November Spawned a Monster

Some more observations...

2008-11-26T12:45:00.003+08:00

I feel I should make just a few more observations about this novel writing thing before NaNoWriMo is over. (Which is in less than five days, people!)

I'm on track with my word count - 41500 words or thereabouts - but I'm afraid my story is going to be over in the next 5k. It's a tight plot, and there's not a lot of room for goofing off. So somehow I have to stretch 5k to 8.5k. This is going to require every adjective I know!

I like working at the university library computers. The keyboards have nice thick keys, not like these skinny flat things on the laptop. You can literally feel yourself pounding away at the story. Plus, libraries are generally good work environments, I find, and they make a change. That's such a great way to get writing, is to go somewhere new. You're coming at the story from a new angle. Love it.

The action of the story is largely humourous and Lord, it's funny in my head, but I don't know how much of that is making it on to the page. Picture this: you're shuffling a dead body through a tiny gap of window in the middle of the night, trying not to make any noise, and its arm falls off. Oh. Crap. But are you laughing? I'm laughing so hard I'm crying - on the inside.

To boost my word count without progressing the story, I added an introduction. It shouldn't be there, it doesn't add to the story as a whole, it's not really even in the same style, but it was a pleasure to write.

Hi. My name is Mark. I’m the narrator of this story. It’s not really my story – it’s Ledger’s – but he's dead, so he’s not in any position to be the narrator. Oh! Did I just spoil the ending? Well, it’s true, Ledger dies. But we all knew it was going to happen, it wasn’t like a big surprise. That’s not what the story is about. Just so you know. So don’t go getting all attached to Ledger, okay? BECAUSE HE DIES.

(So we're clear - Ledger is NOT Heath Ledger. There was maybe some unconscious inspiration going on in the choice of the name, I don't know.)

I think that's all for today, folks. Or Self. Either way.

Thoughts for Sunday

2008-11-02T19:34:00.002+08:00

So I've been thinking about how I just finished a 4k essay for uni. There wasn't "actually" a word limit on it, but I guess the lecturer was expecting more like 3k, so... I've never over-written in my life (until now), I was always the one asking how I could POSSIBLY write 1500 for a lab report, that is INSANELY too many words. And this time I've had to CUT STUFF OUT., i.e. EDIT. Seriously.

I don't like the principle of editing. It's like choosing between your children, I mean, it's fascist. Okay, so maybe this paragraph is a bit fat and ugly, and doesn't do much for the essay overall, but who am I to say the paragraph is unworthy because of it? You know? In AmyLand, there is equal opportunity for all paragraphs, regardless of shape, size, beauty, and functional worth. In the Real World, those paragraphs that don't make the grade, don't make the final cut.

Ah, but Nanowrimo... Nanowrimo is awholenother writing game. Here, words - any and every - are inherently valuable because they exist. Doesn't matter if they're not perfect, or beautiful, or functional, or well-structured. They aren't loved because they're worthy, they're worthy because they're loved.

My novel is off to a great start - 5000 words this weekend. And I love each and every one of them.

:D

Q: How do you posthumously fill your own coffin with twelve drugged chickens?

2008-10-19T12:37:00.003+08:00

Holy schlamoh!
It's like twelve-and-a-half days till Nanowrimo, kids! Break out the typewriter and the endless roll of paper, we gonna write us a novel!

I peaked for this year's Nano sometime back in July. I had plot, characters, scenes, and scenery all twisting around in my mind like snakes on a plane. (I've never seen 'Snakes on a plane'. I suspect that wasn't a very good metaphor.) And the notes I took! I was a note-taking mahSHEEN, seven pages, I was a machine on FIRE, I was ready to write this book.

Then uni started and I've been studying these last three months, there's a whole new jumble of snakes twisting in my mind - historical linguistics and sound change and Austronesian languages and something called Optimality Theory. Hey folks, I'm writing a thesis!

So I'm starting up the blog again as I try to get my Excited! back about Nanowrimo. Because Nanowrimo beats thesis, any day. Well, at least 30 days of the year it does.

Q: How do you posthumously fill your own coffin with twelve drugged chickens?
A: I don't know, but this November I'm going to find out.

Baleet, Flea, schizophrenia, late night shopping

2007-10-10T21:27:00.000+08:00

I just thought of a great character to be Andy's best friend. Then I remembered my Card Isolation rule. Then I baleeted my Card Isolation rule. If characters, instruments, action, and scenery mesh up in my mind, I'm not going to stop that.

Andy's best friend is a skinny boy with outrageously big hair. His name is Flea. He's fairly enamoured of Andy and, akin to the kid in the video below, can't name one thing wrong with her. I 'spect his heart's going to break over her. But he's not going to be that kid you have to pay to leave you alone, and he's not going to be walked all over. He'll turn nasty somewhere, or something.

When I was researching for that schizophrenia review I came across a chapter about how people with schizophrenia can try to control the symptoms themselves. You have to be still fairly lucid to do that, I think, but still -- oh man. Schizophrenia sounds, excuse me, insanely scary. You're an otherwise sane person but sometimes you hear these voices, or have these intrusive thoughts. And you just wish they'd go away. You do everything you can to avoid them but they come anyway. Wow.

I have a very strong image of a middle aged lady in a raincoat wandering around a harshly lit mall on late night shopping, trying to crowd out her mind with the stores and food and people so that the voices can't get in... but she's losing the battle and she knows it.

At the same time, I don't want to write anything depressing. Last year was a little too faux-dark for my liking. I enjoyed writing it, and yet I didn't. Not as much as '05. That was teh awesome :)

my bane, Dusun, womanhood, song

2007-10-08T20:27:00.000+08:00

yrc. Just saw the first cockroach of the summer. Those beasts are my bane.

On the other hand, I handed in my big psych. review today so I don't have to worry about that subject again until the exam. Which means I can spend the next two and a half weeks concentrating on linguistics, woop! And there is a lot to be concentrated on. Dusun is a pretty cool language to be documenting.

I found this video linked in Debbie Ohi's Blatherings, and I think it's pretty awesome. Not just 'cause of the girl's name, obviously. It's cute and poignant. The subtitles are going in my novel somewhere.

(Card #4: lines)

Card #5: song

Bittersweet, by the Hoodoo Gurus. What a great song. If I can transpose the sound of this into writing, I'lla be happy. Something like, I don't know... drinking beer and surfing and the middle of Australia. Great combination.

There're a lot of songs I want to put into words. Some lyrics for songs I want to rip straight off. For the next six cards I'm just putting up my six favourite song lyrics. I like that. Halfway through the novel, I deal a line card, and so the plot thickens :)

Cards #6-11 : lines

Would you like to learn to fly?
Would you like to see me try?
(Pink Floyd, 'One of my turns'

We sailed away on a winter's day
With fate as malleable as clay...
(Joanna Newsom, 'Bridges and Balloons')

It was dark as I drove the point home...
(The Smiths, 'That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore')

It's a shame we have to die, my dear, but no-one's getting out of here alive this time
(Foo Fighters, 'DOA')

Jacob wrestled the angel and the angel was overcome
(U2, 'Bullet the Blue Sky')

I'll make origami of your lyrics
Heyyy that's good Suffa, what is it?
IT'S A SWAN
(Hilltop Hoods, 'Dumb enough')

Princess Cassandra

2007-10-06T21:09:00.000+08:00

Card #3: character
Princess Cassandra

...aka 'Andy'.
Andy's ripped off a girl I know in RL. Warped, but essentially the same. (If you're reading this: No, it's not you.)
She doesn't want to be a princess and will fight any impression that she is. She's strong, sulky, can hold her breath underwater for seven minutes, has big colourful dreams, and is a lot daggy.
Without actually being George from the Famous Five.
We'll see how that goes.

For much of this year my potential November novel revolved around Andy, but then I got a bit sick of the RL model, and decided I didn't want her as my MC afterall. (Novel writing is so bitchy like that :)
And anyway, I can only do one concept per card, so I can't assign Andy a story right now. She has to luck upon one.

Canaaaadia

2007-10-06T18:17:00.000+08:00

Card #2: Concept
'Canadia' and 'Cassiopeia'

I've never been to Canada but a friend was there on exchange last year and his description plus Michael Moore's portrayal of the place makes me think it must be a pretty great country.

Canadia is an extension of Canada - it's that fantastical place wherein dwells all the good stuff:
The Colin Mochrie half of the Colin/Ryan comedy gold duo, linguistics , sunrise, sunset, snow, mountainous scenery, New Zealand, "The New Cobweb Summer" by Lambchop, "Bridges and Balloons" by Joanna Newsom, tattoos, Icarian Games from Cirque du Soleil, piano, my rabbit Eleanor, Orange Intense chocolate...

'Cassiopeia' is like 'Canadia' except that specifically it's the Canadia of Princess Cassandra - Andy. It's the place she dreamed up. One day she's going to runaway and find it. Oops, that's a few new cards right there.

Impeccable awesomeness

2007-10-04T17:38:00.000+08:00

"Two negatives make a positive. But isn't it funny how two positives don't make a negative?"

"Yeah, right."

That's my new favourite nerdy language joke.
It probably works better aloud.

Best record shop in Perth: Dada Records (36 Pier Street, 9325 2666). I like walking around in there, flicking through the old vinyl, checking out the posters and magazines and t-shirts, not looking for anything in particular. I pretend I'm a super talented cool musician. That place just makes me feel good. Last year I found half a dozen Alex Harvey records (including Alex Harvey Without The Sensational Alex Harvey Band, and The Sensational Alex Harvey Band Without Alex Harvey) waiting patiently for me to give them a home. Hot dang!

And so it comes to light that I prefer to sit and listen to a good album than to sit and read a good book. So sue me.

First ever favourite band/singer: Roxette. (But my second was the Cure. That's 'spectable, innit?)
Most recent : Joanna Newsom.

First album/single bought with own money: Lo Tel, 'Teenager of the Year' single
Most recent: Joanna Newsom - Ys; - Lambchop - How I quite smoking; Beastie Boys - Hello Nasty

Most embarassing album: I purged LoTel ages ago. My collection is impeccably awesome.
Most cool album: Beastie Boys - Hello Nasty. Oh, man. I am not cool enough to own this album.

I could write about music all day. I reckon there's going to be a lot of music culture in my novel.

Pziiiiiiiiiiiii!

2007-10-02T20:06:00.000+08:00

Sign ups are open. The author profile pages are squeaky gorgeous. Shiny new bright banana yellow participant icons have been made available. Excessive adjectiving is temporarily acceptable.

It's just a little less than thirty days till National Novel Writing Month, folks!

Golly. It's already been ten months since I wrote the final words of my novel last year. November, and a young girl's fancy turns to writing crap. But what shall I write about, I haven't a thing to write about! Though I do have an inkling of a Plan. This month I'm brainstorming characters, places, happenings, relationships, plot twist!s, and the like, and writing them out on cards. Come November first I deal me a hand and go. I think it'll be a lot of fun.

Card #1: happening
Someone gets their septum pierced. (That's the bit between the nostrils.)

Septum piercings - bull rings - are my fantasy piercing right now. I've heard the actual piercing is like being punched in the face, but oh my goodness do they look grotesque. (Which means I like them.)

2006-11-27T13:27:00.000+08:00

I think that's it, then. Roadtripping tomorrow (not quite the 27th like I previously thought, but sometimes things like 'Sorry, no vacancies' turn up). Went shopping today for all sorts of instant goodness: instant noodles... instant potato and chickpea curry... instant red curry... and in the car we were listening to the mixed-tape from last road trip. Ooh! Is there any greater joy than speeding through the sundried country side and small towns and vineyards and plantations and then you're in the middle of the karri and marri and jarrah forests, oh heaven, and listening to Ben Harper or Booker T and the MGs?

This isn't my mixed tape. This is just the next five songs on my playlist. I love hearing about what other people are listening to, especially when it's done randomly so they can't hide behind any coolness. Well, here's my list:

No One Takes Your Freedom, by DJ Earworm. It's a mash-up of the Scissor Sisters' 'Take Your Mama', the Beatles' 'For No One', Aretha Franklin's 'Think' and George Michael's '90'. Completely awesome! I think you can still download it from djearworm.com. It works so amazingly.

A Room in Bloomsbury, by John Williams. I'm not an avid fan or anything, but Williams is okay. Well, duh. This is a pretty little ditty. Just... pleasant, you know?

Lovestruck, by Madness. This is the opening song from the Wonderful album, which I reckon lives up to its title without question. I love every song. And I love that rhyme pattern. It's quick.

Come the morning shivering and contorting
To border on the brink for just another sink
Oh take me down for one more round

Funny In My Mind (I Believe I'm Fixin' to Die), by Robert Plant. I never listened to Led Zeppelin. Don't know the first thing about Robert Plant. But this song was on one of those Uncut magazine cds, and I like it a lot. I'm a sucker for a guitar solo.

What Else Could it Be? by Lambchop. This is such a cheesy song! I can't imagine Lambchop's singer/songwriter Kurt Wagner meaning it to be taken in any way seriously, and thus, it is cool. Zoe reckons Lambchop is 'so boring'. That's what I thought too, first time round. And second time. Sixth time, seventeenth time. But one night, listening to 'The New Cobweb Summer', the music just clicked. Haven't looked back.

So that's all well and good. I'm toe-tappy happy about tomorrow. But it also means the end of Nanowrimo for this year, and even though I'm ecstatic to have sort of finished a novel, I still feel a tinge of melancholy at that thought. Also, last blog post! Which is no big deal because I'll just dig up my journal and it'll be like normal... except that I happen to quite like writing postable stuff. Even with an audience of, uh, four people? Including me and Mr. Spam. But you know, with the possibility of even one person reading what you write, it changes the whole tone. It's like pulling on jeans and a t-shirt when you know someone's going to drop by. I like slobbing around in my journal, but I like dressing-up my writing, making it vaguely intelligible. Trying to explain things without assuming all that background knowledge also makes me see things differently, too.

And I can include pictures! Sweet.

Welcome to my mind

2006-11-27T11:12:00.000+08:00

Should I ever be admitted to a psychiatric hospital, please someone burn my 2006 novel before it falls into the hands of my doctor. Just as my mindless classroom scribbles have previously evoked the diagnosis 'schizophrenic and weird', the last 5000 words of this novel are going to get me branded 'morbid and angsty'. Well, I'm not schizophrenic or angsty or morbid and I'm not particularly weird, either, as far as weirdness goes. But I've just read over that last chapter...

Huge plot twist! I had no idea it was coming. On Death Row, the prisoners are subjected to watching a sometimes fabricated, sometimes real film of the lowest, scariest, most shameful moments of their life. So Io's watching this film, and she's holding up okay, she knows when they're telling the truth and when they're lying, and although the truth is alarming, she feels she can still redeem herself. She's not totally worthless as a human.
...until it comes to the scene where she and Cindy are fighting Mr. Random Stranglelove, Esq., for their freedom. This is something Io's been trying to block ever since it happened. As she recalls it, she was the one under attack, and Cindy was the one who strangled Random Stranglelove, thus saving Io's live and becoming her personal hero. Everyone else certainly believed that it was Cindy who did the deed, and basically Cindy gets hanged for it. But in this film that Io's watching, it is she herself who strangles Random, saving Cindy's life. Now she's faced with the most terrible, horrible, awful thought of all. Cindy's copped the blame and has died for something Io's done. Io killed not only Random, but her best friend to boot.

So Io's got to deal with that. Except that we never actually find out if she does, because next there's the huge explosion that blows the whole army fortress apart, in Alex's and Cyril's desparate attempt to bust out their friends. Well, Astrid's execution went according to plan, but Neko and the Shuba do make it out alive. There they are, on the other side of the wall, it's a beautiful, warm afternoon, the sea breeze is in, their friends turn up in a really flash stolen car, and they're alive. Then they stumble across Io's corpse.

I expect, Io being the good-girl protagonist, she does somehow deal with Cindy's death and doesn't condemn herself to animal status or sell her soul to the devil or anything like that. I don't know myself. She's my character, but I have no idea what went through her mind in those last hours. I take heart from the fact that she is found outside the death camp, suggesting that somehow she found forgiveness and decided her life and future were worthy enough to attempt the escape. But honestly, that's just speculation.

At least her dad gets out alive. I know his was the most important story, but I've left it untold. I think it's fairly obvious, however, that he does redeem himself, that no matter how low and cruel and murderous and, well, Gollum-like you become, there is maybe still hope for you.

Trying to summarise the final chapter like this, the Christian theme which I never really planned to include is hitting me smack in the face. Now it's there, I'm not going to change it, but I was definitely wary of writing some kinda propaganda or allegorical tripe. Oh, well. I think it's inevitable, when writing basically a 50k stream of conscious in a month, that you will produce a whole lot of stuff you never intended.

Voodoo magic and headless chickens

2006-11-27T08:48:00.000+08:00

Had the best dream last night: a massive cyclone/twister/hurricane whipped through the GABBA, bringing an end to the last day's play with England on 9-329, chasing 648, thus causing a draw between England and Australia in this first test. Eat that, Ricky Ponting!

Oh, well.

Also I met someone strangely cool at work last Saturday, who unwittingly made it into my 2006 nano-gumbo. I saw his name written down previously, which itself suggests something geographical, and I thought "Hey, that would be a great name for a jagged hill illuminated by a crescent moon in the blue night, haunted with voodoo magic and headless chickens et al. His name is going in my novel."

So I finally get to meet this guy.

"Hey!, I know you oh no wait, I don't, sorry."

He wasn't a particularly face painted bells and charms man. Nice, but just... nice.

Crunch time

2006-11-24T12:19:00.000+08:00

In a desparate attempt to kill off my main character, I sentenced her to Death Row last night. You'd think with her locked up like that, you know, she has to die, right? But they keep postponing her execution date. And now her friends are about to bust her out of there. THIS GIRL IS LIKE FREAKING IMMORTAL OR SOMETHING.

No. Io is not immortal. She is going to die, and soon. I swear this. And it won't be pretty.

As she walked down the corridor to the video room she tried to think about other stuff. Nice stuff. Standing in the moonlight in the belly of the Third Sister. The warm red sand beneath her feet. Neko elevated off the ground; that look on his face. Io shut her eyes tight, squinching back tears. She wouldn't cry. She would be brave.

Whoa, cliche! But anyway. It's not that I love Io so much; she is not my most endearing creation.As Neko bemoaned, she's childish. She's annoying. Actually, she's a lot like me. And when she dies, she'll leave behind all this really beautiful stuff, and I start thinking about when I die and what I'm going to leave behind. I don't want her to die. It's too cruel.

Eh. Enough of that. It's crunch time.

ka-zam!

2006-11-23T21:32:00.000+08:00

(Strange, innit? I post about hitting 50k and winning Nanowrimo, not by copying and pasting realms of my latest chapter into this blog, or crapping on about what it means to write 50 000 words and where I go from here, but instead by sticking up a mindless scribble from one of my lecture notebooks. But I'm happy. )

Ashes to ashes

2006-11-23T12:34:00.000+08:00

Yeah, right.

I'm all set to write the pivotal chapter of the book where Io dies and in the process her homicidal maniac father is set free-- and it's the first day of the Ashes!

What do I do? Watch cricket or write novel? Watch cricket or write novel? Watch cricket or-- ???
(or, just blog about it and do neither)

Not sure who I'm supporting this year. I mean, I know Australia will win. But... but...

Observation: cricket commentators would make great Nanowrimoers. They spent five minutes this morning talking about Geraint Jones' attire re: bike pants. Same basic principle: say as little as possible in as many words as possible

I think I've read this one before

2006-11-22T22:00:00.000+08:00

For most of my high school years, my favourite book till death do us part was 'Deja Vu', by John Larkin. I read it regularly whilst drinking tea and listening to the Cure's Bloodflowers, my then favourite album. And even today, Larkin is my favourite author. It's not that I particularly go out of my way to read his stuff anymore. I re-read one of his 'adult' books recently (that is, 'adult' as opposed to 'young adult'), and I enjoyed it, but it just wasn't the same. Blug. But John Larkin remains my favourite author simply because he is my favourite author. He's my favourite person who writes books.

Way back when, I sent an email to said favourite author. He sent an email back. I replied. He replied. And voila! History was made. I was going to be a writer and John Larkin said I could be a writer.

To get the full effect of that last statement, replace 'John Larkin' with your own personal hero and 'writer' with the profession of your dreams and see how you feel. ...YU-HUH.

I'm not going to be a writer anymore. I take that author dream out and dust it off every November for Nanowrimo, then pack it away safely every December 1st when I realise I can't write fiction for bollocks. But those emails have got to number in the coolest things I own.

I even made a website about his books! It's still up there, floating about aimlessly in cyberspace. I want to take it out and shoot it, because I haven't done anything significant to it since I was fourteen, and it's embarassing. Except that it's linked to some other more substantial stuff, so I can't. If you want a good laugh, you can google it yourself. Just don't tell me about it, okay?

A minute ago I mentioned the song Emma's Dream, and how that segued into this post. Well, back to Deja Vu. The main character, Somerset Lenin, is heartbreakingly in love with a girl, Natasha, and now the book and the song just go together in my mind. That's all.

Black Clouds

2006-11-22T21:15:00.000+08:00

I've just finished writing the chapter inspired by the scene inspired by the image inspired by the song that spawned this monster. From what seems like ages ago:

Flying through the desert on the back of a ute. Thunder, lightning. Big black sky, lights flashing above us. Far far away, a tiny smidge on the horizon, is the dawn of a new day. The rain is pelting down and steaming on the burning bitumen.

(October 16)

There are a few changes in the scene. My vehicle of choice is a stolen army jeep, the ute having crashed and burned several pages too soon when the original driver bailed and left his co-host, literally a block of wood, to do the driving. And the cement/riverbed desert I had seen on MythBusters is now a red dusty Australian outback affair. But it's written. Black Clouds. I can rest easy.

This isn't the live version that is no longer available for download from the String Cheese Incident website. It doesn't do the particularly awesomething around 6min20sec that for some reason I just love. But the solo is cool, nonetheless. Also the concert has an okay version of 'Emma's Dream', so I'm happy.

Had a funny dream, oh yeah, swimming with Natasha in the sky,
There were balloons and honey bees, oh yeah, want to take you with me there sometime

At least, I think those are the lyrics. Reminds me of a book. Ooh, segue to new post!

2006-11-22T10:08:00.000+08:00

So!

On the 27th of this month we are going road tripping down south in a fury of wheels and warped mixed tapes. Oh, that just reminded me of a Homestar Runner cartoon... where was I?

This means I have five days to finish my novel. Reaching 50,ooo by Sunday isn't going to be a problem. But I think I've started something a lot bigger than 50K. My MC hasn't even died yet, though goodness knows I've tried to kill her off, several times, but to no avail. In fact, I think she's going to be defacing this green earth for another 10 or 15Ks. Doesn't end there. Then it's her dad's turn to run amok. And his is the really really really important sub-plot, he's the one giving my novel its whole stupid theme, anyway.

"What are you whinging about? Just hit 50k in the next five days and finish the novel later!"

It doesn't work like that. Once November ends, that's it. I can't write fiction outside this month. (I can't write fiction inside this month either, but that's a moot point about quality, not quantity, people.) It's like when your best friend leaves the country and you say "I'll write." I mean it's exactly like that. "I'll write." Well, we both know I won't.

Which leaves me the daunting task of finishing a 60-70k novel before Sunday. (Freak out.)

Why am I still blogging about this crap? Time is words!

In 25 words or less...

2006-11-21T22:38:00.000+08:00

This amuses me: the AutoSummarize function in Microsoft Word. I have yet to figure out what its rules are. That will be the project of another summer.

Nanowrimo 2006, in 20 sentences:

Io woke. Io? Io sighed. Io slowed.
Io screamed. "Io? Io turned. Io smiled. Io noticed. Io! "Io! Io!"
"Io!"
Io."
"Io?" Io laughed. "Io! Io! "Io!"
"Io?"

Nanowrimo 2005, in 20 sentences:

"Mum! JEFF… !!!
Jeff. "Robby!" "Robby!" "Robby!" Robby! Robby!"
"Mum! Mum?"
"Robby?"
"ROBBY!"
"Robby! "Robby? "Mum!! "Mum!"
MUM!"
"Robby!"
"JEFF!!" "JEFF!!"

And finally, Nanowrimo 2004, in 20 sentences:

John gulped. thought John. John sighed. John gulped. John smiled. thought John.
John gulped. wondered John. John's dead!"
John snorted. thought John. John."
"John, John, relax. John sighed. "John."
thought John. "John… John?"
John ducked. thought John.

Well, exactly. I couldn't have put it better myself. If I was Yoko Ono or maybe Fatboy Slim, I would publish this right now, and buy World Peace with the royalties. Or a super never-ending block of Orange Intense, oh wow, that'd be something...

Why does blockquoting screw up my line spacing?

Lost: Inner Editor

2006-11-21T16:44:00.000+08:00

myah. I'm too hard on myself. The point of Nanowrimo is not to write a book in a month; the point is to write a book in a month. You could give some people half a lifetime of nothing-to-do, and they still wouldn't write more than a chapter. Having the time helps, but I don't think it's actually the prerequisite for finishing a novel. No. The prerequisite for finishing novels is ...not giving a hoot?

Io's about to break into an army fortress by vomiting on a soldier's shoe.

Not Giving A Hoot banished my Inner Editor to the dark, cobwebby dungeons of my mind a looooong time ago. I drag its mangy skeleton out every so often when I need to write an essay or a lab report, but it's largely ineffective. It just sits on my desk and counts finger bones while I write crap.

Wanted: mad cap action packed life

2006-11-20T18:03:00.000+08:00

Today is a good day for writing novels! A good day-- and a bad day, too. Such is life.

It's a good day because thus far I have stuck 4235 words together, and reading back over them I discover that they are, at least, grammatical. To boot, they (mostly) make sense, and move the story forward. But it's also a bad day, because you know what else I did?

-ate breakfast, lunch, etc.
-watched Oprah/Desparate Housewives/Days of our Lives/MASH
-read some more We of the Never-Never while Eleanor dug up one of the garden beds
-got my Christmas shopping over and done with at the Oxfam, World Vision, and the TEAR fund websites: guess who's getting a buffalo this year? So cool!
-blogged
-...uh, no, that's it.

Today I realised, as I do every November, that I am not exactly leading a madcap action packed or even boring yet stressful life. Write a novel in a month? Sure. I've got all month to do it. In the meantime, some of my co-novelists come home at eight or nine at night, and fall in front of the couch, exhausted. For them, it's more like write a novel in 30x1/2 hour.

Oh, well. That's their problem. Still, the feeling of "OH MY GOSH LOOK WHAT I ACCOMPLISHED I KICK ARSE SO GOOD!!!" is slightly diminished in my case... sigh.

The Never-Never

2006-11-20T10:53:00.000+08:00

I'm reading "We of the Never-Never" at the moment, by Mrs Aeneas Gunn. It's not adding squat to my Summer Holiday Fiction Book Count, but I'm not inclined to care. The book is about the year (1902) a Melbourne school teacher lived with her husband on the Elsey cattle station in the Northern Territory, and it's poetry.

The Land of the Never-Never. Don't that just send chills up your spine?

Called the Never-Never, the Maluka loved to say, because they who have lived in it Never-Never voluntarily leave it. Sadly enough, there are too many who Never-Never do leave it. Others - the unfitted - will tell you that it is so called because they who succeed in getting out of it swear they will Never-Never return to it. But we who have lived in it, and loved it, and left it, know that our hearts can Never-Never rest away from it.

Behind the Back of Beyond. The Land of Plenty of Time and Wait a While. My most stubborn memory of the NT is of sleeping in the back seat of the car, bouncing along a red dirt road, then waking up as the sun went down. There, in the near-distance, are the Olgas. Filtered through the numbling conscious of a still dreaming eight year old mind, these are just about the most beautiful and surreal thing I have ever seen. Sucks boo to Uluru.

I think my motley crew are going walkabout.

Hello Beastie

2006-11-19T14:55:00.000+08:00

This is me. I was kicking arse for the first ten days, waaaay ahead of schedule; now the number of words I need to write to hit 50,ooo by November 30 is increasing exponentially. You lose one day... then another... then you actively procrastinate for another whole day... but it's cool. It's cool. If it gets to the point where I have to write 5000 a day, well, I can do that. In the meantime, I'm breaking this beastie down into ten minute chunks. That's all I have to do, ten minutes at a time.

Anyway, Io's just about to step over the threshold into her new life, literally, into a house with the most intense group of people she's ever met. She has no idea who they are yet. I have a vague idea they dismantle nuclear bombs for a living, but we'll see. So, I have to go check this out.

Warning: angst

2006-11-17T21:52:00.000+08:00

I'm a sucker for personality tests, emotional disorder tests, perfect career tests, Which Hobbit Are You? tests, and the like. Now it's IQ tests.

Some of the free ones out there are really hard. Uh-oh. Am I losing my intelligence? The Mensa test stumped me by question 3.On the High IQ Society test I couldn't get past question one. Meh. Who wants to join the High IQ Society? I don't want to join the High IQ Society.

But when I can do the test, it turns out my IQ is pretty good. I am actually intelligent enough to get into the High IQ Society (>124). I just can't do their test. Not smart enough to get into Mensa, dammit: their cut off is the 98th percentile. I'm thinking, that's pretty smart.

Anyway, so intelligencetest.com gave me one of my lower scores, but it also comes with a really nice run down of strengths and weaknesses in different areas. This is what they said about my verbal intelligence:

It is said that to have a mastery of words is to have in one's possession the ability to produce order out of chaos and that command of vocabulary is a true measure of intelligence.

[...]
Your verbal score was 100 and your percentile score is 99
According to this test you are a word wiz with a very high verbal IQ! You have probably read lots and are likely to be well aware of the numerous advantages of expressing yourself in a precise manner. You appreciate the sometimes subtle differences between words and can easily communicate to others what you really mean. Overall you have a much better understanding of the intricacies of communication than most people. Remember there is no ceiling to your knowledge and you can improve your verbal ability infinitely.

Oh...! I know it's just a dumb internet IQ test. I know it lacks credentials. I know there are only 30 questions (bah!) and like maybe three of them had anything to do with verbal intelligence. But I'm choking up now.

What two years ago was a dead simple decision to become a psychologist and help people is swirling down the drain like in that lyric from "Shotgun Blues". I don't want to become a psychologist. I don't want to help people. I want to study language and what makes a language and how people use language to say what they want to say and I want I want I want. I want this totally interesting and stimulating and selfish academic career flitting from university to university, exotic island to exotic island, drinking strange drinks and documenting the language of the locals and studying the finer details of the Future Semiconditionally Modified Subinverted Plagal Past Subjunctive whatsit, whatever that is, and if it doesn't exist which it doesn't well I'll make it exist. And then I'll write books about it, 50,ooo word books, one every month.

Tolkien was a linguist. C.S. Lewis was a linguist. Um... okay, I don't know any other linguists besides the ol' Chomsky, but what I'm saying is these people had perfectly awesome and productive lives doing what they loved, and if they didn't go out to some third world country and steal babies from the Jaws of Death, well, who cares?

For some reason, somewhy, I can't do this. I want to, and I can't, and I don't know why, and I'm going to cry. Oh, angst.

BTW: I am Frodo. Double angst.

On your marks... get set...

2006-11-16T21:36:00.000+08:00

Hey. I wrote 1390 words in three ten minute intervals. Boot-wah!

I could write novels for Australia at this rate. Except that the crap:word ratio is overwhelming. Check this out. This is so bad I'm going to print it out and frame it:

"How can you live with your heart on the other side?" Io asked, incredulous. She was fascinated. She held her hand to her own chest, and felt her little heart beating its quick bird-like beats in her own chest. On the left hand side.

..."her little heart beating its quick bird-like beats." I mean what does that mean? That's what I want to know. But the timer is ticking. What do hearts beat? What do hearts beat? Oh crap. Uh... beats! Hearts beat beats.
Note also the terrible use of own chest twice in one utterance. Oh my gosh. And "On the left hand side," with the bad punctuation usually reserved for big deals, as if the position of Io's heart was a medical anomalie.

And I used the phrase midnight juggernauts to refer to the act of getting up in the middle of the night for a drink of water.

Ten minute sprints are fun, but I think I might slow down a bit.

2006-11-15T17:48:00.000+08:00

Sometimes when young children are acquiring words, they mis-extend them. That is to say, what they refer to by the word includes a whole lot more stuff than its dictionary defintion.
For example (and this is a real observed example), the word 'clock' may be used to refer not only to clocks, but also to circular bracelets and the sound of water dripping in the sink.

Apparently one of the reasons why Arabic calligraphy is so ornate and aesthetic is because figural art is seen as potentially idolatrous in Islam. So instead, they created the art of writing.

This dove is composed of the Arabic words 'houb' (love) and 'salaam' (peace), and was rendered by Mamoun Sakkal post-September 11.

In Biblical Hebrew there is a prefix marking definiteness. Now, when the prefix precedes a word beginning with a guttural, for example the word for [?iir] 'city', it takes the form [haa]: haa?iir 'the city'

When this same article precedes a word beginning with a non-guttral, for example [melek] 'king', the two join together as [hammelek]: 'the king'

Whoa. Did you see that? The prefix now has only a short vowel [a], but the word for 'king' is pronounced with a doubly long [m] consonant.

Oh phonologists. Is there a neat, simple solution to this terrible mess?

Why yes there is, and it's called multi-linear phonology. I'm not going to explain how it represents this wonderful little problem. I had a difficult enough time trying to simplify the whole set up. But believe me, it is beautiful.

Multilinear phonology: promoting elegance in phonology since 1976.

1 Samuel, 24: 21-22
English Standard version:

Now David had said, "Surely in vain have I guarded all that this fellow has in the wilderness, so that nothing was missed of all that belonged to him, and he has returned me evil for good. God do so to the enemies of David and more also, if by morning I leave so much as one male of all who belong to him"

King James version:

Now David had said, "Surely in vain have I kept all that this fellow hath in the wilderness, so that nothing was missed of that pertained unto him: and he hath requited me evil for good. So and more also do God unto the enemies of David, if I leave of all that pertain to him by the morning light any that pisseth against the wall."

I love a good translation. I don't know much about these things, but I wonder if the last phrase of the KJV isn't actually closer to the original text than the rather less poetical one male in the ESV.

The major problem [of time travel] is quite simply one of grammar, and the main work to consult in this matter is Dr. Dan Streetmentioner's Time Traveler's Handbook of 1001 Tense Formations. It will tell you, for instance, how to describe something that was about to happen to you in the past before you avoided it by time-jumping forward two days in order to avoid it. The event will be described differently according to whether you are talking about it from the stand point of your own natural time, from a time in the further future, or a time in the further past and is further complicated by the possibility of conducting conversations while you are actually travelling from one time to another with the intention of becoming your own mother or father.
Most readers get as far as the Future Semiconditionally Modified Subinverted Plagal Past Subjunctive Intentional before giving up; and in fact in later editions of the book all the pages beyond this point have been left blank to save on printing costs.

Douglas Adams, naturally. From one of THHGTTG books. Too lazy to reference it now.

It's a strange and beautiful thing, innit?

With God on my side

2006-11-12T18:56:00.000+08:00

So Andrew Denton's made a documentary about Christian fundamentalists in America. I like Denton-- well, I like Enough Rope, anyway. They get the coolest guests. Like Eric Zala, Chris Strompolos, and Jayson Lamb who, in their teenage years, filmed their own version of Raiders of the Lost Ark. And Ciaron O'Reilly, a Christian pacifist I admire massively, who dismantles really expensive fighter jets and performs exorcisms on warships. I don't know about Andrew himself. His questions tend towards the somewhat... uh... inane?

You were in the burning house, your legs were broken, the ceiling was about to cave in and crush you and your horribly disfigured children, and a homicidial maniac with a chainsaw leaped out of your wardrobe. How did you feel?

I think the documentary will be interesting. And scary. And I think it will make me angry and frustrated. I'm worried people are going to watch this film and go, damn I hate Christians. If that's what Christians believe, I don't want any of it.

[voiceover]
...it's easy to look at the 'other' and question where faith can take people, yet I wonder, if the telescope was turned around, what might we look like?

[cut to interview]

Andrew Denton : Is homosexuality a sin?

I wish the American religious right were not so prominent. I wish everyone knew just as much about the non-fundamentalist religious right, and the religious left, and the religious unaffiliated. I'd like to be able to say, "I'm a Christian," and have people understand that doesn't mean I'm homophobic or a one-eyed anti-abortionist or... you know, I mean everything. Like there are whole populations of Christians whose Bible does not say "God Bless America", and who think redemptive violence should be left to the Old Testament, and who believe in forgiveness and love because they have been forgiven and loved.

Religion sucks. Politics suck. Documentaries suck. I'm going to go eat worms.

Procrastination nation.

2006-11-11T18:28:00.000+08:00

When I don't feel like studying, I procrastinate by writing a novel. When I don't feel like writing a novel, I procrastinate by reading web comics.

Generally I don't get into them until the the back catalogue is just massive, and then I can sit clicking "next" for hours and I get RSI.

Zoe sent me the following cartoon from xkcd. I don't remember Robert Smith's hair ever being so subdued, but I'm hooked:

Some dome title.

2006-11-11T18:07:00.000+08:00

So, Google's got Blogger, just like it got Writely, an online word processing program thingum. Writely did improve somewhat; I can now use a whole caboodle of non-English symbols, which is pretty cool. Thus far, I can see no big deal with Blogger. Except for being able to label posts. Hmm. Like I have enough trouble thinking up some dome title; labels may be beyond me. Oh, hey, so how about that spelling mistake? I'm leaving that in there. It's kinda indicative of my linguistic competence at the moment.

Edit: Okay, so I can mess around with the template without having to learn html on the spot. That's pretty nice.

Study produces metaphors

2006-11-09T17:01:00.000+08:00

It's true!

The mean number of metaphors produced by students who studied 7 hours a day for five days (M = 9.6) was greater than the mean number of metaphors produced by students who did not study (M = 1.6). This difference was statistically significant, t(4) = 3.8, p < .05

Some metaphors produced by students who studied include:

It's like someone's drilled a hole through my skull, shoved a funnel in there, and if I put too much information in at once, it spills out the top and makes a mess all over the kitchen.

Studying [statistics] is like a garden shed. If you try to eat it, it will stick in your throat.

I like study about as much as I like cats.**

**Although this utterance contains the word like, it is not a metaphor. The student who said it was taken out and shot for mucking up serious data.

Introducing Mr. Random Stranglelove, Esq.

2006-11-07T22:21:00.000+08:00

Chicken and egg conundrums! Sordid brothels! Men in funny hats! Dexy's Midnight Runners! And dialogue...

I just had the best writing session. I am so high.

Silent death ray of DOOM

2006-11-06T21:45:00.000+08:00

Sheesh. 12ooo words in and my novel freaking doesn't have any dialogue. No wondered I'm bored. My characters are so wrapped in their angsty little lives they've forgotten how to talk.

It's so not cool.

Last year I wrote whole chapters of unintelligible conversations.

"Robby? Robby, where are you? I can't see you! Come back!"
"Relax. I'm right here. So do you want one?"
"Where are you?"
"Open your mouth"
"Ahhh."
"Okay, now swallow."
"What? There's nothing--"
"Jemima! You dropped it on the pavement. Oh, that's gross. Try again. And when I say 'swallow', just do it."
So I do.
"Am I invisible now?"
"Congratulations!"

I am going to have to get Io in with her new gang of friends seriously quick. Jemima liked to talk. Io's too sullen, and prefers to give people meaningful glares.

"I like your dress."
"Glare."

Soooigh.

Mind of mind's own

2006-11-05T08:44:00.000+08:00

So, I've just finished the chapter where Io trades her integrity for a pet turtle then the turtle dies. Eight thousand words down : 42,ooo to go.

The closer I get to this all amazing 50,ooo, the more impossible it seems.

Reason: 2 thousand words a day... times 30 days... equals 50,ooo words with five days to spare, or a 60,ooo word novel
Emotion: Nu-uh.
Reason: What?
Emotion: I said, 'Nu-uh'. You've made a mistake in your calculations.
Reason: ...no, I haven't.
Emotion: You must have. It's simply not possible to write a 50,ooo word novel in a month.
Reason: It is! It so is! Get out a calculator and check the sums for yourself.
Emotion: The sums lie. There's something wrong with them. You're trying to do the impossible. How can you do the impossible? You can't. The sums must be wrong.

Shut up, Emotion. The sums are right. If I write 2,ooo words a day, I will reach 50,ooo words by the end of the month.

My Reason isn't good at "believing in stuff". That's not it's job. Reason does the sums, reaches a conclusion, then passes it along to Emotion. Emotion is good at believing in stuff. But it largely ignores the conclusions reached by Reason, and decides whether or not it will believe something based on its own particular feelings. Do you have any idea how much this sucks?

Shake your pants like you're Che Guevara

2006-11-03T15:58:00.000+08:00

Oh, man. So I'm sitting in the library trying to read up on Information Processing theory which is all about how children are little computers taking in input and doing stuff to it and if one or another of their processing mechanisms improves then hey presto! you've got cognitive development. I mean, this is exciting stuff.

My brain's just going, Nuh-uh. You can think you're going to study but I ain't having any of it. I'm going on strike.
Don't you hate it when your brain doesn't follow its own orders? Sheesh.

This exam stuff's getting me down. I know I said secretly I like this time of year because that's when I learn, but I couldn't give a flying monkey's uncle about increasingly complex rule structures and what's more, I can understand this stuff when I'm reading about it, I make intelligent comments about it and I can integrate it freaking into a blog post, but I have seriously bad recall and ask me about the seven factors leading to children's cognitive development and I will draw a cartoon of an alien spaceship nuking New York.

Sigh.

What's even more stupid is that the whole time I'm thinking this, I've got Michael Franti's Feelin' Free running through my head. Like the intro and all the chord changes and the beats and John Butler in the background and everything. I've been listening to Everyone Deserves Music for one little week and I know how it goes. Backwards.

Clearly, I need to be setting my psych. notes to music.

Oh, except that, for some bizarro reason, I haven't got the lyrics for Feelin' Free quite right. It's not a mondegreen, I can hear them properly and I know what they are for really real, but whenever I'm singing the chorus, I get my own, personal remix:

But it seems to me
That I'm about to be
Feelin' free now
Take a bow when you feel like a superstar
Shake your pants
like you're Che Guevara
...

Cheer up, emo kid

2006-11-02T20:49:00.000+08:00

I was washing the dishes and thinking about my incredibly low humour threshold level. I mean, even just thinking about this made me smile, right?
Some things I just can't help laughing at, no matter how many times I see them, and I'll just be walking along all on my lonesome and I think about them and I start smiling like the cat-lady.
In the Mythbusters opening shots for Season ?, when the cement truck is sitting there and then it blows up-- that cracks me up everytime.
The Inspector Rex theme is forever and always sidesplitting, I reckon.

So Mum's found this great new website for me to play with: a Story Generator. We were laughing so much we were crying at some of the things it produced:

The story is about a computer technician. It takes place in a tavern. The story climaxes with a shopping trip.

This is a road-trip story with a focus on jealousy. The story is about illogical park rangers. The crux of the story involves someone going to sleep. The issues of faster-than-light-travel and its effects on business is a major element of the story.

The story is about stupid weapons officers. It takes place in a town. The critical element of the story is a slip of the tongue.

This is a pure action story. The story is about a linguistics expert. It starts at a portal to another solar system. An ancient evil coming back to life is a major part of the story.

I've tentatively named my own novel-in-progress "Cheer up, emo kid". I think the sentiment expressed in such a title is the least of my worries right now.

Don't be fooled-- this is a working title only, and a misnomer. I am going to write something epic. And serious. A life-changing work. Oh, yes.

Word!

2006-11-02T17:07:00.000+08:00

Big congratulations!!! to Michael Kirr a.k.a Kira's Slave, whose Nanowrimo plan was "to write 50,000 words by the time Day Two hits America". This he achieved sometime yesterday afternoon-ish.

(Michael is an East Aussie writer, if you want to do the maths about how many hours that actually took him.)

*humbled and in awe*

Okay, I know there were a few sneaky tricks pulled to reach this word count. Really bad padding... quotes... lyrics... hey, if my characters burst into Gilbert & Sullivan show stoppers every time they spoke I might be finished now too...

But you know what?
Nanowrimo.
It's not just about silencing your inner editor.
It's not just about the global bonding of thousands of crazy novelists
It's not just about the powerful statement we make when we create rather than destroy.

Nanowrimo is about conjuring dirty tricks to maximise word count with minimal effort.

Eat my shorts, published authors.

Yukaghir love letter

2006-11-01T20:34:00.000+08:00

Isn't this beautiful? It's a love letter from a Yukaghiran girl to her ex-boyfriend.
The people involved are represented by the tall trees, and the girl in question writing the letter is the one labelled (c)-- you can tell she's a girl, because of the dots on the right side of the tree. This is her braided hair.
She's living in her own house, or she's single, whatever. The tree on her immediate left, (b), that's her ex-boyfriend. See how he's shacked up with another girl (a)?
The dark line ending in a squiggle, extending from the girl (c) to her ex-boyfriend (b), means that's she's still thinking of him, and the circle drawn connecting the trees peaks means that they could be together, but the new girl (a) is trying to stop this happening, shown by the line extending from her and cutting between the girl and her ex. The ex had better hurry up if he wants to come back, because in the background, there are two smaller trees: future children? Also, the girl (a) has someone else, another man represented by tree (d), thinking about her.

Now why don't I just draw fifty pictures this November?

The morning after the night before

2006-11-01T09:03:00.000+08:00

So, like a good little Nanowrimoer, I stayed up till twelve last night, turned on the laptop, settled into this armchair where nine hours later I am sitting again, and tapped out the first 1071 words of my story. Whoo!

I am trying desperately not to edit it. I should be moving on, onwards, upwards, beyond! This urge to edit is a classic procrastination technique. It doesn't add squat to your word count, and you're only doing it because you don't know what happens next. Well, I don't know what happens next. I've left my main character to wake up in the morning after the night before, totally unoblivious that her dad has gone on a murderous rampage.

Io had a dream. Her puppy dogs, all nine of them, had drowned in the river, and she was wandering aimlessly up and down its banks, wailing like a banshee. At long last, distressed and dishevelled, she came across a man sitting comfortably on a log in the sunshine. The man was stocky and dark, with big strong arms. Into these he gathered her, and consoled her, using a piece of toast as a graphic aid to explain why the puppies had to die. Io felt the man's stubbled chin scratching against her forehead, and knew she was safe.

Then a tree growing by the river decided to drop one of its branches and it killed them both.

It was freaking one o'clock in the morning! I was tired. Perhaps tonight my characters will enjoy a happier end to their miserable lives.

Check it out!

2006-10-31T18:34:00.000+08:00

After much pissfarting about with my blog template (I believe 'pissfarting' is the technical name for such work; I wouldn't know), I still can't get my picture to stay in its own little box, and the overall template is as dull as ever, but... I have Widgets! Courtesy a guy named Paul Hawke from the Nanowrimo website.

Aren't Widgets cool? Apparently they update automatically with my word-count, and just for fun, I have pitted Perth against the Bahamas in a word-count war. We will kick your butts, Bahama boys.

(No, wait, I think that's 'cabana boy'. I want a cabana boy.)

...one more day! Half a day! Five and a half hours! Now I'm nervous. I still don't have a first line. Maybe I'll skip the first line and beginning writing from the third or fourth.

Do you know, I think this deserves an emoticon... :D
There we go. I'm trying not to use them after one of my lecturers was kind enough to read a draft assignment and then seriously thought I used smilies, for really real, in my essays. Oh, horrors.

November is--

2006-10-30T09:10:00.000+08:00

Hmm. Was there something else I was supposed to be doing this November?
Oh, that's right.
End of year exams.

WHOSE IDEA WAS IT TO SCHEDULE EXAMS FOR THE SAME TIME AS NANOWRIMO, ANYWAY? That's what I'd like to know. Honestly! Do they not realise tapping out 1,667 words of crap a day is sufficiently stressful? I am not a machine! I have breaking points!

But it's cool. I completed Nano last year and didn't do too miserably on my exams. Well, I don't think I did. I mean, I didn't fail Astronomy, and that's what counts.

The year before that, 2004, I didn't even know Nanowrimo was on until November 21st. So then I had to write 50,000 words in ten days THAT'S FIVE THOUSAND WORDS A DAY, PEOPLE. Uh-huh.

It's all good.

Anyway, secretly I like exams. I drift through term going "Yup... yup... sure, I understand that", but exam period is when I actually learn stuff. It's such a rush. Like when you're staring at a 3X2 distinction about pulmonic, glottalic, and velaric airstreams and what it means for each of them to be ingressive or egressive... and suddenly, you get it! You've figured it out, what each of these actually sound like, and it's not a case of you remembering the distinctions anymore, you know them.

Money is power but knowledge is awesome.

The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul

2006-10-30T09:03:00.000+08:00

"In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with, and that terrible listlessness that starts to set in about 2.55, when you know you've taken all the baths that you can usefully take that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the newspaper you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul."

Douglas Adams. Naturally.

I HATE Sunday afternoons. Okay, evenings. Afternoons aren't really that bad because with enough wine, coffee, and chocolate, you can quite often extend lunchtime conversations till three or four... we had lunch at my incredibly pregnant aunt's and de facto uncle's house, and discussed baby names for the better part of two hours.

My favourites: Ringo, Dinah, Moshushu, Xerxes

They have a 50,000 Baby Names book, and there's a bit in the front about how to make up your own names to ensure originality.

Try different spelling: e.g. 'Michael' could be spelt 'Mikl'
NO IT COULD NOT
What about naming your baby after a hobby?
E.G. TRAINSPOTTING
...or a product?
E.G. COLGATE

...but I have yet to figure out what to do with Sunday evenings.

I think maybe it is time to catch up on Toothpaste for Dinner.

(note: I posted this yesterday. Then Blogger chucked a sad and everything went weird. I am not impressed.)

A room full of books...

2006-10-28T21:32:00.000+08:00

That used to be a favourite dream: I'd live in a house with one hundred rooms, and every one of those hundred rooms would be full to bursting with books.

The coolest collection of books I ever saw was a display in an old shop in Northbridge. The books were library discards and stuff, arranged into a life-size maze, a spiral you could walk through, from foot-high at the entrance to an igloo of black-labelled murder-mysteries in the middle. My friends and I wagged school especially to go see it. We were so hardcore. And the best bit-- you got to take as many books as you could carry. I can remember walking through the front door back home, six plastic shopping bags splitting with books, and having to somehow explain where they all came from.

I don't read books--novels-- anymore. It's a bit sad and pretty stupid, really. I'm supposed to be writing a novel in a month, and I haven't read a novel in six months. I still read a lot of non-fiction, and if I find a good musician I'll treat him (inevitably male, yes) as a poet.

The last novel I read was, I think, Jane Eyre. I loved it. So romantic. Oooh...

"...understand that so long as my visitors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing-room every evening; it is my wish; don't neglect it. Now go, and send Sophie for Adele. Good-night, my--" He stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me.
(chapter 17)

I was wary of Mr. Rochester in the beginning. Jane is quite sensible to his faults, but deliberately overlooks them, so long as he is good to her. Ugh. And then I was worried he was going to be a second (*shudder*) Heathcliff, from Wuthering Heights. (Yes, I know, different sister.) But Mr. Rochester turns out to be a good guy, as far as I'm concerned. And he says some stuff sometimes, and you go, Whoa! That's me.

"As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter; it is disposed to impart all that the brain conceives; though I dare say it would be silent on much that the heart experiences..."
(Mr. Rochester about Jane, chapter 19)

...I reckon maybe this is why Jane Eyre is one of the greatest love stories in English literature, while Bedded by the Desert King (Mills and Boon) is not.

2006-10-26T08:37:00.000+08:00

I've got Pink Floyd's The Wall IV-dripping into my blood. Oh man. Like I am probably one of the least teen-angsty and rebellious people I know, but listening to this album I can kinda understand what it might be like. And it feels good.

I don't need no arms around me
And I don't need no drugs to calm me
I have seen the writing on the wall
Don't think I need anything at all
No! Don't think I need anything at all

Some bits just scare me, like when you can hear the traffic in the street below:

Would you like to learn to fly?
Would'ya?
Would you like to see me try?

Don't know what else to say, really. Oh, except that for some reason I think this album is actually incredibly funny and tongue-in-cheek. I have no idea why. But it's as if you took this album seriously, Pink Floyd would laugh at you. Or something.

Smart pants

2006-10-24T18:07:00.000+08:00

>From: Edna Zamor
>To: Me
>Subj: well-informed sweatpants

I don't want to know!
But oh, how I want to know.

Crazy spam.

Fantasticness overload

2006-10-23T20:54:00.000+08:00

(Does giving this stuff a name make it any easier? I love it.)

CORRIEARKLET (n.)

The moment at which two people approaching from opposite ends of a long passageway recognise each other and immediately pretend they haven't. This is to avoid the ghastly embarassment of having to continue recognising each other the whole length of the corridor.

CORRIECRAVIE (n.)

To avert the horrors of corrievorrie (q.v.) corriecravie is usually employed. This is the cowardly but highly skilled process by which both protagonists continue to approach while keeping up the pretence that they haven't noticed each other - by staring furiously at their feet, grimacing into a notebook, or studying the walls closely as if in a mood of deep irritation

CORRIEDOO (n.)

The crucial moment of false recognition in a long passageway encounter. Though both people are perfectly well aware that the other is approaching, they must eventually pretend sudden recognition. They now look up with a glassy smile, as if having spotted each other for the first time (and are particularly delighted to have done so), shouting out 'Haaaaallllloooooo!' as if to say 'Good grief!! You!! Here!! Of all people!! Well I never. Coo. Stap me vitals, etc.'

CORRIEMOILLIE (n.)

The dreadful sinking sensation in a long passageway encounter when both protagonists immediately realise they have plumped for the corriedoo (q.v.) much too early as they are still a good thirty yards apart. They were embarassed by the pretence of corriecravie (q.v.) and decided to make use of the corriedoo because they felt silly. This was a mistake as corriedoo (q.v.) will make them seem far sillier

CORRIEVORRIE (n.)

Corridor etiquette demands that once a corriedoo (q.v.) has been declared, corrievorrie must be employed. Both protagnoists must now embellish their approach with an embarassing combination of waving, grinning, making idiot faces, doing pirate impressions, and waggling the head from side to side while holding the other person's eyes as the smile drips off their face, until with great relief, they pass each other.

CORRIEMUCHLOCH (n.)

Word describing the kind of person who can make a complete mess of a simple job like walking down a corridor

From Douglas Adams' and John Lloyd's Meaning of Liff

Pretty Face Syndrome

2006-10-22T12:06:00.000+08:00

I have been reading a book called My Israel Question, by SMH journalist Antony Loewenstein. In part I like the book because it's about an interesting subject (the Palestinian/Israeli conflict) of which I know embarassingly little, so I'm keen to learn. Mostly I am just enjoying the flow of the words. Is that superficial?

For example, Loewenstein writes about the language of reporting:

"Since September 11, much of the Western press has wittingly or unwittingly adopted the language of the Bush administration when discussing 'the march of democracy and freedom' in the Middle East. Australian media have not been immune from this."

Now, I am probably making a big deal out of nothing. Wouldn't be the first time. But to me, this is good writing. The style is fluid, flowing, effortless. The grammar is perfect. Each word is in its right place and, accordingly, no word is superfluous. There are no stylistic devices-- barriers-- between the reader and the information.

I have style covetousness...ness... I wish I could write like Loewenstein. But I don't have the courage. If you've ever read one of my English Lit. essays, I think you'll understand what I mean. My style tends towards being cute and clever, as I desparately attempt to hide the fact that what I am actually saying is unsophisticated, inaccurate, and boring. I don't have enough confidence in my content to just tell it like it is.

This has led to a rather obnoxious and arrogant complex of mine. I call it 'Pretty Face Syndrome'. I'm a tad hesitant to write about this, in case you tell me I have nothing to worry about. I think that would be even worse. You'll see what I mean.

The most frequent comment I get about my essays and stuff is that what I write is crap, but "...I like your style." "Your argument is weak... but I enjoyed reading your work." I have a 'voice.'

Okay. If I do have such a thing as 'voice' I am not going to be so stupid as to take it for granted, and you know, I guess I am pretty grateful for it. It's cool. I like voice. It's like having a pretty face.

And sometimes you would like people to stop looking at your face and start looking at you. Don't tell me about the way I write, tell me about what I've written.

There. Now I've established myself as obnoxious and arrogant, and please don't tell me I don't have voice because I don't think I could handle that either!

Being an aspiring writer is tough on the ego, methinks.

10 1/2 days till Nanowrimo!

2006-10-21T16:33:00.000+08:00

What's the next level up from "very very very excited about Nanowrimo"? (Please don't say 'orgasmic'.)
I'm there.
The temptation to write some novel is strong. But I am resisting it. We can go crazy with the plans, the descriptions, the characterising, the plot details, the chocolate storehousing, etcetera etcetera, before November... but the actual 50000 words of story has to wait.

Last night I played around with YWriter, which is a very cute programme for serious planning of novels, so I think it will be very useful if I ever get into serious planning of novels :)
I like gumbos, but mostly I'm happy to let my characters surprise me. In 2004, my first Nano, my MC ended up rowing from somewhere near Scotland to Fremantle, Australia, in a fridge. Sure, why not?

Mum also very awesomely let me read the first scenes from her novel-in-progress, and I have to say, my Mum is a great writer. I knew that already. She's a lot more subtle than me, but.

I like how that implies that I had any subtlety to begin with.

Then we made fools of ourselves trying to pronounce stuff in Xhosa and Montana Salish. Remember Bella Coola? That's also a Salishan language. Still looking for an audio sample of it. The word for man is Kwtmts.

Hey, I think vowels are superfluous, too.

On reflection...

2006-10-21T16:12:00.000+08:00

The stream of conscious in my previous post, although portraying something I do struggle with, isn't actually my gripe at the moment.

What I want to know is... if I consider the foundation stone of my faith to have nothing to do with my thoughts and my feelings (and I do still consider this to be the case), then exactly how cool am I with the notion that every other aspect of my faith could conceivably be construed, I'll freely admit this, as something I made up? Why do all the relational bits of religion seem to be just me injecting meaning into a messy, insignificant life?
Is that okay?
Is that cool?
Am I happy with that?
What's the alternative?
If God left a post on this blog, would I feel better?
Would I believe that?
Would I be satisfied?
Is there anyway God could present himself to which I couldn't reply, "I did that myself"?
I'm not sure there is.
Is that just the way it is?
Do I accept that?
I want to. But. I don't know if I am very cool with it at the moment.

"Those voices you hear, they're just your imagination."
"Yes. I know. That's how God speaks to me."

2006-10-20T18:13:00.000+08:00

OH CHI SQUARE WHY DO YOU MOCK ME?

Lab report data = insignificant.
BUM!
Now I have to recheck my analysis, maybe fudge the data a little (it's not like my partner and I didn't make the whole thing up anyway), or discuss at greath length how the experiment was flawed.
I am not looking forward to doing these reports for real.
Ergh.

Incidentally, you could never say that first sentence about chi-square with the same effect as it has in its written form. It's all about the Caps Lock and lack of punctuation. Oooh.

So onto other things.
Do you know, I know I talk like a got-it-together religious gal a lot of the time, but seriously, some days I just lose my mind over this thing. It seems to me that having any kind of relationship with God requires a great deal of effort and motivation. Maybe too much.

Before I became a Christian, the whole idea of God seemed totally plausible, but I couldn't see how it could be true. Now I believe it is true, but it sure doesn't feel like it. I go to church, I get into the singing, I pray, I read books about theology... hey, sometimes I even open up my Bible. I mean, what else do you want me to do? But all this time I am so aware that I am trying to construct a relationship with an invisible, silent God.

So I back away, clear my head, and it's obvious to me that God is real. The idea that God doesn't exist is absurd. Go any further than that, and it's all... blaaaaaaah.

I have climbed highest mountains
I have run through hills
Only to be with you

I have run
I have crawled
I have scaled these city walls
Only to be with you

I believe in the Kingdom come
Then all the colours will bleed into one
I'm still running

You broke the bonds and
You loosed the chains
Carried the cross
Of my shame
You know I believe it

But I still haven't found what I'm looking for

I mean... God! What does it mean to know God?!

"A special sort of emotion? Shivers down the back? A dreamy, off-the-ground, floating feeling? Tingling thrills and exhilaration? Or is knowing God a special sort of intellectual experience? Does one hear a voice? See a vision? Find strange trains of thought coursing through one's mind? Or what?"
(J.I. Packer)

Aieesh.

The inhabitants of my new world have this problem. They're pretty darn sure God exists. But sometimes it's like they're monitoring themselves. Every other species in the universe is so highly evolved that they understand God completely, and regularly have conversations with the Big Guy. But these poor people of mine... they aren't smart enough, they aren't sensitive enough, they stumble blindly through life, a people of faith, knowing that God exists, but with the freedom to doubt.

Nano gumbo #2

2006-10-19T20:49:00.000+08:00

I spent this afternoon immersed in the finer details of the APA-style chi-square contingency table.
It was not as fun as it sounds.
Time to create.

Bella Coola:
Officially the coolest language on the planet. Apparently known to its speakers as Nuxalk. Either way, the words Bella Coola have made it to my novel.

Sons of Gwalia:
This is the name of a mining company (?) down near Balingup. It sounds so Middle-Earth. I'm not sure who the Sons of Gwalia will be in my novel yet. Most names are suggestive of some quality. I have yet to discern the quality of these dudes. Stay tuned.

The Tall People:
Oh, to be tall. I think tall people are born graceful and dignified. Until everyone else realises they're tall, and you get more an impression of awkardness and discomfort. So I am going to create a race of exceptionally beautiful Tall People who save the world from the disaster wreaked by the rest of us. Also they may have a tendency to indulge in poetry, Shakespeare, and medical degrees. (Just for you, Minh!)

Pooter:
Isn't 'Pooter' the cutest little word? Mum was playing around on her lap top and suddenly the printer next to me started spurting out this stuff about Pooter. It's a sign!

Koko meets Schuyler oh my gosh that would be so freakin' awesome!:
Truly that is how I write, pre-editing. Let me unpack it.
Koko: an ASL-signing gorilla (the communication/not point is moot).
Schuyler: the most punk-ass little kid who just happens to be mute.
0h my gosh that would be so freakin' awesome!
I don't mean anything insulting by this. I just think it would be cool. I think Schuyler would think it would be cool, too :)

The Big Deal

2006-10-17T18:04:00.000+08:00

Unlike my last coupla Nano-novels where I threw stuff at the page and kept whatever stuck, this year I have a Plan.

Okay, no, I lie. It's not a Plan. It's more like a Reason. For once I have to write.

The Big Deal goes something like this:

April, 1996. School holidays. Tasmania. I'm sitting in the Broad Arrow cafe at Port Arthur, eating the best chilli con carne I have ever tasted.
A week later a man with a gun walked into that cafe and shot dead 22 people. The killing spree didn't stop there. A total of 35 people died that day, and 37 more were injured.
You must remember this massacre. It caused a huge stink about gun control laws.
A man named Martin Bryant is now serving a life sentence without possibility of parole. His motives are unknown, and he has an abnormally low IQ of 66. I don't mention that in his defence or to excuse him, but it seems a significant point.

So anyway. 2006 also marks fifty years of television in Australia. Channel 7 did a thing called 'TV turns 50', which was a count-down of the 20 most memorable moments of television. I watched a bit of it. Pretty predictable stuff.

Coming in at number ten was the Port Arthur massacre. That got my attention. I mean that really got my attention. I think I cried. There were some people, survivors of the tragedy, talking about what happened and how they felt about it. The last thing one lady said, before the clip ended, was

"I hardly think of him as human anyway, so I don't give him much of my time."

Then they cut to Mel and Kochie or an ad. or something.

Okay. I know why she said it. There was so much pain. Geez, she went through hell and what that man did was horrific and inhumane. And you know, maybe he would do the same thing again tomorrow. I understand that.

I also got the impression that this was her way of dealing with it. By saying "He isn't human" she was above him, she had risen, she survived, she's won. But. I couldn't help thinking, Well, she hasn't really won at all. To condemn that man, to dismiss him, to assume authority over him and say "You are not human"... to me, that's exactly the reaction evil wants. It won ten years ago, and dammit, it's victorious now.

***

In some places in America you can still be sentenced to death for murder. Murder-- I mean how much must be wrong with you and your life such that you can kill someone? But we don't try and fix the problem by fixing the problem. We just dispose of the result of the problem. Oh, yeah. That's really going to help.

***

The way we play God makes me uncomfortable. As if somehow we can judge whether someone should live or die, or if someone is human or animal. As if we had the right to do so.

***

Frodo tried to save Gollum. He had no choice, really. Frodo couldn't ignore Gollum because he understood why Gollum... Smeagol... was so screwed up.
Ultimately, the Ring was too much for Gollum and he died for it. He was also prepared to kill Frodo in the process.
So, would it have been better if Frodo had never even tried to save Gollum? Was Frodo naive and unrealistic to place trust in him?
That Frodo's efforts would fail was pretty obvious to Sam from the beginning. Sam was right about Gollum's true nature. But I don't know if that means Sam was right...

***

Before Frodo even meets Gollum, he has this conversation with Gandalf:

"[...] do you mean to say that you and the Elves have let him live on after all those horrible deeds? Now at any rate he is as bad as an Orc, and just an enemy. He deserves death."

"Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some die that deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends. I have not much hope that Gollum can be cured before he dies, but there is a chance of it [...]"

***

Death Row. Death Row scares me stupid. Though it's not actually the death bit that scares me. The bit that freaks me out is how can you live knowing exactly when you are going to die? That is inhumane.

***

My friend Carolyn said this once, and it stuck in my mind. I thought it was cool, though at the time I had nothing to apply it to.

God doesn't make junk.

***

So you see, I have a lot to write about this November

Nano gumbo

2006-10-16T21:28:00.000+08:00

Since like maybe April, whenever I've heard or read or seen something that's just leapt out at me as Nanowrimo material, I've written it down. It's become quite a gumbo of a list, so I'm posting a few now. Yeah, like I need to justify myself to you.

Losing faith, finding God:
If you were in anyway involved in my life over the past six months, this should come as no surprise
Missing the last bus home:
Don't you hate it when you miss the last bus? You have no mobile to phone a friend, you have no money to pay for a taxi. Will you curl up in the bus shelter until morning, or walk the fifty miles, meeting crazy people and having crazy adventures along the way? (Hint: YOU WALK)
Turtle Party:
Self-explanatory
Who are Cyril and Astrid?
There was a business card in someone's pocket at work for 'Cyril and Astrid'. I wondered who these dudes were and why they had such improbably cool names. My best guess: gurus. (Later I found out that 'Cyril & Astrid' is a local fashion label. Whatever.)
Tallanalla... Blackwood River... Valley of the Giants... Tinglewood...
These places sound good.
"Believe in the doubt."

This is the soundtrack to the story of my life:

2006-10-16T18:27:00.000+08:00

Good novelling needs good music. This is how my playlist for November is shaping up:

THE STRING CHEESE INCIDENT:
These guys are providing the landscape. Think 'Black Clouds'. Flying through the desert on the back of a ute. Thunder, lightning. Big black sky, lights flashing above us. Far far away, a tiny smidge on the horizon, is the dawn of a new day. The rain is pelting down and steaming on the burning bitumen. Oooh yeah.

U2:
The mood. Think 'Scarlet'. Standing very alone on the edge of a cliff over a tumultuous ocean, arms stretched out to the sky, face blazing with the sun. Evil shook our world. It told us we were miserable, worthless people. It told us we could never change. It tempted us to despair, it invited us to take our vengeance, it wanted us to become hard-hearted, cold, ruthless people. But we didn't let it win. We held onto what we believed. We rejoice because we won, and we rejoice because we rejoice.

BEN HARPER:
The people.

MONKEY ISLAND SOUNDTRACK:
The Nanowrimo-ness of it all. (I'll post my gumbo in a minute, you'll see what I mean.) Monkey Island just is Nano to me. A crazy mash-up of adventure and pirates and bad jokes... like The Rise and Fall of the Mighty Pirate Captain John Blackbird, my first novel. Boo-yah.

November spawned a Monster...

2006-10-16T18:06:00.000+08:00

Dear Mum and Dad,

I am not missing. I am not dead. I am just writing a novel in a month. So please do not rent out my room or arrange flowers for my funeral. You know I don't like roses.

Love,
Amy

Guess what November is?
National Novel Writing Month!
(nanowrimo.org)
SO exciting!

Anyway, I'm starting a blog in anticipation of the monster that is Nanowrimo. This year is going to be HUGE. Darling friends/groupie people/fellow spacktards, if you haven't heard from me for a while, check here. I may yet still be alive.

I might get a raincheck on those flowers, actually.