Both of my boys when they were babies had particular musical tastes about what they found calming. I like to listen to lots of different music, which is to say what I listen to today I probably won't want to listen to again tomorrow (so listening to the radio is straight out). But babies are the opposite; they like the familiarity. I can't really say how Quin and I figured out which music the boys preferred; it just at some point became obvious that certain CDs were better than others for calming them down and soothing them to sleep. As much as I pushed the Mamas and the Papas or Simon and Garfunkel, for Aidan his CD of choice was Madonna's Ray of Light. Aidan always went down for bed really easy, but he would also almost always wake up again four hours later and be completely incapable of getting back to sleep. So when I hear the tracks of that CD now, I instantly get that bone-tired, "do I have to carry him the entire time or can I sit down- Nope! Have to be standing!" feeling all over again.
Oliver slept okay, but he was (and is) prone to these periods of irrational derangement. There is no reasoning with a preverbal baby who has stripped himself naked and is throwing himself at the walls and even foaming at the mouth, screaming and crying. Then you can understand how people in the Middle Ages could sometimes believe that fairies stole their baby and left something else in it's place. At any rate, when Oliver was in one of these places, it was Cat Stevens that brought him out.
I have a specific memory of a day we took him to the park. He was walking but not talking, so I'd say he was just over a year. He didn't want to be in the stroller, didn't want to walk, didn't want to be carried... you see the picture forming here. Then he got into something muddy. Quin and Aidan stayed at the park, but I got to push my screaming little changling home in his Cadillac of strollers that he never willing sat in. That's always good for some glances and outright stares. Then I got to try to bathe him. Ever try to give a cat a bath? Just like that but bigger and stronger and much louder. Without the claws though; I'll give him that.
So then I bring him out to the living room where Cat Stevens is playing. He doesn't want the towel wrapped around him, just loosely draped over him to keep him warm, so his naked wet body is soaking me but that's okay since I'm already drenched from that bath. Eventually he stops fighting and calms down, probably at about the time "Trouble" comes on. "Trouble" is the one that usually does it. He's not sleeping, just zoning out, looking out the window.
I look out the window too and see a very pregnant woman walking by. She can hear the music and see us in the window. She smiles a dreamy smile and runs her hands over her belly. I want to bang the window and yell, "No, this is not what it looks like! This is just one minute of quiet cuddling. The last two hours have been hell!"
I only mention this because I was listening to Cat Stevens again today and it occurred to me I don't really remember the hell parts too clearly anymore, but everytime I hear Cat Stevens, it's like cuddling my little guy all over again.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Ahh, food poisoning
I'm the only meat-eater in my vegetarian family, so like Sam Jackson says in Pulp Fiction, that pretty much makes me a vegetarian too. But from time to time I crave a hamburger. Not McDonald's, a real hamburger. So on Sunday when Quin picked up take out from Chilis he and the boys ate black bean burgers, but I had a real hamburger.
So, three days later...
It's a different kind of experience to be sick as a dog and yet still trying to be a caretaker to two boys who will do all sorts of things when they sense they are not being watched. Saying "knock it off" from the far end of the house really never exudes the sort of authority you think it does.
Oliver was very sweet. Everyone should have a 3-year-old for a nurse; what they lack in actual skills they make up for in genuine warmth. While I do believe that moral behavior is mostly taught, I think kids are born with a sense of the Golden Rule (every society has a version of it, so this can't be a coincidence). Oliver, seeing I wasn't feeling well (in that I was only half-conscious) brought me all of his favorite things because they always make him feel better. Then he thought a little deeper and scrounged up some of my favorite things too. I woke up from a nap I didn't realize I was taking under a mountain of security blankets, pillows, teddy bears, and basketballs. And he'd been telling me stories the entire time, not put off at all by the fact that I was asleep.
Aidan on the second day I didn't get out of bed much, "you're sick again? That's weird. Maybe you need to eat more healthy food." Because he's like his dad, no sympathy but lots of unsolicited advice.
So today I can finally move around without wanting to die, which is a good thing since the WOTF deadline is tomorrow. Luckily I had already done my revisions on Thordis, but they were handwritten on the manuscript so I still had to go over it all on the computer and print a clean copy. Then I find I have no envelopes, no postage, and the post office is only open for the incredibly inconvenient hours of 9 to 5. What are they thinking? Who goes to the post office anymore? 9 to 5, so one can neither stop off on the way to work or on the way home? Quin says he can take care of it, I presume on his lunch break, which is good since unlike most people we only have the one car these days. Our second car only runs about 10 days out of the year, and those ten days are never in a row.
On a higher note, I feel better about the shape this story is in than the last one that went out. I probably won't want to have it back the minute it is gone. It might take a day or two.
So, three days later...
It's a different kind of experience to be sick as a dog and yet still trying to be a caretaker to two boys who will do all sorts of things when they sense they are not being watched. Saying "knock it off" from the far end of the house really never exudes the sort of authority you think it does.
Oliver was very sweet. Everyone should have a 3-year-old for a nurse; what they lack in actual skills they make up for in genuine warmth. While I do believe that moral behavior is mostly taught, I think kids are born with a sense of the Golden Rule (every society has a version of it, so this can't be a coincidence). Oliver, seeing I wasn't feeling well (in that I was only half-conscious) brought me all of his favorite things because they always make him feel better. Then he thought a little deeper and scrounged up some of my favorite things too. I woke up from a nap I didn't realize I was taking under a mountain of security blankets, pillows, teddy bears, and basketballs. And he'd been telling me stories the entire time, not put off at all by the fact that I was asleep.
Aidan on the second day I didn't get out of bed much, "you're sick again? That's weird. Maybe you need to eat more healthy food." Because he's like his dad, no sympathy but lots of unsolicited advice.
So today I can finally move around without wanting to die, which is a good thing since the WOTF deadline is tomorrow. Luckily I had already done my revisions on Thordis, but they were handwritten on the manuscript so I still had to go over it all on the computer and print a clean copy. Then I find I have no envelopes, no postage, and the post office is only open for the incredibly inconvenient hours of 9 to 5. What are they thinking? Who goes to the post office anymore? 9 to 5, so one can neither stop off on the way to work or on the way home? Quin says he can take care of it, I presume on his lunch break, which is good since unlike most people we only have the one car these days. Our second car only runs about 10 days out of the year, and those ten days are never in a row.
On a higher note, I feel better about the shape this story is in than the last one that went out. I probably won't want to have it back the minute it is gone. It might take a day or two.
Monday, March 21, 2005
...and we're back
Louisa May Alcott, by why of the Jo March character, described it as "a vortex". I don't think I'm quite that bad, but I have been in a very writerly place the last month. I finished the short story I am looking to submit to WOTF, which is called The Saga of Thordis Thorgilsdottir, am nearly finished with another which is more fantasy than SF but there is an element of string theory in it (although none of the characters calls it that, of course) called Of Tapestries and Daemons. I'm also polishing off the... well it's really more of a novella than a short story, but the one that was a finalist in the last WOTF. What I've realized, now that there is some distance from when I first wrote it, is that I chickened out in the end and backed away from what I wanted to do. So I've lopped off the last 20+ pages and trying not to venture back into the realm of silliness. Ah yes, and that is called The Tao of Troth, which I thought was a very cool title until I realized it I would be required to, you know, explain it. Well, my next story title will have no T's in it whatsoever, I've decided.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Freedom of Speech
I'm a member of the CBLDF (Comic Book Legal Defense Fund), which is a protector of first amendment rights (mainly, but not exclusively of comic books), so I hear things all the time, far more often than the usual media sources report it, about book bannings.
I have some personal history with this subject. The last school I went to in Tennessee before that final move to Minnesota was embroiled in a fierce debate regarding the inclusion of two short stories which were that most evil of stories, science fiction. The decision had been made when the books were bought to not assign those two stories, but of course that was not good enough. After all, we would all be carrying these books around for the entire year; we could read them any time we wanted to (and I read both of them the first night I took that book home cause I'm just that kind of girl).
They weren't particularly good scifi. They were in fact quite wishy-washy and I didn't like either of them. That's not particularly meaningful, I don't remember liking anything I was assigned to read in school until I started taking honors classes in the 8th grade. One involved an alien living among people who could not tell a lie, not even a white one, and the other involved telepathic aliens called the "beautiful ones" who also were completely benign. At any rate, the debate about those books was still ongoing when I moved (as was the debate on prayer in schools: today we prayed, yesterday we didn't, tomorrow might be a moment of silence. Northern schools were always a shock as it NEVER CAME UP).
But I digress. So someone in Florida (gasp!) wants a book removed from the school library because she didn't like it and no one else should read it. I don't get that reaction at all. The book is aimed towards tweens and involves a passing reference to alcohol and pornography (key word reference; this book is not about those things. It's about a girl growing up, as these books usually are).
I don't get the "I don't like that... burn it!" response. So let's talk about a book I absolutely hated. American Psycho. First of all, it was recommended to me by a guy I knew in college who was convinced it was just my sort of thing. Also, I was to read it while listening to Nine Inch Nails. So I went out and picked up AP and Pretty Hate Machine. Unfortunately I can't actually listen to music and read together (although I can do just about anything else to music), so I had to undertake those things sequentially rather than concurrently.
My first reaction to that book was, "My God, how do I come off to people?" This is the perfect book for me? Reading that book... metaphors fail me. It was a horrid experience reading that book, but I felt compelled to finish it, hoping for an ending that would feel like closure to me. That didn't happen.
But my response was not "burn it". I certainly wouldn't recommend anyone else to read that book. But that book which I hated is one of those my mind goes back to a lot. Why did I hate that book? Why did it make me so uncomfortable?
Here's the interesting part. When I finally laid that book to rest in my mind, I had decided it belonged with things like the movie Natural Born Killers. I understand that it is satire, but it's irresponsible satire. And with that conclusion, you would think, "no one else should read this" would follow but strangely it doesn't. As bad as it was, I gained something from six years of internal debate about why I thought it was bad.
As a parent, and further as a homeschooling parent (whose decision to homeschool was largely made based on events like those I described above, and was really made solid when schools started banning Harry Potter), I appreciate a book that starts a discussion. And a discussion we come back to again and again for years is better than one that we can sum up in ten minutes. Aidan doesn't read much on his own yet, so most of our discussions come from things he sees in movies and TV. I don't want him only to be exposed to ideas I agree with; I want the opportunities to discuss what I don't agree with and why.
At any rate, I do like the Nine Inch Nails. So that guy from college got it half right.
I have some personal history with this subject. The last school I went to in Tennessee before that final move to Minnesota was embroiled in a fierce debate regarding the inclusion of two short stories which were that most evil of stories, science fiction. The decision had been made when the books were bought to not assign those two stories, but of course that was not good enough. After all, we would all be carrying these books around for the entire year; we could read them any time we wanted to (and I read both of them the first night I took that book home cause I'm just that kind of girl).
They weren't particularly good scifi. They were in fact quite wishy-washy and I didn't like either of them. That's not particularly meaningful, I don't remember liking anything I was assigned to read in school until I started taking honors classes in the 8th grade. One involved an alien living among people who could not tell a lie, not even a white one, and the other involved telepathic aliens called the "beautiful ones" who also were completely benign. At any rate, the debate about those books was still ongoing when I moved (as was the debate on prayer in schools: today we prayed, yesterday we didn't, tomorrow might be a moment of silence. Northern schools were always a shock as it NEVER CAME UP).
But I digress. So someone in Florida (gasp!) wants a book removed from the school library because she didn't like it and no one else should read it. I don't get that reaction at all. The book is aimed towards tweens and involves a passing reference to alcohol and pornography (key word reference; this book is not about those things. It's about a girl growing up, as these books usually are).
I don't get the "I don't like that... burn it!" response. So let's talk about a book I absolutely hated. American Psycho. First of all, it was recommended to me by a guy I knew in college who was convinced it was just my sort of thing. Also, I was to read it while listening to Nine Inch Nails. So I went out and picked up AP and Pretty Hate Machine. Unfortunately I can't actually listen to music and read together (although I can do just about anything else to music), so I had to undertake those things sequentially rather than concurrently.
My first reaction to that book was, "My God, how do I come off to people?" This is the perfect book for me? Reading that book... metaphors fail me. It was a horrid experience reading that book, but I felt compelled to finish it, hoping for an ending that would feel like closure to me. That didn't happen.
But my response was not "burn it". I certainly wouldn't recommend anyone else to read that book. But that book which I hated is one of those my mind goes back to a lot. Why did I hate that book? Why did it make me so uncomfortable?
Here's the interesting part. When I finally laid that book to rest in my mind, I had decided it belonged with things like the movie Natural Born Killers. I understand that it is satire, but it's irresponsible satire. And with that conclusion, you would think, "no one else should read this" would follow but strangely it doesn't. As bad as it was, I gained something from six years of internal debate about why I thought it was bad.
As a parent, and further as a homeschooling parent (whose decision to homeschool was largely made based on events like those I described above, and was really made solid when schools started banning Harry Potter), I appreciate a book that starts a discussion. And a discussion we come back to again and again for years is better than one that we can sum up in ten minutes. Aidan doesn't read much on his own yet, so most of our discussions come from things he sees in movies and TV. I don't want him only to be exposed to ideas I agree with; I want the opportunities to discuss what I don't agree with and why.
At any rate, I do like the Nine Inch Nails. So that guy from college got it half right.
Friday, February 11, 2005
About the writing
I've just read the best book I've ever found on writing. It's called Steering the Craft by Ursula K. Le Guin. I've been enjoying her fiction over the past year or so, always wondering how I've never read these books before. What was a I reading as a kid? Mostly the same few books over and over, I think. I missed a lot of good stuff!
At any rate, this book is not about plot or character, which should really be self-explanatory one would think, but so many books go over and over this territory. As if someone was saying, "I would really like to be a writer. Of course I've never actually read a book..." Or worse they talk about how to get ideas. If you don't have 20+ story ideas in your head at any given moment, why would you want to be a writer? Then there are the people who want to give you an idea, you can write the book, and the two of you can split the profit 50/50. I wonder if sculptors get this, "I have a great idea for a statue. It's a man on a horse, holding up a sword. You sculpt it and we can split the profit." Or musicians, "I have a great idea for a song. It's about this guy who really likes this girl..."
At least in Ursula's book, she assumes you already have an idea, and you know the storytelling basics. Her book is all about the language and how to use it. She is also a poet, which I think really helps in this respect. I've always thought that James Joyce and William Faulkner's work was so evocative because they had both tried being poets first. I've only skimmed over the text, I haven't done any of the writing exercises yet. My writing time is pretty small since I need the house quiet and that never happens. Plus I've still got those three stories I'm working on. They line up like Darwin: one is just crawling, one is about halfway there, and one is still a bit hunched but almost upright.
At any rate, this book is not about plot or character, which should really be self-explanatory one would think, but so many books go over and over this territory. As if someone was saying, "I would really like to be a writer. Of course I've never actually read a book..." Or worse they talk about how to get ideas. If you don't have 20+ story ideas in your head at any given moment, why would you want to be a writer? Then there are the people who want to give you an idea, you can write the book, and the two of you can split the profit 50/50. I wonder if sculptors get this, "I have a great idea for a statue. It's a man on a horse, holding up a sword. You sculpt it and we can split the profit." Or musicians, "I have a great idea for a song. It's about this guy who really likes this girl..."
At least in Ursula's book, she assumes you already have an idea, and you know the storytelling basics. Her book is all about the language and how to use it. She is also a poet, which I think really helps in this respect. I've always thought that James Joyce and William Faulkner's work was so evocative because they had both tried being poets first. I've only skimmed over the text, I haven't done any of the writing exercises yet. My writing time is pretty small since I need the house quiet and that never happens. Plus I've still got those three stories I'm working on. They line up like Darwin: one is just crawling, one is about halfway there, and one is still a bit hunched but almost upright.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Ow-ow-ow-ow, or Uncle!
Last night I got to go to my first Timberwolves game ever. How fortunate for me to be at a game that will go down in history... as the worst game since Kevin Garnett joined the team. It was so painful. We were down by 40 points by the end of the third quarter. We managed to close the gap a little in the 4th because Phoenix put out their trainer, the ball boy, the girl that cleans up the floor... Well, Nash and Stoudamire stayed on the bench, but we still get beat by nearly 30 points.
And let me tell you, when the home team is down by 40, ooooh that's an ugly crowd.
Well, to be honest the crowd wasn't that pretty from the start. I have, on (frequent) occasion complained at home about our player Olowakandi. I wouldn't mind so much that he sucks if he at least appeared to be trying, you know? He was a starter last night (for reasons known only to the coach), and I quickly learned I was not alone in my assessment, but please! People were booing his name when they were announcing the starting line-up. That's just wrong. You don't boo your own team. Bad form. Of course my favorite moment of the night came when Szczerbiak, whose a good shooter, passed the ball to Kandi, and this man somewhere behind me cried out, "Why?" in the most heartbroken voice I've ever heard. He wasn't angry, I think he was weeping.
And Kandi biffed it off the rim.
Oh well, it's always nice to have the opportunity to prove you're not a fair-weather fan. I guess.
It was still cool being there, and Steve Nash (who plays for Phoenix) is fun to watch; he has a flair for showmanship. For $70 a ticket (although ours were free), someone better be doing something interesting. Mostly I found that watching a game consistently from the same long angle gave me a much better understanding of how it's actually played than watching close-up shots on TV. Perhaps I will get the chance to go again someday...
And let me tell you, when the home team is down by 40, ooooh that's an ugly crowd.
Well, to be honest the crowd wasn't that pretty from the start. I have, on (frequent) occasion complained at home about our player Olowakandi. I wouldn't mind so much that he sucks if he at least appeared to be trying, you know? He was a starter last night (for reasons known only to the coach), and I quickly learned I was not alone in my assessment, but please! People were booing his name when they were announcing the starting line-up. That's just wrong. You don't boo your own team. Bad form. Of course my favorite moment of the night came when Szczerbiak, whose a good shooter, passed the ball to Kandi, and this man somewhere behind me cried out, "Why?" in the most heartbroken voice I've ever heard. He wasn't angry, I think he was weeping.
And Kandi biffed it off the rim.
Oh well, it's always nice to have the opportunity to prove you're not a fair-weather fan. I guess.
It was still cool being there, and Steve Nash (who plays for Phoenix) is fun to watch; he has a flair for showmanship. For $70 a ticket (although ours were free), someone better be doing something interesting. Mostly I found that watching a game consistently from the same long angle gave me a much better understanding of how it's actually played than watching close-up shots on TV. Perhaps I will get the chance to go again someday...
Monday, January 31, 2005
Miscellany
My technology hates me. I had to scan something Aidan wrote to keep a copy, and my scanner wouldn't work until the sixth or seventh try. I didn't change anything I was doing, just on the sixth try it seemed to say, "Wellll, OK. If you really want to do this...". Only now I can't print what I scanned because I have no ink left in my color cartidge. Sigh.
So I changed gears and tackled my photo problem. They won't e-mail; I don't know why. I can post them here; that is incredibly simple. It even gives me the option of making photo borders or backgrounds for the blog; I might dig into that more later. Anyway, since the pictures won't go with the e-mail I figured I would dig out and dust off the photo printer (the photo printer is my shining example of why I have to install everything myself. When Quin does it I never seem to grasp how the thing actually works). Apparently I am out of one of my color options, because the pictures look all weird. On close-ups, they have no eyes, just something that looks like TV show. That's creepy. Aidan tells Oliver that's the picture of him when he becomes a Sith (since Anakin has yellow eyes in the Star Wars trailer). The pictures with the snowman actually look pretty cool. The sky is all whitish gray, but there is a dark outline just around the snowman, and the tree looks like a pixelated watercolor. I might keep those just 'cause they're arty.
So I changed gears and tackled my photo problem. They won't e-mail; I don't know why. I can post them here; that is incredibly simple. It even gives me the option of making photo borders or backgrounds for the blog; I might dig into that more later. Anyway, since the pictures won't go with the e-mail I figured I would dig out and dust off the photo printer (the photo printer is my shining example of why I have to install everything myself. When Quin does it I never seem to grasp how the thing actually works). Apparently I am out of one of my color options, because the pictures look all weird. On close-ups, they have no eyes, just something that looks like TV show. That's creepy. Aidan tells Oliver that's the picture of him when he becomes a Sith (since Anakin has yellow eyes in the Star Wars trailer). The pictures with the snowman actually look pretty cool. The sky is all whitish gray, but there is a dark outline just around the snowman, and the tree looks like a pixelated watercolor. I might keep those just 'cause they're arty.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Ned Kelly, Bushranger
That doesn't mean what you think it means. No, it doesn't mean that either.
I just saw the film Ned Kelly recently. I got the DVD on e-bay for $5, and it was worth about that. The film itself only really appeals to fans of Heath Ledger and Orlando Bloom. OK, so me anyways. The movie was about a C+, nothing superlative, but it did give one the sense that there was a bigger story here. Ned Kelly is an Australian historical figure from the Victorian age, for those who might not know.
So I hit the library. The bad news is they only had one book on Ned Kelly. The good news is it was a very good book which I believe won the Booker prize, only don't quote me on that. It's called The True History of the Kelly Gang by Peter Carey. The further bad news is that this book, while a very good read, is a novel, a work of fiction. Just like the movie.
So I started prowling the 'net, and this is why I love the internet: there is a web space dedicated to Ned Kelly that breaks down the facts and fictions of both this novel and the movie. How helpful is that? So I've got all my Ned Kelly facts straight in my head and can go on to other things. I must recommend that book again; after reading it all I could think was, "Why wasn't this one made into a movie?" It would have been much more interesting to see.
One last creepy thing: of the four men/boys in the Kelly gang (who were only 19-25 when they died), Joe Byrne is supposedly this big ladies' men (which is why you get Orly Bloom to play him in the movie, right?). However, there is only one picture of him that keeps showing up over and over, and I'm wondering every time I see it why the only picture anyone can find of him he appears to be sleeping (eyes closed, head tilted in a really odd way). Perhaps you see where this is going, but on this Ned Kelly website I finally learn the truth: he was dead in that picture. The Victorian police propped his dead body up against a wall so journalists could take all the pictures they want. I liked it better when I assumed he was dozing off.
I just saw the film Ned Kelly recently. I got the DVD on e-bay for $5, and it was worth about that. The film itself only really appeals to fans of Heath Ledger and Orlando Bloom. OK, so me anyways. The movie was about a C+, nothing superlative, but it did give one the sense that there was a bigger story here. Ned Kelly is an Australian historical figure from the Victorian age, for those who might not know.
So I hit the library. The bad news is they only had one book on Ned Kelly. The good news is it was a very good book which I believe won the Booker prize, only don't quote me on that. It's called The True History of the Kelly Gang by Peter Carey. The further bad news is that this book, while a very good read, is a novel, a work of fiction. Just like the movie.
So I started prowling the 'net, and this is why I love the internet: there is a web space dedicated to Ned Kelly that breaks down the facts and fictions of both this novel and the movie. How helpful is that? So I've got all my Ned Kelly facts straight in my head and can go on to other things. I must recommend that book again; after reading it all I could think was, "Why wasn't this one made into a movie?" It would have been much more interesting to see.
One last creepy thing: of the four men/boys in the Kelly gang (who were only 19-25 when they died), Joe Byrne is supposedly this big ladies' men (which is why you get Orly Bloom to play him in the movie, right?). However, there is only one picture of him that keeps showing up over and over, and I'm wondering every time I see it why the only picture anyone can find of him he appears to be sleeping (eyes closed, head tilted in a really odd way). Perhaps you see where this is going, but on this Ned Kelly website I finally learn the truth: he was dead in that picture. The Victorian police propped his dead body up against a wall so journalists could take all the pictures they want. I liked it better when I assumed he was dozing off.
Friday, January 21, 2005
Very good news, or how getting a rejection letter is like making the Olympic Team
Many moons ago I entered a story in the L. Ron Hubbard's Writer of the Future contest, a very prestigious scifi/fantasy short story competition only open to never-published or minimally-published writers (like me!). This was in September, so you can see why I had long since abandoned hope. Another quarter deadline in the contest had come and gone and still I heard nothing, so I began to reconcile myself to the fact that my story must have lost its way en route to LA.
Then yesterday, at long last, the Rejection Letter came! Oh sure, it sounds like a negative thing, but truly it was very, very good. My story had been gone so long because I had made the quarter finals. No, I didn't win, but my first shot out made it into the finals, that can only be a very good sign, I think. I've been thinking of it this way, making the finals in this contest is like making the Olympic team: you have to beat out a heck of a lot of people just to get there. Then you go to Athens and only three of you can win (also the case in this contest).
What I am thinking most fervently is that sometimes the difference between gold medal and no medal is just a few fractions of a second.
Unfortunately this isn't a stopwatch event, and there is no way to ever know specifically what kept my story out of the top three. It was over-long and the ending felt rushed has been my assessment over the past four months that I've had to stew and stew and stew over it (I wanted that story back before the mailman was ten steps away from the house).
I have two stories ready for this quarter, but I have until March to polish them up. And I already know what I want to change with this story before I send it out again, probably to Asimov's magazine, which I quite like.
On an unrelated note, after teaching Oliver his ABC's, Aidan has tried to move on to addition facts. I explained to him yesterday that that was just a bit much for a 3-year-old to grasp, so now he's helping his brother with counting past ten. Oliver can make it to ten in English and Spanish thanks to Dora the Explorer, but the teens are confusing.
Then yesterday, at long last, the Rejection Letter came! Oh sure, it sounds like a negative thing, but truly it was very, very good. My story had been gone so long because I had made the quarter finals. No, I didn't win, but my first shot out made it into the finals, that can only be a very good sign, I think. I've been thinking of it this way, making the finals in this contest is like making the Olympic team: you have to beat out a heck of a lot of people just to get there. Then you go to Athens and only three of you can win (also the case in this contest).
What I am thinking most fervently is that sometimes the difference between gold medal and no medal is just a few fractions of a second.
Unfortunately this isn't a stopwatch event, and there is no way to ever know specifically what kept my story out of the top three. It was over-long and the ending felt rushed has been my assessment over the past four months that I've had to stew and stew and stew over it (I wanted that story back before the mailman was ten steps away from the house).
I have two stories ready for this quarter, but I have until March to polish them up. And I already know what I want to change with this story before I send it out again, probably to Asimov's magazine, which I quite like.
On an unrelated note, after teaching Oliver his ABC's, Aidan has tried to move on to addition facts. I explained to him yesterday that that was just a bit much for a 3-year-old to grasp, so now he's helping his brother with counting past ten. Oliver can make it to ten in English and Spanish thanks to Dora the Explorer, but the teens are confusing.
Monday, January 17, 2005
Frank is living in my foot
I've been reading a ton of stuff online over the weekend. Judging by this: http://nielsenhayden.com/makinglight/archives/004641.html I think I've got the first ten steps under "the context of rejection" covered. Teresa Nielsen Hayden is an editor at Tor who, when asked what the odds are of someone's manuscript being published, has had if it's a good novel, the odds are very good and if it's a bad novel, the odds are not so good. I'm just egotistical enough to find that comforting.
In the category of actual printed material, I just read a book written by Wil Wheaton called Just a Geek which I actually enjoyed emmensely. On the whole, having a story rejected through the mail must be preferable to being an actor going out on endless auditions and not getting a part. It's still personal, but it's a step removed.
THe thing with the Wil Wheaton book... OK most of what I read I get from the library (a fact never to be guessed by anyone who has been to my book-overwhelmed house). I pick out books from home on the library website then swing by and pick them up on Errand Night. My point is, I don't read the back of teh book or see the cover or anything. So why is it when I get a book home I always found that Neil Gaiman has either written a blurb on the back or, as in this case, the introduction? It's uncanny, I think he's reverse-stalking me through my reading material.
In the category of actual printed material, I just read a book written by Wil Wheaton called Just a Geek which I actually enjoyed emmensely. On the whole, having a story rejected through the mail must be preferable to being an actor going out on endless auditions and not getting a part. It's still personal, but it's a step removed.
THe thing with the Wil Wheaton book... OK most of what I read I get from the library (a fact never to be guessed by anyone who has been to my book-overwhelmed house). I pick out books from home on the library website then swing by and pick them up on Errand Night. My point is, I don't read the back of teh book or see the cover or anything. So why is it when I get a book home I always found that Neil Gaiman has either written a blurb on the back or, as in this case, the introduction? It's uncanny, I think he's reverse-stalking me through my reading material.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
First post
So this is the first post. Just trying something new, seeing how it works. Could be fun.
The homeschooling: Aidan is 7 and Oliver is 3, so technically only one of them is homeschooling right now. By technically, I mean officially, as in has had paperwork filed about him with the school district. Homeschooling is just an extension of parenting, it starts at birth and it's every day. I don't believe it every really stops; there is just a slow progression from Mom as teacher to self as teacher. I went to public school myself, but most of what I learned that is of any value to me now I learned on my own time, just me and my library card.
The writing: Well, the second novel is finished, or at least the first draft of it is. That's not as impressive as it sounds, the first novel I wrote when I was 15-16, so it's taken about 15 years to write the follow up. And let me stress, first draft. Still, it's nice to put the words "the end" on page 454 and be able to say, "well, that doesn't completely suck." It needs more work, but I think it's a good start.
But right now I'm concentrating on short stories. I've sent a couple out to various mags and contests and have already started a file for my rejection letters. So far they've been very nice rejection letters, so I'm optimistic. Perhaps this will be The Year.
The homeschooling: Aidan is 7 and Oliver is 3, so technically only one of them is homeschooling right now. By technically, I mean officially, as in has had paperwork filed about him with the school district. Homeschooling is just an extension of parenting, it starts at birth and it's every day. I don't believe it every really stops; there is just a slow progression from Mom as teacher to self as teacher. I went to public school myself, but most of what I learned that is of any value to me now I learned on my own time, just me and my library card.
The writing: Well, the second novel is finished, or at least the first draft of it is. That's not as impressive as it sounds, the first novel I wrote when I was 15-16, so it's taken about 15 years to write the follow up. And let me stress, first draft. Still, it's nice to put the words "the end" on page 454 and be able to say, "well, that doesn't completely suck." It needs more work, but I think it's a good start.
But right now I'm concentrating on short stories. I've sent a couple out to various mags and contests and have already started a file for my rejection letters. So far they've been very nice rejection letters, so I'm optimistic. Perhaps this will be The Year.
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