after the birds. She doubted that she got a hit, but with luck it would keep them at bay, for a while.
"Come on, come on! We got to go!" She was tugging at Keir, who had frozen halfway up, staring at the well. A white smog or smoke was rising up and pouring over the edges, making the bitter smell more pronounced than ever. Sam didn't have time to be subtle. The klatsch of the slap she dealt him over the face could be heard quite clearly over the rumbling. He started and looked up at her, half-dazed, before getting up. The smell had to be getting to him in some way.
"Grab your bag." She gazed skywards for the ravens again, "we gotta shake the birds."
Keir shook his head, as if to get rid of a fly, and then, they ran. Far above the ravens circled, free from their stone abode. Their eternal eyes searching the ground.

***

I'm considering ending the chapter at this point, which would mean I would just have to tie everything together! I'm not sure though, I was planning on including more of their escape. We'll see I guess.

Oh, I also think I figured out a working title for the book. Mimir's Well.

Day 6

2008-06-29T23:58:00.002+02:00

I didn't think I'd get anything written, but I did! I got some inspiration and I decided to skip ahead to the end of the scene while I still had it fresh in my mind. As per always, it's short, but hell, I'm glad I just got something down.

***

When the finally came back out, Sam did not blink in the sunlight, as it had gone, and so had the chirping of the birds, the rattles of the rats and the breeze. The sky had turned to the pale, almost-white colour of a twilight that should have been hours and hours off. Sam could feel her heart stepping up a notch. Something had changed while they were in the library. They must have been observed, or triggered something. the fact that she had no idea what, did no bode well for them. Sam looked at Keir, who was far too intent on the book to notice, she would have snapped at him, but her gaze wandered beyond him and over the plaza, intent on something else. She knew to trust her body, she knew she was seeing something, her mind just hadn't picked up on it. Instinctively she slowed her breath down to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible, and her mouth opened slightly to let her taste buds aid her sense of smell.
She saw it almost simultaneously as she heard the low, whistling noise. She was running. She was yelling.
"Duck!"
They were tumbling and the black stone ravens swooped over them. Cawing, clawing. Her shoulder hit the ice cold edge of the well and the smell invaded her senses, begging her to take notice. Sea-salt and mud. decade-old decay, sewers and a bitter tangy taste at the back of her throat. There was a tremble in the stones, something down below was awake.
She froze for a split second, and then she clenched her teeth, and got up.

***

And on that hanging note, it will end, for now.

Day 5

2008-06-28T01:22:00.002+02:00

No writing done today. Sometimes it just falls out of your head, so much else going on today. Nothing big, just the small puttering and pottering of life. I saw The Patriot today. The one with Mel Gibson about the American Revolution. It was nice, but sometimes it drives me stark raving mad how Hollywood necessarily has to beat you over the head with their message.

The Redcoats are evil. I GET it. It's actually enough that he kills Mel G's son, the evil redcoat does not have to personally persecute him, burn down his home, his sister-in-law's home, kill his oldest son and burn down a church full of people. Enough is bloody enough you guys.

there's a scene at the end where Cornwallis is realizing he's going to lose Yorktown and the entire war and he goes off. "They're just militia, peasants, how could this be?" And it would have been so beautiful if he had stopped there, but no, when you have a hammer you're surrounded by nails, apparently. So he goes on, "everything will be different now. Everything IS different." Guh, annoyed me to no end.

And this I will have to consider my Creative Writing contribution of the day.

Day 4

2008-06-27T00:17:00.003+02:00

I haven't written anything really today, I wrote this for the Locution forum, it'll just have to do for tonight's entry:

***

So I promised to write something up for this.

Most of us who joined Marrow's 30 days of creativity are past the 15-day mark by now. The idea of Marrow's challenge was to get creativity flowing and to establish the habit of writing. As a writer it's important to keep writing for several reasons. It will improve your writing skills, hone your creativity and so forth. It's also important because it (oh so mercilessly) teaches us that we'll produce a lot of crap, and that's okay. Keep writing and eventually you'll hit the good stuff.

However, an equally important aspect of the writing process is editing, as I'm sure you all know. Editing is how we separate the grain from the chaff. In this process we don't just eliminate the bad stuff, we build on the good stuff as well, so this is my proposal:

I challenge you all once you're done with your 30 days of Creativity to spend 30 days on editing that material.

This is not necessarily as straightforward as writing new material for 30 days straight. The blogs may reign from actual editing and your woes with commas and clauses to ideas spawned on continuations on stories to why you decided that you'll work on Poem A but incinerate poem B and hope everyone forgets that it ever existed.

The point is to make some form of progress and post it in your blog every day.

Marrow shooed us all to Home Depot to get some material, now it's time to start building.

Thoughts, comments etc is, as always, welcome.

***

Day 3

2008-06-26T00:33:00.005+02:00

Sometimes you just know life's testing your resolve. I wrote some more today. Yes, I know you'll all kill me if I don't stop posting snippets of 200 words-or-less. I got going for a bit today, I found a flow and then out of nowhere - lightning headache - comes and steals my flow, and now it's gone. Very frustrating. So, here's what I got since last time and there'll be more tomorrow. Oh, also, everything so far is directly sequential, except that long snippet which was obviously another scene. If it all feels jagged and confused paste it all together to one document and, uh, hopefully it'll help.

***

"Oh, it's all bollocks Sam, there's nothing but cheap pockets out there. Romance novels and, uh, are you okay?" Keir came bustling through the door but stopped uncertainly mid-sentence. Sam paid him no heed as she got up and heaved the desk onto it's side. It was a dictionary alright, English to Norwegian, of all things. It was a thick book, and looked to be stuck pretty good where it was. Sam gave a wave to Keir.
"Hold the other end steady." Once he had gotten a grip she took a firm grip of the book and yanked it off.
"Reckon you found something?" Keir asked quietly and made his way over to have a look at the book.
Once Sam opened it she saw why it had gotten stuck, someone had cut out a hole in the papers to hide something. The paper had gone old and brittle, with her added weight the leg had partially broken off and crashed through the papers. She leafed through the few unbroken ones, of which half promptly fell out and into pieces, until she came to the actual compartment. It held a big, old-fashioned key.
"If this leads to the document cabinet I am going to be right pissed," she said dryly, but a smile was creeping onto her features, this could be something, it could be something real. "Did you see any locked doors out there?"
"Maybe, I saw a door."
Sam gave him a look and he raised his hands in defence.
"I didn't feel like braving another rickety staircase, alright? I like my legs just fine."

***

I'll get this scene eventually, I'm confident about that at least. That makes me thrilled for an entirely different reason, I used to be unable to show unpolished or unfinished work to people, or write stuff that I couldn't complete in one go, that was how perfectionist I was about my writing. I was downright paranoid that if I did one itty-bitty thing out of sequence the Gods of Writing would come down and Smite Me. No wonder I haven't written for such a long time. I think I actually had to mature as a person in order to allow myself to write and enjoy it again.

It's kind of funny that I've been hanging around a Creative Writing forum for so long without participating in the writing. Not that I regret it, if you can't write, if you're suffering from writer's block I think critiquing other people's works is the best way to keep your own skills relatively fresh. I might post something about writer's block later. Right now, I'm going to stab myself with a fork. I am told this will distract me from my headache.

Day 2, second post

2008-06-25T00:07:00.004+02:00

I said I'd post again, didn't I? Technically it's past midnight so I'm late, but I've always been in the habit of refusing to recognize the coming of a new day before I've had a chance to sleep on it.

***

Sam could hear him occasionally lifting and dropping pieces of overturned shelves. Shaking her head to herself she stepped over to the desk to check out the drawers. Nothing. She pulled them out spread the content carelessly about the room and knocked their bottoms out. No hidden compartments, no nothing. She knocked on every conceiveable wall-space including the bookshelf to see if they rung hollow. Still nothing. The entire building appeared to be rock-solid.

She sighed and leaned back with one hand on the desk, resignedly eyeing the document cabinet, doubtlessly filled with another bunch of nothings, and then, quite suddenly, she wasn't. There was a crunching noise, an undignified yelp and then she was far too closely acquainted with the carpet for her own liking. One of the legs of the desk had to have given way. Turning her head to get up she realized it was only partially true, what had actually given way was what had been supporting the table leg, a dictionary. She stared at it for a bit, it looked as if it had been gutted by the leg, which made no sense at all.

***

Did I mention how HARD this scene is for me? And I haven't written anything in years, my confidence is a tad shaky. I want to be serious, but I want to have a dry humour in the writing. I want some funny but I have the sneaking suspicion that I'm not nailing it. Maybe I'll feel differently once the scene and the chapter is finished and a cohesive whole.

I come offering excuses, paltry paltry excuses

2008-06-24T19:44:00.004+02:00

So I dropped off the bandwagon, big-time. Private life went Zoooooomg! And I got too busy, for real. I had no time to write. So, I decided to start this whole thing over. Today I restart the 30 day challenge and if I fail this time again, I know I'll have no excuses. This is actually day 2, I started over yesterday, however, since I'm struggling with Writers Block over a difficult scene, all I produced was this:

The library had appeared to be small at first. Sam examined the reception desk and the small office, which was empty beyond an overly private blackbird, while Keir checked out the rows of shelves.

***

And this:

Keir was positive that he had managed to keep himself awake, but somehow he must've slipped. If he deceived himself or if he had been distracted by his internal reveries he did not know, but suddenly everything went unnaturally quiet, and then he saw it.

It looked surprisingly normal for a being as old as time itself. Hadn't it been for the arcane longbow and choice of fashion Keir would've been hard-pressed to see the difference between it and any old human. He was fairly certain that it hadn't seen that he was awake, slouched back as he was, rifle hanging loosely in his hands. It went around the circle once, probably checking for a hole, before returning to its original position. Keir was confident it thought he was asleep, until the colourless eyes met his and it grinned, showing off gleaming, pointy teeth. Keir blinked, startled, and it was gone. He stared goofily for a moment where it had been before letting off a string of salty curses and banged, as successfully as can be expected, on the tent-wall.
"Sam, we're live."

***

Kinda sad. I have so much in my head, I have plotlines, concepts, ideas. I have fucking giants in there (literally, uh, almost, they're not physically manifesting, y'know.) They're there and they will be in the story and I'm determined that they will work and make sense. I have images of scenes with cool and snappy one-liners that will not be cheesy at all (the power of my spirit shall overcome the cheese! overcome, I say!). The worst is of course that all of that centres around the cool part, which is the final third of the story, I have to get there first and I better do it fast before all the cool ideas I had about the beginning go away.

Anyway, I promise another entry tonight, but I make no guarantees as far as quality goes.

Day 2

2008-06-10T14:47:00.003+02:00

Poetry? Oh no! Say it isn't so!

I don't mind that all the roads have been trod,
long before me, and by greater men than me.
That's okay, I don't mind. After all,
I've never been, and I never trusted great men.

I'll walk in their tracks, my lamp kept black.
I will follow my nose, wherever it goes
with my feet to keep me going, and
the light of my eyes to shine me
on the way.

Day 1

2008-06-09T22:34:00.003+02:00

Uh, yeah. So I was supposed to write something today, right? I forgot. I got a call for an inteview for a new extra job, and I found out that the one I was vaugely set up for has gotten down to specs so I know I have three weeks of full-time. I might actually be able to pay my tuition. So yeah, I got distracted, and I have to get up at 5 AM tomorrow. That new extra job? Yeah. Tomorrow. 5 AM sharp.

So I decided, I have a cup of tea. And I have to finish it. So I will write until I'm out of tea. God save the queen old chapes, let's be chipper now aye? Uh. Yeah.

***

Sam had hated the library when she saw it. She hated it when she wrestled the door open and hated it even more when it fell down with a crash after Keir attempted to close it behind them. She ignored his tentative "Oops" and guardedly examined the room. Old decaying shelves lay on the floor or leaned precariously against each other. Absolutely anything could be hiding in there. At best, they would find an unhappy wildcat. At worst, one of the Fair Ones might be found strolling through, perusing the goods, guarding the treasure. Nothing moved beyond the dust in the sunlight. The only sound was their breathing. Hers almost silent, his quivering with restrained excitement.

She looked back and nodded and they slowly moved forward. She didn't like to be here, but if it was anyone's domain, it was hers. Whatever Godforsaken force had compelled Keir to drag them there she would find the source and be rid of it. She dryly made a private note to herself that it had better be a force beyond his damned curiosity.

***

And that's it ladies and gentlemen. An impressive start. If anyone from the forums are reading this, it's a continuation from the story I posted here. Now, I ought to try and sleep I believe. More to come tomorrow.

Marrow's 30 days of Creativity Challenge

2008-06-09T00:53:00.004+02:00

So Marrowmeld posted a challenge on the CW board - to write something creative every day, for 30 days. Since there is no good reason for me to not do it, I'm gonna do it. I'm about to lose momentum in my novel concept, and that would be a true shame, for me anyway. So here's to creativity.

The CW Fallacial Law 2.0

2008-05-29T07:37:00.003+02:00

I wrote the first version of this a long time ago, I decided to spruce it up a little. So here it is. I edited and included some suggestions from the comments on the first version.

The CW Fallacial Law

<>As the amount of pubescent teenagers available on MT:CW nears 1, so does the occurance of the 'CW Fallacial Law' and its colloraries exponentially increase. <>

The CW Fallacial law are ultimately subcategories of Appeal to Authority and the Association Fallacy. <>It lies in the nature of having your writing critiqued that on occasion you will hear some less-than-uplifting things about your work. We all understand that writing is a craft you put a lot of effort into and as such, a rebuttal of your work can be misinterpreted as a rebuttal of your person. Occasionally when a writer is so rebuffed they find themselves unable to handle it in a mature manner and will attempt to make up excuses and justifications for their errors. <>

They seem to believe that merely by explaining what they actually intended to do; the error and the harsh feelings will go away. Naturally, this does not work and eventually, many will fall back on the CW Fallacial Law.

Writers guilty of this fallacy tend to make statements such as:

"If Shakespeare wrote this you would've loved it." Or,

"Cummings wrote like this"

Usually when a remark is made about writing here they are making a remark on the execution of said work. It's got little to do with WHY something is in a story it's HOW you insert it that creates problems. Referring back to a famous author or poet proves nothing. A writer that emulates or imitates somebody else’s style is not necessarily good at it. As a matter of fact, imitating the masters is one of the hardest things one can attempt, because they were the best, and they regularly attempted styles that are by nature hard to work with, or geared to the mindset of people who lived hundreds and hundreds of years ago. It will not easily endear you to your audience in the early 21^st century.

The real issue is that the writers who fall back on the CW Fallacial Law expects to be given the benefit of the doubt. S/he wrongly assumes that famous writers are given this benefit because of their fame, rather than the fact that their skill and talent brought them their fame.

<>Writing does not exist in a vacuum, as most crafts, it has developed over time. While certain true masters of the craft (like, you guessed it, Shakespeare) have managed to write things that truly and genuinely still move and engage us centuries after the fact, it does not remove the historical aspect of their work. Shakespeare is not only enjoyable because of his great skill, he is enjoyable as high water-mark of classical sonnets and 16th century play-writing. Trying to duplicate his archaic syntax just because you like your poetry to be flowery is completely missing the point of why it works for him and not for you, just like most fantasy writers who want to be Tolkien manages to miss that the The Lord of The Rings is a by-product of a life-time spent creating an alternate-world Europe, which is what carries the books through in the end. <>

While there are a few choice exceptions in these Fallacies, such as writing a 16th century styled Sonnet, archaic syntax to boot to better understand such sonnets overall, or to increase your mastery of language, budding writers would do best to let these fallacies go, along with their pride.

A stab at translating

2008-05-17T02:28:00.004+02:00

Try as I might, I can find no translation of Pär Lagerkvist's poems on the internet. At best, I've been able to scrounge up the two first lines of my favourite one in his wikipedia article.

Naturally, that means I have to make a botched attempt of translating it myself. So here goes. Swedish version at the end for the curious.

Untitled (1916)

Anguish, anguish is my heritage
my wounded throat,
my heart's cry in the world.
Now stiffens the lathery sky
In the night's heavy hand,
now the forests rises
and the stiff heights
so harshly against the sky's
abortive vault.
How harsh it is,
how stiff, how sable, how still!

I grope my way through this dusky room,
I feel the cliff's harsh edge against my fingers
I tear my upstretched hands
to blood against the cloud's frozen tatters.

Oh, my nails I tear from my fingers,
my hands I claw marred, wounded
against the cliffs and darkened woods,
against the sky's black iron
and against the bitter earth!

Anguish, anguish is my heritage, my wounded throat, my heart's cry in the world.

***

Ångest, ångest är min arvedel,
min strupes sår,
mitt hjärtas skri i världen.
Nu styvnar löddrig sky
i nattens grova hand,
nu stiga skogarna
och stela höjder
så kargt mot himmelens
förkrympta valv.
Hur hårt är allt,
hur stelnat, svart och stilla!

Jag famlar kring i detta dunkla rum,
jag känner klippans vassa kant mot mina fingrar
jag river mina uppåtsträckta händer
till blods mot molnens frusna trasor.

Ack, mina naglar sliter jag från fingrarna,
mina händer river jag såriga,ömma
mot berg och mörknad skog,
mot himlens svarta järn
och mot den kalla jorden!

Ångest, ångest är min arvedel, min strupes sår, mitt hjärtas skri i världen.

The Step-Grandfather

2008-05-03T19:33:00.001+02:00

I had to spend ca 11 h and 40 min in air planes and on airports in order to attend your funeral and when I stood outside the church, greeting strange relatives I hadn't met in a decade or more and making awkward small talk somebody mistook me for my mother. That's right, somebody genuinely thought I was my mother. Not merely that I looked a lot like her (which people insist on reminding me of. There's a genius way to instil daughterly affections in somebody) but that I was actually her. They asked me where the children were. I told them I WAS the children and then things were as awkward as they could possibly be, until they said I looked very much like my mother and I said that I'd come to understand they felt that way and we broke the sound barrier of polite conventions.

Additionally, you never liked me. Or my brother, or my mother. Our entire family was anathema to you as far as I've been able to discern. So you'll just have to forgive me when I say that I did not attend your funeral for your sake and that in fact, I did go in equal parts because I wanted to support my father but also because I was pretty sure you wouldn't have wanted me there.

It was tangible proof of something I've known for a very long time. I'm a better person in my twenties than you were your entire life.

I've always known your lesser qualities. You were dishonest. You cheated on your wife with the Girl Next Door for Seven Years before you were caught and subsequently filed for divorce. You were cruel and calculating. We celebrated one Christmas with you. Our cousins were given expensive hockey and riding equipment. Me and my brothers were given small, porcelain garden gnomes. Fucking GARDEN GNOMES. I remember this, even though I didn't understand the significance at the time, but my mom did and to her your feelings very pretty clear. We didn't celebrate Christmas with you again, which was what you had hoped I'm sure. You were elitist and unaccepting. We never got to call you Grandpa, you made it clear that you had no relatives unless they were blood-relatives. You felt that we prevented our dad from having children of his own. You tried to make my dad feel ashamed about us.

You were a fucking Scrooge.

I learned more about you and your life on your funeral than I had known all my life.

You were a hard worker. You had money, you paid your ex-wife a monthly allowance so she would never have to worry about money of your own volition. You loved your grandchildren and loved to spend time with them. And you liked reading and learning. I got to know where you grew up, see a picture of your house. Your eyes were far bluer than I remembered them in your picture.

I'm sure nobody would've talked about the lesser qualities you possessed on your funeral, but I don't think any of the things mentioned were false. To the people you considered your "real" family you displayed an entirely different side of yourself that I never had an opportunity to know. We would have had much in common if things were, as they say, different. If YOU had been different.

Pardon me if this sounds like an accusation. It is one.

I don't regret losing the opportunity to know you. I don't mourn your death because it doesn't affect me. You were never a good man. The way you differentiated between people, your refusal to accept the family your youngest son chose for himself speaks more for your character than all the good deeds you did perform and all your affection for those who gained your approval. My mother never wanted to have additional children with my dad because she knew you would treat them differently. Through your own behaviour you ensured that my dad would never have the family you felt he had a right to. It's pretty damn close to poetic in justice.

When I think about you, I don't feel anything in particular. I don't ask myself what either of us could have done differently. You were never a lack in my life. You did not create an absence or a hole. I never missed you, but I do wonder about things. I wonder why you didn't want us in your life, how you justified the way you acted. There are a lot of things I don't know about you and why things turned out the way they did. My assumptions are constructed on a few scarce events. I don't know how my dad felt about it all, if he said anything to you about it, or if he just accepted things as they were. It's not the sort of thing you can really ask about. I'll probably never now and you were about as likely to answer me before as after death.

Sleep well, Scrooge.

Letters to my Fathers - Pretext

2008-04-21T07:35:00.004+02:00

People will claim that I have a penchant for the dramatic, but the fathers in my life have a highly disconcerting habit of dying. Usually long before either of us have a chance to be of consequence in each others lives. Sometimes it's merely unfortunate, Sometimes it's a concious choice. Either way, it's never been up to me to decide on the matter. Being the way I always am, I find this upsetting and unfair and I won't stand for it.

You may be dead. You may be dead because you were an idiot in life and as such, reaped the consequences. You may be dead because you were old. You may be dead for no discernible reason whatsoever. It doesn't matter, You can't talk to me now, but I have a right. I have a right to my questions and I have a right to the answers, even if you no longer can provide them. I will still ask.

This is my inquiry. This is a Letter to my Fathers.

Phases

2007-11-03T18:04:00.001+01:00

So I haven't written anything here for months. I don't know about the rest of you, but my dirty little secret is that I have phases. Phases were I do not read. At all. I'd like to say the same about writing, but it's been so long I've written anything creative that it's less of a phase and more of a permanent stage.

Anyhow. I have phases, which embarrass me. Surely, someone as into writing and literature as myself would never grow weary of such a pleasant past-time. Well, I do. It's a combination of several different factors. One is time for obvious reasons. The other is material and stress-levels. By material I'm referring to my reading material. That is, what is available to me to read at the time and stress-levels indicate how much my real-life is preventing me from relaxing enough to sink into pretend-life. Currently, my problems are disproportionate stress-levels and inappropriate reading material.

Work is making mince-meat out of my head and what I have available to read at home is: The Divine Comedy, Paradise Lost, A sample of the notebooks of Leonardo Da vinci, Thus spake Zarathustra and Beyond Good and Evil.

Where is my light reading? I need the light reading!

Hopefully I'll make another go at activating this blog once I've gotten myself down to the library and into something less heavy. Like Terry Pratchett.

The Etched City

2007-04-15T18:18:00.000+02:00

So, the past month I've been reading The Etched City by K. J Bishop for a book club. I didn't get around to posting my review in the thread, so it seems I'll be writing it down here for the time-being.

The first thing that struck me about the book once I had finished it is that it could've been so good. Really, that's the thing that stands out to me most. The Etched City is a class example of what a talented writer but first-time author often does wrong.

While the style is slightly more purple than I normally prefer I am actually quite drawn in by the way Bishop works with words. The book has something fantastical about it and her wordplay capitalizes and expounds on that. There is something special in names and words like The Copper Country and Ashamoil. It paints vivid images of sand deserts in hues of copper green and red. Huge, looming cities driven by steam, slaves and magic. At the same time, Bishop fails to paint a cohesive picture for me. At the outset, I see things very clearly, the steampunkish city, 19th century in fashion and style. I really do have it before my inner eye and suddenly she mention something like rubber soles and everything fucking falls apart.

Things like this makes me want to stop reading and I quite honestly would've if it weren't for the fact I was reading it for a purpose. The main-reason for that however wouldn't have been the often-times jarring and clashing imagery, but the fact that this book doesn't have a story-line.

I have the distinct impression that Bishop had a wonderful world to play with, but no stories to tell about it. Writing and story-telling are two distinctly different things that should and needs to be combined. Bishop's mistake lay in her characterization and choice of timing/exposition. The premise and setting of the book is quite good, but both of the main characters, Raule and Gwynn, are extremely passive. This is a book about The After. After the war, after the revolution etc. I don't mind a slow-moving plot, but it has to be a plot.

The characters are broken people, there is nothing that really pushes them to action. They try to survive and that's pretty much it. Bishop's biggest mistake is her failure to introduce change and something to spur these characters to action. Indeed, the latter part of the book is the best because the notion of change and action is introduced in Gwynn's life by his lover/muse (whose name I've actually forgotten, I think it was Beth, so I'll go with that).

Other than that, this book is very much a slice-of-life of sorts. People come and go, seemingly at random in a way that's actually very realistic, but not very conductive to telling a good story. The way Raule glides away and disappears is extremely frustrating as Raule is needed to pair Gwynn to create a dynamic that can drive the story somewhere, either by character interaction or external plot elements.

Another thing about the book that was incredibly disorientating and jarring was the fact that either Bishop was trying to include too much in the book, or just couldn't plain decide what she wanted the book to be. She creates so many threads that she never ever picks up again. One long passage details a conversation with Gwynn and three men who all have had a dream/heard-a-story/something about a red hair they all need for something, and Gwynn has happened to find a red tuft of somebody's hair.

The purpose of the exchange for each man is to make Gwynn give them the hair. It comes completely at random, reads like a passage from The State by Plato or any other Greek book about philosophy and does absolutely nothing but consume a couple of thousand words. It does nothing for neither characterization nor plot. Once the scene is over, it's as if it never happened and hangs inside the book like a little bubble in a vaacum.

Like previously stated, despite the books many weaknesses and faults, there are several separate elements that I appreciate. While the book has been described as post-apocalyptic I'd like to go a step further and say that this is a book where the fabric of reality is obviously fraying at the edges, a concept I've only encountered in a positive fashion once before so far in a webcomic by Sandra Fuhr called 5ideways.

However, when it comes down to it, for all it's interesting philosophies, world, characters and writing, nothing ever really happened in this book and as such I never felt the drive and need to pick the book back up once I had put it down. For all the tightness of the writing style, the fantastical interesting world she was painting, she failed to hook me and that in and of itself, makes the book a failure.

Of titles and covers

2007-02-09T20:38:00.000+01:00

I've recently spent five minuets staring at a carefully selected book pile from my bookshelf. They're all of different genres, length, hardback, paperback, quality, merit etc. A diverse bunch. There is however one thing that tie them all together, they're all impulse purchases, and they were all purchased for the same reason. Amazing title, cover art, or both. Naturally, most of them were a disappointment, as most impulse purchases tend to be, but I'm still quite fascinated by how important titles in particular are to a book.

The most recent buy in this pile is Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. I've only managed to stomach 69 pages out of 772 and I quite dislike it to be frank. The writing is so tiny I've actually considered to try and read it with a magnifying glass, the language is stilted and overly formal, the author makes an attempt at long, irellevant and pratchettesque notes and fails miserably. On top of that, the characters have so far been unengaging and the story excruciatingly slow on the pick-up.

Despite all this, the title still thrills me, and I've no idea why. I'm a sucker for names and Jonathan Strange in particular just tickles my fancy. So much that I just picked the book off the shelf without a moment's pause and bought it. I didn't even read the blurb. Other impulse purchases include but are not limited to The Queen's Fool, This is not a book and Let the right one in*. This is not a book and Let the right one in are both actually quite amazing books and I love them dearly, but they are by and large exceptions from the rule.

Titles are to a book what smell is to coffee. Nothing is quite as enticing and fills you with as much anticipation as a book with a good cover and a good title. And of course, nothing is as disappointing as taking a sip and realizing that the taste doesn't match up to the smell. I'm not sure what irks me the most. Bad books with good cover art and/or title, or good books with bad cover art and/or title. In the end, they're fucking important and close to an art of their own, so don't mess it up.

* This particular book has so far not been translated into english, and of course, translating the title steals away all the punch it has in it's original language, but that's a rant for another time.

The art of giving away books.

2006-12-26T20:39:00.000+01:00

I'm certain that I'm not alone in my passion for books and reading, I'm actually quite confident that there are a lot of other people out there just like me, who has for years endured clever quips about being book-worms and the like. I am also certain that we've all experienced one particular problem:

Receiving books as gifts.

There is certainly nothing wrong with giving a book-lover books, the idea in principle is actually quite nice. The problem lies in the application of the principle, and some fatal misunderstandings as to the nature of the book-lover.

What most people assume is that since any book-lover will consume everywhere between One to Five books a week, they will throw themselves at anything longer than 75 pages in paperback. What they miss, is that a book-lover is not the equivalent of a fast food-junkie, but a connoisseur. With this faulty idea in mind the ignorant but well-meaning parents/siblings/lovers/distant relatives go down to their local bookstore confident that they only need to find something vaugely connected to any given interest besides books that the Book Lover may have.

I can't even begin to count the hoards of absolutely useless books about Horses I've got sitting around from back when I used to go horse-riding. Most of them has never been opened and the only thing I've read, has been the back, quickly establishing that given a choice, I wouldn't have touched this kind of chick. lit with a ten foot pole. So, this is a guide to how you buy someone a book as a present, without seeing your image as a decent human being crushed and thrown away with the wrapping paper.

1. If it all possible, find out specific titles they want.

I have learned that some find this dull, unsurprising and more like an order than a gift but really, we love it. We've gotten so many books we don't want we'll be jumping for joy. The effort you went through to subtly ask people around us, or asked us personally what we would like so you could get it for us, will not go unnoticed or unappreciated. It's considerate asking what people want, really.

2. Buy Classics.

In the sorry event that you are unable to find out what your victim is looking for, a classic is never a bad idea. Austen, Shakespeare, Orwell, Verne, Dickens, Tolstoy all those names your literature teacher went misty eyed about are good and should be part of any self-respecting Book Lover's library. Even if the author in and of itself does not suit our tastes (I hate Dickens with a ne'er-ending passion) it still looks good on our shelf, and we ought to read it anyway. Got to keep up with our general education, ya know? Just make sure you don't get us something we already have. Nobody likes to be given Oliver Twist for Christmas two years in a row.

3. Buy a gift-certificate

Lazy and unimaginative? You betcha. A Safe card? Yes. Does it beat random 4 for 3 pocket offers? Always.

And since I'm quite certain someone will come along and assume this is a plea for people to buy me books I will just go ahead and say that it's not.

This has been a Public Service announcement, feel free to print and put it on your refrigerator come future birthdays and Christmas -07.

Nobody ever got laid with THAT attitude.

2006-12-06T13:33:00.000+01:00

Sometime in July this year, me and a good friend of mine turned down the offer of having sex with a complete stranger. The episode in and of itself is not actually that interesting, but rather, his reaction to the rejection which was first and foremost:

It's because I'm black, isn't it?

Yesterday when I was out recruiting, two guys approached me from out of the blue:

Why aren't you talking to us? It's because we're coloured, isn't it?

To be frank, I am getting increasingly tired of all the people supposedly belonging to a minority of some sort with a chip the size of Texas on their shoulder.

I am fuck-all tired of Vegans and Christians with a Superiority complex, Homosexuals with a Pink Agenda, Short Guys suffering from Short Man's Syndrome and Black people with a Persecution Complex.

Yes, I am aware that minorities are often discriminated against, and my heart goes out to you, really. But I have absolutely zero patience with people who brandish their minority as shield against personal failure. Let's get something straight right of the bat, sweetie.

It's not your skin-colour, your height, your faith or your sexuality, it's you. You're a fucking Idiot.

These people deliberately and willfully put themselves into a victim-position to evade personal responsibility. They prefer to sit around and whine about how the world done them wrong and is out to get them rather than getting off their ass and doing something about their lousy situation. Supposedly, because they belong to a minority, the world, nature and life itself owes it to them to cushion them throughout their lives.

The most disgusting thing of all is of course the seedy, insidious way some people will use their victim-position to shame people into giving them what they want. Any denial of their desires, sexual or otherwise is met with an accusation of racism or narrow-mindedness. It's egoistic, manipulative, low and absolutely disgusting.

Rather than owning up to their own mistakes and failures they put the blame on another person. "It's not because I suck, it's because you're racist and homophobic!" Which of course is a whole lot easier than working on your own short-comings and improving yourself and your situation.

No wonder you're not getting any.

Insomnia

2006-11-13T01:22:00.000+01:00

Those who know me more than in passing know that I regularly fail at sleep. I don't know enough about D20 to say something witty about my sleep-skills but quite clearly, my stats suck.

I have a creepy suspicion that I've just forgotten how to go to sleep. Like somewhere along the road I just forgot how to turn my brain off. It shouldn't take hours to fall asleep, but it does, every single fucking night. The nights I do get to sleep that is.

That is not to say that It haven't gotten better. It's been worse, far worse, but I seem to have reached an impasse as far as my improvement is regarded. I've been considering taking up meditation, re-learn to shut my mind up if you will, but I've yet to mobilise the motivation to actually learn, or the economic means for that matter.

One morbidly interesting aspect is when I catch myself re-enacting negative patterns which further keeps me from sleep. For example, looking up insomnia in it's various forms on the net and getting all anxious and depressed about it, which does not help me calming down enough to sleep, a theme which has endless variations of course.

Interesting anti-achivements of insomnia so far:

Turning my sleeping-hours around so badly that I went to bed at 6 AM and had to stay up 36 hours straight in order to turn my sleeping hours right.
More than once.
three times.
While having a cold to deal with.

Being awake for 36-hours is less-than-fun. There are several studies that co-relate insomnia with depression, something which does not surprise me in the least. The things that so drasticly impairs your capability of rational thought, sound assessment of self and rapidly escalate your general angst-levels the way insomnia does are few and far in between.

After a conversation with a friend of mine who currently works with studying sleep, I'm planning on visting my doctor to determine wether I'm suffering from insomnia in a clinical fashion the day after tomorrow. And now I've written it down so I'm officially comitted to the idea so there, I hope I get around to it. I miss sleeping well on weekdays.

If I were Shakespeare...

2006-11-10T14:15:00.000+01:00

...I'd be so much better at writing than I actually am.

Having hung around a Creative Writing forum for a couple of years now, I haven't been able to keep myself from making a few observations. Mostly pertaining to defensive pubescent teens, but still, some observations. One of these observations is on a defensive technique that has reoccurred with such regularity as to have become a pair of common logical fallacies of writing I've decided to call:

The Fame Fallacy, and The Cummingsdun'it! Fallacy

Writers guilty of this fallacy tend to make statements such as:

"If Shakespeare wrote this you would've loved it." Or,

"Cummings wrote like this"

What they fail to realize is that cummings did not "get away" with oddly structured work because he was famous, he was famous because his poetry was groundbreaking and not in any way random in its structure. To put it succinctly, Cummings and Shakespeare had skill, and if Shakespeare had written what they themselves had written, he would have written it differently. And not just because Shakespeare was a playwright and a poet rather than a High-Fantasy-Space-Opera-Soap Novelist.

The real issue of the Fame Fallacy is that the writer who fall back on it expects to be given the benefit of the doubt. S/he wrongly assumes that famous writers are given this benefit because of their fame, rather than the skill and talent that brought them their fame.

A common side-track of The Fame Fallacy is The Cummingsdun'it! Fallacy

The problem in this instance is that the writer wrongly assume that if Cummings did it, so can they. The problem, apart from failing to understand or see the system behind unorthodox structure in poetry, or the point behind writing prose in a certain manner, or the fact that some things just require plain skill to pull of, is that they don't understand the historical or social context behind that particular piece of writing.

Writing does not exist in a vacuum, as most crafts, it has developed over time. While certain true masters of the craft (like, you guessed it, Shakespeare) have managed to write things that truly and genuinely still move and engage us centuries after the fact, it does not remove the historical aspect of their work. Shakespeare is not only enjoyable because of his great skill, he is enjoyable as high water-mark of classical sonnets and overall 16th century writing. Trying to duplicate his archaic syntax just because you like your poetry to be flowery is completely missing the point of why it works for him and not for you, just like most fantasy writers who want to be Tolkien manages to miss that the The Lord of The Rings is a by-product of a life-time spent creating an alternate-world Europe, which is what carries the books through in the end.

While there are a few choice exceptions in these Fallacies, such as writing a 16th century styled Sonnet, archaic syntax to boot to better understand such sonnets overall, or to increase your mastery of language, budding writers would do best to let these fallacies go, along with their pride.

Now let's just hope no one wrote this down in better words long before I even thought of it.

I see dumb people

2006-11-02T22:15:00.000+01:00

They don't know they're dumb. Quite honestly, I am absolutely certain that they're unaware of their own moronitude, otherwise they wouldn't be acting this way.

To fill you in on some background info:

I had a really shitty day at work.

For those of you not in the know, my job consists of convincing people on the streets to donate money to Greenpeace on a regular basis. In other words, I work in sales. I sell you a good conscience. Or I would, if you people would fucking stop and talk to me.

This rant is however, not about those people.

It amazes me to no end how absolutely idiotic people will act when you are in a foul mood. Let it be well-known that I do not share my bad mood with people I hardly know unless someone specificly enquires for my state of well-being. Let it also be known that I tend to answer such questions honestly.

I don't consider myself a whiny person, or someone who gives up easily, but there comes a point when you've forced yourself to jump back on the wagon so many times that it's time to face the fact and cut your losses. Some days are not worth any investement. It boggles me to no end that people will see fit to inform me of the most mind-numbingly obvious facts of life such as:

Tomorrow is a new day
Don't take it personally
All jobs suck sometimes
Everyone has bad days every now and then

If we momentarily put aside how incredibly condescending and demeaning it is to assume that anyone who has even half their wits about them haven't realised these things, these people have the audacity to tell you this in a cheery, perky voice. As if the very fact that other people suffer shitty days right now, all over the world, in this very instance is supposed to make you feel better. Either that, or you're an ungrateful spoiled brat for daring to feel that your day was shitty because ohmyfuck the children in Africa are fucking starving to death.

What the hell happened to granting a person some space and integrity to bounce back in?

Honestly, if your comfort at the end of a shitty day does not involve a pipe, a whiskey and a hug I don't want to fucking see you.

Cooking

2006-10-24T20:52:00.000+02:00

Approximately five years ago I was more or less nagged into becoming a vegetarian. Four years later down the road I had the vauge suspicion that if I didn't want to go insane or starve to death, I would have to learn how to cook.

Cooking as an art or craft is really something quite special. Very few things combine all senses in the same way as cooking. Touch, smell, sight even hearing to a certain extent. And of course, if you want to succeed in your meal-making you need an elusive touch of a 6th cooking sense.

I like working with my hands, cooking satisifies that need to a very great deal. Chopping, cutting, stirring, kneading. At the end of a meal, you know you did something, and I'll be damned if it wasn't good.

Of course, part of it is pride, because I am honestly sick to death of people who's culinary horizone never expanded beyond the golden M telling me my food is boring, and there is no better way to prove someone wrong than with a demonstration.

Admittedly, I just like to cook with and for other people. It's a social thing I suppose. Cooking is intimate and personal, I cook with my dad a lot nowadays when he and mom are separated. And I think I will cook a lot with my mom when I move away from home, ironically enough. If my brother was in any way inclined to cook, or interested in vegetarian meals I'd probably attempt to bridge the gaping hole that is our relationship with food. Cooking solves everything. Plus, I just like getting praise for a well-done meal.

I'm certain that most people can with some effort, a good recipie and some patience cook up a spiffy Saturday-night meal. But the real masters, knows how to cook everyday. You all know those days, when you get home at 9, you've been up, about and working for the last 12 hours. Your boss is a dick, your car-tire went flat and that short bastard in the cubcicle next to yours got that promotion you'd been hoping for. Mere mortals will at this point usually say"screw it" and eat leftover, order take-out or go to bed. But the Masters, oh the Masters they throw what they can find in the fridge (a wedge of cheese, and an onion) into a pot and when they pour it onto their plate, 10 min later, they've created a culinary masterpiece. Such masters appears to be a hard find. I am however, working myself steadily towards that goal. One can dream, right?

And of course, as a final point. I like cooking because I like food and I like to eat.

On being a productive member of society

2006-10-19T21:26:00.000+02:00

Otherwise known as having a job. Which I have, as of last tuesday. Nearly two weeks. I'm quite excited. After an initial four-day trial-period I was officially hired as a Face2Face Recruiter for Greenpeace.

I have been told that in England, they refer to my breed as "clippies" but in all honesty, I'm having a bitchin' time with this job. It absolutely kicks ass.

For those of you not in the know, I stand around different parts of the city, talking to people and trying to convince them to donate to Greenpeace. Essentially, I am being paid to argue for something I believe in. I retitirate: Totally fucking bitchin'

It certainly beats trying to sell useless junk to people on the phone. I also get to meet a lot of interesting people this way, I've talked to so many fascinating and just plain nice individuals these past days. I'd write more, but this is not much more than a news update really, I'm sure I will return to the subject later on.

I-country problems

2006-10-13T20:30:00.000+02:00

I appreciate the fact that there are a lot of things I never need to worry about. Food, water, housing and giganormous bombs in my immediate vicinity. The fact that I wake up in a warm and comfy (so incredibly comfy) bed every morning is an incredible luxury that relatively few people in this world has access to. However, this does not mean that I am not endlessly annoyed by my numerous I-country problems.

For example: Being forced to prioritize my reading materials. I have five books which I am absolutely gagging to read right now. However, my time is limited and I can only spend so much time and energy on reading, so, because of circumstances, I am forced to take them all in an orderly fashion, rather than haphazardly working myself through them all simultaneously. The four books are:

The joyful science by Nietzsche
A compendium of Leonardo da Vinci's note-books
The call of Chutulu and Other Weird Stories by H. P. Lovecraft
Anatomy for the Artist by Daniel Carter & Michael Courtney
The Complete Roman Amry by Adrian Goldsworthy

Out of these five, two are on loan, one from the library. This means that Mr. Goldsworthy and his prissy library-bills must take precedence, followed closely by Mr. Lovecraft who is longing to return to the care of his actual owner. The other three are recent purchases of mine and I am sure that someone else understands my obsessive need to dig into Mr. Da Vinci and Nietzsche's mind. It's just not fair. Two of my personal God's are at my fingertips and I can't touch them. I also got a new job this Tuesday, which is awesome, and I have a job-interview for another on my lunch-break on Tuesday, and I never have time to make use of the easel and the oil-pastels I didn't have to pay for myself. Life just sucks sometimes. I'm going to grab a snack.

One larp later.

2006-10-09T11:52:00.000+02:00

There is one particular truth that will always be rediscovered after every larp:

The three finest things civilization has to offer are coffee, pizza and ice-cold beer.

That being said, the larp was both more and less fun than I had expected. The larp in question (named "On the Road" more or less) is a tiny larp with around a hundred participators the last two years. While it usually succeeds in accomplishing exactly what it intends to, cozy partying around the camp-fire in cloaks and other funny clothes, it is objectively speaking a low-quality larp. What this means is that the IC-world is underdeveloped, the intrigues are more of an entertainment than serious thread for the characters to unravel during the larp and the characters in and of themselves are often shallow, unrealistic, underdeveloped, or stereotypes of some sort. This does not mean that there aren't characters present that are round or well-developed or that some of the more shallow characters aren't damned funny, but I'm sure you understand what I'm saying here.

There's nothing wrong with a low-quality larp as long as you don't arrive expecting something more. There is a lot of merit to this larp and in it's genre I think it's one of the better ones, not to mention that the area we use is absolutely gorgeous. Think Bauer and you'll have a pretty clear idea of what the area is like. Real troll-forest with a tiny lake. Absolutely gorgeous.

My problem was that once the larp started I realized that while I was well aware of what it would be like, it just wasn't satisfactory this time, I couldn't get into character, despite trying. Things that usually haven't bothered me were extremely annoying and my thoughts kept drifting to OOC-related things.

So, while there was good IC-things (the partying, the wrestling and the midnight group-hugs to keep warm comes to mind) my enoyment stems mostly from the OOC-bits.

Having worked from eleven AM to 7 PM and finally being given a pizza is so divine I can't even being to describe it. I was an animal, that little sucker never stood a chance before my greedy fingers and gnashing teeth. thirty seconds and it was gone, no joke. I even stopped to dig out the shattered olive-seeds from between my teeth. Carrying things isn't so bad when you have company either, many interesting conversations were had about larp-equality and how to create an IC equal world without losing the realistic edge.

This was all fun, I just don't want my larps to be about the OOC-fun these days, I want to larp because I'm looking forward to being my character and the events that include. I have a sneaking feel this is what they call "developing" or possibly "evolving". Scary.

Fascination

2006-10-04T23:44:00.000+02:00

I have, an admittedly childish fascination for pretty things. More importantly, I have a need to touch and fondle things that interest me. I occasionally hate going to museums because I'm not allowed to fondle the sculptures and stroke the paintings, highly frustrating.

My latest obsession is this. To be specific, it's a classically styled inkwell. A couple of days ago I decided, for the sake of a larp-character to learn some basic calligraphy (because, y'know, if you play a character who has been taught the art, it might be good to actually know it). To this end I purchased a wooden calligraphy pen, black calligraphy ink, and the glass inkwell that can be seen on the picture. a planned purchase is a beginner's book on medieval calligraphy styles, but for now, let us focus on the bottle.

If I could I would explain just why I am so enamored with this ink-bottle, but I'm not quite sure. I think it has potent imagery. Whenever my eyes land on it (often) I want to pick it up and just hold it. Something about the round shape is alluring and uncorking it is just pure pleasure. Maybe I need a better hobby, am I the only one who can see the mental image of a goose feather pen (another planned purchase) being dipped in that inkwell and moved smoothly over a piece of yellowed paper?

I think touch is really important to a piece of art. It activates you and you stop being an observer and become a participator. Large museums are death, because there is not a chance that you are going to be able to take it all in just by looking. I love interactive art. I remember the last time I went to Stockholms Museum of Modern Art, they had an exhibit on contemporary set design. One of the pieces were thousands of colourful bands hung from the roof so that turned into a thick forest of sorts, and you could go into it if you wanted. It was amazing. Watching someone go in was magical. They parted the narrow bands, and once they fell in place behind them, they disappeared. Going in yourself, all you could see were the colours. You could hear everyone else, but never see them and occasionally they would spring up upon you as if from nowhere. The experience truly felt like entering a classical Magical Forest.

Sometimes I wish I could just close my eyes and put my hands on a painting. I don't want to see it. I just want to feel the structure of the canvas and the paint beneath my fingers. It tickles the fingers and soothe the mind. Art, no matter how abstract is still a concrete object that you can put into your hands and sequeeze tight.

There really is something special in good, simplistic design. I should get back into clay and sculpting again. I miss it.

Exploding mushrooms

2006-10-04T15:34:00.000+02:00

There are a few things a person can be mocked for not knowing to do, boil an egg or tie their shoe-laces for example. Or make an omelette, if you cannot make an omelette you are truly inept and not fit to cut your momma's apron strings.

So my question is, does the kind of omelette you're attempting to make factor in, and what about exploding mushrooms? Do you get an ineptitude-discount for the exploding mushrooms?

Rarely before has making lunch been so risky and eventful. I thought this was going to be just any other lunch-making day. As I fried the potatoes nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary, how wrong I was. As I poured the mushrooms in, I noticed a distinct popping sound. Thinking nothing of it I proceeded to stir the mushrooms, and was immediately forced to take cover behind a chair as the frying pan sizzled angrily and shot a spray of cooking butter towards me.

Temporarily retreating I put on some Armour (read: hooded sweater) and approached cautiously. First order of business was to lower the heat, so far, so good. I decided to leave it be for a small while. Upon return I attempted to stir it again, despite omnious popping-noises. Despite my Armour I had to retreat as I was showered with not only cooking butter, but pieces of mushroom, too. What had I done to deserve this? I do not and may never know.

In the end a system was worked out where the frying pan was sat upon low heat for a short while, taken off heat, stirred and then returned until the mushrooms were sufficiently fried.

So, do I get an ineptitude-discount for total war? I hope so. I'd hate to be labelled inept on the account of exploding mushrooms.

Just another day

2006-10-02T14:02:00.000+02:00

It is interesting to note how different an event can seem, depending on our outlook. I woke up 10 minuets late today. The reason is that I had recived a textmessage on my cellphone (which doubles as my alarmclock) and the textmessage function apparantly supercedes the alarm-function. That is, the alarm wouldn't go off until I read my message. I've no idea who would program a phone in such a morbidly moronic manner, but there you go. Can't trust Nokia.

There are two ways to look on this.

1. Thank god I woke up without the clock!
2. I hate Nokia. I hate phones. I hate the world. Everything sucks. I'm going to eat worms.

While I desperately attempted to adopt the more positive outlook, my day was effectively off to a bad start. It is frustratingly difficult to choose your own reactions sometimes. As a general rule of the universe, a bad day usually gets worse, which is why this day has been an interesting phenomena. It's like karma can't decide, so it all goes up and down like a goddamn roller-coaster.

On one hand, I went to a job interview and was offered the job. A job I actualy want. On the other, I cried while waiting for the buss home. All in all, a roller-coaster day and I'm only halfway through. I'm feeling quite wrung out.

About writing

2006-09-29T01:04:00.000+02:00

I think I stopped defining myself as a writer several months ago. It feels strange and akward, I haven't been without that definition for a couple of years, but it doesn't fit anymore. I don't write. I'm not a writer. If I'm anything, I'm an editor. Although, that carries with it the intrisic problem that you're only really an editor if you work as one or have the right education (which of course begs the question wether the same should be said about the word "writer" or if we have "author" to glorify the truly proffesional writer. Writers are, after all, allowed to be amateurs, authors not so).

But I do feel like an editor, I want to be an editor. When I grow up I'm going to better texts for a living. There is something special in a good text. Potential, getting to be a part of something like that feels good, personal. Intimate. Seeing a text develop is purely fulfilling. On the flip side, people who despite tons of advice just don't get it. Drive me up the fucking wall. People who cannot develop, improve or listen to what they're being told should be shot on sight.

I really wish I could be a writer again though, so I'm making a vow to get back into the habit, and this blog is going to be my goddamn tool. I will write prose, poetry, blogs, essays, rants or otherwise, but I will write. And I will write every goddamn day and post it here. The key to writing is after all, habit. I need to get back into the habit and then maybe, I'll eventually get to the part where I can dredge out something worthwhile from it.

Yer a good girl, even if ya don' speak scottish.

2006-09-28T23:27:00.000+02:00

I don't hate my job, I wouldn't say that. There are however moments when I'm not sure wether I should laugh uproariously at the fine sense of humor our universe posess, or cry: because apparently I'm the butt-end of the joke.

The delicious irony is, of course, that I have phone-phobia, calling roughly a 100 different persons in one night doesn't seem to help, I can't bear to call to check out a potential job, if the ad doesn't provide me with an adress or an e-mail. Or worse, won't accept anything but a phonecall I'm out of luck. I just can't call. As a devoted believer in the credo Being In Total Control, Honey! this is fairly annoying, but the important thing here is that I've learned several interesting things in my short time as a telephone sales-person.

It is possible to say no in 46 different ways without drawing breath once.

People who own expensive cars, such as BMW's or Porsches are never at home.

People who own cars whose brand-names are too complex to pronounce are never at home either.

This is usually a good thing.

Mispronouncing Peugeot will make a lot of people laugh.

It is not part of a good selling-ethic to yell at your customers.

People with a dialect have a better sense of humor.

Calling people who are recently diseased is a bad idea

The people who live at home with their mom when they're 40 do exist.

Life as a Young Adult never cease to amaze me.

Lists

2006-09-20T22:41:00.000+02:00

I love lists. Lists has to be one of the most glorious inventions of human-kind. There is no other way that combines efficiency, planning and gratification in quite the same way as a list.

Once you've bulleted the things you need to do it's a simple matter of deciding each item's relative importance to each other and slowly, tick them off with a shiver of satisfaction as each little tick proves your actual worth in terms of action vs. lazing around.

To be quite frank, I've never characterized myself as a neat-freak, or a list-fetishist (the latter was brought on quite recently actually), but lately, I've been reconsidering the former statement. Granted, a couple of years back I was a slob of the worst sort. Filth and I were buddies, homies, brothers in arm and shit like that, but no more!

The first thing I do when I don't know what to do, is sort and clean. Usually my room, or as today, the fridge. It's an occasional behaviour that's proving to become more frequent. Possibly I should get into Feng Shui, but then I'd have to deal with the dilemma of placing my waste-paper basket either in my Friendship Corner or behind the Box o' Finances. Neither of which is desirable as my capability to retain money and keep up friendships are questionable, at best. Suffice to say, the waste-paper basket is a loathed, heavily discriminated item in Feng Shui and as such, I should clearly take a stand against it. Because we don't like racism.

If Feng Shui could somehow alleviate my capacity to keep cactuses alive I might reconsider my stance on the matter.

It is quite possible that I should make a list of pros and cons of taking up Feng Shui, watch this space.

Edith Södergran

2006-09-04T12:02:00.000+02:00

Nietzcheian feminist, lesbian icon, ground breaker of Finland-Swedish modernism. Despite all this, I don't have the slightest fucking clue as to what to make of this woman. I just can't seem to make up my mind.

One of the most obvious characteristics of her poetry is that she does not write verse. All of her poetry is strictly free-form. Something she freely admits being incapable of producing in the foreword of her second collection of poems, The September Lyre.

That my writing is poetry no one can deny, that it is verse I would not claim. I have tried to bring certain obstinate poems into a rhythm and thus discovered that I only possess the power of words and imagery in full freedom, that is, at the expense of rhythm.

The insight into (and admittedly, the arrogance of) her own capabilities is both something of reassurance and annoyance. On one hand, thank god she's aware of it at least. On the other, I'd like to see a bit more structure in her work, as the lack of it is a serious annoyance more often than not.

Not to mention the ellipses. Sweet Jesus on a stick the rampant abuse of the ellipses. I am half an inch short of violating her grave for the express purpose of shaking some sense into the mouldy contents of her skull. Rat-a-tat-a-Rattle. It's not worth it goddamnit! It's not worth it!

Despite these annoyances there are poems and moments where she shines.

Take my hand, take my white arm,
take my narrow shoulder's longing...

- The day cools I, Poems (1916, my trans.)

It reaches out and grabs you, ellipses and all. Perhaps even because of them. While she claims that her power over words and imagery is compromised by rhythms and rhyme-schemes, I find that her most compelling poems are often those that adhere to some sort of rhythm or meter.

You sought a flower
and found a fruit.
You sought a well
and found a sea.
You sought a woman
and found a soul.
- You are disappointed.

- The day cools IV, Poems (1916, my trans.)

So, I admit disappointment in the fact that she so clearly avoids to make use of it more often. One could of course argue that she was in fact, a mediocre poet who occasionally shone, but I'm not quite ready to make that judgement.

I don't have the slightets fucking clue as to what to make of this woman.

Books I need to buy before I die

2006-09-01T22:39:00.000+02:00

I recently made a short list of the books I have on my shelf in a forum I frequent, the result was rather depressing. So, to aid me in my future book-shopping endeavors, I'm starting a list of books I ought to buy at some point. Because I never remember when opportunity pokes me in the eye.

The complete works of William Shakespeare
Everything by Jules Verne
Impro by Keith Johnstone
1984 by George Orwell
Everything by Jonas Gardell
Thus spoke Zarathustra by Nietzche
The Dwarf by Pär Lagerkvist
Eats, shoots and leaves by Lynne Truss
The second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir
The Death Gate Cycle by Marget Weis and Tracy Hickman
Watership Down by Richard Adams
A decent swedish - english dictionary
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman
Drawing on the right-hand side of the brain and About Colour by Betty Edwards

Obscene amounts of editing is to be expected.

Pride and Prejudice

2006-09-01T22:25:00.000+02:00

Author: Jane Austen

Publishing house: W. W Norton & Company, Inc.

First Publication date: January, 1813

Shameful as it is, I must admit that I was lured into reading this book after watching the movie, and not even the old version either, but the most recent remake, starring Keira Knightely. However this has injured my aura of pretension and elitism, I promptly fell in love with the movie and it was with equal parts curiosity and dread that I cracked the book open to see if it, too, would tickle my fancy.

The book starts with the most exciting arrival of a certain Mr. Bingley at the mansion of Netherfield Hall. Accompanying him is his sisters but also, a good personal friend, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. While Mr. Bingley soon gains the reputation of being pleasant, charming and overall friendly, his companion Mr. Darcy, is found less agreeable and far too proud and haughty to be likeable. Ms. Elizabeth Bennet takes immediate dislike to him after an overheard slight at the Netherfield Ball and it is the conflict between these two individuals our story concerns.

One of my greatest worries in reading the book was the fact that is considered one of the greatest romance novels of our time. While I greatly enjoyed the movie, I was worried of encountering a never-ending stream of fluff, sap, swooning and Damsels in Distress. Suffice to say, this was not the case.

I know for a fact that several renowned feminists have been disappointed with Austen because the book does not promote female empowerment and equality. While I can, on one hand see where they are coming from, I can on the other, not join them in their political lamentations. Pride and Prejudice is a good story. The setting and the characters are solid, built upon Austen's keen observation of her own time as they are. The story holds the right amount of realism, obstacles and dreamy wish fulfillment to keep the reader engaged, what is there to be disappointed with?

While lacking any greater political impact I find several minor details that from the afore-mentioned feministic view-point certainly is encouraging. Elizabeth's dismissal of Mr. Collins proposal does not lead to dire consequences for herself as one would perhaps expect. Refusing an offer of marriage in the early 1800's was after all a very, very grave thing to do. On the contrary, by standing her ground, holding on to her beliefs she, an intelligent head-strong young woman, “wins”

While I greatly admire the wit and the gallantry of Austen's writing, there are some things that bothered me, although I'm not quite sure if it stems from her personal way of writing, or the writing style of the time. One problem stems from the narrator, while she uses that particular voice in a smooth manner, there are several events that we are merely told about but never shown, which irks me. Another, closely related problem is what she chooses to leave to the imagination of the reader: Tone of voice.

I freely admit that seeing the movie was helpful in establishing the characters and their mannerisms in my head, as Austen often left me hanging in that department. Wether a character whispered or cried out her words we were certainly aware, but were they upset? Happy? Sarcastic? Often, too often, this was left up to the interpretation of the reader in a wholly unresponsible manner, making the characters come across as blurry around the edges. I suspect this may turn several readers off from the book, which is quite sad.

Despite this, Pride and Prejudice is a lovely read which I would recommend to anyone. It is a feel-good tale in a realistic setting with snappy dialogue, good humor and just a pinch of dreamy to spice it up.

Succesfull lurking in 10 easy steps

2006-08-31T00:10:00.000+02:00

1. Enter the forum.
2. Read the Rules.
3. Read them again.
4. Read some of the posts.
5. Do NOT contribute your thoughts.
6. Read a few more.
7. Read the Rules.
8. Read another set of new posts.
9. Post.
10. Have a cookie.