Amanda Frederickson's Blog: Musings, page 2
February 7, 2015
He said, She said
Trying to figure out why your story is being rejected is the most disheartening and frustrating thing about starting a writing career. One of the first instincts is to read every book (or internet article) on writing that you can get your hands on in hopes that you’ll find the magical key that will unlock success. Then something else becomes clear.
There’s a lot of contradictory writing advice out there.
You’ll usually see it presented as ironclad rules, too. I’ve seen a LOT of lip service for the “no adverbs” “rule,” but if you crack open a book, guess what you’ll find. Adverbs. So what do you do when you see one bestselling author say to only use “said” as a speech tag, another says to cut speech tags altogether, while another advocates spicing it up with things like “hissed, whispered, bellowed,” fill in your –ed?
You take into account that all of these are simply preferences.
It may be the author’s own preferences, or the preferences of the editors they’re working with. It may be the preference of their genre. It doesn’t mean that it is the preference of your genre, or the preference of the editor you’ll end up working with.
So what do you do?
Semi-recently I’ve decided to, first of all, stop reading every book on writing. Not every book is relevant. A lot of books on publishing are now outdated because of the advent of ebooks and the upheaval they brought to the publishing world. Like a job hunter today doesn’t necessarily want to follow the advice of 20 years ago, the publishing advice may not be as solid as it once was. Then, also, not every book on writing is relevant to what I want to write.
I’ve figured out that somewhere along the line I got it stuck in my head that a lean, mean, get-to-the-point prose style was what I should be writing, because that was what it took to be published. I hate it. It’s made me miserable. I like rich, poetic description. I like vivid imagery. I like details.
He brushed the layers of magic with his mind. Magic had been melded into each block of granite from the moment it was quarried, through its cutting, finishing, and placement. The mortar had been inlaid with strengthening spells not only to ensure that the wall stood for all time, but to prevent magic from breaking it.
Oh, the spell songs the stonecutters must have sung as they hammered drills into the rock and refined the mortar mixture. The wall was magnificent, really. A great accomplishment that had taken generations of humans to complete. A pity it must be destroyed.
-Green Rider, Kristen Britain
She was still writing away at an intense pace, pausing every now and again to examine one of the assorted small things on the table before her, or to pluck a few strings of the shepherd’s harp resting on her lap beneath the table. She was glowing with quiet excitement, and despite her being tucked away at her favorite table near the back of the bar, that excitement was radiating through the crowd of regulars and generating quite a din. Generally the middle of the day was a dismally quiet time at the Hat and Feathers; today it was as loud as a holiday night. No wonder Dee loves her, Barney thought, chuckling to himself. She’s good for business.
-Rhapsody, Elizabeth Haydon
Ash fell from the sky.
Lord Tresting frowned, glancing up at the ruddy midday sky as his servants scuttled forward, opening a parasol over Tresting and his distinguished guest. Ashfalls weren’t that uncommon in the Final Empire, but Tresting had hoped to avoid getting soot stains on his fine new suit coat and red vest, which had just arrived via canal boat from Luthadel itself. Fortunately, there wasn’t much wind; the parasol would likely be effective.
- Mistborn, Brandon Sanderson
By the standards I was taught, these passages are wordy, unnecessary “darlings” that should have been slaughtered. To me, they’re the details that truly bring a story to life.
If these paragraphs were treated the way I was taught to treat my writing, they might look something like this:
The great wall had taken generations to complete and stood for generations more, but now it had to be destroyed.
She sat tucked away in a corner, but her presence alone livened up the room.
Ash fell from the sky, but it wouldn’t trouble Lord Tresting and his distinguished guest.
Boring, much?
A storm is coming. The cool air has turned a misty gray, blanketing Tirion’s Imperial City until I can no longer see the mountains on the other side of the valley. Lantern light begins to wink through the mist. From high in the Emperor’s Tower I see the rain runners closing the screens along the open causeways of the Imperial Palace. I can almost hear the click click click of the thin wood screens sliding into place, the young rain runners’ footfalls pounding the smoothly worn floor. My own adolescent days as a rain runner seem so far away.
I hear small footsteps on the stairs. The Tower’s rain runner has finished closing all the other screens. The only level that remains is mine. He pauses at the top of the stairs, kneeling respectfully. I wonder what he would think if he knew I once stood endless hours waiting for signs of rain. That I once knew how to catch the screens just so, to slide them into place without breaking stride. I think he would not believe me.
- The Emperor’s Servant, Amanda Frederickson
That’s a small slice of a piece I wrote in college. It almost makes me cry, because I don’t write that way anymore, and because these bad habits make me itch to trim it down, or out altogether. I’ve found that I need to re-train myself and my writing towards what I want it to be, rather what I’ve been told it should be.
Everyone who gives advice means well, but it doesn’t mean that their preferences are best for your writing.
There’s a lot of contradictory writing advice out there.
You’ll usually see it presented as ironclad rules, too. I’ve seen a LOT of lip service for the “no adverbs” “rule,” but if you crack open a book, guess what you’ll find. Adverbs. So what do you do when you see one bestselling author say to only use “said” as a speech tag, another says to cut speech tags altogether, while another advocates spicing it up with things like “hissed, whispered, bellowed,” fill in your –ed?
You take into account that all of these are simply preferences.
It may be the author’s own preferences, or the preferences of the editors they’re working with. It may be the preference of their genre. It doesn’t mean that it is the preference of your genre, or the preference of the editor you’ll end up working with.
So what do you do?
Semi-recently I’ve decided to, first of all, stop reading every book on writing. Not every book is relevant. A lot of books on publishing are now outdated because of the advent of ebooks and the upheaval they brought to the publishing world. Like a job hunter today doesn’t necessarily want to follow the advice of 20 years ago, the publishing advice may not be as solid as it once was. Then, also, not every book on writing is relevant to what I want to write.
I’ve figured out that somewhere along the line I got it stuck in my head that a lean, mean, get-to-the-point prose style was what I should be writing, because that was what it took to be published. I hate it. It’s made me miserable. I like rich, poetic description. I like vivid imagery. I like details.
He brushed the layers of magic with his mind. Magic had been melded into each block of granite from the moment it was quarried, through its cutting, finishing, and placement. The mortar had been inlaid with strengthening spells not only to ensure that the wall stood for all time, but to prevent magic from breaking it.
Oh, the spell songs the stonecutters must have sung as they hammered drills into the rock and refined the mortar mixture. The wall was magnificent, really. A great accomplishment that had taken generations of humans to complete. A pity it must be destroyed.
-Green Rider, Kristen Britain
She was still writing away at an intense pace, pausing every now and again to examine one of the assorted small things on the table before her, or to pluck a few strings of the shepherd’s harp resting on her lap beneath the table. She was glowing with quiet excitement, and despite her being tucked away at her favorite table near the back of the bar, that excitement was radiating through the crowd of regulars and generating quite a din. Generally the middle of the day was a dismally quiet time at the Hat and Feathers; today it was as loud as a holiday night. No wonder Dee loves her, Barney thought, chuckling to himself. She’s good for business.
-Rhapsody, Elizabeth Haydon
Ash fell from the sky.
Lord Tresting frowned, glancing up at the ruddy midday sky as his servants scuttled forward, opening a parasol over Tresting and his distinguished guest. Ashfalls weren’t that uncommon in the Final Empire, but Tresting had hoped to avoid getting soot stains on his fine new suit coat and red vest, which had just arrived via canal boat from Luthadel itself. Fortunately, there wasn’t much wind; the parasol would likely be effective.
- Mistborn, Brandon Sanderson
By the standards I was taught, these passages are wordy, unnecessary “darlings” that should have been slaughtered. To me, they’re the details that truly bring a story to life.
If these paragraphs were treated the way I was taught to treat my writing, they might look something like this:
The great wall had taken generations to complete and stood for generations more, but now it had to be destroyed.
She sat tucked away in a corner, but her presence alone livened up the room.
Ash fell from the sky, but it wouldn’t trouble Lord Tresting and his distinguished guest.
Boring, much?
A storm is coming. The cool air has turned a misty gray, blanketing Tirion’s Imperial City until I can no longer see the mountains on the other side of the valley. Lantern light begins to wink through the mist. From high in the Emperor’s Tower I see the rain runners closing the screens along the open causeways of the Imperial Palace. I can almost hear the click click click of the thin wood screens sliding into place, the young rain runners’ footfalls pounding the smoothly worn floor. My own adolescent days as a rain runner seem so far away.
I hear small footsteps on the stairs. The Tower’s rain runner has finished closing all the other screens. The only level that remains is mine. He pauses at the top of the stairs, kneeling respectfully. I wonder what he would think if he knew I once stood endless hours waiting for signs of rain. That I once knew how to catch the screens just so, to slide them into place without breaking stride. I think he would not believe me.
- The Emperor’s Servant, Amanda Frederickson
That’s a small slice of a piece I wrote in college. It almost makes me cry, because I don’t write that way anymore, and because these bad habits make me itch to trim it down, or out altogether. I’ve found that I need to re-train myself and my writing towards what I want it to be, rather what I’ve been told it should be.
Everyone who gives advice means well, but it doesn’t mean that their preferences are best for your writing.
January 28, 2015
The Cat with 3,000 Lives
You know how cats are supposed to have nine lives? My youngest sister's cat has to have something like 3,000.
James "Jamie" Cameron MacPherson is my cat's older half brother from another litter. One morning, about four years ago, Mom heard this loud, squeaky mew coming from the basement. It turned out to be Callie's first kitten, a tiny ball of orange fluff. We all fell in love, but my youngest sister (Mizu - yes, this is her real nickname; yes, she's probably going to kill me for posting this; no, not all of my sisters have Japanese nicknames) is the one who named him James Cameron. Jamie stuck.
We added the "MacPherson" when his troublemaking streak came out, for Warehouse 13's season one villain. We learned quickly not to leave cups unattended, resigned ourselves to picking him out of the sink before washing the dishes, and learned even quicker that he was a climber. A serious climber.
Jamie balanced his way along mantles, bookshelves, shutters, you name it, he climbed it. For the first time ever, we had a cat who would take down a Christmas tree in a single bound. Jamie's favorite perch? Draping himself across someone's shoulders. (This was Mizu too.)
When Jamie discovered Outside, that was it. Outside had trees. He became an indoor/outdoor cat, whether we liked it or not. Back then I was living at my parent's house, and there were many mornings when I woke up to plaintive mews from the narrow sill of my second story window. He would climb one of the trees and jump the distance from the branches to my window sill, and then be stuck there until I let him in.
Who knows how many lives he used up in all his escapades, but he always came home (mostly) unscathed. Until the beginning of 2013, when his lucky streak broke.
Nee-chan and I were at the house, which was lucky because no one else was home at the time, when we heard cat yowls. It wasn't like any of the normal cat sounds and it scared us both to death. We ran outside and around the house. I found Jamie under the back porch, where we piled wood for the stove. He dragged himself toward me, squeaking. There was another cat there, which we chased off.
I scooped Jamie up and brought him inside. He had one little scrape, otherwise there wasn't a mark on him, but when I tried to set him on his feet he simply flopped to his side and lay there panting, looking dazed. My first thought was that he was in shock, so while Nee-chan called Mizu and my father, I bundled him up in a blanket and lay him close to the heater.
Mizu and my father took him to the vet. Jamie's pelvis was broken, possibly his tail as well. They might have to cut off his tail. He might not make it.
A few months later, after being confined to a cage to limit his mobility while his bones healed, Jamie was out of the cage, getting in trouble, and making regular escape attempts. He didn't care a bit that the end of his tail had no mobility, he was determined that he could still do everything that he used to, including climbing trees.
Not quite a year after breaking his pelvis, Mom woke up to a cat screeching. She found Jamie downstairs, dragging his back end. His back legs were cold.
My parents rushed him to the vet, who told them he had a blood clot that was blocking his circulation. My parents couldn't afford to put Jamie in a pet hospital, so they brought him home to watch him themselves, and bring him to the vet once a day for blood thinner.
A well meaning friend who had gone through having a blood clot herself told me to brace for the worst. This cat would die.
This last Sunday, Jamie scared me half to death by jumping onto my shoulders, then onto the kitchen table. He's determined that even though he has less feeling in his back feet, he can do everything he used to.
He's working up to trees.
James "Jamie" Cameron MacPherson is my cat's older half brother from another litter. One morning, about four years ago, Mom heard this loud, squeaky mew coming from the basement. It turned out to be Callie's first kitten, a tiny ball of orange fluff. We all fell in love, but my youngest sister (Mizu - yes, this is her real nickname; yes, she's probably going to kill me for posting this; no, not all of my sisters have Japanese nicknames) is the one who named him James Cameron. Jamie stuck.
We added the "MacPherson" when his troublemaking streak came out, for Warehouse 13's season one villain. We learned quickly not to leave cups unattended, resigned ourselves to picking him out of the sink before washing the dishes, and learned even quicker that he was a climber. A serious climber.
Jamie balanced his way along mantles, bookshelves, shutters, you name it, he climbed it. For the first time ever, we had a cat who would take down a Christmas tree in a single bound. Jamie's favorite perch? Draping himself across someone's shoulders. (This was Mizu too.)
When Jamie discovered Outside, that was it. Outside had trees. He became an indoor/outdoor cat, whether we liked it or not. Back then I was living at my parent's house, and there were many mornings when I woke up to plaintive mews from the narrow sill of my second story window. He would climb one of the trees and jump the distance from the branches to my window sill, and then be stuck there until I let him in.
Who knows how many lives he used up in all his escapades, but he always came home (mostly) unscathed. Until the beginning of 2013, when his lucky streak broke.
Nee-chan and I were at the house, which was lucky because no one else was home at the time, when we heard cat yowls. It wasn't like any of the normal cat sounds and it scared us both to death. We ran outside and around the house. I found Jamie under the back porch, where we piled wood for the stove. He dragged himself toward me, squeaking. There was another cat there, which we chased off.
I scooped Jamie up and brought him inside. He had one little scrape, otherwise there wasn't a mark on him, but when I tried to set him on his feet he simply flopped to his side and lay there panting, looking dazed. My first thought was that he was in shock, so while Nee-chan called Mizu and my father, I bundled him up in a blanket and lay him close to the heater.
Mizu and my father took him to the vet. Jamie's pelvis was broken, possibly his tail as well. They might have to cut off his tail. He might not make it.
A few months later, after being confined to a cage to limit his mobility while his bones healed, Jamie was out of the cage, getting in trouble, and making regular escape attempts. He didn't care a bit that the end of his tail had no mobility, he was determined that he could still do everything that he used to, including climbing trees.
Not quite a year after breaking his pelvis, Mom woke up to a cat screeching. She found Jamie downstairs, dragging his back end. His back legs were cold.
My parents rushed him to the vet, who told them he had a blood clot that was blocking his circulation. My parents couldn't afford to put Jamie in a pet hospital, so they brought him home to watch him themselves, and bring him to the vet once a day for blood thinner.
A well meaning friend who had gone through having a blood clot herself told me to brace for the worst. This cat would die.
This last Sunday, Jamie scared me half to death by jumping onto my shoulders, then onto the kitchen table. He's determined that even though he has less feeling in his back feet, he can do everything he used to.
He's working up to trees.
December 31, 2014
Wrapping Up 2014
I think the fact that this year’s best Christmas present was a countertop dishwasher means I’m officially old.
2014 was a real roller coaster year, but it also had some amazing blessings, not the least of which is the roof over my head. This year two siblings got married, a sister engaged, another nephew born, and now there’s another nephew or niece on the way. (Yes, I have a big family.) It also ended up being the first Christmas we didn’t have at my parents’ house. Instead, Christmas morning was at my oldest brother’s house, and dinner was at mine.
Yep, first Christmas dinner at my own place. It was an experience. It also went pretty well, if I do say so myself, though the cats were a little traumatized. Nee-chan cooked the turkey and it came out amazing. We even managed to fit everyone into the library, kids and all.
At the beginning of this year, my only resolution was to read more. Looking over the couple of years I’ve been on Goodreads, this year totaled the second lowest number of books, the one lower being my first on Goodreads (which means there were books I didn’t keep track of that year). So much for reading more. I did notice, however, that the year I read the most was the year I had a functioning Kobo all year (before Nee-chan stepped on it). I’m thinking I need to scrape some pennies together to get a new one.
For writing, in August I started writing down how much I wrote each day (in estimated page numbers). November was the best month, of course, and December was the saddest, averaging .7 pages per day. For the rest of the months it was between 1.4 and 1.7 pages per day.
So. The resolution for 2015 is, first off, to get a handle on setting reasonable goals. Now that I have a bit of a baseline, for January I’m going to aim for an average of two pages flat. Not a big change, granted, but it’s something to start with.
Bring it on, 2015.
2014 was a real roller coaster year, but it also had some amazing blessings, not the least of which is the roof over my head. This year two siblings got married, a sister engaged, another nephew born, and now there’s another nephew or niece on the way. (Yes, I have a big family.) It also ended up being the first Christmas we didn’t have at my parents’ house. Instead, Christmas morning was at my oldest brother’s house, and dinner was at mine.
Yep, first Christmas dinner at my own place. It was an experience. It also went pretty well, if I do say so myself, though the cats were a little traumatized. Nee-chan cooked the turkey and it came out amazing. We even managed to fit everyone into the library, kids and all.
At the beginning of this year, my only resolution was to read more. Looking over the couple of years I’ve been on Goodreads, this year totaled the second lowest number of books, the one lower being my first on Goodreads (which means there were books I didn’t keep track of that year). So much for reading more. I did notice, however, that the year I read the most was the year I had a functioning Kobo all year (before Nee-chan stepped on it). I’m thinking I need to scrape some pennies together to get a new one.
For writing, in August I started writing down how much I wrote each day (in estimated page numbers). November was the best month, of course, and December was the saddest, averaging .7 pages per day. For the rest of the months it was between 1.4 and 1.7 pages per day.
So. The resolution for 2015 is, first off, to get a handle on setting reasonable goals. Now that I have a bit of a baseline, for January I’m going to aim for an average of two pages flat. Not a big change, granted, but it’s something to start with.
Bring it on, 2015.
December 5, 2014
Being Rebellious
I won Nanowrimo this year, and I did it by being absolutely rebellious.
I decided about three months ago to plan my Nano novel in advance this year and to also try a new genre for my 10th Nanowrimo anniversary. (Yikes!)
So I did. I had outlines, character sheets, I tried out the snowflake method, I had scene sketches, the works. Then, on Halloween, after a crazy busy and stressful week(s), having freshly lost a Halloween flash fiction contest, I ditched all of my planning. I just couldn’t do it.
I rebelled.
I started scribbling on a stray story seed that had been floating in my head for a while, but I also knew it wasn’t quite ready to be a full novel; it still needed a villain, for one thing. Keeping in mind my recent resolution not to stress out over deadlines, I decided to count everything I wrote during the month toward the word count goal.
The result?
A 52,000 word end count (partly estimate based on handwritten pages, so it might technically be a little higher than that). Masquerade’s secondary plotline is slowly filling in, Kingstone is finally almost to a place where I feel like I can start prying my perfectionistic claws out of it, that fairy tale novella I started back in August might actually be a novel, I have three new short pieces (complete), and I’ve freshened up an older one that I’m now thinking about folding into an anthology. Oh, yeah, and at the end of the month, that story seed got its villain. It’s going to be epic.
For the first test of my resolution not to set impossible goals: so far, so good.
I decided about three months ago to plan my Nano novel in advance this year and to also try a new genre for my 10th Nanowrimo anniversary. (Yikes!)
So I did. I had outlines, character sheets, I tried out the snowflake method, I had scene sketches, the works. Then, on Halloween, after a crazy busy and stressful week(s), having freshly lost a Halloween flash fiction contest, I ditched all of my planning. I just couldn’t do it.
I rebelled.
I started scribbling on a stray story seed that had been floating in my head for a while, but I also knew it wasn’t quite ready to be a full novel; it still needed a villain, for one thing. Keeping in mind my recent resolution not to stress out over deadlines, I decided to count everything I wrote during the month toward the word count goal.
The result?
A 52,000 word end count (partly estimate based on handwritten pages, so it might technically be a little higher than that). Masquerade’s secondary plotline is slowly filling in, Kingstone is finally almost to a place where I feel like I can start prying my perfectionistic claws out of it, that fairy tale novella I started back in August might actually be a novel, I have three new short pieces (complete), and I’ve freshened up an older one that I’m now thinking about folding into an anthology. Oh, yeah, and at the end of the month, that story seed got its villain. It’s going to be epic.
For the first test of my resolution not to set impossible goals: so far, so good.
October 3, 2014
No More Goals
Last night Nee-chan gave me a much-needed verbal slap upside the head. My method of goal setting just isn’t working. (For examples, start with the beginning of my blog and keep reading.)
When it comes to writing methods, I’m of the “try everything until you find what works and then use it” school of thinking, but I haven’t been applying this to my goal setting. I basically just have a bad habit of doing things like deciding to finish (first draft, revision, and polish) three novels in one year, without actually looking at my average word count per day and deciding if it was attainable. I just decided it was attainable, because you can do anything if you set your mind to it, right?
My right brain is very good at setting lofty goals. My left brain is very good at shutting down under pressure when the deadlines for those goals loom up.
So, instead of just thinking it ain’t broke, it’s time to fix it.
No more deadline goals.*
*Except Nanowrimo, which is an entity of itself, and I’m no longer going to let myself get hung up on the idea of having a nice, neatly packaged first draft at the end of the month.
When it comes to writing methods, I’m of the “try everything until you find what works and then use it” school of thinking, but I haven’t been applying this to my goal setting. I basically just have a bad habit of doing things like deciding to finish (first draft, revision, and polish) three novels in one year, without actually looking at my average word count per day and deciding if it was attainable. I just decided it was attainable, because you can do anything if you set your mind to it, right?
My right brain is very good at setting lofty goals. My left brain is very good at shutting down under pressure when the deadlines for those goals loom up.
So, instead of just thinking it ain’t broke, it’s time to fix it.
No more deadline goals.*
*Except Nanowrimo, which is an entity of itself, and I’m no longer going to let myself get hung up on the idea of having a nice, neatly packaged first draft at the end of the month.
September 23, 2014
Second Weekend of Doom
Pudding, Cornelius.
If you’re familiar with the play Hello, Dolly! you might remember that the code word for “adventure” is “pudding.” I have definitely been getting a fair share of pudding lately.
You might remember from the last post that amid the “pudding” of Otakon weekend, we discovered that our hotel was booked for the wrong dates. The first weekend of September was the wrong dates.
Neither Nee-chan nor I could afford a random vacation, but the booking was non-refundable and neither of us wanted to simply lose the money. We also realized that both of us hadn’t yet had a vacation “just because” in our entire adult lives. Any weekend trips have always been for a purpose (like a convention). And it was non-refundable. :p
So, we ended up with a random Baltimore weekend. I had a plan. Remember that little fairy tale I read out loud from? I was going to finish it. I’d already added more pages, and it wasn’t like I didn’t know how it would end. I would do some writing at the hotel like a Famous Author and have another short story finished.
Right.
Pudding.
It was a good thing the hotel let us check in early. For one thing, we found out it would cost nearly another night’s stay to park the clunker in the hotel’s garage. Poor baby. Baltimore just doesn’t like the rust bucket. We decided to park out of town and use the light rail again. After discovering that you aren’t allowed to park at the light rail lots overnight (which makes sense) we found an out of the way spot to leave the car (with permission from the lot’s owner). *For the record, I don’t recommend this, but we were desperate at this point, and it was that or go home. We then walked down to the bus route that would take us to the light rail.
I got some reading done during the nearly hour-long wait for the bus. The one that breezed straight past. Silly us. We thought that “Bus Stop” meant that the bus would stop when the driver saw us standing under the sign.
Finding out that there wouldn't be another bus for yet another hour, we walked nearly two miles to the light rail. At least our luggage was at the hotel. And we didn’t get run over by any cars. That was a bonus.
We finally made it back to the hotel, hot, sweaty, and exhausted. The air conditioning in our room was pure heaven. We decided to call it a day and camped out on the Disney Channel for the I Am a Princess weekend, featuring Brave. It was definitely nice just to crash out and relax.
Saturday was gorgeous, and perfect for checking out Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. We had lunch at the food court in the Gallery, which has a whole bank of windows looking out toward the harbor and the masts of the USS Constellation. We made it all the way down to the Barnes & Noble at the converted power plant (which is awesome, by the way, if you ever have a chance to see it) and picked up a new book. We didn’t manage to make it out to Fort McHenry though, which was sad because this month is the 200th anniversary of the writing of the Star Spangled Banner.
Funny enough, the Baltimore Comic Con was going on. It came as a bit of a shock because 1) I didn’t know Baltimore hosted a Comic Con, and 2) the tiny “crowd” around the convention center was so small and well behaved compared to the bursting-out-the-seams Otakon mob that I’m used to. (No cosplay photoshoots on the artwork, for one thing.) We thought about getting passes, but passed. It still amused me that even without Otakon there were costumes.
I wrote seven pages that evening while lightning cracked the sky over the city. Even Nee-chan did some writing. (My nefarious plan to infect the world with crazy writing people is working!)
Sunday, we left Baltimore awash in a sea of purple (for the Ravens football game) and after we missed our stop because the doors wouldn’t open (despite mashing the button) and then the train doors tried to close on me, we made it through our trip on the light rail. Thankfully the bus didn’t breeze past us this time. If it had, I don’t think either of us would have lived to tell the tale since we were carrying our bags.
The clunker survived the weekend without being towed, broken into, or stolen (thank God) so for all that things hadn’t exactly gone to plan, overall the weekend hadn’t been as scary as… well, as I was afraid it might end up. Even with pudding.
When we stopped at a McDonalds for lunch/dinner, I wrote five pages.
Weekend total: 15 pages. On Otakon weekend I wrote 20 pages, mainly while waiting in lines. They’re good numbers, but not the epic reams of productivity I hoped for. And I didn’t finish the story. The story is nowhere near finished. In fact, it became obvious it would be a lot longer than I thought; less a short story and more a novella. Yet again, I failed to set a reasonably attainable goal.
Dang it.
For all that, though, I still wrote more than I would have at home (between one and three pages a day) and it was nice to get out of the house and hang around Baltimore’s Inner Harbor for a weekend. Complete with costumes, no less. :)
If you’re familiar with the play Hello, Dolly! you might remember that the code word for “adventure” is “pudding.” I have definitely been getting a fair share of pudding lately.
You might remember from the last post that amid the “pudding” of Otakon weekend, we discovered that our hotel was booked for the wrong dates. The first weekend of September was the wrong dates.
Neither Nee-chan nor I could afford a random vacation, but the booking was non-refundable and neither of us wanted to simply lose the money. We also realized that both of us hadn’t yet had a vacation “just because” in our entire adult lives. Any weekend trips have always been for a purpose (like a convention). And it was non-refundable. :p
So, we ended up with a random Baltimore weekend. I had a plan. Remember that little fairy tale I read out loud from? I was going to finish it. I’d already added more pages, and it wasn’t like I didn’t know how it would end. I would do some writing at the hotel like a Famous Author and have another short story finished.
Right.
Pudding.
It was a good thing the hotel let us check in early. For one thing, we found out it would cost nearly another night’s stay to park the clunker in the hotel’s garage. Poor baby. Baltimore just doesn’t like the rust bucket. We decided to park out of town and use the light rail again. After discovering that you aren’t allowed to park at the light rail lots overnight (which makes sense) we found an out of the way spot to leave the car (with permission from the lot’s owner). *For the record, I don’t recommend this, but we were desperate at this point, and it was that or go home. We then walked down to the bus route that would take us to the light rail.
I got some reading done during the nearly hour-long wait for the bus. The one that breezed straight past. Silly us. We thought that “Bus Stop” meant that the bus would stop when the driver saw us standing under the sign.
Finding out that there wouldn't be another bus for yet another hour, we walked nearly two miles to the light rail. At least our luggage was at the hotel. And we didn’t get run over by any cars. That was a bonus.
We finally made it back to the hotel, hot, sweaty, and exhausted. The air conditioning in our room was pure heaven. We decided to call it a day and camped out on the Disney Channel for the I Am a Princess weekend, featuring Brave. It was definitely nice just to crash out and relax.
Saturday was gorgeous, and perfect for checking out Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. We had lunch at the food court in the Gallery, which has a whole bank of windows looking out toward the harbor and the masts of the USS Constellation. We made it all the way down to the Barnes & Noble at the converted power plant (which is awesome, by the way, if you ever have a chance to see it) and picked up a new book. We didn’t manage to make it out to Fort McHenry though, which was sad because this month is the 200th anniversary of the writing of the Star Spangled Banner.
Funny enough, the Baltimore Comic Con was going on. It came as a bit of a shock because 1) I didn’t know Baltimore hosted a Comic Con, and 2) the tiny “crowd” around the convention center was so small and well behaved compared to the bursting-out-the-seams Otakon mob that I’m used to. (No cosplay photoshoots on the artwork, for one thing.) We thought about getting passes, but passed. It still amused me that even without Otakon there were costumes.
I wrote seven pages that evening while lightning cracked the sky over the city. Even Nee-chan did some writing. (My nefarious plan to infect the world with crazy writing people is working!)
Sunday, we left Baltimore awash in a sea of purple (for the Ravens football game) and after we missed our stop because the doors wouldn’t open (despite mashing the button) and then the train doors tried to close on me, we made it through our trip on the light rail. Thankfully the bus didn’t breeze past us this time. If it had, I don’t think either of us would have lived to tell the tale since we were carrying our bags.
The clunker survived the weekend without being towed, broken into, or stolen (thank God) so for all that things hadn’t exactly gone to plan, overall the weekend hadn’t been as scary as… well, as I was afraid it might end up. Even with pudding.
When we stopped at a McDonalds for lunch/dinner, I wrote five pages.
Weekend total: 15 pages. On Otakon weekend I wrote 20 pages, mainly while waiting in lines. They’re good numbers, but not the epic reams of productivity I hoped for. And I didn’t finish the story. The story is nowhere near finished. In fact, it became obvious it would be a lot longer than I thought; less a short story and more a novella. Yet again, I failed to set a reasonably attainable goal.
Dang it.
For all that, though, I still wrote more than I would have at home (between one and three pages a day) and it was nice to get out of the house and hang around Baltimore’s Inner Harbor for a weekend. Complete with costumes, no less. :)
September 6, 2014
Weekend of Doom
As the Saga of the Weekend of Doom has decided to continue, I decided to go ahead and post about it. I consider the weekend of August 8-10, 2014 to be one of the most terrifying of my life. And devastating. And exhausting. And awesome.
Every summer, anime fans converge on the Baltimore Convention Center for Otakon. I’m a longtime veteran of the convention, but this year Everything Went Wrong. And right.
I’ve never before experienced such an absolute perfect storm of personal disaster. I experienced abject terror that left me shaking. I waged war with my longest and strongest personal demon in an unexpected arena.
I won.
This year I read my writing out loud to a room of perfect strangers, and this year I cosplayed.
Allow me to elaborate.
When I was a kid I was absolutely fearless. I adored amusement parks – the faster the ride, the better. I made friends wherever I went, be it park, neighborhood, or the line at the grocery store. When I was four years old I trooped all the way from my house on the hill along the highway to the Roy Rodgers down the street – where I promptly learned the disadvantage of having no money.
Over the course of elementary school, all of that changed. I did poorly in school. I realized my teachers didn’t like me (dumping out my desk in front of all my classmates was a large clue) and I simply didn’t understand why. Uncertainty made me more guarded. I didn’t connect as well with others – kids or adults – anymore. I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong.
I was put in remedial math because I didn’t finish my worksheets as quickly as my classmates. I was lost in class because it was more interesting to read my chapter mysteries under the cover of my desk than the picture books we were supposed to have. I was absent minded – simply not caring about anything that wasn’t inside the cover of a book.
I was nearsighted.
No one figured it out until I was in third grade, which meant huge, pink-rimmed glasses at the same time that my mouth started determinedly shedding teeth. I also managed to hit about 5’ 3” before middle school. To put that in perspective, consider this: I developed a habit of watching my feet so I wouldn’t trip over my classmates.
A hammer and chisel were put to my confidence. Fear snacked its roots into the cracks with every hammer blow that said I wasn’t smart. Wasn’t liked. Wasn’t pretty. Wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t right.
I feared what others saw in me. It seemed that all I could ever do was wrong. I feared provoking wrath. Provoking ridicule.
Through middle school and high school I became a selective mute (which I only learned there was actually a term for about two years ago) because I was so afraid of saying something wrong. I only spoke to my family, a very select few friends, and my teachers. Even having several truly awesome teachers couldn’t undo the damage already done.
I hated leaving the house. The mere thought of talking to a stranger was paralyzing. Phones were my mortal enemies. What if I dialed the Wrong Number? What if the Wrong Person picked up? What if I said the Wrong Thing?
The mere thought of having to order for myself at a fast food restaurant was enough to trigger a panic attack.
Even after I started fighting it my senior year of high school, it wasn’t until my sophomore year of college that I was able to get my voice back (thanks to my absolutely amazing college crew, but that’s a story in itself).
Learning that battles can be won does not mean that the war is over. My fears still cling to my shadow. They sneak into unexpected chinks in my armor, whispering fresh insecurities. Speaking is still difficult for me, especially in areas outside my comfort zone.
This year’s Otakon went well beyond my comfort zones.
I missed last year’s Otakon because of factors outside my control, so this year I was determined not only to make it, but make it a good one.
Life had other plans.
Nee-chan and I found out at the reception desk of the hotel we wanted that not only did the booking website register us for the wrong dates, but the hotel was full. So was every other hotel in the area.
Not only were we effectively homeless, but so was the clunker that got us to Baltimore. Otakon and an Orioles game conspired together to fill all of the parking garages. It took most of the day to find parking off the beaten path and take the city train back to the convention center.
Then it was a mess trying to meet up with my youngest brother and his friend and trying to get our passes (though I have to say here that it turned out we didn’t have nearly as much hassle as many others this year).
Without a hotel, it looked like our already foreshortened day would be the only one we could stay for. The thought of having to turn tail and go home when Otakon had barely started was so dispiriting that both Nee-chan and I broke down in tears.
Worse, I hadn’t worn my costume.
I’ve wanted to cosplay since my first convention. I’m an old hand at Renaissance Fair garb, but to dress as an actual identifiable character always felt out of reach. I didn’t have the resources or skills to make a costume. I didn’t have the time. I didn’t have the money to buy one pre-made. Always an excuse.
Here’s the truth.
I’m the wrong shape.
Probably everyone has seen the amazing costumes that fans have put together for conventions. People have created incredibly detailed and time intensive re-creations of their favorite characters that are simply stunning. It’s amazing. It’s also deathly intimidating.
I really don’t have the skills to make a stunningly detailed re-creation, and even if I did, I could never actually look like the figure on the screen. For years I’ve let that stop me. Even when I lost 50 pounds it wasn’t enough. I still wasn’t Right.
Because of missing last year’s convention, I had decided not to let another year slip by. With the help of a sharpie marker and some half-decent sewing, I managed to put a costume together on a shoestring budget. To my shock I even managed to find a mini skirt that fit me (my first ever) and leggings to go with it. I finally had a real cosplay costume.
Which I had planned to wear on Saturday.
I hadn’t worn the costume. The thought weighed on me more heavily than the question of where we would sleep – if we didn’t end up having to go home. Had I yet again given in to the fear of being “wrong” instead of doing what I dreamed?
Thanks to the very kind loan of a tablet and some internet searching, we managed to find another hotel. It was nearly 45 minutes out of town, but simply having a place to sleep was a relief. Finally we could just enjoy the convention.
While waiting in one of the universal lines, I scoured the pamphlet of scheduled events. These words jumped out of the lineup: Getting Real About Fantasy Writing. A writing workshop. Not a fanfic workshop, which Otakon has hosted before. A fantasy writing workshop. I go to just about every writing event I can get my hands on, so of course it was a given that I’d jump at the chance to attend this one, right?
The last sentence of the description invited attendees to bring a sample of their work to read aloud.
Read Aloud.
Instantly I choked. I’m perfectly happy to share my work on paper, but this was Reading Out Loud. In front of a room full of strangers. Not only fellow convention-goers, but the panelists as well. Professional Editors.
I didn’t have any of my Big Projects with me either. I only had a little fairy tale retelling that I’d been scribbling.
What if it was Wrong?
I wanted to go. I really wanted to go. Really really wanted to go. But if I went, I didn’t want to wimp out.
I wanted to present my work.
I needed to confront my demons.
It felt like everything that day had gone Wrong, and the idea of going in and volunteering for a potential train wreck seemed absolutely insane. The writing workshop was one of the last scheduled events of the evening. There would be nothing but waiting in between, and every opportunity to wimp out and run to the hotel to hide. I wouldn’t have to face the prospect of my little scribble being Not Good Enough.
I went to the workshop.
Fear wouldn’t take away yet another thing that I loved: my writing.
I submitted my name to the stack of volunteers.
That tiny hour was incredibly and unexpectedly useful. It was more useful, in fact, than any other writing workshop I’ve been to besides my very first (which had its own unique impacts because it was my first, and I was twelve years old).
Then the critiques started.
My name was called second. Second out of everyone.
I heard it and froze. My face went numb. They called it again and I felt my hand slipping up, like it belonged to someone else. I stood up and moved into the aisle, notebook in hand, and accepted the microphone.
What if my throat closed up? Would I be able to say a word?
My hand shook so badly that the pages of the notebook rattled.
The first sentence came out. Could they hear me? Was I holding the microphone right? Second sentence.
Then disaster. I stumbled over the third sentence.
Don’t stop. Don’t stop.
The faery king’s daughter smirked in the face of her enemy. There was nothing left but the words on the page. Everything else became a blur until I turned the page and one of the panelists interrupted me to say I’d read enough. It felt like stumbling and falling flat on my face. I was supposed to only read a paragraph or two. I’d read half a page.
I held my breath. All I could feel was the soul deep shaking. Too scared to feel scared. Here it came.
Make it better.
The panelists commented on the pacing and some of the word choices. I knew I had to write down what they said or I would forget it the moment I got back to my seat. I barely managed to grip the pen, scratching out nearly incomprehensible notes.
They even had positive remarks, which I think still hasn’t sunk in.
Somehow I gave back the microphone and made it back to my seat without fainting on the spot. One of my fellow attendees held out a hand for a fist bump and I managed to scrape together enough brain power to meet it.
I’m sure the entire room could tell how drop-dead scared I was.
But I’d done it. I’d really done it. I survived.
I survived, and it would make my piece better.
Much better, actually.
Happily ever after? Not quite.
That weekend was made for battles.
I wore the costume on Saturday. I dyed my hair red (which I do often) and carved out bangs across my forehead with Nee-chan’s help (which I haven’t done since fourth grade). When I saw myself in the mirror I screamed because I had no idea who that person was. (Maybe one of my aunts?)
What had I done? I cut my hair! I was planning to wear a mini skirt in public. I wasn’t Asian. I had pink fingertips from the marker on my sleeves and pink ears from the hair dye. Wouldn’t people think I looked ridiculous? Would anyone be able to see the character behind pale, pudgy me?
Would it really matter to anyone but me?
I did it. I went out in the full getup, complete with mini skirt, leggings, and boots. I swung between being thrilled and wanting to scream because obviously I was absolutely nuts to even try it. I have absolutely no idea if anyone actually realized what character I was dressed as. But I did it. I thought that was the triumphal finish to the war.
Saturday evening I was ambushed from my blind side with no quarter given.
After a very satisfying convention day, Nee-chan and I went to the Build Your Own Raygun workshop (which was every bit as cool as it sounds). After some basic instructions we were all set loose to create, using components provided by the panelists. The piece I chose for my raygun barrel fought all of my (and my table-mates’) efforts to affix it to my grip. I ended up needing advice from one of the wandering assistants and some heavy-duty wirework to get it to stay put.
I happen to love doing wirework, but it takes time to do well. The next thing I knew there was only 30 minutes left of the two hour workshop, and I only had half a gun. Panic hit me like a jolt of lightning. I’d already been dropping things left and right and I was pretty sure that I’d slapped my poor neighbor with the end of a wire more than once, while so many others around me had not only finished their creations, but made them look awesome.
I freaked out.
“I’m stupid. I’m so stupid.”
I caught myself muttering it out loud. I sat there calling myself stupid over a project that was supposed to be fun. I’d woven wire around the uncooperative barrel, reinforced it with a copper tube, and essentially created a screw out of wire to ensure that not only was it stable, it was pretty. I’d carved out part of the plastic handle to fit the pieces together more securely. That sucker was going nowhere.
Yet instead of being proud of what I accomplished, I insulted my own intelligence because I couldn’t fit it into the workshop’s time limit.
I brought my raygun home to finish at my own pace, with my own tools.
I read my work out loud. I wore the cosplay costume. I managed to make a friend while waiting in line. And I am absolutely never allowed to call myself stupid ever again.
Maybe roller coasters are next.
The continuing part of the Saga? That’s unfolding this weekend. I’ll let you know if I manage to survive.
Every summer, anime fans converge on the Baltimore Convention Center for Otakon. I’m a longtime veteran of the convention, but this year Everything Went Wrong. And right.
I’ve never before experienced such an absolute perfect storm of personal disaster. I experienced abject terror that left me shaking. I waged war with my longest and strongest personal demon in an unexpected arena.
I won.
This year I read my writing out loud to a room of perfect strangers, and this year I cosplayed.
Allow me to elaborate.
When I was a kid I was absolutely fearless. I adored amusement parks – the faster the ride, the better. I made friends wherever I went, be it park, neighborhood, or the line at the grocery store. When I was four years old I trooped all the way from my house on the hill along the highway to the Roy Rodgers down the street – where I promptly learned the disadvantage of having no money.
Over the course of elementary school, all of that changed. I did poorly in school. I realized my teachers didn’t like me (dumping out my desk in front of all my classmates was a large clue) and I simply didn’t understand why. Uncertainty made me more guarded. I didn’t connect as well with others – kids or adults – anymore. I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong.
I was put in remedial math because I didn’t finish my worksheets as quickly as my classmates. I was lost in class because it was more interesting to read my chapter mysteries under the cover of my desk than the picture books we were supposed to have. I was absent minded – simply not caring about anything that wasn’t inside the cover of a book.
I was nearsighted.
No one figured it out until I was in third grade, which meant huge, pink-rimmed glasses at the same time that my mouth started determinedly shedding teeth. I also managed to hit about 5’ 3” before middle school. To put that in perspective, consider this: I developed a habit of watching my feet so I wouldn’t trip over my classmates.
A hammer and chisel were put to my confidence. Fear snacked its roots into the cracks with every hammer blow that said I wasn’t smart. Wasn’t liked. Wasn’t pretty. Wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t right.
I feared what others saw in me. It seemed that all I could ever do was wrong. I feared provoking wrath. Provoking ridicule.
Through middle school and high school I became a selective mute (which I only learned there was actually a term for about two years ago) because I was so afraid of saying something wrong. I only spoke to my family, a very select few friends, and my teachers. Even having several truly awesome teachers couldn’t undo the damage already done.
I hated leaving the house. The mere thought of talking to a stranger was paralyzing. Phones were my mortal enemies. What if I dialed the Wrong Number? What if the Wrong Person picked up? What if I said the Wrong Thing?
The mere thought of having to order for myself at a fast food restaurant was enough to trigger a panic attack.
Even after I started fighting it my senior year of high school, it wasn’t until my sophomore year of college that I was able to get my voice back (thanks to my absolutely amazing college crew, but that’s a story in itself).
Learning that battles can be won does not mean that the war is over. My fears still cling to my shadow. They sneak into unexpected chinks in my armor, whispering fresh insecurities. Speaking is still difficult for me, especially in areas outside my comfort zone.
This year’s Otakon went well beyond my comfort zones.
I missed last year’s Otakon because of factors outside my control, so this year I was determined not only to make it, but make it a good one.
Life had other plans.
Nee-chan and I found out at the reception desk of the hotel we wanted that not only did the booking website register us for the wrong dates, but the hotel was full. So was every other hotel in the area.
Not only were we effectively homeless, but so was the clunker that got us to Baltimore. Otakon and an Orioles game conspired together to fill all of the parking garages. It took most of the day to find parking off the beaten path and take the city train back to the convention center.
Then it was a mess trying to meet up with my youngest brother and his friend and trying to get our passes (though I have to say here that it turned out we didn’t have nearly as much hassle as many others this year).
Without a hotel, it looked like our already foreshortened day would be the only one we could stay for. The thought of having to turn tail and go home when Otakon had barely started was so dispiriting that both Nee-chan and I broke down in tears.
Worse, I hadn’t worn my costume.
I’ve wanted to cosplay since my first convention. I’m an old hand at Renaissance Fair garb, but to dress as an actual identifiable character always felt out of reach. I didn’t have the resources or skills to make a costume. I didn’t have the time. I didn’t have the money to buy one pre-made. Always an excuse.
Here’s the truth.
I’m the wrong shape.
Probably everyone has seen the amazing costumes that fans have put together for conventions. People have created incredibly detailed and time intensive re-creations of their favorite characters that are simply stunning. It’s amazing. It’s also deathly intimidating.
I really don’t have the skills to make a stunningly detailed re-creation, and even if I did, I could never actually look like the figure on the screen. For years I’ve let that stop me. Even when I lost 50 pounds it wasn’t enough. I still wasn’t Right.
Because of missing last year’s convention, I had decided not to let another year slip by. With the help of a sharpie marker and some half-decent sewing, I managed to put a costume together on a shoestring budget. To my shock I even managed to find a mini skirt that fit me (my first ever) and leggings to go with it. I finally had a real cosplay costume.
Which I had planned to wear on Saturday.
I hadn’t worn the costume. The thought weighed on me more heavily than the question of where we would sleep – if we didn’t end up having to go home. Had I yet again given in to the fear of being “wrong” instead of doing what I dreamed?
Thanks to the very kind loan of a tablet and some internet searching, we managed to find another hotel. It was nearly 45 minutes out of town, but simply having a place to sleep was a relief. Finally we could just enjoy the convention.
While waiting in one of the universal lines, I scoured the pamphlet of scheduled events. These words jumped out of the lineup: Getting Real About Fantasy Writing. A writing workshop. Not a fanfic workshop, which Otakon has hosted before. A fantasy writing workshop. I go to just about every writing event I can get my hands on, so of course it was a given that I’d jump at the chance to attend this one, right?
The last sentence of the description invited attendees to bring a sample of their work to read aloud.
Read Aloud.
Instantly I choked. I’m perfectly happy to share my work on paper, but this was Reading Out Loud. In front of a room full of strangers. Not only fellow convention-goers, but the panelists as well. Professional Editors.
I didn’t have any of my Big Projects with me either. I only had a little fairy tale retelling that I’d been scribbling.
What if it was Wrong?
I wanted to go. I really wanted to go. Really really wanted to go. But if I went, I didn’t want to wimp out.
I wanted to present my work.
I needed to confront my demons.
It felt like everything that day had gone Wrong, and the idea of going in and volunteering for a potential train wreck seemed absolutely insane. The writing workshop was one of the last scheduled events of the evening. There would be nothing but waiting in between, and every opportunity to wimp out and run to the hotel to hide. I wouldn’t have to face the prospect of my little scribble being Not Good Enough.
I went to the workshop.
Fear wouldn’t take away yet another thing that I loved: my writing.
I submitted my name to the stack of volunteers.
That tiny hour was incredibly and unexpectedly useful. It was more useful, in fact, than any other writing workshop I’ve been to besides my very first (which had its own unique impacts because it was my first, and I was twelve years old).
Then the critiques started.
My name was called second. Second out of everyone.
I heard it and froze. My face went numb. They called it again and I felt my hand slipping up, like it belonged to someone else. I stood up and moved into the aisle, notebook in hand, and accepted the microphone.
What if my throat closed up? Would I be able to say a word?
My hand shook so badly that the pages of the notebook rattled.
The first sentence came out. Could they hear me? Was I holding the microphone right? Second sentence.
Then disaster. I stumbled over the third sentence.
Don’t stop. Don’t stop.
The faery king’s daughter smirked in the face of her enemy. There was nothing left but the words on the page. Everything else became a blur until I turned the page and one of the panelists interrupted me to say I’d read enough. It felt like stumbling and falling flat on my face. I was supposed to only read a paragraph or two. I’d read half a page.
I held my breath. All I could feel was the soul deep shaking. Too scared to feel scared. Here it came.
Make it better.
The panelists commented on the pacing and some of the word choices. I knew I had to write down what they said or I would forget it the moment I got back to my seat. I barely managed to grip the pen, scratching out nearly incomprehensible notes.
They even had positive remarks, which I think still hasn’t sunk in.
Somehow I gave back the microphone and made it back to my seat without fainting on the spot. One of my fellow attendees held out a hand for a fist bump and I managed to scrape together enough brain power to meet it.
I’m sure the entire room could tell how drop-dead scared I was.
But I’d done it. I’d really done it. I survived.
I survived, and it would make my piece better.
Much better, actually.
Happily ever after? Not quite.
That weekend was made for battles.
I wore the costume on Saturday. I dyed my hair red (which I do often) and carved out bangs across my forehead with Nee-chan’s help (which I haven’t done since fourth grade). When I saw myself in the mirror I screamed because I had no idea who that person was. (Maybe one of my aunts?)
What had I done? I cut my hair! I was planning to wear a mini skirt in public. I wasn’t Asian. I had pink fingertips from the marker on my sleeves and pink ears from the hair dye. Wouldn’t people think I looked ridiculous? Would anyone be able to see the character behind pale, pudgy me?
Would it really matter to anyone but me?
I did it. I went out in the full getup, complete with mini skirt, leggings, and boots. I swung between being thrilled and wanting to scream because obviously I was absolutely nuts to even try it. I have absolutely no idea if anyone actually realized what character I was dressed as. But I did it. I thought that was the triumphal finish to the war.
Saturday evening I was ambushed from my blind side with no quarter given.
After a very satisfying convention day, Nee-chan and I went to the Build Your Own Raygun workshop (which was every bit as cool as it sounds). After some basic instructions we were all set loose to create, using components provided by the panelists. The piece I chose for my raygun barrel fought all of my (and my table-mates’) efforts to affix it to my grip. I ended up needing advice from one of the wandering assistants and some heavy-duty wirework to get it to stay put.
I happen to love doing wirework, but it takes time to do well. The next thing I knew there was only 30 minutes left of the two hour workshop, and I only had half a gun. Panic hit me like a jolt of lightning. I’d already been dropping things left and right and I was pretty sure that I’d slapped my poor neighbor with the end of a wire more than once, while so many others around me had not only finished their creations, but made them look awesome.
I freaked out.
“I’m stupid. I’m so stupid.”
I caught myself muttering it out loud. I sat there calling myself stupid over a project that was supposed to be fun. I’d woven wire around the uncooperative barrel, reinforced it with a copper tube, and essentially created a screw out of wire to ensure that not only was it stable, it was pretty. I’d carved out part of the plastic handle to fit the pieces together more securely. That sucker was going nowhere.
Yet instead of being proud of what I accomplished, I insulted my own intelligence because I couldn’t fit it into the workshop’s time limit.
I brought my raygun home to finish at my own pace, with my own tools.
I read my work out loud. I wore the cosplay costume. I managed to make a friend while waiting in line. And I am absolutely never allowed to call myself stupid ever again.
Maybe roller coasters are next.
The continuing part of the Saga? That’s unfolding this weekend. I’ll let you know if I manage to survive.
June 26, 2014
That Book
You know that book you’ve been thinking about? That book you saw at the store, in the library, online, or the one languishing on your own bookshelf or ereader. The one you’ve been looking at wistfully every time it crosses your path. The one that really intrigued you, that caught your interest, but you put it back. The one you’ve been wanting to read, but there just hasn’t seemed to be enough time.
You keep thinking you'll pick it up, but maybe later. Tomorrow. Next week.
What if you died tomorrow? Wouldn’t you regret not opening those pages?
Read the book.
You keep thinking you'll pick it up, but maybe later. Tomorrow. Next week.
What if you died tomorrow? Wouldn’t you regret not opening those pages?
Read the book.
June 8, 2014
Names
Everyone knows the famous line: “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” But would it? Would you put your nose anywhere near a lush, pink flower called “stinkweed”? Plus, have you ever actually smelled a rose? Not just something that claims to be rose scented (some are, some aren’t), but actual rose petals? They aren’t really “sweet” by today’s standards. I’ve heard that in ye olden days, roses were considered a masculine scent, and I believe it.
Then, there’s this: https://www.antiqueroseemporium.com/g... Why bother to have so many names for roses if they’re all roses? Why even bother to distinguish “rose” from “daisy”? Why not just say “flower”?
Because an Alchymist looks nothing like a Dame de Coeur, and a daisy looks nothing like a dandelion. The words also have different emotional associations, especially when many consider dandelions a weed rather than a flower. (The Victorians had a fascinating viewpoint on the emotional language of flowers, and different kinds of roses said different things. http://thelanguageofflowers.com/)
The same principle applies to characters. Would Romeo and Juliet have been as memorable if they were named Bob and Sally? Or maybe John and Agnes (common names for that time).
Naming a character isn’t like naming a kid. Let’s face it, your name reflects more on your parents’ preferences and tastes than yours. If characters were named that way, there would be a whole lot more Heathers, Jacobs, Madisons, Tylers, Abigails, Joshuas, Ethans, Ashleys, and whatever other names that have been most popular over the years (especially Heathers).
Distinct characters deserve distinct names. Think about these: Ebenezer Scrooge, Katnis Everdeen, Legolas Greenleaf, Ciel Phantomhive, Scout, Sherlock Holmes, Cinderella. Each of these names evoke specific fictional people. Their names are tied to who they are in inescapable ways.
A sufficiently distinct character can put their own stamp on a common name, but in this case it needs to be paired with its surname to be identifiable. If I say “Elizabeth,” there are any number of characters you could think of off the top of your head. However, if I say “Elizabeth Bennet,” even people who have never read Pride and Prejudice can identify her as that famous book’s protagonist. The name Edward Cullen brings up images of sparkles and fangs, but Edward Elric recalls an entirely different person – short, blond, with a very different kind of sparkle.
That being said, a name like Gwafeldereferzshang might be distinctive, but it’s not pronounceable. I bet your eyes just skimmed past half those letters. I know I’ve put down books because the characters’ names were too awkward to read – and thus impossible to keep track of.
Ideally, a good name simply fits. A name is a character’s most basic identity. It becomes the character like nothing else. A reader will always have their own image of a character’s appearance, no matter how detailed the author’s description. The one thing that will be consistent is the name the character wears.
So, a character’s name should be as memorable as the person who wears it.
Then, there’s this: https://www.antiqueroseemporium.com/g... Why bother to have so many names for roses if they’re all roses? Why even bother to distinguish “rose” from “daisy”? Why not just say “flower”?
Because an Alchymist looks nothing like a Dame de Coeur, and a daisy looks nothing like a dandelion. The words also have different emotional associations, especially when many consider dandelions a weed rather than a flower. (The Victorians had a fascinating viewpoint on the emotional language of flowers, and different kinds of roses said different things. http://thelanguageofflowers.com/)
The same principle applies to characters. Would Romeo and Juliet have been as memorable if they were named Bob and Sally? Or maybe John and Agnes (common names for that time).
Naming a character isn’t like naming a kid. Let’s face it, your name reflects more on your parents’ preferences and tastes than yours. If characters were named that way, there would be a whole lot more Heathers, Jacobs, Madisons, Tylers, Abigails, Joshuas, Ethans, Ashleys, and whatever other names that have been most popular over the years (especially Heathers).
Distinct characters deserve distinct names. Think about these: Ebenezer Scrooge, Katnis Everdeen, Legolas Greenleaf, Ciel Phantomhive, Scout, Sherlock Holmes, Cinderella. Each of these names evoke specific fictional people. Their names are tied to who they are in inescapable ways.
A sufficiently distinct character can put their own stamp on a common name, but in this case it needs to be paired with its surname to be identifiable. If I say “Elizabeth,” there are any number of characters you could think of off the top of your head. However, if I say “Elizabeth Bennet,” even people who have never read Pride and Prejudice can identify her as that famous book’s protagonist. The name Edward Cullen brings up images of sparkles and fangs, but Edward Elric recalls an entirely different person – short, blond, with a very different kind of sparkle.
That being said, a name like Gwafeldereferzshang might be distinctive, but it’s not pronounceable. I bet your eyes just skimmed past half those letters. I know I’ve put down books because the characters’ names were too awkward to read – and thus impossible to keep track of.
Ideally, a good name simply fits. A name is a character’s most basic identity. It becomes the character like nothing else. A reader will always have their own image of a character’s appearance, no matter how detailed the author’s description. The one thing that will be consistent is the name the character wears.
So, a character’s name should be as memorable as the person who wears it.
June 3, 2014
Tempus Fugit
Is it seriously June already? I blinked and missed most of May! I don't think I had a single quiet weekend this month, but I definitely managed to get some things done.
Blood Queen got a small update, and there's more on the way the moment I can manage to squeeze in some battle choreography, but the bigger news is: new covers for Night Dancers and Ever Dream! Both of them are already updated on Smashwords and Amazon, and the changes should be showing up on the other retailers soon. I'm especially thrilled with Night Dancers.
*Drumroll* I've also been looking at putting together a short story/novella anthology, which would include all the short stories I've independently published as well as a few new ones. That might end up being Camp Nanowrimo's July project. (Camp time again, already! Yikes!)
In other news, I'm about to be an aunt again! It's a boy. ^_^
Blood Queen got a small update, and there's more on the way the moment I can manage to squeeze in some battle choreography, but the bigger news is: new covers for Night Dancers and Ever Dream! Both of them are already updated on Smashwords and Amazon, and the changes should be showing up on the other retailers soon. I'm especially thrilled with Night Dancers.
*Drumroll* I've also been looking at putting together a short story/novella anthology, which would include all the short stories I've independently published as well as a few new ones. That might end up being Camp Nanowrimo's July project. (Camp time again, already! Yikes!)
In other news, I'm about to be an aunt again! It's a boy. ^_^
