Reasie's Ritin'

I've spent a good bit of time and ink (pixels?) ranting about stories that don't get to the f'n point - about extraneous build-up, scenes that have no point, and so on.

I was reading a book the other day and just drooling over a long description of a costume, and it occurred to me, wait - isn't this what I don't like? Long descriptions that have nothing to do with the plot?

But, I thought, it's okay here - this is costume porn. I love costume porn. If I wasn't into costuming, I would probably hate and skip this paragraph that I'm re-reading with relish.

And it hit me. There are two components to any story. One is the story itself - the plot, the theme, the motion of the characters in time and thought. The other part is porn. The stuff that the author just thinks is neat and wants to look at. The shiny tinsel to our inner cat.

David Brin's porn is science. All those tedious asides about plate tectonics or biodiversity or whatever were part of the point of the story for him. The "oo shiny!" The catch with the porn element in a story is - it'll either be your cup of tea or it won't.

People who adore Pride and Prejudice adore verbal sparing - that's the porn there. Lord of the Rings has its endless fascination with linguistics. Sometimes the porn is actual porn - does Stephan King really need as many sex scenes as end up in his stories?

But hey, it's okay. Right? Infusing your story with self-indulgent detail isn't necessarily bad, it'll just limit your audience to that section of the population that shares your obsessions.

So I'm forgiving David Brin, and forgiving myself, a little. Though I still think it's best to limit such things so you don't put off a reader who just wants to know what happens, dang it!

I'm in a weird, hyper mood today.

Started forcing my husband to watch old Dr. Who DVDs. HEEEEE. Oh wow. The sets, the effects, the blocking, the dialog - it's all so, so bad. And yet I just adore it. I suppose you'll like anything if it was what you watched when you were 13.

Corollary - I've found it quite true that everyone's favorite doctor is the first one they watched, or the current one they are watching. That said, most all my contemporaries were Tom Baker fans. (Clearly, they started watching younger than I did. Or perhaps their PBS stations were further behind the British broadcasts. Yes. I will believe that, as it flatters Cleveland. Go channel 25!)

(At this point, my non-American friends will be amused to learn that yes, Dr. Who was broadcast on the EDUCATIONAL channel. Along with many other BBC shows. It's from England, it must be cultural. *snicker*)

When my writing workshop buddy Ferret asked who was my favorite doctor, I was afraid to answer, knowing I'd have to defend my choice, but then he announced that his favorite doctor was, like mine, Peter Davison.

Oh my new best friend!

Ferret is also the provider of the DVD crack. Oh yes, our friendship is now forged in adamantium!

(Sylvester McCoy is a close second. And once I'm done watching old Dr. Who, I can at last become indoctrinated in the NEW. And after that, this Torchwood business all my online friends are squeeing about.)

(or, Taking My Own Advice)

Last Wednesday, Vreile told me she wasn't sure if she would try to authorize at Brawl, saying that she wouldn't if Laurelen said she wasn't ready. And I told her to go for it - nothing ventured, nothing gained, and it wasn't like you couldn't try again if you didn't pass.

And then, five minutes later, Bryce asked me, "You gonna authorize in that at Brawl?" pointing at my great sword as I gathered it up to leave.

I'd been thinking, oh, I'll try to authorize some time after Pennsic, some fall event, you know. If I feel ready...

And then I realized what I was saying, and what I'd just said to Vreile, so I decided to give it a shot.

And promptly got nervous, because there was NO WAY I was ready.

You all see where this is going.

I stood around, feeling nervous, holding my great sword like a teddybear. Things got off to a slow start because it poured first thing in the morning - thunderstorms. We stood around under the shade pavilions, joking about how "No one has had any calibration issues, and everyone has followed orders - best war practice yet!"

(That was mostly Lorenzo, who was supposed to be leading a rapier war practice during the storm.)

Finally deciding it wasn't going to let up, we all marched to a small garage-type building to run the authorizations. It was cramped, but at least no one would get struck by lightning. Vreile passed her initial authorization, as did a few other folks, and it was gonna be me next, when someone announced, "Blue skies!"

We all marched back to the field that had initially been set aside for fighting.

Cellach was to be my authorization partner, and he took the initiative to gather a couple martials to watch and then we just - fought. Real informal, just sparring. I mean, I don't even think we did it that long. I did my best not to stress out, and even had a bit of fun, getting all grapple-y with it.

And then suddenly I was authorized in great sword. Boooyah!

Seriously, what was I waiting for? To be able to beat Callum consistently or some other vague, impossible goal?

Yay. Me likey the great sword. Next authorization I wanna go for: polearm.

Well, it's been resolved diplomatically.

Yay! There's something very real and neat about this online interaction, and I just feel so loved how my "clan" came to my aid.

I can see why people spend their lives on MMORPGs.

So, I joined this medieval war style facebook game called Realm of Empires (http://www.realmofempires.com/), because Mark invited me to it and had started a "Barony of the Cleftlands" on it. How cute, right?

I logged in, built a few buildings, and a wall around my little village, and then, well, didn't have time to play facebook games for a while.

Then I got emails from Mark and Grace: You've been attacked!!!

My little wall was gone! All my little people dead! My money taken!

Mark messaged the guy and asked politely for him to make reparation and we'd have a non-agression pact, because he's just one dude and we're a big clan of 25.

Dude said, "I can take you all on!"

Dude is, like, some 18-year-old.

He then proceeded to prove his masculinity by attacking me every 20 minutes. He's been doing this for several days, and I wonder when he finds time to eat and sleep. I mean, seriously. He attacks from around noon until midnight, and usually a few times between midnight and me waking up in the morning.

Needless to say, I haven't been able to do much in the game except try to keep my wall up and try to spend my money production on troops before he can steal it.

BUT...

this is the most invested in an online war game I've ever felt. Because my "clan" is sending aid and they are making battle plans and this dude is going DOWN. OMG.

This morning I saw the best note:

"Caius: Attacked. No troops home. Thanks for your lunch money, kid."

It's funny, because the guy's continued aggression and total jerk behavior makes the whole thing MORE fun. I should, like, thank him. After we raze his city to the ground.

Brian and I went garage sale shopping this past weekend and I was amazed at the disparate pricing schemes. Most people price things to move at a garage sale, and there are some genuine "finds".

I got four beautiful hand-embroidered handkerchiefs with picot lace edging for $1.

Then we went to this obviously wealthy house - the owner was displaying his vintage 60s Cadillac as well as several model ships. Everything was priced as though brand-new. $40 for a book. $50 for a plain, ordinary glass vase. The owner of the house was quick to point out that most everything was a collectors item.

:P

"Collectors Items" are a weird phenomena. I remember when I found out that my Magic cards were worth hundreds of dollars, according to some Magic collectors magazine. A friend who said he went to lots of comic conventions promised to sell my cards in exchange for one of the more valuable ones. He took the valuable card and never sold a one.

Then again, would he have? I just... doubt it. I know there are people who will pay the "market price" for a Mox Lotus, but honestly, how many folks like that are there, and in the pre-e-bay era, how would I have found them?

Now my Magic cards are, like so many other collector's, sitting in a box in the attic. And if I still had Tawnos' Candelabra and Urza's Triple, really, would I feel wealthier?

Looking around that person's garage sale, what I saw was a sad burdening of objects devoid of purpose. It kinda made me sad. Is a collector's item basket worth it if it just sits there with a price tag on it, urging you that it's a genuine Lundberg basket? In my opinion, no. And this bizarre... gambling of objects is just kinda lame.

Darn, I was going to post a poll, but my paid account ran out.

Advice?

Should I pay for another year of premium LJ so I can post polls?

Should I continue reading "Earth" even though it annoys me no end? (Perhaps it will inspire me with what I don't like to write something better?)

Should I give up on ever hearing back from Tor on TGA? It's been a year.

*sigh*

Yeah, so after my exciting morning biking yesterday, what with the failed brakes and the near-death, I decided to be experimental on my way home and see if taking Cornell up to Edgehill would be easier than going down Adelbert to Cedar.

Short answer: no.

I did make it without walking the bike, but I used the lowest gear - or near it. Like, lowest on the back wheel, mid-gear on the pedals because it wouldn't shift down. I've never used such a low gear before, but I'm trying not to re-injure my knees and quit being such a lazy butt.

See, I realized the reason I went up hills in the highest gear possible wasn't machismo - it was cardiovascular laziness. I don't care how much my muscles hurt, so long as my lungs take it easy. :P

I'd rather pedal hard than fast. I suspect I'm not the only one.

Anyway, yeah - I went up Edgehill, and then instead of turning on Derbyshire to get to Cedar, I kept along Edgehill because, er, I forgot? Well, I took a nice "long cut" home. :P

[Edit: checked google pedometer and actually, not a long cut - looks like the route is a little SHORTER than my usual, just a lot steeper, and with the added annoyance of going down and up again at Meadowbrook: http://bit.ly/2pX5P ]

Saturday's event was very full of melee fun and my thighs were sore all day Sunday. They ain't less sore today. I hope this means happy new muscle mass, but mostly it means walking like a little old lady. :P

There are many things I've learned from SCA combat. I've learned that the skin of the inner thigh is really much more sensitive than the skin of the outer thigh. I've learned that after a few hours running around a grassy field, you blow your nose and dirt comes out.

I didn't say it was all weighty stuff. ;)

But I've also learned the real, visceral meaning of Yoda's old, "Do, or do not: there is no 'try'."

Time and again, I feel it. I'll be faced with a line of guys and told to charge 'em, and I'll think, "Okay, I'm gonna try..." and I bounce off 'em like a quarter on a trampoline. But if I look at 'em and think "Oh yeah, I'm going through that. Right there, between the blue shield and the red one," I do. Easy as falling off a baby log. (As Dread Pirate Don Carnage would say.)

"Just Do It" is one of those deceptively easy concepts that you have to learn over and over again. And I think often we stop ourselves from succeeding for fear of failure. I've heard so many people say "I can't" or "I couldn't."

I thought I couldn't do more than four push-ups in full armor. Saturday I did seven, and I think I could have done better.

I thought I couldn't ride a bike up Cedar Hill. Now I do all the time.

So many people I hear say they can't do things, and it's sad, because I know they can, but they won't believe me; they have to do it to learn they could all along.

That's a side-step, really, from the whole "Do, or do not." I guess it's about not accepting the concept of defeat into your brain. It takes up space and weighs you down. Sometimes I see guys in combat and they hang just outside of their weapon range, moving a little nervously back and forth like the Mortal Kombat guys before you get control of them. They're anxious about losing, they see their defeat before them. Which is a great thing to see in front of you, not so great in the shield-wall next to you.

Also, this morning I "tried" to use the brakes on my bike and found them to still be disconnected from the last time we took the back wheel off.

Amazing how slowly the concept of putting my feet down to stop came to me. I pumped that useless brake-handle eight times, I think, and veered wildly, finally got onto the sidewalk with my feet down, and the cop who nearly hit me took down my information.

I was planning on posting about the "Do or do not" thing this morning, anyway. ;)

Yesterday at lunch I was in line at Quiznos with a construction worker, and we chatted pleasantly about the new building at University Hospitals, which he was working on, the rain, and so on. I helped him out by reading the fine print on the menu board, and he asked me if I was out of school yet.

"Dude, I graduated from Case over ten years ago."

He was stunned, completely stunned. "How old are you?" When I told him I was thirty-five, he said I didn't look a bit over 24.

*preen*

THEN, after work, Brian and I went to Little Italy for dinner. (Gusto is just to die for. Their bruscetta is an orgasmic experience.) After a wonderful meal with a full-bodied red wine, we strolled through the shops and found a photography gallery open. The proprietor asked, "What does it cost to get that braid let down?" He offered a free print if I'd let him photograph my hair.

So I un-did my braid, and was treated to much exclamation on the beauty, fullness, and uniqueness of my hair. And then a photography session as he posed me all around his shop, draping my hair over a banister, my arm, and eventually over Brian.

I've been endeavoring, since finishing The Faerie Queen, to read light, enjoyable summer reading.

(Okay, A Book of Five Rings is an outlier. I had to read it to give it back to the person I borrowed it from!)

To that end I decided to read some Science Fiction I had waiting on my "to read" list, and the first I chose was David Brin's Earth, which was highly recommended to me with ecstatic praises.

Dude. I want Faerie Queen back!

Okay, I'm not that far into it, but let me give you a synopsis of what I've read so far:

Sheepish young scientist thinks he may have accidentally doomed us all, creating a singularity that has sunk into the Earth and may be eating it hollow as we speak. He then thinks about various physics problems with gravity and falling into a planet and talks at great length about what a singularity is to his funding backer, who is intelligent but seemingly plays dumb so we can all get this physics lesson.

Cut to a pilot docking a space shuttle at a space station. Although worried about seeing her estranged husband and hoping to patch things up with him, the majoirty of her thoughts are on the physics involved in limiting fuel consumption during the docking procedure, which she thinks through for us in agonizing detail.

Cut to a man and his daughter rock climbing. Specifically, cut to man romanticizing in his mind about the boundary between Permian and Carboniferous formations in the rock he is climbing. Lots of detail I really really don't need about the difference between the two eras and why the rock looks different and what a rock layer boundary is.

... do you see a pattern?

Why are we spending so much time in people's heads? The world is about to end! How about some action?

Noooo. Sheepish young scientist finds his singularity, and it looks like it is dissipating safely. But something isn't right. He looks at the math. More thoughts about gravity. A chart. A mother-loving CHART. There's something else down there! We're still doomed.

Is this enjoyable? I mean, do people actually like reading long lectures in the middle of their fiction on topics ranging from black holes to baboon behavior? (Yeah, the part I'm on now is a zoo keeper.) David Brin obviously has a good command of the English language, and he's obviously setting up a complex plot, but he bogs it all down so tediously. To my mind, the behavior of a black hole might be significant to the plot, but telling us about it isn't. Why have anything "on camera" that doesn't advance the story? And by story, I don't mean "physical explanations of everything."

A cowboy story doesn't have the cowboy stop and think about how his pistol fires. A modern novel wouldn't have a secretary thinking about the inner workings of her computer. Why do science fiction people have to demonstrate their understanding to us of every little thing?

I'm tempted to throw the book against a wall and go back to reading nothing but vampire romance novels, but I'm afraid that would make me a bad science fiction fan. I dunno. I want to be a science fiction writer, and I want to appeal to this man's audience, but if his audience really likes mini-lectures every other page, I'm not going to appeal to them at all, am I?

I fear once again that I may be doomed to write fantasy. Which is a "girl genre" and therefore icky. :P

So, having borrowed it from Lubeck a century or so ago, and realizing that he may just want it back after he casually mentioned it ("Damn, I have no idea where my copy of A Book of Five Rings went. I haven't seen it in years!" were his words), I decided to finally read the darn thing so I can give it back.

The jacket copy assures you that reading this book will make you a financial success! Just like business men throughout Japan! (Guess the decade when that was written, eh?)

I don't feel like it changed my outlook on life or fighting particularly, but it might be a victim of its own success - many of the tenants in the book had already been read or heard elsewhere - but it made me think so much I felt I had to write down a brief summary of what I learned in the book.

( This is gonna get long... )

I haven't been writing much, lately, as I have opined many a time here. I'm reading a translation of Musashi's Five Rings, and finding that it's best to read one page at a time.

Some things resonate well with what I've been told in SCA fighting. Laurelen is always banging on about "CUT your opponent, don't touch him, cut through him." And sure enough, there is a section of Musashi that says roughly the same thing.

What does this have to do with writing?

I've been thinking more and more about the WAY of writing, the essence of story-telling. I've found it's easier than I've made it out, I've constructed all sorts of obstacles to my own understanding and telling.

At its essence, writing a novel is the same creature as telling your buddies about what embarrassing thing Steve did at the campground last night.

Stay with me here.

We've all had the experience of relating a tale from our own lives, or having one related to us. "So, okay, there we were, at the campground, and, like, it was really hot, okay?"

Most people are not skilled at relaying the funny stories of their experience. They tend to tell too much information at the beginning. "Andy was there, oh and John. It was right after John broke up with Ellen, so he was there with Sue and Sue had on this cute top... anyway, that's not important. What's important is that Steve..."

The skilled recounter of embarrassing incidents cuts through the extraneous, identifies the core moment of the story - Steve fell in the lake - and then works back to provide only the details necessary to set up the punch line. He cuts through to the heart of the story, rather than slashing about its periphery.

This is, of course, only part of the way, but it is an important part.

Yeah, Fight practice last night. I was very lackadaisical about getting there. I weeded my garden (not something that happens terribly often!) and took a wee nap after work.

Still, I wasn't the latest person there, and had plenty of time to practice my bastard sword before the melees were called.

We did the "In and out" drills. What fun!! We start in the center of the field, back-to-back, run to the list ropes, turn, and then run at each other. It's exhausting, but it's also about making us re-form on the move, which is an important skill in melee.

And, of course, that special species of hatred we all felt for Laurelen when he announced we were doing it again the fourth time is very team-spirit-building. :P

I'm less sore this morning than usual. I think it was that the heat and wind got to me before my muscles gave out. Very pleased with how well I kept my inner voice shut up during practice. My goal for the night was to not think, or at least not think about myself, to remember at all times that this isn't about me. It doesn't matter if I'm the last picked when we make up sides or if I never get picked to be line commander... because it's not about me. Everyone in a melee team has a job to do - and only one guy has the job of commander. The important thing is to do your job. What kind of organism could function if every leg tried to be a head?

As my dad would say: Ya dig?

I adore my dad, and we get along great, but I can't help but notice that every get-together with him is most memorable for the sheer amount of "I dunno, what do you want to do?" that proceeds it.

We went to Squire's Castle, briefly, and then to Manhattan Deli at Loehman's Plaza for dinner. My little sister is quite the sarcasm champion now, and I'm starting to suspect Typical Sitcom Humor is affecting her in this way.

Oh, we also got ice cream at Foster's on Chardon Road. It was a very eaty visit and my tummy about burst.

We went out bowling last night, a Cleftlands Fighters team-building recreation, if you will. I enjoyed myself, but I found myself thinking more about myself than learning about my fellow fighters.

(Oh, so vain am I!)

No, wait - this is gonna get a little philosophical. I found that every time I went to bowl, my primary concern was: do this quickly, don't keep people waiting!

Followed closely by: you have to try hard and do good, no one likes to bowl with someone who isn't really trying.

I bowled better, just like I fight better, when I was able to shut out those thoughts and just bowl.

(And of course I was intently navel-gazing as I bowl. Largely to avoid feeling shy and "OMG do they like me? Am I in the way? I bet I'm in the way. They'd have a better time if I wasn't here.")

I'm reading this book on Buddhism right now and it has me thinking about the concept of absence of self, and how it's not quite what you think it is. Even thoughts that you might think are 'unselfish' (I have to make sure everyone else is having a good time!) are full of self. I have to make sure.

Remember a while ago when I talked about getting away from myself in my poetry? It's the same thing, really. We are so preoccupied with our selves. How we look, what people might be thinking of us. I don't know about you, but I frequently go through life with this imaginary audience judging my every move and decision. "Wait, I can't wear that, people will think I'm trying too hard to be 'hip'. Or will people think I'm too fuddy-duddy if I wear the sweatshirt instead?"

People, in general, don't think about what you're wearing. People, in general, don't care. Or they're too busy worrying about what people think about what they are wearing.

It's a big fat load of mind-clouding crap. Drop it. Just let it go. Be. Do.

Absence of self can involve total awareness of your own motion and movement. I only think I've had the experience twice, what they call "No mind", when the internal chatter silences and you can feel that non-verbal awareness and the body executes learned motion with ease. It's so amazing, and easy, when you can get your brain to just shut up!!

But boy howdy is it hard getting there.

My cousin Doug and his new wife Jen are starting their 5,000 mile bike ride across the US:


How f'n cool is that? Did I mention that after that they are going to The Gambia to start a business providing solar-powered LCD lighting? And, like, he totallies graduated from MIT with honors. I'm very proud of my cousin. All my cousins down on that side of the family. Aunt Jean raised good boys. And they married great women.

*happy sigh*

Eenie collapsed yesterday some time while we were at work. We found her lying in the sun, panting rapidly, her tongue lolling out and unresponsive. I feared she'd suffered heat-stroke, and carried her to the kitchen table and set ice-packs around her. I was able to get her to drink a small amount of water.

We took her to the emergency vet in Mentor, they put her on fluids and checked her vitals. Her heart and breath rate were normal at that time, and she woke up enough to meow and complain about being at the vet, but she was still very sluggish. I admit it - I felt confident she was going to be okay at that point.

Brian took her to our regular vet this morning. She just called. It's time to let Eenie go.

I've had this cat since I was just a kid. It's hard to let her go, but we have to do what's most humane for Eenie, and she's not enjoying life too terribly much right now.

I have no idea how I'm going to get any work done today...

... the vet just called. We were hoping to be there for Eenie at the end, but she passed away on her own just now. Gotta get in touch with Brian or John to pick her up.

I don't kill a lot of people in melee. In fact, for the first few years I fought, I thought there was something wrong with me, because after every battle the guys would all start bragging about their kills, and I couldn't remember a one.

I used to not like Melee. I considered myself a tourney fighter who did melee because it was expected and the group needs a battle unit. This was because I felt I wasn't "useful" in melee, I wasn't "learning", I felt like just another body on the wall, a human speed-bump. At least in single combat, well, obviously, I was an integral part of the combat.

I don't feel that way anymore. In fact, I think my favor is tilting toward melee now, because I've reached the point where I can forget myself in it. I'm not important - so? It's like being in a choir. You can't hear any individual's voice, but the choir itself does things no individual voice could. The individual is subsumed into the whole. And made greater for it. That is the great thing about melee.

I'm not a skilled swordsman. I try, I do, but for whatever reason, I just ain't got that killing arm, yet. But I know how to receive a charge and how to hold my shield. And I've grown comfortable with that. I'm at the point where I don't have to have a bunch of "kills" to say I did good. I feel great just having stood at the front of the engagement a long time, knocking spear-hooks off my shield and staying alive. Because while I was doing that, the spears behind me were killing. I think I killed more people with my shield than sword on Saturday (yay for knocking people off bridges!) and I'm cool with that.

Saturday was Northern Oaken War Maneuvers, and I had a wonderful time, despite the fact that, well, I didn't exactly pack well. (I brought no garb, no change of clothes at all other than the ones I wore to fight. This got stinky and cold come around court-time.)

I had such a good time on Saturday that I woke up around the crack of noon on Sunday, checked the time, rolled over and went back to sleep. :) Hubby made French Toast around one or two pm, and then there was some lollygagging about followed by checking my email around four, when I discovered that Sunday was Hamsters! DOH!

Eh. Ah well. I gave myself the whole day Sunday to do two things: Comb my hair and mow the lawn. I did at last get the hair combed, just before bed. :P

I look back and all I can think is, "What did I do??" I know I played a little facebook, but surely??