Found this "Which Shakespeare Play are You?" meme over at debg's.
Planned on messing with it, of course, but decided not to when I saw my result. Kinda like this one.
Of course, I have to put it behind a cut because of the nudity....( Read more... )

Vietnam-era vet Owens re-ups.

daytonward has posted some invaluable guidance to writers trying to break into media tie-in writing on how the gate keeping process works. He was motivated to dispense this wisdom by an e-mail her received from someone who was doing it all wrong. Sadly he chose not to share the letter itself, from his allusions it should be entertaining.

Thanks, popfiend for this link:

A Central Washington softball team reminds us what sport is supposed to be about.

One of the things I really like about being my age is young ladies stop and hold the door for me.

The novel proposal I was very hopeful about was rejected.
But the editor liked elements of the story. She suggested we schedule a phone call to chat about how we could build on those to develop a novel.

And the rejection included an invitation to pitch for an upcoming anthology.
At this point -- as in about 20 minutes ago -- I have sent three high concept pitches e-winging their way across the Atlantic.

On the original fiction front. No matter what else I do -- day job, media writing, family commitments -- I am combining a set amount of time for needed research on geography, history, etc., with a production goal of 500 new words each day; seven days a week.

This is not fast. In fact this is glacial by my usual standards. But coming back after a month long stall, it's a pace I know I can maintain.

Thanks to jamesgilmer for sharing this link to Richard Morgan's excellent essay, which asks what's wrong with readers and writers of sf/fantasy -- and offers some common sense advice on growing up.

Sage advice for new writers on the busines of writing over on Romancing the Blog

It's coming up on 10:30AM here at ye olde day job. So far this morning I have reconciled the time sheets for all my direct support staff with their daily notes, updated one support person on changes in his client's services, completed the unit tracking logs for all my clients (an exercise in tedium you don't want to know about), defended an authorization for services request to Value Options (the watchdog agency that ensures we do not squander Medicaid funds), checked in with a few client families to see if they have any questions or concerns, and explained the copier/fax to the new QP. I've decided to get a cup of coffee and spend a few minutes updating y'all before heading out for a series of home visits and field supervisions.

One requirement of being a Qualified Professional ("case manager" in any other profession) is that I write a note documenting every interaction I have with -- or on behalf of -- a client. Each note should be at least half a page in 10-pt Ariel -- some can fill two pages. I usually write a few each day -- working from notes jotted in my pocket notebook -- however last week was such a bear that I wrote none. And, what with Sunday being my father's 84th birthday and all, I wrote none over the weekend. These QP notes are due at 2PM every Monday. So yesterday I wrote 36 notes -- 36 mini-stories each with a beginning, middle and end -- between 7:30AM and 1:30PM. My total output for those six hours was something north of 8,000 words.

Which made me think -- and think hard -- about my excuse that my writing has fallen off because of my day job. What I concluded, after careful consideration of all the factors involved, is that I'm an idiot.

I had let myself go back to believing the lie that kept me from writing when I was a photographer, when I was a teacher, when I was... You get the idea. True, I took a couple of months off to write To Ride the Chimera because I was contracted to produce a 100,000-word novel in 90 days. But before that, I wrote Wolf Hunters and a dozen short stories (that sold -- probably as many that haven't yet) while working full time in direct support. And hands-on teaching folks with mental health needs how to live independently is a lot more emotionally and physically draining than doing paperwork, supervising staff, and advocating with oversight agencies.

So.

My uncle, Allen Drury, wrote for six hours six days a week at a desk facing a wall. He was a big man, fond of big, simple rings. One such is crude silver with an Inuit scrimshaw of a caribou -- about 3/4 inch on a side.

Most of you know I have ADD and that -- for reasons we won't go into here -- my liver can not handle any sort of medication. This means I have to manage my inability to focus through behavior modifications -- including rituals, patterns, and preset visual cues.

Writing in half-hour or hour snatches between clients as I did when working direct support meant I had to find a public place where I could work. The Port City Java on Shipyard was centrally located and I did a lot of work there. But public places where I can work -- libraries, coffee shops, book stores -- are always filled with distractions. And Lord knows, if they have wi-fi I can lose myself for hours on the internet.

I developed a visual and tactile cue to keep myself on track while writing. I had to, otherwise I would have accomplished nothing during all those hasty, stolen hours in Port City Java. I wore my uncle's caribou ring. I'm not a jewelry wearer, so it feels unnatural on my hand. And it's heavy, so I'm always aware of its presence. And, as I type, I can see the unfamiliar silver-and-bone shape jumping back and forth at the bottom edge of my field of vision. Wearing the ring tells me I'm writing -- reminds me I'm a writer.

So.
Yesterday proved to me that my excuse for not writing is invalid.
And today -- and every day -- I am wearing my writer's ring.
I'm a writer. And it's about time I got back to it.

Mystic Seaport circa 1991

explained to Valerie that Star Trek and Star Wars are two different things.

Writer, editor, and cultural icon, kradical is 24 today.

Sorta.

My internet went down last night -- Time Warner lost our whole neighborhood -- so I'm posting this at work on my coffee break.

My Uncle Al passed away almost ten years ago. His house was full of memorabilia and souvenirs and art work from all over the world. Al loved to travel and he loved different cultures -- Native American, Middle Eastern, and Asian (mostly Chinese) -- were his favorites. Orthodox icons, Buddhas, rugs, carvings of all types, seed bowls, miniature teapots. Eclectic is the best description -- cluttered and disorganized is the one used most often. In cleaning out his house the Trustees hired a moving company that simply boxed things up as they found them and shipped them east. I have a few of them, my dad has some and my brother has more. Every now and then we open a box to see what we have.

We're doing some remodeling and a corner that was used for storage is being re-purposed, so I opened a few boxes this weekend to sort what can be discarded to reduce the overall volume . Kitchen stuff. Carefully wrapped corn-on-the-cob holders; owl-engraved cocktail glasses from his beloved Bohemian Grove; ashtrays and coffee mugs from a dozen different tourist resorts; really nice set of Japanese stainless flatware and trash bags. (Yes, folks, a 10-year-old unopened box of 13-gallon trash bags wrapped in newsprint. These movers packed everything.)

Amongst the pepper grinders and measuring cups were four Chinese jars and a selection of miniature items. I remember these were on a wall shelf next to his breakfast table. They'd have been to his right as he looked out over the Bay at Angel Island.
As with all of Uncle Al's things, I have no idea if these are antiques, quality modern reproductions or tourist-grade knock-offs. But they feel real, if you know what I mean.
I took a few photos. ( Read more... )

I've made some useful decisions on the original fiction front. I'll share more as I clarify what I'm about in my own mind, but I think I've chosen an interesting course.

A course that is going to involve a lot of work with no return anytime soon. Perhaps no return at all. I realize this is a state most writers face, but as a work-for-hire writer I'm used to submitting pitches and/or proposals, then hammering out an outline with the editor first. I usually don't write until I have a signed contract in hand. Producing entire novel-length manuscripts on spec is a bit daunting.

I'm also finding it more difficult to hold myself to a personal deadline than it is to meet a deadline imposed by a contract. I guess this should not be a surprise. On contract I've written 100k novels I'm proud of in three months. On my own it's looking like I'll need five. Unacceptable.

Saaaay.... (checks calendar) it's been nine weeks since I submitted the last set of proposals to that British Publisher I've been wooing. Turn around time on the previous batch was ten weeks. With luck I'll hear something by Friday next.

Looking over my submission book (Those who are computer literate use spreadsheets to track their submissions. Me, I have a left-over grade book from my teaching years that works just fine.) I see that I have let all but one of my original short stories come back over the last three months without immediately submitting them to new markets. In a couple of cases my excuse is the need to do market research -- but to not have sent any back out? Unforgivable. This is not how you earn a living as a writer, folks. With the week I'm facing it's going to be Saturday before I can devote any time to this -- but Saturday I will be printing up fresh copies and getting these stories back in the mail.

Because "write, mail, repeat" is the only way to make this business work.

My ClustrMap updated at some point this last week. I'm not sure which day because I have not been visiting often. I'm glad to see that I get fewer visitors when I'm not posting anything than when I'm posting regularly. It would have been pretty depressing to come back after five days or so and discover no change in the visitor flow.

I see I have new visitors from South Africa -- looks like Cape Town. Welcome aboard. And someone new in Argentina. And China. And South Korea. Looks like I'm getting more global every day. Glad to have all of you here.

As always if you're new here or if you've been around for years but haven't spoken up before -- or often, or recently -- introduce yourself. And of course I'd like to know what brings you to my obscure corner of the lj-verse.

The folks at central office gave me a new laptop. It has one of those eraser heads in the middle of the keyboard for moving the mouse around. Haven't had one since my original Toshiba -- back in the days before Pentium had a number after it. I much prefer the eraser to the touch-pad. However, I had to get used to it being there. For about two days I kept having to go back and put the "b"s back in words (I kept hitting the eraser instead of the "b" key and wouldn't notice until I spell checked).

Update on my earlier news release.

Girls Choir of Wilmington won Superiors at the Carowinds Choral Music Festival in Charlotte.

In response to their performance of "Freedom Trilogy," the congregation of the Cathedral of Saint Philip in Atlanta broke into spontaneous applause.

Lori Jareo, meet Austin P. Torney.

I have not been allowed to make this announcement for a month or more.

Mother's Day, May 11, will be the grand opening of the Farmhouse in Wilmington, NC. The Farmhouse is a 500-seat restaurant located on South College Road, across from UNCW. It will feature top quality American cuisine in a home-style atmosphere. It's several steps above "family restaurants" like Golden Coral or Quincy's, but it will be family friendly.

The manager is our elder daughter, the one on the right in the icon.

I'll post photos, sample menus and reservation information as they become available.

But first they are going to Charlotte!

On Saturday, April 5, the Girls' Choir of Wilmington will be competing in a choral music festival at Carowinds near Charlotte, NC.

On Sunday, April 6, the Girls' Choir of Wilmington will be singing at the 11:00AM service at the Cathedral of Saint Philip in Atlanta, GA.

Our youngest -- the one in the middle of the icon -- is with the GCW.

If you live nearby, make plans to attend!

There are few things I dislike as much as baseball.

Not hate -- hate is a whole different level. I reserve hate for things like child molesters or fascists packaging their poison as the "Christian conservatism." (An oxymoron that should be funny but isn't.) Dislike is for things like peanut butter lattes or country music or baseball. I really dislike baseball.

I played baseball, of course, as a kid. Late fifties, early sixties in the small-town south, a boy had no choice but to serve his time in the sandlot. For those who've led luckier childhoods, there are two opposed aspects in baseball: Defense, when your team is in the field trying to stop the other team from scoring; and offense, when your team is at bat and trying to score.
Play involves observing a few straightforward rules of conduct. When your team is in the field, try not to fall asleep standing among the sand spurs. If the ball comes anywhere near you, get it as fast as you can and throw it at Frank Drummond on third because -- in addition to being the only guy in range -- he'll know what to do with it. When your team is at bat, try not to fall asleep sitting on the bench. Don't feign an injury to avoid going to bat as it fools no one and gets you jeered and abused by both teams. When at bat try to time your swings to coincide with the ball passing in front of you. (If there are already two outs, take your glove to the plate with you so you won't have to go back and get it.)

Beyond those basics, there's not much to the game.

Except...
For reasons that elude me, cities will bankrupt their schools, devastate their infrastructure, and beggar their tax base to build mausoleums dedicated to baseball. Corporations are willing to pay grown men millions to reenact this childhood ordeal and millions of people are willing to spend their hard-earned cash to see if they actually go through with it.

Not surprisingly, a lot of deep thought comes out of baseball -- the long afternoon baking in the sun frees the mind to wander, I suppose. Though I know there's a good chance the simile will be misconstrued, I would say that in its capacity to induce reflective thought, baseball could be considered the sports equivalent of a bowel movement. However, unlike the bowel movement which connects us all to the earth from which we sprang, baseball's impulsion to thought affects not the practitioners but those who witness the event. The baseball player -- after an initial euphoric moment when he realizes he's not playing cricket -- must concentrate on not screwing up too badly on national television. (I would imagine this state of anticipating your next blunder would preclude a lot of abstract thought.) Those who watch baseball games suffer no such distractions -- anonymous in the crowd they relax in the certainty that no one will note or remember anything they do. Most baseball watchers fill the long hours waiting to see a highly paid surrogates for their childhood dreams fail with beer and a variety of foods for which their body will never forgive them. But others think -- filling the long void with metaphors and similes, generalities and particulars, insights and flights of fancy. Fantastic structures balanced on the simple foundation of the baseball diamond.

Some of those thinkers write about what they think. I'll be the first to admit that most of what they write in inaccessible to me. Opaque, in many cases. Their imagery and undergirding truisms spring from and are written for a culture in which I have neither place nor desire to gain entree. But sometimes -- even if you dislike baseball as much as I do -- you'll discover something that a baseball writer has written that is very much worth reading.

Case in point is Steven Goldman's excellent reflection on the 61st birthday of America; or rather, of what America was meant to be. It's one of the most thoughtful considerations of racism -- its origins, its tragic absurdity, and the struggle for its eradication -- that I've read in a long time. Go. Read.

(And thanks, kradical, for the heads up and the link.)