Deborah Kalin's Blog, page 16

social networking overload

Croatia is, well, it's partially booked, and the rest of it is planned. That totally counts as progress. I'm going to be seeing Zagreb, the UNESCO listed Plitvice Lakes, and the Dalmatian coast. This strikes me as a most excellent way of spending some time.

This weekend I also managed to book my flights to America for WFC 2011. Yet more progress!

In more ephemeral progress, I've also been pondering the thornsome dilemma that is social media. There is, quite simply, too much of it.

I like blogging for the fact that it's my website, and my voice, and I like the space you get in blog posts, both writing them and reading them. Conversely, I like Twitter for its immediacy, and for its ephemeral, thrown-off nature. I don't like Facebook — too much noise to signal, and the platform makes it impossible to filter content from chatter. I have a Goodreads account, but I can't remember the last time I found time to log in. I'm on Google+, which I like better than Facebook if only for its more easily-accessible privacy and filtering utilities, but it does feel like yet another platform I'm supposed to keep up with. Yet another platform where I have to face the dilemma of whether I cross-post, and commit the sin of forcing people who are following me on more than the one platform to trawl through duplicate content, or whether I strive to come up with original content for just this platform…

It's frustrating, because I enjoy the interaction, but the time consumption and the fragmented concentration is simply too draining.

So I am hereby giving myself permission to say that two social media platforms is my limit. For now that's my blog, and twitter. I'll still lurk on the other platforms, but I won't be logging in unless they demand my attention.

I think this also counts as progress.

everything is overdue

Somewhere along the way, it was forced to my attention that I'm leaving for Europe in two months' time. Well, at that point it was two months: it's now about six weeks. Do I have everything booked? No. Do I have anything booked? Well, sorta. A bit.

I'm also due to depart for the US about a week after I land back home in Aus, which means I should actually get everything for that second trip taken care of, um, now.

So, yeah, I've hit that stage of pre-travel when everything falls by the wayside while critical planning and booking errands get attended to. This is otherwise known as The Frustrating Yuck Bit.

On the other hand, last night I got to choose which bits of Slovenia I most want to see. So, since I very much enjoy making people envious of my travel plans (mostly because I get to travel so rarely, and spend so much of my intervening time being envious of everyone else's travel plans), I thought I would share.

Lake Bled

Vintgar Gorge

Lake Bohinj

Vrsic Pass

And, although I couldn't find a commons-licensed picture quickly, I'm also going to the Tolmin Gorges, among others.

Then it will be on to Croatia. The planning of which, er, is tonight's errand. Right, yes, on to that then.

we interrupt this silence for a brief message

I read somewhere once that it was terribly poor form to start a blog post with an apology for the silence. Now, whenever I feel I've let one too many days slip by without blogging, I'm paralysed for how to start, since apparently I can't start with an apology.

On such quibbling social anxieties my world turns.

Anyrate, at the risk of being passé, apologies for the silence. Life threw the pterosaur's family a bit of a curve ball, and I've been required offline lately. In fact, I'm currently stealing a quiet moment in the sewing room to dash this off from my phone (how did I ever live without the Internet on my phone?).

First, FREE STUFF!

There's an interview of me up at the blog of the fabulous Rowena, where I mostly talk about The Binding books, but also talk a little bit about other topics. There's also a chance to win a free copy of both Shadow Queen and Shadow Bound, simply by commenting. So if you've always wanted to read the books and never got around to it, head on over and leave a comment. Or, if you've already read the books but can think of someone who might enjoy them, send them linkwards!

Second, only partial self-promotion:

I came across a link to Gnod's Literature Map in my tweetstream. (If you'd like the link that led me there, it was via Publisher's Weekly, which link contains a brief explanation of how it works.)

It's an awesome idea for finding the next book to read, since us authors write so slowly and you readers read so swiftly!

Of course, since I am but a little Australian fledgeling, my name is not recognised in the literature map yet — so if you do happen to head over there, help a girl out by searching for me and, when the site displays the "I don't know this author", click the offered link to confirm I exist.

And while you're at it, add in some unknown antipodean authors like Rowena Cory Daniells, or Tansy Raynor Roberts, or Jo Anderton, or Karen Healey, to name but a handful. I've added them myself, but the site needs more than a single vote to believe it.

And now, I really must get back to the fray, so I leave you with 8 prehistoric creatures from your nightmares, to which the pterosaur would like me to add a ninth: YOUR SKULL, DEB.

why, hello again, 5:55am.

At last, I've bowed to the inevitable and taken up writing in the mornings again.

I've always written best(ish) in the mornings — by which I mean I like that I start the day knowing I have words on the manuscript, and I like that the manuscript gets first dibs on my attention. At that time of day it's more sleep-deprived than fresh, but at least it isn't drained by attending to the day's myriad needs into the bargain, which is generally my evening state of mind.

It's fair to say, though, I don't like getting up early. The bed is waaaaaaaaaarm. My eyeballs take twenty minutes to work up any moisture and come to something approximating a working agreement with my contact lenses, so I'm not exaggerating when I say the first hundred or so words are written literally blind. (Lucky I can touch-type.) Writing to a clock, because I have to stop in time to get to the dayjob, means I'm constantly interrupting myself to check the time. (I've set an alarm to keep track of the time for me, but it's a nervous tic. I'm hoping practice will help me relax and trust the alarm sooner or later.)

What I love, nay absolutely ADORE, about writing in the mornings is that I am the only person in the world. Sitting tucked up in the dark, with only myself and my laptop and my imagination, knowing the rest of the world is sleeping and no one, but no one, will disturb me … it's divine beyond words. Of course, I'd prefer that snug dark lonesomeness to be post-midnight, but that doesn't work so well with a dayjob. Pre-dawn is the next best thing.

Despite knowing from experience this was my best option, I fought it. Because it's cold in the mornings: I don't need more chillblains, and that kind of cold only exacerbates the aches in my back, neck, shoulders and wrists. Because it seemed like it would create more problems in my daily routine than it would solve, such as waking the pterosaur or making it impossible for me to get enough sleep. Because I wanted to try being more flexible and less routine-driven, like normal people.

But I tried flexible and less routine-driven, and all it gave me was less time than before, and a never-ending slew of last-minute errands which regularly swallowed any chance of writing that day. And I underestimated the pterosaur, who is simultaneously supportive and utterly unrousable in that he manages to lift the doona and help push me upright without actually waking himself. And as for the cold … I have a heater now!

Sometimes, taking time for your writing means admitting you need those routines that you think make you boring. And taking that time, and enforcing that routine, even though you risk some people thinking you're boring. Because the people that count will understand. (Although they will probably still think you're a little bit crazy. But everyone knew that bit already anyway.)

I haven't mentioned the pterosaur overmuch on the blog, out of respect for his privacy, but suffice to say he's named for the noise he makes when he hiccoughs. It's totally the noise a flying dino would make if it had just spotted delicious (utterly deaf) prey. Startling stuff.

the face of an introvert

Apparently my blog comes up in the top rankings for Google queries about introversion being a disease.

This is, of course, care of my rant introversion is not a disease.

People are often surprised to hear me claim I'm introverted. I imagine I'm not alone among introverts in this, because introverts and introversion are not well-understood in general.

I've been drafting a post on this, on and off, for the last week, ever since a friend rationalised her surprise at my being introverted with the comment, "But I guess it's because you look confident in your field. Introverts are mostly really uncomfortable, even in their own field."

It was the first conscious inkling I had that there's a real misunderstanding out there about what introversion is, and what it looks like.

And today, via my tweet stream, the internet delivered ten myths about introverts:

Myth #1 – Introverts don't like to talk.

This is not true. Introverts just don't talk unless they have something to say. They hate small talk. Get an introvert talking about something they are interested in, and they won't shut up for days.

Myth #2 – Introverts are shy.

Shyness has nothing to do with being an Introvert. Introverts are not necessarily afraid of people. What they need is a reason to interact. They don't interact for the sake of interacting. If you want to talk to an Introvert, just start talking. Don't worry about being polite.

This list is so perfect, and so entirely encapsulates what I wanted to say (or at least begin with) ever since I first started drafting this post, that even though I already re-tweeted it, I thought it bore repeating here.

If only because I've already had one friend discover, on reading the list, that he was, to his own surprise, an introvert. To which I say: welcome to the (quiet-like) club!

oh, the glamour

It's a long weekend in my part of the world, which means I'm tucked up at home eyeballing the novel. My plan is, if I can lull it into a false sense of security by doing inconsequential errands around it, it won't notice when I start working on it, ever so gently, ever so slowly. And I'll be able to pin another few hundred words onto its bedraggled ends before it figures out a way to protest. Writing, guerilla-Frankenstein style.

It's not the cleverest method of writing, in that it tends to lead to a lot of half-completed errands. For example my breakfast this morning was a soft-boiled egg. It was not meant to be soft-boiled: I was actually aiming for hard-boiled. But I got distracted by writing thoughts, and then I couldn't remember how long the dang thing had been sitting there whistling, and anyway I was hungry, so I just fished it out and started peeling it. And then when it started running everywhere, and I had no bread to sop it up and make it delicious, I admit it: I just drank the damn thing.

It was … kinda not awesome.

This is a large part of the reason I do not trust myself to provide food to other, more normal, people.

like the pensive penguin

Complain that you hate your novel, and the internet gives you possible explanations.

First it was a post by Clarissa Draper on writer's block boredom, and coping therewith1 which made me realise I was bored. Oh, of COURSE. To be fair, I've never written to an outline before, precisely because every time I try I end up being bored, and I thought my current level of boredom was "just" because of the outline, not due to the trudgery, gotta-get-through-this-detail bit of the narrative.

To counter my boredom, I have decided to kill off a (very nice) priest, which is helping to liven things up a little.

After that, it was Rowena's post on narrative structure, linking to a discussion of linear and patterned structure by Jennifer Crusie, and that got me to wondering whether the faerie novel was supposed to be patterned rather than linear… (For the record, I don't think it is. At all, in fact. But at least it got me thinking, and I'm sure an awareness of the pattern and shape hanging above all this detail I'm currently trudging through can't hurt. And I have a feeling that, while I'm writing the bits I know linearly, I'm still going to be mulling over the larger structure for a while to come.) Like the pensive penguin I am.

Then I spent Saturday, in a random and unexpected turn of events, totally and utterly neglecting ignoring resting from my writing, including attending a party where all and sundry fondly chastised me for never taking weekends off and made me promise to schedule some downtime into my routine. I interpreted this as permission to spend Sunday totally and utterly resting from my writing. And it was glorious. And included chocolate-covered peanuts.

So. The internet/universe, it turns out, is listening. Even if it doesn't always look that way. Because the internet/universe is a bit creepy that way.

(Dear internet/universe, I would really appreciate it if my neck and shoulder muscles did not ache all. the. time. (And no fair just shifting the ache somewhere else.) Just putting that out there.)

(Also, while you're at it, I want a pterosaur of my very own. No particular rush.)

I really have spent too long in the dayjob. The lawyers always put there before every preposition, whether it belongs or not, and I've fallen into the same habit because I have to argue back using their own language. Therewith. Thereto. Therein. Thereat. Therebetween. That last one doesn't even exist! Lawyers, do you SEE the perversions you make me practice upon the English language? I will never forgive you.

on a winter's sunday i go

So one of my tasks, pre departure for Europe, among the planning of itineraries and other such intricacies, is to find myself a bridesmaid dress. Internets, this is not really my forte. I have a picture of the dress I must match/complement but really, it's not like white is a difficult colour to match/complement so that's not quite as helpful as I was hoping. This weekend just gone, after discovering yet again that I had too much work on hand to leave the house, I decided to try window shopping via the internet. This was not such a good idea. I found dresses, of course — dresses which had no price listed against them (and are therefore automatically out of my price range) and which need to be ordered with up to 16 weeks notice. Oh dear. You can attend a wedding in jeans, right? Totally normal.

On the writing front, I absolutely hate and loathe the faerie novel all of a sudden. Not sure what happened: I was loving it, then not loving it but it was just a bit of a slog, and suddenly it's the worst tripe ever written. If I could be sure it was purely and simply that dreaded middle point, I could forge on ahead knowing the love will return. But alas, I cannot silence the little nagging thought that it could be a symptom of a narrative that's taken the bit between its teeth and dashed off over a cliff in the middle of the night. Which means there'll be a broken neck come morning, and no one likes cleaning up that sort of mess.

So while I wrestle with my inner editor and my inner suck-monkey, who may or may not be in cahoots or at odds, have some more local graffiti. I would dearly like to know what she's advertising, as it were.

(Hey, maybe it's a boutique bridesmaid dress and manuscript writing outfit and all my dreams are answered…?)

there is no moral to this tale

Glimpse by whim by "What if…?", the Europe trip is starting to take shape. So far there's no actual firm itinerary, but just today StumbleUpon gave me 66 Beautiful Small Cities & Towns in Europe and hello!

Bern, Graz and Salzburg, Bled, Trogir and Hvar were already on my list, but I'm now seriously considering a day trip to Mostar into the bargain. I was trying to find a way to get across from Dubrovnik to Meteora, but so far the world is not proving particularly accommodating in that regard. Colour me somewhat peeved.

I'm also told by reliable sources that there are a range of castles for sale in Slovenia to suit any budget. If that's true, I'm totally buying one. It may be my only chance to own property, ever.

In more banal news, it's been an "I'm a writing CHUMP" sort of string of days, lately. Mostly this has been because I turned back to the thorn girls story to do some more revision, now that it's had a little bit of time to sit alone and unattended and think about what it really wants to be. Stories are like children: if you want them to be cogent, you have to ignore them. They chatter too fast when they're born to take absolutely everything they say seriously.

(Actually, I really like that analogy.)

(Like, a lot.)

(Anyway.)

Feedback on this story has been varied, so juggling what I want for the story, versus what readers want and need (this is definitely one of those stories where the latter two attributes are not the same), has resulted in much whining, stomping of feet, and snarling at the screen. When all of this failed, I picked a new title.

And suddenly it all fell into place. The feel, the focus, the direction, the words I should choose over their similar-but-slightly-different synonyms… Titles, it turns out, matter. Who knew? This is why I wish I could find them at the start of writing a story, instead of at the end.

So the thorn girls story, which was never officially titled the thorn girls but instead had a string of ill-fitting names to do with reclamation and silence, is now "The Wages of Honey". Which is just perfect.1

And here's hoping whoever publishes it, if I can find someone to publish it, agrees. 'Cos now I love that title and never want to give it up.

self-esteem extremes

Last night, I had occasion to search through my archived emails, and in doing so I discovered a story of my day which I related at the time to cheer up a friend. It was an offhand account, but it's also nevertheless word for word a true account, and I share it with you now because it is simply too amusing not to.

Identities have not been changed, because there are no innocents in this story.

Enter stage-left, Neal and Deb, who are clearly talking shit, as per their normal practice, but the details are not important and so we watch them get into the car (Deb with slightly more difficulty because she is attacked and harangued by belligerent garbage bins in the process) before we hear their conversation. There's a pause. Neal puts on his seatbelt.

Deb: Oh! Yes, seatbelt. Good idea. Yes. I'll do that.

Neal: Hey, it's your life you'll be saving and all.

Deb: Oh! Yes. Although I was just thinking about your licence points. Which is important.

There is a moment of silence.

Deb: You know, I think there's something wrong with me, isn't there? Because apparently I just rated your LICENCE POINTS higher than, you know, my LIFE.

Neal: Well, dude, I did wonder about it myself — and clearly you have some sort of self-esteem issues going on — but I wasn't about to bring you even further down by pointing it out. Although I do thank you for your concern over my licence points.

Deb: I think I need counselling.