Thursday, June 30, 2005
On The Table Today
From a creative stand point, it hasn't been that great a day so far (Though admittedly, the day is young, and I hope to rectify this in a few hours) since the bulk of it has so far been taking up with tweaking and confirming the contents of the script I'm toiling away on. No one can accuse me of slacking on work obligations. Yay!
But novel wise things are going a wee bit slow, which I kind of expected since it's one of those transitions. I'm about to enter one of the "set piece" chapters where some major stuff is introduced and for me these chapters either go by blindingly fast or excruciatingly slow depending on the whimsey of the muses. It's a sadistic day in muse land, so I'm still just ramping up to it. I need to close off the previous chapter before I can start on it, and I'm still having a debate as to whether to set in London, as I'd originally planned, or Bangkok Thailand as one of the characters went and said in my head contrary to my expectations.
This happens to me a lot.
The way my writing seems to work is very much in the intuitive sense. While I usually have some kind of rough structure or idea in my head about how the story is going to go, I usually don't actually get down to the specifics until it's time to sit down and Write The Damn Thing. When that happens, mostly I just mentally hit the "Play" button on my internal DVD player and watch the movie that unspools in my head, then write it down, frequently hitting the rewind and pause buttons to take advantage of the multi-angle feature and focus on the images my imaginary DVD is throwing at me. Of course, one of the "draw backs" of sitting back and watching a movie I had nothing to do with is the fact that things will be said--or things will occur--that run counter my expectations and then I sit there thinking "Where the hell did that come from?"
Past experience has taught me that trying to force the movie the way I want it is not a good idea, since the movie will play out as it wants to (Or as my subconscious wants it to. Agh. Too many layers...) meaning that if I ignore a particular factor, some consequence relating to it will likely pop up again later in the movie and I am well and truly screwed. I'm sure I'll get into the swing of things again later, and not have to worry about nagging myself about not having written anything today. Or so I hope...
I'm also taking the time to rewatch Band of Brothers and man, if ever a movie made you not want to join the military and fight for honor and glory, this is it.
The first time I watched it was an overwhelming experience that pretty much demanded I marathon the whole thing. It left me emotionally exhausted and at the same time really, really glad I wasn't a soldier. This time, I'm being much more leisurely and taking the time to appreciate the little things about it with a ration of 1-2 episodes per day, and it's making me even more profoundly grateful that I'm not a soldier the second time 'round.
While there is definite merit in the idea that the bonds you form in the heat of combat are unlike any you will experience in the rest of your life, personally I think I can live without it. Especially if it means I don't have to kill anyone, or watch said amazing friends get blown up in heavy artillery barrages or get taken out by a well placed sniper round.
On second viewing it's still an amazing experience and a quaint reminder of a time when America was a proud nation universally loved and respected by all. It's amazing what a few decades can do...
From a creative stand point, it hasn't been that great a day so far (Though admittedly, the day is young, and I hope to rectify this in a few hours) since the bulk of it has so far been taking up with tweaking and confirming the contents of the script I'm toiling away on. No one can accuse me of slacking on work obligations. Yay!
But novel wise things are going a wee bit slow, which I kind of expected since it's one of those transitions. I'm about to enter one of the "set piece" chapters where some major stuff is introduced and for me these chapters either go by blindingly fast or excruciatingly slow depending on the whimsey of the muses. It's a sadistic day in muse land, so I'm still just ramping up to it. I need to close off the previous chapter before I can start on it, and I'm still having a debate as to whether to set in London, as I'd originally planned, or Bangkok Thailand as one of the characters went and said in my head contrary to my expectations.
This happens to me a lot.
The way my writing seems to work is very much in the intuitive sense. While I usually have some kind of rough structure or idea in my head about how the story is going to go, I usually don't actually get down to the specifics until it's time to sit down and Write The Damn Thing. When that happens, mostly I just mentally hit the "Play" button on my internal DVD player and watch the movie that unspools in my head, then write it down, frequently hitting the rewind and pause buttons to take advantage of the multi-angle feature and focus on the images my imaginary DVD is throwing at me. Of course, one of the "draw backs" of sitting back and watching a movie I had nothing to do with is the fact that things will be said--or things will occur--that run counter my expectations and then I sit there thinking "Where the hell did that come from?"
Past experience has taught me that trying to force the movie the way I want it is not a good idea, since the movie will play out as it wants to (Or as my subconscious wants it to. Agh. Too many layers...) meaning that if I ignore a particular factor, some consequence relating to it will likely pop up again later in the movie and I am well and truly screwed. I'm sure I'll get into the swing of things again later, and not have to worry about nagging myself about not having written anything today. Or so I hope...
I'm also taking the time to rewatch Band of Brothers and man, if ever a movie made you not want to join the military and fight for honor and glory, this is it.
The first time I watched it was an overwhelming experience that pretty much demanded I marathon the whole thing. It left me emotionally exhausted and at the same time really, really glad I wasn't a soldier. This time, I'm being much more leisurely and taking the time to appreciate the little things about it with a ration of 1-2 episodes per day, and it's making me even more profoundly grateful that I'm not a soldier the second time 'round.
While there is definite merit in the idea that the bonds you form in the heat of combat are unlike any you will experience in the rest of your life, personally I think I can live without it. Especially if it means I don't have to kill anyone, or watch said amazing friends get blown up in heavy artillery barrages or get taken out by a well placed sniper round.
On second viewing it's still an amazing experience and a quaint reminder of a time when America was a proud nation universally loved and respected by all. It's amazing what a few decades can do...
Labels: Novel Writing, The Pale Summer, Writing
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Okay, So I'm A Lazy Writer
It only just occurred to me that while I read quite a lot, I haven't actually read a novel (Unless you count me rereading Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game a little while ago) in years.
It's probably incredibly philistine of me to admit it, but for the most part, the majority of things that have influenced my writing sensibilities lately have been movies, video games and yes, comic books. For example, when Neil-O's 1602 finally came out as a compilation, I devoured that. I'm currently grokking Y: The Last Man On Earth by Brian K. Vaughan in a big way, and when I feel like I want to immerse myself in something inspirational, the only novel I immediately pick up and cruise through is Neuromancer by William Gibson. The other stories are, invariably, Moonshadow a graphic novel lushly illustrated by water color god Jon J Muth and written by J. M. DeMatteis, or else one of the Sandman compilations written by Neil-O, usually either The Doll's House or The Kindly Ones.
In my defense, I am not a total product of pop culture decay. I have read actual novels and run the gamut of Kafka to Dickens to Miller to Nin to Vonnegut to Pynchon, and of course, Science Fiction wise, the old fathers, Clark, Asimov and Heinlein.
But lately I find myself really attracted to just the weirdness of what guys like Neil-O and what comics in general can do when they get really going, occupying that weird axis between film and literature, since they have words, but are also largely visual. There's some amazing stuff floating around in there and comics have their own classics that have stayed with me (Like The Watchmen. Puuuuuure geniuuuuuuus...) and it seems like there's so much cross over going on now it's crazy. I never thought I'd see the day when the likes of J. M. Stracynzski or Joss Whedon would actually write for comics, let alone Kevin Smith.
But of course, would I even be mentioning I hadn't read a novel in a while if it weren't bugging me?
Okay, so maybe it's time to get out there and actually read a book. Fine.
Any suggestions?
It only just occurred to me that while I read quite a lot, I haven't actually read a novel (Unless you count me rereading Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game a little while ago) in years.
It's probably incredibly philistine of me to admit it, but for the most part, the majority of things that have influenced my writing sensibilities lately have been movies, video games and yes, comic books. For example, when Neil-O's 1602 finally came out as a compilation, I devoured that. I'm currently grokking Y: The Last Man On Earth by Brian K. Vaughan in a big way, and when I feel like I want to immerse myself in something inspirational, the only novel I immediately pick up and cruise through is Neuromancer by William Gibson. The other stories are, invariably, Moonshadow a graphic novel lushly illustrated by water color god Jon J Muth and written by J. M. DeMatteis, or else one of the Sandman compilations written by Neil-O, usually either The Doll's House or The Kindly Ones.
In my defense, I am not a total product of pop culture decay. I have read actual novels and run the gamut of Kafka to Dickens to Miller to Nin to Vonnegut to Pynchon, and of course, Science Fiction wise, the old fathers, Clark, Asimov and Heinlein.
But lately I find myself really attracted to just the weirdness of what guys like Neil-O and what comics in general can do when they get really going, occupying that weird axis between film and literature, since they have words, but are also largely visual. There's some amazing stuff floating around in there and comics have their own classics that have stayed with me (Like The Watchmen. Puuuuuure geniuuuuuuus...) and it seems like there's so much cross over going on now it's crazy. I never thought I'd see the day when the likes of J. M. Stracynzski or Joss Whedon would actually write for comics, let alone Kevin Smith.
But of course, would I even be mentioning I hadn't read a novel in a while if it weren't bugging me?
Okay, so maybe it's time to get out there and actually read a book. Fine.
Any suggestions?
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Please Don't Screw This Up...
I still remember back in 1996 (My first year in Singapore) with my still relatively shiny and relatively new Playstation when I finally got around to picking up what was touted as the revolutionary new next generation adventure game, a little title by the name Tomb Raider. Back then it was getting rave reviews in the press as a pretty deep game and a strong indicator of what kind of evolutionary game play we could expect from these more substantially powerful new systems. The super-realistic graphics looked like this:
Mind you this was when the about to become legendary marketing blitz known as Lara Croft was anything but, and the game was still considered a "serious" game for aficionados who knew what they were doing rather than the "casual friendly" atmosphere that older--and some would say more elitest--curmudgeonly gamers bemoan in today's video game climate.
But the original Tomb Raider was one hell of a fun game. Graphics which are laughable by today's (And tomorrow's impending) standards were still pretty amazing back then, and Tomb Raider did one thing right that few games had managed to accomplish; a sense of wonder.
By that, I don't mean the novelty of having a girl running and gunning, but the more innocent kind, such as the first time Lara drops through a hole and sees the vast sunken ancient Greek ruins in their entirety, and you realize "I get to wander around in that." It was exploration at its best, because for the first time, huge environments were yours for the wandering, and the work put into those 1996 graphics was clearly a labor of love. Tomb Raider, purely as a game, was a wonderous thing to play and behold.
Part of that has a lot to do with the original designer, Toby Gard, who at the time was still with Core, the developer of Tomb Raider. His initial idea for Lara Croft was an intelligent, eccentric, athletic archaeologist type who bonded to players because of how capable she was. He wanted the player to like and respect Lara and off-handedly note that she was not half bad lookin' either.
Eidos, the publisher, had other ideas, and though the game became the darling of critics for its strong gameplay elements, there was quite a bit of buzz over this early female heroine of gaming, and Eidos saw a marketing opportunity that they chomped down on like a rabid dog thrown into a room with a man who has a T-bone steak tied to his leg. Lara became their mascot and she was pimped out to many a magazine, news article and televised appearance because she was a girl, she was digital, and that was incredibly new and shiny.
Strangely enough, at this point, Toby, seeing what had become of his creation, left Core.
Even more strangely enough, each successive sequel became less fun and innovative than the original and soon, Eidos found themselves coasting more off their initial marketing momentum than any great leaps of gaming or evolution, unlike, say, Solid Snake of Metal Gear Solid fame, or the various incarnations of Grand Theft Auto that always got bigger and better. Hm... Creator leaves franchise, franchise starts to bomb. Coincidence?
It got to the point where serious gamers had all but abandoned Tomb Raider completely. It was almost an embarrassment to gamers that Lara still had fame in the eyes of the public when she had been deserted by players years ago. The marketing machine continued with Angelina Jolie in the Tomb Raider movie, which was just so-so, but the real blow, the one that knocked Lara off her feet in recent years has been the one-two combo of a bad movie AND bad game.
Tomb Raider: Angel of Darkness is the first and currently only version of Lara on the current generation of consoles, and it's not a great game. Eidos had hoped it would salvage the dying franchise in the minds of the gamers, but instead merely confirmed to gamers that they Eidos had, indeed, completely lost it. Add to that the new movie Cradle Of Life doing far worse than either Eidos or Paramount had expected and you can practically hear the saws working on the pinewood to hack together a Lara sized coffin.
But wait, there's hope yet. In recent months, people who still pay attention to these things have noticed this floating around:
Yep. The old girl's back, looking younger, more realistic, and more reasonably proportioned than past outings. And, in what must surely be killing some people over at both Core and Eidos, alarm about each successive failure to keep Lara's respect in gamer circles has reached fever pitch, and development of this new Tomb Raider game, dubbed Tomb Raider Legend, has been passed over a developer named Crystal Dynamics. And they're hoping to have it out by 2006.
Oh, and the guy at Crystal Dynamics working on the new game? Toby Gard, the same one that started this all in the first place and left when he saw nothing but failure in what Core/Eidos intended for his creation. From all accounts, he's trying to make it a good game again, rather than just a kick start excuse for another Angelina Jolie movie.
I still have fond memories of the first Tomb Raider game. By the time I played the latest version, I couldn't even bring myself to finish it of my own free will, and it was the demands of the job that forced me to slog through the rest of it. I hope that Toby can bring a little more of that magic back again, as he seems to think it's time to put more "Tomb" back in Tomb Raider rather than turning it into a big stealth-fest, imitating whatever new genre happens to be hot that year.
Go on, Toby.
Make us like Lara again.
I still remember back in 1996 (My first year in Singapore) with my still relatively shiny and relatively new Playstation when I finally got around to picking up what was touted as the revolutionary new next generation adventure game, a little title by the name Tomb Raider. Back then it was getting rave reviews in the press as a pretty deep game and a strong indicator of what kind of evolutionary game play we could expect from these more substantially powerful new systems. The super-realistic graphics looked like this:
Mind you this was when the about to become legendary marketing blitz known as Lara Croft was anything but, and the game was still considered a "serious" game for aficionados who knew what they were doing rather than the "casual friendly" atmosphere that older--and some would say more elitest--curmudgeonly gamers bemoan in today's video game climate.
But the original Tomb Raider was one hell of a fun game. Graphics which are laughable by today's (And tomorrow's impending) standards were still pretty amazing back then, and Tomb Raider did one thing right that few games had managed to accomplish; a sense of wonder.
By that, I don't mean the novelty of having a girl running and gunning, but the more innocent kind, such as the first time Lara drops through a hole and sees the vast sunken ancient Greek ruins in their entirety, and you realize "I get to wander around in that." It was exploration at its best, because for the first time, huge environments were yours for the wandering, and the work put into those 1996 graphics was clearly a labor of love. Tomb Raider, purely as a game, was a wonderous thing to play and behold.
Part of that has a lot to do with the original designer, Toby Gard, who at the time was still with Core, the developer of Tomb Raider. His initial idea for Lara Croft was an intelligent, eccentric, athletic archaeologist type who bonded to players because of how capable she was. He wanted the player to like and respect Lara and off-handedly note that she was not half bad lookin' either.
Eidos, the publisher, had other ideas, and though the game became the darling of critics for its strong gameplay elements, there was quite a bit of buzz over this early female heroine of gaming, and Eidos saw a marketing opportunity that they chomped down on like a rabid dog thrown into a room with a man who has a T-bone steak tied to his leg. Lara became their mascot and she was pimped out to many a magazine, news article and televised appearance because she was a girl, she was digital, and that was incredibly new and shiny.
Strangely enough, at this point, Toby, seeing what had become of his creation, left Core.
Even more strangely enough, each successive sequel became less fun and innovative than the original and soon, Eidos found themselves coasting more off their initial marketing momentum than any great leaps of gaming or evolution, unlike, say, Solid Snake of Metal Gear Solid fame, or the various incarnations of Grand Theft Auto that always got bigger and better. Hm... Creator leaves franchise, franchise starts to bomb. Coincidence?
It got to the point where serious gamers had all but abandoned Tomb Raider completely. It was almost an embarrassment to gamers that Lara still had fame in the eyes of the public when she had been deserted by players years ago. The marketing machine continued with Angelina Jolie in the Tomb Raider movie, which was just so-so, but the real blow, the one that knocked Lara off her feet in recent years has been the one-two combo of a bad movie AND bad game.
Tomb Raider: Angel of Darkness is the first and currently only version of Lara on the current generation of consoles, and it's not a great game. Eidos had hoped it would salvage the dying franchise in the minds of the gamers, but instead merely confirmed to gamers that they Eidos had, indeed, completely lost it. Add to that the new movie Cradle Of Life doing far worse than either Eidos or Paramount had expected and you can practically hear the saws working on the pinewood to hack together a Lara sized coffin.
But wait, there's hope yet. In recent months, people who still pay attention to these things have noticed this floating around:
Yep. The old girl's back, looking younger, more realistic, and more reasonably proportioned than past outings. And, in what must surely be killing some people over at both Core and Eidos, alarm about each successive failure to keep Lara's respect in gamer circles has reached fever pitch, and development of this new Tomb Raider game, dubbed Tomb Raider Legend, has been passed over a developer named Crystal Dynamics. And they're hoping to have it out by 2006.
Oh, and the guy at Crystal Dynamics working on the new game? Toby Gard, the same one that started this all in the first place and left when he saw nothing but failure in what Core/Eidos intended for his creation. From all accounts, he's trying to make it a good game again, rather than just a kick start excuse for another Angelina Jolie movie.
I still have fond memories of the first Tomb Raider game. By the time I played the latest version, I couldn't even bring myself to finish it of my own free will, and it was the demands of the job that forced me to slog through the rest of it. I hope that Toby can bring a little more of that magic back again, as he seems to think it's time to put more "Tomb" back in Tomb Raider rather than turning it into a big stealth-fest, imitating whatever new genre happens to be hot that year.
Go on, Toby.
Make us like Lara again.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Alberta: Farm Province Or Hottie Factory?
Okay, what the hell is going on?
On the one hand, you have:
Natasha Henstridge
Raised in the little town of Fort McMurray, entirely too blond and statuesque to possibly qualify as a mortal woman. First seen in Species and never forgotten. Someone I was acquainted with in university confessed to having grown up with this girl and receiving the entirely unconvincing pep talk from her that beauty wasn't everything...
And on the other hand, you've got:
Tricia Helfer
Currently wowing the geeks in the new Battlestar Galactica, this similarly tall, too unreal to be an actual human being is a resident of Donalda, Alberta.
The only possible conclusion:
Cowtipping and drunken potshots at squirrels is the recipe for Goddesshood.
Okay, what the hell is going on?
On the one hand, you have:
Natasha Henstridge
Raised in the little town of Fort McMurray, entirely too blond and statuesque to possibly qualify as a mortal woman. First seen in Species and never forgotten. Someone I was acquainted with in university confessed to having grown up with this girl and receiving the entirely unconvincing pep talk from her that beauty wasn't everything...
And on the other hand, you've got:
Tricia Helfer
Currently wowing the geeks in the new Battlestar Galactica, this similarly tall, too unreal to be an actual human being is a resident of Donalda, Alberta.
The only possible conclusion:
Cowtipping and drunken potshots at squirrels is the recipe for Goddesshood.
Labels: Random Blargh
Yay, Breather...
There is a mild ebb in the activity for the script I'm working on, so today at least, it looks like I can resume my normal schedule of goofing and/or writing my novel, which is more or less the same thing as goofing off, but with a tangible word count increase at the end of it.
Today I'm addressing one of those "quiet" chapters. It's more of an indulgence really (And probably a risky one at that considering the word count cap I have hovering over my head) but one of the things I really think is important in writing any piece of fiction is to allow that breathing space for characters to simply be themselves to let the readers get to know them and like them a little more. It's one of those things novels have the luxury of being more forgiving with that films often do not.
It's also a lesson that I was reminded of when I watched Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. While I think that George's basic rationale of not having one rollercoaster moment after another in rapid succession is sound, I think he failed in the execution. The moments between Anakin and Padme were weak, let down by bad acting that was not helped by bad dialogue. Fortunately in the case of novels, acting is not an issue, so really, if a scene fails, there's no one to blame except yourself.
I know some writers will argue that everything in a novel must be efficient, streamlined and advance the plot. I only agree with that to some degree. Obviously the plot must be advanced if the damn story is ever to end, but there's more than one way to go about doing this.
I've found that the "quiet" chapters, the ones acquaint the reader more with the characters, don't necessarily have to be big things (As with Anakin's premonitions about Padme dying) that serve as a motivation point that has no place in an action sequence, because these are character moments. If done properly (Which is not to imply that I necessarily DO, but I sure try) a the plot can be "advanced" by simply letting the reader understand the personal STAKES for the character.
Like this chapter I'm working on today gives the readers more answers to "Why?" It shows us why the heroine is sticking around rather than leaving, it shows us her supporting character's increasing doubt about his own abilities and it explains what this situation means to the both of them, showing that there is a personal interest and cost in the consequences to follow.
Or, maybe I'm just blowing smoke outta' my ass again.
Hm... Speaking of smoke...
There is a mild ebb in the activity for the script I'm working on, so today at least, it looks like I can resume my normal schedule of goofing and/or writing my novel, which is more or less the same thing as goofing off, but with a tangible word count increase at the end of it.
Today I'm addressing one of those "quiet" chapters. It's more of an indulgence really (And probably a risky one at that considering the word count cap I have hovering over my head) but one of the things I really think is important in writing any piece of fiction is to allow that breathing space for characters to simply be themselves to let the readers get to know them and like them a little more. It's one of those things novels have the luxury of being more forgiving with that films often do not.
It's also a lesson that I was reminded of when I watched Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. While I think that George's basic rationale of not having one rollercoaster moment after another in rapid succession is sound, I think he failed in the execution. The moments between Anakin and Padme were weak, let down by bad acting that was not helped by bad dialogue. Fortunately in the case of novels, acting is not an issue, so really, if a scene fails, there's no one to blame except yourself.
I know some writers will argue that everything in a novel must be efficient, streamlined and advance the plot. I only agree with that to some degree. Obviously the plot must be advanced if the damn story is ever to end, but there's more than one way to go about doing this.
I've found that the "quiet" chapters, the ones acquaint the reader more with the characters, don't necessarily have to be big things (As with Anakin's premonitions about Padme dying) that serve as a motivation point that has no place in an action sequence, because these are character moments. If done properly (Which is not to imply that I necessarily DO, but I sure try) a the plot can be "advanced" by simply letting the reader understand the personal STAKES for the character.
Like this chapter I'm working on today gives the readers more answers to "Why?" It shows us why the heroine is sticking around rather than leaving, it shows us her supporting character's increasing doubt about his own abilities and it explains what this situation means to the both of them, showing that there is a personal interest and cost in the consequences to follow.
Or, maybe I'm just blowing smoke outta' my ass again.
Hm... Speaking of smoke...
Labels: My Life, Novel Writing
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Boo Yah
I finally wrote more of my novel, and tracked down the new issue of Edge magazine, The Best Damn Videogame Magazine In The World.
I am at peace and once again feel like myself again.
Time to go load up Grand Theft Auto: Vice City and cruise around to Adam Ant again...
I finally wrote more of my novel, and tracked down the new issue of Edge magazine, The Best Damn Videogame Magazine In The World.
I am at peace and once again feel like myself again.
Time to go load up Grand Theft Auto: Vice City and cruise around to Adam Ant again...
Labels: My Life, Novel Writing, Writing
Being Comfortable With Your Voice
I'm talking about your "writing voice," by the way.
As frightening--and somewhat depressing--as it may be for me to think this now, I've been writing professionally in one capacity or another for the last 10 damn years. In that time I've broached just about every form of written communication possible, from advertising (Running the gamut from prints ads to radio commercials) to freelancing for magazines (And doing reviews, opinion pieces and not too serious exposes) to writing for television (And corporate videos and even a film script or two here and there) and of course, writing fiction in the form of short stories and novels.
And more recently, there's this here Blog thing.
I've found as the time passed that while I can do all these things reasonably enough to get paid for them (With the exception of getting a novel in print, which still escapes me for the moment) these things are accomplished with varying levels of length and difficulty. Though for the most part, they fall into two categories which are, unsurprisingly enough, work and play. It's the actual qualities and definitions comprising these two categories that surprised me.
Work
Is, by the far, the shorter of the two categories and at the same the harder. While it's true that writing ad copy, or a script for a half hour television series is nowhere near the marathon of nursing a novel for a year or two, I find it much harder for a few reasons. Of course one is the educational aspect, but that's also a positive. Usually (As is the case with the script I'm writing now) I come in with only the vaguest familiarity with the topic, and have to do a lot of homework to get up to speed, learning a lot in the process. The tricky part comes in weaving all that information and doing it in something that is NOT my "voice." I'm usually (In real life as well as in writing) snide, cynical and ready to make fun of anything at a moment's notice. While that sounds good coming from a cynic, or a character in a story, it doesn't play out so well coming from the mouth of an attractive presenter who's supposed to be endorsing whatever the subject is, and so, an enormous amount of restraint is involved.
It's good practice in one way, because you don't want all your characters to sound the same, but it isn't easy.
And I often find myself surprised by the fact that even though the demand for volume isn't there, sometimes I will sit there scratching my head wondering how to say something and fill up just a few sentences here and there, or what amounts to just several seconds of dialogue. It's a good challenge, but a train twisting one on occasion.
Play
Which sometimes crosses over from "Work".
Some of my work actually makes into "Play." Like pretty much anything I do for GameAxis constitutes play since they encourage me to be snarky and the topic is something near and dear to my heart anyway, namely games, DVDs, comics and movies. Writing this sort of thing is a snap, since it's not unlike writing for the blog in that I just say what I think. Out of all my play writing, this one is the second easiet.
The Blog is of course the easiest, period. No restrictions, and the ability to rant to my heart's content makes this thing a breeze to fill out since I have so many rants to at my beck and call. Whether anyone reads it or enjoys it is another matter entirely, but some things you gotta' do for yourself, and this blog is for me as much as anyone reading it since I want a record of the last few years to look at in the vain hope that I'll be able to wax nostalgic about my "struggling days" at some point in the future when I can call myself a novelist.
Stories like novels and shorts are weird, because while they definitely constitute play and let me stretch my imagination in ways I had not previously imagined were possible, they are also the hardest of my play writing and there are moments where they are No Fun At All, and I wonder why I even bother, but just lower my head and keep pushing on anyway. Sometimes there are those "Magic Hours" where the muse is riding piggy back and everything comes out so fast I'm convinced this material isn't mine and I'm merely taking dictation. Other times, I just sit there staring and even a few pieces of dialogue here and there are exhausting. But in the end, the most satisfaction I get from any of my play writing comes from this.
There was a point to this somewhere, but it's time for sushi. Real sushi, not Mega Sushi.
I'm talking about your "writing voice," by the way.
As frightening--and somewhat depressing--as it may be for me to think this now, I've been writing professionally in one capacity or another for the last 10 damn years. In that time I've broached just about every form of written communication possible, from advertising (Running the gamut from prints ads to radio commercials) to freelancing for magazines (And doing reviews, opinion pieces and not too serious exposes) to writing for television (And corporate videos and even a film script or two here and there) and of course, writing fiction in the form of short stories and novels.
And more recently, there's this here Blog thing.
I've found as the time passed that while I can do all these things reasonably enough to get paid for them (With the exception of getting a novel in print, which still escapes me for the moment) these things are accomplished with varying levels of length and difficulty. Though for the most part, they fall into two categories which are, unsurprisingly enough, work and play. It's the actual qualities and definitions comprising these two categories that surprised me.
Work
Is, by the far, the shorter of the two categories and at the same the harder. While it's true that writing ad copy, or a script for a half hour television series is nowhere near the marathon of nursing a novel for a year or two, I find it much harder for a few reasons. Of course one is the educational aspect, but that's also a positive. Usually (As is the case with the script I'm writing now) I come in with only the vaguest familiarity with the topic, and have to do a lot of homework to get up to speed, learning a lot in the process. The tricky part comes in weaving all that information and doing it in something that is NOT my "voice." I'm usually (In real life as well as in writing) snide, cynical and ready to make fun of anything at a moment's notice. While that sounds good coming from a cynic, or a character in a story, it doesn't play out so well coming from the mouth of an attractive presenter who's supposed to be endorsing whatever the subject is, and so, an enormous amount of restraint is involved.
It's good practice in one way, because you don't want all your characters to sound the same, but it isn't easy.
And I often find myself surprised by the fact that even though the demand for volume isn't there, sometimes I will sit there scratching my head wondering how to say something and fill up just a few sentences here and there, or what amounts to just several seconds of dialogue. It's a good challenge, but a train twisting one on occasion.
Play
Which sometimes crosses over from "Work".
Some of my work actually makes into "Play." Like pretty much anything I do for GameAxis constitutes play since they encourage me to be snarky and the topic is something near and dear to my heart anyway, namely games, DVDs, comics and movies. Writing this sort of thing is a snap, since it's not unlike writing for the blog in that I just say what I think. Out of all my play writing, this one is the second easiet.
The Blog is of course the easiest, period. No restrictions, and the ability to rant to my heart's content makes this thing a breeze to fill out since I have so many rants to at my beck and call. Whether anyone reads it or enjoys it is another matter entirely, but some things you gotta' do for yourself, and this blog is for me as much as anyone reading it since I want a record of the last few years to look at in the vain hope that I'll be able to wax nostalgic about my "struggling days" at some point in the future when I can call myself a novelist.
Stories like novels and shorts are weird, because while they definitely constitute play and let me stretch my imagination in ways I had not previously imagined were possible, they are also the hardest of my play writing and there are moments where they are No Fun At All, and I wonder why I even bother, but just lower my head and keep pushing on anyway. Sometimes there are those "Magic Hours" where the muse is riding piggy back and everything comes out so fast I'm convinced this material isn't mine and I'm merely taking dictation. Other times, I just sit there staring and even a few pieces of dialogue here and there are exhausting. But in the end, the most satisfaction I get from any of my play writing comes from this.
There was a point to this somewhere, but it's time for sushi. Real sushi, not Mega Sushi.
Labels: Musing, My Life, Writing
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Mental Note To Self:
Writing scripts for a television program in support of the cosmetics industry when you yourself are A) Male and B) wept with testosterone guilt over Naomi Wolfe's The Beauty Myth is
Super
Fucking
HARD.
Bah. And here I thought I was going to breeze through this with barely ruffled hair. It's hard to maintain a cheeky compsure when there's a little (Or not so little, in fact, it's Grand Canyon-esque in its baritone thunder) niggling voice in the back my head screaming, "THIS PATENTLY GOES AGAINST WHAT YOU ACTUALLY BELIEVE!!"
Time to put in another order for Ethics, Bob.
We've sold out.
Writing scripts for a television program in support of the cosmetics industry when you yourself are A) Male and B) wept with testosterone guilt over Naomi Wolfe's The Beauty Myth is
Super
Fucking
HARD.
Bah. And here I thought I was going to breeze through this with barely ruffled hair. It's hard to maintain a cheeky compsure when there's a little (Or not so little, in fact, it's Grand Canyon-esque in its baritone thunder) niggling voice in the back my head screaming, "THIS PATENTLY GOES AGAINST WHAT YOU ACTUALLY BELIEVE!!"
Time to put in another order for Ethics, Bob.
We've sold out.
Labels: My Life, Television Production, Writing
Friday, June 24, 2005
Just In Case You've Forgotten:
Robert Smith will save the world.
That is all.
Robert Smith will save the world.
That is all.
Labels: Music, Random Blargh
Hi There! I'm An Articulate White Man...
More cultural observation...
One of the funky things about Singapore (Which you folks back home will never relate to) is just how special it is to be white here. Keep in mind, the population is pre-dominantly Chinese with Malay and Indian components, and up until WWII, it was a proud jewel of the English Colonial Crown. As a result of that, and the massive foreign investment that goes on here, the white person (Of whom, with the exception of and tourists back packers, are usually highly paid expatriate workers) enjoys an unheard amount of Automatic Respect And Deference. I personally refer to this as The Great White God Complex, in that it is amazing what you can do and get away with if you happen to be white.
Please note for the records, I am not. White, that is.
HOWEVER, on the phone, I sound TOTALLY white, and thus as long as no one can see me, I too enjoy the same benefits and deference as a Real Actual Honest To Gosh White Person (!)
Now being a hermit, I usually don't get to enjoy the fringe benefits of Phone Caucasian, but on those occasions when I do have to use the phone to interact with someone other than my friends, I am always constantly startled by the results.
Here's the contrast:
In reality, since my lineage is actually Filipino, my DNA bubbled through the pool in such a particular way that I ended up with can only be described as Generic Asian features. In Thailand, I have been mistaken for Thai. In Japan, I have been mistaken for Japanese, in Hong Kong, I have been mistaken for Chinese and Bali, I have been mistaken for Indonesian. I assume that if were ever to go Vietnam and say "Hey, G.I. Joe, we love USA!" I would also be mistaken for the endearing side kick to an American soldier hero, and in Cambodia, I would probably also pass for local, provided I can lose a limb to blend in with the other land mine victims.
Usually when I walk down the street, I am largely ignored, and--probably due to the length of my hair--it is assumed (Especially in hotel/shopping belt Orchard Road) that I am probably just another fun lovin', rock n' rollin' member of a band, most likely the bass player. It's the hair, I tell ya'.
If I should actually have to speak, a 100% home grown Canadian mid-western accent pops out that causes the unprepared to temporarily short circuit their neural processors. I can practically see a big sign light up on a local's forhead when they hear me speak, and that sign reads "DOES NOT COMPUTE". The normal question I get asked after that is "Where did you study?" Since the only logical explanation for the accent is that I am NOT a band member, but instead one of those crazy local kids who went off to college abroad and picked up the accent inside of the first two weeks of staying there, mysteriously losing an accent that was ingrained over decades of use.
The usual dialogue then goes something like this.
Me: Canada.
Them: Ah, Canada. Where in Canada?
Me: Edmonton, Alberta.
Them: Ah... Dunno that, lah.
Me: (Rolling eyes) It's east of Vancouver.
Them: (Light of recognition passes across their face) Ah! Vancouver, yeah, many Chinese there!
Me: I'll take your word for it.
Them: You study there how long?
Me: Thirty three years.
Them: Wah! How old are you?
Me: Thirty Three years.
Them: [Sign appears on forehead, "DOES NOT COMPUTE"]
Ah, but thanks to the magic of the telephone, it's an ENTIRELY different story...
Today I had to call up a local teahouse in the ongoing research for a script I'm writing (Which I should submit tomorrow and should be furiously writing away on right NOW, but I'm doing this instead...) so I needed to call them up to probe about the possibility of shooting there.
Them: Ni Hao (Which I presume is Chinese for "Hello")
Me: Hi, is there someone I could talk to there about a possible interview and shoot at your location?
Them: Uh... One moment... SIR... [Phone is badly muffled and voices go on saying "Something-something-Chinese-Something-Something-ANG MOH! (Chinese word for White Man)] Hold on, sir, I'll pass you to my manager.
New Them: Yes sir! How can I help you?
[At this point I'm staring at the phone thinking to myself, "Being a white guy is The Greatest Thing Ever..."]
Me: Yes, I'm with [Insert television show here] and I'd like to discuss with someone the possibility of a location shoot at your shop and possible interview between our host and someone knoweldgeable about your products. Can that be arranged?
New Them: I'll see what I can do sir... Yes, I think I have someone you can talk to. I'll give you the number and you can speak to them yourself, will that be all right, sir?
Me: [Really diggin' this White Guy Thing] Yes, that'll be fine, thank you.
New Them: I'm glad I could help sir. If you need anything else, please don't hesitate to call back and ask!
Me: Thank you very much for you help.
New Them: Thank YOU very much for calling! Glad I could help!
It's moments like this that make me think that somewhere, out there in all the infinite parallel universes of the quantum stream, there is probably another Shoeless Wayne Santos, and he is a famous published novelist adored by millions, and he is white and damn happy about it.
I hate him...
More cultural observation...
One of the funky things about Singapore (Which you folks back home will never relate to) is just how special it is to be white here. Keep in mind, the population is pre-dominantly Chinese with Malay and Indian components, and up until WWII, it was a proud jewel of the English Colonial Crown. As a result of that, and the massive foreign investment that goes on here, the white person (Of whom, with the exception of and tourists back packers, are usually highly paid expatriate workers) enjoys an unheard amount of Automatic Respect And Deference. I personally refer to this as The Great White God Complex, in that it is amazing what you can do and get away with if you happen to be white.
Please note for the records, I am not. White, that is.
HOWEVER, on the phone, I sound TOTALLY white, and thus as long as no one can see me, I too enjoy the same benefits and deference as a Real Actual Honest To Gosh White Person (!)
Now being a hermit, I usually don't get to enjoy the fringe benefits of Phone Caucasian, but on those occasions when I do have to use the phone to interact with someone other than my friends, I am always constantly startled by the results.
Here's the contrast:
In reality, since my lineage is actually Filipino, my DNA bubbled through the pool in such a particular way that I ended up with can only be described as Generic Asian features. In Thailand, I have been mistaken for Thai. In Japan, I have been mistaken for Japanese, in Hong Kong, I have been mistaken for Chinese and Bali, I have been mistaken for Indonesian. I assume that if were ever to go Vietnam and say "Hey, G.I. Joe, we love USA!" I would also be mistaken for the endearing side kick to an American soldier hero, and in Cambodia, I would probably also pass for local, provided I can lose a limb to blend in with the other land mine victims.
Usually when I walk down the street, I am largely ignored, and--probably due to the length of my hair--it is assumed (Especially in hotel/shopping belt Orchard Road) that I am probably just another fun lovin', rock n' rollin' member of a band, most likely the bass player. It's the hair, I tell ya'.
If I should actually have to speak, a 100% home grown Canadian mid-western accent pops out that causes the unprepared to temporarily short circuit their neural processors. I can practically see a big sign light up on a local's forhead when they hear me speak, and that sign reads "DOES NOT COMPUTE". The normal question I get asked after that is "Where did you study?" Since the only logical explanation for the accent is that I am NOT a band member, but instead one of those crazy local kids who went off to college abroad and picked up the accent inside of the first two weeks of staying there, mysteriously losing an accent that was ingrained over decades of use.
The usual dialogue then goes something like this.
Me: Canada.
Them: Ah, Canada. Where in Canada?
Me: Edmonton, Alberta.
Them: Ah... Dunno that, lah.
Me: (Rolling eyes) It's east of Vancouver.
Them: (Light of recognition passes across their face) Ah! Vancouver, yeah, many Chinese there!
Me: I'll take your word for it.
Them: You study there how long?
Me: Thirty three years.
Them: Wah! How old are you?
Me: Thirty Three years.
Them: [Sign appears on forehead, "DOES NOT COMPUTE"]
Ah, but thanks to the magic of the telephone, it's an ENTIRELY different story...
Today I had to call up a local teahouse in the ongoing research for a script I'm writing (Which I should submit tomorrow and should be furiously writing away on right NOW, but I'm doing this instead...) so I needed to call them up to probe about the possibility of shooting there.
Them: Ni Hao (Which I presume is Chinese for "Hello")
Me: Hi, is there someone I could talk to there about a possible interview and shoot at your location?
Them: Uh... One moment... SIR... [Phone is badly muffled and voices go on saying "Something-something-Chinese-Something-Something-ANG MOH! (Chinese word for White Man)] Hold on, sir, I'll pass you to my manager.
New Them: Yes sir! How can I help you?
[At this point I'm staring at the phone thinking to myself, "Being a white guy is The Greatest Thing Ever..."]
Me: Yes, I'm with [Insert television show here] and I'd like to discuss with someone the possibility of a location shoot at your shop and possible interview between our host and someone knoweldgeable about your products. Can that be arranged?
New Them: I'll see what I can do sir... Yes, I think I have someone you can talk to. I'll give you the number and you can speak to them yourself, will that be all right, sir?
Me: [Really diggin' this White Guy Thing] Yes, that'll be fine, thank you.
New Them: I'm glad I could help sir. If you need anything else, please don't hesitate to call back and ask!
Me: Thank you very much for you help.
New Them: Thank YOU very much for calling! Glad I could help!
It's moments like this that make me think that somewhere, out there in all the infinite parallel universes of the quantum stream, there is probably another Shoeless Wayne Santos, and he is a famous published novelist adored by millions, and he is white and damn happy about it.
I hate him...
Labels: My Life, Stupid Scripts, Television Production
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Eeeeeeeeeeeevil...
Man, this just says it all...
My Word Account Tally
I just checked and realized that of the 100, 000 words I'm allowed to "spend," I've already used up 21, 000+. Bah, only 79,000 left.
Must.
Be.
Stingier...
Man, this just says it all...
My Word Account Tally
I just checked and realized that of the 100, 000 words I'm allowed to "spend," I've already used up 21, 000+. Bah, only 79,000 left.
Must.
Be.
Stingier...
Labels: Novel Writing, The Pale Summer, Writing
Oh, That 80's Fever...
In the name of the new novel, it was time for me to get in touch with my childhood and make sure I had my facts straight about which music groups were in existence at the time, and whether they wore clothes like this, or that. It's one of the weirder aspects of writing a story when you find that you want to plunder your childhood realize that while the imagery is there, the proper chronology and historical perspective isn't. Like at first I wanted to have some kind of reference to The Cure and possibly a mention of Lovesong only to realize that it wouldn't be written until 1989, and this particular bit of plot takes place in the year 1983, though that means I still get to mention Lovecats or something. It also means Duran Duran is still in full swing, so maybe I can find a way to stick that in there as well.
The internet is truly frightening in moments like this when I realize that in one afternoon I've waded hip deep into subjects like the English countryside, ley lines, crop circles and fairy rings (I settled on fairy rings) and I never had to once go to a filing cabinet and consult the Dewey Decimal system. Having this amount of knowledge just a few keystrokes away is something we all take for granted now, but I'm still amazed at how quickly I came to rely on the 'net once it exploded. It used to be just hanging out on forums and BBSes, but once the "web" aspect really got going and people had a few years to put... well, whatever they wanted on it, the Internet really became the first and fastest way to find out just about anything about anything.
I think anyone that had a childhood in the 70's is more or less trapped in the same transitional period I am; old enough to remember the analog era when TVs had dials and knowledge was at the library, but still young enough to have had exposure to the new digital information structure in school. It's a clean line of demarcation between the previous generation and the new ones that will always take unlimited knowledge and instant access for granted. And it'll probably warp more than a few minds as the years pass. I mean, the way internet access is getting more and more portable, pretty soon you won't have ANY excuse not to know something, since it'll be a Google away and you can get at least passing familiarity with just about any subject on Earth.
My mind boggles at the thought of it.
Damn. I'm old.
In the name of the new novel, it was time for me to get in touch with my childhood and make sure I had my facts straight about which music groups were in existence at the time, and whether they wore clothes like this, or that. It's one of the weirder aspects of writing a story when you find that you want to plunder your childhood realize that while the imagery is there, the proper chronology and historical perspective isn't. Like at first I wanted to have some kind of reference to The Cure and possibly a mention of Lovesong only to realize that it wouldn't be written until 1989, and this particular bit of plot takes place in the year 1983, though that means I still get to mention Lovecats or something. It also means Duran Duran is still in full swing, so maybe I can find a way to stick that in there as well.
The internet is truly frightening in moments like this when I realize that in one afternoon I've waded hip deep into subjects like the English countryside, ley lines, crop circles and fairy rings (I settled on fairy rings) and I never had to once go to a filing cabinet and consult the Dewey Decimal system. Having this amount of knowledge just a few keystrokes away is something we all take for granted now, but I'm still amazed at how quickly I came to rely on the 'net once it exploded. It used to be just hanging out on forums and BBSes, but once the "web" aspect really got going and people had a few years to put... well, whatever they wanted on it, the Internet really became the first and fastest way to find out just about anything about anything.
I think anyone that had a childhood in the 70's is more or less trapped in the same transitional period I am; old enough to remember the analog era when TVs had dials and knowledge was at the library, but still young enough to have had exposure to the new digital information structure in school. It's a clean line of demarcation between the previous generation and the new ones that will always take unlimited knowledge and instant access for granted. And it'll probably warp more than a few minds as the years pass. I mean, the way internet access is getting more and more portable, pretty soon you won't have ANY excuse not to know something, since it'll be a Google away and you can get at least passing familiarity with just about any subject on Earth.
My mind boggles at the thought of it.
Damn. I'm old.
Labels: Music, Musing, Novel Writing, The Pale Summer, Writing
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Retroactive Pride
It's a teensy bit dated, but nevertheless, I feel compelled to pimp the Fiance with a recent interview with her that appeared here.
You will note that trying to stalk her on the Internet not only yields far more substantial Googles than what you get with me (Then again, anything is more substantial than "I played Forza Motorsport a lot and liked it"), but in multiple languages even. I think the Spanish like her, but I can't say for sure...
It's a teensy bit dated, but nevertheless, I feel compelled to pimp the Fiance with a recent interview with her that appeared here.
You will note that trying to stalk her on the Internet not only yields far more substantial Googles than what you get with me (Then again, anything is more substantial than "I played Forza Motorsport a lot and liked it"), but in multiple languages even. I think the Spanish like her, but I can't say for sure...
Labels: Icky Couple Stuff, My Life
Sometimes Ya Gets Lucky
So not just ten minutes ago, I'm sitting around cranking away at the new novel, and thinking about a script that I have to crank out by Saturday morning when I get a call from one of the editors over at my game magazine gig, "GameAxis."
The conversation goes something like this:
Him: Hey, you heard Neil Gaiman is coming to town?
Me: Oh, is he? Yeah, I think I might have been vaguely informed of that, but I don't really pay attention to these things...
Him: Oh, not a big fan, huh?
Me: I'm aware of his work.
Him: Too bad. We need to send someone down to his press conference and since you're our designated Uber Geek, I thought you might be knowledgeable enough to be our point man, but if you don't know him that well, the-
Me: ME! MEMEMEME! OOOH! OOOOHMEMEME! NEIL! NEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIL-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! I AM NOT WORTHY TO CLEAN THE SCUM OFF HIS SHOES BUT I WORSHIP AT THE HOUSE OF NEIL NONETHELESS!!!
Him: So... you wanna' cover it?
Me: [ After five seconds of realizing "MORE NEIL-O!"] YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSS!!!
Him: Great! I'll make the call, it's 10 o' clock, July 4th at the British Council. Most of the guys there will only know he's a famous writer, so you gotta' ask the geek questions. That okay?
Me: ...
Him: Hello? You there?
Me:...
Him: Hallo?
Me: NEEEEEEEEEEEEIL-OOOOOOOOO!!!! NEIL-ONEIL-ONEIL-O OHMYGOD, I GET TO TALK TO N-N-N-N-NEIL...OOOOOOO!!!
Him: I'm guessing that's a "I'm looking forward to this..."
Wow, what'll I wear? Well, something black of course, because Neil likes black, and I'd better borrow the fiance's i-pod, 'cause Neil-O likes those, ooh, ooh, and maybe I'll wear my black Sandman T-shirt! Yeah, that's it, that's not fanboy-ish at all, and find my sunglasses, maybe dig out a leather jacket, pick up a British accent, find out what hotel he stays in, kidnap the designated housekeeper for his floor and steal his towels and soap...
So not just ten minutes ago, I'm sitting around cranking away at the new novel, and thinking about a script that I have to crank out by Saturday morning when I get a call from one of the editors over at my game magazine gig, "GameAxis."
The conversation goes something like this:
Him: Hey, you heard Neil Gaiman is coming to town?
Me: Oh, is he? Yeah, I think I might have been vaguely informed of that, but I don't really pay attention to these things...
Him: Oh, not a big fan, huh?
Me: I'm aware of his work.
Him: Too bad. We need to send someone down to his press conference and since you're our designated Uber Geek, I thought you might be knowledgeable enough to be our point man, but if you don't know him that well, the-
Me: ME! MEMEMEME! OOOH! OOOOHMEMEME! NEIL! NEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIL-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! I AM NOT WORTHY TO CLEAN THE SCUM OFF HIS SHOES BUT I WORSHIP AT THE HOUSE OF NEIL NONETHELESS!!!
Him: So... you wanna' cover it?
Me: [ After five seconds of realizing "MORE NEIL-O!"] YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSS!!!
Him: Great! I'll make the call, it's 10 o' clock, July 4th at the British Council. Most of the guys there will only know he's a famous writer, so you gotta' ask the geek questions. That okay?
Me: ...
Him: Hello? You there?
Me:...
Him: Hallo?
Me: NEEEEEEEEEEEEIL-OOOOOOOOO!!!! NEIL-ONEIL-ONEIL-O OHMYGOD, I GET TO TALK TO N-N-N-N-NEIL...OOOOOOO!!!
Him: I'm guessing that's a "I'm looking forward to this..."
Wow, what'll I wear? Well, something black of course, because Neil likes black, and I'd better borrow the fiance's i-pod, 'cause Neil-O likes those, ooh, ooh, and maybe I'll wear my black Sandman T-shirt! Yeah, that's it, that's not fanboy-ish at all, and find my sunglasses, maybe dig out a leather jacket, pick up a British accent, find out what hotel he stays in, kidnap the designated housekeeper for his floor and steal his towels and soap...
Labels: Journalism, My Life, Neil-O
Real Commercials For Real People
In a more sensible world, I think television, and commercials in particular, would finally come to understand that while making people feel bad and insecure about themselves may generate a market of fear, appealing to that sense of alienation and bringing people together to pick on the people that have marginalized might actually get them more sales, since it's coming from the "We actually understand you" angle.
So the commercials that I'd want to see start off like "typical" commercials in that you see the usual assortment of Beautiful People in Beautiful Settings doing Beautiful Things that the vast majority of people who watch television will only ever see on television.
One commercial might start with a housewarming of a beautiful woman and her friends:
Beautiful Friends: What a fabulous apartment!
Beautiful Woman: Thank you, I love it's, gorgeous and so not like a split level home that I used to live in as a child but would never admit to now because middle class living is so embarrassing!
Beautiful Friends: (Laughter) How much did it cost?
Beautiful Woman: I don't know! I'm the mistress of a high ranking executive, he paid for everything! I don't lift a finger except to have sex with him and rag on his frigid wife!
(Everyone laughs at her cleverness)
Or, in an Expensive Restaurant where the appetizers cost more than the average weekly salary:
Beautiful Man: I love coming to this restaurant!
Beautiful Woman: I thought you said this was your first time?
Beautiful Man: It is, but you have to say you come here regularly or else you'll look like you're out of touch and anyone worthwhile will shun you!
Beautiful Woman: Oh! I love coming to this restaurant too!
(They both laugh at their belonging-ness)
Beautiful Man: What do you think of the food?
Beautiful Woman: It's terrible, and the servings are too small, but I love it! It's going to be really fun throwing it up again in fifteen minutes to make sure I stay 18% underweight!
Beautiful Man: Well, I hope you use some mouthwash afterwards, or I won't enjoy sleeping you and then getting a fake phone call to leave you after it's done, brag about you to friends and then sleep with another desperate but beautiful twig girl with no sense of self-esteem in the same evening!
(They both laugh at their cleverness)
At this point, The Real People invade.
In the Bauhaus apartment portly and stick thin nerds and geeks break in with unhealthy snack foods, posters of Kurt Cobain and video game consoles. Fat girls with chocolate tackle the beautiful women and start stuffing M & Ms in their mouth while Clive Barker and Frank Miller enthusiasts raid the bookshelves taking out copies of Cosmo and The Fountainhead and replacing them with The Dark Knight Returns and The Great And Secret Show.
Meanwhile, in the expensive restaurant:
Jane's Addiction (Been Caught Stealing, naturally...) thunders through the speakers as a horde normal to slightly overweight normal people storm in with a barbecue range, tossing hot dogs everywhere, breaking out salsa and nachos and starting up drinking games where they have to take a shot every time they see fake breasts. Two of the contestants pass out within the first three minutes. A few of the kinder liberators pass some booze and snacks to the waiters and welcome them back to the real world while the Beautiful People scream about how much their shoes cost and try to keep them from harm's way.
At this point, a voice over kicks in that points out, "Why let 1% of the people tell the other 99% they suck? Remember, there are more of us then there are of them."
Commercial ends with two geeks screaming at each other "SEGA!" and "CHALLENGE EVERYTHING!"
In a more sensible world, I think television, and commercials in particular, would finally come to understand that while making people feel bad and insecure about themselves may generate a market of fear, appealing to that sense of alienation and bringing people together to pick on the people that have marginalized might actually get them more sales, since it's coming from the "We actually understand you" angle.
So the commercials that I'd want to see start off like "typical" commercials in that you see the usual assortment of Beautiful People in Beautiful Settings doing Beautiful Things that the vast majority of people who watch television will only ever see on television.
One commercial might start with a housewarming of a beautiful woman and her friends:
Beautiful Friends: What a fabulous apartment!
Beautiful Woman: Thank you, I love it's, gorgeous and so not like a split level home that I used to live in as a child but would never admit to now because middle class living is so embarrassing!
Beautiful Friends: (Laughter) How much did it cost?
Beautiful Woman: I don't know! I'm the mistress of a high ranking executive, he paid for everything! I don't lift a finger except to have sex with him and rag on his frigid wife!
(Everyone laughs at her cleverness)
Or, in an Expensive Restaurant where the appetizers cost more than the average weekly salary:
Beautiful Man: I love coming to this restaurant!
Beautiful Woman: I thought you said this was your first time?
Beautiful Man: It is, but you have to say you come here regularly or else you'll look like you're out of touch and anyone worthwhile will shun you!
Beautiful Woman: Oh! I love coming to this restaurant too!
(They both laugh at their belonging-ness)
Beautiful Man: What do you think of the food?
Beautiful Woman: It's terrible, and the servings are too small, but I love it! It's going to be really fun throwing it up again in fifteen minutes to make sure I stay 18% underweight!
Beautiful Man: Well, I hope you use some mouthwash afterwards, or I won't enjoy sleeping you and then getting a fake phone call to leave you after it's done, brag about you to friends and then sleep with another desperate but beautiful twig girl with no sense of self-esteem in the same evening!
(They both laugh at their cleverness)
At this point, The Real People invade.
In the Bauhaus apartment portly and stick thin nerds and geeks break in with unhealthy snack foods, posters of Kurt Cobain and video game consoles. Fat girls with chocolate tackle the beautiful women and start stuffing M & Ms in their mouth while Clive Barker and Frank Miller enthusiasts raid the bookshelves taking out copies of Cosmo and The Fountainhead and replacing them with The Dark Knight Returns and The Great And Secret Show.
Meanwhile, in the expensive restaurant:
Jane's Addiction (Been Caught Stealing, naturally...) thunders through the speakers as a horde normal to slightly overweight normal people storm in with a barbecue range, tossing hot dogs everywhere, breaking out salsa and nachos and starting up drinking games where they have to take a shot every time they see fake breasts. Two of the contestants pass out within the first three minutes. A few of the kinder liberators pass some booze and snacks to the waiters and welcome them back to the real world while the Beautiful People scream about how much their shoes cost and try to keep them from harm's way.
At this point, a voice over kicks in that points out, "Why let 1% of the people tell the other 99% they suck? Remember, there are more of us then there are of them."
Commercial ends with two geeks screaming at each other "SEGA!" and "CHALLENGE EVERYTHING!"
Labels: Random Blargh, Stupid Scripts
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
ACK.
So I wrote back to my agent and told him "By the way, I'm working on a new book," and told him about the basic story with the caveat "And this time I'm going to try to make it short."
I figured that an acceptable "short" would be 450+ pages since in my past two novels, I have missed that mark by miles and miles. I blame this entirely on the characters who never do what I tell them and always go off having adventures of their own which I try to keep up with (Something that, unsurprisingly, is happening with Novel #3 which has the Oh-So-Sucky title Bloodwood at the moment). My agent, who has been tirelessly representing me the last few years (My theory is his professional pride is wounded that it's taking so long to get these things sold and so for him it's turned into something of a personal crusade) has written back telling me that even that's a bit optimistic and what would probably be a much "healthier" size is 400 or less. Or, 100, 000 words.
This nearly put me into cardiac arrest.
Some of my short stories have run 30,000+ words.
A quick opening of the file at the current novel (Now sitting at Chapter 4 and pushing 60 pages) shows it to weigh in at just a few words shy of 18,000.
Now the math and mortal terror come in...
So if we do some quick arithmatic and say that 100, 000 - 18, 000 = 82, 000...
This means I should run around the room right now screaming with the kind of agony comparative to having one's hair set on fire while the Barry Manilow CD in the background skips repeatedly.
EIGHTY TWO THOUSAND FREAKIN' WORDS LEFT?!?! THAT'S IT?!?!
In my head, someone Scottish is already screaming, "I'm givin' it all she's got, but it's noo good, Captain! Th' engines... they canna' take th' strain!"
It's an incredibly intimidating number to me at the moment because it's one of those things that I always felt, for me, anyway, that it simply could NOT be done. I'm probably going to have to meditate on this (Translation: Panic, weep and hug a doll like a little girl) and seriously contemplate pushing the book to two parts, or else drastically revise just how many plot points I was meaning to hit (Or more accurately, how many plot points the characters were starting to pursue once they'd found them).
I suppose now I could also start dragging in the ruthless editor skills I picked up writing scripts for television where you were fixed to exactly a one hour or half hour episode and could NOT under any circumstances, exceed that. You MADE it fit, and there simply was no alternative, except dismissal.
But holy crap, that's not a lot of room to manuever...
I at this rate, I'll have the novel finished in no freakin' time at all and then spend months cutting it down...
Bleah. The cold fear of thinking I had a thousand feet before I hit the cliff and now see the precipice only a hundred feet away just hit me.
So I wrote back to my agent and told him "By the way, I'm working on a new book," and told him about the basic story with the caveat "And this time I'm going to try to make it short."
I figured that an acceptable "short" would be 450+ pages since in my past two novels, I have missed that mark by miles and miles. I blame this entirely on the characters who never do what I tell them and always go off having adventures of their own which I try to keep up with (Something that, unsurprisingly, is happening with Novel #3 which has the Oh-So-Sucky title Bloodwood at the moment). My agent, who has been tirelessly representing me the last few years (My theory is his professional pride is wounded that it's taking so long to get these things sold and so for him it's turned into something of a personal crusade) has written back telling me that even that's a bit optimistic and what would probably be a much "healthier" size is 400 or less. Or, 100, 000 words.
This nearly put me into cardiac arrest.
Some of my short stories have run 30,000+ words.
A quick opening of the file at the current novel (Now sitting at Chapter 4 and pushing 60 pages) shows it to weigh in at just a few words shy of 18,000.
Now the math and mortal terror come in...
So if we do some quick arithmatic and say that 100, 000 - 18, 000 = 82, 000...
This means I should run around the room right now screaming with the kind of agony comparative to having one's hair set on fire while the Barry Manilow CD in the background skips repeatedly.
EIGHTY TWO THOUSAND FREAKIN' WORDS LEFT?!?! THAT'S IT?!?!
In my head, someone Scottish is already screaming, "I'm givin' it all she's got, but it's noo good, Captain! Th' engines... they canna' take th' strain!"
It's an incredibly intimidating number to me at the moment because it's one of those things that I always felt, for me, anyway, that it simply could NOT be done. I'm probably going to have to meditate on this (Translation: Panic, weep and hug a doll like a little girl) and seriously contemplate pushing the book to two parts, or else drastically revise just how many plot points I was meaning to hit (Or more accurately, how many plot points the characters were starting to pursue once they'd found them).
I suppose now I could also start dragging in the ruthless editor skills I picked up writing scripts for television where you were fixed to exactly a one hour or half hour episode and could NOT under any circumstances, exceed that. You MADE it fit, and there simply was no alternative, except dismissal.
But holy crap, that's not a lot of room to manuever...
I at this rate, I'll have the novel finished in no freakin' time at all and then spend months cutting it down...
Bleah. The cold fear of thinking I had a thousand feet before I hit the cliff and now see the precipice only a hundred feet away just hit me.
Labels: My Life, Novel Writing, The Pale Summer, Writing
Megasushi
This game is making my forehead bleed.
The full name is Shin Megami Tensei: Nocturne, and it's probably one of the more difficult RPGs I've come across in the last five years. The name, which is difficult enough to keep in my head, has more or less become reduced to "Megasushi" thanks to the fiance.
It starts at a place that most RPGs never want to go; with the complete and total destruction of the world. In its place, a small inverted (As in the liveable surface is on the INSIDE of the sphere) "proto-world" made up of fragments of Tokyo has arisen, populated by demons and the lost souls of those who died in the apocalypse. This world, known as "The Conception" is the place where those with ambitions to remake the world, ally themselves with demons and collect enough of a substance (which comes from human souls) called "Magatsuhi" to summon up a god. Whoever gets sufficient quantities of Magatsuhi first to appease the god can then have their particular ideology granted to them by that god, and thus the world will be remade in their vision.
So essentially, the story is "The world is over and now you, yes YOU, will determine whether the next world will be better, worse, or similar to the one that came before it."
Pretty heady stuff for an RPG, but I'm grokking it in a big way. When I'm not tearing my fingernails out over how damn hard this game can be. The one thing I really like so far is that all the monsters/demons you come across have all been researched and are all based on folklore/myth from around the world. So far I've encountered--in no particular order--the four horsemen, the three sisters of Fate, members of the fairy entourage from Queen Mab to Oberon, and... wait for it... GHOSTRIDER! Whoo!
The other neat part is that this story doesn't start off with a brave warrior, his friends and the usual foray into magical lands. The hero (Named by you) is a seemingly ordinary Japanese student in modern day Tokyo with a couple of friends, neither of whom end up in your party blessed with magical powers. Instead, they become almost rivals since their world views are pretty far apart and they'd kind of like you to side with them (Which of course is entirely up to you). No, the members of your party are the demons themselves that you encounter. I've already got Ghostrider and Queen Mab in my party, and there are many other deities and supernatural creatures (If you're thinking "Gee, this is just like some kind of Jungian Pokemon! Gotta' Catch All The Archetypes!" you wouldn't be that far off) available for recruitment, and recruitment runs the gamut from outright bribing them with gifts to answering ethical questions to determine whether you and the demon share the same ideology.
All this wild n' whacky gameplay however, his complemented by some very challenging fighting and leveling. The bosses in the game are hard. Some of the puzzles and mini-games are excruciatingly hard, and it's advisable to spend some time "grinding" (ie, the gamer tendency to find a nice place with good experience point creatures and just mindlessly bash them to level up) and recruiting higher powered demons as you progress if you want even a shred of hope to stay competitive. Usually when I play RPGs these days, it's smooth sailing except for possibly one or two bosses along the way. This game, almost every boss has given me some kind of trouble, since the combat system, for all its simplicity, will punish you pretty badly for not giving your next move some thought. When you exploit a demon's weakness (Say it's a fire based demon and you hit it with an ice-spell) the game rewards you by giving you an extra turn or two by taking it away from the victim. Unfortunately the same holds true for you, and so if you've got a demon weak to electricity and the enemy zaps 'em with lightning, that next turn you were going to use to heal your party is suddenly gone and the demon lets loose with some apocalyptic spell that finishes you off.
This is the first time in a loooooong time, that an RPG is really making me earn every victory. I'm not used to it, but I'm digging it.
This game is making my forehead bleed.
The full name is Shin Megami Tensei: Nocturne, and it's probably one of the more difficult RPGs I've come across in the last five years. The name, which is difficult enough to keep in my head, has more or less become reduced to "Megasushi" thanks to the fiance.
It starts at a place that most RPGs never want to go; with the complete and total destruction of the world. In its place, a small inverted (As in the liveable surface is on the INSIDE of the sphere) "proto-world" made up of fragments of Tokyo has arisen, populated by demons and the lost souls of those who died in the apocalypse. This world, known as "The Conception" is the place where those with ambitions to remake the world, ally themselves with demons and collect enough of a substance (which comes from human souls) called "Magatsuhi" to summon up a god. Whoever gets sufficient quantities of Magatsuhi first to appease the god can then have their particular ideology granted to them by that god, and thus the world will be remade in their vision.
So essentially, the story is "The world is over and now you, yes YOU, will determine whether the next world will be better, worse, or similar to the one that came before it."
Pretty heady stuff for an RPG, but I'm grokking it in a big way. When I'm not tearing my fingernails out over how damn hard this game can be. The one thing I really like so far is that all the monsters/demons you come across have all been researched and are all based on folklore/myth from around the world. So far I've encountered--in no particular order--the four horsemen, the three sisters of Fate, members of the fairy entourage from Queen Mab to Oberon, and... wait for it... GHOSTRIDER! Whoo!
The other neat part is that this story doesn't start off with a brave warrior, his friends and the usual foray into magical lands. The hero (Named by you) is a seemingly ordinary Japanese student in modern day Tokyo with a couple of friends, neither of whom end up in your party blessed with magical powers. Instead, they become almost rivals since their world views are pretty far apart and they'd kind of like you to side with them (Which of course is entirely up to you). No, the members of your party are the demons themselves that you encounter. I've already got Ghostrider and Queen Mab in my party, and there are many other deities and supernatural creatures (If you're thinking "Gee, this is just like some kind of Jungian Pokemon! Gotta' Catch All The Archetypes!" you wouldn't be that far off) available for recruitment, and recruitment runs the gamut from outright bribing them with gifts to answering ethical questions to determine whether you and the demon share the same ideology.
All this wild n' whacky gameplay however, his complemented by some very challenging fighting and leveling. The bosses in the game are hard. Some of the puzzles and mini-games are excruciatingly hard, and it's advisable to spend some time "grinding" (ie, the gamer tendency to find a nice place with good experience point creatures and just mindlessly bash them to level up) and recruiting higher powered demons as you progress if you want even a shred of hope to stay competitive. Usually when I play RPGs these days, it's smooth sailing except for possibly one or two bosses along the way. This game, almost every boss has given me some kind of trouble, since the combat system, for all its simplicity, will punish you pretty badly for not giving your next move some thought. When you exploit a demon's weakness (Say it's a fire based demon and you hit it with an ice-spell) the game rewards you by giving you an extra turn or two by taking it away from the victim. Unfortunately the same holds true for you, and so if you've got a demon weak to electricity and the enemy zaps 'em with lightning, that next turn you were going to use to heal your party is suddenly gone and the demon lets loose with some apocalyptic spell that finishes you off.
This is the first time in a loooooong time, that an RPG is really making me earn every victory. I'm not used to it, but I'm digging it.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Random Epiphany
I only just realized that the 19th century's "Gay 90's" had a resurgence in the 20th, only not the way our predecessors might have imagined...
I only just realized that the 19th century's "Gay 90's" had a resurgence in the 20th, only not the way our predecessors might have imagined...
Labels: Random Blargh
When Did I Become An Outsider In My Own Kingdom!?!
I ask this question, because it's a thought that's been burbling in my head ever since I set foot in the comic book store to purchase tickets for the impending arrival of Neil-O (All hail, our wise and learn-ed master, give us this day our daily tale, and deliver us from boredom...) and was once again struck by how I so-did-not-fit-in.
This is probably another one of those old-man "Why when I was your age..." diatribes, but heck, I'm over 30, I think I'm entitled somewhat...
Why, when I was your age, comic book stores were an altogether different beast than what I encounter in Singapore, circa 2005. As a wee lad thirsting for adventure, excitement and other things that backwards speaking frog Jedi masters crave not, my earliest experiences with a full-on Comic Book Store (Not to be confused with a drug store or convenience store, where I initially picked up my monthlies) was the Nerd Capital of the city, Warp One comic books.
Okay, not strictly true, first it was Starbase 12, then eventually that closed down for reasons I can no longer recall, or maybe it just morphed into Warp One.
This store, like so many run by passion, nerdiness and a distinct lack of style, was jam packed with books, comics, toys and a plethora of other geekitude all piled willy nilly on the shelves. Stepping into Warp One was like stepping into the nightmarish environment of a kid's bedroom if said kid could afford anything he wanted but STILL refused to clean up. The walls were lined with posters, the shelves racked with comics, the floor an embarrassing carpet style that has been perenially burned into the collective memory of any child of the suburban 70's-80's as "Rumpus Room" and the clientele? My God, do you even need to ask? It fell into two extremes, the obessive, morose thin, dressed all in black prententious pseudo-intellectuals that lacked the predatory instincts to fully exploit their appeal with Goth chicks, and the amiable fat kids who developed a cheerful, obsessive personality as a defense mechanism against a society that tolerated them, but only just.
Into this Oasis of geekdom, the misfists of highschool and university would pour, entertaining endless debates about who would in win a fight of Federation ships versus an Imperial/Rebel Fleet, what would happen if Superman ever had sex with Lois Lane, and why the hell the Smurfs weren't used by modern communist countries as the par exemplar that their collective efforts should aspire to.
It was, in short, an embarrasing collection of pop culture regalia inhabited by equally embarrassing social outcasts who came here to find solace and commonality that the Real World refused to offer.
Now here I am, in a Singapore comic book store, and despite the fact that this should be a harbor of safety in a cold and unforgiving sea, I feel even more isolated and out of place, because I Don't Rate This Joint.
It's a strange thing, to walk into a comic store and find young urban professionals, in suits and other uniforms of office, perusing the goods, while you walk in dressed like a typical geek in some kind of t-shirt and comfy pants, sans proper footwear and realize that the place has been taken over by the yuppies. It's even more disturbing when you talk to the cashier, who is not some very fat, or very thin male with glasses and an almost hostile pride in their knowledge of comic minutae, but is instead a small, cute as a button Chinese girl that looks like she'd be just as much at home hosting a Cotillion, and ask her about a comic--or in this case, tickets to see Neil-O--and have that person blink in total and complete incomprehension before saying "Um... Let me call for that."
But most disheartening of all, the true sign that you are in a foreign land, is the fact that the comic book store feels like a Real Goddamn Store. With classy shelves, display cases, things meticulously arranged, not a piece of used furniture anywhere, no table with nerds screaming at each other over a brilliant tactical move in the modeled landscape that is their Warhammer playing field, and the entire ambience of the place dripping with cultured, expensive, stylish, hip urban taste.
My basic question being, "When the hell did comics get taken out of the hands of people that know and love them and handed over lock and key to The Enemy? These are the people that scorned us and hated us and now they're driving us out of our refuge too?!?"
Or perhaps it's just old nerd elitism unable to accept the idea that what made us once outcasts has finally been accepted by society and we're not that uncool anymore...
I ask this question, because it's a thought that's been burbling in my head ever since I set foot in the comic book store to purchase tickets for the impending arrival of Neil-O (All hail, our wise and learn-ed master, give us this day our daily tale, and deliver us from boredom...) and was once again struck by how I so-did-not-fit-in.
This is probably another one of those old-man "Why when I was your age..." diatribes, but heck, I'm over 30, I think I'm entitled somewhat...
Why, when I was your age, comic book stores were an altogether different beast than what I encounter in Singapore, circa 2005. As a wee lad thirsting for adventure, excitement and other things that backwards speaking frog Jedi masters crave not, my earliest experiences with a full-on Comic Book Store (Not to be confused with a drug store or convenience store, where I initially picked up my monthlies) was the Nerd Capital of the city, Warp One comic books.
Okay, not strictly true, first it was Starbase 12, then eventually that closed down for reasons I can no longer recall, or maybe it just morphed into Warp One.
This store, like so many run by passion, nerdiness and a distinct lack of style, was jam packed with books, comics, toys and a plethora of other geekitude all piled willy nilly on the shelves. Stepping into Warp One was like stepping into the nightmarish environment of a kid's bedroom if said kid could afford anything he wanted but STILL refused to clean up. The walls were lined with posters, the shelves racked with comics, the floor an embarrassing carpet style that has been perenially burned into the collective memory of any child of the suburban 70's-80's as "Rumpus Room" and the clientele? My God, do you even need to ask? It fell into two extremes, the obessive, morose thin, dressed all in black prententious pseudo-intellectuals that lacked the predatory instincts to fully exploit their appeal with Goth chicks, and the amiable fat kids who developed a cheerful, obsessive personality as a defense mechanism against a society that tolerated them, but only just.
Into this Oasis of geekdom, the misfists of highschool and university would pour, entertaining endless debates about who would in win a fight of Federation ships versus an Imperial/Rebel Fleet, what would happen if Superman ever had sex with Lois Lane, and why the hell the Smurfs weren't used by modern communist countries as the par exemplar that their collective efforts should aspire to.
It was, in short, an embarrasing collection of pop culture regalia inhabited by equally embarrassing social outcasts who came here to find solace and commonality that the Real World refused to offer.
Now here I am, in a Singapore comic book store, and despite the fact that this should be a harbor of safety in a cold and unforgiving sea, I feel even more isolated and out of place, because I Don't Rate This Joint.
It's a strange thing, to walk into a comic store and find young urban professionals, in suits and other uniforms of office, perusing the goods, while you walk in dressed like a typical geek in some kind of t-shirt and comfy pants, sans proper footwear and realize that the place has been taken over by the yuppies. It's even more disturbing when you talk to the cashier, who is not some very fat, or very thin male with glasses and an almost hostile pride in their knowledge of comic minutae, but is instead a small, cute as a button Chinese girl that looks like she'd be just as much at home hosting a Cotillion, and ask her about a comic--or in this case, tickets to see Neil-O--and have that person blink in total and complete incomprehension before saying "Um... Let me call for that."
But most disheartening of all, the true sign that you are in a foreign land, is the fact that the comic book store feels like a Real Goddamn Store. With classy shelves, display cases, things meticulously arranged, not a piece of used furniture anywhere, no table with nerds screaming at each other over a brilliant tactical move in the modeled landscape that is their Warhammer playing field, and the entire ambience of the place dripping with cultured, expensive, stylish, hip urban taste.
My basic question being, "When the hell did comics get taken out of the hands of people that know and love them and handed over lock and key to The Enemy? These are the people that scorned us and hated us and now they're driving us out of our refuge too?!?"
Or perhaps it's just old nerd elitism unable to accept the idea that what made us once outcasts has finally been accepted by society and we're not that uncool anymore...
Sunday, June 19, 2005
My One (And Hopefully Only) Comment About Paris Hilton
As the "old" internet adage wisely goes, "Don't feed the trolls." I'm not going to do much to contribute to the Paris bandwagon as it already has tons of momentum going for it, ad nauseum, but I will say that not too long ago, I finally got around to watching the commercial Paris did for some hamburger franchise who's name totally escapes me.
The commercial involves Paris--first in a fur coat and bikini, then only the bikini--washing a car with lurid close ups, slick lighting and a cover of a classic song "I Love Paris" (Done by the likes of Cole, Fitzgerald and Sinatra) with a ripping guitar accompaniment. Mostly it shows off the benefits of wealth on anatomy and occasionally shows Paris biting into said Anonymous Burger.
The first thing that struck me when I saw this was "My God, Verhoeven and Miller were right."
This commercial plays exactly like the kind of joke commercial that would have appeared in the first two Robocop movies, except that, horrifyingly enough, it's genuine. I find it profoundly disturbing to think that something that was thought of as ludicrous excess worthy of satire in the 80's has now become actual marketing staple in the "zeroes" (Or "00's" for you consistency nuts out there). What does it say about civilization when something that was initially a bad joke has become standard advertising?
So This Is Being Old
Well, okay, maybe not "old" old since many people would scream at me for trying to stretch that point, but oldER.
It's a trip and a half to actually stop on quieter moments some days and look back at what a childhood and teenage life have wrought, then wonder if it was all worth it. In my case, that answer is an unequivocal yes. Money/employment woes at the moment and not yet having a book published put aside, everything else is pretty much what I had hoped/dreamed for, or in some cases (like my fiance) grossly exceeded.
But it's a humbling experience to take stock. I still remember being in university and seeing all my friends (Who I now never see, thanks to me being on the other side of the hemisphere) and hearing the banter, arguing, debating, wry commentary and slick ass jokes flying fast and furious in my home away from home, the fabled HUB Mall Arts Lounge, congretation point of geniuses, lunatics and other assorted People Of Character. One thing that struck me immediately was the vast, almost nauseating wealth of potential that I saw in these people. Whether it was kind, quiet guy with a heart of gold and a gift for mathematics I could never possibly understand, or a student of history so frighteningly and hilariously intelligent he was like a non-stop satire, only Chinese and prone viciously articulate social observation, or a belligerent bastard who was entirely too smart for his own good but seemed to deliberately take an opposing viewpoint just to start something, you could see in each one of these (And many other people) that there were places they could go.
Whether they should or did is another thing. But for the most part, I think it worked out amazingly well. Leave a reasonably talented and intelligent human being to their own devices, and it follows that--barring unforeseen catastrophe--they will eventually start realizing their gifts. It's scary to think that the people who used to make me cross my eyes and think "Damn, that's twisted..." are now the same people who are having some measure of influence on the world as the slow transition of generations begins. It's gratifying, but at the same time frightening to think that these people who you personally know, are the ones helping to move the world along now, rather than faceless names in the lofty heavens above in charge of Politics, Art, Science, etc...
This is probably just me revealing more emotional immaturity, but it is only recently, watching these people I grew up take these kinds of positions, that I am finally able to view the mechanisms of society as human beings rather than Agency From Beyond. I mean, as a teenager, only discovering the world and attempting to connect with it, it's one thing to read the papers and see reviews or political policy that's enacted by "grown ups" you've never met, are likely never to meet, and, by virtue of the fact that they are adult, are "Other" to you and occupy some collective organism that is simply In Charge and steering the direction of culture and country. It's quite another thing to see a name on the internet, or see a name on a credit in a television and show and think "My God, I know that person," and suddenly the All-Seeing, All-Knowing organism is actually someone you once spent a birthday with taking turns throwing up into the toilet bowl.
I'm proud of my friends and the things they've done. I always had the suspicion that things would go this way, but it's still vaguely frightening to see it come to life. Myself, I just wanna' tell stories. It's a simple wish, but it's mine and I get one step closer every day to being able to do it for a living, but in the meantime, I still get to do it. I just hope sometimes that one day my friends will see in me the Promise Fulfilled that I'm seeing in them.
As the "old" internet adage wisely goes, "Don't feed the trolls." I'm not going to do much to contribute to the Paris bandwagon as it already has tons of momentum going for it, ad nauseum, but I will say that not too long ago, I finally got around to watching the commercial Paris did for some hamburger franchise who's name totally escapes me.
The commercial involves Paris--first in a fur coat and bikini, then only the bikini--washing a car with lurid close ups, slick lighting and a cover of a classic song "I Love Paris" (Done by the likes of Cole, Fitzgerald and Sinatra) with a ripping guitar accompaniment. Mostly it shows off the benefits of wealth on anatomy and occasionally shows Paris biting into said Anonymous Burger.
The first thing that struck me when I saw this was "My God, Verhoeven and Miller were right."
This commercial plays exactly like the kind of joke commercial that would have appeared in the first two Robocop movies, except that, horrifyingly enough, it's genuine. I find it profoundly disturbing to think that something that was thought of as ludicrous excess worthy of satire in the 80's has now become actual marketing staple in the "zeroes" (Or "00's" for you consistency nuts out there). What does it say about civilization when something that was initially a bad joke has become standard advertising?
So This Is Being Old
Well, okay, maybe not "old" old since many people would scream at me for trying to stretch that point, but oldER.
It's a trip and a half to actually stop on quieter moments some days and look back at what a childhood and teenage life have wrought, then wonder if it was all worth it. In my case, that answer is an unequivocal yes. Money/employment woes at the moment and not yet having a book published put aside, everything else is pretty much what I had hoped/dreamed for, or in some cases (like my fiance) grossly exceeded.
But it's a humbling experience to take stock. I still remember being in university and seeing all my friends (Who I now never see, thanks to me being on the other side of the hemisphere) and hearing the banter, arguing, debating, wry commentary and slick ass jokes flying fast and furious in my home away from home, the fabled HUB Mall Arts Lounge, congretation point of geniuses, lunatics and other assorted People Of Character. One thing that struck me immediately was the vast, almost nauseating wealth of potential that I saw in these people. Whether it was kind, quiet guy with a heart of gold and a gift for mathematics I could never possibly understand, or a student of history so frighteningly and hilariously intelligent he was like a non-stop satire, only Chinese and prone viciously articulate social observation, or a belligerent bastard who was entirely too smart for his own good but seemed to deliberately take an opposing viewpoint just to start something, you could see in each one of these (And many other people) that there were places they could go.
Whether they should or did is another thing. But for the most part, I think it worked out amazingly well. Leave a reasonably talented and intelligent human being to their own devices, and it follows that--barring unforeseen catastrophe--they will eventually start realizing their gifts. It's scary to think that the people who used to make me cross my eyes and think "Damn, that's twisted..." are now the same people who are having some measure of influence on the world as the slow transition of generations begins. It's gratifying, but at the same time frightening to think that these people who you personally know, are the ones helping to move the world along now, rather than faceless names in the lofty heavens above in charge of Politics, Art, Science, etc...
This is probably just me revealing more emotional immaturity, but it is only recently, watching these people I grew up take these kinds of positions, that I am finally able to view the mechanisms of society as human beings rather than Agency From Beyond. I mean, as a teenager, only discovering the world and attempting to connect with it, it's one thing to read the papers and see reviews or political policy that's enacted by "grown ups" you've never met, are likely never to meet, and, by virtue of the fact that they are adult, are "Other" to you and occupy some collective organism that is simply In Charge and steering the direction of culture and country. It's quite another thing to see a name on the internet, or see a name on a credit in a television and show and think "My God, I know that person," and suddenly the All-Seeing, All-Knowing organism is actually someone you once spent a birthday with taking turns throwing up into the toilet bowl.
I'm proud of my friends and the things they've done. I always had the suspicion that things would go this way, but it's still vaguely frightening to see it come to life. Myself, I just wanna' tell stories. It's a simple wish, but it's mine and I get one step closer every day to being able to do it for a living, but in the meantime, I still get to do it. I just hope sometimes that one day my friends will see in me the Promise Fulfilled that I'm seeing in them.
Labels: Musing, My Life, Random Blargh
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Cereal Hoarding: Discuss.
Can you tell I'm writing a book again?
This sort of thing seems to happen when novels are in progress as I feel like I want to keep on writing, yet don't want to stare at the page and wait for my fingers to transcribe the movie in my head, so I jump over to something else, like e-mail, or the ol' blog...
The fiance for whatever reason, went to bed at the amazingly late hour of 7-8 pm, and so I've been tinkering away, doing research, looking for new words to define a group (And finally settling on the French "Cortege" which also has associations with a funeral procession. Trust me, it'll all make sense...) and of course, adding more dialogue n' such to the novel (Now entertaining a debate to give in and just make it a two parter, so I can tell a 600 page story instead of worry about cramming it into 300-450 pages), but before that, we went shopping!
For breakfast cereal.
The brand in question is Post's Selects: Great Grains Whole Grain Cereal, which contains raisins, dates & pecans and is supposedly "Inspired by the taste of home-baked raisin nut bread." I know the minutae of the box copy because it is sitting beside me for reference.
Anyway's, the fiance has taken a new--and in my opinion--wholly obessive attitude towards this cereal as it is one of the few breakfast cereals she enjoys and at some point a few months ago, for reasons still unknown, it was taken off the shelves, with the only explanation being some kind of product recall. Lo and behold, it eventually returned, but now is completely sealed in plastic, making me suspect that perhaps another round of poisonings occurred somewhere and this is the cereal equivalent of "If you find the seal broken, please bring it to the attention of your retailer."
However its return, while wildly welcomed by her, was by no means a regular occurrence and in the ensuing time, more "droughts" of this cereal have occurred. This has kicked in the stockpiling/hoarding instinct in her somethin' powerful and even though she had three boxes of the stuff lying around, she was unwilling to open them, and today, upon finding a grocery store that had more stock, picked up another four boxes and briefly, seriously contemplated simply cleaning out their remaining stock and asking the manager if they had anymore in the back.
Rationality prevailed (Well, not really, it was more like the promise of looking in other stores and pointing out that she'd be denying other Post Select Grains fans their fair share) and decided to leave it at that, but now every time I open the kitchen cupboard, I now find SEVEN FUCKING BOXES OF THE SAME DAMN CEREAL STARING ME IN THE FACE.
I'm thinking that Post needs to do a new advertising campaign borne of the desperation these "cereal embargoes" have created in their customer base. Something along the lines of people mumbling in the streets and weeping in pitiful heaps in dingy corners of alleys until a Post truck shows up the people hurriedly collect it and then it gets trafficked on the streets while the customers look around with darting eyes before saying "Come on, man, you promised! I need it..."
Once they get their cereal, they retreat to their squalid one room apartments and eat it while Sarah McLachlan's "Angel" plays in the background and they sit at their kitchen table drooling and slackjacwed while the cereal high takes them. Commercial fades to black with "Great Grains: You don't want it, you need it."
Y'know ten years ago, if someone had told me, "One day you're going to get engaged to cereal junkie" I would have said "Yeah, right..."
Good thing I didn't make any promises to eat, crow or any other grossly inappropriate objects.
What I'd Like To See In A Comedy Sketch
Camera starts on some woman that seems to be manning a booth, going through some forms, minding her own business, just doing her job.
A man enters the frame looking completely forlorn.
Cut to reverse angle, you can see just how broken and pathetic he looks staring with wild hope at the woman in the booth.
Reverse angle again, she's still preoccupied with her forms, but finally notices him and looks wary.
"Yes?" She asks.
Reverse angle. "I can't take it anymore," he says. "I admit it. I stole all that money from the company. And I lied when I told my wife I'd never strayed. And when my kid was four years old and bent down to pick up a toy, I kicked him and laughed then blamed it on the dog. And the ring with the emerald on it when Grandma died that everyone assumed some janitor at the funeral home had stolen? It was me. And I was the one that farted in the movie theater and said my kid did it. I'm sorrrrrrrrrrry!!!!!"
Reverse angle. The woman blinks in total confusion. "Why are you telling me this?!? What do you want me to do about it?!?"
On the man, close up. His lips tremble as his eyes widen and he bursts into tears.
Cut to long shot showing the woman is manning a booth with a big sign that says in small letters "Coupon" and in massive letters "Redemption."
Meanwhile the man throws himself at her desk, weeping and pounding his fist on it.
Can you tell I'm writing a book again?
This sort of thing seems to happen when novels are in progress as I feel like I want to keep on writing, yet don't want to stare at the page and wait for my fingers to transcribe the movie in my head, so I jump over to something else, like e-mail, or the ol' blog...
The fiance for whatever reason, went to bed at the amazingly late hour of 7-8 pm, and so I've been tinkering away, doing research, looking for new words to define a group (And finally settling on the French "Cortege" which also has associations with a funeral procession. Trust me, it'll all make sense...) and of course, adding more dialogue n' such to the novel (Now entertaining a debate to give in and just make it a two parter, so I can tell a 600 page story instead of worry about cramming it into 300-450 pages), but before that, we went shopping!
For breakfast cereal.
The brand in question is Post's Selects: Great Grains Whole Grain Cereal, which contains raisins, dates & pecans and is supposedly "Inspired by the taste of home-baked raisin nut bread." I know the minutae of the box copy because it is sitting beside me for reference.
Anyway's, the fiance has taken a new--and in my opinion--wholly obessive attitude towards this cereal as it is one of the few breakfast cereals she enjoys and at some point a few months ago, for reasons still unknown, it was taken off the shelves, with the only explanation being some kind of product recall. Lo and behold, it eventually returned, but now is completely sealed in plastic, making me suspect that perhaps another round of poisonings occurred somewhere and this is the cereal equivalent of "If you find the seal broken, please bring it to the attention of your retailer."
However its return, while wildly welcomed by her, was by no means a regular occurrence and in the ensuing time, more "droughts" of this cereal have occurred. This has kicked in the stockpiling/hoarding instinct in her somethin' powerful and even though she had three boxes of the stuff lying around, she was unwilling to open them, and today, upon finding a grocery store that had more stock, picked up another four boxes and briefly, seriously contemplated simply cleaning out their remaining stock and asking the manager if they had anymore in the back.
Rationality prevailed (Well, not really, it was more like the promise of looking in other stores and pointing out that she'd be denying other Post Select Grains fans their fair share) and decided to leave it at that, but now every time I open the kitchen cupboard, I now find SEVEN FUCKING BOXES OF THE SAME DAMN CEREAL STARING ME IN THE FACE.
I'm thinking that Post needs to do a new advertising campaign borne of the desperation these "cereal embargoes" have created in their customer base. Something along the lines of people mumbling in the streets and weeping in pitiful heaps in dingy corners of alleys until a Post truck shows up the people hurriedly collect it and then it gets trafficked on the streets while the customers look around with darting eyes before saying "Come on, man, you promised! I need it..."
Once they get their cereal, they retreat to their squalid one room apartments and eat it while Sarah McLachlan's "Angel" plays in the background and they sit at their kitchen table drooling and slackjacwed while the cereal high takes them. Commercial fades to black with "Great Grains: You don't want it, you need it."
Y'know ten years ago, if someone had told me, "One day you're going to get engaged to cereal junkie" I would have said "Yeah, right..."
Good thing I didn't make any promises to eat, crow or any other grossly inappropriate objects.
What I'd Like To See In A Comedy Sketch
Camera starts on some woman that seems to be manning a booth, going through some forms, minding her own business, just doing her job.
A man enters the frame looking completely forlorn.
Cut to reverse angle, you can see just how broken and pathetic he looks staring with wild hope at the woman in the booth.
Reverse angle again, she's still preoccupied with her forms, but finally notices him and looks wary.
"Yes?" She asks.
Reverse angle. "I can't take it anymore," he says. "I admit it. I stole all that money from the company. And I lied when I told my wife I'd never strayed. And when my kid was four years old and bent down to pick up a toy, I kicked him and laughed then blamed it on the dog. And the ring with the emerald on it when Grandma died that everyone assumed some janitor at the funeral home had stolen? It was me. And I was the one that farted in the movie theater and said my kid did it. I'm sorrrrrrrrrrry!!!!!"
Reverse angle. The woman blinks in total confusion. "Why are you telling me this?!? What do you want me to do about it?!?"
On the man, close up. His lips tremble as his eyes widen and he bursts into tears.
Cut to long shot showing the woman is manning a booth with a big sign that says in small letters "Coupon" and in massive letters "Redemption."
Meanwhile the man throws himself at her desk, weeping and pounding his fist on it.
Labels: Icky Couple Stuff, My Life, Random Blargh, Stupid Scripts
Today's Movie Of Peachy-Keenness
Donnie Darko.
I finally got around to watching it a little while, the Director's cut DVD, not the original, and I was completely taken in. Brilliant movie. And Donnie's confrontation with Patrick Swayze's self-help guru character was legendary. It's one of those moments I think many of use wish we could have taken in our lives with "Look through the mirror and love yourself" being deflected by "If you don't want to get beat up, take some defense classes and fight back! Jesus..."
That scene alone made me love the movie completely, but it also feel handedly into my "Damn, I wish I'd written that..." category.
Donnie Darko.
I finally got around to watching it a little while, the Director's cut DVD, not the original, and I was completely taken in. Brilliant movie. And Donnie's confrontation with Patrick Swayze's self-help guru character was legendary. It's one of those moments I think many of use wish we could have taken in our lives with "Look through the mirror and love yourself" being deflected by "If you don't want to get beat up, take some defense classes and fight back! Jesus..."
That scene alone made me love the movie completely, but it also feel handedly into my "Damn, I wish I'd written that..." category.
Labels: Movies
You Can't Handle The Fame
I bought the tickets (At $8 a pop, which weren't even tickets but just a receipt with the a "ticket purchase" printed on it) from a fancy-schmancy comic book shop yesterday for the screening of a trailer/selected scenes preview of Mirrormask in preparation for the false idolatry that marks the coming of Neil Gaiman to South East Asia.
From what I gather, there will be a huge buzz of Neil disciples--myself included--who all want to bask in his greatness and hope against hope that his eyes will happen to pass in our direction, or that he might even answer a question, thus leaving us in a state of orgiastic bliss from which we may potentially never recover from. My fiance has been rolling her eyes with each new daily pronouncement from me that "Neil-O is soooooooooo coooooool..." and looks like she's going to drop a phone book on me when I discuss my strategies for attempting to hang out with Neil-O, all of which are very worthy of inclusion as lyricas in Sting's famous Every Breath You Take song. At one point she flatly asked "When your books finally come out, how would you react if someone did this stuff to you?"
The normal, knee-jerk, rational reaction was to reply, "Get freaked out, 'cause the guy's a psycho bo-... Oh."
Followed by a few seconds of hasty thinking and the reply, "But this is DIFFERENT."
"How?"
"Neil-O is famous and talented, it's okay to worship him. I'm just me, it would be stupid for anyone to do that with me."
The inevitable reply being "And you don't think Neil feels the same way?"
The initial line of reasoning that popped into my head was "No, of course not, 'cause he's Neil. I'm me, it's different," but that's essentially a pointless and circular argument. But it led me to realize that one of the more unnatural human social phenomena that separates us from animals is fame (When was the last time you saw a bunch of pandas standing around in awe of the male panda that was able to successfully mate?) and the very bizarreness of fame is that, by and large, most human beings are not psychologically prepared to handle it, and it tends to damage them.
I'm thinking in particular of the apparent vast difference in the way Neil-O handles his fame and the local stars and celebrities handles theirs.
On the one hand, you have Neil-O, who by all accounts started as a young, hopeful British Geek that just wanted to be a writer and eventually broke into comics, never thinking for one second that this road would make him one of the most celebrated fiction authors of the decade with a level of fame that is global and an audience that is intensely loyal to him and his body of work.
On the other, you have local models, actors/actresses and MTV VJs who achieve a level of recognizability within a small, trend concscious segment of the population, who enjoy a few years of being a Name & Face before the built in shelf-life--and ruthless evolution to the Next Big Thing--finally tosses them aside.
Now here's where the comparison gets darn odd...
Neil-O is now--particularly in literary and geek/comic circles--a global phenomenon. The fact that he writes novels pretty much guarantees his immortality as there will always be libraries with his name and work contained there-in. This is fame on a legendary level, and yet he comes off as being a very grounded sort of guy that finds all the recognition and adoration to be "nice" but amusing, and seems generally more interested in doing "really neat things" rather than focusing on the celebrity aspects of his fame. The man is still a friendly, affable geek. It's just that lots n' lots n' lots of people know about it, love it and think he's a genius even if he doesn't.
The local Glitterati on the other hand, have been known to throw hissyfits worthy of a Hollywood A-List actor with whining, petulance, and, when they don't get their way, the infamous rejoinder, "Do you know who I am?!?" as their final seal on the argument.
Why such massively divergent forms of behavior? Is it because Neil is a writer and writers are just generally more reasonable people while people who appear in front of cameras have damaged egos looking for revenge? Is it because Neil's fame doesn't rest with his looks but rather his brain and so he has nothing to prove while the local thespians/VJs/Models know their life-span is measured by the pimples on their faces and are thus more anxiety prone? Is it because the more fame you have, the more you get innured to it and so Neil is simply bored with fame while the locals still find it a shiny new toy to revel in?
Or is it simply because by and large, fame is a psychological condition most human beings simply cannot deal with reasonably and Neil falls into the "There are exceptions of course" category?
If and when my books finally come out, my only real ambition is "Please let me make a living out of this." As long as there's enough from novel writing to survive on that I don't have to have a full time job while being a published novelist, I will be happy. Secondary goals are things that would be considered the usual, like walking into a bookstore one day and being able to see my name on the bookshelf is a deeply gratifying, old childhood dream. And of course doing a tour, doing a book signing and talk... That would be a neat experience, just to see what it's like to sit on the other end of the table. I'd give a crap talk, and my handwriting is illegible, but oh well...
But the fame is not something I'm particularly interested in, because I like walking down the street being able to do my own thing, I like being able to do all the things other people do without attracting more than normal attention, and I'm anti-social anyway, so I like not attending parties, staying home, writing, watching DVDs, playing games, hanging out with my fiance and playing with the cats. And as long as I'm able to do all these things, AND write novels, I really wouldn't want my life to change very drastically from that. My goal in life is simple. I just want to do fun, interesting things with fun interesting people, my definition of fun being quiet, geeky, writerly, conversational, movie-ish, gamer things. Being a Name and a Face is entirely too much of a drag for the simple reason that maintaining it means always being out in public circulating, and frankly, I'd rather just stay home.
So of course for me, knowing how unextraorindary I am, and how my life is in fact, downright, deliciously boring and uninteresting, I would be just a teensy bit aghast if the books did well (Which would be cool) and people suddenly thought I was the Cat's Pajamas (Which is not cool and is in fact bizarre beyond the point of articulation). Why anyone would look at me and think "He's sooooo coooool" would be beyond me, since I didn't do anything more exotic than sit in front of this computer and think "Hm, that would make an interesting story," and then try and finish it.
Of course, the rational part of my brain remembers what my fiance said and whispers "And don'tcha' suppose Neil-O has the same attitude?" While the worshipper in me thinks "NO! Absolutely not! He's Neil-O! He's better than us! He's superior to human beings! We must lie prostrate and worship the mighty Neil-O! Neil is beyond me because he is famous and I am not!"
Man, being a fan boy and a rational human being at the same time is hard...
I bought the tickets (At $8 a pop, which weren't even tickets but just a receipt with the a "ticket purchase" printed on it) from a fancy-schmancy comic book shop yesterday for the screening of a trailer/selected scenes preview of Mirrormask in preparation for the false idolatry that marks the coming of Neil Gaiman to South East Asia.
From what I gather, there will be a huge buzz of Neil disciples--myself included--who all want to bask in his greatness and hope against hope that his eyes will happen to pass in our direction, or that he might even answer a question, thus leaving us in a state of orgiastic bliss from which we may potentially never recover from. My fiance has been rolling her eyes with each new daily pronouncement from me that "Neil-O is soooooooooo coooooool..." and looks like she's going to drop a phone book on me when I discuss my strategies for attempting to hang out with Neil-O, all of which are very worthy of inclusion as lyricas in Sting's famous Every Breath You Take song. At one point she flatly asked "When your books finally come out, how would you react if someone did this stuff to you?"
The normal, knee-jerk, rational reaction was to reply, "Get freaked out, 'cause the guy's a psycho bo-... Oh."
Followed by a few seconds of hasty thinking and the reply, "But this is DIFFERENT."
"How?"
"Neil-O is famous and talented, it's okay to worship him. I'm just me, it would be stupid for anyone to do that with me."
The inevitable reply being "And you don't think Neil feels the same way?"
The initial line of reasoning that popped into my head was "No, of course not, 'cause he's Neil. I'm me, it's different," but that's essentially a pointless and circular argument. But it led me to realize that one of the more unnatural human social phenomena that separates us from animals is fame (When was the last time you saw a bunch of pandas standing around in awe of the male panda that was able to successfully mate?) and the very bizarreness of fame is that, by and large, most human beings are not psychologically prepared to handle it, and it tends to damage them.
I'm thinking in particular of the apparent vast difference in the way Neil-O handles his fame and the local stars and celebrities handles theirs.
On the one hand, you have Neil-O, who by all accounts started as a young, hopeful British Geek that just wanted to be a writer and eventually broke into comics, never thinking for one second that this road would make him one of the most celebrated fiction authors of the decade with a level of fame that is global and an audience that is intensely loyal to him and his body of work.
On the other, you have local models, actors/actresses and MTV VJs who achieve a level of recognizability within a small, trend concscious segment of the population, who enjoy a few years of being a Name & Face before the built in shelf-life--and ruthless evolution to the Next Big Thing--finally tosses them aside.
Now here's where the comparison gets darn odd...
Neil-O is now--particularly in literary and geek/comic circles--a global phenomenon. The fact that he writes novels pretty much guarantees his immortality as there will always be libraries with his name and work contained there-in. This is fame on a legendary level, and yet he comes off as being a very grounded sort of guy that finds all the recognition and adoration to be "nice" but amusing, and seems generally more interested in doing "really neat things" rather than focusing on the celebrity aspects of his fame. The man is still a friendly, affable geek. It's just that lots n' lots n' lots of people know about it, love it and think he's a genius even if he doesn't.
The local Glitterati on the other hand, have been known to throw hissyfits worthy of a Hollywood A-List actor with whining, petulance, and, when they don't get their way, the infamous rejoinder, "Do you know who I am?!?" as their final seal on the argument.
Why such massively divergent forms of behavior? Is it because Neil is a writer and writers are just generally more reasonable people while people who appear in front of cameras have damaged egos looking for revenge? Is it because Neil's fame doesn't rest with his looks but rather his brain and so he has nothing to prove while the local thespians/VJs/Models know their life-span is measured by the pimples on their faces and are thus more anxiety prone? Is it because the more fame you have, the more you get innured to it and so Neil is simply bored with fame while the locals still find it a shiny new toy to revel in?
Or is it simply because by and large, fame is a psychological condition most human beings simply cannot deal with reasonably and Neil falls into the "There are exceptions of course" category?
If and when my books finally come out, my only real ambition is "Please let me make a living out of this." As long as there's enough from novel writing to survive on that I don't have to have a full time job while being a published novelist, I will be happy. Secondary goals are things that would be considered the usual, like walking into a bookstore one day and being able to see my name on the bookshelf is a deeply gratifying, old childhood dream. And of course doing a tour, doing a book signing and talk... That would be a neat experience, just to see what it's like to sit on the other end of the table. I'd give a crap talk, and my handwriting is illegible, but oh well...
But the fame is not something I'm particularly interested in, because I like walking down the street being able to do my own thing, I like being able to do all the things other people do without attracting more than normal attention, and I'm anti-social anyway, so I like not attending parties, staying home, writing, watching DVDs, playing games, hanging out with my fiance and playing with the cats. And as long as I'm able to do all these things, AND write novels, I really wouldn't want my life to change very drastically from that. My goal in life is simple. I just want to do fun, interesting things with fun interesting people, my definition of fun being quiet, geeky, writerly, conversational, movie-ish, gamer things. Being a Name and a Face is entirely too much of a drag for the simple reason that maintaining it means always being out in public circulating, and frankly, I'd rather just stay home.
So of course for me, knowing how unextraorindary I am, and how my life is in fact, downright, deliciously boring and uninteresting, I would be just a teensy bit aghast if the books did well (Which would be cool) and people suddenly thought I was the Cat's Pajamas (Which is not cool and is in fact bizarre beyond the point of articulation). Why anyone would look at me and think "He's sooooo coooool" would be beyond me, since I didn't do anything more exotic than sit in front of this computer and think "Hm, that would make an interesting story," and then try and finish it.
Of course, the rational part of my brain remembers what my fiance said and whispers "And don'tcha' suppose Neil-O has the same attitude?" While the worshipper in me thinks "NO! Absolutely not! He's Neil-O! He's better than us! He's superior to human beings! We must lie prostrate and worship the mighty Neil-O! Neil is beyond me because he is famous and I am not!"
Man, being a fan boy and a rational human being at the same time is hard...
Labels: Musing, My Life, Neil-O
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Whoohoo For Rag-Tag Fleets
Man, I live in a damn cave...
While friends who had the good sense to remain in North America get a weekly dose of pop culture goodness (Though from what I've been hearing of late, this may no longer be such a good thing. Oh, for a quick injection of a Hercules cartoon with Newton, that stupid centaur...) I, having more or less quite happily sunk into the Artistic Hermit phase of my life, no longer watch MTV Asia (I'm too old for it), local television (I'm too foreign for it) or cable television (I'm not commercial enough for it) and only occasionally step out to watch movies (I'm mostly too jaded for it). The vast majority of my time is spent A) sitting here staring at this monitor for either writer-ly, job-ly, or game-ly reasons, B) plugged into a video game console occasionally wiping the drool from my mouth as its Matrix-like qualities suck me in. AGAIN... C) watching DVDs as I have come to love this format more than life itself.
However, thanks to a certain friend who is entirely too intelligent and entertaining for his own good (Godfrey, you know who you are...) I was alerted to an old, guilty childhood pleasure that was getting stuffed into the "Reimagination machine" and was on the way towards getting spit back out soon.
That was, of course, the new Battlestar Galactica series.
Man, I am hooked.
I'd heard people previously lambast the thing before it had even come out, and I have to admit, even I had my doubts initially. I loved the vipers from the original but the whole "By your command" thing--and, as the years wore on the increasing curiosity as to why a mechanized organism would require THREE freakin' crew members for a fighter--and more importantly that kid Boxy and his stupid android dog, made me wonder if this new version was such a good idea.
God bless Ronald Moore, for he made me so happy to be wrong.
It took a while, but lo, only a couple of months ago, the DVD of the original Scif-Fi Channel mini-series FINALLY made it to these shores, and I snapped the damn thing up and consumed it greedily, despite the fact that I had already watched a region 4 DVD somewhat earlier thanks to the generosity of an Australian geek.
Galactica has all the usual ingredients of "neat" science fiction television, ie, cool fighters, cooler space battles between fighters and a lot of technology that seems peachy-keen. But on top of that is the much more interesting premise of "The war is over. We lost," which is a pretty rare thing for SF television to tackle.
The original premise of the 1978 series (Which I forced myself to sit through for comparison's sake. Thanks Eugene. Urrrrgh...) was a riff straight outta' Eric Von Danikin's Chariots of the Gods (A whacky, non-fiction book that posits that ancient Earth civilizations have been influenced by visitations from space) that played on the idea that "There are those who say that life here, began out there..."
Meaning that humanity is actually a visitor to Earth, and that we're originally from another planet (Called "Kobol") and that Kobol, the seed world, sent out colonies amongst the stars. The majority of the 13 tribes of humans, 12 of them in fact, settled in a 12 world star system and happily stayed there. the 13th tribe went way, way off and found Earth.
Galactica in 1978 was the disco version of the holocaust that occurred with the 12 colonies. At war with a Reptilian race turned mechanized warriors called "Cylons" they had fought their robot foes for a thousand years and were on the verge of finally negotiating for peace. This turned out to be a huge sham thanks to the traiterous human Baltar, and instead the 12 colonies were annihilated in one fell swoop. The survivors banded together in a fleet, protected by the last surviving Battlestar, Galactica, a massive capital ship that did double-duty as aircraft carrier and destroyer, and though pursued by the Cylons, they decided that there was nothing for it but to try and find the remaining 13th colony, Earth. And so the series began.
It only lasted a season, and probably for good reason. The initial very dark and intriguing genocidal storyline of the series premiere quickly devolved into "This week, the Cowboy Western episode" and "This week, the Touched By An Angel" episode, and quickly lost its way.
The new one, however, aside from receiving a fresh injection of science fiction cool with updated special effects, sticks to one simple idea, "Let's take it seriously, this is damn dark stuff here..."
And so with the new series you really feel the pressure. These people are running for their lives and know it. They worry about food, they worry about water, they worry about leadership and government, but most of all, they worry about the Cylons--who in this iteration are the creation of humanity that rebelled--and outclass them in just about every military manner, right down to the fact that the humans are forced to abandon high-end computer networking technology since the Cylons can infiltrate and destabilize human systems in short order, which is how they ended up nuking the 12 colonies to hell.
It kicks ass. I'm digging it in a big way and am eagerly awaiting the DVD collection of season 1.
And The Guilty Pleasure Of The Week Is...
Lego Star Wars.
I wish I were making that up, but God help me, I'm taking this game out for a spin and enjoying it tremendously. Despite the fact that it was designed for children, and that all the characters and settings are made out of Lego, this somehow manages to feel more Star War-sy than the vast majority of "serious" Star Wars games I've played, and even edges out the new trilogy the games are based on. There's something deliciously fun about taking a Lego Obi Wan and whacking away at a Lego Darth Maul until he breaks into his component blocks. I shouldn't be enjoying this...
But I am...
Man, I live in a damn cave...
While friends who had the good sense to remain in North America get a weekly dose of pop culture goodness (Though from what I've been hearing of late, this may no longer be such a good thing. Oh, for a quick injection of a Hercules cartoon with Newton, that stupid centaur...) I, having more or less quite happily sunk into the Artistic Hermit phase of my life, no longer watch MTV Asia (I'm too old for it), local television (I'm too foreign for it) or cable television (I'm not commercial enough for it) and only occasionally step out to watch movies (I'm mostly too jaded for it). The vast majority of my time is spent A) sitting here staring at this monitor for either writer-ly, job-ly, or game-ly reasons, B) plugged into a video game console occasionally wiping the drool from my mouth as its Matrix-like qualities suck me in. AGAIN... C) watching DVDs as I have come to love this format more than life itself.
However, thanks to a certain friend who is entirely too intelligent and entertaining for his own good (Godfrey, you know who you are...) I was alerted to an old, guilty childhood pleasure that was getting stuffed into the "Reimagination machine" and was on the way towards getting spit back out soon.
That was, of course, the new Battlestar Galactica series.
Man, I am hooked.
I'd heard people previously lambast the thing before it had even come out, and I have to admit, even I had my doubts initially. I loved the vipers from the original but the whole "By your command" thing--and, as the years wore on the increasing curiosity as to why a mechanized organism would require THREE freakin' crew members for a fighter--and more importantly that kid Boxy and his stupid android dog, made me wonder if this new version was such a good idea.
God bless Ronald Moore, for he made me so happy to be wrong.
It took a while, but lo, only a couple of months ago, the DVD of the original Scif-Fi Channel mini-series FINALLY made it to these shores, and I snapped the damn thing up and consumed it greedily, despite the fact that I had already watched a region 4 DVD somewhat earlier thanks to the generosity of an Australian geek.
Galactica has all the usual ingredients of "neat" science fiction television, ie, cool fighters, cooler space battles between fighters and a lot of technology that seems peachy-keen. But on top of that is the much more interesting premise of "The war is over. We lost," which is a pretty rare thing for SF television to tackle.
The original premise of the 1978 series (Which I forced myself to sit through for comparison's sake. Thanks Eugene. Urrrrgh...) was a riff straight outta' Eric Von Danikin's Chariots of the Gods (A whacky, non-fiction book that posits that ancient Earth civilizations have been influenced by visitations from space) that played on the idea that "There are those who say that life here, began out there..."
Meaning that humanity is actually a visitor to Earth, and that we're originally from another planet (Called "Kobol") and that Kobol, the seed world, sent out colonies amongst the stars. The majority of the 13 tribes of humans, 12 of them in fact, settled in a 12 world star system and happily stayed there. the 13th tribe went way, way off and found Earth.
Galactica in 1978 was the disco version of the holocaust that occurred with the 12 colonies. At war with a Reptilian race turned mechanized warriors called "Cylons" they had fought their robot foes for a thousand years and were on the verge of finally negotiating for peace. This turned out to be a huge sham thanks to the traiterous human Baltar, and instead the 12 colonies were annihilated in one fell swoop. The survivors banded together in a fleet, protected by the last surviving Battlestar, Galactica, a massive capital ship that did double-duty as aircraft carrier and destroyer, and though pursued by the Cylons, they decided that there was nothing for it but to try and find the remaining 13th colony, Earth. And so the series began.
It only lasted a season, and probably for good reason. The initial very dark and intriguing genocidal storyline of the series premiere quickly devolved into "This week, the Cowboy Western episode" and "This week, the Touched By An Angel" episode, and quickly lost its way.
The new one, however, aside from receiving a fresh injection of science fiction cool with updated special effects, sticks to one simple idea, "Let's take it seriously, this is damn dark stuff here..."
And so with the new series you really feel the pressure. These people are running for their lives and know it. They worry about food, they worry about water, they worry about leadership and government, but most of all, they worry about the Cylons--who in this iteration are the creation of humanity that rebelled--and outclass them in just about every military manner, right down to the fact that the humans are forced to abandon high-end computer networking technology since the Cylons can infiltrate and destabilize human systems in short order, which is how they ended up nuking the 12 colonies to hell.
It kicks ass. I'm digging it in a big way and am eagerly awaiting the DVD collection of season 1.
And The Guilty Pleasure Of The Week Is...
Lego Star Wars.
I wish I were making that up, but God help me, I'm taking this game out for a spin and enjoying it tremendously. Despite the fact that it was designed for children, and that all the characters and settings are made out of Lego, this somehow manages to feel more Star War-sy than the vast majority of "serious" Star Wars games I've played, and even edges out the new trilogy the games are based on. There's something deliciously fun about taking a Lego Obi Wan and whacking away at a Lego Darth Maul until he breaks into his component blocks. I shouldn't be enjoying this...
But I am...
Labels: Battlestar Galactica, Games, Sci-Fi Television
I Suck At Titles
Since I was a wee lad and first scrawled out my stories with a pencil or pen on paper, I've always had the most horrific time coming up with a name for the damn thing. Most people who are familiar with the way I write will note that invariably, the titles of a story or novel in progress usually fall into the spectrum of bland to downright horrific.
For example, in the case of my first short story involving Jen, a girl who can see ghosts and eventually became endearing enough to me to give her her own book, I just couldn't come up with anything to describe her first outting in writing and simply gave the story the title of "Ghost Girl" and was just too confounded to come up with anything even after it was done. In another short story involving her and a serial killer, the story went on for the longest time with the oh-so-witty title "Serial Killer" until, finally it settled on "Suffer The Little Children" and I can't even remember who suggested that, 'cause it sure wasn't me.
I think a good deal of this problem rests in the fact that I am one of the worst living poets of the 21st century. There's a reason I decided to tackle short stories and novels, kids, and that primary reason is, I can't do anything small. Poems escape me. I look at the stanzas and wonder how the hell anyone managed to get a point across in so little space. And as far as I'm concerned, a title is the ultimate poem; how do you summarize in a few words, the essence of something that took you thousands upon thousands of words to explain anyway?
To give you an example of just how lousy a poet I am, I will immortalize on the internet, a famous poem from my university days that will haunt me till the day I die. College cronies can read this and transport themselves back to those glory days of yesteryear when I would skip classes and spend an inordinate amount of time socializing in the Arts Lounge as this is an obvious byproduct of my "higher education"...
*Ahem*...
Carpet is a lot like grass,
It's green and you can sit on it.
Thank you, thank you. Oh stop it, please. You've been a great crowd, I'm here 'till Wednesday...
Of course the reason I'm saying all this now is because I'm wallowing through the third novel--and loving and hating the experience simultaneously, but that's all normal--and of course, I haven't the faintest clue what I'm going to call it.
Maybe I should hold a contest or something, with the ultimate prize being a new horrendous poem composed by yours truly...
Since I was a wee lad and first scrawled out my stories with a pencil or pen on paper, I've always had the most horrific time coming up with a name for the damn thing. Most people who are familiar with the way I write will note that invariably, the titles of a story or novel in progress usually fall into the spectrum of bland to downright horrific.
For example, in the case of my first short story involving Jen, a girl who can see ghosts and eventually became endearing enough to me to give her her own book, I just couldn't come up with anything to describe her first outting in writing and simply gave the story the title of "Ghost Girl" and was just too confounded to come up with anything even after it was done. In another short story involving her and a serial killer, the story went on for the longest time with the oh-so-witty title "Serial Killer" until, finally it settled on "Suffer The Little Children" and I can't even remember who suggested that, 'cause it sure wasn't me.
I think a good deal of this problem rests in the fact that I am one of the worst living poets of the 21st century. There's a reason I decided to tackle short stories and novels, kids, and that primary reason is, I can't do anything small. Poems escape me. I look at the stanzas and wonder how the hell anyone managed to get a point across in so little space. And as far as I'm concerned, a title is the ultimate poem; how do you summarize in a few words, the essence of something that took you thousands upon thousands of words to explain anyway?
To give you an example of just how lousy a poet I am, I will immortalize on the internet, a famous poem from my university days that will haunt me till the day I die. College cronies can read this and transport themselves back to those glory days of yesteryear when I would skip classes and spend an inordinate amount of time socializing in the Arts Lounge as this is an obvious byproduct of my "higher education"...
*Ahem*...
Carpet is a lot like grass,
It's green and you can sit on it.
Thank you, thank you. Oh stop it, please. You've been a great crowd, I'm here 'till Wednesday...
Of course the reason I'm saying all this now is because I'm wallowing through the third novel--and loving and hating the experience simultaneously, but that's all normal--and of course, I haven't the faintest clue what I'm going to call it.
Maybe I should hold a contest or something, with the ultimate prize being a new horrendous poem composed by yours truly...
Labels: Writing
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
The Bad News And... Other Bad News
Things have been motion over here, and none of it particularly good, though none of it particularly tragic either. This would explain the massive absence while I try--and continue to try--to make heads of tails of it.
First, the animated feature that I was originally signed on to develop is dead. From what I gather, the main investor simply lost interest (He's apparently quite vulnerable to distraction) and just decided to move onto something else. That left all th pre-production work, the concept designs, the script rewrites, the acquisition of studios suddenly and quite startlingly dead in the water. Upsetting? You betcha'. I was really looking forward to going through the whole process and watching this thing come to life, but alas, it looks like things that are too good to be true really are too good to be true.
Which Brings Us To The Job Thing
As in, I am looking for one again.
Having been blissfully out of the networking loop for the last few years, my contacts aren't what they once were when it comes to knowing people and asking around for jobs, which means that eventually tracking down a writing based job will be a little tricky. Fortunately, the fiance is at the moment gainfully employed with an advertising agency, but if we're serious about saving up some pocket money and getting out of here (Which we are) then my also having a regular income would help immeasurably with that particular nest egg.
While I still have my regular gig with the video game magazine here in Singapore, there's no definite promise there of a full time thing, and so I'd better look to other venues. This will not be easy, but on well... Life ain't always that way, obviously.
But, There's A New Book In The Offing
Yup, that's right. All this drama has at the very least prompted the beginning of a third novel, this one completely unrelated to the other two and quite a bit sillier. I'm only about three chapters into it so far, but my basic rule for this novel is KEEP THE DAMN THING SHORT. Word from my agent about my previous novels has been almost universal; the editor reads it, the editor enjoys it, the editor gasps at the enormous size of the thing and decides that in a sequel friendly, franchise oriented literary climate, books like this from a total unknown are a bit much to take a risk on.
So now, with an artificial goal of "No more than 450 pages at the maximum" as my golden rule, I will try not to create a paper mammoth with more wood pulp in it than the British Columbian forest. Hopefully I can get it down to a somewhat more reasonable 350-ish range, and if I can swing that, then the editors will have no excuse to not like the book and A) resignedly publish the damn thing, or B) Come up with new excuses like i) "You suck." or ii) "It's too short."
I'm betting on the latter.
But anyways, the book itself is a bit of a departure from the previous two novels which had a heavy Sturm Und Drang quotient and plenty of tragedy and drama. I thought I'd keep this one a little lighter (Okay, comparatively speaking for me...) and just do something I'd never seen before that I was always curious about. I'm already three chapters in and having the mighty struggle with myself to Keep It Short. It's kind of weird to write about a character that doesn't have a built in trauma from the get-go (Since my other two characters, Jen and Thomas, both easily qualified as "Damaged Goods") but on the other hand it's nice to have a character that doesn't have baggage that must be handled from chapter to chapter.
Anyway's we'll see how it goes. I'm still having fun with it, and hopefully I can have it finished either by the end of the year or shortly after the beginning of the next.
But Take Heart! Neil-O Is Coming!
Yup, it took a few years but the impossible has finally happened and Neil Gaiman, otherwise known as "Neil-O" (His secret name which only I may use) will be swinging down to Singapore in the month of July. I'm still debating whether or not I should go since I know I'm going to devolve into a blubbering pool of fanboy-ish goo. The Fiance has already decided she won't since she figures that as a longtime fan of his work, the greatest thing she can do for him is not harrass him, considering that everyone else will be. I can see her point, as most of the locals here, who normally scorn anything remotely creative will be sucking up to ol' Neil-O big time, suddenly claiming to be very creative because... well, because he's famous and the locals don't like to feel left out.
On the other hand, I'd be super curious to take a look at Mirrormask since I've been hearing so much about it, and I'd really love to at least watch one of my key inspirations in becoming a writer sit there and talk about... being a writer. He is the Yoda to my whiny farm boy, but his grammar is better, and he's not computer generated or a muppet and he's got an English accent and everything, so he must be smart!
Speaking Of Yoda...
Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith absolutely SUCKED. I think the slow erosion of my faith in George Lucas, intially started by niggling doubts when watching The Lord of the Rings grew progressively more vocal with the other new Star Wars films and finally turned into full scale "I can't like this anymore" when my hopes were completely dashed with Ep III.
I know a few people who loved the movie. But for me, it just doesn't work anymore. The only good things I had to say about it were, "Nice effects and light saber duels." Everything else, the writing, pacing, editing, dialogue, acting, framing... It all fell apart. And even when people who like the movie agree with me to all of these accusations they still love it, which means that I've somehow fallen out of that place where I can love something simply for being Star Wars, and have gotten too critical for my own good, maybe. But when all the things I like about story-telling are not done, or not done well, I can't find that switch to be non-critical and still be able to walk out of the theater going "That was a MASTER PIECE!"
This has also had the unfortunate effect of making me doubt the opinions of people I used to trust in creative matters, because it means our ideas of what constitutes "Good" simply diverge too widely. If I think an amazing actress like Natalie Portman is being shockingly bad with lines like "You're breaking my heart!" and someone else finds that to be Oscar worthy, then when they tell me a piece of dialogue should go a particular way, I tend to remember where their taste lies and shy away from that advice. Conversely, when they tell me they like a particular piece of dialogue or a plot point, I remember their idea of "good" is lines like "You were the chosen one!" or their idea of convincing plot is "Some guy converts from good to bad in the span of three minutes" and that makes me reassess my own writing to see where it went wrong.
Basically my new rule for writing is, "If I know Star Wars Episode III made you cry, I will do the opposite of whatever you think."
Video Games That ROCK
Devil May Cry 3
God of War
Shin Megami Tensei: Nocturne
Those are all recent titles I've played through and I heartily reccommend them to anyone that likes brainless action games, or, in the case of Nocturne, a Japanese style apocalyptic role playing game difficult enough to make your hands bleed...
Things have been motion over here, and none of it particularly good, though none of it particularly tragic either. This would explain the massive absence while I try--and continue to try--to make heads of tails of it.
First, the animated feature that I was originally signed on to develop is dead. From what I gather, the main investor simply lost interest (He's apparently quite vulnerable to distraction) and just decided to move onto something else. That left all th pre-production work, the concept designs, the script rewrites, the acquisition of studios suddenly and quite startlingly dead in the water. Upsetting? You betcha'. I was really looking forward to going through the whole process and watching this thing come to life, but alas, it looks like things that are too good to be true really are too good to be true.
Which Brings Us To The Job Thing
As in, I am looking for one again.
Having been blissfully out of the networking loop for the last few years, my contacts aren't what they once were when it comes to knowing people and asking around for jobs, which means that eventually tracking down a writing based job will be a little tricky. Fortunately, the fiance is at the moment gainfully employed with an advertising agency, but if we're serious about saving up some pocket money and getting out of here (Which we are) then my also having a regular income would help immeasurably with that particular nest egg.
While I still have my regular gig with the video game magazine here in Singapore, there's no definite promise there of a full time thing, and so I'd better look to other venues. This will not be easy, but on well... Life ain't always that way, obviously.
But, There's A New Book In The Offing
Yup, that's right. All this drama has at the very least prompted the beginning of a third novel, this one completely unrelated to the other two and quite a bit sillier. I'm only about three chapters into it so far, but my basic rule for this novel is KEEP THE DAMN THING SHORT. Word from my agent about my previous novels has been almost universal; the editor reads it, the editor enjoys it, the editor gasps at the enormous size of the thing and decides that in a sequel friendly, franchise oriented literary climate, books like this from a total unknown are a bit much to take a risk on.
So now, with an artificial goal of "No more than 450 pages at the maximum" as my golden rule, I will try not to create a paper mammoth with more wood pulp in it than the British Columbian forest. Hopefully I can get it down to a somewhat more reasonable 350-ish range, and if I can swing that, then the editors will have no excuse to not like the book and A) resignedly publish the damn thing, or B) Come up with new excuses like i) "You suck." or ii) "It's too short."
I'm betting on the latter.
But anyways, the book itself is a bit of a departure from the previous two novels which had a heavy Sturm Und Drang quotient and plenty of tragedy and drama. I thought I'd keep this one a little lighter (Okay, comparatively speaking for me...) and just do something I'd never seen before that I was always curious about. I'm already three chapters in and having the mighty struggle with myself to Keep It Short. It's kind of weird to write about a character that doesn't have a built in trauma from the get-go (Since my other two characters, Jen and Thomas, both easily qualified as "Damaged Goods") but on the other hand it's nice to have a character that doesn't have baggage that must be handled from chapter to chapter.
Anyway's we'll see how it goes. I'm still having fun with it, and hopefully I can have it finished either by the end of the year or shortly after the beginning of the next.
But Take Heart! Neil-O Is Coming!
Yup, it took a few years but the impossible has finally happened and Neil Gaiman, otherwise known as "Neil-O" (His secret name which only I may use) will be swinging down to Singapore in the month of July. I'm still debating whether or not I should go since I know I'm going to devolve into a blubbering pool of fanboy-ish goo. The Fiance has already decided she won't since she figures that as a longtime fan of his work, the greatest thing she can do for him is not harrass him, considering that everyone else will be. I can see her point, as most of the locals here, who normally scorn anything remotely creative will be sucking up to ol' Neil-O big time, suddenly claiming to be very creative because... well, because he's famous and the locals don't like to feel left out.
On the other hand, I'd be super curious to take a look at Mirrormask since I've been hearing so much about it, and I'd really love to at least watch one of my key inspirations in becoming a writer sit there and talk about... being a writer. He is the Yoda to my whiny farm boy, but his grammar is better, and he's not computer generated or a muppet and he's got an English accent and everything, so he must be smart!
Speaking Of Yoda...
Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith absolutely SUCKED. I think the slow erosion of my faith in George Lucas, intially started by niggling doubts when watching The Lord of the Rings grew progressively more vocal with the other new Star Wars films and finally turned into full scale "I can't like this anymore" when my hopes were completely dashed with Ep III.
I know a few people who loved the movie. But for me, it just doesn't work anymore. The only good things I had to say about it were, "Nice effects and light saber duels." Everything else, the writing, pacing, editing, dialogue, acting, framing... It all fell apart. And even when people who like the movie agree with me to all of these accusations they still love it, which means that I've somehow fallen out of that place where I can love something simply for being Star Wars, and have gotten too critical for my own good, maybe. But when all the things I like about story-telling are not done, or not done well, I can't find that switch to be non-critical and still be able to walk out of the theater going "That was a MASTER PIECE!"
This has also had the unfortunate effect of making me doubt the opinions of people I used to trust in creative matters, because it means our ideas of what constitutes "Good" simply diverge too widely. If I think an amazing actress like Natalie Portman is being shockingly bad with lines like "You're breaking my heart!" and someone else finds that to be Oscar worthy, then when they tell me a piece of dialogue should go a particular way, I tend to remember where their taste lies and shy away from that advice. Conversely, when they tell me they like a particular piece of dialogue or a plot point, I remember their idea of "good" is lines like "You were the chosen one!" or their idea of convincing plot is "Some guy converts from good to bad in the span of three minutes" and that makes me reassess my own writing to see where it went wrong.
Basically my new rule for writing is, "If I know Star Wars Episode III made you cry, I will do the opposite of whatever you think."
Video Games That ROCK
Devil May Cry 3
God of War
Shin Megami Tensei: Nocturne
Those are all recent titles I've played through and I heartily reccommend them to anyone that likes brainless action games, or, in the case of Nocturne, a Japanese style apocalyptic role playing game difficult enough to make your hands bleed...
Labels: Games, Movies, My Life, Neil-O, Television Production, Writing
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