Deuce(s)

Today marks week two (2!) of NaNoWrimo.

My total word count, including some pre-writing, is: 40,277. That’s 102 pages single spacing in word, for all you MS Office jockeys.

I tend to write about ~2500 words a day, with a low of zero and a high of ~4800.

Lessons learned this week:

1. Writing Breeds Writing

I find that when I get to writing, it takes about 15 minutes to turn the spigot to “full.” Once it’s there, no one can stop the torrent. My fiancee can attest to my being late to pick her up on account of writing that last bit of a chapter. It’s the best kind of addictive.

2. Outlining is Still Important, if Not More Important

I said this last week, and I’ll say it again: outline your story before you start. I wrote the first four chapters “pantser” style and floundered, not knowing where to go. With an outline, I’m never lost. It takes all of an hour to do, and is more valuable than you’ll ever realize (until you do it).

3. Skip a Chapter

Got a chapter you have to  write, but it’s just not coming to you? Skip that shit! Move onto the next, exciting and fresh chapter. I’ve done this 4-5 times now, and always find that after some time away from the story, the content for the chapter I skipped just appears. Keep moving forward, even if it’s not perfectly chronological.

4. Rest, Kind Souls

Take a break. Sleep. Do some other work. Eat. Drink a beer. Anything to get your mind off of your story. There comes a point (after ~4500 words) where I get sloppy and stupid. My characters sound like drunken kindergarteners. My plot becomes Hop on Pop with laser rifles. It all falls to shit. When you see this coming, step away. You can always pick it up tomorrow.

5. Until People Have Read the Draft, Shut Up

The story is amazing in your head. It’s already a NY Times bestseller, and the movie deal is just sitting in the outbox of a producer waiting for you to publish your masterpiece. I get it, I’m right there. Unfortunately, no one (except the mind goblins) live inside your head. No one gets your characters or your awesome twists, because its still just a fledgling story growing in your skull. Until you’ve got a draft for someone to read, try to shut up about the tiny nuances of every little bit of your story. For the record, I suck at this.

I should hit the allocated 50,000 sometime this week, which is pretty awesome. Looks like I might even make my goal of ~80,000 by the end of November!

Week the First

Today marks one full week of NaNoWriMo.

I’ve written 16,201 words worth of description, dialogue, exposition, technology, and other fun nonsense. I’m about ~5000 words ahead of the game, and don’t feel a slow down coming any time soon.

Some lessons learned so far:

1. Writing an outline was more important than I ever thought. All of those professors pounding the idea into my head for 4+ years were trying to help, after all. If I get lost or lose steam, I just pull up my outline (which I’ve color coded and added icons to) and suddenly my mind knows where to go next! Organization is actually helpful? I may need to revisit this notion later.

2. I love writing female characters. Who knew?

3. This whole writing-a-piece-of-substantive-length thing is 90% discipline.  Imagination, art, and skill obviously count for something, but if you don’t force your fingers onto the keys to turn your insane story into words, all the creativity in the world won’t help you.

4. Painkillers (prescribed!) make for interesting metaphors.

5. I’m having a shitload of fun. Not only do I feel accomplished at the end of each day, but I get a stupid, giddy feeling when I talk about the plot and the characters, and how the plot is going to emotionally destroy the characters. Here’s to hoping I actually produce something worth reading.

To the first week of NaNoWriMo, I raise a Magner’s Irish Cider. Cheers!

Maybe I can do this whole writing for a living thing.

Der WriMo

In an attempt to save precious words, this post will contain fewer of them than normal.

Today marked the start of my first NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). It’s been a goal of mine to finish something of substantial length, and this event will be my motivation and excuse to write until I lose conciousness.

The ultimate goal is to write 50,000 words (or more!) by November 30th.

I wrote 2801 words today (so far).

I’ve got a complete plot outline, character bios, and more notes than I know what to do with. I’m far more prepared for this than I usually am for anything else in my life.

My story is science fiction. The plot synopsis, short and sweet, is: “In a near-future world where the universal language translator is a reality, a group of displaced linguists attempt to discover a sinister truth about the device that the world has come to rely on.”

I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. Or mine. Yea, the latter. I think that’s how it’s supposed to work.

P.S. I know my synopsis ends with a preposition. Go read something else if that is the sort of language up with which you cannot put.

 

An Easy Answer

This slowly approaching 2012 election marks the first time in my short history when I have been 1) able to vote and 2) know and care enough about politics to make a somewhat informed voting decision.

For many years, as a green-card-carrying denizen of this fine country, I was forced to sit on the sidelines of politics as an apathetic but optimistic observer. Each campaign and election race was like a horrific car crash that I just so happened upon; the only thought I could muster was, “Geez, I hope everyone gets out of that whole mess OK.”

But now, naturalized, I am more than a rubber-necker; I have the option, nay the power, to physically pull someone from the burning wreckage that is their political campaign. This power may be comparable to one of the lesser gods in the super-hero pantheon – say, Aquaman­ ­­– but it is power all the same.

As my great eye turns upon our news outlets to gather information and understand who might best not destroy the country, I find myself digesting many sorts of biased media; all of which seems tainted with some kind of directional skew that means little to the uninitiated.

In the mess of partisan rhetoric, and third-grade-recess name-calling, I found this gem of an article: “Stupid Voters Enable Broken Government”.

LZ Granderson paints a clear, if somewhat obvious picture, pointing out that most American voters don’t even know what they’re voting for, or why they’re actually doing it. This in turn leads to Americans voting with their dicks, bibles, prejudices, and “feelings”, instead of their brains.

But how do you prevent a dumb person from voting? You cannot bar the gates of voting centers, requiring each registrant name at least 3 works of Shakespeare that aren’t Hamlet or Romeo and Juliet. You can’t demand they scribble down the quadratic formula, and then solve for X before being given the chance to cast their ballot. You just can’t. It’s not nice, and is probably unconstitutional or something.

I submit that we can, however, demand that these people articulate why they’re voting the way they are, and propose we do this via a very simple, clear process:

Have each voter write a short paragraph, no more than 3 sentences, outlining why they are voting for this particular candidate. Make sure it is (mostly) coherent, the spelling is (mostly) correct and it is (mostly) free of hate speech and racial slurs. “He’s/she’s the same race as me”; “he/she believes in the same god as me”; “he/she has great hair”; or “he/she hates the same people/stuff I do” are not acceptable answers. “I support his/her stance on military spending”; “I support his/her ideas to increase education spending”; or “he’s/she’s the least insane of all the candidates” are all acceptable answers.

The essays are then briefly read by an analysis system to make sure the person voting has a good reason or argument, and his vote is validated. If the statement fails the test, said person’s vote becomes null-and-void. To all the naysayers: If we can build a machine that kicks serious ass at Jeopardy, we can develop a machine that can read basic sentences and evaluate them based on a tiny sampling of content.

The voter will never know if his vote was accepted or rejected. All he knows is that he did his civic duty and got out of work a little early. If he fell short and did not supply enough support for his vote, his candidate will pay the price. If a correlation truly does exist between dumb people voting for bad leaders, this can only be a good thing.

People might complain that this unfairly alienates the illiterate portion of our population. I, perhaps callously, think that if you can’t read about a candidate, and can’t express in writing why you support that candidate, then you don’t get to vote. Pretty simple. There are ample opportunities to become literate, and I find any illiterate person who doesn’t have some sort of mental problem to be downright offensive.

This way, we could weed out votes from the people who really have no place voting, and hopefully increase representation from those who understand what they’re doing and saying. I can’t help but imagine a system like this would eliminate some candidates immediately, as 100% of their voter base would fail the basic written test.

Rick Santorum, I’m looking your way.

Does Aquaman like sushi?

Technically Writing

In the spectrum of small-talk, there is nothing I dread more than, “What do you do?”

Firstly, this question (incorrectly) implies something about your job. What do I do? Oh, I eat and sleep and sometimes I check to see if there is anything living inside my mailbox! Oh, I also do pushups and draw pictures of monsters with mushrooms growing on their scaly hides (seriously).

Secondly, it always seems to require a long winded explanation that I don’t want to give, and no one wants to hear. My job isn’t as simple as, “I make tacos in the food court at the mall” or “I sell bird seed at the zoo;” it gives almost no context clues as both of the words that make up my title are misleading.

It’s not that I don’t like my job, or am ashamed of it. I am a technical writer. It’s either more or less complicated than it sounds. I write lots of things, some far more abstract and odd than one might expect from a writer who just so happens to also be technical.

I’m responsible for document formatting, multiple author voice consolidation, training documentation, oral and written presentations, and general copyediting. I’m also responsible for writing (or mutilating until it works) various types of code: VBA, Javascript, HTML and CSS. At times, I’m also the visualization monkey: responsible for flowcharts, server/database diagrams, organizational charts, procedural swim lane diagrams, and humorous decision charts that involve tasteless, “colorful” descriptions of local restaurants.

It’s arguable that some of what I do isn’t even writing, not by the classical definition at least. But when you’re using a keyboard to write words, sentences, paragraphs, and ideas – regardless of format – isn’t that writing? Some (me) might even call it an sub-art; a painting brought to life in Visio, Excel, and PowerPoint. Others might think I’m insane. I would love if Mark Z. Danielewski would chime in right about now.

At times, it’s more technical than writing. I’ll spend more than half my day reviewing a program or test case for consistency and errors. Other times it’s more writing than technical. Processes have to be written, reviewed, and edited, and training materials have to be worked over thoroughly to remove coma-inducing elements. Every once in a very rare while, I even get tasked to write something creative or clever!

So when someone asks me what I do, I very briefly and uncharacteristically flounder. Do I say I’m a writer, or do I say I’m a tech guy? Do I deal with the queries of what I’ve published, or the queries about fixing someone’s computer? Do I face the embarrassment and rigmarole of explaining why I don’t have a best-seller, or risk someone coaxing me over to fix their virus riddled porn-box? Being so awesomely multi-faced is confusing and exhausting.

But because I am a (technical)writer, and writers by their nature are odd and verbose, I cannot resist the urge to explain what I do. I try my best to use one and two syllable words, never straying far from my trustworthy and hackneyed “computers are like…” analogies.

It’s amazing how often you can relate computer systems to a car, a neighborhood, a house, a family, a country, human organs, or a flock of birds. I once explained a network diagram I was working on as a “chivalric fiefdom.” Even I’m not sure what I meant, but the person asking seemed to understand (or was sufficiently confused to decide that walking away was a good idea).

Eventually, people either tire of my explanation, or they gather enough information to signal they’ve had enough. I have yet to make anyone spontaneously fall unconscious or stagger back begging for respite, but I’ve got time, I’m still young. It’s a life goal.

I often wonder if other people dread being asked the “what do you!?” question, or if it’s my overanalyzed reaction to what is just a way to avoid an awkward silence.

“Invisible Time”

A short story for my sister:

“Invisible Time”

I bought them at a gas station, on the way to the beach. Nine dollars and ninety-nice cents, before tax. The black plastic shines ever so gently in direct sunlight, but they’re obviously cheap as hell. They’re too big for my face, but that’s the fashion.

I like to drink. No insane bacchanalian extravaganzas, just a few chardonnays to unwind. My tolerance is garbage. Long gone are the days when I could drink an entire box of Franzia on my own, and still make it to an 8:00 am class. I get hangovers on the regular. They are almost always accompanied by headaches.

Headaches I can feel in my blood.

On days when my body is fully rejecting the previous night’s decisions, I keep my sunglasses close. Their crappy Chinese lenses offer me respite from an otherwise intolerable world. They block out the harsh florescent light of my cube. They protect me. They build a little wooden sign for me that says, “leave me alone.”

When I put my sunglasses on, I declare it, “invisible time.” I can still see the world, but the world can’t see me. I’m a ghost, a phantom, a wandering soul just looking to make it through the day unscathed. I pretend that my darkened view is a netherverse; a place where everything is shadowed and comfortable and mine.

My boss hates my netherverse. She always wants to talk to me, even while I’m there. She wants to talk about work stuff. She has an ability to somehow see through my cloak. I try to pretend I don’t see or hear her, but she persists.

I’m not a misanthropist, I just don’t like anyone. I like me, but no one is like me. With my sunglasses on I don’t have to see anyone else, which makes me happy. Happiness is a pair of sunglasses.

Today is a day I’d like to spend entirely in my netherverse.

My boss wants to talk. I want to yell obscure obscenities at her. My brain feels like it spent the evening in a butcher’s shop. Whipped cream flavored vodka takes like hairspray the next morning. She’s not a bad lady, I just don’t feel like talking. I put on my sunglasses.

She asks me why. I say, “Invisible Time.” She doesn’t laugh. It was funny, she should have laughed. She asks me about some emails but I’m not really listening as the internet is very distracting. She asks me to take off my sunglasses. I don’t.

She didn’t have to start yelling. In fact, if she had been reasonable, I may have come out of my netherverse voluntarily. This is why I don’t like people, always yelling about something. I take off my sunglasses, but she’s still irate. Something about disrespect, which is ironic because she deserves about as much respect as a cheap hooker. She tells me to go home, and I oblige.

It’s pretty bright outside, so I put on my sunglasses. Sweet, sweet sunglasses.

Books have feelings, too.

 I am appalled that there are people in this country and on this planet who claim that they don’t read. When asked who their favorite author is, they respond by saying “Transformers”. Ask what kind of genres they enjoy, and they respond with “MTV”. These people are bold and brazen and oddly proud of their willful ignorance. I find people claiming that reading is “lame” or dismissing it with some other, equally unqualified and clearly misguided explanation.  My brain cannot process the scope of why someone would willingly avoid, and even actively dislike, something as rewarding as reading.

I didn’t always love to read, mainly because of the forced nature of traditional, American public school English classes. There were hundreds if not thousands of books I wanted to read as a child, but I was pushed outside of personal preference and down the dark, scary alleyway of contemporary pedagogy. Works like Sinclair’s “The Jungle” and Dicken’s “Great Expectations” are wasted on a bored, confused 7^th Grader. Even after years of study and shifting my perspective on literary appreciation, I find some of the canon classics we were coaxed to consume, partially digest, and regurgitate, outside of the realm I consider “good”.

But now I am free of noncompulsory schooling, and can chase down the turns-of-phrase and elegant wording I choose, free from oppression. I can dabble in weird fiction or explore the worlds of extremist nonfiction if my mind is so left to wander. I can love every single thing I read, which makes me loves any single thing I read; I’ve even gotten to the point where I must know the ingredients of products around my house, as to document, sort, and correlate them with other information in my mind.

When I stumble upon a new idea, psychological theory, or fringe philosophy, my mind is afire with possibility. The multi-colored Lego blocks that make up my brain shift and shudder as new pieces materialize, filling in the gaps in the walls of the intellectual castle I’ve been building since I discovered object permanence. This joy of learning is what keeps me reading, and what confuses me so deeply about people who do not read.

I will be the first to admit that I don’t allocate nearly enough traditional, paper-and-spine reading in my day, but that doesn’t limit my actual reading. As being fully employed doesn’t yield many opportunities to read books throughout the day, I find myself instead reading every juicy word of websites I visit. If I ever get an idle moment, my time is spent hitting the “Random Article” link on Wikipedia; the tropes-y nature of the site and its embedded links leading me to hidden nuggets of educational joy where I had never even thought to look.

As I read article after article, my brain transcends the human realm and information begins to directly bombard my unconscious mind. Bypassing all of my cynicism and normal filters, this information is downloaded directly into my mental databases as I jump from page to page in a semi-conscious trance. It’s as close to Csíkszentmihályi’s “Flow” as my mind has ever come. I think this is why I can recall so many random pieces of trivia that are unrelated – and often un-correlatable – to my current situation or conversation. Jeopardy try-outs, here I come.

Do other people not feel this? Do the words written down by their fellow humans not resonate on so visceral a level that they cannot help but stop and feel them? Even some of the worst attempts at writing I have ever read at least elicit anger, pity, and annoyance, which speaks strongly in defense of the whole field of writing. Reading and writing are, to me, so natural a phenomenon I would place them alongside eating and breathing in a hierarchy of necessity.

So, people of the world: Why you no read? Is it an actual inability to pull ideas and motifs from written English? Is it a lack of skill that due to mental struggles diminishes the returns from reading an intricate story? Is it a misunderstanding of who is allowed to read, based on some mystical, loosely defined social expectations and roles? Is it some deep, dark conspiracy perpetuated by a corrupt and amoral government to spawn an entire generation of mindless sycophants unable to challenge the socially destructive status quo due to a lack of education and free-thinking!? Whatever it is, I would champion a cause to remedy this awful, humanly antithetical plague.

Perhaps a not-for-profit or a charity organization that involves striking a nonreader until their brain reboots and functions correctly is called for. “Headshots for Hardcovers”, “Body blows for Books”, or “Lashes for Literacy” could all work. I’m not normally one to condone violence, but the proceeds of such a charity could  go towards fostering a love for reading in children, all so that they don’t grow up to be adults who constantly fear assault from surprise literature-loving ninjas.

(This book has feelings.)