Websnark

December 3, 2007

Eric: Winter Storms, AntiNanowrimo and Christmas on the Satellite of Love: a stirring from the grave

There's a winter storm outside -- the first solid evidence of Winter in the first week of December for several years. The New Hampshire tourist industry -- by which I mean the ski industry, the snowmobile industry, the ski industry, the ATV industry, the ski industry and did I mention the ski industry -- is breathing a sigh of relief, as it looks like we might actually, y'know, have a ski season before February this year.

(Not that they were taking any chances, mind. I've driven by a bunch of phallic "look at our new snowmaking equipment" billboards since early September. By God they were going to be skiing this year whether we liked it or not! And, of course, I like it fine though I myself haven't gone skiing for at least fifteen years. Probably more like twenty, now that I think about it. Christ, I'm old.)

It is the Christmas season, though very few people seem to care this year. Including me, though I'm well ahead on my Christmas shopping for the first time... well, ever. (I am entirely in favor of fiancees who have well developed Amazon wishlists. I have a well developed Amazon wishlist too, but that's less for my fiancee and more for my family, who love me dearly and haven't a clue what sort of gizmos to buy me. I'd post a link for the curious but it would seem crass, and I like to wait at least four or five posts into a revival after a multiple week hiatus before I appear crass.)

For the most part, all is well. We wait patiently for the government to let Wednesday and I get married. (We could get word any day, or it could easily go into February with no word a'tall. We keep the lines of communication open to the single greatest immigration attorney in the world, and we check the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services website, and we wait and we hope and I get up there whenever I can (she can't come down here until she comes down here to get married. That's just the way the law works.) and we talk every day, and that's what that is right now.

There's a winter storm outside, but the home fires are burning well. Having weathered financial issues aplenty over the Summer (as I'm sure you all remember), everything is fine now. I actually have some money in a savings account. Not a lot, but some, and that builds with every paycheck. There's always more unexpected events on the horizon, but barring the same kind of sudden, rapid smackdown of them that started the summer travails, things should just be okay.

I have it on good authority that the Month of November was, for me, essentially an anti-Nanowrimo. Which isn't to say I've gone negative on Nanowrimo. I've enjoyed it when I did it, and I enjoy seeing it when others do it. But for me, it was a month where I generated... well, essentially nothing, both here and on Banter Latte. Almost certainly I needed that. If you use your brain for writing too many days in a row without a break, it gets hot and eventually the RAM fails.

But it's December now, and it's the Christmas season, and we're heading to close the year out. There's things happening, in the world and on the web. The Russians own LiveJournal, the Primary is a month away in the state I live in, and Chuck Norris has embraced the meme in more ways than one. Halfpixel has become a full on online guild a la Dumbrella, bringing the Blank Label collective down to a tight six In Mystery Science Theater 3000 news. Rifftrax has started doing heavy advertising in targeted media, the Rifftrax crew has also formed "the Film Crew" which is doing the MST shuffle, which means the Mike Nelson/Kevin Murphy/Bill Corbett version of MST3K is fully back in production only minus the muppets and the SciFi network. At the same time, the original MST3K team of Joel Hodgson, Trace Beaulieu, Josh Weinstein, and special bonus not-quite-original-but-still-seminal Frank Conniff have launched Cinematic Titanic, which somehow doesn't make any reference whatsoever to Rifftrax or the Film Crew (and vice versa) even though Mary Jo Pehl has done work now for both groups. And if that wasn't interesting enough, Best Brains, Inc., in the person of Jim Mallon (the original executive producer and the voice of Gypsy) has spun up some truly crap web cartoons 'continuing' the story of the Satellite of Love, alongside some old school folks like Paul Chapman, who we all remember as Pitch. Right?

Okay, the crappy webtoons are clearly just designed to get you buying DVDs, but still! It's... something....

That's right. Three entirely distinct entities of former MST3K folks, all cheerfully suckling at the teat of a show that went off the air in 1999. Three collectives of entertainers, writers, gadabouts town who all have legitimate claim to some of the MST3K legacy. Three separate performing troupes that are not acknowledging the other two's efforts in any way, shape or form, absent a brief mention on the Cinematic Titanic website that Josh Weinstein was the guy who actually hired Mike Nelson in the first place.

Yeah, there's no behind the scenes 'fun' going on there. None at all.

The interesting thing is, for all three of these groups... we're actually seeing models that the webcomics world pioneered in play. The MST3K site, with its free crappy Flash animations (seriously, guys, I know that the art is supposed to be 'stylized' but it looks... um... bad) is drawing eyeballs to sell videos. Rifftrax works off of -- I swear to Christ -- Micropayments, and from all accounts it's been monster successful. That's right. Someone made micropayments work. With, I would add, podcast technology and absolutely no DRM. It looks as though Cinematic Titanic may do the same, though we don't yet know. The Film Crew is straight online distribution -- they don't advertise in traditional places, their production facilities are essentially a minimal set possibly made in someone's garage, and they're clearly selling DVDs briskly.

Everyone still reading these words will recognize the models at play. And clearly everyone involved with MST3K has the advantage of a massive cult phenomenon from the 90's (probably the defining cult phenomenon among geek culture of the 90's, all apologies to Babylon 5 -- Buffy was transitional into the 21st century so nyah) to give them a continuing fanbase. But the simple truth is, it's not costing them much money to make Rifftrax. You or I could do it with scriptwriting time (and talent we might not possess, of course) and our personal computers. Admittedly, Nelson partnered with Legend Films who's shouldering the website costs, but come on.

Put yet another way? Other media besides comics have begun to figure out the whole web thing. Between that and the rise of direct-to-DVD stuff... and the fact that both Amazon.com and fucking Wal-Mart have come out as anti-DRM...

...well, it's an interesting time to be on the web.

But then, winter storms are always fun to watch from the inside.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 11:07 AM | Comments (16)

November 14, 2007

Eric: Service Disruption

It's nothing technical, you understand.

Seriously. As near as I can tell, everything's aces. The internet is working, the websites are up, and while I did migrate to Leopard, that was about as seamless an OS upgrade as I've done for a while. And Time Machine just plain works, for the record, which is staggeringly cool.

Well, all right. Upgrading led to some issues with my windows partition and I had to reinstall it, but honestly. It's the first time I've ever had to reinstall Windows in the era of Boot Camp, so how upset could I be?

So it's nothing technical. And yet, there has been an interruption of service.

It may have been my last trip to Ottawa. You can tell when it was -- it was the day my first Superguy post in years went up. And that was really cool, as it was on the heels of Gary posting, and there's been a flood after us so Gary started something. Apparently the collective Superguy writers have been waiting for someone to break the ice. And now they have.

But the day it went up, I drove to Ottawa, and spent a week up there. Up with Wednesday, kept by the government out of the United States until they get through processing the fiancee visa that will let her come down and let the two of us get married and on with our lives. This is the longest visit we've done for a long time, and it also featured a move to brighter surroundings for her. And time spent together. And time spent listening to a radio station with ten minute synopses of Ottawa in general. And time spent being on the weaker side of the dollar divide while in Canada for the first time in my life.

For the record? When they make the same jokes to you you made about them for your entire life? You don't get to be anything but gracious about it. Even when gasoline ends up costing five bucks a gallon after conversion. God damn it.

It may have been the change of time. I love love love love love the day we Fall Back. I am no fan of Daylight Savings Time. I think the system should have been abolished years ago. I am no farmer, and I like the day being an hour later in the morning, thank you kindly. But I am also of an age where the time change screws with me something fierce. It took a few days this year, as the trip back corresponded to it so I was exhausted enough to make it easy, but I'm in the throes of crappy sleep cycles right now.

It may have been work, which has been busier than November normally is, not the least of which was a day we had a power outage and the central core's backup generator didn't kick in. We managed to shut everything down before UPSes failed, but it's like doing work on someone's heart -- when you stop it from beating for a few minutes, it's gonna be a few days before they're feeling up to jogging and you have to do a lot of post-op stuff.

I've had people e-mail me. Just to make sure I wasn't dead. I appreciate that. I'm not dead.

I'm just not writing.

Which is weird.

I have ideas, mind. Tons of them. Banterable ideas. Websnarkish ideas. It's not that. It's not that at all.

But it's not actually going onto paper.

Maybe this notice of service disruption is the jolt I need. Maybe that'll get the big writing stone rolling down the hill.

I sort of plan on writing more Superguy today. I enjoyed that, and it too might spark things.

If it does, it'll go up sometime this week, and then a Myth will follow it, and Justice Wing will follow that.

And maybe somewhere in there I'll talk about the sale of City of Heroes and Issue 11 and dual blades and flashback and stuff. And talk about Zuda and how their interface (and their decision to downsample God damned cursive into it) makes the Baby Jesus cry and no one gives a shit about Zuda as a result.

And, you know. Stuff. Things.

I dunno.

But for now? I'm okay. I am.

We're just having a minor service disruption. Please stand by.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 11:31 AM | Comments (6)

July 3, 2007

Eric: Meanwhile, not far away....

So. I've been trying to work out... well, things. As folks know. And the writing is a part of what I've been trying to work out, because....

...well, because. I'm a happier person when I'm writing lots of stuff, and being a happier person is pretty much a good goal in and of itself.

And that brings me to trying to find the best way to actually do more of it, and to fire the writing spirit, and all that. Because... well, because I want to, and because I want momentum, and because that's all a cool thing.

Let me begin by saying that Websnark isn't ending. Not now, not for the foreseeable future. I like this place. I like all of you. I like the outlet. I like the chance to write on any topic or any subject, at any time. It's amazingly cool, and you guys make me happy.

However, it's worth noting that Websnark, in the end, is an outlet for nonfiction. There have been exceptions, here and there, but this is primarily a blog for commentaries and essays. Critiques, or just me talking 'bout stuff. And that's been amazingly cool, but it's also been limiting. In the nearly three years this thing's been a part of my life there's been a couple million words between Wednesday and I, but my fiction output has crashed through the floor. And that has created an imbalance in my humors, increasing bile and phlegm and requiring an infusion of foods higher in fire and air.

Now, I could change Websnark if I wanted. I could add in fiction, poetry, a wet bar -- whatever I felt like, at least as far as Weds would be comfortable -- and Weds is, at heart, desirous of my being content. But that doesn't seem like the right reaction to me. Folks who come here and who have been coming here have been doing so for very specific reasons. They'll indulge the odd Sestina or the occasional bedtime story, but for the most part they'd rather there not be a monumental shift in tone.

And honestly, I don't want to change what Websnark is. I like what Websnark is.

The solution, in the end, is to expand.

Which brings me to Banter Latte.

Banter Latte is a new blog, chock full of that new blog smell. It was born in the weekend following my existential writing crisis. It is dedicated to fiction, to poetry, to whimsy -- to all the stuff that Websnark isn't. It has a bunch of new bits of writing, some old writing that's been sitting on my hard drive -- sometimes for years -- and locked posts designed to let me put up chapters of novels I'm working on.

That this will hopefully also force me to, you know, finish and refine those novels is a side benefit.

The protected posts, mind, are still meant to be accessible. See, part of the problem of the publishing world adapting to new electronic distribution is the question of what "previous publication" means. By locking the posts, I can skirt the edge between publishing my novel on the web and providing a place for fans of my work and interested parties to read drafts of the posts without actually releasing it. And keeping it out of search engines at the same time.

So. What is Banter Latte?

Banter Latte is a place for me to write. Just like Websnark. They're meant to compliment each other. Folks who like reading what I write will want to head on over there and see what there is to see. Folks who like my essays but can't imagine enduring my fiction can avoid it. (Though I'll post regular links over here to the stuff going on over there -- mostly because I don't want this place going quiet again.)

Though quiet isn't as likely. As I've said before, when I'm writing regularly, I'm usually writing prolifically. You'll notice I've written more on Websnark in the time since I started beta testing Banter Latte than in the three months before. That's likely to continue.

Why "Banter Latte?" Because as has been mentioned, I have a love of dialogues taking place while my characters are drinking beverages. Nothing more or less. Also, I tend to drink a lot of coffee or tea while writing.

There is a schedule to Banter Latte, in hopes of building an audience and (paradoxically) making things easier on me. Mondays are "The Mythology of the modern world," when I tell whimsical stories about the myths behind everyday life. Post beta period, we have two entries up right now: Introductions and Coffee, and Why Does Starbucks Drip Coffee Taste Like Crotch? These are generally going to be written new for the site, which should keep me doing a few hundred or thousand words in a week, all to keep the pump primed. Wednesdays are "Storytelling" days -- vignettes, scenes, stories, past stuff and new stuff all blended. Some of the more serious stuff will go here, though I don't promise that. Right now, we have a short story set in the greater Gossamer Commons universe -- the first entry of Gossamer Reflections, called Whisperdance.

Fridays are when the protected chapters of novels in progress go up. One of the state goals -- born of a conversation I had with my father -- is that I'm going to write one chapter of a novel each and every week, thus making the completion of said novels far more likely. Right now we are in the semi-hard science fiction novel Theftworld, which is password protected (though right up in the nav bar or also on the sidebar you'll see a link to a form for requesting it -- it's not exactly hard to get access to the password if you want it.) We have two chapters plus a prologue and a bit of preface material up.

Thtree days a week with three types of content. Tuesdays and Thursdays are Random days. Any day I feel like doing something that doesn't fit one of those categories, I'll throw something into a Tuesday or a Thursday. That's where poetry will go, fan-fiction if I've a yen to write it, bits of other stories, or whatever. Or nothing at all. Those aren't officially scheduled days, but right now it looks like there's plenty of stuff for them. We have a couple of related stories in them right now: the first part of Interviewing Leather -- meant to be a Rolling Stoneesque interview of a minor supervillain, and we have On Call, a slice of life story about a doctor who specializes in superhumans, played more for laughs.

Finally, on the weekends we'll have very basic open topic posts, for people to shout out comments or make dook dook noises or do whatever it is you kids do.

And, of course, there's a chance to buy ad space if you want. Right now, it's going for like two cents, so it's a bargain!

In the end, all of this is meant to stimulate my doing what I like to do most outside of spending time with Weds or sleeping: writing. And I'm really excited about it. I hope you guys enjoy it. And I hope this helps keep the writing stream -- in Websnark and out of Websnark -- more regular than it's been.

Thanks all. And enjoy.

Oh -- bear in mind the site is still new. There may be functionality changes, and there almost certainly will be look and feel changes. So, you know. Be warned.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 1:46 AM | Comments (10)

February 21, 2007

Eric: And now, literature.

I'm trying to wrap my brain around On the Banks of Lethe. It's not easy. But James Grant does that to my brain.

I think I probably got into Grant's stuff thanks to Randy Milholland. When Grant's original webcomics magnum opus, the Jay Storyline, was in full flower over at FLEM Comics!, Randy did small cameos in Something Positive. Jay was one of the people Davan knew back in Texas. Simple enough. That led me to FLEM, which later on led me to Two Lumps. I loved it.

I loved it because Grant is a sick fuck. Which is really the only way to describe him. Except he's a funny sick fuck. He's a talented sick fuck. He reminds me, in his own way, of George Carlin. When I watched the DVD of The Aristocrats, I was pretty blase through the telling and retelling of the most obscene joke in the universe. I'm a jaded person by nature, when it comes to such things. But while Sarah Silverman's deadpan version was the best and most memorable, George Carlin's is the one that got me within three gags of actually throwing up. And yet, it was still funny.

That's the kind of power Grant has. And it's a power he carries through into his writing.

I read and greatly enjoyed Pedestrian Wolves, Grant's first book. It was vivid and evocative -- a shout down down the throat of New Orleans, written before Katrina and in its own way a testament to a city that doesn't exist in the same way any more. However, I wasn't sure that Pedestrian Wolves was so much a novel as a travelogue -- a taste of the city, of the mores of the place, of the scene, of one man's understanding of the streets he had walked. Grant's second book, the aforementioned On the Banks of Lethe is a solid, full on, hardcore novel. It's the story of Charlie, and it's the story of memory and loss. Which can't possibly be coincidence -- it is absolutely nothing like the short story "Flowers for Algernon," or the novel that it grew into, and yet when you read about Charlie in Lethe, you think of Charley in that original story. You think about pain. You think about loss.

If I were to describe the book, I'd be somewhat at a loss. It's got a little Noir to it -- a little sense of the One Good Man fighting a battle. But at the same time, it's Noir as written by Sean Stewart and soundtracked by the Sisters of Mercy. The One Good Man is always a flawed figure, but this time his flaws are held together with barbed wire and set on fire. It's Portrait of the Artist as Cursed By Non-Euclidean Monstrosities.

And it's fascinating. Fascinating as the stare of a cobra.

There's no comfort in this book. I never got the feeling that Charlie would win. I saw him struggling, and trying -- saw him trying to hold on to the woman he loved and the world, but this is James L. Grant, so I figured there would be a few shotgun blasts to the ego along the way. And the book doesn't disappoint. It reminded me of some other stories -- Vellum, by Hal Duncan. Perfect Circle by the aformentioned Sean Stewart. Even "The Unpleasant Occupation of Jonathan Hoag" by Robert Heinlein (though more if the other side won in that particular work). The imagery is powerful and disturbing, the voice is solid.

In a way, as stated, this really is Grant's first novel, since I don't think we can really call Pedestrian Wolves a novel. And there's some sense of that in the book. He overwrites a bit, here and there. Sometimes phrases like "Daughter of Red" beg to be shrunk down instead of repeated over and over again. But these are comparatively minor -- like brushstrokes on one of Charlie's paintings. The paint may seem thick in places, but it adds texture to the whole.

This is not a comforting book. But man, it was a good ride getting to the end. I'm looking forward to the next time Grant takes a few shots at our collective psyches.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 5:01 PM | Comments (15)

January 29, 2007

Eric: The current necropost list, as of the 29th of January

For those who haven't seen my slow but steady efforts to 'make up' posts done after the fact, here's what I so far have. I call these necroposts, because they revive a dead day and give it the horrible false impression of life in the form of a post.

The January 11 Necropost was on Malfunction Junction.
The January 12 Necropost was on culling iTunes.
The January 14 Necropost was on the superhero fiction site Star Harbor Nights. (Which also gets the sweet spot for the first post in the archives after the proposal.)
The January 18 Necropost was a brief, random note about Apple's hold music.

I still owe necroposts for: January 15, January 19-24, and January 27-28. Each day my intent is to do the day's post first, so as not to go farther into post debt, then with luck do at least one other necropost until we're all caught up and happy, shiny people.

I should have made this a necropost for like January 28, thereby cheating and cutting down on the backlog, but that's just not the way I roll.

(For those who've wondered, oh Hell yeah I intend to write about Order of the Stick.)

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 2:31 PM | Comments (7)

January 25, 2007

Eric: On having a research department, even when they don't know it.

A couple of days ago, I caught a story.

This happens to me. I'll be walking or driving along, and something will occur to me, and I'll decide "huh." And the next thing I know I've got an opening, at least twelve scenes and a denouement in my brain, trying to claw their way out. And, because I was cursed by influenced by Hard Science Fiction, I then need to... oh, you know, do real honest to Christ research on the subject in question.

Now, this is not science fiction. If anything, it's Magical Realism, set in today's world. Something very Sean Stewart, with a soupçon of Hal Duncan for good measure.

What?

Soupçon.

It's a word.

Yes, it's originally from the French, but it's an actual, honest to Christ in-Webster's word now. It means "smidge."

No I couldn't "just say smidge." Jesus.

Anyway.

Lost my train of thought.

Oh, right. The story. It's a very contemporary story, and it's meant to actually be a road trip sort of story. In fact, it's meant to be a shunpiking story. Shunpiking isn't in Webster's but it's a fantastic word which should be. It means "avoiding major highways and interstates and turnpikes in lieu of back roads, secondary roads and the like." It means taking the remnants of old Route 66 instead of the thruway. It means driving through small towns and places instead of bypassing them.

That's what this story needs.

So I want to do it right. So I have a starting point and an ending point. And I have an internet. And if you look at our friend Mapquest, they have an "avoid Highways" feature to them! Score!

Only... said feature only works for trips of 250 miles or less. And even with interstates and highways, it estimates the trip I'm describing as over 2,700 miles.

Now, going step by step, leg by leg in 250 mile jumps is one solution to this problem. But it's not a good solution. See, the only way to effectively do that is to chart your course via interstates and then select waypoints along the way. You can then tell it to give you a shunpiker's route between those waypoints. The problem is, it's entirely possible that if you shunpiked across the country you'd end up far away from where the highways run, through the dead areas between major interstates. By using the highways as your guide, you end up less shunpiking and more tacking around the direct route -- you still end up passing through the major points serviced by those highways. It's just less convenient for you.

I checked the other driving direction services online, and as near as I can tell, those services don't even have a shunpiking function.

So, I've spent the last several days wrestling with this -- in my brain. I've been trying to either find a new service or find software that might do it without being unreasonably expensive for what, in the end, is going to be a single use or... I don't know. Something. Because I really, really want to do this right, and I don't see any good way to do it electronically.

This morning, the solution hit me. It had the triple advantage of not costing me anything (at least anything additional), giving me the route I specifically want, and providing me monumental amounts of research on the side, thus saving me time elsewhere in this process.

See, I'm a Triple-A member. I have been... well, practically forever. And once upon a time, before GPSes and the Internet, they were my route planners. If you're a member, you can call them up any time and order a triptik -- a printed series of flip maps with your route highlighted in orange highlighter, that someone has painstakingly mapped out for you.

I haven't used them for this in years. Between things like Mapquest and GPSes, I have lots more convenient ways to find routes to where I'm going. I'm sure they've had a sharp decline in these services over the years.

But now I had a project my GPS and Internet couldn't help me with.

So I called my member service number (not the roadside assistance number), and talked to a travel agent. And she cheerfully took the information I wanted down. I told her about the shunpiking, and she told me she could arrange all secondary and back roads with no problem at all -- where possible, anyway. And she offered to send along state maps and tour guide books with tons of additional information. All, of course, at no charge. I am a member, after all.

It is worth occasionally remembering that as wonderful as our Internet is, there are times the good old fashioned way is vastly better.

Things have been nuts. Catching up begins now. Rock on, dudes.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 10:34 AM | Comments (23)

January 14, 2007

Eric: The necropost for January 14: Star Harbor Nights

A brief post to make up for the missed day on January 14 (penned all the way on January 29), in praise of Star Harbor Nights, a superhero fiction site run by the action squad of Alexandria Erin (who is a sometimes commenter over here at Websnark), Quinn Isley and Sonya Kenderdragon (which might -- might be a pseudonym. Though, given I used to write superhero fiction under the name Eric, Lord Sabre, I'm not about to rag on someone for a sobriquet.)

I know from Superhero writing -- especially the building of a shared universe completely separate from those that came before. As I've mentioned many, many times my first heavy internet activities were based around the Superguy mailing list -- which while more satirical than Star Harbor Nights certainly shared some of the frenetic joy in the form that Erin, Isley and Kenderdragon have brought to their stuff.

It reminds me, really, of how much I miss writing Superguy, and things like that. Last November, I made a serious effort to do a superheroic mosaic novel. Sadly, said novel was a failure -- it just fell apart almost immediately. I might be able to write several novels about the intertwined stories I was mosaicing, but I couldn't create enough of a thread to make the mosaic work.

So, if you like superheroes for themselves (as opposed to liking "the X-Men" or other character specific stuff), you might want to give Star Harbor Nights a look see. It's free, so it sure can't hurt, and they seem to be having a lot of fun, and in the end that's the sense I would want in a site like this one.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 1:57 PM | Comments (5)

December 19, 2006

Eric: Download this book! Right now! Before it stops being free!

I am not in the habit of repeating things I see on boing boing. It's not because I have anything against boing boing. I don't. I enjoy pop culture tidbits, Cory Doctorow losing his shit about copyright, and Xeni Jardin writing about sex as the next person. However, typically I figure I don't need to repeat it. Most of you will have seen it anyway.

Well, I'm not taking it this time. For a limited time, John Hodgman's brilliant book, The Areas of My Expertise, is available on iTunes as an audiobook for free.

For free.

Guys, I paid for this audiobook on Audible.com, and it was worth every penny. It's one of the audiobooks I've listened to as I drive from New England to Ottawa and back, as I do every couple of weeks now that Weds lives up there. To see that it's free now is to say to me "Eric, you must tell the people of this glorious thing."

For those who don't know John Hodgman, shut up. Yes you do. He's the PC on the "Hi, I'm a Mac" ads. He's on the Daily Show. He's brilliant and funny and the audiobook is wonderful. But it doesn't have to be wonderful right now because it's God damn fucking free so download it already.

Whew.

In other news, read today's Something Positive, because holy Fuck.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 9:36 PM | Comments (42)

December 17, 2006

Eric: Script Format is kind of fun.

I'm not entirely sure what this post is.

It was born out of a couple of Aaron Sorkin parodies I'd seen, like Mad TV's Studio 69 on Van Nuys Boulevard or Kevin Levine's brilliant If Aaron Sorkin wrote a show about baseball. I was laughing about it with Weds, and said "I should write a script where Aaron Sorkin was writing about a webcomics collective."

And, since this has been a week where I've needed a diversion or two, I did.

Only I'm not sure what it is, in the end.

It's not a parody of Studio 60. If anything, it's a Sorkin satire. Only I caught myself trying to really catch his cadences. I caught myself trying to invoke what I really like about Sorkin.

Because despite everything, I do like Aaron Sorkin. On a recent episode, he had a subplot featuring two freshmen writers and the staggeringly brilliant Mark McKinney, and whenever they were on the screen, it was electric. It gave me hope. (There was also this subplot where we learn Harriet Hayes might be the most brilliant comedienne ever according to the show, but despite the fact that she does their Weekend Update pastiche -- an entire sequence where she does nothing but joke setup-punchline -- she is incapable of actually telling even the simplest knock knock joke in the world. It was a subplot meant to make Harriet endearing and instead makes us think she's got neurological damage and would never in a million years be hired for a comedy show, but I digress).

So... I'm not sure what the resulting three scene script is.

And as a result, I'm going to post it here. Behind a cut, as it's... well, huge.

Please enjoy Aaron Sorkin's Comicsense.com.

(Oh, and yeah -- I'm fully aware no actual webcomics collective would be organized like this. Cut me some slack. Sorkin writes about workplaces.)

AARON SORKIN'S

COMICSENSE.COM

[SCENE ONE: The metropolitan offices of Comicsense.com -- a webcomics collective fighting its way up the pack. The offices are full of desks and piles of clutter, made all the more chaotic by the lack of cubicles, walls or offices for the most part. There are several winding paths around the desks, drawing tables and production equipment. As we fade into the scene we see DANNY WALSH, Executive Producer in charge of web content. He is looking over a messy pile of printouts. Near him, two Administrative Assistants, CAROL and SHELLY, are waiting on his words.]

DANNY

Eight months Bobby's been drawing this thing and Hell if I understand what this strip is about.

CAROL

It's about a robot pirate captain.

SHELLY

I thought it was about the talking dog.

CAROL

The talking dog is comic relief.

SHELLY

The talking dog is comic relief?

CAROL

The talking dog is comic relief.

SHELLY

But he did that whole plotline where the talking dog met his parents.

CAROL

Did you notice the parents were talking dogs too?

SHELLY

Well, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

CAROL

I'm just saying -- they make such a big deal over the talking dog--

SHELLY

Well, it's not like you see them every day.

CAROL

But when his parents show up, everyone just accepts that they're also talking dogs.

SHELLY

What kind of parents would you expect a talking dog to have?

CAROL

My point is--

SHELLY

I mean, is it that they talk or they're dogs that has you in a tizzy.

CAROL

I'm not in a 'tizzy.'

SHELLY

You seem a little tizzed out.

CAROL

I just think that if they're surprised at one talking dog, they should be three times as surprised when they meet three.

SHELLY

Is the surprise cumulative?

CAROL

It seems like it should be.

SHELLY

Because after the first talking dog, I'd think you'd get jaded.

CAROL

I think I'd always be pretty impressed by dogs that talk.

SHELLY

The talking dog really isn't the main character?

CAROL

He's the comic relief.

DANNY

You two keep talking and talking but I still don't have any idea what this strip is about.

CAROL

A robot pirate captain.

SHELLY

With a talking dog.

DANNY

See, this is how wars break out.

[Danny hands the paper pile to Carol and begins to WALK TOWARDS CAMERA on a Steadicam shot. He is joined almost immediately by JAKE PARSONS, Editorial Director and writer of the hit Comicsense.com webcomic COFFEE SHOPPE. They WALK AND TALK as they weave between the desks.]

JAKE

I've lost it.

DANNY

You've lost it.

JAKE

I've lost it.

DANNY

You had it?

JAKE

Oh, I had it.

DANNY

But now?

JAKE

Not so much.

DANNY

What's the problem?

JAKE

I can't find the funny.

DANNY

You can't find the funny?

JAKE

I can't find the funny.

DANNY

How's the plot coming?

JAKE

I'm not doing plot today.

DANNY

You're taking a break from the plot?

JAKE

It's been plot heavy. I need a couple days.

DANNY

Away from the plot.

JAKE

I'm giving the readers a break.

DANNY

Easing back on the heavy.

JAKE

My audience likes to laugh.

DANNY

Everyone likes a few yuks at the end of the day.

JAKE

It's what makes me at the top of my game.

DANNY

Fifty thousand readers.

JAKE

Fifty thousand unique IPs.

DANNY

People from around the world.

JAKE

I get hits from Dubai.

DANNY

I've seen the webalizer stats.

JAKE

Presidential suite of the Burj al-Arab, they're trolling the archives.

DANNY

Sunnis like to laugh.

JAKE

That's a problem, though.

DANNY

'Cause you can't find the funny.

JAKE

I can't find the funny.

[The pair are joined by systems administrator SIMON FISHER, a somewhat geeky but oddly compelling figure. He is played by Joshua Malina.]

SIMON

I'm hearing an interesting buzz around the building.

DANNY

Yeah, that's the lights. We're having maintenance look at it.

SIMON

You're so funny! I have a hard time believing United Press Syndicate let you go.

DANNY

Well, you know. No one likes to laugh while wearing ties.

SIMON

The buzz is we're courting Pennyfarthing.

DANNY (snorts)

Yeah, and while we're wishing I'd like that Baron Karza I asked for when I was seven.

JAKE

I was more a Force Commander kind of guy.

DANNY

Force Commander was lame. He had handles on his cheeks.

JAKE

Those were air hoses. He had to breath in that helmet, you know.

SIMON

This is fascinating but let's get back to the subject at hand, shall we?

DANNY

Pennyfarthing.

SIMON

You know how many readers they have?

DANNY

Seven and a half million.

SIMON

Seven and a half million readers, Danny.

DANNY

Jokes about Super Mario Brothers never go out of style, do they?

SIMON

If you seriously court these guys, I gotta know about it, Danny.

DANNY

It's not gonna happen, Simon.

SIMON

Seriously. I have to know.

DANNY

Seriously, it's not gonna happen, Simon.

SIMON

I don't care how much of an ad buyer's dream they are. They're an IT nightmare waiting to happen.

DANNY

It won't happen in a million years, Simon.

SIMON

They update spot on at 11:27 in the morning three days a week.

JAKE

You can set your watch by them.

SIMON

By noon they've had millions of hits. They make servers sob like schoolchildren just by showing up on time.

DANNY

We're not getting them, Simon.

SIMON

They link to a website and it crashes, guys.

JAKE

Wait, what do they call that? They have a name for it--

DANNY

Sporking.

JAKE

Right! Because they did all those strips early on--

DANNY

The ones with the sporks, right.

SIMON

I'm serious, guys. We get these people they're gonna need a dedicated server. They might need dedicated bandwidth. We try to put them on our existing servers and our whole three-day lineup's going to hemmorage.

DANNY

Simon, listen to the words I'm saying. We're not going to get the Pennyfarthing guys. It's not gonna happen. There is no way in Hell Pennyfarthing is coming to Comicsense.com.

SIMON

I need a heads up if they're coming.

DANNY

They're not.

JAKE

I lost it, Simon.

SIMON

You lost it?

DANNY

Jake has just four hours to get a script to Dale or Dale won't have time to draw it and then half the United Arab Emirates won't have their morning Funny.

SIMON

Yeah, they're big comic strip fans over there.

[SIMON splits off from the pair as they continue WALKING AND TALKING.]

JAKE

We're getting Pennyfarthing, aren't we?

DANNY

I need to talk to Jubal about it.

[The pair are joined by MIRANDA CLAUSS, reporter for The Comics Informant.]

MIRANDA

You've been ducking me, Walsh.

DANNY

I wouldn't call it ducking you, Miranda.

MIRANDA

What would you call it?

DANNY

More of a sidestep, really.

MIRANDA

Joke all you want. The word on the street is--

JAKE

Wait, they're talking about us on the street?

DANNY

Actually, I think they actually draw the words on the street. Like, with chalk.

MIRANDA

You had seven cartoonists walk.

DANNY

It's the most exercise they've had in months.

MIRANDA

Laugh all you want, Danny. You lost Hinterlands, Sirocco, Furbridge Heights--

DANNY

Yeah, we "lost" Furbridge Heights.

MIRANDA

It's got a solid readership, Danny.

DANNY

And that fact scares me more and more every day.

MIRANDA

The furry community thinks you guys hate anthro comics.

DANNY

We... have that talking dog in Bobby's strip.

JAKE

Doesn't he just play second banana to the Robot Pirate Captain?

DANNY

There's some debate.

MIRANDA

Danny--

DANNY

His main character is a skunk/beaver crossbreed stripper, Miranda. This wasn't The Class Menagerie or Kevin and Kell. The only reason Furbridge Heights wasn't porn is because we told him we'd lose our Paypal rights if he crossed the line.

MIRANDA

And if you had The Class Menagerie or Kevin and Kell, Furries wouldn't care, but you don't. So they just know that you had a solidly read Furry comic, and he walked. Along with six other people.

DANNY

It happens. We have churn.

MIRANDA

You're not upset?

DANNY

Why should I be upset?

MIRANDA

The Alexa stats on Hinterlands alone--

DANNY

Oh, don't tell me you buy into Alexa rankings.

MIRANDA

It's an independent website that gives you a solid indicator of--

DANNY

It's a sham, Miranda. Pure and simple. It's not a representative sample of anything. It doesn't use statistical modeling or selection criteria or anything else. It only includes those people who actually download the Alexa toolbar. It doesn't include Mac users or Linux users because it's for Windows only. It doesn't even include Firefox users. If you want to measure impact on the web, use Google PageRank. Or Technorati. Hell, check Bloglines but don't shove an artificial "ranking" down my throat because it sounds good.

MIRANDA

So. You're saying Hinterlands wasn't a popular webcomic?

DANNY

...it was popular enough.

MIRANDA

So. You're not upset that seven popular comics left, regardless of whether or not you liked them.

DANNY

Jesus and Mary Chain, Miranda -- of course we're upset. Of course we want those strips. Of course we want their audiences looking at our ads and going to our online store. But they felt they could do better on their own, and I'm not going to trash them in your magazine just because of that. I hope they do better on their own.

MIRANDA

Commendable.

DANNY

We try.

MIRANDA

Will you be that philosophical if Debbie takes Fishtails to the Houghton/Wilkes Syndicate?

[JAKE stops walking, prompting the other two to follow suit.]

JAKE

Debbie's doing what?

DANNY

Oh, Hell.

JAKE

Debbie's considering a newspaper jump?

DANNY

Thank you, Miranda. Like Jake wasn't heading to a nervous breakdown to begin with.

[JAKE crosses OFF stage left]

JAKE

Excuse me.

DANNY (shouted after Jake)

Don't lose focus! Fifty thousand expatriate Iranians need their Funny!

JAKE (shouted from off camera)

Whatever!

MIRANDA

I thought those two broke up.

DANNY

You'd actually have to start dating before you could break up.

MIRANDA

Are you guys getting Pennyfarthing?

DANNY (crossing off)

Oh, leave me alone.

[SCENE 2: One of several art studios in the building. This is DEBBIE DAWSON'S space. The area is cluttered with art supplies of all varieties -- pencils and pens and easels, of course, but also brushes and paints and watercolors. A powerful Apple computer sits on the desk, silently earning us product placement money. DEBBIE DAWSON is there -- a twenty-eight something perky artist with cascading blond hair and a cheerful attitude. As she sits and painstakingly draws a line, her door is slammed open and JAKE storms in, causing her pencil to skid.]

JAKE

Are you out of your mind?

DEBBIE

That was two hours of work, Jake!

JAKE

Are you out of your mind?!

DEBBIE

Two hours I can't get back! I have deadlines too, you know.

JAKE

When were you going to tell me about this?

DEBBIE

Some of us actually draw our own strips, you know? We don't spend all day frittering away--

JAKE

When were you going to tell me about this?!

[DEBBIE turns away, uncomfortable]

DEBBIE

...I don't know what you're talking about.

JAKE

Houghton/Wilkes, Debbie?

DEBBIE

Jake--

JAKE

Houghton/Wilkes, Debbie?!

DEBBIE

Yes, Jake. Houghton/Wilkes. The Houghton/Wilkes Newspaper Syndicate. I'm having discussions--

JAKE

You're doing a newspaper jump.

DEBBIE

I'm having discussions with their editorial board.

JAKE

You're not going to do this.

DEBBIE

I think that's my decision to make, Jake.

[JAKE stares at DEBBIE a long moment, then walks to one side, looking at a framed strip on the wall.]

DEBBIE

You know, some of us didn't start all this out of some dream of redefining the world of online distribution, Jake. Some of us fell in love with comic strips in the newspaper. We read Bloom County and Calvin and Hobbes and fell in love with the form. And we dreamed about the day when we could open the newspaper and see our strip there.

JAKE

Sandwiched at 40 LPI between Beetle Bailey and Hagar the Horrible.

DEBBIE

Not all newspaper comics are Beetle Bailey or Hagar the Horrible.

JAKE

And none of Houghton/Wilkes's strips are Bloom County or Calvin and Hobbes.

DEBBIE

Jake--

JAKE

We have a responsibility, Debbie. In fact, more than we, you have a responsibility--

DEBBIE

A responsibility to who, Jake? Fishtails is a good strip. I want people reading it. Houghton/Wilkes is going to put it in a hundred papers to begin with. They're talking about print collections. Collections sold in Barnes and Noble, not just on the Comicsense.com website.

JAKE

Where they can sit between fourteen Garfield collections and seven Foxtrot collections.

DEBBIE

Alphabetically they would come before Foxtrot.

JAKE

Trust me. Bill Amend trumps the alphabet.

DEBBIE

Jake--

JAKE

You have a responsibility to those who came before us, Debbie. To Al Capp and Walt Kelly. To Charles Schulz and Chester Gould.

[JAKE turns to face DEBBIE, slowly advancing as he speaks.]

JAKE

Comic strips used to be epic, Debbie. They used to be the playground of Windsor McKay and Segar and Hal Foster. Flash Gordon wasn't a movie or a movie serial, Debbie -- it was a comic strip. This is the form of Terry and the Pirates. Look at Blondie in the thirties and then look at it last week, and you tell me you want to be in the newspaper.

[The pair lean close, suggesting a kiss.]

JAKE

You're a foot more talented than any of us, Debbie. Fishtails is the real deal. Of course Houghton/Wilkes wants it. But they don't really want it, Debbie. They don't want your grand stories or your edge. They want a family friendly version of it. They want the version that would come after their editorial board gets done with it. Your gay characters would lose their teeth. Your wit would be blunted. You'd be just another flash in the pan strip that they'd announce and trumpet and then would vanish. You'd appear in a hundred newspapers and then you'd be in fifteen papers after people complained that Luann got cut to make room.

DEBBIE

For Better or For Worse has edge. The Boondocks has edge.

JAKE

They're not Houghton/Wilkes either.

[DEBBIE looks away, at the wall of cartoons.]

DEBBIE

Bloom County was in a thousand newspapers, Jake.

JAKE

Opus is in two hundred, and you're not Berke Breathed.

[DEBBIE turns back to face JAKE.]

DEBBIE

So I spin my wheels here?

JAKE

You're not spinning your wheels.

DEBBIE

Jake--

JAKE

You're not spinning your wheels. You have three hundred and fifty thousand people show up to read you every day. You quit your day job to do this. You have a rabid fanbase. You have awards. And you're going places. You're going to break through. There's going to be animated specials. There's going to be collections in Barnes and Noble. Collections where you get the lion's share of the royalties -- not a syndicate and not even ComicSense. And one day you will be in newspapers, but you'll hold onto your web rights and your merchandising rights and your control over your own property. You're going to do it. Don't grab a third rate newspaper syndicate with a fourth rate deal. Don't give up your merchandise and your freedom. Not for these guys.

[The two look at each other for a long moment.]

DEBBIE

I hate you.

JAKE

I'm comfortable with that.

DEBBIE

I have a deadline.

JAKE

Me too. People in Dubai are yearning for my wit.

DEBBIE

Someone would have to be.

[JAKE turns and walks out. DEBBIE watches him go, then slowly smiles, very slightly.]

[SCENE THREE: Musical cue: "Take a walk on the wild side." The office of JUBAL GREEN, elder statesman of comics and the principal investor and chairman of ComicSense.com. He is gruff, but speaks with wisdom. DANNY enters through the door, knocking on the frame.]

DANNY

Are you aware that they're reading Coffee Shoppe in Dubai?

JUBAL

I suppose that explains all the burka related fan mail Jake and Dale get.

DANNY

Seriously. The webalizer stats--

JUBAL

Webalizer tracks location based on domain name. The domain name for the United Arab Emirates is dot ae. What happened is someone, probably in America, came up with a domain name that dot ae suits, and they registered with whoever owns the rights to dot ae. Some firm in Qatar gets twenty bucks, some guy on the web owns the rights to 'titan.ae,' and Jake--

DANNY

--has readers in Dubai.

JUBAL

That's right.

DANNY

Only not really.

JUBAL

That's right.

DANNY

Okay.

JUBAL

You didn't come into my office to talk about Jake's stats.

DANNY

No.

JUBAL

Mind telling me why you did come into my office?

[DANNY looks off to the side.]

DANNY

Pennyfarthing.

JUBAL

I've been hearing rumors.

DANNY

You and everyone else.

JUBAL

You made them an offer?

DANNY

They made us an offer.

JUBAL

They made us an offer.

DANNY

Yeah.

JUBAL

Pennyfarthing made us an offer.

DANNY

Pennyfarthing made us an offer.

JUBAL

I'm listening.

DANNY

They're sick of bandwidth bills, their sysadmin is in the extended process of flaking on them... they want to get out of the business of running a comics website and into the business of exploiting their brand.

JUBAL

What's the deal on the table?

DANNY

Eighty percent of ad buys, reduced Comicsense.com branding on the site -- though we can do the linkbox -- merchandise in our store but book collections through their guy. And they would comp us nine designed banner ads, so we could get their look and feel in targeted advertising.

JUBAL

Have you talked with Simon about this?

DANNY

He caught me in the hall. We'd need a dedicated server. Probably manage the bandwidth. He says it's an IT nightmare but you know Simon. He kind of lives for IT nightmares.

JUBAL

So what needs to be done?

DANNY

Nothing.

JUBAL

Nothing?

DANNY

Nothing.

JUBAL

Everything's been done?

DANNY

Nothing's been done. I'm passing on the deal.

[JUBAL leans back. He doesn't look surprised. DANNY is slightly nervous, not looking directly at JUBAL.]

JUBAL

The most popular webcomic in the history of webcomics offers to come over to our website, and you're passing on the deal.

DANNY

Yeah.

JUBAL

And that's why you came to my office.

DANNY

No, I came to your office so you could fire me.

JUBAL

For passing on Pennyfarthing.

DANNY

Yeah.

JUBAL

Why?

DANNY

'Cause Pennyfarthing is a slam dunk. We get them, we shoot past Keenspot and Modern Tales. We reverse the trend away from online syndicates and towards online guilds. We wipe the bad press for losing seven creators in the last week, and we replace a contentious furry fanbase for Furbridge Heights with seven and a half million gamers. Of course you need to fire me for saying no.

JUBAL

No. I mean why did you pass on Pennyfarthing?

DANNY

For the same reason Debbie needs to pass on Houghton/Wilkes. It's a dream deal but it's not a good deal.

JUBAL

I'm listening.

DANNY

We bring in Pennyfarthing, and they become the eight hundred pound gorilla. We have to rededicate a majority of our press and advertising to them. Getting the message that they're part of Comicsense.com. Their deal would be better than what we give anyone else, which would breed discontent in the creator pool. Discontent that would only be increased by the staggering degree to which Pennyfarthing would overshadow everyone else on the site.

JUBAL

We could manage that.

DANNY

Maybe, but that's not the whole of it. Editorially, they're just not a good fit.

[DANNY turns to face JUBAL, walking towards the desk.]

Pennyfarthing reaches gamers. It's a niche we barely scratch, and on one level getting them would be good. We'd get some percentage of them reading our comics. But on another level, most of them wouldn't be interested in Coffee Shoppe or Hybrid Deal. Pennyfarthing just isn't like our lineup, and we can't expect a huge crossover appeal from their readers.

JUBAL

We would get some of them. And some of seven and a half million--

DANNY

Sure, but there's a downside to that. We'd also get buried under an avalanche of trolls and dicks. Fractions of men who hide behind an internet login and spew over everything they see.

JUBAL

Danny, I don't care what their rep is. The vast majority of Pennyfarthing readers are perfectly nice and responsible internet citizens.

DANNY

Yeah, but a certain percentage of all internet fandoms are mouth breathers who think this whole thing is a video game and that winning comes through slash and burn. Apply that percentage to Pennyfarthing's readership and you get a number close to Comicsense.com's whole current readership. All people who take delight in hitting forums and messageboards for webcomics they hate and turning them into steaming piles of crap. And they'd hate most of our comics.

JUBAL

And you figure all this means I should fire you?

DANNY

Seems like it.

JUBAL

Is that why United Press Syndicate canned your ass?

DANNY

It... might have something to do with it, yeah.

JUBAL

And you don't credit me with being smarter than United Press Syndicate? Danny -- what was the most significant comic strip to come out of the thirties and forties?

DANNY

Li'l Abner.

JUBAL

What about the fifties?

DANNY

Peanuts.

JUBAL

The sixties?

DANNY

Pogo.

JUBAL

The seventies?

DANNY

Doonesbury.

JUBAL

The eighties?

DANNY

Lemme jump ahead here. The eighties was Calvin and Hobbes, Bloom County and The Far Side, in kind of a three way race. And the nineties was Dilbert. Why?

JUBAL

Just this. What's the most significant newspaper comic strip of the past six years, Danny?

DANNY

I... don't really know. I'm not sure it's been figured out, yet.

JUBAL

We're six years into the decade, and you're an expert in comic strips, and you don't know which comic strip is the most significant of the decade?

DANNY

Well... yeah. I mean, the Boondocks got a deal at Adult Swim, but--

JUBAL

But nothing. The newspapers are dying, Danny. It'll take decades, but they're going the way of eighteenth century pamphlets. For a while, the only reason half the newspapers in this country were being sold was the comics page. Now, that's not a compelling reason any more. We're in the wild times now, Danny. It's chaos. And if comic strips cling to newspapers, the form will die with them.

DANNY

Comic strips aren't dying, Jubal. There's... like a billion of them right now.

JUBAL

That's right. On the web. Where we are. It's a crazy time. An exciting time. An explosive time. But it's fragmented, right now. No one webcomic -- not Pennyfarthing, not PvP, not Something Positive or anything else has taken the cultural place of a Li'l Abner in America, because no one knows where to go. No one knows where the really good webcomics are. The independents thrive on word of mouth. The first generation of online syndicates grabbed every strip with an audience they could get. Or they went the other way, and went so idiosyncratic only the intellectuals or the gamers wanted to read them. The one way an online syndicate can really thrive and flourish is through editorial standards, Danny. If they grab strips with the broadest appeal, that fit together into a cohesive comics page, representing the spectrum of comics while remaining consistent in quality, the word will get out. People will begin to gravitate to that syndicate. The publishing world will see them as professionals. The reading public will ee them as a gateway to good comics.

[JUBAL leans forward.]

JUBAL

That's where we're headed, Danny. I don't know if Comicsense.com will become that portal. I do know that the only chance we have is if we make hard decisions. Professional decisions. We need to say 'this is a good strip, but it doesn't fit our site, and we pass.' That's why I hired you, Danny. I need someone who can look the single most popular webcomic's creators in the eye and say "I'm sorry. You don't fit."

[DANNY looks away, smiling a hint.]

JUBAL

What's the PR fallout look like?

DANNY

The rumors are out there. I'm saying there's no chance Pennyfarthing would come to our site.

JUBAL

What are the Pennyfarthing guys going to do?

DANNY

They're going to have to address the rumors, and keep their street cred. I expect they're gonna make fun of us.

JUBAL

Sooner rather than later?

DANNY

I'd bank on it.

JUBAL

And they'll link to us in the bargain?

DANNY

Seems like they generally do.

JUBAL (smiling)

Then you might want to let Simon know that at 11:27 tomorrow, we're going to be having a few hundred thousand guests show up.

DANNY

Seems likely.

JUBAL

Now get the Hell out of my office. Some of us have work to do.

[The camera pulls back. The music swells up, taking center stage, in time for Lou Reed to sing: Jackie is just speeding away/Thought she was James Dean for a day/Then I guess she had to crash/Valium would have helped that bash/Said, Hey babe,Take a walk on the wild side.]

[Fade to black and EXEC. CREDITS, as the song continues: I said, Hey honey/Take a walk on the wild side/and the coloured girls say/doo do doo do doo do do doo....]

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 6:22 PM | Comments (61)

August 30, 2006

Eric: Stuff.

It was a busy day. I actually have a long essay written, but it's held back right now for editorial reasons.

Hey, it can happen.

I would like to point out, however, that I would really like to learn to play the Theramin. This is because of that meme about the mixing of the Simpsons theme with Star Trek? Any musical instrument played via stabbing gestures into the air is a worthy one.

God help me, the song I most want to play on a Theramin is "Don't You Want Me Baby" by the Human League.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 11:27 PM | Comments (20)

August 29, 2006

Eric: Omnipedia: Meta'd

I did this a while ago, as part of a background for a role playing thing I was doing. Hand in hand with it was some noodling with old Superguy concepts, and the odd notes for background materials for some potential fiction I wanted to write.

Why I did it in the style of a faux Wikipedia article I can't say.

Anyhow, it interests me, and I figured it might interest some of you, too. So enjoy.

---

(Taken from 2025 Omnipedia article on Meta'd, under a Creative Uncommons License.)

OMNIPEDIA "One Tome to Rule Them All, One Tome to Find Them. One Tome to Bring them all and in the Darkness Define Them."

Category: Culture: Modern Street Gangs

META'D

The Meta'd (pronounced 'metaed') are a loose network of related 'sets' or street gangs in major metropolitan centers of the United States. Originally centered in the Midwest, particularly Chicago and Detroit, the Meta'd now have significant concentrations in Los Angeles, New York, Miami and the Pacific Northwest. Unlike most street gangs, the Meta'd typically organize around paranormals (thus the word 'meta'd,' which is derived from the slang term 'meta,' which means superhuman or paranormal human), and so often individual sets of Meta'd can rival much larger non-superpowered (or "norm") gangs in power and influence. Meta'd are typically identified by wearing blaze orange (the color typically worn by hunters), with different sets using different applications to denote their individual set allegiances. Some sets of Meta'd have rivalries as intense as any the Meta'd have with external street gangs. Meta'd are often associated with the more militant side of neo-punk music.

History

The Meta'd first appeared in Chicago, when Ted "Slash" Condit and Roberto "Burn" Gabriel struck up a friendship, though they were members of rival norm street gangs. The pair realized they had more in common than they had with their gang members, and both knew other paranormals (generally with limited powersets) who found themselves marginalized even within their own gangs or separate from themselves. Forswearing their old allegiances, they founded the L-Train Loop Meta'd in 2014.

The Meta'd grew in Chicago and the ideas began to spread to other cities almost immediately. To a certain degree, this caught authorities by surprise, since there was little indication that paranormality had become quite this common. (The conventional wisdom to that point had the rate of American paranormality -- which was believed to be a higher concentration than the rest of the world -- was approximately 1 in 1.1 million. By that standard, statistically there should have only been two or three paranormals in all of metropolitan Chicago. Instead, the Meta'd of Chicago had grown to 50 members in various loosely affiliated sets by 2015. While some no doubt came from other cities, there was clearly a much higher native paranormal population than was previously expected. Some sociologists believe that due to discomfort with their abilities (and the differences perceived between themselves and normals) a high percentage of metahumans with limited powersets never reveal themselves as paranormal -- with the appearance of the Meta'd, these paranormals -- particularly those from disenfranchised, disadvantaged or economically depressed or otherwise dysfunctional conditions -- found the idea of a safe haven very appealing.

Over the next several years, the different sets of Meta'd have grown and flourished in and around other gang cultures. As Neo-punk began to gain traction in urban areas, many Neo-punk artists have developed strong ties to the Meta'd community, with groups such as the Cheshire Kittens and Death of Superguy using Meta'd as security for their venues. (The Cheshire Kittens typically wear blaze orange on stage, identifying themselves with the Meta'd directly, though it's not not know what if any set they were ever actually part of.)

The Meta'd Today

The Meta'd have known sets in Chicago, Detroit, Seattle, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Dallas, New York City, Miami, Baltimore and Boston. The sets are at best loosely affiliated, and rival sets have been known to emerge in the same city. At the same time, Meta'd typically stick together when threatened by norm gangs, so many norm gangs simply leave the Meta'd alone.

Gang income comes from the usual sources -- protection/extortion money from their neighborhoods, crime, petty theft, being hired out by bodyguards (particularly among neo-punk artists and the neo-punk community), and in some situations controlling drugs and/or prostitution in their areas. Most sets -- even those who run drugs to norms -- eschew drug use themselves for safety reasons and to set them apart from norms. Some sets specialize in the so-called Power drugs that grant some measure of paranormality to normals for brief periods of time as part of their effect (or side effect). There are rumors that some cut these drugs (or make them unusually pure), either in an attempt to injure norms or to drive the creation of new permanent metahumans. Gang representatives dismiss such claims as propaganda.

One interesting division between sets are their attitudes towards sympathetic norm gangs. Some sets of Meta'd form alliances with norm gang sets as part of a mutual protection pact (these are called the "Live" Meta'd, for "live and let live."). Others eschew all such alliances as a violation of what the Meta'd stand for (these are known as the "Pure" Meta'd). One of the best known of these schisms is in the Seattle Meta'd community. The Aurora Street Meta'd are a set of Live Meta'd directly tied to a norm street gang that calls themselves the Aurora Street Metabees (for "Meta-wannabe"). The Metabees wear bright shocking green bandanas on their left upper arms. The Aurora Street Meta'd wear their orange bandanas on their left upper arms and a darker green bandana underneath it. In contrast, the Broadway 2-Told Meta'd, from the Broadway neighborhood, are a strictly Pure Meta'd set who guard their territory from any encroaching norm gang activity, and wear their blaze orange on their right arms. (And naturally wear no green colors at all.)

Politics and Sociology

One common trait between Live Meta'd and Pure Meta'd is in the political arena. Many Meta'd actively campaign for broader acceptance of metahumans in society. The restriction of paranormals from such lucrative careers as professional sports (often seen as a route off of the streets for athletic norms, but denied to metahumans as unfair to human competitors) and various legislation designed to maintain public order and enforce fair business practices are seen as blatantly discriminatory against the metahuman community by a significant percentage of the Meta'd.

More radical elements within the Meta'd hold forth that the superior abilities the Meta'd possess should yield superior privilege -- that if metas were given unrestricted access to the opportunities the norms enjoy, then metas would swiftly displace norms at the top of the social order. They call for immediate abolition of all legislation restricting paranormality and its expression in legitimate business, holding forth that given equal opportunity, metahumans will swiftly outcompete normals. They also hold that this truth is self-evident to the point that normals actively conspire to oppress metahumans, in order to preserve norm prerogatives. Finally, some sets of Meta'd believe themselves wholly above norm law, since the laws are written to benefit norms over metas.

One prevailing theory among cultural anthropologists and sociologists is that with the decline in the past two decades of so-called "Supervillain activity" (in particular the grandiose schemes of potential world-conquerers, many of whom employed low level or otherwise less potent metahumans), the paranormal elements of law enforcement are seen less as protectors and more as oppressors by the underclass. Absent a more ritualized "supervillainous" outlet, they find themselves collecting and developing into ganglike structures. Certainly, a key component of the Meta'd philosophy is that "super heroes" are traitors to their race, acting to protect norms instead of exalt metas. Meta'd have similar responses to the concept of secret identities -- finding such 'passing' behavior to be the social equivalent of closeted homosexuals, who feel they will have their rights infringed upon and become social outcasts should their secret be revealed. The act of concealing one's paranormalities so that they can appear 'normal' is referred to in Meta'd circles as "bluesuiting," from a speech given by Meta'd activist Helen "Cold-T" Taylor:

"You know what I'm talking about. The god lands on Earth, and conceals his spandex suit and bright red cape. He puts on a blue suit and tie that makes him look stiff and awkward, and combs his hair to look unexceptional. His eyes are much better than human eyes, but he puts on glasses so he looks weak, and frail. He clothes himself not only in mundanity but in depectitude, and acts the part of the awkward fool, so no one suspects he is not a man, but a god. The Meta'd reject these blue suits. They reject these glasses if we do not need them to see. We reject the idea that we must not just conform but present as inferior to the normals around us. We stand before you proud, distinctive, and dare I say it superior. We embrace our godhood."

Another catchphrase of Meta'd philosophy is the principle of "Just Clever Enough," which is held up as a key component of norm oppression of metahumanity. This too comes from a Meta'd activist's speech -- in this case, Charles Foster White ("I.Q. Nu") of San Francisco's Wharfside Meta'ds:

"We threaten norms because we outdo them in every way. The golden trait of humanity over all other species has always been intelligence. They think, they rationalize, they use language, and they conceptualize, and so they can master lions and tigers that are stronger and faster and more physically robust. And now there are metas. And one of the four most common metahuman expressions is enhanced intellect. Metas think better than norms. Metas rationalize with greater facility and sophistication than norms. Metas can develop languages and concepts norms cannot begin to keep up with. If intelligence is the great advantage of humanity, then humanity is doomed.

"However, the norms have figured something crucial out. While they stand at the top of the heap, they do not need to be smarter than metas. They do not need to be more clever than metas. They do not need to be better than metas. They simply have to be just clever enough. They have to be just clever enough to pass laws that say we cannot use our powers in the course of human affairs. They have to be just clever enough to lift some of our most powerful up, and convince them to act on behalf of norms over metas, to negate our advantages. They have to be just clever enough to consistently act in their own best interest instead of in the interests of a greater justice. They have to be just clever enough to know that if they keep us minimized and disorganized we cannot pose a threat to them no matter how powerful or clever we are.

"And so I say we must not strive to outthink them. We must not strive to use brute intelligence or strength against them. Instead, we must come together. We must recognize their tactics. We must understand that if we act as one, with organization and with cunning, we can defeat the impediments they put in our path. We do not need to collectively be more clever than all of them -- we need to be just clever enough to act in our own best interest, in a way that counters them. Once we do that, our natural superiorities will let us outstrip them, and we will assume our rightful place without any need for violence or pain."

This sense of inevitable superiority over norm society is a common trait among Meta'd. Some sets of Meta'd (particularly Live Meta'd sets) feel that as metahuman expression becomes permitted in norm society, the natural advantages paranormals possess will elevate them to prominence. Others -- particularly among the Pure Meta'd -- believe that being "just clever enough" involves knowing when to actually strike back. The debate is typified by Evolution versus Revolution -- the former believing that Metahuman superiority is inevitable and will come in due course, the latter believing that only by shattering the old world order can a new world order take place. Neither camp, however, is particularly concerned with what happens to norms as society changes. "Norms don't care about me," Cheshire Kittens guitarist Tabitha "G-Listening" Strong once said. "So why should I care about them? I'll look after my own kind. There's a lot of norms out there. If they got off their fat asses and did for themselves instead of letting Uncle Tom metas protect them, they'd be able to take care of themselves, right?"

The use of paranormals as 'super heroes' and other forms of law enforcement -- which some might say is the traditional use of paranormals in American society -- is seen as direct evidence of a cornerstone of the Meta'd philosophy: the oppression of the paranormal on behalf of the normal. The recognizable tropes of Superhumanity -- the distinctive (often sexually exploitive) costuming, the adoption of codenames so as to make them archetypes instead of identifiable people, the use of "secret identities" to allow super heroes to assimilate into norm society when they aren't acting to protect that society, and even the use of 'signals' and other dramatic devices for norm police to summon paranormals at their whim to fight (generally metahuman) opposition are seen as clear signs of the devaluation of superhuman identity hand in hand with the exaltation of superhuman acts on behalf of norm society. "Good" superhumans strike down antisocial metahumans on behalf of norms, then change into their blue suits, put on their glasses, pretend to be norms themselves, and don't even ask for thank yous in return. Meta'd activists claim that these acts marginalize and devalue metahumanity on both sides of the equation -- "uppity" metahumans get struck down by docile "superheroes," thus preventing norms from having to do anything about paranormal rights.

Paranormal poet, writer and philosopher Dr. Harold T. McGinnis (himself a public Meta'd sympathizer), wrote about the issue this way in The New Yorker:

"My heritage is African, my birthplace is America. And, like many African Americans of my generation, I have reaped the benefits of the Civil Rights struggle that began previous to the Civil War in this nation and culminated in the Civil Rights Movement of the sixties. And while we have not yet achieved all our goals, we are vastly closer than our grandfathers were. And so I have studied the Civil Rights Movement and the attendant movements that surrounded it, and I have been struck at how differently the Metahuman Rights Movement actually is.

"Blacks used to extol 'Black Power,' but more telling was the Black Panther's exhortations of 'all power to the people!' All people, not just black people, and not just white people, should share in the power. This was the key to our struggle in those days -- we were not asking to be made masters in the house where once we were slaves. We were demanding that our former masters look us in the eye and shake our hands, both sides free and equal in all things.

"This is not something metahumans can say, with a clear conscience. We cannot claim a desire to be equal in all things with our normal brethren, because we cannot be equal to them. Our powers and abilities make us demonstrably, obviously superior in too many ways for us to claim 'equality.' If all barriers were stripped away tomorrow -- if metas could compete with norms in all arenas, then the next day would see the sun setting on norm dominance. They simply cannot compete.

"The Zooside Meta'd of New York once challenged the New York Knicks -- that year's World Champions -- to a pickup game. The Knicks declined, which was probably smart on their part. The Zoosiders have four different metas with enhanced dexterity, speed, agility and accuracy in different ways, not to mention a character whose arms stretch far enough to let him 'dunk' free throws and another who could leap for a dunk from center court. However, the idea that these tall men of basketball are "world champions" is ridiculous on the face of it. I say, let them play a team of Meta'd. In 2019 the NBA Salary Cap was made $142 million per team. All right. Do a best out of seven series between the Knicks and a given local Meta'd gang. If the Meta'd win the best of seven series, give them the next year's one hundred and forty-two million and let the Knicks try to make ends meet. Do you think the Knicks will take me up on that offer?

"Put metas of intellect into 'publish or perish' positions in direct competition with norms, and they outperform the norms four to one in research and publication. This has been shown time and again, to the point that private laboratories typically have clauses in their contracts that restrict meta researchers from claiming full patent rights or exercising stock options in the same way, lest they overwhelm their less gifted colleagues and end up running the company de facto if not de jure. American business learned the lessons of Awesome Amalgamated and Harxxon Energy well, and norm executives have moved to secure their industries and their positions against the encroachment of the next Andy Awesome or Chalandra Harkness.

"Give metas a chance to use their paranormalities to make a living, and they will always -- always -- exceed norms in that same position. I don't care if we're discussing steelworkers who can withstand the heat of blast furnaces or nanotechnicians who can shrink to atomic size or even ditch diggers who never get tired and can dig a ditch in fifteen seconds instead of fifteen minutes. When give absolutely equal opportunity alongside norms, with all preference or prejudice taken out of the equation, the metas win every time.

"That means that we cannot demand equality and expect to be heard. It cannot be done. And we cannot even blame the norms for their perceived prejudice or short sightedness. The norms are not short sighted -- they can see all too clearly the inevitable result of metahuman equality, and they don't like the looks of it one bit.

"And yet, metahuman equality -- the reduction and elimination of all barriers to metahumans in society -- is inevitable. It is inevitable because it is the only fair thing to do, and it is inevitable because if America doesn't open its society to metahumans, some other society will -- and that society will overrun America in the long run. Darwin is alive and well, and the most fit will take over the right niche, like it or not. The question is, will American norms figure out that their long term best interest is in embracing their future quickly, letting themselves take a subordinate role to their gifted and superior children, and letting our Nation be the leader in the changes to come... or will they hold onto their power and suppress the smartest, fastest, strongest and most capable members of their society, marginalizing them and calling them "villains," until one day they discover that the Europeans are colonizing Titan and curing cancer and running their flying cars without gasoline, and no one will even trade with us because of our backwards ways?"

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Posted by Eric Burns-White at 1:26 AM | Comments (45)

May 17, 2006

Eric: Dude.

Here's the thing. I'm a writer. I write.

I do it because I love writing. I do it because I'm not happy when I'm not writing. I do it because... well because it's what I do.

Sometimes, I get paid for it. And that rocks.

Getting my copies of books with my name on the cover rocks too. Smelling the paper, smelling the ink.

People reading what I write rocks. You all rock.

And I have had any number of moments. Thresholds. Moments that are seminal. Moments where my world rocks a little, but in a very good way.

I had one of those tonight.

I've been honored and privileged to write a few introductions and forewards for comic and cartoon collections. It always humbles me to have someone whose work I respect ask me to contribute something to one of their collected works -- I mean, this is one of the high points of their lives we're discussing. To be asked to be a part of that is an honor and a privilege. It is, in the end, fun.

And it's a blast to see them offered online. And those rare moments I go to a comic book store and see them there, it is amazingly cool. It is just as cool as it is to walk to the RPG section of those stores and see one of my books over there as well. I like RPG stores. They're good for my ego.

Well. Ever since I've sold stuff professionally, I've haunted Barnes and Noble, Borders and all of their ilk. Because while I've known that the likelihood that Sidewinder: Wild West Adventures or something from In Nomine would be sitting on a Barnes and Noble shelf was small, it wasn't zero. (I thought I'd have that moment with Star Trek: Worlds. And then it went PDF only. Sometimes, the Gods enjoy laughing at us.) I still do it to this day.

And I look through the graphic novel section. But not for anything of mine. I look there to see if folks from the webcomics world have made the jump. It happens on occasion, and I think that's really cool.

Well. So, tonight, I was looking over the graphic novels, and my heart stopped. Because the Image Comics collections of Scott Kurtz's PvP were there. And well they should be.

More to the point, volume 3 is there.

I should have expected it. PvP is big enough to make the jump to bookstores -- more than big enough. And Scott Kurtz has worked hard, and Image ain't small potatoes. Of course the Image PvP collections are there.

So I picked up Volume 3. And I opened the cover. And I read the opening words of the foreward.

I get a certain amount of e-mail about webcomics these days. A good number of those e-mails center on webcomics the writer loves. They extol the virtues of their favorite webcomics. They talk about the art, the writing, the characterization and the jokes. They are enthusiastic about webcomics and they want to share their enthusiasm with others.

I'm not going to write about those letters in this introduction.

I skipped ahead, to the very end.

Specifically, to the part that said "Eric Alfred Burns, New Hampshire" and had a picture of the Ursula Vernon 'Snarky' you see in the corner of the web site's pages.

And I knew, right then, that it was highly unlikely that a Barnes and Noble in New Hampshire was atypical in its ordering. It's better than even odds that the other Barnes and Nobles in the region carry similar selections.

And pretty darn likely the same is true throughout this half of the country. Or maybe even the full country.

And that the same is probably true of Powell's. Or Borders. Or the Elliot Bay Bookstore. Or Tattered Cover.

For the first time in my life, I can walk into any given large chain bookstore in the country and there's at least even odds I can put a hand on my book that has my fucking words in it.

I'm astoundingly grateful to Scott Kurtz for the opportunity. And I'm just blown away. This is one of those moments that just throws me. I literally have to adjust my world view to fit this fact.

I'm a writer.

I write.

The proof can likely be found at your friendly local bookstore.

Dude.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 10:08 PM | Comments (24)

January 31, 2006

Eric: Momenteum

Writer's block is only rarely a block for me.

It's happened, mind. I've had days where I feel physically incapable of writing.

But most of the time, I don't go through writer's block. I go through writer's fatigue. Writer's fatigue is that point where you cannot imagine having the energy to actually produce something worth reading. It's a cousin to inertia, really. You're at rest, creatively. You want to stay at rest, creatively.

That's where a blog like this one comes in handy. It's a pump-primer. It forces the words to start coming out, and once words one, two, three, four and five come out, it's far easier to get to words five-hundred-and-ninty-two, five-hundred-and-ninty-three, and so on.

This is also why so many writer's guides/handbooks/what have you's open with the injunction to write every day. For many people, this is because it's easier to write on Thursday if you already wrote on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

For whatever reason, my momentum has been stalled out, and every new attempt to regain it pushes the whole inertia going. And I have a lot of writing to do.

So. You're seeing this post over here. Trying to build up speed. Trying to get some traction. So that somewhere in all this I can write the 8,000 words I really need to.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 10:04 AM | Comments (22)

January 27, 2006

Eric: Reprint of my 2006 Livejournal Down The Rabbit Hole Meme Thing. Stuff. Thing.

I'm not precisely sure when my desk was moved outside. Or perhaps it's that the insides of things are now outside, and the outsides of things are now inside. I do know that I've been watching students wander into an enclosed building to "get some fresh air," while the offices and the like now rest inside of snowdrifts and parking lots.

I can't see that it's made much difference. Though I worry about the racks of servers should we get snow.

The lake gleamed with snow and ice, newly refrozen and resnowed-upon after last week's complete melting and rainstorm, and I sat at my desk, still covered with junk, though of course as it was outside the piles of paper kept blowing off. The sunlamp I have -- a present for all of us without windows, normally -- seems to have been replaced with a fluorescent model that does nothing but buzz annoyingly and make me more pallid.

Otherwise, the network is wireless so my daily work is unimpeded. I am glad Wednesday bought me a USB coffee warmer pad, though. It plugs into my USB hub and provides a warm spot to put my coffee mug down. Other folks are drinking their coffee hurriedly, lest it be chilled down within minutes.

Twenty-seven degrees. With a wind.

"Hey, Eric," one of the faculty members says. He's cheerful -- tall, almost lanky. One of the perkier history teachers. He sits across from me, the office chair he sits in crunching down into the snow crust. He's in full parka. "Looks like we're finally getting some winter, huh?"

"Looks like," I said, trying to figure how to end the conversation. And how to keep typing with gloves on. I'm glad I finally bought gloves, I thought.

He leaned closer, conspiratorially. Wind blew across his face, causing ice crystals to form in his mustache. "I wouldn't want to be outside on a day like today."

I looked nonplussed. "Outside?" I asked.

"Oh yeah," he said, pointing to the Quonset hut the kids had piled into.

"You realize that's a building."

"Oh yes."

I shook my head. I'd read Douglas Adams too. "So that's the inside of the asylum?"

He blinked, looking blank. "Asylum?"

"Never mind. The inside of that building--"

"No no no. The outside of that building."

"The outside of that building is contained within its corrugated steel?"

"I'm not sure it's steel. But yes."

I took a deep breath. "All right. Why?"

He grinned, triumphantly. "Climate control!"

I stared.

He continued grinning.

I stared some more.

He continued grinning.

"Climate control?"

"Well, yes. Right now, there are days that are too hot to do anything fun in the summer, and too cold to do anything in the winter. Or there's rain or sleet or wind or what have you. That's terribly inefficient."

"Inefficient?"

"Oh yes. Now, here's the thing. We're a school. We have a very specific schedule we have to follow. If we have ski team practice, we can't have it suddenly rain and melt all the snow, can we? The ski team has to practice."

"So... you have a building you send them into--"

"Out to."

"--out to, instead?"

"Of course! Now, everything is precisely regulated. We know exactly what kind of outdoor weather to expect. We can plan accordingly."

"So... why do we have to sit outside--"

"Inside!"

"--inside in the snow and wind?"

He chuckled, rather like he was talking to a moron. "Look, we can't very well contain outside without there being a state change from 'inside.' It's absolutely necessary that in order to have an outside, there has to be a boundary that's crossed. That's essential."

"So... in order to contain outside, you have to release inside into the wild?"

"Of course."

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, and sipped my coffee. The USB warming plate had kept it tepid, though the wind had picked up so there was just so much it could do. "But don't we lose efficiency? I mean, if it starts to rain or snow--"

He looked puzzled. "It can't rain or snow inside. That's silly."

I blinked. "What do you call this stuff we're sitting in?"

"Chairs?"

"Under the chairs?"

"Oh. Well, the A/C is on a bit high at the moment."

"And if... oh, water starts falling from the sky?"

"Pipe leak, clearly."

"Clearly," I said, dryly.

Suddenly, there were shrieks of buzzers and bells, mounted on light poles and the like throughout campus. People in their outdoor cubicles and arranged classroom desks got up, shivering still, and began filing towards the 'Outside' hut.

"What the--"

"Fire drill. Come on. We need to go outside."

I sighed, and took a few moments to pack my laptop out. I wouldn't want to leave it inside. It looks like the pipes might burst a little later.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 12:36 PM | Comments (12)

January 26, 2006

Wednesday: Lesson Zero

It really started with Sylvia.

You know that I collect trainwrecks. Among them, I keep a small stack of confessional autobiographies, diaries, essays, and collected correspondence by batshit insane twentieth-century writers. Theoretically, I keep them around as insight into process. They're more useful than writing guides. In many cases, though, they're also more fascinating than whatever the writers are actually known for.

They're also, all too often, case studies in What Not To Do, or Why Not To Take Yourself So God Damned Seriously. They're cautionary tales. Warnings. From the sophomoric Spiral Galaxies and New Words of Mary Daly's Outercourse to the addiction-as-failed-career-salvage of Elizabeth Wurtzel's More Now Again, the stack tracks where experimental phases just shouldn't turn into ongoing lifestyle choices. Or, for that matter, creative ones.

(And some are just hilariously bad, like Wurtzel's stuff. But I digress.)

This started when I was thirteen. I'd just finished reading four suicide prevention books in a row, all of which which devoted chapters to Sylvia Plath's purpoted thrall over depressed teenagers, particularly the girls. This fascinated me. No one had told me there was a thrall-holder! My life as a depressed teenaged girl clearly lacked the mandated literature. I obviously wasn't doing this properly.

(Also, I was sick of seeing that one passage of Anne Sexton's "Wanting to Die" quoted over and over. Perfectly good shamanic cannibalism imagery there, and we keep getting the special language?! Even when the logical progression from suicidal ideation to  self-execution typically stems from "why build"? God. But I digress.)

Unfortunately, when I ransacked the local library for such as Ariel and The Bell Jar, all I could find was Plath's Letters Home. I don't know whether this was down to demand or the lack thereof. Later, in America, I'd find the expurgated journals in all of their nosepicking glory. I'd even find the poetry and prose, which was now utterly secondary.

But, for two years, all that I had was a bunch of self-censored letters from Plath to (mostly) her mother. Many of them were redolent with the turgid ghost of future publication's potential, as I'd later find with her unabridged early adult diaries. Further, Plath maintained some sense of autonomy from her mother by maintaining the pretense of happiness in spite of whatever. As an overview of Plath's life, the letters weren't particularly useful on their own, and left a weak first impression: this woman holds sway over legions of depressed young girls?

The overview of her childhood and adolescence, now, that was the gold. There were the underpinnings of a particularly vain self-definition as writer.  If I'd had half a brain growing up, I would have gleaned lesson zero from them:

Just because someone tells you you have potential doesn't mean that you're any good yet. Have a sense of perspective.

Selections from juvenile diaries and poetry demonstrated that she plainly wasn't There yet, whatever There meant. Young Plath's progression indicated the presence of a gift, but not of skill -- nor, for that matter, was the gift particularly well demonstrated. For example, she was still mistaking personal experience for the universally resonant:

"And so there comes a time in your senior year at high school when, because you love the ocean and the wind and sand, someone drins and drives you down to the sea; and because you like poetry, someone gives you a poetry anthology for graduation; and because that someone is collegiate and quite lovely, you invite him to your senior prom and write to him every day for a whole summer long fat letters with little coloured pictures in the margins. And no matter how you change in your life, there was a time when someone was really important."

She was also blowing things out of proportion. Of her first tragic poem, her English teacher observed, "Incredible that one so young could have experienced anything so devastating." And, in fact, Plath had lost her father to post-surgical embolism and a bout with severe diabetes some years prior. So you could assume that "I Thought That I Could Not Be Hurt" stemmed from those issues:

[...]Then, suddenly my world turned gray,
and darkness wiped aside my joy.
A dull and aching void was left
where careless hands had reached out to
destroy

my silver web of happiness.
The hands then stopped in wonderment,
for, loving me, they wept to see
the tattered ruins of my firmament

(How frail the human heart must be-
a mirrored pool of thought. So deep
and tremulous an instrument
of glass that it can either sing,
or weep).

Fourteen-year-old's lament. Unfortunately, it was written shortly after Plath's grandmother accidentally smudged one of Sylvia's pastel drawings with an apron.

Out of context, one might read the English teacher's praise as sarcasm. However, it wasn't. Plath went home and squeed to her diary about the praise lavished upon her in class, the "lyric gift above the ordinary" attributed to her. (Mind, the whole world was likely not meant to have read that particular bit of her journals, but it didn't help first impressions.)

Worse, at some point in 1948, she'd fallen into the trap of Writing Poetry About Writing:

You ask me why I spend my life writing?
Do I find entertainment?
Is it worthwhile?
Above all, does it pay?
If not, then, is there a reason? . . .

I write only because
There is a voice within me
That will not be still.

("Wow," I thought. "I'm not going to even touch that subject until such time as I'm confident that I can put it better than that."

I didn't always succeed. Not having learned lesson zero, I wrote piles of dreck for years and thought it shone. Some of it was probably about writing, and much of it revolved around insight I'd convinced myself was genuine. I had a bad case of Dead Poets Society syndrome in places.

I also hadn't figured out one of lesson zero's corollaries: there's little external value to making pronouncements about your creative drive if you can't then whittle your statement down to something prosaic and functional. You can pose for effect all you want, but all the bollockry you care to pull out about voices or muses or Really Living Life or whatever is meaningless if you can't -- or won't -- convey the drive without dazzle, yet or ever. If your goal is less to communicate the compulsion and more to impress others with your depth and profundity, I tell you, you've likely already received your reward.

So, by backing away from the subject until I could handle it more eloquently, I was somewhat missing the point: I needed to be able to do this in a way which wasn't at all about the chrome.

Ergo, the mere act of writing this demonstrates an ongoing failure to grasp lesson zero.)

Much of her juvenile work is just flawed in the ways that much starting work is flawed. And she never asked -- probably quite the opposite -- for her mother to run her adolescence through the Sunny Optimist filter for public consumption; her work for the teen girls' magazines would take care of that for her a little later on.

Still, I was thirteen, and a bit short on context. I had a book of letters displaying Sylvia Plath as a bright, chatty, generally happy sort of person. The suicide attempt and prior events which informed The Bell Jar were rendered as a learning experience, in a "but I'm all better now!" tone. It didn't tell me much about what the suicide prevention books were asserting. That said, the early material, including letters from when Plath felt more comfortable discussing her process in correspondence, did lay the groundwork for understanding a dysfunctional relationship with writer's compulsion. (Arguably, it also gave instructions for creating one of my own, but that's another show.) 

Plath's self-absorption and warped worldview remained in stunning force throughout her life. Her skill at chroming the purpose increases, and she does become more aware of her mechanisms, but the chrome remains essential. All throughout the journals, she often writes in private as if for the public ("as if an eye were upon me"), or with the conviction that her experience bears disproportionate weight of truth. ("[Y]ou have seen a lot, felt deeply & your problems are universal enough to be made meaningful -- WRITE --"; "How much of life I have known: love, disillusion, madness, hatred, murderous passions[...] I will write mad stories. But honest. I know the horror of primal feelings, obsessions"). She had trained herself not only to respond to the writer's compulsion, but to seek affirmation through publication and acclaim.

Over time, it became clearer to me what was going on. When she built herself up, it was to tell herself that her personal experience was unusually valuable. The next round of positive attention was the only one that mattered, because it was the only one that could confirm her ongoing personal worth, or that her depth and conveyance of insight was as she claimed.  Without getting into the reasons (beyond the scope of this essay, and better handled in numerous biographies), so much seems to spring from the basic premise, "I am a good writer. I am a gifted writer." The qualifiers are essential components of her identity; specialness is as much a factor as art or craft.

Later, she was good. She may have believed this too soon.

When the first crushing disappointments came -- rejection from a prestigious short story class, among others -- she learned to retroactively loathe her published work. Coupled with exhaustion from her stint at Mademoiselle, she developed a block which precipitated her first self-mutilation and suicide attempts. This would revisit her in several forms over her life: I am not really a good writer. I therefore have no purpose. Thus, when she asserts that the root of herself is the compulsion, the unstilled voice, that rings false. The compulsion doesn't define her; it's a means to an end. Rejection, invisibility, and unpublished work are challenges to the self-concept.

Lesson zero never really takes, and that informs her practice.

So, there's a danger in poorly balanced praise, and accepting saidsame out of turn. There's a danger in establishing internal purpose and definition too early, and/or from a point of weakness.

It's yellow lights like these which leave me more interested in exploring trainwrecks than not, to some extent. It's not that I see myself as authoritative in any way; I don't. I do find it preferable to work from the ground up when sorting something out for myself, and writing is one way to accomplish that.

I need to know, and understand, what doesn't work, in order to better grasp what does.

I need to know, and understand, what not to do.

Posted by Wednesday White at 1:00 AM

November 30, 2005

Eric: To my father, the Doctor, on the seventieth anniversary of his birth.

This is a poem, and it's quite long, so I put it behind a cut.

If you like it... I'm glad.

The Doctor, I believe, will like it.

In any case, I love him very much. This is for him.

To my father, the Doctor, on the seventieth anniversary of his birth.

He climbs down the stairs of the Pleasant Street house,
quiet as you can be on stairs designed to squeak
exactly when you don't want them to, when people sleep.
and he, the man, husband and father creeps
down before dawn on a cold Fort Kent morning.
Winter is ice and snow and bitter wind up there -- it tears
across the house and steals the heat
from old glass windows, wavy with age
and so he slips down the stairs, around the corner
and down into the cold, dark basement,
where the wood is corded along the walls, stacked by him
in autumn months before it's needed, before it's cold
against the day when bitter cold comes again, all too soon.
He takes up two or three split logs and carries
them to the heavy iron door
of the furnace. He opens it, and looks within,
seeing the coals and embers left behind. Judging.
What will they need? Paper? Kindling? Just the wood?
He twists old newspapers into knots, to burn fast and hot
but not burn out before it's done. Tosses them in,
then planks, then logs,
stirs and blows with bellows until he sees them catch.
Closes the door, adjusts the flue
and brings fire to the house while his family still sleeps.

At nineteen he went to war.
A boy becoming a man in service to his country
caught defending a distant land, going willingly
before they had to ask. He joined the Air Force.
Airman, Corporal. Sergeant.
He fixed the guns on silver jets.
Long tubes and barrels recessed into ports
made streamlined, to reduce the drag on the plane.
In the evenings he sat in smoky Japanese beer halls
and played trivia games and name that tune.
Winning records for knowing the names
of music, of musicians, jazz and swing.
Drinking and laughing, supporting the men
who flew silver eagles into the blue
and brought death to aggressors with the guns Dad knew.
Twenty five years later he would teach his son
how to clean a shotgun. Looking down the open barrel
seeing the light gleam on all sides, a silver slide.
Well kept, well oiled. Rags on wires pushed through
to the far end, turned as needed,
blue metal well cared for. Wooden stock warm in the hand.
Ancient rituals of the man and his weapons.
Cared for with all the skill born
of a thousand automobiles serviced and checked.
He was a man of letters, philosophy--
Professor. Dean. Doctor Burns.
But on the weekends he would wear his old tee shirt,
a Giants ball cap, a layer of grease,
crawling under his car, changing oil and filters,
checking the timing and the spark and the fluids,
knowing the ways of machines and men
who drove them sometimes a little too hard.

In class he spoke with a sure voice,
knowing his references, his materials, bringing to others
the fruits of decades of love of the written word.
Poetry and prose, essay and story, Ransom and Le Carré.
Never upset, always in control,
wearing his professor's sweater and sipping tea,
straight up -- red tea, in a mug from his office,
or if need be a white styrofoam cup from the lounge.
Deep red tea, the bag pinched between thumb and forefinger
hot and scalding, but endured with a smile. He told them
of significance and thesis and imagery and style
marking down Harbrace handbook notes on their papers
and reinforcing their Strunk and White, enduring
the repetitive rebellions that every new generation
was sure they were the first to whip up -- challenging
the autocratic authority of the expert -- the sage
who stood at the front of the class with arguments
someone came up with every damn year,
and the Sage refused to get upset, even though
they tried their level best to make him mad, accusing
Shakespeare and Spenser and Dickens and Hemingway
of horrible crimes against humanity.
He never seemed to mind. He simply smiled
that slightly smug smile
and said, without actually saying it,
That's interesting. That's a point.
Support it. Cite your answers. Build your argument.
Convince me, if you can. If not, shut up.
His exact words were always the same:
"There might be a paper in that."

He climbs down stairs again and again.
Down into the cold bowels of the Pleasant Street house.
Find the wood, feed the fire.
Always feed the fire.

After the fire is going he goes upstairs
and walks the dog and has a little breakfast.
He listens to NPR and prepares the morning
for his children, sleeping still, but all too soon awake.
He makes them tea, like his, but with milk
just like his Aunt had made for him as a boy.
Tea'n'milk. The warm brown tea his children love
as he loves them, so very much. He's so proud.
A daughter, woodscolt wiry, strong and fast,
a dancer, a performer, an athlete, a leader.
She will be the first one up. The one who matches him.
The one who skis with him, and jogs with him.
The one who looks him in the eye and challenges him
to keep going. Come on, old man! she says,
never meaning it.
He's not old.
He'll never be old.
Then he'll go and speak to his son,
the daydreamer, the creator, the speaker
who loves his bed a little too much in the morning.
Who never stands when he could sit,
and never sits when he could lie,
but who gets excited by
his father's words, the books and letters.
Creating, shaping, writing, singing
using the tools his father sharpened,
insisting he use them right, and well,
a father whose pride seemed to swell
in both his children -- so proud, so proud.
He is quick to support, quick to defend
his children from stupid, venal men.
His wife joins him, the children off to school.
Beautiful, funny, smart, quick.
Strong, so strong, always ready to fight
for a cause that needed fighting. So proud he was,
so proud.

Another year, another winter,
logs for the fire, keep the house warm.

Grey haired, mustached, an institution
at the institution he served. Fighting the fights
that others quailed from. Supporting his friends,
reducing banality, stupidity. Challenging the Valley,
bringing them letters and knowledge. Saying as clearly
as he could, day after day, year after year,
"this matters."
Sometimes they heard. Sometimes they didn't.
But students who balked in their Freshmen years
returned again and again to learn at his feet,
loving him as he loved them, one and all, demanding
they perform, they prove, they cite, they show
their work. Banishing muddled theses and thinking
and sharpening students into scholars. As they grew
they knew their teachers and called them by their names.
Chuck. Bill. Paul. Wendy.
But always Doctor Burns.
Always Doctor Burns.

Always healthy, always taking care,
finding the foods that keep you alive longer. Keeping
the family secure and safe, through wheat germ
cottage cheese. One year the magazines said
"oils and fats," so it was cheese and mayonnaise.
Banished the next, made way for a fistful of pills
vitamins he took, vitamins he prepared,
for his family to take.
Down the stairs he trod in the morning.
Grab the log, feed the fire,
warm the house another day.
Always he drove, into the night
on long trips the family would take, children asleep,
wife asleep,
he turned on the late night AM radio,
finding William B, and the Milkman's Matinee.
Hearing the songs of his youth once more,
just like in Japan, in the evenings, the gun oil under his fingernails.
Watching his children grow (so proud),
tending and teaching his students and his fires,
keeping the house and minds warm.

Autumn turns to winter, the house on Pleasant Street
becomes a memory, past retirement. New lands, new homes.
His children grown, though close to hand,
his daughter with children of her own, he makes them
tea with milk, one cup each, grandchildren and their mother,
and walks the dogs late into the night as needed.
A quieter life, a life at sea. His boat like his cars, his
to judge and measure. Working to keep going,
change the oil, sand the bottom, strip the iron jenny
spending time to make it right, to make it safe.
Taking vitamins, taking care.
Time keeps pushing. He feels aches
he never used to know on a racquetball court
or ski tow hill.

They add the cast iron stove twelve years
after the retirement, ready to warm
the house without so much oil. They take in a cord
of wood, carried one load at a time,
down into the finished basement, brighter and warmer
than the Fort Kent house, but still.
Still.
Comes the darkened dawn, the house cold,
he creeps downstairs, and into the basement.
The stove is upstairs, he carries the logs
two at a time in weathered hands.
He watches the woodbox slowly empty,
and stops and judges each and every day.
Winters are long, even down here.
And every day the hungry fire burns
more wood, more wood.
He looks, and judges, and smiles that smile,
the same smug smile of the professor, the sergeant
who knew the answers in the dark, who challenged
others to their best (so proud).
He stands and considers how much wood remains,
and smiles. There is still wood yet,
and more fires to build tomorrow.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 12:00 AM | Comments (14)

November 27, 2005

Eric: Nanowrimo -- since it's been a little while.

So. In case you were wondering, The Recluse continues apace.

As of tonight, according to the Nanowrimo official word counting machine, I have fifty-three thousand and sixty-six words.

This isn't true, according to my own program. It says I have fifty thousand, seven hundred and five words.

Either way, I totally win. Hah. I say again, hah.

And it doesn't suck. Seriously. On this side of the fifty thousand, I'm thinking that with enough editing and rewriting and filling out, I can make my deadline. No later than February 28, this thing's going in the mail. By Summer, it's entirely possible both Baen and Tor will have had a chance to reject me.

For the moment, I'm excited. Hell, I'm thrilled. Many, many people announce intentions in Week One. Not so many mention it in Week Four. And though I won last year, I wasn't happy with the story last year. I got it done, but that's all I can say for it. However, this time, it all feels like it worked the way it's supposed to.

And yet... the thing is?

The book isn't done.

I have... I dunno. 10 to 15 thousand more words to write on it.

Tonight, I'm a winner.

But tomorrow, we go into extra innings.

Peace, all. You get more of my brain moving forward.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 9:27 PM | Comments (34)

November 26, 2005

Wednesday: Waiting for the atomoxetine.

The most frustrating thing has been the inability to string two words together in my head.

I was getting two, three hours of lucid thought out of the day. That's not even all in one lump; that's cumulative, spread out over however long I could stay awake. Sometimes, I could stay awake for over twenty-four hours; sometimes, I was lucky to get five or six before passing out completely again. Fourteen hours would go by and I'd still be tired.

This happens to me sometimes. I simultaneously cannot sleep at all, but sleep too much, and end up exhausted and dizzy across the board. The worst form of it this week has been staring at the screen, getting all of a sentence together, and then having the compelling need to take a nap.

For ten hours.

Meanwhile, thousands of unrelated thoughts are smashing up against the exhaustion. They bring the very physical sensation of consciousness colliding against a wad of sponge attached to the back of my forehead. I had all of this information and I am too bloody tired to process it. Coffee didn't make a dent. Red Bull didn't touch it. Drinking tea might as well have been drinking water.

I wanted to cry most of the time that I wasn't sleeping.

Usually, I have trouble passing out without the help of talkative radio or a television, because otherwise I think very loudly and very quickly and very incessantly. In junior high school, it took about twenty minutes of 100 Huntley Street to take me out completely. Today, it takes up to an hour of CBC Radio One, or TBN or God Channel or Miracle Channel or whatever -- and if they're playing music, I'm shot. If it's really bad, not even the talking helps, no matter how tired I am. My mind is too loud.

During the day, I can generally tap the flow with a keyboard. I don't know how fast I type, but it's faster than I talk and faster than I write by hand. Just don't interrupt me, because then everything will smash up against everything else again and I'll be lost for hours. Days, if you do it enough. I have a room with just enough clutter and just the right lighting and just the right sorts of sounds and textures. I keep my text editors in place, and Painter or Photoshop (or both, if memory is coping) when I can draw, a couple dozen browser tabs open, and mail or IM as needed, in case I hit capacity. If I have to leave that environment and go into the rest of the house, there's five different books scattered all around so that I can read while I'm doing whatever it is I'm doing. It's a fragile bubble. Don't break it.

I need that bubble. You can tell me all you want not to let myself get distracted, but I'm doing everything I can and it's still going to happen if you talk to me. And if you tell me not to let myself get distracted, I'm going to be distracted by my inability to prevent myself from disengaging focus. Then I'm going to sit there, everything collided, paralyzed because there's no way to determine what comes first. If I could make myself act the way you wanted me to, there just wouldn't be a problem to begin with.

Years and years ago, I checked my mail in front of this guy. "You can't read that fast. No one reads that fast and retains any information." In fact, I did read that fast, across two languages at the time, and my comprehension test scores were always in the Bitch Please percentile. But apparently this approach made it impossible to truly savour deathless prose or something, so I was exhorted to slow down and read things at the rate of "normal" human speech. When I tried it, I found it physically painful. I'm a good little girl, though. I did as I was told.

How anyone can stand to read that slowly is beyond me. I started finding it very difficult to retain anything I read all of a sudden; hours would seemingly pass between the first and last lines of a page. When I shook off the advice after a while, his declaration had become a self-fulfilling prophecy; I couldn't retain anything his way, so I didn't trust myself to do so with mine.

I stammer and I trip over my spoken words. I go blank and dim, and I'm not desperately eloquent. I say stupid, stupid things, because I'm shoving all the information into a straw and pushing it out my mouth at a snail's pace. I get shit for using "big words;" you're just pretending that you're smarter than you really are. No, I'm not; I'm cramming the maximum amount of meaning into the minimum amount of time. You want it simple? This is simple.

Words are frustrating.

There are words I won't use, words I can't use, because social overreliance upon worn metaphor empties them of meaning and makes them useless to me. I can't use broken containers.

I can't apply weight, regeneration, luminescence or direction to descriptions of clinical depression, for example, because I've spent years comparing my physical experiences to the emotional states and found them not the least bit analogous. I don't feel "low" or "weighed down" or "light" or "brighter." My preferred means of exercise is weightlifting; anything but dim light tends to aggravate migraines; I don't have a sense of increased gravity or slope at points of despair. I'm fat and I'm muscular and I like heavy things and I'm afraid of heights. These things just are. (I also don't have a reference point for feeling "refreshed" after sleep or food; the cells only turn over every seven years.) Negativity and positivity don't often have meaning for me. I don't think that there's such a thing as a "bad" attitude, just a contextually appropriate one. Some things really need to remain with bad poetry.

"My favourite thing would have to be..." Why? Do you experience a compulsion? While we're at it, "would have to"? What conditions prevent you from fulfilling your compulsion? Just say "is." "I like to call it [foo]." What prevents you from using the actual word for the thing you're discussing? Why do we need to know that you enjoy your pet name? Just say things.

Just say things. Say what you bloody well mean. Why doesn't this frustrate more people? Instead, it frustrates them when it's pointed out. "You think too much." Better this than the alternative. "You're overanalyzing everything." You're not analyzing it at all. "Stop thinking about it and just go with it." I don't have a fucking choice.

I don't have a choice about writing. When I'm not smashed up against my own forehead, I can be as logorrhaeic as Eric, and I often am.

No one but me sees any of it, though. I edit furiously. I trim and I trim and I trim until the essay bleeds. I throw things away, because no one cares, or it's all scattered, or it's not good enough, or it's parenthetical.

(Parenthetical isn't so much scatter as multitask, or additional content. One of the first things I learned was to strip out all of the stuff in brackets, because no one cares about that stuff. Not wanting to bore people, or to get called down to the principal's office again for providing supplementary context to an essay, or to provide redundant information which slows down the work, I just dropped everything which amounted to a parallel communication. (Don't most people have two to three strands of information going at any given time? Why the hell not?))

If I can't make it coalesce, then I figure no one else can, either. So I throw it away. It wasn't any good to start with. It wasn't compelling. It wasn't worthwhile. It didn't say anything you didn't already know, right? "This happened!" Yes, yes, we've seen it, we read it an hour ago; can you tell us something more? Just spitting the words out isn't enough. It has to convey everything that smashed up into the queue, and it has to focus, to boot. And it has to be worth reading, because otherwise there's just no bloody point.

It's got nothing to do with trying, at that point. The harder I try, the tighter the straw gets. Everything cramps up and shoves together and whirls around. "Trying" is just another word for not getting it done. And it's not worth doing unless it came out right to begin with. The frustration mounts and mounts, and blocks the gate, and then my head is spinning and there's a great big sponge between the words and the keyboard. If you look at me, all you see is someone holding very, very still. That's how you know something's wrong.

If I try to write, I'm fucked. It's sitting still. It's mashing the demon into a corner and then expecting it to fit into the straw.

I don't like sitting around and restricting myself to minimal stimulus. A little while ago, some girls came and sat next to me and started blathering about nothing in particular. They'd been to the bead store. (Seriously. They'd been to the hipster bead store at Carnaby, across from Playlounge.) One of them proclaimed, "Isn't it nice to just sit?" The others smiled and nodded. "Oh, yes. It's nice to just sit."

It's not nice. It's turning the drill on and letting it plunge into the floor. You're not getting anything done. Even eating something and reading a book mitigates the stultification.

I don't watch television very much anymore. Not by itself. I can't sit on the couch. I need to be on the floor, with a sketchpad or a laptop and a blanket and something to drink, because otherwise it's like using up perfectly good opportunities. If I go to a movie that isn't absolutely compelling, and I don't have someone with me I can talk to and MST with, I blot out about twenty minutes of plot thinking about details. And my legs feel trapped. I feel trapped.

Give me something which overrides everything else and shuts it up, if that's the way it has to be. I'll go deaf someday from the portable music players, but at least I don't have to listen to your goddamned mumbling or the little scratchy noises around us or the crying kid in the next aisle. If you're going to scratch me, have the common courtesy to draw blood in the process; anything else is dicking around.

No, I can't just be quiet and enjoy sitting there. It's a waste of time.

There's a bit in the MST3K version of Manos: The Hands of Fate which is pretty much my entire life. The movie grinds to an absolute halt for a minute or two. People holding still. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing can move. Sitting and staring and sitting and staring. You can feel Joel and the bots gritting their teeth, until finally Joel yells at the screen:

"DO SOMETHING!!!"

Posted by Wednesday White at 4:04 PM | Comments (112)

November 18, 2005

Eric: A brief paste. Because I love you all.

Gretchen complied. "I guess I never though of my shoulders as something that would be good or bad."

"In this crowd? Good shoulders trump good breasts any day of the week. Like I said. Elegance. Mm. How do you look in orange?"

"I don't think I've ever worn orange in my life."

"Which means you've spent your life looking like Hell. Let me guess. Lots of dark colors when you've had to dress up? Dear God, didn't your mother or your stylist teach you any better?"

"Don't bring my mother into this. What should I be wearing?"

"You're an autumn, dear. Beige, dark brown -- camel would work. Anything with a golden undertone to match your skin."

"Yellow makes me look sallow."

"Yellow doesn't have a gold undertone, honey. It's too primal. Mm. Blush, I think. Light makeup. Yeah, spaghettis would work on you. Can you walk in heels?"

"Yes."

"Good. You're going to have to. And that's our first lesson, actually. You're going to be carrying a purse, right?"

"Well, yeah?"

"I'm going to give you a pair of slippers with rubberized soles -- grippers."

"Why?"

Miranda smiled sweetly. "You know that scene in the James Bond movie where the Bond Girl runs after Bond in her high heels?"

"Yeah?"

"Bond girls are chumps.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 7:39 PM | Comments (33)

Eric: Also? Good yet unobtrusive music.

Breaking the Grounds is a cafe in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. In fact, it is in downtown Portsmouth. Which means it's about fifteen minutes farther trip than any of the places I usually visit when I go to "Portsmouth." So, between 75 and 90 minutes travel from where I live.

This is the third night in a row I have made that trip, specifically to come to this cafe, where there is free community wifi. And while I have been here, there has been writing.

A lot of writing.

Why?

Well, it's bright.

It's cheerful.

It has more character than the Cafe on the Corner, which is the Dover cafe I've told you about before.

It has much more reliable internet access.

It has cuter baristas with more attitude (I think only one of them's smiled to me, and I don't think she meant it).

None of those are the reason.

They do loose tea.

By the pot. About three cups' worth per pot.

For under two bucks.

And they have Lapsong Souchong.

A Hella Lotta Recluse has been writ under the influence of cheap pots of Lapsong Souchong.

Also, there have been well behaved dogs here, now and again. And I respect well behaved dogs. There's a beagle who's watching me type right now.

Last night, I watched a blind date unfold at the next table as I wrote. I watched the girl acknowledge the presence of her safety friend who was sitting nearby making sure she was safe (he was clearly bored out of his skull). I watched the guy's eyes light up when he saw how cute his date was. Later, I saw the universal facial expression of the guy who cannot believe he has to sit here and listen to this woman. They did end up leaving together. I find myself hoping she had a good time.

The dog is now silently communing with another dog outside in the brisk cold air. It's twenty degrees in Portsmouth, right now, but that dog doesn't care. It's silent communication. Dog wireless.

The writing calls. The Lapsong Souchong has begun to do its work.

Enjoy your evening.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 6:11 PM | Comments (26)

November 8, 2005

Eric: What good is Nanowrimo?

I've had a couple of people ask me what good Nanowrimo does in the long run.

Not for me in particular, mind. Both of these correspondents are firmly convinced I'm more than capable of producing the wordcount and not sucking wind. And, so far things are going well. (For those of you who don't read my livejournal, where most of my personal nanoruminations are going, or the site where I'm posting the work in progress, I'm just shy of eighteen thousand words so far.)

But what these folks want to know is, what good does Nanowrimo in general do? To their way of thinking, participants are often (even generally) not that good. This is the rough equivalent of a dare. What, they ask me, is the point of an event that doesn't care about quality, only completion.

So. Rather than answer them individually, I thought I'd throw a few points out here and let people chew on them.

1. Nanowrimo encourages people to put up or shut up: I'm a writer. If you don't know that by now, how the Hell did you find the blog in the first place? But, regardless, I'm a writer. I self-identify as a writer. I think of myself, before systems administration, before education, before webcartooning or criticizing, as a writer. I tell people this.

And I always get the same block of responses when I tell people I'm a writer:

• Oh, really? What have you published?

• Oh, really? I prefer knitting/sewing/watching sports/some other reference to a hobby.

• Oh, really? Yeah, I always meant to write a book, but I never got around to it.

It's the last one of those that always gets to me. The implication is that it's not very hard. The same people who responded to every three page paper in high school with a combination of sheer, unmitigated dread and rage thinks that they could do what I practice every day of my life probably about as well as I can. After all, they actually speak English, and that's all that it takes, right? That and an industry in. I mean, they weren't born yesterday.

The stumbling block is always "I never got around to it," or "I never had the time." What they really mean is they've never had the excuse. Well, here it is, in all their glory. You think you can do this? Go for it. You have thirty days. Fifty thousand words. One month to do a two hundred page paper. Go for it.

Some of them succeed. And good for them. Some make a good effort, and good for them. Some crash and burn inside of a week, and good enough.

But every one of those people gets to the far end of Nanowrimo, and never casually mentions how they're going to write a book when they get around to it again.

That's worth its weight in gold, my friends.

2. Nanowrimo encourages people to try:On the other side of the equation, we have the folks who really would like to write something, but they're convinced they can't do it. Now, for all I've implied above about how ripped I get when someone implies that my craft is easy, the simple truth is my craft is accessible. Almost anyone who's willing to put in significant practice can write, with time. They won't all be Hemingway, but then he blew his own head off, so that's not a bad thing.

Writing well is another matter, of course. But for a lot of these folks, they never even start down the path, because they're so concerned that whatever they do will suck that they never even try.

And you know what? If you've never done concerted writing of this kind before? It is going to suck.

But who cares? Sucking for a while is the gateway to not sucking.

Nanowrimo, by putting its emphasis on fifty thousand come Hell, high water, or crap, takes the pressure off. "Go for it," they say. "Who cares if it's terrible -- just do it!" And so some of those folks who've always wanted to try do try. And some of them discover that they enjoyed it. And some will discover that the last five thousand words they wrote were a lot better than the first five thousand words they wrote, and decide to keep working on this. And some people will discover that writing actually is fun, and will keep it up.

And all of those are good things too.

3. Nanowrimo teaches the single most important aspect of writing: People sometimes ask me what is the best thing a writer can do. What improves them the most? What strengthens them? What puts them in a position to succeed. What gets projects finished.

The answer is as simple as it is daunting: you have to write.

Every day.

Every day.

A plurality of "how to write X" books, where X is a novel, or a romance novel, or science fiction, or fantasy, or nonfiction, or whatever recommends that the new writer write at least one page every day. That's just two hundred and fifty words. Two hundred and fifty words. You want to know how much two hundred and fifty words is? Take a look at point two, above. From the words "On the other side of the equation" down through to "keep it up?" That's two hundred and fifty one words. That's it.

But it seems impossible. It seems like a monumental act of discipline for folks.

Nanowrimo cuts through that. Your daily quota is seventeen hundred words, and at no point do they tell you you have to do it. They just say "hey, you need to hit fifty thousand by the end of November."

So, people give it a shot. And they track their wordcount. And shoot for seventeen hundred words a day. And they discover they can do that, so they shoot for two thousand a day instead, so they can take the weekend off. They give it a full on shot.

And in so doing, they learn the core discipline. They write every day. They learn they can write every day.

It's not that far a step to actually writing every day, after that.

4. There are worse reasons to form a community than creativity: Look, I make no bones about the fact that I'm a liberal. And like most liberals (and many conservatives, for that matter), I think the arts are important. I think there's something more to human beings than working, fucking, drinking beer and watching television. I think we have the capacity to create something meaningful out of ourselves, out of our lives, our of our dreams. We can make things that never existed before.

One of the saddest facts of American society is that artistic impulse just isn't encouraged. If it doesn't make you money, what good is it? It's a waste of time. As a result, the only people who try to be writers -- or painters, or artists of any stripe, really -- are those who are downright driven to do it. People like me. I couldn't not write. I'd go insane.

But this sheer, unadulterated creativity, done for its own sake and for the simple joy of it, is the birthright of every human being with a moderately functional brain. It doesn't matter if it's any good, so long as you enjoy yourself. You don't have to be driven to be an artiste to enjoy crayons or writing a story or essay or journal entry. It's right there.

It already belongs to you.

Nanowrimo provides a community of people without expectations beyond the attempt. They say "hey -- this is pretty damn cool. You should try it!"

I know some people resent Nanowrimo. They resent their livejournal friends lists becoming full of people posting regular word counts, getting all excited because they're taking a shot at writing a book which probably will suck in the first place. They hate it as much as they hate... well, Harry Potter, because of what that does to their Livejournals and online environments every couple of years.

But even though I don't personally read Harry Potter, I'm thrilled there's a book series out there that children and adults alike are desperate to read. That kind of excitement for a book gives me hope.

And I think any yearly event that gets so many people excited about writing is an unqualified win for Civilization.

I'll check back later. I've got two hundred and fifty words to write. Followed by fifteen hundred more. And then we'll see where we go from there.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 12:32 PM | Comments (52)

November 5, 2005

Eric: NaDruWriNi: Webcomics, Video Games and Frank

(From Penny Arcade! Click on the thumbnail for full sized cool headed discussion of a popular video game franchise!)

A few moments ago, I started drinking. Overnight, my bottle of General John Stark Vodka has sat in my deep freezer, getting to a frighteningly cold temperature, which is how Vodka can be. It's cold enough that it caused condensation on the outside of the glass I poured it into, and that condensation then froze. Two ounces to start. I have no idea how much I'll actually drink tonight, as it doesn't take much to get me plowed.

Two ounces of vodka, distilled from apples, with the face of my comic strip character attractively plastered on the outside of the bottle. I've had about half, and I just broke a sweat and felt my vision shake. Off to the side, I have a glass column of water I drink as a chaser. This is how you drink vodka, you see. You drink of the vodka, and then you drink water as a chaser. That's what the Russians say. And by God, they know vodka. So you have to believe them.

My face just jumped about twenty degrees and I'm sweating more. It is safe to say I'm now drunk. Since the surgery, drunk comes fast, you see. I have an extremely efficient digestive system. My altered stomach dumps alcohol straight into the lower intestines and from there it goes straight into the bloodstream. BOOM!

Let's talk fucking webcomics shall we!

Only that's a lie. We're going to talk video games.

Only that too is a lie, but you'll see what we mean.

Penny Arcade is talking about Soulcalibur, and they truly are nailing the experience of this game. It's a button masher that also rewards skill, and the desire to kill your fellow player is an integral part of this game. Gabe and Tycho understand Soulcalibur. They likely also understand intoxication. That is convenient, since I'm snarking them drunk.

(I just finished the first glass. Two ounces. Three sips. Three drinks of water from the Voss bottle of water. I can't feel my face! So you're here with me as I write, damn it!)

They get video games, and they get Soulcalibur. This is a game that makes you want to kill the guy next to you, as he kills you again and again and again with the same fucking three moves. Boom, boom, BOOM! and you're dead, and you never got close enough to hit him, because he's playing Rock, and he knows how to use that fucking axe to keep you fucking far away from him as you fight, and then you're either dead or rung-out, and he wins.

The "he" I'm referring to is Frank Orzechowicz, by the way, and that's what this snark is about. It's not really about Soul calibur or Penny Arcade. It's about Frank. But the elements we're weaving together describe the experience of playing Frank in Soulcalibur almost perfectly.

To understand that, however, you have to understand the history.

It started not long before I moved away from Ithaca, New York to Seattle, Washington. I was leaving the people I was closest to, in hopes of starting a new life that wouldn't involve me retiring as a temporary worker. I had a college degree, a skillset, and experience but none of those things get you far in Ithaca. Seattle had my good friend Bill Dickson and a whole new experience. And, this was the early nineties, and Seattle was the place to be. The music scene was at its hottest there. The girls were gorgeous and wearing midriff baring clothing years ahead of anyone else. And I was stagnant and a cross country move would only help matters.

But to move to Seattle would mean leaving the people I was closest to outside my own family. It would mean leaving John Bankert, and my ex girlfriend Karen, who I remained close to. It would mean leaving the beautiful and seductive (and sadly unattainable) Suzanne Aceti. It would mean leaving the utterly cool Becki Orzechowicz and her children who I thought rocked and good friend John Godfrey. It would mean leaving Kevin Pelletier, who I had know since I was in the seventh grade and who defined loyalty.

And it would mean leaving Frank Orzechowicz.

I met Frank (and Karen and Bankert, for that matter) on Relay. You people who know from Chatrooms? Yeah, we did it first. You people who enjoy the Internet Street Cred of IRC? IRC was made to duplicate Relay. Relay came first, and it was BITnet, bitches! You think you're so hot because you know how to use Myspace? In my day, the Internet was 80 column green text on a VT-220 screen, and Relay ran across it. I had an online girlfriend five years before the World Wide Web was even proposed. We hung out on channel 125 of Relay, called the Pink Iguana Tavern, or the PIT. We had the same goofy poses and actions. We had the same imagination based adventures. We had the same cybersex and passionate love affair and raw emotion. We had the same frat guys pretending to be girls. Only there were almost none of us, all the accounts came from schools, and there was no spam. Porn was text-only (downloading porn pictures through Kermit was about five hours per crappy GIF, so we didn't bother).

We had parties called Camp Relay out in Ithaca for the Pink Iguana Tavern crew. It's how I met Frank and Karen and Bill Dickson and John Bankert. (I knew Kevin already, but he was in the same crowd). It's how we fell in love and lust. (There was this girl named Christie, called Gypsylynx, who remains the single sexiest girl I have ever seen. She was sensuality poured into a catsuit and jeans. But I digress.) We had passionate and heartfelt declamations of eternal friendship and love. We had feelings like somehow these were the most important, most intense days of our life, and we knew they would never end.

In a word, we were nineteen years old, or thereabouts. You know what it's like. You might be there yourself.

I met Frank at one of these parties. We'd known each other over the Pink Iguana Tavern, of course. And we knew we would get along. But at the time I lived in Boston and he in Philadelphia. And the night we met he got very, very drunk. Even more drunk than I am right now, and I'm not sure what continent I'm on.

I was upstairs, trying to figure out how to convince Karen, who I was madly in love with, to let me unbutton her shirt. I wouldn't succeed at this. At least, not that night. Later, Karen and I would be seriously involved for several years, so there is a happy ending. She's now married to a good man and we trade phone calls twice a year. But I digress. That night, I was nineteen or twenty years old -- I'm not sure which right now -- and desperate to touch this goddess. And it seemed like I might have been able to do so, only the word came up from the downstairs. Frank was very drunk.

Very, very drunk.

And asking to see me.

What do you do? I went down to see him.

He was on the couch. A girl named Stacy Zimmerman, who we called Starfire, was close at hand, as was Gypsylynx and Rebecca Tants (who did not become Becki Orzechowicz later in the story -- don't be confused). And they had a bucket nearby, because it was clear that Frank would be doing some throwing up.

(He did, in fact, do some throwing up, later. In the laundry room. He got it everywhere. Including in the dryer. And no doubt he's glad I'm telling the whole world this fact in a drunken blog entry.)

"Sabre?" he asked.

I should mention this was my online handle on Relay. "Sabre." Which would become "Lord Sabre" for Relay purposes. It's worth noting I did in fact fence Sabre. However, the name came from a Car Wars car I wrote up one day. So even back then Steve Jackson had a disproportion affect on my life. Go figure.

(It's not outside the realm of possibility that I need more vodka. I'm thinking I might well need another two ounces of sweet, thick, frozen vodka. And I was never much of a vodka fan. Indeed, I have powerful and invigorating scotches close to hand too. But this is not a Scotch night. This is a night to drink vodka named for a war hero no one's heard of except me.)

"Sabre?" Frank asked.

"Yeah, Wolvie?" I answered. Because he was "Wolverine" on the Pink Iguana Tavern channel, the same way I was Sabre. Yes, we had X-Men too. Back then, there was only one fucking X-Men comic, and so you could follow what was happening in it for just eighty-five cents a month. And that was sufficient, God Damn It.

"C'mere."

I went.

Frank proceeded to put me in a headlock.

Let me point out. Frank is huge. He comes from south Philly, and casually used to lift me -- not a small person -- over his head. When he puts you in a headlock, you get put into a headlock. You don't get out of it. I was completely helpless as of that moment, until he dropped it.

"You're my best friend," he said. Slurred, really.

"You're my best friend too," I wheezed.

"I mean it. You got my back!"

"I have you back, man. I have your back."

"And I got your back! Always! I swear!"

"Okay, man!"

I'm not sure what happened next. It's not outside the realm of possibility I passed out. From lack of oxygen or from alcohol (Frank wasn't the only one plastered -- this guy called Radar was making kamikazes that should be illegal under the Geneva Convention) I couldn't say. I can say I didn't get to unbutton Karen's shirt that night.

Six months later, I moved to Ithaca. So did Frank. We got an apartment under a bridge on Stewart Avenue together.

I pause here for more vodka. Another two ounces. Because I'm beginning to consider whether or not this post is going anywhere, which means I haven't had enough vodka yet. I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere.

I'm back, with roughly two more ounces of the General. The vodka is thick, because it's so cold. And yet it warms all the way down. Even as I follow it with water, I can feel it simmering and flowing through me. Drawing me with it. Melting me. Pulling me down into nostalgia for a twenty year old person I'm not, any more. I'm going to be thirty eight in two months. The students I teach and work with hadn't even been born yet when the stories I'm telling took place. And back in those days, I drank a lot more than I do now. So maybe it makes sense that the General pulls these stories out of me.

Another healthy sip. Another drink of water. My body tingles. The ringing in my ears is even louder than normal. I'm not entirely sure if the lamp next to me is flickering or if my vision is being affected. That's about the level I'm shooting for. I'm ready to continue now.

I swear, we will get to video games and Penny Arcade.

Frank was a perfect housemate. We gamed together -- first and second edition Advanced Dungeons and Dragons, alongside Karen and Kevin and John and some others. Auntie Nin. Becki Tants. Christie, who we no longer called Gypsylynx. I was young and in love with Karen and desperately poor and felt alive. And Frank was at my side.

There was one night we were at some party in a bombed out shell of a frat house. I have no idea why. I assume John Godfrey knew them. Or Karen. Something like that. And I was drinking scotch. Not the potent and lovely and sophisticated single malts I drink now. No, this was Johnnie Walker Red, and I was well acquainted with him that night. And I don't remember why, but some guy was about to punch me into next year.

He was wiry and scrappy and significantly in better shape than I was, and had he started fighting me, I expect I would have gotten a decent shot or two in and then laid down on the floor and bled a lot. And there wasn't a lot I could do to stop it. In part because I was drunk as a Sophomore girl at the Senior Prom with a football player looking for deniability the next day.

And the guy -- I have no idea who it was -- got ready to punch me into next year, when I heard a gutteral growl. I heard the kind of growl that puts you in mind of wolves that see one of the members of the pack about to be punked out by weasels. Wolves who are not amused by this. And that growl turned into words. "Back off," the growl said. "Back off or I'll fucking kill you."

It was Frank.

The guy backed off. Frank had him in height, reach, muscle, badassness and testosterone. Seriously. Frank was attacked by a mugger armed with a two-by-four in Ithaca once and one-punched him.

I stared, drunkenly, at Frank. He nodded to me. "Got your back, Bro," he said. And that was that. We've never talked about it, since. It's possible he doesn't even remember it.

But I remember it.

We did everything together. Frank, Karen, Bankert, Kevin, Tants and I, with various others for good measure. After a while, that narrowed more or less to Frank, Karen and I. And sometimes Karen and I -- we were pretty intense, after all -- and sometimes Frank and I.

I remember once we were at the Renaissance Festival. That's one of the things we did together, after all. And a cute girl we knew there named Cheryl asked me "what is Frank's relation to you, anyway?"

And without thinking even a second, I answered "he's my brother." And it was true. We even look somewhat alike. And it's the closest form of relationship I can ascribe to him. Frank is my brother. He's family. He's there when I need him.

And, if you'll recall, in the early nineties I was leaving him -- and Karen and his (then wife who hasn't much appeared in this story yet) Becki Orzechowicz, and John Bankert and John Godfrey and Suzanne Aceti who had become a close friend by then and Kevin and all the rest -- behind, to move away. I was coming off a disastrous relationship with a girl named Jennifer. A girl who almost cured me of girls, and did manage to kill my formerly romantic self almost completely. And I had a degree I wasn't using and I couldn't afford graduate school, so it was time to do something. That something was Seattle.

And Karen and I had been broken up for a couple of years at that point (Jennifer was something of a rebound relationship), and most of the other folks would be missed but that was life.

But I was leaving my brother behind. And that hurt. That hurt. Because I trusted Frank. He was always there for me. I was always there for him.

At some point, we were out at a billiards place that used to be in Ithaca, and we saw a video game there. A fighter, like Virtua Fighter or Mortal Kombat, but fully three-d, and there were weapons.

Soul Edge it called itself.

"Huh," I said to Frank.

"We should try this," he said.

We put a quarter each in it.

Three hours and several dollars later, we were still playing.

I'm something of a random player. I like to play lots of different characters in Soul Edge and all its sequels. Sometimes it has to do with the weapons -- I like Sophitia's short sword, or Raphael's rapier (in later games), or the epic fencing weapons of the undead pirate Cervantes.

For Frank, it was all about Rock. Rock was a barbarian who looked... well, a Hell of a lot like Frank. He used a gigantic axe to destroy his enemies as they congregated before him. His battle cry was "BAGOOOOOOOO!" after the foster son he was always fighting to save or do some such -- who knows. It's a fighting game. Just go with it.

In the background, I'm listening to SCTV, for the record. In case you care.

Rock isn't an easy character to master, but Frank did it. And because of that, and because that fucking axe had Hella Range, Frank became all powerful using him. The balance of characters and fights are entirely biased to Frank, for the record. I admit this freely. But for whatever reason, this was a game that Frank and I bonded over. This was our game. We found another console out at the mall and dumped money into it too. More than once, Suzanne and Becki would go out to the mall with us, and we would hang out with them for a while, and then we would slip over to the arcade. And Becki would find us there, and say to Suzanne "oh, let's go shop. They're playing their game," and they would laugh at us.

Eventually, of course, I went to Seattle. And though Frank and I would stay in touch by phone and e-mail, there was still a distance between us now. Our shared experiences were fading. Time was passing. We were both getting older and we both had lives and careers of our own. Frank had a wife and stepchildren. I had... well, whatever the Hell I had in Seattle.

But I would go back and visit every now and again. And Frank and I would chat, of course. And seek a chance to connect. To be brothers again.

And then we would go and play Soul Edge. Because it was our game.

When Soul Fire came out for the original Playstation, we both bought it. And I played it almost obsessively. Mastering every character. But every time I would boot it up... every time I would play it, no matter where I was (and at this point I was about ready to head to Maine and then New Hampshire), I knew that the point was always the same. I was playing the game I played with Frank. It kept a bond alive, even without direct contact.

And, when I'd visit, we'd play Soul Fire for hours.

A couple of years later I bought a Dreamcast. I wasn't much of a console gamer at that point, but I had no point. You see, Soulcalibur had come out. And I had to own it. And I had to play it. Because I wasn't willing to give that part of my life up. I wasn't willing to give up that connection, real or fake, to Frank. To my youth. This was the game that we played, and I would be damned if I wouldn't play it.

It didn't hurt that the game was fantastic.

Seriously. There had never been backgrounds like this in a game. Never. And the gameplay was astoundingly fluid. Xianghua -- a new character for this iteration of the game -- didn't so much fight as dance with a sword in hand. It was beautiful. The stories were improved too.

In fact, one set of unlockables for the game were nothing but the characters doing fighting katas, because the movement engine was so beautiful, the programmers wanted to show off. There was Xianghua dancing with her blade. There was Ivy doing her dominatrix routine. There was Lizardman... um... standing there.

Rock was an unlockable character. They had a new character named Astaroth for the regular game. But we unlocked Rock as quickly as possible, because Astaroth just wasn't Rock. And besides... we needed Rock. I mean, Frank was the point. And Frank was Rock. Bagooooooo!

And so I got into the Dreamcast. And I played hours upon hours of Soulcalibur.

I would try other fighting games. I went through a DOA2 phase, for example. But nothing touched me as much as Soulcalibur. And I knew in my heart it was because Soulcalibur was a damn good game, rewarding both skill and button mashing... and because when I played it, in my heart I was playing it with Frank.

I remember being in San Diego, California about two and a half years ago. I was there for Baycon, with my friends Russ and Stirge. And we were walking through the area where video games are set up each year....

And I squealed. Squealed. I squealed like a slashficcing 16 year old girl drunk on Full Metal Alchemist.

Because standing there, before me... was Soul Calibur II.

Russ and Stirge were very patient with me. And I dumped a fuckload of money into that thing. There was no Rock, of course, and that sucked wind, but still. Dude. It was Soul Calibur. Raphael was a good -- if challenging -- new character. Talim was cute and speedy (and almost as tough to beat as the demonic and creepy Voldo). It was a damn good game.

When it came out for the different platforms, I bought a Gamecube for it. Making twice now I've bought a console explicitly so I could play Soulcalibur. Frank got the Gamecube version too.

"There's no Rock," he groused.

"Well, there's Astaroth," I said.

He snorted. "It's not the same," he told me. "There's no Rock."

We didn't really care, though. It was our game.

It was our game.

Going all the way back to the top of this screen, I should point out that the experience that Gabe and Tycho are portraying are almost exactly what Frank and I go through. There's trash talking. There's yelling and posturing. And then Frank absolutely schools my ass and I consider choking him to death. Frank is just plain better than I am at this game. And yet, this game consumes me. Because I don't care that Frank is better than I am at it. When I'm playing it, I'm into it. I'm having fun. I enjoy every aspect of it.

And it's something I'm doing with Frank, even if it's just inside. And so long as I have that, I haven't really lost that connection.

And you have to understand... even with our separate lives and many years past... Frank is still my brother. We're still best friends. Frank is the one man -- the one man -- I know I could call tomorrow and say "I'm in trouble. I need someone here right now," and regardless of the consequences he would be on his way.

(Actually having a third hit now. At least five ounces of vodka on the evening. Possibly six. This is more alcohol than I've had in one night for five years or so. I hope you're enjoying it, because God knows if I'll be able to get out of bed tomorrow.)

I remember, before I went back to college, when I was living out in Ithaca -- at this point I actually was living in Lansing, which is about eleven miles out of town. Now, I didn't have a car at this point. I was dependent on others for everything. And I felt trapped. And so I told Karen I was going out for a walk, just after dark. That worried her, because there are no sidewalks out there in Lansing. She wanted me to take a flashlight, but I didn't. And so I went walking.

And walking.

And walking.

About three miles up the road, there was a liquor store. I stopped in and bought a hip flask of Glenlivet. You can see that my taste in Scotch had improved by this point.

And so I drank and walking along the narrow shoulder of a highway after dark, cars flying past at sixty plus miles an hour. Drunk, ambling and walking and not stopping and sometimes singing. I was proving to myself I wasn't trapped. I could walk to Ithaca if I needed to. (It's worth noting that while I wasn't in terrible shape, an eleven mile walk up and down steep hills while drinking was significantly more than I was used to.) I did some laughing and crying and most of all walking.

And I made it. I was drunk off my ass, the flask of scotch now empty, but I was in Ithaca.

So I did the one thing I could do. I walked to Frank's.

Bear in mind, this was a weeknight. And Frank and his wife and stepkids had things to do the next day. This was at best a huge imposition on my part. They'd have every right in the world to be pissed.

I knocked. Becki answered. Her eyes went wide. She wasn't used to seeing me drunk. And for that matter, how in God's name could I even have gotten there? Walked?

She called out for Frank.

Frank came down. He took one look at me. And he said "hey Bro. C'mon upstairs. I got a movie you'd like."

He took me upstairs. He let me drunkenly ramble. He let me drunkenly cry. And then he made up the couch for me to sleep on. Becki, after checking in with him, called Karen. She (wisely) decided to let me sleep it off there.

The next day, I was a solid mass of soreness. And Karen had a few choice words for me. (Though she was mostly concerned that I was safe. There was something real there.)

But Frank never said a negative word to me about it. He was there for me. And that was enough for him.

Flash forward many years. I'm beginning to develop a relationship with the most wonderful woman I think I've ever met. Her name is Wednesday. You might have heard of her.

"Weds," I said, about seven months ago.

"Yeah?" she answered.

"You need to know something."

"Mmmmmm?"

"Sooner or later -- I don't know when -- a video game called Soulcalibur III is going to come out."

"Okay?"

"You're going to lose me for about seventy-two hours when that happens."

This surprised Weds. "Why?" she asked.

"Because I'm going to have to bury myself in it. I have to. It's non-negotiable."

"Oh." She indulged me. She didn't ask why. She just accepted that it was important to me.

That game came out at the end of October. Due to circumstances beyond all our control, this was the weekend I could play it. And of course, my fucking video cable is dead.

Tomorrow, I'm going to go out, hangover or not, and buy a new one. Because I own Soulcalibur III, and I need to play it. I need to.

Frank and I have talked. We know that Rock has returned. Frank, however, doesn't have a Playstation 2. (He had SCII for the Gamecube.) As we talked, we made it clear it would be insane to buy a Playstation 2 now. And he insisted I shouldn't buy one for him. And we joked about it. But we both know that he's going to have a PS2 by Christmas, because he needs to have this game. Just like I need to have a video cable tomorrow.

And when I start it up, and when I see the opening video, and then start to play (create a character -- Jesus, why don't they just ship the fucking thing with crack?), I will feel my heart pound.

Because this is the game that Frank and I play. This is a ritual that ties me to my brother. To my past. To my youth.

And I'll be damned if I give that up now.

That was damn good vodka. I'll have to buy more next year. And maybe pick up a bottle for Frank.

Alongside a PS2.

BAGOOOOOOOOOOO!

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 11:30 PM | Comments (81)

Eric: On clear, nearly-frozen liquor and the application of blogging.

Tonight, for those who don't know, is (inter)National Drunken Writing Day. The idea, as Wednesday mentioned some time ago, is that you open your blog, whatever it may be. You start drinking. Heavily, in fact.

And you write.

You write whatever comes to mind, under the influence of powerful liquor and imagination. You can run a spellchecker if you like, but you can't go back and edit when you're sober. You write, and you write, and you write.

And then you post.

And the next day, you don't edit, revise or remove that post.

It's like a saturnalia. It's like a visionquest. It's like a party, and we're all invited. Well, all those who aren't teetotalers. Maybe it will be glorious. Maybe it will be funny. Maybe it will be a disaster. I don't know.

So. I'm taking the day off from Enter the Recluse. Wednesday and I are both preparing. I have a fifth of General John Stark vodka -- I swear to Christ, it's a New Hampshire vodka distilled from apples that's tasty and more powerful than a bomb -- and I'm preparing myself emotionally for this.

In a little while, I'm going to pour myself a glass of it. I'm going to pour myself a water chaser. I'm going to eat protein rich food in advance, mind. And then I'm going to open my editor and I'm going to start drinking.

The results will get posted up here. I have no illusions that it will be good, but by God it will be real.

Thousands of miles away, simultaneously, Wednesday White will pour her first glass of Ancien Comte Corbieres Rouge Reserve 2004. She will open her own editor. And she will begin to write as well. And those results will also be posted.

We'll see you on the flip side. And bear in mind I expect to be hung over in the morning. I wouldn't be surprised if Wednesday were hung over too.

Have fun, gang. And if you're worried that we're glamorizing alcohol... that's probably because we are. But hey, it's just one night a year.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 8:19 PM | Comments (36)

November 4, 2005

Eric: A very brief quote from Enter the Recluse

Sheppard laughed. "You're good, Ms. Stokes. Most people don't get the connection without at least some background. I liked 'Richard Sheppard' better than 'Sam Kimble.'"

"Was your wife killed by a one armed man?"

"Well, no. By a psychotic. But by all means pursue the joke. You can probably get another ten minutes of material out of it."

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 1:11 PM | Comments (12)

November 1, 2005

Eric: It is happening in NANAIMO! Er... Nanowrimo!

It's November 1, and as stated before, I'm taking another shot at Nanowrimo. I was a winner last year, but was ultimately dissatisfied with the result. (It's still on my edit this until it stops sucking pile, and perhaps I'll do just that one of these days.) However, another year has come, so it's time to dust off the battered underwood icon and start up again.

As stated before, I'm actually working more towards creating a publishable document than simply getting to fifty thousand words, this year. My true goal is to have a manuscript I can put into the mail on February 28, 2006. November is designated as a month where a plurality of the work is written. December is a spillover month for finishing it, and then the rest of December, all of January and all of Feburary is designated for editing, polishing, rewriting and preparing.

(There will be some delays. My birthday is in January. Christmas is in December. Wednesday's going to be in America for several weeks during this. Honestly, there are priorities here.)

Some of you will want to read this as it's being written. And I'm happy to oblige that. However, its going to be put up on a locked website, with appropriate warnings. This is specifically a site designed for writing and editing, not publication. (I may or may not do the Cory Doctorow thing with this on the far end. I dunno. But I'm reserving all options in the meantime.) If you want to be one of the people reading this as it's done, you should send me e-mail at the websnark address asking for instructions on where the page is and how to log in to read it.

If you do so, however, understand something. This is going to be a rough, first draft. It will not be polished, it will not be completed. I less need accurate, honest criticism and suggestions as I need cheerleading, at this stage of the game. The first draft is not a time for critical assessment and new directions. It is a time to get the damn thing writ.

Which doesn't mean, if you are reading that page, that you have to lie in comments. But if you hate it, stop reading it and don't comment, 'k? If you like it, feel free to say so, as said spiritual lift will help.

In December, I will be soliciting the "okay, you've seen what I've written -- tell me where I've fucked up" comments. So there will be a chance.

Danke!

For the record, though I strongly considered the Romance Novel, I decided to go with the pulp novel.

The title?

Enter the Recluse.

So, for those who thought "recluse" for the character name? Give yourself ten bonus points.

Here's where the fun starts.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 12:50 PM | Comments (42)

October 26, 2005

Wednesday: Palpably fake apathy vs. poorly-oaked syrah.

Meanwhile, I was all, bugger National Novel Writing Month.

Don't get me wrong. It looked fascinating from the outside. I wasn't going to discourage anyone from doing it. It's probably a valuable tool. Some people could even get a useful, publishable novel out of it. Some lucky person may even swing a iPod Nano out of the deal. The buggery wasn't meant for them at all. I wasn't even approaching them with the pitchfork, although I would quite like to play with the adorable gadget.

What I mean to say is that I chased NaNoWriMo out of my room with fourteen marital aids.

When I say "fascinating from the outside," I mean, "There is a window here made of transparent aluminum. We can see each other. I can do my best puppy impression, but all I'll leave are smears. This is four inches deep. This will never, ever break."

(Also, my inability to describe my emotions without referencing both puppies and Star Trek means that I should never, ever, ever be allowed to write a novel. Or poetry. Or even one of those God damned "postcard stories" that my "creative" writing teacher was so keen on, back in the day, really.)

I can't write prose fiction to save my life. If I'd figured this out when I was much younger, we would all have been far safer, I assure you. I won't deny that I've written novels, or large chunks of novels. A few times, in fits of youthful optimism, I managed somewhere over the NaNoWriMo word count during my free time. The first stab was destroyed in a tragic hard drive failure; subsequent ones... well, someone really should have told me how bad the short stories from the same period were, say, and done so months before I'd generated a couple of hundred more pages on something new. The manuscripts went straight into the trash once the point finally got driven home.

Nothing better ever came out.

I stuck to newspapers after that. Newspapers, pseudonyms and locked diaries. Much easier that way. At least, when the editor tells you that your article's worthwhile and it just needs some work, they're usually not lying to you. If they are, you figure it out pretty fast.

I have friends who tell me just to generate output, and not to care if it sucks. That way lies disaster. You may have read pamphlets, once, on clinical depression in all of its many forms. Some of them explain how telling a person to just "snap out of it" is not only bound to fail, but likely to be counterproductive; if they could turn off the depression, well, they wouldn't have clinical depression. Tell the afflicted depressive this, and they'll not only remain depressed, they'll feel worse because they can't snap out of it. Same goes for telling people not to dwell on their problems, or not to think so much. Same goes for reminding them that, down in Methylparabenia, there are folks with far greater problems than yours; you should be happy.

I can't shut off that sort of creative terror any more easily than I can flip a switch and make major depressive episodes go away. Trying to make myself not care exacerbates matters; I don't even know how one forces oneself not to have an emotion. NaNoWriMo was tempting, and has been tempting for a couple of years running now. I'd love to pretend again that I could write a book. But I know better than to think it would be helpful, or fun, or likely to generate anything better than a daily panic attack. I have enough things going on right now, in any event; playing the Red Queen's Race with wordcount wouldn't work, because all I'd be able to do is remind myself that I'm no good at this sort of thing. I wouldn't be able to do this any more than I can straighten my hair, or change the wind's direction, or calculate the tip.

This is not to say that I don't compensate, where I can. I'm just inclined to respect my own personal limits. I know what I can write, and where I'm capable of improvement. I can give myself permission to suck if I know that I can get better, but I'm always going to care. I have to have some idea of where to channel the energy so that it's not exclusively self-destructive.

I'm not bad at short pieces.

I'm also not bad at choosing wine. Not great; I made a horrible mistake the other night with a Rhone syrah that really should never have seen the barrel. But I know from wine, and I know well enough to have an enjoyable night with it.

I've written while intoxicated on a number of occasions. It was the only way to get through the last disc of Broken Saints without undue emotional trauma, for example, especially given that Hunter S. Thompson had just shot himself and it seemed like the appropriate thing to do. I won't pretend that the results are any better or worse than what you get out of a sober writer, or that it's something anyone should rely upon for more than the occasional piece. (I felt differently when I was younger, but I was also stupid.) The fallacy of the writer who's Always Better When They're All Messed Up is usually exactly that; HST aside, I suspect that most such folks are good in spite of the alcohol. But, if you can't actually distance yourself from your anxieties very easily, and there's something that you need to do, a glass of wine is a good jumpstart. Three quarters of a bottle of wine is a calculated risk. (Anything else, and you're probably on your own.)

Writing while tipsy is actually kind of fun sometimes. And I like not having anxieties for a little while.

So. Y'all can go off and write a book. I'll bet your book will totally kick ass. I, meanwhile, intend on partipating in National Drunken Writing Night on the evening of 5 November, and I make no guarantee as to the results.

They'll probably suck. I'm okay with that.

Posted by Wednesday White at 9:56 PM | Comments (35)

October 12, 2005

Eric: Illness, part 5247

For those of you who've been paying attention, it might seem my health is... somewhat fragile.

This would be because my health is somewhat fragile. Blame it on a number of factors I won't rehash. In a practical sense, I seem to get sick easily and get significantly affected when I am sick, and we're in that right now.

This particular illness has floored everyone in my department, one by one. I just seem to be next. It got merged in with dumping, yesterday. It's nigh impossible to keep my eyes open more than twenty minutes out of each hour right now. My cat is concerned -- she can sense when I'm sick, and I think she reacts the way she would to another cat being ill -- keep the animal awake as much as possible, show affection, groom as needed, heavy purring. Which, when I just want to be dead to the world, is not really helping.

I dreamt at one point, and hit sleep paralysis -- you know, where you sense your unmoving body, and can't force it to move? We all hate that. This time, however, I dreamt that there was a dog lying on top of me. (My cat wasn't up there in real life, for the record). It was, as near as I could tell, either Buddy, who is a cockapoo of my parents, or Polly, who was the cockapoo I grew up with. Said dog was benevolent, licked my paralyzed face a couple of times, and clearly wanted to keep me warm and healthy. So if it was a ghost dog, I'm okay with that. More likely, it means my subconsciousness could sense I was getting unhappy with the whole affair, and chose to give me comforting imagery to go along with my psycho nurse-cat.

Trying to force myself to stay away, I turn to City of Heroes, only their extended downtime (which should have ended at one) has gone to three-thirty. One tries not to imagine God laughing at them, but you know...?

In more positive news -- and yeah, I'm bringing up John Stark again. Sue me -- Webcomicsnation has now enabled the possibility for page-at-a-time installment blocks instead of the elevator style, if you prefer. So Stark can now be read as God and I intended, clicking back one page at a time, artificially pumping up my pageviews and letting me link to specific strips I liked. (And, since I've brought the thing up anyway, I should mention that of the ones that have come to date, this one has my favorite punchline so far. For what it's worth.)

On the novel front, there seems to be significant support for both the romance novel and the pulp novel, among commenters who elected to give an option on my NaNaWriMo-for-publication efforts in the coming year. The romance novel folks are interested to see how I would handle it. (One note -- if I do a romance novel, I'll do it legitimately. I won't be subtly mocking it. I'll be trying my best to write a good romance novel. And I do not assume I can do it, yet -- I need to do significant research into the form between now and the first of November. I want to write something good and publishable, after all, and I can't do that in a vacuum. And even if I do research it, that doesn't mean what I come up with will be good. It would be hubris to believe otherwise.) The pulp novel folks want to see where my Not-Spider character goes. (As well as find out his name, which they certainly would.)

At the same time, I would need to ensure it remains publishable, which means a private server of some sort. I have an internal mechanism for such a thing, which is what I intended. But a cool person offered bits of their own mechanism as well, and that's tempting. I'll keep you posted.

As for the rest... all is a haze, and I need to go back to sleep. Carry on.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 3:14 PM | Comments (74)

October 11, 2005

Eric: A bedtime story.

Would you think less of me if I asked you for a bedtime story?

What sort of bedtime story? I ask purely because... well, I was about to go to bed.

Something brief but reassuring. If you're going to bed yourself, no worry.

Well, but I like reassuring. What nature of story? Or genre?

A fairy tale sort of thing. Princesses. That kind.

Hmmmmmm.

Plucky urchins are also acceptable.

Oooookay. Give me a couple of seconds to consider....

'k. Thanks.

It's just started raining here.

Envy. The rain gave up here about a day ago and it's been warm for no good reason. Instead, we get birds. Birds and sunrise.

This is a driving rain. Hard rain on pavement, yet soft on grass. The kind of rain that washes the air as it slides to the ground.

The right kind.

Indeed.
Of course, you know why rain like that falls, don't you?

No.

It's because of the Viscountess of the Northwesterlies, of course.

I'm unfamiliar with her.

It's convenient, then, that I'm telling you about her, isn't it?

Indeed.

The Viscountess, as with her mother before her, and her mother before her, and her father before that (there being some confusion as to the proper description of a matrilineal line), is the lady of the estate of the Northwesterlies, a Cumulous sort of affair -- which is a Latin word meaning heap, which derives from the Latin word cumulus, which is of course a number of clouds. Which perfectly describes the estate of the Northwesterlies, which are founded within absolute heaps of clouds.

And this is where the problem lies. You see, there is rather a lot of upkeep needed to keep layers upon layers of cloud clean and manageable and presentable. It's rather a full time job even with an estate full of servants. And it takes dedication and concern not to make a right dingy mess of the whole affair.

(For the record? Clouds that aren't properly kept up ultimately become the raw material of dust bunnies. Though it involves a certain purifying process as they go from sky to under the bed. Needless to say, no matter how pleasant a dustbunny might be, you wouldn't want a cloudful of the raw stuff floating around the sky. For one thing, think of the poor allergy sufferers.)

(But dust bunnies cause allergies too, even from under the bed.)

(Yes. Now imagine if they were raining allergies down from the sky constantly. There isn't enough Allerga in the world to handle that.)

(Eek. Indeed not.)

So. it's an important duty, which is why a Viscountess was assigned to it generation after generation. And generally it went well, until the accession of her Right Honorable Lady, the Viscountessa Northwesterley Laurial.

Who, at about the time she took up the Viscountess's tiara, was a right brat.

That's allowed?

Well, that's the problem with a matrilineal system. Sometimes a brat or three squeak through.

Eek. That's not right.

It's considered a step up from a patrilineal system, however, which seems to lead to total nutjobs.

Well, yeah. Boys.

Anyhow. Laurial was not know for her diligence to duty. Quite the opposite, really. She liked to lie about, watching Magic Mirrors (trashy programs at that), eating bon bons and letting paperwork pile up unattended for weeks at a time.

"I am the Viscountessa Northwesterley," she was wont to say. "And I don't eat peas if I don't want to. I don't have to make my bed if it doesn't please me to do so. And as for cleaning the cumulus -- I'm certain I have better things to do with my time."

Which leads to downfall. (Although she's right to refuse peas.)

Well, naturally it leads to downfall. Because obviously, dust and gunk began to clock up the cumulus. It became dingy and grey, not fluffy and white. The gentle slopes and rolling white fields became treacherous and slippery and full of portent.

Big, big clouds.

Big and dark and grey, with rumblings and flashes... you see... when you have bits of the dust and the like, underneath a bed, you get bunnies, which cause allergies but aren't very harmful. There isn't that much dust and gunk, after all. And dustbunnies can be taught several entertaining dances, and are noted connoisseurs of smooth sandwich spreads.

But in the Cumulus, you don't have bits of dust. you have great heaping gobs of it, and you don't get bunnies from gobs.

What do you get?

You get wyverns of grey smoke and dust, with flashing, hissing lightning stingers on their tails. Gigantic beasts, who think nothing of chomping up a person or three and wreaking havoc upon the countryside below. Beasts who wouldn't care about the very finest of sandwich spread, and, if pressed, would take chunky anyway.

The unrefined.

Indeed.

Now, there were a goodly number of servants and peasants and artisans in the Cumulus before all this happened. The Northwesterlies were known for culture and hard workers, and they kept things clean. but Laurial had distracted them with orders and demands -- she had them cooking for her and dancing for her entertainment and sewing her new clothes and rearranging the furniture and standing juuust right to improve Magic Mirror reception. And so none of the work that she was supposed to be responsible for was getting done, and the dust and gunk and goo was clogging things up and the clouds were getting greyer and greyer. Then one day, the wyverns began to rear their serpentine heads, hissing, their tails flashing with lightning that split down to the ground.

And the servants and artisans and peasants of the Northwesterlies looked up and saw the wyverns -- saw them getting closer and getting stronger -- and collectively said, "Oh, no freaking way." And they got out of town as fast as they could.

Laurial, unfortunately, was sleeping late, as was her wont. So her first indication that she was suddenly alone in the Northwesterlies was when she woke up and discovered there was no breakfast made. Nor anyone to make it. And after a long period of grumbling and the breaking of the coffee maker -- it's not particularly easy to figure out a coffee maker when you've never actually used one one before -- Laurial put on her traveling clothes and tromped out to the estate to start slapping people and otherwise demanding a reckoning.

Of course, she didn't get nine feet out of her castle before she discovered that A) there were no people to slap, B) there were wyverns, and C) the wyverns were entirely too large and hostile-looking to slap.

And so, like any smart person who's discovered she's way in over her head, she ran into her castle and locked the door. She didn't think to ask the wyverns if they knew how to work the coffee maker, which is something of a pity since wyverns pull espresso like champs. But that's neither here nor there.

She probably only had a basic drip machine, anyhow.

Almost certainly. And she'd broken it besides.

So. Trapped in her castle, Laurial had an opportunity to consider what she had done wrong up to that point. She figured out relatively quickly that the lack of cloud maintenance and cleanliness had led to the rise of the Wyverns, but as the people who were trained in cleaning the dust away had all run away, and the Viscountess herself had never received more than the most formal of training with a feather duster (far more for ceremonial purpose than anything else), it looked like things were going to get bad.

So she's toast?

Well, not yet. It's a good castle, you see. Made of solid dolomite -- and that's one bad mother building material. So the Wyverns grew and grew outside, feeding off the dust and gunk that continued to collect and spread, slamming their lightning tails, smashing the buildings of the estate other than the castle, cracking lightning stings down to the ground below -- generally making a mess of things.

But if she hides, and the people are gone, it's not going to be a sustainable situation.

Well, the story isn't done yet -- and besides, the dust that gathers comes from all over the world. So who knows how much will collect or how many wyverns will rise up out of the gunk or how big and mean they'll get -- especially if they have no espresso machines.

Forty.

Forty wyverns?

Yes!

It's a big number.

Mmm. Yes. Yes, that sounds about right. And of course, forty wyverns would cause a lot of trouble, not only for what was left of the Northwesterlies, but for all the other clouds and indeed for the whole world.

And Laurial knew it. And knew she had to do something. For her land. For her castle, for the world.

But mostly because she only had so much food in that place, and besides, who wants somewhere between one and forty wyverns tearing up the hedges and howling at the doors all day and night?

After a while she got on person-to-person crystal ball service, to try and call in some favors. But, because she'd been such a brat, none of the other duchies, counties or earldoms wanted to give her the time of day. They figured so long as the wyverns stuck to the Northwesterlies, why should they worry? Which was short sighted of them, but what can you do?

It's what they get for bringing up a neoconservative viscountess.

Well, there is that, certainly.

Finally, however, Laurial managed to get a call in to the Spirit of the South Wind herself. Southy had gone to finishing school with Laurial, and while she didn't much care for brats in general or Laurial in particular, she had been raised to be courteous and helpful to all people.

In the annals of the kingdoms of the sky, such people are called "suckers" or "soft touches."

Laurial explained what had happened to Southy, and to her credit didn't try to shift more than one third to one half of the blame on the townsfolk and peasants who had left.

Well, they did leave.

On pain of being stung and devoured.

Details.

Southy listened. She considered carefully, and she said, "All right, Laurial. It all comes down to getting your clouds nice and clean, so that the dust and gunk and the wyverns are all cleaned away."

"But how can I clean the Northwesterlies all by myself?" Laurial moaned. "It takes thousands of workers and peasants to do that. With my people fled, I would have to hire migrant workers and strike breakers, and I think the AFL-CIO's just waiting for an excuse to unionize my whole operation. What can I do?"

And Southy took pity on Laurial, and sent a zephyr to deliver a very special flute to the girl.

Flute?

Yes. Well, more like a pennywhistle or a musical pipe.

So, not classical.

No.

"Take this to the very highest tower of your dolomite castle," Southy said to Laurial. "Once there, step onto the roof. It will expose you to the wyverns, so you must be very brave. And then, begin to play. Play with all your might, and the flute's magic will whisk away all the dust and dirt and gunk, and the wyverns with it. Your lands will once more be clean."

And Laurial took the flute, and climbed the many many circling stairs up the tallest tower of her castle. Higher and higher she climbed, counting the stairs as she went to help keep her bravery awake. For she knew that at the top, she would have to see the wyverns once more.

And their taste in sandwich is suspect.

Wait. They have a coffee maker, but no elevator? The tower is inaccessible?!

Yes, well, it was very old, and not built with progressive ideals in mind. Besides, there was a service elevator, but even after all this, Laurial was enough of a brat to not want to take a "service" anything.

And finally, she reached the top, and climbed out onto the roof. And the wyverns (there were thirty-eight at this point, so you can see just how close to disaster we had come) circled and rumbled, their tails flashing lightning.

But in perhaps the first truly selfless moment of Laurial's life, she did not flee. Instead, she lifted the flute to her lips, and she began to play.

And from the flute came a great torrent of wind and water -- water that purified all it touched, and wind that could blow apart even the mightiest of dust wyverns. And as she played a great flood of water and wind frothed all around her, down the castle and over the cumulus, washing away the dust and dirt and gunk that had made the clouds so dark grey, and filtering down into droplets that fell from the sky, forming a driving, hard rain down to Earth. The kind of rain that scrubs the very air as it falls, and lands into mud puddles and slick streets below.

Of course, the wyverns fought back, so even as the rain fell there were flashes of lightning all through the clouds from their tails.

And when the song was done, Laurial looked around and realized that her dark, dingy, grey cumulus had once again become pure, snowy white, as far as the eye could see.

But she also saw that aside from her castle, there was no sign of any other building anywhere. The estate was gone, completely. And she knew that her former servants would never come back -- that in the end it would be up to the Viscountess herself to wash clean the clouds, with the song she played on her flute.

And even today, you see some days when the white clouds turn grey and dingy. And you sometimes hear the rumble of the thunderous voices of the wyverns. Because even though Viscountesses come and Viscountesses go, in every boy and girl there lives a little bit of a brat, and sometimes you let even the most important things slide. But when things look darkest for the northwesterlies, the Viscountess still ascends to the top of her tower, and plays her song, and washes the clouds clean with purest rain.

If everyone is gone, how do they make more viscountesses?

Oh, there are arranged marriages and the like. The Kingdom must go on, of course. The current viscountess is actually married to the Earl of Moss. He's not a bad sort, as it goes. A bit dull, but he appreciates a good cup of tea. And he had a coffee maker of his own to contribute.

Okay. That works.

And, listening out my window, it sounds like the rain has gone down to a drizzle, which makes me think the viscountess has finished her night's cleanings and rainings, and probably headed to bed. And it occurs to me I should probably do the same, and so should you.

Probably, yeah. Thank you. Dude.

Dude?

I had figured on Cinderella or something. Dude.

Another time.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 10:17 AM | Comments (54)

October 3, 2005

Eric: National Novel Writing Month: The Sequel

So, National Novel Writing Month will soon be upon us.

Last year, I did a thing. And I got to fifty thousand words. And I've edited and revised it since then. But in the end, it was a thing. Not terrible, but not great. A story that with heavy editing could be publishable, but I haven't done that editing yet and I might never.

But it was still a worthy endeavor. And the question becomes, what about this year.

And more to the point, what can I do this year that might, in the orgy of sheer writing creativity, be more generally worthy outside the box. I don't just want to write fifty thousand words to write fifty thousand words. I did that last year. This year, I want to get to the other side of the project (which will take more than fifty thousand words and more than a month) and have something that I can legitimately cut down, rephrase, edit, bounce off Wednesday and others and in all make not suck and then send off. With a hard target date of sending out of February 28, 2006 or sooner.

So. The question is... what do I do?

On the one hand, we bounced the idea of a romance novel off one another earlier this year. (Certainly, that's what Shaenon Garrity would vote for -- though if I promised her sufficient goinking in whatever I did, she might let it slide.)

On the other hand, we have the pulp novel I wrote about earlier this year. With the figure who isn't the Spider. By their very definition, the pulps are meant to be written at a breakneck pace, and this might be a perfect experiment.

On the gripping hand, there's this superhero/rumination thing I timelined. This in one way is the most interesting, since it would be an interwoven series of short stories -- which might suit the nanowrimo process perfectly. And could be the most interesting to highlight on here. (I'd throw it on a locked -- to prevent 'previous publication' sub-site that folks could access as I went along. Short stories and bits and pieces could go all hitherby like, well suited to 2000 word chunks as we went along).

Ultimately, I'll do what I want to do, of course. That's how writing works. But I'm curious what people would suggest.

One way or the other, I want a stuffed envelope with this year's project sitting on my desk no later than the last day of February. I have two publishing houses I'd send it to first, for wholly unprofessional reasons. It'll be addressed to one of them.

Then, after the one rejects it, I send it to the other.

And when they reject it, I send it to the next publisher on the list.

And then the next.

And then the next.

And the one after that.

And sometime in 2008 I'll say screw it and self-publish through Lulu. But damn it, we're hitting the ground running.

We know, all too well, that I can write fifty thousand words in a month.

Now it's time to make them good.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 2:43 PM | Comments (62)

September 22, 2005

Eric: It's like putting out a call to the Blue Blaze irregulars!

I am developing a need to develop resources for various projects. Among those resources are folks wise in the ways of language.

In particular, I could use a reference point for Latin (modern or classical -- or both!) and Greek (also modern, classical or both.)

I could also use a conversation with someone well versed in alternative punk music -- particularly current/modern alt-punk with a certain measure of popularity that seems ironic. (Otherwise known as "the kind of music you might expect any given 19 year old Suicidegirl to listen to.)

All of the above are for writing projects of one kind or other. Thanks in advance!

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 4:30 PM | Comments (34)

July 24, 2005

Eric: Deadlines do weird things to your brain

So, I'm writing on deadline. And, because I want to get the Hell away from even the thought of Caffeine soaked Jesus Children, I have commandeered my parents' house to do it. (Said parents are on their boat, so I have the place to myself.) I have tea, and I have National Public Radio (this house really needs to have NPR on in the background. It's like a ghost), and I have my work. And it's going fantastically.

However. Two days of heavy writing and rewriting and editing and shaving bits and pieces of work-for-pay does things to your brain.

I figured this out when I realized that, having been pacing and sipping tea while working something out in my head, about fifteen minutes ago... with "American Roots" playing in the background... I was dancing.

Specifically... I was dancing to Sea of Love.

In the style of one of the Pips.

I didn't consciously decide "I am going to dance to this song, as if I were dancing in unison with three other men." It just happened.

In my everyday life, I don't dance. But deadlines and tea can do this to me.

Back to it!

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 4:29 PM | Comments (28)

May 6, 2005

Eric: Respect Through Skill Building

I have this tendency to want to try things out for myself. I'm struggling to teach myself piano via electronic means, for example, because I like music but also because I want to understand the inside rudiments of jazz from the side of practicing it, not simply appreciating it. I won't ever be a good pianist or even a competent jazz pianist, but if I can force myself to the mindset even once, I get to carry that with me for the rest of my life. And, naturally, it will vastly improve my writing.

I've manually plotted orbits before, with graph paper and skull sweat, and triple checking -- not because I'm going to manually plot an orbit any time I write Science Fiction (trust me, I'm not -- if the story's going to be hard enough that I need an orbit, I'll use a computer and ask my various engineer and scientist friends to give me a hand), but because I wanted to be able to convincingly write a character who did compute orbits. And so on, and so forth.

On the other side of things is an ever present desire to know my subjects as well as I possibly can. For example, it's a popular pastime among many aficionados of the written word to denigrate "Harlequin Romances." (So called because there are plenty of "Romances" in the Literary Canon, and "Romantic" means something very very different to a professor than to a mass market bookstore.) I did the same, when I was younger... and then I realized two things: 1) I had my own escapist trash, so I shouldn't throw stones at someone else's, and 2) having never read a Harlequin Romance, it was difficult for me to justify my vitriol. When one simply takes the word of others that something is trash, one is indulging in theology, not criticism.

So I read one. And you know -- it wasn't that bad. Oh, it wasn't good, in the sense that well written, thoughtful literature is good. But it was a solid piece of entertainment. Plus, it blew most porn I've read out of the water. (Why didn't anyone tell me there was pornography with plots on sale at the Supermarket? My teenaged years would have been completely different!)

Well, I have many projects on my plate at the moment -- and as always I'm considering my finances. There are many places in this world where being a competent systems administrator/information technologist will get you long green, but not-for-profit secondary education ain't one of them. So, idly thinking to my self, I thought "well, hell. I can always write porn." Which then made me think "well, wait. Why not write a Romance Novel? I could do that! I'd just need an appropriate pseudonym!"

Now, this was literally idle thought -- the kind of thing that crosses my mind with all the lasting power of thinking "I ought to climb Mount Washington, this summer." In other words, there's no way in Hell I'd actually do it. But it made me think a few steps beyond, and I had a realization.

What kind of unmitigated gall would have me think I could casually write a Harlequin Romance and have it be even slightly good at what it did?

I'm serious. I've read one stinking Romance Novel, many years ago. I don't know the genre. I don't know the conventions. I don't know the limits. I don't know what's popular. I don't know the pacing. I don't know the expectations. I don't know the marketplace. I don't know what editors want or need.

I don't know anything. I just naturally assume that because I do "real writing" here or there, I could toss something at the top of the Romance Novel heap off in a weekend if I really felt like it. And that is an insult to anyone who's ever sweated over 50,000 words of bodice ripping adventure. As is that sentence, really.

So, now I'm actually tempted to write a Romance Novel. Not because I think I can do it casually, but because I don't actually know the pitfalls, and it seems to me I should.

I don't really have time, unless I decide to devote this year's National Novel Writing Month sally to it. But the idea lurks at the back of my head. I ought to thumb through some primers on the subject and at least know more. Even if I never spend one minute writing the saga of someone named Winter and the roguish Gordon Lambert she hates and yet cannot help but stare at as he passes... knowing something about the nuts and bolts of writing such things can only increase my options.

Besides, I might want to put a romance novelist character into Gossamer Commons. You never know.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 3:55 PM | Comments (27)

May 3, 2005

Eric: When Fan Fiction is Good Fiction: Special

There is something about the words fan fiction that people react to intensely. A good number of people seem to feel that fan fiction, by definition, is uncreative. That somehow writing fiction set in someone else's world is somehow less than other writing.

Obviously, Mary Sueism, slashficcing and the like has contributed to this. As with the furry subculture, people fixate on the pornographic when they discuss it. I'm guilty of it myself, even though I know a good number of fanfiction writers. Heck, I write In Nomine fiction myself, and that's certainly fan fiction. And once upon a time I wrote Legion of Super Heroes stories... because... well, dude. It was the Legion.

But there's nothing innately wrong with fan fiction. It all comes back to the basics -- does it tell a good story. Does it build believable characters. Does it create a response in the reader. Who cares if it's in Hogwarts or elsewhere, when you're reading it?

And sometimes, you come across fan fiction that takes the trappings of fan fiction -- the familiar -- and uses them as tools to tell a very different, very unexpected, and very poignant story.

And that brings me to Special: The Genesis of Cyclops -- a novel length X-Men novel with almost no mutant powers, almost no fight scenes... and a rawness of emotion you only rarely see in any fiction.

The novel is written by "Minisinoo," which is a pseudonym (well, duh) for a woman (she says) who is a published novelist (she says). And I believe her on both counts. Special is a series of interconnected, evolutionary short stories bound into one novel (though only sort of in the novel form) that shows expert levels of character development, pacing and revelation. It's the story of a version of Scott Summers -- somewhere between the movie version (and there are photomanips of James Marsden throughout) and some of the various backstory, but taken much darker. In the Comic Book universe (at least, back when I was reading X-Men), Scott Summers had lost his parents in an airplane crash (well, not counting the Starjammers thing) and ended up in Foster Care and then hustling pool to survive. Minisinoo brings that into a modern light -- 16 year old Scott Summers is hustling to survive, but it's not pool. The story is less how the X-Men formed, and more how a young man with a desperately injured soul manages to -- mostly -- heal over the course of years. It shows the evolution of friendships and romances (and not in the directions you might expect) cast through the eyes of a survivor who's been given the world -- but can't trust it and isn't sure he deserves it.

The X-Men have always been about being different, and being outcast. Scott's journey takes that to a different level. If there were no mutant powers in this story at all, it would be almost as effective -- but Scott's powers (and the handicaps they force on someone already barely able to cope) fairly shatter his newly found equilibrium (particularly in the way they're unleashed for the first time). More than that, however, you see a man wrestling with himself, with horrors... with pain.

This is not a pretty story, in a lot of ways. There is next to no sex in it, though it does come up here and there -- and given the connotations of Scott's past, this is definitely a story for mature readers. There is homosexuality, but it's not exactly what most people think of when they think "slashfic" or "fanfic." (Indeed, the true derivation of 'slashfic' -- the pairing of two characters with a slash between their names -- wouldn't apply to Special). But it is beautifully written, and in the end I think this is a story with hope.

I'm weird, in my own way. I've always liked Cyclops the best of the X-Men anyhow. More than Wolverine or Nightcrawler or Rogue or Storm. The hero of the bunch. The leader. The man with the shotgun, to use my friend Matt's vernacular. And yet, even though the confused and abused young man of Special hasn't found those qualities in himself yet, I can see the seeds of them. No matter how much darker this work is than the comics I read, I can see the kinship. And yet, this is not a story I'd want to see in those comics. I want the X-Men, rendered in four colors, to be something any 9 year old can pick up and enjoy.

But I'm glad I read this novel.

If you don't like the X-Men, you might still like this. If you do like the X-Men, you might still like this. If you don't see the point to the X-Men without Wolverine, don't bother -- he's not in it. This is Scott's story, with a hearty helping of Jean, Warren, Hank and Charles. If you don't know those names... this still might be worth your time, to be honest. If you hate all Fanfic, you might want to give this a try anyway. There is more of Sean Stewart and J.D. Salinger in these stories than Stan Lee or Chris Claremont.

I don't know who Minisinoo is, but if I find out, I'm buying her books. But this four hundred page novel is free. And, if you can cope with the painful subject matter, it's worth at least having a look at.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 2:02 AM | Comments (19)

March 13, 2005

Eric: Comixpedia time again!

Barely awake, and like the rest of you looking forward to the next page of "Takeover!" by the Impressive Wednesday White, but it's worth noting that the March Feeding Snarky has come out for your reading edification over at Comixpedia. There's other cool stuff, but I don't have enough brain to discuss it today. Talk to me tomorrow.

And while you're doing things tomorrow, also have a look at The Webcomics Examiner. I have an article in this quarter's issue as well, so drink deep and have fun with it.

I'll talk more about the Examiner tomorrow -- and sad news connected with it -- along with more of a discussion on 'Pedia's offerings. Right now, though, tea then bed.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 11:52 PM | Comments (1)

March 10, 2005

Eric: Podcasts Ahoy!

So there's a couple of podcasts I've taken to listening to that I think you, the Snarkoleptics, would be interested in. The first, Geek Fu Action Grip, is actually done by a friend of mine named Mur Lafferty. Mur's extremely cool, an excellent writer of essays, science fiction, fantasy, horror and Role Playing Games (most notably coolass stuff for Exalted, Mage, and the Warcraft and EverQuest pen and paper RPGs. Mur was one of two essayists I really loved from the old Grumble magazine, and is also just cool people, and her Podcast is fun and clear and usually full of geek-love, including more than a little comics (and webcomics) love.

The second, which I got tipped towards by Mur, is Digital Strips : The Web Comics Podcast with Zampzon & Daku. This is just plain cool, with good production values (and use of music underneath their conversation), and huge relevance to the webcomics world. Their news sources and information and reviewed strips don't hugely overlap with mine, either, which means that listeners get a bunch of new information that slackers like me aren't giving out. That's a very, very cool thing.

I like the concept of Podcasting. I'm tempted to do something on those lines, but I know that between Gossamer Commons, Sekret Projekt J, Theftworld, Trigger Man, Sekret Projekt Wu, and Websnark itself, the last thing I need is another regular commitment. Still, I might try out one just to say I've done it.

Or, I might let the people who are actually good at it continue doing it while I listen.

Anyway. It's late. So good night.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 2:32 AM | Comments (4)

January 27, 2005

Eric: Fan Art (1 of 2), birthdays and rabbit holes

I'm still pretty damn sick. Fevers all through yesterday and last night (without the insulating power of scotch, I'm sorry to say), plus any number of other symptoms. Despite this fact, I did wake up this morning, and it was January 27. Which means that I have successfully cheated death for another year.

The best birthday present I could receive was seriously cool fiction, and that's been heartily available thanks to Down the Rabbit Hole day. See, I share my birthday with Lewis Carroll, and so this fellow called Crisper (fellow being unisex, because hey, how should I know?) suggested that instead of a crappy meme about how many pieces of Halloween Candy you received or something like that, this should be a meme where for 24 hours you write about the strange new world you woke up in, through the looking glass or down the rabbit hole.

I loved the very idea of it. And so I wrote a five part entry myself. If you'd like to have a look, they're here: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, and finally Part Five. Feel free to have a look if you want.

If you'd like to see some more primo examples of Down the Rabbit Holery, my good friend Greg Fishbone has been collecting examples of the best he's seen today. If you've been following along on Livejournal and seen one or two that Greg's missed, send them along to him for inclusion.

As it is my birthday, I should mention a couple of gifts I've recently received. Namely, two pieces of art, both coming out of Arisia (which I still owe you a report from -- I've been very sick recently, in my defense). One really needs an entry all to itself, so it'll go up in a bit. This one, however, is an adorable Snarky in the Snow (not exactly Sad Snarky in Snow, either), done by the talented Poinko of Fever Dream. (You know, that comic title is apropos given how I feel...) It's so cute, and Snarky looks so thrilled! Yay!

The other piece of art... heh. You'll see.

Cheers!

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 3:30 PM | Comments (3)

January 26, 2005

Eric: Me am big reviewer guy.

Illness and fatigue (my all purpose excuse) conspired to prevent me from mentioning that my review of Goats went up on Sunday over at Comixpedia. I'd be appreciative if you'd have a looksee, and then look at many of the other articles and thingies. There's also an interview with Kris Straub and Chex which explains much, and Ping Teo's launched a new cartoon which distills the Essence of... well, things. That's right. There's an actual comic in Comixpedia. It only took... what, two years to make that connection?

(I'm going to be choked to death.)

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 1:46 AM | Comments (4)

December 20, 2004

Eric: Now, if I could just keep these snarks down to 101 words, we'd really have something.

Since having it brought to my attention, I've been thinking quite a bit about Anacrusis. You should know by now that I'm interested in how people use the web (particularly content management software) to work creatively. Sure, most of the time it seems it's webcomics I talk about when I bring it up, but there's a lot to be said for textual experimentation. In particular, there's something fascinating about the short scenework that's being done. I've mentioned Hitherby Dragons before, and I've mentioned Pulp Decameron (which itself is muddling through some unfortunate technical problems, but seems to be producing on schedule regardless).

Well, running almost as long as Hitherby (it's just passed its one year anniversary) is Anacrusis, and there are ways it stands out even in Rebecca Borgstrom's illustrious company. Brendan (I don't have a last name... or first name, if Brendan turns out to be a last name. I mean, how would I know?) writes five entries a week, one each Monday through Friday, and if he's missed any days I can't find them on casual examination.

What makes these entries stand out is their format. He describes them as webcomics without art, and I think there's something to that -- instead of being bound to a four panel a day strip, he holds himself to the absolute constraint of one hundred and one words a day, period. No more, no less. 101. Just like the room where everyone's fear can be found in 1984, though I don't think that's what Brendan has in mind.

The results are profound, in the best sense of that word. There's almost a metrical quality to the work -- as though Brendan were working in a new kind of poetry instead of prose. Many (most?) of the entries have a strong sense of imagery as well, which also reinforces the almost poetic sensibility going on.

And really, that makes sense, if this is a textual webcomic. Poetry and visual art are very closely related, thematically. Both operate in the world of image instead of narration. And Anacrusis steeps itself in that tradition. Here's Friday's entry, "Dresden", as an example. (Please note I reprint this under the terms of Brendan's Creative Commons License, and the reprint is bound by his license, not my own CCL.)

Dresden feels things turn inside out. His vision's broken and he can't walk. He braces himself against the wall and tries to vomit, managing only a mouthful of sour bile. He spits on the ugly carpet; it's the same ochre yellow as the drink AJ handed him at the bar, calling it a Pissguzzler. He smiled. He had green eyes. Dresden wanted to show off, so he slammed it, then another, and not long after he was feeling much too drunk, too heavy, and as he felt the air cool on his sudden legs he wondered what "AJ" actually stood for.

See how the economy of words acts like a crucible, burning away the dross and excess words and leaving an almost pure sense of image? Dresden's nausea is evoked, not implied. The sentences are short -- staccato, almost Hemingwayesque, conveying a sense of mood and scene and making every adjective carry its own weight.

It occurs to me that in my snark on Pulp Decameron's self-described microfiction, I compared that work to poetry as well. Perhaps the paring down to the very basics involves blurring the dividing line between poetry and prose. Looking at Hitherby Dragons, which also works in short fiction and vignette, one sees similar elements -- short, simple sentences, with heavy imagery -- applied with completely different intent. As my father, the English Professor, was fond of saying... there's probably a paper in there somewhere.

I don't mean to pigeonhole Anacrusis. It works within its firm limit very well, and there is a real sense of experimentation. At the same time, it's not experimenting for the sake of experimenting. Brendan is really trying to tell stories, working within his limits but not letting his sense of ambition be limited.

In the end, like he said... it's a webcomic made up of words. I can really see that.

I actually had thought, about a year ago, to reprint my old Superguy stories one post or part at a time, three times a week, using KeenPremium's software -- as though it were a webcomic without a graphic. After all, in the preWeb days, Superguy is what we had for webcomics. But I think Anacrusis gets closer to the idea than our stuff ever would.

In any case, I'm enjoying reading it... and I'm looking forward to reading more.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 8:59 AM | Comments (1)

December 13, 2004

Eric: Oh, a challenge....

(From Narbonic. Click on the thumbnail for full sized taking over of the world if you've paid the subscription fee, or click on the link for today's comic if you haven't.)

So, Shaenon Garrity was one of the bidders bidding on the Websnark Auction. And she was unhappy because it was an early morning end time and she got outbid while demon sleep took her. And she mentioned that, because she is evil, she would have let me snark on any subject, so long as it was in the form of a sestina.

Which, for those of you who don't know, is a six six-line stanza poem without metrical constraint but which requires that the lines of each stanza end with the same set of words in a very particular order, ending with a triplet that has to contain all six words again. Wikipedia's definition of the form is here, for those who want a clearer definition and to learn more.

Requiring me to do that would be evil. I'm glad I don't have to do it. I mean, I don't have to. She didn't win the auction. I don't. Have. To write a snark in the form of a sestina. Period. I sure as Hell don't have to make it even harder by conforming more or less to iambic pentameter in the stanzas before the triplet (with a few amphibrachs here and there and at least one dactyl thrown in), using the key words science, woman, gerbil, Dave, cute and mad.

I mean, that would be crazy.

If I even tried to do that....

...why, they'd call me mad. Mad! Mad I say!

On the Snarking of Today's Narbonic

We come once more to Helen Narbon's science
Backfiring 'pon both her and loyal Dave,
When Artie, thought to be a sane gerbil
Of intellect and wisdom -- not overtly mad --
Declares that he and his are not so cute
By embarking on usurping man and woman.

Now Helen is a most compassionate woman
(Though dedicated first to twisted science!)
And though she might find little Artie cute
She always thought the same about old Dave
(And when he died she didn't seem that mad)
Which makes me think Artie is one dead gerbil.

Still, Ms. Narbon does appreciate her gerbil
And Artie knows the way to survive the woman
Who created him (by means that some call mad!)
Is her appreciating triumphant science
In this mad course -- unlike (perhaps) Dave
Who won't find gerbil masters all that cute

I find this situation very cute
because I've always liked the smart gerbil
(who counterpoints quite well with cynic Dave
Violent Mell and the somewhat flighty woman
who crafted him upon the lathe of science)
and speaks with quiet voice that's not so mad.

And can we call young Artie's plan so mad
Simply because the gerbil is so cute?
We know that Artie understands (mad) science
And wouldn't you prefer an honest gerbil
leading you, instead of, say, a woman
like President Mell, who we know once met Dave?

But this is not a plot about some time-lost Dave
striving to return home and not go mad.
No, Dave is distracted with his new woman
Who he so wants to meet and hopes is cute
So I don't think he'll care about the gerbil--
never dreaming that Lovelace is also mad science.

So, given the crises of personality implicit in Helen's panel,
Dave's new cybernetic woman, and Artie the gerbil's mad plan,
We can be sure that in Narbonic, science will remain both funny, and cute.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 3:56 PM | Comments (10)

December 11, 2004

Eric: He calls it Microfiction...

...but Pulp Decameron kind of defies easy definition. There's elements of the hitherby about some entries, while others approach prose poem. In any case, this project -- one hundred microfictions playing off of ten classic pulp genres -- has been interesting and intriguing, and Snowspinner (I have no other name for him) has been diligent in producing.

Well, today's entry -- I am Ready to Serve my Country -- is my favorite so far. It's light, it's funny, and it's creepy all at once. It also highlights the chameleon nature of the work. Yes, it's short and pulpy, but it could just as easily be poetry. Taking his Creative Commons License at face value (and making sure I both credit him and release the work under the same conditions, so check the link to see how this particular post varies from my normal Creative Commons license), we have the following:

I have mastered the art of surveillance.

For the past four years
I have meticulously watched
The same woman
Through my telescope.

I know every bra and pair of panties that she owns.
I can describe, to the millimeter,
The location of every blemish on her body.
I have also learned endurance.
I went the entirety of last March without touching myself as I watched her.

My language skills are admittedly below
What you typically ask for in your operatives.
However, I am a fast learner.
In the event of interstellar war,
I am prepared to speak Klingon.

In desperate situations,
I have learned that I can kill another man.
A month ago I went out and found a homeless man.
I lured him to the railroad tracks and garroted him.
The police have yet to name a suspect.
I am confident that they never will.
The experience was exhilarating,
But not so exhilarating.
I would not consider myself a psychopath.
I am confident
I can keep my random murders down--
Once a month
With minimal effort.

My resume is attached.

See what I mean? (Though for brevity's sake, I cut the paragraph on Final Jeopardy.) Go read the original, and the all the rest. They won't take long, but they convey lots of flavor for the size.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 11:41 AM | Comments (3)

December 8, 2004

Eric: This is an experiment. And it is for a good cause. Good cause + experiment = some fun!

I have an exultant mantra that my friends have heard me say before. It's my touchstone against the darkness. It's the way I manage to keep some sense of self going in this wild world.

It is this: I'm a writer. I write. For money.

Not a lot of money, mind. But still. Every now and again, I get a piece of paper with my name, and an autograph from a publisher, and the phrase "Pay to the order of" on it. It's incredible. It's validation that can often buy you a Happy Meal. And it means a lot to me.

Well, Websnark isn't paid work, and that's okay with me. I like doing Websnark. I like writing about things. Just because I do write for money doesn't mean I have to write for money. For Websnark, money just doesn't enter into it.

Until now.

You see... I've been thinking a lot about Child's Play. You know, the charity founded by Gabe and Tycho over at Penny Arcade. Now, I've donated to it. I donated last year, and I donated this year. I'm all about giving nice things to sick kids. That's just cool. And I've been looking at some of the art that webcartoonists are donating and auctioning and the like, and feeling pretty flush and good about it all. And I wish I could get in on that... only I don't draw. I write.

And then it hit me. I write. Well enough that sometimes, I get paid for it. And I have a website that's developed a measure of popularity, specifically for my writing. And sometimes, I have people beg me to snark a given webcomic, or write about a given topic, or just say they like what words I put together for these things.

All right then. Let's do a little experiment. And maybe... just maybe... help some kids while doing it.

As of 8 AM Eastern Standard Time this morning, I have started an auction on eBay. The opening bid is five bucks. The closing bid? We'll see in five days. And the winner of this auction gets to set the topic of a snark here on Websnark.

That's right. Anything you like. You want me to snark a webcomic you like? You got it. You want me to write a short story about Ants? Fine. Harry Potter Fan Fiction? Sure thing. A poem? Okay! A discussion of the Fugitive Poets and how their philosophy relates to the evolution of critical thought? Bring it on.

Oh, I've put a restriction that it has to be moderately safe for work (I would have a certain cognitive disconnect with writing explicit gay porn for a children's charity, for example). And I've put in a requirement that while you set the topic, the opinions are going to be mine -- so I can't promise I'll love the webcomic you ask me to write about. But I do promise to give it a fair shake.

Is all of this arrogant? Probably. I'm putting out into the world that someone out there likes this well enough to want to drop a few bucks on it. But why not be arrogant if it's for a good cause? Every penny from this goes out of my Paypal account and into Child's Play. Every last penny. (I'll cover the Paypal fees myself.) So you're helping out an exceptionally worthy cause by doing this.

(I'd offer another one of these to Gabe and Tycho for their live auction on the 9th, but I'm afraid they'd respond by saying "Websnwhat? Never heard of it." Ah, fear.)

So. Check it out. Bid if you'd like. If no one at all bids, I'll drop the 5 buck opening bid on Child's Play myself, in addition to my other donation. And, well, I'll be humbled, which might not be a bad thing. But it'd be nice to have more. So please! Check it out, think it over, and if you want -- bid on!

Oh, and if you find this whole thing ridiculous... go to Child's Play directly and donate, anyway. Even if my little thing seems silly, the cause is good.

But I hope you do bid. Because bidding would make me feel good, and more to the point would mean Websnark could donate something nice as a whole. And that would rock.

EDIT: At Sean Riley's suggestion, I'll set a minimum word count. For any kind of essay or short story, it'll be at least 1,000 words and could go much much higher (I've been known to do 5,000 word snarks. If it's a poem or the like, we'll cap it at 20 lines minimum, maximum whatever seems right.

But the point is, this will be a meaty snark, not twelve words and a thumbnail.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 7:25 AM | Comments (4)

December 1, 2004

Eric: Alton Brown likes to use Goodness in stews, but recommends liberal kosher salt.

(From Sluggy Freelance. Click on the thumbnail for full sized baggies!)

First off... you know you're in trouble at your day long seminar when there's a series of attractively placed manuals, multi-pack CD books on tape and videos sitting both on the front counter and on a table in the back.

Secondly... you know you're in a lot of trouble when every new section of the seminar topic involves references to three or four of these products, with a lot of smiling and at least one use of the word "affordable."

I'm on lunch. In 40 minutes, I will be back in there until at least 4.

Pray for Bobo, friends. Pray for Bobo.

But anyway -- Sluggy. The real Sluggy, this time, and not the "meanwhiles." I'm still liking this plotline -- the Dimension of Pain spent years being built up (in fact, one of my complaints about "Meanwhile... in the Dimension of Pain" is that it made the DoP too common. It worked better as an autumnal event with occasional Squeekyboboball matches and dragon boinking storylines. There is a serious sense that we're moving towards endgame and wrapping it up -- right up to the demons rebelling and moving permanently to their new blandiverse home. And today got me chuckling (hey, I'm all about potty humor)....

...but it also kind of disappointed me. For one thing, I can't tell if the bag of goodness is supposed to be... well, full or empty. I also can't tell what effect it's supposed to have. (Once again, "Meanwhile..." caused some damage by running a whole plotline where angels showed up and made all of the Dimension of Pain nice. We've seen a form of goodness spread over everything already. And we sure as Hell don't need another six months of Barney jokes.)

I don't know. Today didn't feel like a cliffhanger so much as a disappointment. But I'll be back tomorrow.

(And if they ever decide to publish a deck of Rather Nice Tarot Cards, I will so buy them.)

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 12:33 PM | Comments (8)

November 28, 2004

Eric: Day 28: I'm not sure how to feel...

So, we're officially at 51,013 words, and I've sent the file in for validation. Which it's done. Hit here and you'll see my official "winner of Nanowrimo" bit.

Only... I'm not done.

I figure there's at least 5-10 thousand words more before I hit the conclusion. Then, I need to add a bunch of scenes to fill it out and make it flow better. And I need to cut a bunch of things that got me word count but don't add enough to the story. I need to break up the revelations a bit more. I need to extend, adopt, and improve. And most of all... I need to finish the story. I need the big revelations, the big macguffin to be finished.

I need to finish.

And so, as pleased as I am to "win" Nanowrimo, and get the right to use the creepy-ass smiling bunny winner's icon... I don't feel satisfied. I don't feel good.

This was important for me to do. And I'll do it again next year.

But this didn't make me a writer, and it didn't make me a novelist. I already was and am a writer, and I've written novel length stuff before... and I won't be done with this until I'm done with it.

So. What now?

Now, I set this aside for a few days, and think about it. I'll work more on it on Friday. Right now, I get some other work done. And I get back into a real rhythm here on Websnark.

Am I proud?

Yes.

But I'm not done. Even if I'm done.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 7:46 PM | Comments (5)

November 25, 2004

Eric: Day 25

35,310 / 50,000 (70.6%)

So, it's been a long time since I updated you. There's been writing going on, but there's also been gaps. But I'm still plugging away.

It's a whole new ball game, as I break 70%. It's no longer about the old quotas -- I'm writing more than 1,600 words every time I write, but between work and some of last week's snarks, there's been missed days too often. Right now, I need to clear 3,000 words a day between now and Tuesday.

On the plus side... I'm on vacation. And even today, being social and being with my family, playing games and eating turkey... I still cleared 3,000 words.

I'm psyched. It's working. It feels good. It feels right... and I'm not going to quote it here. There's too much, and too little context. I'll put what's done so far on the writing page at end of writing tomorrow.

Thanks, all. It's almost over, and then Snarking returns to normal.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 10:59 PM | Comments (1)

November 15, 2004

Eric: Day 15

25,805 / 50,000 (51.6%)

As predicted, I lost Sunday's writing time, and truth be told I didn't do all that much on Saturday, because... well, the day before I wrote 6,000 words. You think I wanted to go within a country mile of this thing the next day? But, here we are at Day 15 (otherwise known as "halfway there"), and we are just slightly above halfway to goal in wordcount. The Quota Count on the day is 25,805/25,000, which doesn't suck any way you look at it.

I actually pulled two different sections of the day's writing for excerpts... entirely devoted to character interaction, as opposed to the exposition of the last several excerpts. This is all about the ways our characters think and feel. Also sex rears its head. I need to have sex rear its head at least once, don't you think?

Anyway, let me know what you think. We've talked a lot about the technology and the strategy and even a little bit about the politics, but it doesn't matter a damn if the people don't work. On the other hand, if they do work... well, I have something of an ego, I believe I've mentioned.

---

            “Did you ever think we’d be someplace like this,” Yerkovich said for what had to be the ninth time. “Honestly.”

            “Do I think we’d end up listening to bad piano and horn fighting it out in a recording while watching our fellow captains get drunk?” Piramatto asked. “Yes. Yes I did.”

            “That’s not what I mean.”

            “I know what you mean.” She half-smiled. “You have to learn to calm down, little Nicky. You’re a captain now. An old man. You need to be measured and calm and vaguely carved out of stone.”

            “Oh, save us from another one of those,” Renn said. “I might be allergic to your brand of puppy-like enthusiasm, Yerkovich, but it’s a far sight better than the stereotypical king of the mountain, sitting in his Captain’s Chair, fingering his Captain’s Star, looking down his nose and making pronouncements every hour or so, while his X.O. does all the heavy lifting.”

            “So, like our Captain Malcolm here?” Piramatto asked.

            “Hey, I can lift just fine,” Malcolm said, absently.

            “Yeah,” Renn said. “Exactly like our Captain Malcolm. They may want our youth and lack of preconditioning to turn us into Sortino’s Raiders of the fifth stage transition, but thirty years from now, we’ll mostly still be Captains while Malcolm runs his own little C-n-C, wearing a Commodore’s Star or even an Admiral’s five point. And when we all retire to our gardens and feed our cats and tell our friends our glorious stories, Malcolm will be ensconced in the Underministry until they force him to retire, whereupon they’ll give him a Baronet’s Ring and put him right back to work until the day he dies.”

            Malcolm snorted. “I think my mother’d die of shock if they ever gave me a title.”

            “If your mother hasn’t died of something by the time you’re seventy or eighty years standard, she’s immortal.”

            Malcolm’s smile slipped slightly. “I certainly hope we have a chance to find out.”

            Renn scowled, looking away.

            “Has there been any word,” Yerkovich said. “Any new letters?”

            “No. The Concordians have pretty well blockaded the information flow on Campos. If the synthetics don’t get to talk to each other, there’s no chance they’ll pass secrets, is there?”

            “You’re from Campos,” McWhirt asked.

            Malcolm nodded.

            “Whereabouts?”

            “Fisher Plantation, in Eastgate Heights?”

            McWhirt nodded. “I know that place. As of 5284-170 or so, the Concordians had begun heavy mining there. I got a report from a friend who knew a free trader.”

            Malcolm pursed his lips. “Mining? Damn. They’ve got the infrastructure up to start ripping out resources?”

            “We knew it had to happen,” McWhirt said, looking down. “They’ve been sucking all the food out of the Hearthstone Plateau for years.”

            “You’re from Campos, too,” Piramatto asked.

            “Born and raised,” McWhirt said. “I still have a brother and a sister there. My father died of starvation two years ago. They were keeping his city on a thousand calories a day at that point.”

            Malcolm bit his lip. “Yeah,” he said. “Eastgate Heights’s had it easy compared to the Hearthstone Plateau. I’m sorry.”

            “Me too. But don’t kid yourself. Since they dug in, no one’s had it easy.”

            “Easier than on Garrity,” Piramatto said, shaking her head. “They can’t dig in there, because we’ve got so many soldiers still on the ground, but that means instead of being exploited, they’re being blown up or killed.”

            “You don’t look like you’re from Garrity,” Yerkovich said.

            “I’m not. My husband was a lieutenant colonel in the Imperial Army. Powered Cavalry.” Piramatto looked off into the stars beyond the plastiglass. “I guess there wasn’t enough left of his gunship to recover remains from.”

            Yerkovich nodded. “It never stops hurting,” he said, softly. “I sometimes wake up, and roll over, and turn to record something I want to tell Wilma, and then I remember all over again that there’s a crater where she and my boy used to be.”

            “This is turning morbid,” Renn said. “I thought this was a party.”

 

[...]

 

            Renn was frowning a bit more. “I think I need more information. Guard my seat.”

            “Where are you going,” Malcolm asked.

            “To check on dessert.”

            Malcolm half-smiled and nodded. “Have fun.”

            “Yeah, I can’t imagine a better time.” Renn scooped up his whiskey sour and strode off to where the desserts were being laid out.

            “He thinks he’s a spy, doesn’t he,” Piramatto asked, smiling slightly.

            “From a vid, maybe.” Malcolm shook his head.

            “What’s bothering you so much about this? So we haven’t been given the whole story. Are we ever given the whole story?”

            You don’t know the half of it, Malcolm thought. But he couldn’t tell Piramatto what the Sabre would be doing in the fight. That was strictly need to know, and Sortino had made it clear no one off the Sabre needed to know. “I don’t like inconsistencies,” Malcolm said. “If there’s something we don’t know, it can blow up in our faces when we’re engaging the enemy.”

            “Murphy does love secrets,” Piramatto said, half smiling. “Mm. No sign of Yerkovich. I thought for certain McWhirt would have sent him on his way by now.”

            “Maybe she’s not particular,” Malcolm said.

            “She’s from your world. Are girls on Campos particular?”

            “Depends on the girl.”

            “What about boys?”

            “What about them?

            Piramatto smiled a bit, over her drink. “Are they particular, Alex?”

            Malcolm met her gaze, and sipped his drink. “Depends on the boy.”

            “I have a particular boy in mind.” Piramatto traced her finger along the rim of her glass. “Particularly.”

            Malcolm half-smiled, and looked away. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

            “Don’t you?”

            “I’ve never been much for dockside dallying.”

            “Don’t be crass.” Piramatto smiled a bit more. “Besides, you can’t very well have a shipboard shag now. You’re the captain. The old man. The C.O. If you don’t dally dockside, when will you?”

            Malcolm snorted, looking back at her. “We don’t exactly have a lot of spare time.”

            “You can’t sit center seat from now until launch, Alexander. You’ll develop sores.”

            Malcolm smiled a bit, looking into his glass. “I don’t think I’m that person.”

            “What person is that?”

            “The person you want to be asking that question.”

            “Ahhh.” Piramatto leaned back. “I should be offended.”

            “Don’t be.”

            “It’s not me, it’s you?”

            “Something like that.”

            “You know, that’s never really gone down, right.” Piramatto drained the rest of her drink.

            “If I’d known how to make it more palatable....”

            “I don’t understand you, Alex. I could see Nicky still holding a torch for his martyred bride. And who’d blame me if I decided to swear off sex for the rest of my life?” She considered. “Well, Sutton would. And he’d never believe it. But you haven’t lost your lady love, as far as I know. If you ever had a lady love, you haven’t mentioned her.”

            “I’ve had one or two, in my time. No one recently, though.”

            “Why not?”

            “I’ve been tired.”

            Piramatto snickered. “You should drink more kaf.”

            “No, Verla. I’ve been tired.” Malcolm shook his head. “Worn down to the bone. I don’t have anything left to give to anyone. Not to you, not to... others. Not to anyone. There’s just this damn war.”

            Piramatto looked at him for a long moment, then looked away. “You hate this war so much, you married it?”

            “Seems like it.”

            Piramatto nodded. “I suppose I can accept that.”

            “There’s always Nick.”

            “I told you not to be crass.”

            Malcolm half-smiled. “No one ever accused me of being a good listener.”

            “Maybe not.” Piramatto stood up. “I need a refill. Want one?”

            “Not right now.”

            “It’s just a drink. Alex.”

            “I know. I honestly don’t want one right now.” He looked back up. “I don’t want to stop being friends, Verla. Not over this.”

            “Oh, we’re friends, Alex. Trust me. I don’t put up with this kind of shit from men I don’t like.”

            “You are long suffering.”

            Piramatto rolled her eyes. “I’ll be right back.” She paused. “Alex?”

            “Yes?”

            “There is something to be said for celebrating life, instead of hating death.” She half-smiled. “And you need to get laid more than any man I’ve ever known.”

            Malcolm snorted. “I always wanted to be ahead of the curve in something.”

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 11:59 PM | Comments (8)

November 13, 2004

Eric: NOT Day Thirteen, but Trigger Man related anyway.

I'm working on today's writing, but it occurs to me that the third part of the conversation between Captain Malcolm and Commodore Sortino is... well, necessary, to understand any excerpts going forward. That whole scene will need some heavy editing -- as a fellow named Channing reminded me earlier today (discussing a different project on my writing page, but it applies to this as well), there can be a density of exposition that kills things off. I may need to spread things around a bit. I can even think of a technique or two. But that's for later.

In the meantime, here's 2,300 words, finishing that scene out. I'm putting it in the extended entry blank, so if you want to read it, click on the "continue reading" link at the bottom of this entry if you're on Websnark reading this, or click on the link at the top of the page if you're reading this from an RSS feed.

In this bit, we also have the reason this story is called Trigger Man in the first place. And people who have access to my writing page can see this scene plus everything up until yesterday. As of today, I'm caught up sending out the password to folks, so if you don't have the password and would like it, send me a request at websnark AT gmail DOT com. If you sent one already and never heard from me, I'm sorry. Please send it again.

---

            Malcolm’s mind swum. “It... it’s incredible. It’s perfect. They’ll never know what hit them! We can end this war in two years!”

            “That’s right. And we can make it clear that there’s no possible way for any power of any size to take on the Empire of Citidel and win. That if it looks like you can stymie us, we’ll change the god damn rules of the universe on you.” Sortino smiled slowly. “That is something the Concordians can’t compete with. They can drive at us in conventional interstellar warfare until they get enough of an opening to secure a new source of resources, but they can’t outthink us, or outdevelop us. And we can open up a second front in this war without substantially affecting our infrastructure or ability to supply it... if we can get there. And that’s the problem.”

            “What do you mean? We have fifth stage rated ships—”

            “We have some fifth stage rated ships. As many as we could build in this timeframe... as many as we could afford to build. Look around you, Malcolm. We needed entirely new shipyards to build the Bokken class of light cruisers. We needed the support facilities to supply a full task force and then to convey them. All that cost over thirty billion pounds imperial. That’s before the cost of putting even one ship together. And a single Bokkon class ship cost close to a hundred billion pounds imperial. How long do you think we can do that?”

            Malcolm whistled. “All right, good point,” he said, taking a long swig of the potent whiskey. His face was beginning to numb, but he wasn’t sure that was the alcohol so much as his expectations being blown apart. “Wait... that’s... that’s why you’ve got those huge cargo ships. And those ship tenders! They’re fifth stage rated, aren’t they?”

            “That’s right. One thing hasn’t changed with the new H/L drives – it doesn’t take substantially more hardware to drive twenty million tons of starship through a t-point than twenty thousand tons. So we’ve cheated. Cargo ships of immense size, also capable of carrying a few thousand IA soldiers. Ship tenders capable of hauling six frigates, or three heavy cruisers, two destroyers or one battleship, all on their own – hauling them through the t-point. Resupply and service ships designed to carry the components for stardocks and bases right through to Dublin. We’ll be able to set up shop there and be ready to star marching down the t-points to victory inside of five months... only there’s a problem.”

            “A problem?” Malcolm breathed out as it dawned on him. “How many people are on New Dublin?”

            “Well, we haven’t gotten recent data, what with the war and all... but if the synthetics are right based on trends, probably one to one point two billion people. And while they won’t have significant military resources, they will have a full skyguard plus some equivalent of the Imperial High Guard to protect against pirates or the like. And they may have some military hardware in-system. just because they’re helping supply the overall war effort, just like the rest of the Concordian planets.”

            “So they might be able to fight us off if we go in there with tenders and cargo ships. Even if we have some capital ships being hauled.”

            “That’s right. Or worse – much worse – they might be able to get a ship through the t-point to Cork. If they manage to get the word out before we’re ready, we lose at least half our advantage.”

            Malcolm nodded. “So... the Bokkens.... are there to secure the system?”

            “That’s right. The Bokkens, a group of three stealth corvettes to sneak up on the T-point – and let me tell you, the amount of money those corvettes cost was obscene, and a single heavy cruiser to act as command and control. Only we need to have a swift, decisive victory. We need to establish not only orbital superiority and t-point superiority but system superiority, and we need to do it fast.”

            Malcolm frowned. “With fifty-four ships, where they’ll at least have a skyguard, maybe have military ships and high guard, and certainly will be able to start launching things from the surface at us?”

            “Fifty-seven ships, counting the corvettes and the Usnach.”

            “The Usnach?”

            “The INHCX-6701 Usnach. That’s my ship – the C-n-C I mentioned.”

            “Oh, right.” Malcolm frowned. “A sticky problem. It’s certain we could take the system, unless we’re unlucky enough to have a convoy doing repair and refit in the system, but doing it while containing them, keeping them out of the t-point and keeping the populace from developing nasty tricks? Hell, we won’t even have troops to land initially, will we?”

            “No, we won’t. They’ll be second wave only.”

            Malcolm frowned, thinking. He was trained in strategy and tactics, as all naval officers were. In particular, he was schooled in fighting a ship, and using that ship as an overall strategic effort. All cruisers, with no frigates or destroyers, no cover fire ­­– not even fighter support....

            “Commodore... I don’t see how we can do it,” he finally said. “Not within the Conventions of War.”

            “Yes... the Conventions of War,” Sortino said, absently. He then turned to face Malcolm, eyes narrow. “Captain, can you summarize what the Conventions of War say about antimatter weapons?”

            Malcolm blinked. “Sir?”

            “You brought up the Conventions of War, Captain. I assume you’re familiar with them.”

            “Yes, sir. Sir, they prohibit strategic use of antimatter under any circumstances.”

            “Why?”

            “It’s too destructive, sir. Using enough antimatter to have any effect on a target means having too much effect. Using them has been classified as a war crime.”

            “No, Captain. Using them strategically has been classified as a war crime. What do the conventions say about tactical use of antimatter weaponry?”

            “Sir... they don’t need to say anything. Antimatter isn’t effective tactically.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because, sir.” Malcolm shook his head – the question seemed absurd. “Yes, you could make an antimatter torpedo that would kill a ship it hit, but if you didn’t hit that ship it becomes a hazard to both sides. Plus, any ship that’s carrying an antimatter weapon is asking for destruction – all it would take is one hit causing the weapon’s Pennet trap to fail, and then there’s no more ship. It’s far more effective to carry fusions to crack ships with, because until you arm them....”

            “Yes, yes. Only we’re not discussing ship-to-ship combat here. We’re discussing planetary subordination.”

            “Which is strategic use of antimatter and therefore illegal.”

            “Think creatively, Malcolm. Yes, an antimatter bombardment would be wholly illegal. No matter how satisfying it would be to blow them straight to Hell, and no matter that we can rain down conventional ordinance until just as many cities are destroyed and just as many people are dead and get medals for it. But we don’t have to use antimatter on their cities or on their land. We don’t have to invoke Hell. If we do a spread of five high altitude antimatter missiles, which themselves disperse ten very small antimatter warheads apiece, detonating many kilometers over the surface, what would happen?”

            Malcolm bit his lip. “Well, there would be shockwaves – plenty of damage—”

            “Yes, but less than direct conventional missile attacks. Plus, there would be little radiation and fallout. Go on.”

            “Atmospheric disruptions would be pretty severe. The weather would go straight to Hell for a while... there’d be massive EMPs....”

            “And what would that cause on the ground?”

            “Theoretically? It would disrupt power systems, knock out electronics, screw up communications....”

            “Exactly. It would sow chaos into the wind. That would give the task force enough time to hunt and kill any ships in the sky, give the stealth corvettes a chance to secure the t-point... and if we coordinate the second wave’s entry tightly enough, give the Imperial Army a perfect ground to land troops in. Am I right?”

            “I... it could work, though I don’t see how this is tactical instead of strategic.”

            “Semantics, Alex. We send in an antimatter carrier along with the task force. We let the task force move in and hunt, monitoring the ground situation from C-n-C. We try to force conditions to be right to deploy antimatter as a spoiler. If we manage those conditions, we exploit the opportunity and manage tactical antimatter use.” Sortino smiled. “You see?”

            “Barely. I’m not sure we’d be on the moral high ground, though.”

            “Are you that worried about the moral high ground, Alex? If it means making them pull their forces off Campos?” He spoke more quietly. “And off Aurora?”

            Malcolm flushed. “Commodore, I don’t give a damn how we knock them out. I’m just saying there are consequences....”

            “And those are mine to consider, Alexander. But one thing is certain. You’re right that any hit against an antimatter carrier could mean that carrier disintegrating. So, for depressingly practical reasons, it can’t be the C-n-C ship that uses and deploys it. It will have to be one of the Bokkens, using the others as cover until it can deploy.” Sortino turned to look at Malcolm.

            Malcolm’s eyes grew wide. “You want me to use antimatter weapons against a planet?”

            “I need someone I know I can trust,” Sortino said. “Someone committed to ending this war. Someone cool under fire and battle tested, but not without compassion. Someone with a personal stake in this war, but someone still capable of fighting his ship.”

            “You’re crazy. I’m not half the ship commander of your top elite. You want one of them.”

            “I don’t want to use the so called top elite at all on the Bokkens, Malcolm. They’re too locked into a style of combat. We may have less than sixty of these new light cruisers, but they’re still entirely new, with new technologies, needing new techniques. I don’t want someone who’s been fighting destroyers for years to walk in and try to apply their experience to this new ship. They’re too damn expensive to use in a battle of attrition and containment anyway, and that’s all these idiots know!”

            “So... that’s why you promoted me? Why you promoted all these others to captain out of turn? You’re putting together a new combat manual?”

            “That’s why I promoted them. You, I needed to promote for another reason.”

            “What’s that?”

            “Antimatter, of course.” Sortino paced back towards the far wall, draining the last of his drink. “Despite the fact that the Conventions of War prohibit the use of strategic antimatter weapons, there is a specific procedure for their use on the book. They have to be launched with the direct consent of the ship’s commanding officer. That commanding officer must be of command rank – at least a Ccaptain. And right up to the point where the missiles clear the bays, that captain needs to have the ability to abort the launch, even if a commodore is screaming for his head. Those are the rules... Captain Malcolm.”

            Malcolm stared at Sortino.

            “It’s actually ritualized, now. There’s a mechanism that antimatter carriers mount, right to the captain’s chair. It’s a couple of levers designed to be squeezed together, which completes a simple circuit. The ship’s synthetic detects that circuit is closed and therefore enables the missiles to be launched. I’d say it arms them, but you don’t arm antimatter. You just stop containing it so rigorously.” Sortino’s voice sounded almost clinical. Detatched. “It’s called the trigger. And the captain who pulls that trigger is called the trigger man.”

            “And you promoted me... to make me your trigger man?”
            “That’s right.” Sortino turned to face him, his eyes almost burning in the low light. “I promoted you to make you my trigger man, Alex. I’m offering you command of INLCX-6528 Sabre. Your duty, should you accept that command, is to learn the Sabre’s systems and crew, train, and deploy with the rest of the Task Force for the New Dublin System. We will be making transition carefully timed, to clear transition while New Dublin and hopefully any ship traffic in system will be on the far side of New Dublin’s star, so they don’t see us enter the system. We then go low and quiet and wait – carefully moving into position without being detected, until New Dublin is well and truly in its drought and hidden from the t-point. Then we attack, clearing the skyguard, establishing orbital superiority, and you would then pull the trigger on your ordinance, letting it be deployed at C-n-C’s command. We launch your missiles, causing a spread in both hemispheres to disrupt their power and communications, and we engulf and contain until the Army can arrive and take over.”

            Malcolm swallowed. “And if I refuse?”

            “If you refuse you’ll be assigned to command duty here at Scabbard, as a member of my staff.”

            “You won’t send me to fight in one of the non-carriers?”

            “I won’t trust you to fight in one of the non-carriers. You’d get a third-stage rated heavy frigate command or maybe even a very small cruiser. You’ll move on with your career. But if you’re the man I think you are, you’ll accept this assignment. And if you’re not the man I think you are, then your place isn’t on this task force.” He smiled, not unkindly. “Quite honestly, I didn’t put a lot of thought into what you’d do if you refused, Alexander. I didn’t think it very likely you would refuse.”

            Malcolm looked away. A chance to free Campos in months instead of years....

            “If it’s not against the Conventions of War, I don’t have a problem with this assignment,” he said, carefully. “I won’t do anything illegal, but if it is legal....”

            “Like I said, we’re going to be scrupulous about adhering to proper procedures and protocols,” the Commodore said.

            Malcolm looked down, and then nodded. “Then I’m your trigger man,” he said.

            Sortino smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 9:49 PM | Comments (3)

November 12, 2004

Eric: Day Twelve... and I ROCK!!!!!

22,410 / 50,000 (44.8%)

SIX THOUSAND WORD DAY! Six! Thousand! Fucking! Words! Plus three in-depth snarks! And a full day of work! There are days I feel inadequate. Days I feel like it's not there. And then there are days when I feel like I'm mainlining inspiration. Today, no matter what else I can say, I am a writer.

This also means I've gone from 2000 words (or about one day) behind schedule yesterday... to being 2,400 words -- or 1.5 days -- ahead of schedule today. The quota count is 22,410/20,000 on the day, which is a happier place for me to be. What's more, I'm now just 2,600 words or so from halfway. I'll hit halfway tomorrow, very likely, two days ahead of schedule.

I need to get the stuff up on the writing page. A lot has happened, including a full explanation of what Malcolm and the others are doing in the hinterlands. I also need to process about a million requests for access to the page. In my defense... it's been a very busy week.

Here's a 1,700 word excerpt, more to answer the question posed yesterday than to be representative of the output today. Remember, there's another 4,300 words that followed this.

I like where this story is going. I think I can sell it, after much editing.

God I love being a writer.

---

            Sortino poured more scotch into his glass. “Do you know why victory has always been inevitable, Alexander?” he asked, softly.

            Malcolm looked away. “If you expect me to say something about honor or never giving up or—”

            Sortino snorted, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m not talking about intangibles.”

            “Then... no.”

            “I’m not surprised.” Sortino sipped his scotch, stepping closer to the edge of the room. He looked up, through the dome, to the stars. “Two hundred and eighteen planets,” he said, gesturing. “Right out there. Almost all devoted to their war effort. A tremendous tactical advantage.” He looked over his shoulder, at Malcolm, “and a strategic limitation they can’t hope to overcome.”

            “Sir?”

            “The entire Concordian Empire is devoted to the war effort. Their resources are bent to the construction of ships, the training of troops, the development of new weapons. Their agricultural systems grow food to supply their military. Their engineers devote their time and energy to maximizing their systems, and analyzing ours. It makes them efficient killers.”

            Sortino walked to the other side of the room, gesturing again. “The Empire of Citadel, on the other hand... four thousand, one hundred and three member worlds. An infrastructure that supplies its military. Tithes giving a constant, but limited level of resources, spread out for hundreds of projects, hundreds of missions, hundreds of purposes. A singular lack of focus, in comparison to our enemies.” He smiled slightly. “And that leads to our victory.”

            “How?”

            “Because on most of the worlds of the Empire, no one pays any attention to the war. Life goes on. Our scientists and engineers don’t work to build weapons to fight a specific foe. They push the boundaries of science and knowledge, for profit or for curiosity. Life goes on, Captain Malcolm.”

            “I don’t follow.”

            “You said that there was only one way into Concordian space. The Thames-Aurora transition. Yes?”

            “Yes. So?”

            “That’s not true, though, is it? I mean, you can see a dozen Concordian stars from where you’re sitting. One of them is right up there.” Sortino walked closer, pointing. “It’s too faint to see easily, but that’s New Dublin. And just like we’re at the end of the Zabel Spur, they’re all the way at the end of the Cormier Spur in Concordia.”

            “So?”

            “So... there’s a transition point that leads there.”

            Malcolm blinked.

            Sortino smiled, waiting.

            “That can’t be. It’s too far away.”

            “Is it?”

            “It must be. How far is it. Let me check the with the base synthetic—”

            “Don’t bother. It’s about a hundred and three and a half light years away. Well, just shy of that.”

            Malcolm stared at Sortino. “A hundred and three light years?”

            “That’s right.”

            “It might as well be a hundred thousand light years then. That’d be... what, a fifth stage transition? Sixth?”

            “Fifth.”

            “And that’s impossible.”

            Sortino smiled a bit. “Yes, and no. It’s impossible for the Concordians, because they don’t have the resources or time to spend working on the problem. Because like you said, it’s impossible. Everyone knows that. Since Bara Hotchkiss and Lyn Leopold unlocked the secrets of the galaxy, we’ve only been able to use up to third stage transitions. Anything more than that would take vastly more power than we can harness. Yes?”

            “Yes.”

            “And after thousands of years of expansion into the galaxy, it’s clear we never will be able to harness that much power. Not without destroying the ship in the process. Right?” Sortino was smiling again. It was a smug smile.

            Malcolm breathed out slowly. “You’ve worked out the power issue?”

            “Not directly. But that’s actually my point. On two worlds, over a thousand light years apart from each other, the two keys to the puzzle were solved. First, there’s the question of power. Have you heard of nullpoint technology?”

            “Nullpoint? I... yes. It’s some kind of storage battery or power cell or capacitor, right?”

            Sortino chuckled. “It’s a capacitor the same way a supernova is an example of fusion energy in action, Malcolm. Vast amounts of energy can be stored inside a nullpoint, and once it’s in there it’s essentially harmless. No chance it can explode. If you damage it, you just lock that potential energy off until you fix it. And you can make them as large as you need, and small enough for practical uses. One day, we’ll be able to mount a nullpoint to an energy rifle of some sort, and be able to use it for weeks without recharging. Or months. Or longer.”

            “Someday?”

            “Oh, we could do it now, but it costs far too much money to manufacture nullpoints, without even counting generating the energy. In fact, the Navy’s set up a nullpoint construction facility on the far side of the system’s star from us. It’s over there because it uses gravity induction to create antimatter, then uses antimatter reactions to generate the energy we store in the things. Some day, mass production will reduce the cost, but for now, we have better ways to use it.”

            “So... you can store enough power in a nullpoint to power a fifth stage transition? That’s absurd. I saw the figures once. You’re talking a star’s output, if you’re lucky.”

            “No, we can’t. Oh, I suppose if we made the nullpoints big enough and burned enough antimatter to charge it, it would be possible, but the Hotchkiss/Leopold drive would be torn apart by all that energy trying to push through it.” Sortino finished off his second whiskey. “But like I said, there were two breakthroughs. Not one.”

            Sortino walked back around, sitting in the chair he had sat in before. “The conceptual breakthrough that made nullpoint technologies possible happened on a planet called Casco back in Paramount Realm. The news and a full report on it filtered back through the courier system to the Imperial Ministry of Research. They, in turn, filtered it down to their Imperial Institutes. Have you heard of the Imperial Institutes?”

            “No, sir.”

            “They’re crucial to the Empire holding its place at the forefront of the galaxy. Founded a thousand years back. They’re the greatest brain trust humanity ever put together. They’re clearinghouses and laboratories, all at once. In fact, they’re the ones who give out the Vandross Prizes. In fact, it was a satellite campus of the Imperial Institute of the Physical Sciences on Casco that developed the theories behind nullpoints. The Ministry of Research got that and cross correlated with a theory put together by the Imperial Institute of Astronomical and Astrophysical Research’s planetary campus out on Nereid – in Coreward Realm – a couple of decades before. A theory derived from the Darrins – ever meet a Darrin? Very math-oriented species. Anyway, the theory suggested there were new ways to manipulate quantum layers in a transition point... a whole new methodology of putting the Hotchkiss/Leopold equations into effect, that would make it possible to open a fourth or fifth stage transition point with a fraction of the power the core equations would predict.”

            Malcolm stared at Sortino, then looked down at his glass. “I could use that refill now.”

            “I’ll just bet.” Sortino stood, accepting Malcolm’s glass.

            “Why did they sit on it for decades?”

            “Because even a fraction of the power required to make a fourth or fifth stage transition was more power than any starship could generate or store,” Sortino said, pouring. “So, the papers got sat on. Oh, the folks who wrote them won a Vandross for them, but it was esoteric knowledge only. A theory that had no practical application, from the standpoint of the universe. Only the strength of the Ministry of Research isn’t just research. It’s synthesis. It’s coordination. So when the nullpoint theories came across their desks, somehow they were able to correlate them with those new methods of cracking a t-point. They then sent out directives to several campuses of the Imperial Institute for Engineering and Technical Development to develop the hardware. Make nullpoint theory real. Make fifth stage rated h/l drives real. And make them work together.”

            “And... they did it?”

            “Of course they did it. In less time than the Ministry predicted.” Sortino handed the drink to Malcolm, sitting down once more. “Prototyped, tested, proved, patented.”

            “Then... those new cruisers we noticed, tacking into Scabbard Naval Platform....”

            “Are fifth-stage rated. Give them a fifth stage t-point, and they can jump up to a hundred and sixteen light years. That’s four third stage transitions, Malcolm. And like every shift up to a new transition stage, it’s faster. Four maximum third stage transitions, even ignoring the time it takes to travel between t-points in intervening systems, would take seventy days. Add in average travel times between t-points, and you’re looking at ninety days if you’re lucky. A maximum fifth stage transition clears in forty-one days.”

            “Then... then why build a whole new fleet? Why not retrofit half the fifth fleet and—”

            Sortino waved his hand dismissively. “No good, Alex. The new fifth stage rated H/L drives take entirely different astronautics. And that’s the challenge.” Sortino sat back. “You already know that nullpoints are expensive to create. You know that because I told you it was true. Well, the H/L technology’s a couple of orders of magnitude more expensive still. We literally don’t have the resources yet to make up entire fleets of fifth stage rated starships. It’ll be decades – centuries – before we could afford it. As it is, Operation Swift Sword is the most expensive Naval project of the last eighty years.”

            “Operation Swift Sword?”

            “That’s what we’re doing here,” Sortino said, smiling slightly. “We have an unprecedented opportunity, Alexander. We can send in a military force eight transitions behind the Thames-to-Aurora transition. What’s more, it’s five transitions up to the endpoint of a spur, so we could potentially strike and suborn all those planets before they even know we’ve opened up a second front of the war. If we drive down fast enough, and hard enough, we can take and fortify Campbell, cutting their supply line down to the Teo Cluster and forcing a retreat from the disputed worlds. And even before we get to Campbell, there’s a fourth stage transition between Newport and Tackleford that’ll put our forces eleven transitions deep into Concordian space. Do you think there’s going to be any organized resistance that far into their own territory?”

            Malcolm’s mind swum. “It... it’s incredible. It’s perfect. They’ll never know what hit them! We can end this war in two years!”

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 9:04 PM | Comments (8)

November 11, 2004

Eric: Day Eleven, or, Things Fall Apart

16,352 / 50,000 (32.7%)

Let's cover numbers early. Because something should happen early today. 16,352/18,333. That's right. I'm 2,000 words behind schedule. The reason for this is profound: I spent much of Tuesday working to get ready for being out of my office entirely on Wednesday, I spent much of Wednesday at a vendor demo, then spent the rest of it, essentially, meeting up with someone local to the area, having a meal, and talking. What did we talk about? Well, a bunch of things, including our shared history in Superguy (I've talked about Superguy before, I think. If not... well, I will someday, I promise), and webcomics, because I talk about webcomics to people over food. It's a curse. Also, I had really good Shephard's Pie, which is perhaps the perfect food for me to eat these days.

And then today, I had to get caught up with all the crap that came up yesterday, and desperately try to catch up with Nanowrimo the rest of the time, because I was very behind. In fact, I wrote 3,000 words today or so... and if I do that again tomorrow and again on Saturday, I'll actually get back on track. After work, I came home and fell asleep for several hours, and would kind of like to go back to sleep, but I have to get some things done....

If you think all this is a half-assed attempt to cover my ass for not snarking anything today... well, you'd be right. But I will put an extra big scene in as an excerpt today, because... well, because. I think you'll like it. Malcolm, my protagonist, finally has a little bit of a breakdown and we begin to find out what's going on... on one level, anyway.

For those of you who've recently sent me requests for the password information for the writing page... I'll see if I can't get through that backlog tomorrow, and get everyone that access. For those of you who're wondering when I'll finally do something about the fucking bowling shirts... Saturday. I swear.

So here's a fast 1,900 words. And I'll try to do more tomorrow. Promise.

---

            “Through here,” the chief petty officer said, nodding behind himself. Malcolm nodded his thanks and stepped into the office.

            And was instantly plunged into the depths of space, or so it seemed. The office was at the very center of the wheel-like station, at the topmost deck, and the entire roof was a dome of plastiglass. As a result, Malcolm was almost made dizzy by the sudden feeling of infinity, all around him. There were soft lights on the walls, all directed down, but nothing that detracted from the sudden dizzying perspective.

            Malcolm shook his head, suddenly embarrassed. He looked around. There was comfortable furniture – largely wood, which had to have cost a fortune – and a broad desk opposite the door he came in. Commodore Kevin Sortino was standing behind that desk, off slightly to the side. He was smirking.

            Malcolm stepped forward. “Captain Alexander Malcolm, reporting as ordered, sir,” he said, coming to attention. It seemed the best recovery he could make.

            Sortino smiled a bit more broadly. “At ease, and sit down, Alex.” He glanced up. “It’s an impressive sight, isn’t it?”

            Malcolm took a seat. “Yes sir. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

            “No, you probably haven’t. Do you know, the slowships had a room like this at the top decks of every ship? Before Hotchkiss and Leopold unlocked the nodal points of gravity and figured out how they were stitched together, shipbuilders always planned a place where captains and their crew could go and be reminded of how vast the galaxy is.”

            “I didn’t know that, no. Sir.”

            Sortino smiled a bit more. “I said ‘at ease,’ Alex. Would you care for a drink? I’ve got a Scotch from Campbell that I break out for old shipmates.”

            “From Campbell, sir?” Malcolm arched an eyebrow. “Concordian whiskey?”

            “I find whiskey doesn’t much care where it’s from,” Sortino said, stepping over to a small wet bar. “Besides, if it makes you feel better, this was part of a supply cache we captured on Migdal during one of the Army’s raids. A friend of a friend grabbed a whole case, and one of the bottles made it to me.”

            “Oh.” Malcolm was slightly surprised to find he did feel better.

            “Here you are,” the Commodore said, offering a glass with a couple of fingers of the amber liquid and two cubes of ice to Malcolm, who accepted it. Nodding slightly, the Commodore sat in a chair opposite Malcolm, with a low table between them.

            Malcolm shifted to face Sortino. Despite the years that had passed, he found the Commodore looked much the same as he remembered. Lean, with an angular face that had a slight flush to its light skin. Red-blond hair, which in the low light looked like it had no grey at all. He was wearing dress blues, but without the coat. Even on his white tunic shirt, however, the solid four point star and disk of a Commodore gleamed in the room’s low light, and below it he wore a small Admiral’s Star, reflecting he had a fleet command.

            Sortino lifted his glass in toast. “To victory,” he murmured.

            Malcolm lifted his own. “May it come swiftly,” he answered, and sipped the scotch. It was peatier than many Malcolm had tasted, burning as it went down. Malcolm half-closed his eyes to savor that burn.

            “That’s my kind of sentiment,” Sortino said, with a smile. “You don’t know how hard it is to hammer that into the Admiralty. They like containment. I’m not interested in containing the bastards. I want to make it abundantly clear to every two bit power in the galaxy that you don’t get to attack the Empire of Citadel.”

            “You think they’d learn that lesson?” Malcolm asked.

            “I think we can force them to learn that lesson,” Sortino answered, soberly.

            “Yes, sir,” Malcolm said, looking down into the scotch. He suddenly felt very tired.

            “How’s your family, Alex,” the Commodore asked softly. “Have you heard anything recently?”

            “No, sir. I... I don’t know, sir. I hope they’re managing.”

            Sortino nodded. “I wish I could tell you that we’d made an inroad into Campos, but we haven’t. It’s the same old story you’ve heard a hundred times. We push into the system with the Navy, but we never get enough of a foothold to land troops on Campos to start liberating it. We have to be able to reinforce a blockade to give the Army a chance to work. Otherwise, it could end up like Garrity. And the last thing we need is another planet where half the time we have soldiers we can’t reinforce or withdraw if needed.”

            “I know that, sir,” Malcolm said.

            “I know you do. You’re a good spacer. You always have been.”

            “Thank you, sir.” Malcolm took another sip of the whiskey. “Sir... I have to ask—”

            “Let me guess. You have to ask what all this is about. You have to ask why we’ve put thirty billion pounds imperial into a dead end system at the end of the Zabel Spur. You have to ask why you’ve gotten a Captain’s Star out of turn. You have to ask what all this is about.” He smiled slightly. “Did I cover the basics, Captain?”

            “Yes, sir.” Malcolm found himself smiling. Sortino had always been able to do that. He was so smooth, so charming.....

            “Well. The short answer is, we’re preparing to end this war once and for all, with the Empire of Citadel the solid winners. And you’re here to be a part of it. In fact, you’re here to be the lynchpin.”

            “Sir?” Malcolm asked, blinking. “I....”

            “Let me guess,” Sortino said, again. “You don’t think you’re anything special, so the idea that you could have the deciding role in ending a war conservatively estimated to last another sixty years is shocking. Am I right?”

            “Well, yes sir.”

            Sortino’s grin turned wry. “It’s a good thing I’m the one who decides who is and isn’t special instead of you, then, isn’t it.” He drained the rest of his scotch. “Do you know why victory has always been inevitable, Malcolm? Why in the end this was nothing more than an expensive fool’s errand for Concordia?”

            “Sir? I know why civilians think it’s inevitable....”

            “Why’s that?”

            “Because... because there’s an estimated forty-one hundred planets in the Empire of Citadel, counting member worlds and protectorates, and there’s less than two hundred and twenty Concordian planets.”

            “Seems like an obvious win for us, doesn’t it?”

            “Well... I can see why civilians think that, sir.”

            “But you don’t agree?”

            “I don’t think the numbers make victory inevitable, sir. I think victory has to come from our resolve and our strategy.”

            Sortino nodded. “What’s the fallacy of the numerical argument?”

            Malcolm sipped his whiskey. He wasn’t sure if this was a casual discussion or a test. “Concordia’s smaller size means information travels from one end of their empire to the other in a fraction of the time. Concordia’s direct control of her member worlds means they can command far greater individual resources than we can. And the whole of Concordia is involved in the war. While this is the largest war the Empire’s ever been in, it’s a very very small percentage of the Empire that’s affected by it. To people in Anterior Realm, or Coreward, or even Paramount Realm... it’s just an afterthought. And with all the frontier action in the outer realms, the Imperial Navy can’t focus even a tenth of its overall commitment to resolving this action. Especially....”

            “Especially?” Sortino asked, intently.

            “Especially with the Concordians contained,” Malcolm said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

            “Oh yes. The containment strategy. Hold them in place, and eventually they’ll run out of resources to pursue the war, in decades or centuries. In the meantime, there’s only eight Citadelian worlds in dispute or seeing violence. Eight worlds, out of thousands. That’s only two tenths of one percent of the Empire directly affected, right?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “You don’t like that strategy, do you?”
            “No, sir.”

            “Why not? You know it will work, eventually.”

            “No sir, I don’t know that. They’ve broken through to Rosenberg any number of times, sir. If they ever manage to solidly reinforce Rosenberg, and get control of the trailward t-point out of the system, they cut off the Manley Reach. If they manage that, they reinforce heavily on Simpson and Campos and send forces to Melchor to create another buffer there. They pull out of Garrity and Crosby’s Folly and Midgal entirely. They send troops in on Guigar and Kolchalka and Greenlee, one at a time subverting and conquering, and then Jacques and Bleuelsuld and Aeire....” Malcolm felt the words boiling out of him, almost without control, like a floodgate had been opened and there was no way to stop it. “Once they’re solidly locked into the Manley Reach, they have the whole uncolonized region past the Manley Reach open to them. They send in colonists and resource miners and surveyors. They hurl their military to the buffer worlds and strip back everything else to just hold and develop. Generations are born on the conquered worlds and die on them, and life becomes ritualized and expected, and sooner or later some Duke will propose coming to some peace accord with Concordia because it’s costing us money to hammer at them while Concordia is making money on their new worlds and the Concordian empire is expanding with the new colonies....”

            “That’s right. Sooner or later some Peer or some Tribune in Parliament will decide it’ll be easier and make more mathematical sense to consolidate their own power if they eliminate the costly war – costly in terms of lives and resources alike – and make peace.” Sortino practically spat the word. “And you don’t like that?”

            “No sir. No I don’t.”

            “Why not?”

            “Sir—”

            Sortino’s voice was soft. Coaxing. Insistent. “Why not, Alex.”

            “Because it’s not math to me, sir.” Malcolm barely kept from bursting into tears, buried emotions coming to the surface. “They have my family! They’re in my home town! My home country. My home world! They’re raping my planet and my friends and my birthright! I hate them for that!”

            “You hate your enemies?”

            “Yes! Yes!”

            “So why are you so tired these days?”

            “Because there’s no way out!” Malcolm shouted, tears finally flowing. “We fight them every fucking day! Ships burn and spacers die on both sides, soldiers dig in, take land and lose it the next day! It’s eternal!”

            “What if we sent in two more fleets and blew them out of the sky?”

            “It wouldn’t last,” Malcolm said. “They’re committed to a degree we’ll never be, and there’s only one route in and out of Concordian space.”

            “The Thames-to-Aurora transition,” Sortino asked, quietly.

            “Yes! They just have to keep feeding things through Thames, and they can make fleets break against them at the choke point! And when the fleets are broken they just start flooding back out, from Aurora to Simpson and Abramsuld...” Malcolm’s voice dropped. He suddenly felt drained. “There’s no way out, sir. We have to keep grinding and hoping they don’t get lucky, until their economy collapses and they can’t keep building ships to send against us. And that’s not even considering the Orgalin are supplying them too.”

            Sortino nodded, and finished off his whiskey. “Want a refill?” he asked, quietly.

            “What? No... no, I still... no.”

            Sortino nodded, getting up. “That doesn’t answer my question, though. My original question.”

            “What... what was the question, sir?”

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 9:58 PM | Comments (4)

November 7, 2004

Eric: Day Seven

11,729 / 50,000 (23.5%)

Today kicked my ass. I'm at 11,729/11,666 so I'm locked pretty much in the groove. The first 1,600 words flowed like water. And then the gigantic slamming dam of "no more mister writer man" fell down on me like a fucking meteor. It took me about six hours to do the last 125 words and close out the day's work -- I have to finish the scene I'm working on when I stop for the day, or I go a little psycho. It calls to me, and demands completion, otherwise. So I managed to force out a crappy little ending and tomorrow I'll do something else and those 125 words will get nailed with a flamethrower when I get to the editing stage, because they suck.

Anyway, here's about 730 words to prove I did something today. They're all from before it went to Hell, so there's that, anyway.

---

            ÏCaptain!Ó he called out, smiling. ÏCome here and get properly introduced.Ó He offered a hand. ÏScott Clarenbach. YouÌre... Lex Malcolm, right?Ó

            ÏAlexander Malcolm,Ó Malcolm corrected, shaking ClarenbachÌs hand, and smiling a diplomatic smile. ÏQuite a cargo ship youÌve got here,Ó he said. ÏI didnÌt think they came half this big.Ó

            ÏThey didnÌt. But progress is on the march. I never thought IÌd be as proud to run package delivery. Captain, this is my first officer, Commander Jennifer Beverley. And these are some of your fellow VIPs. This is Captain Tobias Renn...Ó he paused, to let Malcolm get caught up with handshakes.. ÏCaptain Nicholas Yerkovich, and I believe you met Captain Lan Delaine and Captain Verla Piermatteo.Ó

            ÏVery briefly,Ó Malcolm said, finishing his handshaking. Delaine was the one with the oddly black pupils and Piermatteo was the overly pale Captain. ÏAlexander Malcolm. A pleasure to meet all of you.Ó

            ÏOh, this isnÌt all,Ó Commander Beverley said, smiling. ÏNot by a long shot. WeÌve got another four captains coming. ThereÌs also a number of lower ranked officers on the VIP list, though they werenÌt invited to this particular function. YouÌll have many, many chances to get to know each other between here and GS4771.Ó

            ÏAre we all on the CommodoreÌs staff?Ó Captain Piermatteo asked, her accent not one Malcolm had heard before.

            ÏOfficially. At least until you get to GS4771,Ó Clarenbach answered. ÏBut for purposes of the trip, the easy answer is yes.Ó

            ÏWhatÌs this all about,Ó Captain Renn, a swarthy man, said. He looked like an augmented human as well, his skin seeming almost to shine at certain angles.  ÏLook at us Ò IÌve never seen a younger group of spacers wearing CaptainÌs Stars before. At least, outside of vids back home, and weÌre not good looking enough for the vids.Ó

            ÏYou were promoted out of turn, too?Ó Malcolm asked Renn.

            ÏI was a Commander for less than nine months before getting a CaptainÌs Star. You tell me.Ó He looked, almost challengingly, at Clarenbach.

            ÏI know, youÌre curious, and perhaps even frustrated,Ó Clarenbach said. ÏI wish I could explain everything, but I canÌt. You can already tell thereÌs a major buildup of resources taking place in GS4771. Once you get there, Commodore Sortino and his staff will explain everything to you all.Ó He smiled a bit more. ÏI will say this, though. No bad eggs are on this list. You might feel a bit rough around the edges, especially when youÌre looking at that CaptainÌs Star of yours, but youÌre exactly what the Commodore was looking for.Ó

            ÏTo do what?Ó Delaine asked.

            ÏLike I said. IÌm sorry. Excuse me. I need to get a drink and to check on our other guests. Beverley? If youÌd come along?Ó

            Malcolm watched them go. ÏCould someone please explain to me what six cargo ships of this size could possibly be carrying for an uninhabited star system?Ó

            ÏCould someone please explain to me who would build a Naval cargo vessel this size in the first place?Ó Piermatteo countered. ÏI can understand container ships approaching this size, owned by multiplanetary corporations that ship monumental tonnages. But a Navy ship, armored for battle conditions? This thing will carry in excess of sixty thousand teu, and we know thereÌs at least six of them heading up the Spur,Ó

            ÏAnd at least three IA divisional carriers. ThatÌs a Hell of a lot of soldiers heading up to nowhere,Ó Renn said.

            ÏI saw what looked like a ship tender ­Ò but one of comparable size to the Utahraptor,Ó Malcolm threw in. ÏYou have any idea how many frigates or even cruisers a tender like that can haul?Ó

            ÏYou all sound suspicious,Ó Yerkovich said, speaking for the first time. ÏMe, IÌm excited.Ó

            ÏExcited?Ó

            ÏAll of this has to be some monumental buildup to fight the war. TheyÌre probably using GS4771 because no one would ever go there. Almost no one would even go up the Zabel Spur in the first place. There might be rumors about all of us, but they wonÌt spread through the disputed worlds. By the time weÌre ready, we can sweep down as an unstoppable force.Ó

            ÏMaybe,Ó Renn said, doubt in his voice. ÏThough itÌs my experience that most unstoppable forces are pretty stoppable.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 11:44 PM | Comments (2)

November 6, 2004

Eric: Day Six

10,348 / 50,000 (20.7%)

Yesterday was busy at work, and when I got home the near-sleepless night caught up with me (those five snarks yesterday? That's what happens when you can't sleep and you don't have a cute non-cat girl with you. I have a sad and pathetic life). So, no writing yesterday. Today, I had a pretty full day (got up early, did some work on the Wikipedia Webcomics Wikiproject Snowspinner set up, did some research for an article I'm late on (though it'll be done within the hour), and had to bring the car in for service, down in Portsmouth. While I was down there, waiting, I went to see The Incredibles, which was beyond fantastic. After the movie, I went to Fresh City and got caught up on NaNoWriMo. The count-to-quota ratio, as of today, is 10,348/10,000, so I've lost most of my buffer, but I'm still slightly ahead of schedule. And that's good enough for today, damn it. In looking over the NaNoWriMo boards, I see a number of people up over 35,000 words. I have no fucking clue how that's possible. I'm considered an absurdly fast writer by many I know, and there's no possible way I could reach that limit. On the other hand, I'm not taking methamphetamines, either.

I'm also lying, by the way. I know it's perfectly possible. Once, on New Year's Eve, I wrote a complete novella -- longer than what I've done so far on this novel -- in 9 hours. My forearms and fingers hurt from that much typing for days, but the story was actually pretty good, for what it was. But I'm older now, and besides, I have to keep pausing to update spreadsheets. The problem with making a realistic SF universe is you have to keep checking how long it would actually take people to get from point A to point B.

I should pause for a moment and mention Where Snarkoleptics Congregate. This is a NaNoWriMo Forums discussion for fellow Websnark fans to post a "hello" so we can all see how we're all doing and give each other support. I know there's more than myself and Phy doing Nano, so if you're reading these words, please click on that link and come say hi! It doesn't matter how little or how much you've written. Just come check in. We're Snarkoleptics together -- we should congregate!

Well, I'd better get an excerpt down so I can get my article finished before Comixpedia launches missiles at New Hampshire. Here's a fast 982 words for you. You Daily Dinosaur Comics fans will notice that I named some ships after characters in that story. Yeah, I'm a geek. Catch you tomorrow!

---

            The McCoy was cramped Ò just a crew of seventeen, in a ship that boasted moderate cargo space but little in the way of pressurized cabins. TheyÌd be glad to see Malcolm go, too, since protocol demanded he get a cabin to himself, forcing the two people whoÌd been bunking in it to give their spaces up. He climbed up the ladderway into the bridge Ò a tight room of three chairs, with the C.O. sitting above (and able to take over any position necessary). Unlike ships of the line, the bridge boasted a plastiglass half-dome that gave an excellent view of their surroundings. It was an impressive view Ò ships of all class and description could be seen all around the McCoy. Huge Naval battlewagons and tiny five man traders moved to and from the huge ringed starport.

            ÏImpressive,Ó Malcolm said.

            ÏCaptain on the bridge,Ó the chief running the comm board shouted, not having seen him climb up.

            ÏAs you were,Ó Malcolm said, quickly. He was slightly annoyed. No one expected those kinds of protocols during maneuvers.

            ÏIt is impressive,Ó Dolan said from above. ÏCertified Imperial Gold. The gateway to two different approaches to the Teo Cluster ­Ò the trailward approach leading to the Manley Reach and Concordia eventually, when there isnÌt a war in the way. The coreward approach leads to the Barber Reach. Head rimward and you go up the Zabel Spur. And headward takes you to the Allass Corridor and the Atchison Sector.Ó From the sound of his voice, Malcolm could tell Dolan was taking credit for the four transition points himself, as if heÌd arranged them and as if he were actually administering them.

            ÏIÌll bet the crewÌs looking forward to forty-eight hours in an Imperial Gold rated starport.Ó

            ÏOh of course, of course. YouÌll spend a few days here too, I trust? We should have dinner, one of these nights.Ó

            ÏMy orders are priority/2,Ó Malcolm said. ÏIf anythingÌs going up the spur, IÌm going to me on it. I might not be two hours at the Naval Platform.Ó

            ÏNot much goes up the Spur. Nothing up there anyway. Maybe youÌll get a hospital ship going up to Kurtzwuld.Ó

            ÏWeÌll have to see.Ó Malcolm kept looking around. ÏSweet Murphy, is that a cargo ship?Ó

            The ship Malcolm was pointing at was huge, by any standard. A container ship, with mobile frameworks and tender cranes throughout. It had to be half the size of the entire Vernon Shipyards, all on its own.

            ÏMy... goodness,Ó Dolan said. ÏThat is a big one. Of course, they all look big to me.Ó

            ÏSensory,Ó Malcolm said, Ïwith the skipperÌs permission Ò is that flying independent registry?Ó

            Petty officer Gomez-Hoyt didnÌt wait for DolanÌs permission Ò the crew of the McCoy didnÌt exactly stand on ceremony. ÏNo, sir. ItÌs identifying as... INCSDX-141 Dromiceiomimus.Ó

            ÏINCSDX? What kind of registry is that? Experimental dreadnought cargo ships?Ó

            ÏI donÌt know, sir. ShipÌs synthetic doesnÌt have any information on it.Ó Gomez-Hoyt looked over his shoulder. ÏThereÌs another one, sir. Off to port.Ó

            Malcolm blinked, craning his neck around. The sensor tech was right. Another of the giant, boxy carriers was coming in towards the Starport. ÏIÌll be damned. I wonder whatÌs going on. Captain, do you mind if I ask for an active trace sweep of the system? IÌm curious if thereÌs anything else like that in-system, and where itÌs going.Ó

            ÏI....Ó Dolan blinked. He wasnÌt the sort to order active traces. ÏI guess I donÌt see why not....Ó

            ÏGood. Gomez-Hoyt? Give me active traces. Nothing to penetrate hulls or violate security protocols. I just want to know whatÌs flying out there.Ó

            ÏActive traces aye,Ó Gomez-Hoyt said, grinning. Malcolm smiled a touch, too. Gomez-Hoyt wouldnÌt be on the McCoy much longer. Anyone that excited to break the routine wouldnÌt last more than two tours on a courier. Not with a war on.

            ÏItÌs not really our business, is it,Ó Dolan asked. ÏI mean, IÌm sure if we should know something, theyÌd tell us....Ó

            ÏCall it an indulgence, skip,Ó Malcolm said. He couldnÌt wait to get off DolanÌs ship.

            ÏCaptain Malcolm... IÌm showing seven ships of comparable size in the system. One more on approach, in addition to the Dromiceiomimus and the Utahraptor Ò it doesnÌt match the hull configuration, though. It almost looks like a ship tender.Ó

            ÏA ship tender that size? It could practically take six frigates into tow at once. Who would want that?Ó Malcolm frowned. ÏGomez-Hoyt Ò you said there were seven of these behemoths out there. Where are the other four.Ó

            ÏOn a tack rimward, making for the Ishida t-point.Ó He looked over his shoulder. ÏUp the Zabel Spur, sir.Ó

            Dolan snorted. ÏWhat would possibly need ships that size up the Spur?Ó

            ÏMaybe theyÌre medical supplies,Ó the helmsman said.

            ÏFor what? Is the entire Ninth Army half-dead at Kurtzwuld now?Ó

            ÏLetÌs hope not. How many other ships are tacking for the Ishida t-point, Gomez-Hoyt?Ó

            ÏThat weÌve seen? Nineteen, sir.Ó

            ÏNineteen ships, all heading up a dead end?Ó

            ÏYes sir.Ó Gomez-Hoyt shrugged. ÏMaybe the Concordians went up there?Ó

            ÏNo. If the Concordians managed an incursion this deep into Teo Cluster, much less up the Zabel Spur, Rowland and Hynes would have been fortified three times as much as they were, and thereÌd be a lot more warships coming in from headward and coreward.Ó

            ÏYes sir. But that doesnÌt explainÛÓ

            ÏNo it doesnÌt, does it?Ó

            ÏINSCS-8991773 McCoy,Ó the voice of orbital control came over the speakers. ÏSorry for the delay. WeÌre a bit busy back here. YouÌre cleared for approach and dock. Please set for encrypted automatic control. Welcome to Vernon.Ó

            ÏWe have control connection encrypted on tight,Ó the helmsman said, quickly. Clearly trying to impress the command officer who might recommend he get off the courier. ÏReady to release.Ó

            ÏThank you, Gomez-Hoyt,Ó Malcolm murmured, stepping back out of the way to the half-wall DolanÌs cradle was set atop. Curiouser and curiouser.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 9:57 PM | Comments (3)

November 5, 2004

Eric: The Rest of the Story So Far....

Hey all!

For those who came in late, I maintain a website where I post works in progress, poetry, art, and "whatever" creativity comes to mind. It's something of a notebook or chapbook, and it's password protected. It's not that I want to keep the masses out, but I don't want robots sniffing it or capturing it, and I don't want any prospective publishers to think I'm "previously published" by putting my stuff on an open website. I have quite a bit of stuff on there, including several chapters of books I'm working on (most notably Theftworld, some short fiction, some poems... that kind of thing.

Well, I've now put the work I've done up until yesterday (the first 8,300 words or so) on Trigger Man onto the site. That includes lots of stuff not put into any of the daily excerpts I've put on Websnark. So, if you're interested in seeing the complete novel as it is so far -- as well as other stuff I've written over the past couple of years -- shoot me an e-mail at websnark AT gmail DOT com and I'll be glad to send you the address and password information.

If you'd rather not... um... carry on!

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 4:21 PM | Comments (0)

November 4, 2004

Eric: Day Four

8,276 / 50,000 (16.6%)

There wasn't much done on Day Three. I was in Maine, as I related in my last post. So there was little writing done. I've managed to correct that for today, which is of course Day Four, and pushed the count up to 8,276/6,664, or about 1 day's buffer's worth. I'll try to stretch that for tomorrow, as I've got at least one overnight business trip coming up I want to be sure I'm covered for.

I'm a busy person. This kind of surprises me. But work keeps busy, and there's all this stuff to do. And stuff that calls out to be snarked. "Snark me, Eric," it says. "You know you want to! Write opinions about me, bitch! Bark like a dog! BARK LIKE A DOG!"

But I refuse to feel guilty about doing Nanowrimo stuff. I know it divides my writing time up, but Jess Christ, I'm writing a novel. That's what writers do. I'll do my best to not let Snarky languish. And you guys have been amazingly great, and that, in turn, is amazingly great.

So, here's a fast 500+ word excerpt from the current output. It's short enough that I won't put it behind a cut. Let me know if that pisses you off.

---

            ÏSo youÌre being put on a commodoreÌs staff?Ó

            ÏCommodore Sortino. That makes a difference. I know him.Ó

            Morita started walking again, pausing long enough to make sure Malcolm was following. ÏYou know Sortino?Ó

            ÏYouÌve heard of him?Ó

            ÏHas anyone whoÌs helped fight their ships in the disputed worlds not heard of him? He led the strike that broke the supply line run from Simpson to Garrity Ò forced them to retreat to CrosbyÌs Folly and fortify. If his successors hadnÌt fucked it up, we could have held Simpson, taken and fortified Garrity, and started up the ides from Migdal to Abramsuld.Ó

            ÏYeah. Just like that.Ó Malcolm snorted. ÏYou know better, Rita.Ó

            ÏLet me dream. He knows you?Ó

            ÏI didnÌt think so.Ó

            ÏBut you saidÛÓ

            ÏI said I knew him.Ó He shook his head. ÏI was a subleftenant on the Kanamori. He was a captain then. He was everything I think of when I think of captains.Ó Malcolm shook his head. ÏLarger than life. Took control of every situation he was in, just by walking through the door. Nothing seemed to shake him. Nothing seemed to hurt him. And he understood you.Ó

            ÏSounds like he had an impact.Ó

            ÏYeah,Ó Malcolm said softly.

            ÏThat sounds like thereÌs a story behind it.Ó

            Malcolm took a deep breath. ÏI was on the Kanamori when we got word that Campos had been taken.Ó

            Morita looked away. ÏIÌm sorry.Ó

            ÏItÌs okay.Ó Malcolm was walking faster, now. Striding, almost. Like he was trying to put distance between himself and that memory. ÏIt devastated me. I had... have family there. Some I havenÌt heard from in years. It was like the Concordians had set a bomb off under my bunk.Ó

            ÏAnd Sortino understood that?Ó

            ÏHe came to see me in my cabin. Just sat there. Let me blubber. DidnÌt hold it against me. He understood.Ó Malcolm took a deep breath, shaking his head. ÏHe was from Aurora.Ó

            Morita stopped in her tracks. ÏOh,Ó she said in a small voice.

            ÏYeah. His homeworld, saturation bombed in a surprise attack. The start of the whole fucking war. HeÌd been on leave at the time. He was there. He got a commendation for organizing a defense of the refugees. But his wife and parents didnÌt get out. DidnÌt even survive.Ó Malcolm looked at Morita. ÏIt made all the difference to me. He understood. He understood the fear, and the despair, and the anger I was feeling. He didnÌt hold it against me. He let me express it. He let me exorcise it.Ó

            ÏAnd youÌre surprised he remembers you?Ó

            ÏYeah.Ó Malcolm shrugged. ÏThere were dozens of officers and crew on the Kanamori. More than half of us probably had something similar happen. Garrity, Campos and Abramsuld were all heavy feeders for the Imperial Navy.Ó Malcolm chuckled, without humor. ÏTheyÌre talking about revising posting assignments, you know? Over the next fifty years, set it up so that enlisted and officers are posted at least a sector away from their homeworlds. Makes people a little crazy to be thrown into such a personal war.Ó

            ÏOh, yeah. Make sure people are twenty-five or thirty transitions from a homeworld thatÌs being bombed. ThatÌll be good for morale.Ó

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 5:46 PM | Comments (5)

November 2, 2004

Eric: On election night, you want commentary? Have a map instead.

So, I do up this map. You all know it. Within two days, I need a lot more depth. So, it's the all new expanded map of the region.

Besides lots more planets, which of course means lots more... um... planets... I added in some region names. I could go into some detail of what a corridor is versus a reach or a cluster, but honestly, no one cares. (The Zabel Spar is significant, because a Spar has only one route in or out, according to theory. Okay, significant may be too strong a word. Also, I might be drunk.)

I haven't done regions for the Concordia side, because... well, I don't expect a whole lot of call for them. If I need them, I'll do them later. But otherwise, I think she's pretty well done.

Oh. And I corrected the spelling of "Toronto." Do you hear me? I corrected it. What do you want from me? What?

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 10:23 PM | Comments (12)

Eric: Day Two

5,867 / 50,000 (11.7%)

It's going exceedingly well so far. I'm finding I have a voice and a lot to say, and as you can tell by the progress bar in the corner, I've officially hit 11% of total. Which, for two days work, doesn't suck.

For the record, this represents 5,867/3,332 for the "completed"/"quota" counts. So I'm well ahead of schedule, which is good given how little writing I might do tomorrow.

I'm finding it very hard not to go back and revise. In a way, that's what I most need to get out of NaNoWriMo this year. Writing is easy. Finishing is hard. This way, I can force myself to keep going, and when I think "wow, that's too wordy," I can then force my brain to think "and in December, I'll see if I can fix it."

I've got a revised map, though it'll have to be its own entry. Not because I wanted to name more planets after Webcomics (though that was fun), but because I needed information about the planets below the edge of the map. I'll do an entry this evening detailing the changes, while I'm in Maine.

That's right, right after work I'm heading out the door to the Pine Tree State, where I will be meeting up with the folks to watch the election results. We'll go out to dinner first, and then have an evening of cheers and profanity. I took tomorrow off, too, so I can stay up until the cow milking hour when Tom Brokaw says "it's now clear that it will be many weeks or months before we have resolution on the question of the American President...."

Anyway, here's a fast 1,500 words or so. I'm putting it in the "extended entry," so that it won't completely smack down peoples' browsers if they're not interested. Just click on the "continue reading" link if you're reading this on Websnark, or click the link at the top of the entry if you're reading on Livejournal or RSS.

---

            The message had been lurking, waiting the weeks and months for him to be in a position to report to a fleet commander. This Captain Fleischer was clearly the first available the system could hook him up with. Still, it was a damn inconvenience at best. He quickly worked to get his debarkment permission in order, but didnÌt bother tagging it with a tourist visa for the local planet. As an Imperial citizen, much less an Imperial naval officer, Malcolm could travel to any Imperial Starport facility without needing a Visa... but every Member World of the Empire of Citadel was sovereign, and they all had their own customs procedures.

            Since he wasnÌt going to the surface, he could bypass them. As it was, it only took twenty minutes to get the clearances he needed. He then disconnected and headed out Ò it wasnÌt impossible that it would take twenty minutes or more to find his way to room IN8911c, even with the route programmed into his comm. And he got the feeling he shouldnÌt be late to this meeting.

            As it worked out, he got there in fifteen minutes, but then sat in the lobby for half an hour. Synthetics could create perfectly synchronized schedules, but human beings still had to follow them. The desk clerk smiled apologetically to Malcolm two or three times Ò he was a petty officer third class, by his chevrons, and clearly was used to people being kept past their appointed times. One of his assistance, a pretty, young Spacer Apprentice, brought him coffee at one point. All part of what the enlisted did when a senior line officer was kept sitting. Fortunately, they didnÌt try to chat. Malcolm didnÌt want to chat. He was somewhat nervous. It wasnÌt likely anything was wrong, mind. They didnÌt usually let problems fester while a captain fought his ship in space. But they might simply not have liked his performace as C.O., and this might be their chance to route him to a desk somewhere. Or they might have liked it a lot, and lined him up for a larger frigate. Or chosen to make him X.O. on a cruiser or battleship Ò give the chance for a Captain to put the polish on him prior to considering him for a capital ship command.

            Or maybe heÌd done something critically, crucially wrong in a crisis, and this was their way of getting him away from the Claremont so they could demote or discharge him quietly, without causing a scene.

            Finally, the desk clerk called over to him. ÏCommander Malcolm? Captain Fleischer can see you now.Ó

            ÏThank you,Ó Malcolm said, getting up. He straightened his undress coat and headed to the office the desk clerk pointed out. He nodded to the other personnel in the office, and knocked at the door.

            ÏCome.Ó

            Malcolm walked in. Captain Fleischer was rising from behind his desk. He was somewhat heavyset, especially in his face, which was jowly, and wore a light blue duty uniform, with flexible versions of his indica. And of course his CaptainÌs Star, with the Fleet Operations insignia below it. He offered Malcolm his hand. ÏCommander Malcolm? Isaac Fleischer. A pleasure to meet you.Ó

            Malcolm shook the offered hand. ÏThank you, sir. The pleasureÌs mine.Ó

            ÏHave a seat.Ó The Captain smiled ruefully. ÏIÌll bet youÌre wound up inside, right now?Ó

            ÏYou could say that, sir. I wasnÌt expecting a note from Central Processing right after I debarked.Ó

            ÏI canÌt say I blame you. If itÌs any consolation, I didnÌt get much more notice. The damn synthetics saw a priority/2 and grabbed my first open slot. With priority/3, I get a little more notice.Ó

            ÏIÌm sorry to inconvenience you, sir,Ó Malcolm said, with a  smile he didnÌt really feel.

            ÏIÌll bet you are. Well, letÌs get to it. I have new orders for you.Ó

            Malcolm blinked, cocking his head slightly. ÏSir? The Claremont just put into drydock for repair and refit. The best case scenario is a week before we can put back out. If itÌs a priority/2ÛÓ

            ÏIt is, and I know. These are your orders. Not the ClaremontÌs. YouÌre being reassigned.Ó

            Malcolm felt the walls close in. ÏI see, sir. WhatÌs my new assignment.Ó

            ÏI canÌt tell you yet. There are formalities to carry out first.Ó

            ÏSir?Ó

            Fleischer opened his desk drawer, and took out a flat, blue folding box. It had the Imperial Crest and the seal of the Imperial Navy on the top. He set it down in front of Malcolm. ÏOpen it,Ó he said.

            Malcolm blinked, and opened the hinged box. Inside, set into dark blue crushed fake velvet, was a gold CaptainÌs Star Ò full sized, instead of the small one Malcolm wore as part of his assignment insignia."

            Malcolm looked up, startled. ÏWhat is this?Ó

            ÏYouÌve been in the Imperial Navy for sixteen standard years. If you donÌt recognize that by now, youÌre probably in the wrong business.Ó

            ÏBut... Captain, I....Ó

            ÏBy authority of the Imperial Ministry of War, the Underministry of Naval Affairs, and the Imperial Naval Chief of Staff, I am pleased to announce your promotion to the rank of Captain, with all the privileges and responsibilities that rank includes.Ó Fleischer smiled wryly, offering his hand again. ÏCongratulations, Captain.Ó

            Malcolm took the hand mechanically. ÏSir... thank you. I... donÌt quite follow, though. I was promoted to Commander less than four years ago.Ó

            ÏThatÌs right. And it seems to you too early to be brought up from Senior Officer to Command Officer. ThatÌs because it is.Ó Fleischer leaned back in his chair. ÏCommander Malcolm, I didnÌt have much time to distill the orders I was given, but I did have enough time to read over your service record. YouÌre a competent commanding officer. YouÌre still young and rough around the edges. You have no practical experience commanding in large scale environments. YouÌre a good c.o. for a frigate and I have no doubt that in five to ten years youÌd make a good captain. But I donÌt argue with Central Processing, especially when thereÌs a Commodore involved. They want you as a captain. They think youÌre ready for it. So youÌre going to have to live up to that.Ó He smiled, ruefully. ÏAnd if that doesnÌt scare the Hell out of you, it should.Ó

            ÏI could refuse promotion,Ó Malcolm said, still looking at the CaptainÌs Star without picking it up.

            ÏYou have that right. I could have your discharge papers ready in five minutes, if you like.Ó

            ÏI didnÌt sayÛÓ

            ÏCommander... Captain... youÌre being given priority/2 orders that are confidential until you accept your promotion. Does anything about that sound optional to you? You either need to put that star on so I can give you your assignment, or we need to work out your voluntary discharge without bias. In two years, if you want, you can reup for the service and pick up where you left off. And IÌm sure youÌll enjoy the desk they stick you in, but you wonÌt be on a ship any time soon, I promise you.Ó Fleischer smiled a bit more, not unkindly. ÏWelcome to the big leagues.Ó

            Malcolm took a breath and picked up the box. ÏThank you, Captain.Ó

            ÏCall me Isaac. As odd as it sounds, weÌre captains together now. Want to take a moment to change your insignia? YouÌll have to before you leave the office, you realize.Ó

            ÏI realize.Ó Malcolm began unhooking the hoop from his coat. ÏSo whatÌs my assignment?Ó

            ÏYouÌre to be put on the next available ship heading rimward, specifically heading up the Zabel Spur.Ó

            ÏThe Spur? The nearest world on the SpurÌs six transitions away from the disputed worlds.Ó

            ÏSo you know your cartography. Do you also know where the GS4771 system is?Ó

            Malcolm stopped and thought. ÏNot off hand, siÛ Isaac. ItÌs a catalog number, so I assume itÌs an uncolonized system  or a system with no useful worlds or T-points.Ó

            ÏThatÌs right. Technically, itÌs the system one transition beyond Farber on the Spur. Maps typically donÌt show it because thereÌs nothing there. No planets, no resources, and no T-point out. So why bother acknowledging it?Ó

            ÏAnd IÌm going there?Ó

            ÏThatÌs right.Ó

            ÏWhy?Ó

            ÏI have no idea. YouÌre to report to Commodore Sortino in the GS4771 system, and then carry out whatever duties he has for you.Ó

            Malcolm blinked. ÏKevin Sortino?Ó

            Fleischer arched an eyebrow. ÏThatÌs right. You know him?Ó

            ÏI served under him on the Kanamori, back when I was a subleftenant. He actually promoted me to leftenant at the end of my tour.Ó

            ÏHm. Oh, right. I saw youÌd served on the Kanamori. I didnÌt make the connection. He must have still been a Captain back then?Ó

            ÏYes. Not for much longer, but....Ó

            ÏExactly. Well, good enough. Just one of hundreds or thousands of subleftenants who served under Sortino, but for some reason he remembers you and wants you on his staff. And wants you promoted to captain before you join it. Why do you think that is?Ó

            ÏI donÌt know, sir.Ó

            ÏMe either. But I bet itÌll be an interesting answer.Ó

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 3:04 PM | Comments (2)

November 1, 2004

Eric: Day One

Last night, from midnight until about two -- the change of clock does screwy things to me -- I got the first 2,272 words of Trigger Man done. For point of reference, I should do an average of 1,666 words a day if I'm going to get this done, so I'll describe my progress as a simple ratio of [words written]/[word quota]. For right now I'm ahead. There'll come a day when I don't write a damn thing, though, so it balances out. Consider this like a webcomic. I'm building a buffer so those days when it's not there at all or life is too Interesting to even do Websnark, much less NaNoWriMo I don't have to stress. So, the Day One Count is 2,272/1,666.

Now, because I love you thiiiiiis much, here's a thousand word excerpt. Why do I anticipate people are going to either skim over these or start fleeing Websnark in droves if I keep posting them? Anyway -- this is heavy on exposition and Skiffy elements. When we're into December, there'll probably be rewrites, and the further we go into the month, the less jargon will show up and the more character moments... right. I'm babbling. Here it is. (Also, note this is raw stuff -- National Novel Editing Month isn't until December. So, bear in mind you're getting what you're getting.)

---

5284-014 21:07 In Transition/2 (Garrity-to-Migdal)

            The transition had been rough -- it was never smooth to punch a hole in space time, exploiting the natural latent tunnels between stars. Because the Claremont had a misaligned gravity net, it was rougher than normal. If the frigateÌs crew hadnÌt been secured, spacers would have been thrown against the bulkheads.

            But theyÌd made it, and now they were safely in N-space. After an hour, the engineers had certified the hull intact and cabin pressure had been restored. Malcolm had retreated, exhausted, to the officerÌs lounge to drink a cup of soykaf before heading to get five hours fitful sleep. He sipped the warm drink and watched the wisps and bursts of gold through one of the frigateÌs few windows. N-space didnÌt really have anything in it, but as quanta radiated from the Claremont and shifted past the envelope, they flared gold, forming wisps and rails. Ghosts, they called them.

            Malcolm had seen a lot of ghosts in his time.

            His executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Rita Morita, walked up and sat next to him uninvited. ÏYou look like Hell, Alex.Ó

            ÏMy friend.Ó Malcolm took another long sip of coffee. ÏDo you have an updated casualty list?Ó

            ÏSeven. Damnedest thing. One of the missiles hit the armor just right. Things were fine for three decks, but we had a collapse on the fourth deck that also damaged the port side gravity emitter array.Ó

            ÏWeÌre lucky they were short range missiles, or itÌd have been a lot worse.Ó Malcolm sounded distant, even to himself. ÏIÌll need their names, service records... you know the drill.Ó

            ÏAll too damn well.Ó Morita looked at Malcolm. ÏI mean it. You look like Hell.Ó

            Malcolm looked down at his hands. The darker skin contrasted nicely with the white of the mug. ÏIÌm tired, Rita.Ó

            ÏIt was a long fight. Hell, from what we could pick up, there were still shots being fired when we made transition.Ó

            ÏI donÌt mean that. I mean IÌm tired. IÌm weary.Ó He looked at her. ÏConcordia invaded the Empire of Citadel twelve years ago. They blew Hell out of Planet Aurora, subjugated the populace, and started moving inward.Ó

            ÏI know,Ó Morita said softly.

            ÏAnd what good has it got them? They made headway into our space, then we hit them back. We sometimes push past Aurora and hit Thames on their side. TheyÌve pushed all the way to Rosenberg more than once. But for the most part, we have a running battlefield of nine disputed worlds. They have their whole empire behind their war effort. I doubt more than ten percent of our Empire even knows there is a war.Ó

            ÏWe have well over twenty times the worlds they do,Ó Morita said. ÏItÌd be surprising if more than ten percent did know there was a war on. WeÌve got them contained.Ó

            ÏThey should be more than contained. We should be pushing into their system by now.Ó

            ÏTo do that, weÌd have to pull forces out of Periphery and Coreward Realms, even if we assume theyÌre not wasting too many ships back in Paramount Realm,Ó Rita said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. ÏItÌs going to take a long time before we can afford that kind of commitment.Ó

            ÏAnd in the meantime, the Concordians have devoted essentially all the resources of their worlds to this damn war. Frankly, weÌre lucky weÌve held them so far. If they ever solidly took Rosenberg, theyÌd cut off the Manley Reach from any kind of reinforcements. They could take them in a walk. Then, they just need to reinforce and hold....Ó

            ÏYou know, you could transfer out of the Fifth Fleet.Ó

            Malcolm didnÌt answer.

            ÏSeriously. You could get posted to the Third, over in Paramount. Do light police actions, maybe get a desk in some port for a few years. Or head out to Periphery Realm Ò play frontier naval commander for a while. You can get out of this Ò get out from the pressure.Ó

            ÏIs that what youÌre going to do, someday?Ó

            ÏYou bet it is.Ó

            Malcolm drained the last of the soykaf. ÏYouÌre from Kolchalka, right?Ó

            ÏYeah?Ó

            ÏKolchalka hasnÌt been hit, yet. Though if Manley Reach gets cut off it will be.Ó Malcolm looked back at his executive officer. ÏIÌm from Campos. There are Concordian troops in my home town right now, and theyÌve got a lock on the T-points to Migdal and Abramsuld. You want to tell me how IÌm supposed to transfer to some other Fleet or some other Realm when theyÌre using my damn secondary school as a barracks for Concordian infantry?Ó

            Morita paused, and looked away. ÏDid you have a chance to look at the latest damage control reports?Ó

            ÏNo, not yet.Ó

            ÏWeÌre working on the linkages. But we have two missile tubes with obscructions in them. I donÌt know that we can get those to ready-fight by the time we hit Migdal. The weir cannons are doing much better. We lost two, but they were pure linkage issues. We should have them ready by tomorrow. WeÌll probably have to take the gravity net down for about nine hours so we can do repairs. WeÌre going to want to pass out some preventative shots.Ó

            Malcolm nodded, absently. ÏSee to it. Priority is the weirs, then the gravity net. Keep the last two days clear for sensory work. I want it as close to nominal as possible for when we break out of transition. I just hope we donÌt have a couple of destroyers staring at the T-point, waiting to atomize whatever comes through. We didnÌt send destruction T-torps ahead of us.Ó

            ÏThe T-point was clear twelve days ago, remember?Ó

            ÏSo that means we just have eleven point nine days to worry about.Ó Malcolm stood. ÏIÌm going to get some rest.Ó

            ÏYou do that, sir.Ó

            ÏAnd you?Ó

            ÏIÌm going to sit up and stare at ghosts for a while,Ó she said. ÏSomeone in this room got me depressed.Ó

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 11:59 AM | Comments (13)

Eric: It's on

It's officially November 1. Time to start writing.

Luck to anyone else crazy enough to do this with me.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 12:00 AM | Comments (5)

October 31, 2004

Eric: Coming up on the start of 30 days of riding the fire!

It's All Hallow's Eve. To some, a sacred day. To others, the day before All Saint's Day. To yet more, an excuse to dress like a slut or extort adults for candy. To yet others, several of the above.

But to a few, bold, utterly foolish souls, it is the night before the start of National Novel Writing Month, or Nanowrimo. I've been preparing for weeks, abandoning several projects before settling on one. And now, I'm pretty well ready to go.

The project's name is Trigger Man, and it's pseudo-hard character driven SF, because that's what I want to write, in the end. It details one of the watershed events in an SF universe I've been poking at for about twelve years now. My hope is, my friends who like SF will like it, and my friends who hate SF will like it. My fear is the converse will be true.

It's dealing with a particularly bloody war between empires, and a horrific event that changes the balance of that war. Now, the plot is driven by strategic considerations, and for that to work, I need to actually know what those considerations are. So, I needed to actually outline a very basic starmap (not to scale, so Winchell Chung doesn't need to throttle me to death, just yet), detailing a good percentage of the worlds along the border of Concordia (the invading empire) and the Empire of Citadel (the defenders), along with the FTL routes (my FTL handwave requires specific points of travel, outlined by the various lines on the map) involved. For various reasons, Concordia's worlds are named after British Commonwealth cities and place names and the like. Citadel, on the other hand, has a lot more total worlds and more ways of naming planets after people than you could count.

So. I'm making up the map, so I have it to refer to, and I need a whole pile of planet names -- most of which may never even be mentioned in the book. One -- Aurora -- was already in my notes and has been referred to in my more ambitious novel project, Theftworld, which is one quarter done but on hold while I work on Trigger Man. Another, GS4771, has no reason to be named anything at all, as it has neither habitable planets nor (until now) any reason to go there. (Much of Trigger Man takes place in the GS4771 system.) And the rest....

I needed a pile of names for the rest.

As you can see if you click the map's thumbnail, I finally named them after Webcartoonists. Since most of these worlds won't be mentioned by name in the book, no one's likely to notice when I try to sell this thing. However, they're there, providing verisimilitude when I need to make references. I even have detailed notes on how far away each planet is from each other, and how long it takes to get there via the FTL handwave.

If you're a friend of mine and want to know why I didn't name it after you... well, when I did the (much larger and more elaborate) full starmap for the Hampshire Sector, needed for Theftworld and several short stories, I loaded it down with several friends' names. You're probably in there. If you're a webcartoonist and want to know why the Hell I didn't name a planet after you... hey, there were only so many. You can safely assume your world is to the "south" of this map.

For the record, purple worlds are Concordian and, as I said, named after semiBrit/Canadian/Irish/Welsh/Australian stuff. However, I did sneak in a "Campbell" and a "McCloud" and named one of the worlds "Tackleford," so that counts as an Allison reference. Pine green worlds are Citadelian. Red worlds are where the terrible fighting is going on right now. (Which means there's more of a chance those worlds will get mentioned in the actual book.) York is yellow because I have three books planned where it wins its Independence from Concordia, somewhere down the line. Oh, and some planets get the suffix '-suld' or '-wuld' or '-uld,' which is a contraction of "World" used by Citadelian mapmakers. So, Bleuelsuld means Bleuel's World, essentially. It's worth noting there's good music on Bleuelsuld.

(Why Crosby's Folly? Because I didn't like just 'Crosby,' and 'Crosbysuld' sounded silly. Think of it as a prospector's world or something. Look, there's only so much I'm putting into these explanations.)

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 7:49 PM | Comments (15)

October 6, 2004

Eric: Gearing up for a month of writing! Which... in my life is like every other month.

I'm registered for National Novel Writing Month, which is a concerted effort to write a 50,000 word novel (yes, that's a novel. A novel is a form of multifaceted dimension, whereas a short story typically sets a usual, introduces an unusual element, and then explores the ramifications of the unusual element. This is why Heart of Darkness is a novel but Catcher in the Rye is a book length short story. According to my father, who has a degree in these things and is called Doctor. And you don't go dissing my father. Not on my blog you don't) between November 1 and November 30. I've thought about it in years past, and this year it's a go.

That's about 1,667 words a day, which honestly isn't tough. I mean, since mid-August, I've written well over 120,000 words here on Websnark. Sure, it's not the same thing, but my point is I can nail out a few pages a day without too much trouble.

If folks want, I'll post excerpts here on the 'Snark, so that my Nanowrimo experience intertwines with my Websnark experience. (The individual chapters are going to go on a password protected writing page I've maintained for a while -- password protected so search engines can't stalk it and so that folks later on can't claim I've already published stuff I want to be paid filthy lucre for. I'm always willing to let people read it if they ask. For, you know, the record.)

Anyway. That's my working plan.

Now, I need a nanowrimo icon... one that doesn't feature a happy bunny typing. Frankly, if said happy bunny isn't chainsmoking in front of a beat up underwood, it's not a novel writing icon I can get behind -- and I don't even smoke. Time for photoshop. Well, between now and Halloween....

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 10:42 AM | Comments (8)

September 27, 2004

Eric: This entry is astoundingly long. It deserves to be. It's on Hitherby Dragons.

You all know I love webcomics. I love them for many reasons, but one reason is because I can't do them. We've seen the results when I try, and they aren't pretty. And so I can set aside any aspirations for drawing a strip, because I just don't have the chops, and I can revel in the artistic goodness I find without rancor.

However... I can write. I've even been told I'm good at it. Clever. I can write a story and make it readable, if not necessarily salable. All the work and time and effort I haven't put into illustration skills I have put into the written word. It's been the better part of a decade since I last let more than four or five days pass without putting a sequence of words into an order no one's tried before (not counting major surgery or other such external forces). I write because I like writing. And I dream of having impact -- not necessarily great popular renown, but emotional impact. I dream of having someone read my work and set it aside and shiver, eyes closed, unable to go on for a few moments.

I've seen it done. Dan Simmons did it in Hyperion, in a substory called "The Scholar's Tale." Sean Stewart does it. Neil Gaiman does it, though he did it better in comics than in fiction. But I don't aspire to be Simmons or Stewart or Gaiman. My dreams are humbler. I just want to have done it.

Which makes reading the glorious Hitherby Dragons actively painful for me. Because what I yearn to do with all my heart Rebecca Borgstrom does as naturally as she breathes. I have to keep reading, because I can't imagine my life without Hitherby Dragons in it, but each day I am reminded that she can do what I cannot, and that way lies madness.

I've met Rebecca Borgstrom. Met her before the days of Hitherby Dragons. I once bought her sushi and got my copy of Nobilis -- the Role Playing Game Borgstrom wrote, and perhaps the single finest development in the evolution of Role Playing Games in the last ten years -- signed by her. It was only the second copy she'd ever autographed. I knew then that she was supremely talented. I had no idea she would create a new art form within a few short years, or that it would inspire almost Grecian Tragedy levels of envy in me.

Hitherby Dragons defies simple definition. And yet, I once tried, in my Livejournal back in the dark days before Websnark. In that entry, I proposed we make 'hitherby' a noun and verb alike, to encapsulate the new art form that Borgstrom is creating with every passing day on her site. To quote myself:

Hitherby Dragons is simply, elegantly beautiful.

However, it's also indescribable.

Seriously. It embraces Magic Realism, but also a sense of whimsy. It's got elements of the old Fairy Tales and the new descendants of them all at once. It's got pop culture, but with brushstrokes of texture and depth.

They are themselves, and they can make you laugh, and break your heart, and make you laugh while breaking your heart. If you're not reading them now, you should.

Well, I was chatting with my friend Lon through the magic of the internet earlier today, and he made a comment about working in the comic and game mines. And I said "now I'm thinking about Comic Mines. There's a Hitherby there, I'm just sure."

And he knew exactly what I meant.

That's a compliment unlike any other, really. If you work in a style and genre of fiction so innovative, so engaging, and so captivating that a simple reference to your site name can evoke that style and genre, you become a noun. You have meaning beyond even your own work.

If I'm going to use the word 'hitherby' in casual conversation, I need to have a coherent definition, though. When grok left Stranger in a Strange Land and entered Webster's Third International Dictionary, the entry couldn't well define the word the way Heinlein did -- Heinlein's definition was ineffable. It meant love, and cherish, and drink, and hate, and any number of other things. You just knew what it meant. But dictionaries don't work that way, and if I tell you I grok Hitherby Dragons (I'm not at all sure I do, by the way) you're going to run to the Oxford English Dictionary and look it up. And you'll see that it says grok means:

a. trans. (also with obj. clause) To understand intuitively or by empathy; to establish rapport with.

b. intr. To empathize or communicate sympathetically (with); also, to experience enjoyment.

which isn't very much what Heinlein meant, but it is what I mean when I use the word now. And it's not wrong when applied to Stranger in a Strange Land, so if it's inadequate we yield to the limitations of lexicography and accept it. And thus the English language grows.

So, defining hitherby in a way that makes sense, that isn't wrong when applied to Hitherby Dragons but also acknowledges it misses the forest for the trees, I come up with:

hitherby: /Hith"er-bE/ a. (noun) A vignette or short story that employs the fantastic or whimsical in structure, form and idiom while maintaining a strong internal consistency and sense of realism

b. (noun) A story (often fantasy or horror) that maintains its sense of the real despite absurdist events.

c. (verb) To write a hitherby; to write in fantastic or whimsical tropes while cleaving to realistic style.

It's inadequate, but it's what I can do. Suggestions cheerfully solicited.

It is a fine thing to become a word, I think.

Which makes this whole entry pretty long, but what the Hell. I'm baring my soul here.

I go on and on and on in Websnark.com on how more and more webcomics are embracing what makes their art form unique -- presenting an art form that couldn't exist in newspapers or books -- not the same way. Perhaps not in any way. Well, Hitherby Dragons is a textual art form born out of Movable Type that couldn't exist in the same way it does in a book. It is inexorably born out of the blog-form, and whether we use 'hitherby' to describe the individual stories or not, Hitherby Dragons transcends that definition to create the whole. Often funny, often tragic, blending folklore and physics, puns and pathos, Greek Tragedy and Passion Plays and Commedia Del Arte all rolled into one... it is like reading a painting, with each brushstroke adding more texture and color to the whole, and when you begin to glimpse the canvas over time you begin to understand how terribly wonderful the vision will be in the end.

It drives me mad, because I can't do it. I can't do it and I want to.

Take "At the Cherry Tree", a hitherby from last week. It takes a bit of folklore, a bit of Americana. Something we all own, culturally -- the "cannot tell a lie" story of George Washington. And it makes it....

...it makes it horrific, and beautiful, all at once. You understand the price of lying, the price of murder, the price of emptiness. You understand....

There are cherry trees behind his house. He goes to them, still with liquor on his breath, and there he sees the dryad. She is curled and straight: her body upright, but her hair wound round her in gentle curls and knots. It forms bark, and leaves, and flowers. It gives her more branches than her outthrust arms. Her teeth are wooden.

"George," she says. It is a minimal acknowledgment. She does not give much time to George.

"Dance for me," he says. It is rude, but he is a child, and he is drunk.

"There is sun," says the dryad. "There is soil. Leave me in peace, child. I am content."

"Dance," insists George.

"You are nothing," she says.

"I'm more than you."

So George goes to the shed, and he finds an axe, and he takes it out.

You see, don't you? Read the entries if you don't. Read them all, but measure them out. You'd get drunk on too many at once. Measure your consumption or pay for it in the morning.

I can't do this, and I want to. I want to so badly, and I work on my craft, and my imagination, and seeing the world in that way. I work on phrasing and impact and pacing and vocabulary. And then I write a story and send it away, because that's what you do with stories, and then it comes back with a form letter and I send it somewhere else, and then I go back to "Hitherby Dragons" and she's done it again!

I understand the legend of Salieri, staring askance at Mozart, whether those stories are true or not. I understand the yearning desire to be the defining artist of a generation, and being forced to watch someone else become that because they're just so damn good. So I'll smile, and tell you all to read Hitherby Dragons. But if, ten years from now, Rebecca Borgstrom lies stricken with consumption, eyes closed and dictating words of transcendent beauty to me that I then type into my word processor, an evil smile on my face....

Well, I warned you. Didn't I?

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 11:29 AM | Comments (6)

August 2, 2004

Eric: Recycling the Meme: On Writing

This is a Meme about writing I contributed to on my Livejournal. It occurs to me that it's a nice essay in and of itself, and probably deserves to be moved over to the "Essays," which is where you're reading these words right now. So, here it is, in all its glory.

I think it both has some truths in it, and some astoundingly crass egotisms. Which is about right for the average writer.

What's the last thing you wrote?
Finished Story? "Automotive Care," which is a short story. Wrote-period? Chapter Seven of my novel Theftworld

Was it any good?
"Automotive Care" is the single finest piece of American Literature ever produced, until such time as Realms of Fantasy rejected it. When it gets back from them, it will be the worst piece of tripe ever committed to paper until I get it sent out again. We already did this riff with Fantasy and Science Fiction. Being able to hold contradictory opinions about your own talent are the only thing that lets you have the ego to send the story out in the first place but not take it personally when it's rejected.

The novel? Yeah, yeah, it's pretty good.

What's the first thing you ever wrote that you still have?
Good question. Hm. I probably have older stuff, but I have a short story I submitted to a competition at 13. It won, but only after I was accused of plagiarizing it. I had to write another short short on the spot to convince the judges I was actually capable of writing the story I wrote.

The next year, I was the only person to enter at my grade level, and much to the chagrin of the head of the competition (who resigned, afterward) my entry was disallowed because it was 20 pages long instead of a maximum of 12 pages. Said head gave me an autographed copy of Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut and a current copy of the Writer's Market, and told me not to waste my talent on idiots.

Was it any good?
The first story? Unmitigated tripe. Which Dragon Magazine told me in no uncertain terms when I sent it to them. On the other hand, I was thirteen.

The second story? Kinda, for a fourteen year old. It was genre (I was still on a fantasy kick) but it was mid-to-low fantasy and was a coming of age story without any violence. Not bad for a D&D player with delusions of talent.

Write poetry?
Yes.

Angsty poetry?
Dark sometimes, but not generally angsty. I shoot for a New England tradition rather than a Goth tradition. I don't always hit.

Favourite genre of writing?
These days? Science Fiction or Fantasy. I'm tending towards hard in the former, and psychological in the latter.

Most fun character you ever wrote?
Trudy Galloway. She's my sick, twisted inner child.

Most annoying character you ever wrote?
Annoying to write? Probably The Dash -- a parody of superspeedster heroes. She was popular because she was funny, but the hook was writing long run on sentences without spaces between words, and that's a monumental pain in the ass to write with any kind of natural flow. It's equally annoying to eliminate the spaces after the fact. Stupid gimmick writing.

Best plot you ever wrote?
With "Automotive Care" in circulation for publication? I'm giving that the nod.

Coolest plot twist you ever wrote?
Currently available? Probably something in the old Superguy writing. But I have something coming up in Theftworld that I think will rock.

How often do you get writer's block?
Every so often.

How do you fix it?
Force myself to just keep writing. Sometimes random things, to just force the blockage forward.

Write fan fiction?
Now and again. I wrote a Legion fanfic back in college I think didn't suck. And I write In Nomine stuff when it strikes my fancy.

Do you type or write by hand?
Type.

Do you save everything you write?
Generally, yeah.

Do you ever go back to an old idea long after you abandoned it?
All the time.

What's your favorite thing that you've written?
Right now? "Automotive Care." (Do you see a trend here?)

Stepping away from the psychout for a second... hm. Probably Theftworld, though I've got a short story or two I enjoy.

What's everyone else's favorite thing that you've written?
Professionally? Sidewinder: Wild West Adventures. We were nominated for an ENnie award for that one, in large part because of the background stuff I wrote 'in character' as Bat Masterson. Who ever thought writing straight western stuff would work for me?

I've gotten the most positive responses for "Nicole: Acts of Justification" and "Antonio: The Calabite's Song," which are two In Nomine fanfics. Behold the power of built in fandom.

My Superguy stuff is generally considered good, too, by those who read it.

Do you even show people your work?
Desperately.

Who's your favourite constructive critic?
My father. He's both brilliant and generally right, and he's not afraid to be stern in his pronouncements.

Do you have a web site for your writings?
I have a Writing Page that's password protected to keep the stuff off the search engines, since I don't want to confuse it with 'electronically published' stuff. Other of my stuff is available here and there.

Did you ever write a novel?
I discovered, after the fact and to my shock, that I wrote five discrete novels when I was active in Superguy, ranging from 50,000 words to 110,000 words apiece. Which makes me an amateur novelist.

Theftworld is the non Superguy novel I've stuck with the longest, and it looks good for finishing it off, hopefully within the next few months.

Have you ever written fantasy, sci-fi, or horror?
Oh yes.

Ever written romance or teen angsty drama?
Not yet, but I won't rule any writing out. Hell, I've considered writing porn just for the cash payments they make. There's a fine tradition in Speculative Fiction of writing garbage to support art.

What's your favorite setting for your characters?
Coffee shops, restaurant tables, bars... any place where there's a simple justification for two people to sit and talk at length. I do lots of the sitting and talking at length.

What's one genre you have never written, and probably never will?
The millisecond I say I'll never write a given genre, my brain will start churning out ideas. So I won't say it. Hell, I never thought I'd write any kind of Western, but Sidewinder was a lot of fun and I'm thinking seriously of pulling a Resnick down the line and writing a Western in space.

How many writing projects are you working on right now?
Two novels, two short stories, two RPGs.

Do you want to write for a living?
I do write for a living. I just suck at getting paid, so I need to have a second job.

Seriously. The acid test for whether you're a writer or not is if you decide you're a writer. You prove it with your first paycheck, and I've gotten a few of those now.

Do I want writing to be my sole means of support? Sure, but not enough to force myself to write everything that comes available to ensure that I'm always writing and making my money off it. When people say they want to 'write for a living,' what they mean nine times out of ten is they'd like the stuff they want to write to become so popular that they can quit their job and devote themselves to it. That's amazingly rare. There are only so many Stephen Kings and J.K. Rowlings out there. The workday professional writers -- the ones who don't make millions but also write pretty much all the time -- are constantly writing, and not always the stuff they want to. They're placing articles in In-flight magazines and Woodworking magazines. They're scouring markets, figuring out what's currently selling, researching and writing it. They're turning out Penthouse Forum letters and how-to guides on constructing gliders and essays on all topics you can imagine, and they're tersely sending letters demanding payment promised months before.

That's what it means to 'make a living as a writer' if you don't hit it big. And that doesn't even touch on benefits. It's a lot of hard work and if you have a bad month, you have no comp or promise you can get back to it.

For my desired life and lifestyle, it's better to be a systems administrator who sits in cafes after hours and works on the stuff I love, because I love writing it and I enjoy the process, and then try to sell it afterward, but never be scared that I won't have a home.

Have you ever written something for a magazine or newspaper?
Yes.

Have you ever won an award for your writing?
Yes.

Ever written something in script or play format?
Yes. I've also used transcript form as a literary device.

What are your five favorite words?
Zeugma. Figurehead. Blinked. Kidding. Said.

Do you ever parody?
Yes.

What's your favorite thing to parody?
Something I love the concept of, but hate the execution of.

Do you actually like that thing, or are you spitefully making fun of it?
If I don't like it, it's hard to write good parody about it. You have to embrace Nancy before you can destroy Nancy. It's like the Grok principle from Stranger in a Strange Land. Only after you drink something in, learn it from all sides, cherish it and love it can you hate it so much that you eliminate it. Or in this case write about blue haired men from planet Helium.

Do you ever write based on yourself?
Sadly.

What character that you've written most resembles yourself?
Physically? Not counting Superguy stuff, I'd say Everett Markham from Conversations with Cat and "Automotive Care." But I draw a lot on myself in most of my characters, so sooner or later I see similarities in almost all of them.

Where do you get ideas for your other characters?
The International House of Pancakes.

Do you ever write based on your dreams?
Sure. Though only elements. Nine times out of ten, written dreams don't resemble dreams at all. Take the 'dream sequence' in a recent episode of Enterprise. It was utterly linear and prosaic, without any of the mild, if ignored surrealisms that constantly surround a dream. It was just another scene, except it let Trip talk to a dead girl.

Do you favor happy endings, sad endings, or cliff-hangers?
I love happy endings, and almost never write them. The characters at the end of the story are rarely the ones at the beginning, and change is traumatic. It's safe to say I'm a bastard to my characters, and so there's an element of recovery involved in surviving one of my stories.

I try my best to write satisfying conclusions, however.

Have you ever written based on an artwork you've seen?
Yes. Including one of my published poems.

Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?
Yes.

Ever write something entirely in chatspeak? (How r u?)
No..

Entirely in L337?
Dear Christ, no.

Was that question completely appalling and un-writer like?
Nope. I can't imagine it ever happening, but wondering if it could be done is a very writerly thing to do.

Does music help you write?
Yes.

Do you have a weblog or livejournal?
How does one contribute to a Meme like this without having a weblog or livejournal?

Are people surprised and confused when they find out you write well?
People from my day job are. I blew the mind of a student, once. He had me pigeonholed in his mind, only to have that preconception blown apart.

Quote something you've written. The first thing to pop into your mind.
Walking through the labyrinth,
Feeling the cracks within the wall, I turn,
Turning and making my way, I hear,
Hearing and fearing as the sound grows near...
Unwinding the string measure by measure,
As though you were singing, measures all
The cord that leads back as I move forward,
Left turns all the way, just as you say, told
In a whisper, the secret of the labyrinth.
But I am done with secrets -- I bear a sword
And a cord that I unwind, and step closer
And closer
To the minotaur that lurks. The secret
Of the labyrinth. The death contained within.
But I will slay it. Slay it with the sword
You gave me, because you love me.
Slay it with the sword, then follow the cord
Woven from your loom and passed to me
To unravel as I walk, and find my way home
To you.

The secret of the labyrinth will die by your love.
The mystery of the labyrinth will live on.
And the children of Athens will come home
Once more, no more tribute.
And I will stand by your side, hold your hand
Look within your eyes
And know I have emerged.

Posted by Eric Burns-White at 12:54 PM | Comments (4)