Rawther ironically, the most useful piece of advice I've gotten from Butler's From Where You Dream is solidly stylistic. The white hot center doesn't enter into it. HORRORS.
I found it in Chapter 8, the Anecdote Experience, where Butler is doing a sharp bit of on-the-fly editing for his writing students as they try to describe a personal experience. It takes some brave writers to get up there with him, I gotta say. I wish I could say I'd have the courage to but....UM.
OKAY. MAYBE IN A MINUTE, PROFESSOR.
Anyway, it was a little revealing I think to hear Butler walk the walk like this. It made a lot of his WHITE HOT CENTER stuff concrete. And one piece of that advice really jumped out at me. You've all probably read this chapter and everything by now but I thought it deserved it own little bloggy spotlight:
ROB: Let his face turn to you. Let me see his face in the moment.
SANDRA: He is not surprised to see me.
ROB: OK, you have just analyzed his face. He's not surprised to see you. We're not seeing a not-there; what are we seeing?
SANDRA: He's looking as though he was expecting me to walk in.
ROB: You just analyzed it again. What do you reading the face? Because the little girl standing there perhaps rightly analyzes the look on his face, but what is it that's on the face she sees that leads her to that analysis? That's what we're after.
SANDRA: That's abstraction?
ROB: That's abstraction.
As I see it, there are two mad nuggets of advice here. The first is very important, and overarching: write through your characters, not at them. Let them tell us what they see and what they feel -- don't speak for them! LET YOUR PEOPLE GO, ETC.
But secondly, more specifically and
(I think) much more helpfully....DON'T WRITE WHAT DOESN'T HAPPEN. WRITE HOW IT DIDN'T HAPPEN. I've already been catching myself with this. "She looked like she was trying to lift the rock." How can someone look like they are not doing something Laurel be more specific. Course, this isn't to say that this is never right, or useful. I mean, I think in negative actions all the time. But that's my own internal narration, like my character's internal narration. It is not THE LITERARY VOICE.
Ahhh jeeze, I went on for way to long here. What a surprise. In any case, tell me your thoughts! Is this bullpoo?
Saturday, November 3, 2007
FYI, your intructor and his best friend, live, Tuesday (not Monday, as I previously may have told you)
(I'm just getting back to the blog after a haywire couple of weeks, and look forward to reading your posts this weekend - jb)
Writing Butterfield, the undergraduate writing community at UMass, proudly presents:
"Bo's Arts, The Powerpoint Presentation!"
UMass MFA candidate Jamie Berger will read from his book,
"Bo's Arts: Visual Interpretations of a Soft Dog".
The evening will include a Powerpoint presentation about
the making of "Bo's Arts"
and the art in the book
and the dog who led to the art show in San Francisco that led to the book that led to the Powerpoint presentation!Mr. Berger will also discuss a new, groundbreaking genre: Powerpointalism!
Bo (the dog!) will be at the show, and both author and dog/muse will field your questions.
All this takes place on Tuesday, November 6th at 7pm in Butterfield Hall (room 007)!
The event will be catered -- free food!!!!
For more information, please call 413-577-0546.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Instead of saying answer you should say questionment.
did anyone not get that the thing that I posted below (Mourning) was about someone who died and not something like a breakup?
Side note 1: you know you are a lit nerd when your favorite kind of gift certificate is to Amazon.com and you have memories of spending most of your Christmas money on books.
Side note 2: I'm posting one of my favorite poems below. Ironically enough, I saw it on the 1 train in New York one day on my way to work.
A Little Tooth
by Thomas Lux
Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It's all
over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,
your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall.
Side note 1: you know you are a lit nerd when your favorite kind of gift certificate is to Amazon.com and you have memories of spending most of your Christmas money on books.
Side note 2: I'm posting one of my favorite poems below. Ironically enough, I saw it on the 1 train in New York one day on my way to work.
A Little Tooth
by Thomas Lux
Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It's all
over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,
your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
When My Brain Left Yesterday
My brain seemed to leave yesterday, sometime during the hockey game, and all that was left was my heart, and it was trying to make up for the empty space inside of me by pushing itself into my throat. It only made things worse.
And this morning, amid all of the uncertainty, the only thing I wanted to know, but couldn't remember, was what was the poem I gave to my Dad for his birthday years ago-because my brain left, and my heart is working double-duty, and it only makes it worse, because hearts don't think.
Those Winter Sundays
Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
Robert Hayden
And this morning, amid all of the uncertainty, the only thing I wanted to know, but couldn't remember, was what was the poem I gave to my Dad for his birthday years ago-because my brain left, and my heart is working double-duty, and it only makes it worse, because hearts don't think.
Those Winter Sundays
Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
Robert Hayden
Friday, October 19, 2007
flimsy concrete
has anybody else noticed that when it rains, Lederle and the FAC look like they are made out of wet cardboard?
i think that this is the cutest, most whimsical architectural quirk about UMass.
i think that this is the cutest, most whimsical architectural quirk about UMass.
Mourning
My computer crashed just as I was about to finish this. I cannot describe my frustration. Finally, I can write cathartically about something so important, and my computer crashes and I lose it.
Sigh.
Anyway, I'd like to request comments on it. People's reactions. Thanksabunch.
Mourning
~~~~~~~~
This is semi fiction.
It's kind of like a semi-autobiography. Maybe it's not exactly how things happened. Maybe it's something that you wish happened. Maybe it's something that happened just a little bit differently in your life. Maybe it's a few things, all mixed together, intermingling like the feelings in your head, and it's not exactly true, but it means so much to you.
You say "pie" when you hang up the phone because it's too difficult to say "bye," and it is really time to go now, it's been time for so long, you really have to be going, so "I miss you" and then in a small unwilling voice, "pie." And you tell yourself, I've only met this person once, a really good once, but it was only just once. But then you tell yourself, it was good, it was so good, I haven't felt this connected in years, I haven't lost myself so completely in anyone in so long. Maybe ever. And then you tell yourself that it helps so much with the other thing, with the death. And now you're having a conversation with yourself. But really, it's a conversation with her still. You're always having a conversation with her in the back of your head. The only time it really stops is when you see her again and you're talking to her for real. It's better than you remember. It's better than you remember because your memory can't hold it, can't contain it. But you don't need your memory to hold it because every time you talk to her, every moment in between when you even think of her, you feel it in your chest. It moves you. It moves you so much that it feels like your guts are actually shifting in concert with your heart. It moves you so much that when you do talk to her again you have to say "pie" because you can't say "bye."
I knew her for five years of my life. Five years of drifting back and forth. You can look at it two ways: I had a series of relationships, and saw her in between. Or, I saw her off and on again, and had a series of relationships in between. Really, it's both of those, and neither. Really, talking about it like this is missing the point.
It's two weeks now. Two difficult weeks. The other thing is helping. And it's the first time you can talk about her, even just a little. You miss little things about her, because you've known her for so long and so intimately. You can tell when you haven't spoken for months and you're hanging out again, you can tell exactly what's going on, the subtext is familiar and good. When she's touching her hair that way, it means she's hoping you'll kiss her. And a thousand other tender little things.
And in your mind you have a map of the landscape. It's not a topographically correct map. It doesn't have all the mountains or all the rivers or all the the towns. But you can see it clearer than you can when you try to think of one of those. It only exists in your mind. It's all the places that ever meant anything to you together. That place you went that time in the summer when you were young that you kept coming back to, exploring, mapping together, claiming. All the sites you saw and sounds you heard and things you said and things you did together. This used to be a wonderful thing. She always used to be there on this map, at a distance. You always used to be able to think that someday you'd find each other again against the backdrop of a chaotic life, even if just for a while.
I believe that all change is good. I try to. I try so hard. I tell myself that all change is good. I tell myself that I should be happy for all these wonderful memories. That I should be happy that she's so important to who I am now. That I'll take it all forward with me. And now I'm having a conversation with myself. But really, it's missing having a conversation with her. Will I always be talking to her in the back of my head? Will how good it was fade from my memory?
I think back to that time before I left. She told me that after those four weeks, those four glorious weeks, she was mine then. She was moving her hips to the music I gave her, and thinking about me all the time, wanting to spend lazy afternoons making love, wanting to be with me. I was moving to New York to leave everything behind, to start a new life. She told me, so much after the fact, when it wasn't important anymore, not in the same way at least, but so important in this other way, she told me that if I'd stayed, she would've been mine heart and soul. And I told her that if she'd told me that, if I'd suspected even just a little, I would've stayed. I've never meant anything more. And she cried a little, and I cried a little, and that's one of the last things I ever said to her.
Sigh.
Anyway, I'd like to request comments on it. People's reactions. Thanksabunch.
Mourning
~~~~~~~~
This is semi fiction.
It's kind of like a semi-autobiography. Maybe it's not exactly how things happened. Maybe it's something that you wish happened. Maybe it's something that happened just a little bit differently in your life. Maybe it's a few things, all mixed together, intermingling like the feelings in your head, and it's not exactly true, but it means so much to you.
You say "pie" when you hang up the phone because it's too difficult to say "bye," and it is really time to go now, it's been time for so long, you really have to be going, so "I miss you" and then in a small unwilling voice, "pie." And you tell yourself, I've only met this person once, a really good once, but it was only just once. But then you tell yourself, it was good, it was so good, I haven't felt this connected in years, I haven't lost myself so completely in anyone in so long. Maybe ever. And then you tell yourself that it helps so much with the other thing, with the death. And now you're having a conversation with yourself. But really, it's a conversation with her still. You're always having a conversation with her in the back of your head. The only time it really stops is when you see her again and you're talking to her for real. It's better than you remember. It's better than you remember because your memory can't hold it, can't contain it. But you don't need your memory to hold it because every time you talk to her, every moment in between when you even think of her, you feel it in your chest. It moves you. It moves you so much that it feels like your guts are actually shifting in concert with your heart. It moves you so much that when you do talk to her again you have to say "pie" because you can't say "bye."
I knew her for five years of my life. Five years of drifting back and forth. You can look at it two ways: I had a series of relationships, and saw her in between. Or, I saw her off and on again, and had a series of relationships in between. Really, it's both of those, and neither. Really, talking about it like this is missing the point.
It's two weeks now. Two difficult weeks. The other thing is helping. And it's the first time you can talk about her, even just a little. You miss little things about her, because you've known her for so long and so intimately. You can tell when you haven't spoken for months and you're hanging out again, you can tell exactly what's going on, the subtext is familiar and good. When she's touching her hair that way, it means she's hoping you'll kiss her. And a thousand other tender little things.
And in your mind you have a map of the landscape. It's not a topographically correct map. It doesn't have all the mountains or all the rivers or all the the towns. But you can see it clearer than you can when you try to think of one of those. It only exists in your mind. It's all the places that ever meant anything to you together. That place you went that time in the summer when you were young that you kept coming back to, exploring, mapping together, claiming. All the sites you saw and sounds you heard and things you said and things you did together. This used to be a wonderful thing. She always used to be there on this map, at a distance. You always used to be able to think that someday you'd find each other again against the backdrop of a chaotic life, even if just for a while.
I believe that all change is good. I try to. I try so hard. I tell myself that all change is good. I tell myself that I should be happy for all these wonderful memories. That I should be happy that she's so important to who I am now. That I'll take it all forward with me. And now I'm having a conversation with myself. But really, it's missing having a conversation with her. Will I always be talking to her in the back of my head? Will how good it was fade from my memory?
I think back to that time before I left. She told me that after those four weeks, those four glorious weeks, she was mine then. She was moving her hips to the music I gave her, and thinking about me all the time, wanting to spend lazy afternoons making love, wanting to be with me. I was moving to New York to leave everything behind, to start a new life. She told me, so much after the fact, when it wasn't important anymore, not in the same way at least, but so important in this other way, she told me that if I'd stayed, she would've been mine heart and soul. And I told her that if she'd told me that, if I'd suspected even just a little, I would've stayed. I've never meant anything more. And she cried a little, and I cried a little, and that's one of the last things I ever said to her.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
writing about music
"you, you're a history in rust" by do make say think is just plain amazing. I mean, the individual songs are great... but I just finished listening through it the entire way for the first time in the five days that I've had it. After the last song faded, something seized my heart, and I could not move or speak or do anything: it was as if the happiest moment in my life had just brushed up against my chest, surprising me completely, stopping me, breath held, just before tears rushed to my eyes.
That is one good album.
As a multi-instrumentalist myself, I know that creating music with moments like that is difficult, let alone making an entire album have that effect. I feel like this difference can be likened to the difference between a really good short story, and a really good novel. I've been trying to quantify what I like about some writing more than other writing lately,and the best that I've been able to come up with is the idea of things that aren't said explicitly but are nonetheless received. For instance, throughout the album, there are little moments... for instance: a really pretty instrumental section coming to an end with people making funny noises with their mouths. Only you don't realize that it's people making these noises. And then all of a sudden they stop, and they laugh good-naturedly in the one second of silence before a guitar picks up the melody again. It shows the humanity behind the music, but it fits so perfectly. This is a poor example...
Also, of supreme relavence: http://xkcd.com/304/
That is one good album.
As a multi-instrumentalist myself, I know that creating music with moments like that is difficult, let alone making an entire album have that effect. I feel like this difference can be likened to the difference between a really good short story, and a really good novel. I've been trying to quantify what I like about some writing more than other writing lately,and the best that I've been able to come up with is the idea of things that aren't said explicitly but are nonetheless received. For instance, throughout the album, there are little moments... for instance: a really pretty instrumental section coming to an end with people making funny noises with their mouths. Only you don't realize that it's people making these noises. And then all of a sudden they stop, and they laugh good-naturedly in the one second of silence before a guitar picks up the melody again. It shows the humanity behind the music, but it fits so perfectly. This is a poor example...
Also, of supreme relavence: http://xkcd.com/304/
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Slightly wonderful?
Heroic Simile
When the swordsman fell in Kurosawa's Seven Samurai
in the gray rain,
in Cinemascope and the Tokugawa dynasty,
he fell straight as a pine, he fell
as Ajax fell in Homer
in chanted dactyls and the tree was so huge
the woodsman returned for two days
to that lucky place before he was done with the sawing
and on the third day he brought his uncle.
They stacked logs in the resinous air,
hacking the small limbs off,
tying those bundles separately.
The slabs near the root
were quartered and still they were awkwardly large;
the logs from midtree they halved:
ten bundles and four great piles of fragrant wood,
moons and quarter moons and half moons
ridged by the saw's tooth.
The woodsman and the old man his uncle
are standing in midforest
on a floor of pine silt and spring mud.
They have stopped working
because they are tired and because
I have imagined no pack animal
or primitive wagon. They are too canny
to call in neighbors and come home
with a few logs after three days' work.
They are waiting for me to do something
or for the overseer of the Great Lord
to come and arrest them.
How patient they are!
The old man smokes a pipe and spits.
The young man is thinking he would be rich
if he were already rich and had a mule.
Ten days of hauling
and on the seventh day they'll probably
be caught, go home empty-handed
or worse. I don't know
whether they're Japanese or Mycenaean
and there's nothing I can do.
The path from here to that village
is not translated. A hero, dying,
gives off stillness to the air.
A man and a woman walk from the movies
to the house in the silence of separate fidelities.
There are limits to imagination.
-Robert Hass
I know this is poetry, but it inspired me- the language, the tone, the twists on perspective- I even recommended it to Lindsey in workshop today... Maybe you'll like it, too. :-)
Hello, I was just writing to see if everyone received the story I sent out last week and if they were able to open the attachment okay? I don't have microsoft word right now, so I wrote it in this strange word processor, I don't even know what it's called, and then converted it to a word document. So hopefully the conversion worked okay, but if anyone had trouble with it just let me know!
Andy
Andy
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Butler
"Once you have that link to your character's yearning, only then does the real work of literary fiction begin."
a.) this seems like sage advice
b.) it seems like sage advice, for literary fiction writers, that is, there it is, Butler is fully admitting that this is what he's talking about, writing literary fiction. And yes, he's a snob who looks down on "genre" fiction like romance and sci-fi/fantasy, etc., but his advice will let your (if that's what you want to write, those of you whom I think of as wanting to write) "genre" work rise, like Kelly Link's, above it's little "genre" ghetto and be thought of as literature, and what writer doesn't want her/his work to be thought of as great literature? None that I know. Stephen King may like making the money, but he wants to be thought of as a serious and talented writer, I'm guessing, more than anything else in the world.
(The photo is of Robert Lax, poet, who went from NYC success to a hermetic life on a Greek island. For too long, I thought that this is what you had to look like to be a "real" writer, more or less.)
Yes, those of you who've somehow heard, I will be reading for about 15 minutes at Amherst Books this Friday, along with two colleagues. Show starts at 8.
Monday, October 1, 2007
inspiration
a little exercise.
I don't have anything left to say. I'm hollowed out. I just want to stop, right here, stop hard and fast and hollow. Wait for my heart to stop pounding, and then to stop beating. And then just wait in the silence.
I don't have anything left to say. I'm hollowed out. I just want to stop, right here, stop hard and fast and hollow. Wait for my heart to stop pounding, and then to stop beating. And then just wait in the silence.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
workshop deadlines
Lest ye forget, if you're story is being workshopped in session two (Virginia, Khristie, Mark), you have to give copies out to everyone week one. That is, Tuesday week-two-ers need to hand out stories in class this coming Tuesday, Thursday week-tw0-ers need to hand out stories this coming Thursday. And, once again, Alexander-Leake are Tuesday people, Lindquist-Waid, you're Thursday people. And don't forget to read and mark up and write a note to the people going this week, y'all, it's really important.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
boring teacher-y stuff
Please check your UMass email (I sent to a class list generated by spire) for reiteration of workshop instructions. Thank you for your attention to this matter.
For those of you who weren't sure what that other picture was of, here's a pretty good hint. And here's another.
p.s. no office hours tomorrow (weds, 9/whateveritis) me sicker still, ugh. Thursday I will be back with bells on!
Musings of a Writer-Actress
Acting was my first love. It was there for me when I was that painfully shy kid in elementary school, it was there for me after I broke up with my first boyfriend, it’s still there for me now as a relatively well-adjusted young adult. Throughout my childhood and majority-of-teenagerdom, I never really had a problem getting cast in the shows I wanted. It sounds terribly jaded of me, but I was one of the few kids in my school that took acting seriously and actually worked to not-suck. However, I find myself in recent months questioning my abilities as an actor. Am I as good as I like to think myself? Am I simply a two-bit character actor? What makes a good actor?
My first semester freshman year at UMass, I was cast in a show. I was the Third Witch in Macbeth. I remember being simply elated. It proved to me I was good, I could act. My acting in shows growing up wasn’t just a case of directors latching onto simply the faintest glimmer, and glimmer alone, of talent. I was good enough to get into a college production. Macbeth turned out to be, quite possibly, one of the best experiences an incoming college freshman could have. I loved everyone in the cast, and it was through the show that I made all of my closest friends.
However, since Macbeth, I haven’t been cast anywhere else. Given, there have only been two shows I’ve auditioned for since then, and I know I can’t be cast in everything, but my worry is still there. Recently, I was called back for a second audition, which any actor will tell you is an awesome thing; it means the director thinks he sees something there. I am not so sure though. I have the faintest suspicion that the only reason I was called back was because the show contained a “creepy” role; Death. I was marvelously creepy in Macbeth. People came up to me afterwards and told me that I honestly scared them. They know I can do creepy. While everyone else was called back for two, three, even four roles, Death was the only one I was called back for. I think I’ve become their go-to girl for creepy. I’ve been reduced to a character actor.
I’m not sure that this should surprise me. I mean, I make certain choices with my appearance that might constitute type-casting. My personality might also lead to this. I’m a regular 19-year-old girl, but I do have an off-beat sense of humour, and I sometimes revel in creeping others out. I know this. I accept this. I had just always thought that my acting abilities spanned a wider range than “that mysterious, creepy, possibly not human” role. Now maybe I think I’m wrong. Maybe creepy is all I can do, and this bothers me.
I want to be an actress. I want to be that lady up on stage that inspires such a reaction out of a crowded room. I want people to laugh when I laugh, to cry when I cry. Am I good enough to inspire such a reaction? Even if I am, I suspect that if I succeed I will become that token famous alternative chick. I’ll be the next Christina Ricci or Fairuza Balk with her tattoos and weird piercings. I think I might have to work on being alright with that, should I ever achieve success.
I did my senior project in high school on acting. I remember my mentor told me something during one of my meetings, something which has always stuck with me. She was working with this kid, an actor, with emotional problems. His emotional problems caused him to be stuck in a rut, acting-wise. It was her job to help him out of it. She told me that you can’t be comfortable as someone else onstage until you’re comfortable with yourself offstage. I still remember that. This might be my problem. I may very well be stuck in this giant Catch-22 cycle. I don’t get cast in anything because I’m not comfortable with my abilities as an actor, and it shows, and since it shows that I’m not comfortable with my abilities as an actor, I don’t get cast.
I’m really not sure what will break this cycle, but I need to find it, or it’s curtains for my acting career (bad pun is bad).
Monday, September 24, 2007
On Feel-good Feelings
A friend once described me as "crying over milk that hasn't even spilled yet". I wish I could protest that that was exaggeration. But it isn't. It is so apt that it is even on my Facebook page. And we all know how important that makes it. We always, as students, when reading a book or a story, whatever it may be, try to figure out something about the author's life to put that piece of writing in some kind of personal context. Here's my personal context: My boyfriend is in basic training for the army reserves, and we have spent 37 minutes on the phone total since he's been gone (nearly 2 months), and I get his letters when Umass mail deigns to deliver them, and he gets mine when there isn't an army-imposed embargo for some delightful reason like, "one of you might get a distressing letter from home and since we're working with live fire we're worried about suicide".
He called Sunday. It's funny how when you have to give an oral report for 10 minutes it seems like eternity, but when you only get 17 minutes to talk to the one person you really want to talk to it goes by in a flash. After we hung up, I was so mad at myself for not asking why his voice sounded kind of different. Why did his voice sound different? I asked myself at 1:30 in the morning and again today starting at 9:30 AM. Is it some cold that the army is ignoring? Will it turn into a flu? Is it pneumonia and he just has no idea? Was he just trying to sound all tough with all of the other soldiers and drill sargeants around him? If it were just him and me would his very deep voice have taken on that sweeter quality he sometimes gets for me? Is it allergies? I have claritin in my purse, but what use is that when you just aren't here?! And I forgot to ask in the letter I already sealed, are you sick? is it just that you're not used to the southern flora? were you trying not to cry?
But last night, amid the worry, amid waiting for the glass of milk to be put a little unevenly on the edge, I was looking up tree kangaroos. I had sent him a national geographic picture of one, asking, "isn't this cute?" Upon my further research into "what exactly are they" I realized that there are ten different kinds, all fabulously adorable. Distractingly so. And for a moment, I had a feel-good feeling. And forgot.
He called Sunday. It's funny how when you have to give an oral report for 10 minutes it seems like eternity, but when you only get 17 minutes to talk to the one person you really want to talk to it goes by in a flash. After we hung up, I was so mad at myself for not asking why his voice sounded kind of different. Why did his voice sound different? I asked myself at 1:30 in the morning and again today starting at 9:30 AM. Is it some cold that the army is ignoring? Will it turn into a flu? Is it pneumonia and he just has no idea? Was he just trying to sound all tough with all of the other soldiers and drill sargeants around him? If it were just him and me would his very deep voice have taken on that sweeter quality he sometimes gets for me? Is it allergies? I have claritin in my purse, but what use is that when you just aren't here?! And I forgot to ask in the letter I already sealed, are you sick? is it just that you're not used to the southern flora? were you trying not to cry?
But last night, amid the worry, amid waiting for the glass of milk to be put a little unevenly on the edge, I was looking up tree kangaroos. I had sent him a national geographic picture of one, asking, "isn't this cute?" Upon my further research into "what exactly are they" I realized that there are ten different kinds, all fabulously adorable. Distractingly so. And for a moment, I had a feel-good feeling. And forgot.
Brian
Have any of you ever not known how to spell a simple word that 2 minutes ago you could have? I was sitting down today thinking of how to spell a word, a simple two syllable word. I sometimes think of a word too hard and double guess myself or focus on the punctuation too deep.
I knew there was something wrong when even the almighty spell-check didn’t even know what I was saying. I sat, thinking. How can I not spell this word…I can say it, I can visually see what it is, an 8 year old could spell it.
Five minutes go by. I have already bitten off 3 nails and hit my keyboard thinking of this word that will be the death of me. “Tollar”, nope. How can I not spell this little word! I will not look it up, I am smarter than this. “Tallar”…fuck you I say to my brain and I start to sweat thinking that this mystery will never be solved. I yell to my roommate the word and ask him how to spell it. He laughs and I slam the door and start to pace. Is this possible? Will my brain ever snap out of this world of thought?
This word is even in one of my favorite movies, I can see the cover, there’s Aragon, Saruman, Froto, Gandalf…how do you spell that word!? I should see it but its not there. “Tohller”…nope.
Wait, hold on. I tell my mind to stop right there at this new thought that struck my head like a smack to the back of my head. I am thinking of ‘Twin’ and ‘Two’ before the word. I am seeing two, or twin, ‘l’s. This is incorrect. Your trying to fool me aren’t you Brian the Brain? “Towar”…close. TOWERS! I yell it at my Family Guy poster in my room.
I hate Brian sometimes.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
sea oak, fyi
This delicate Rhodophyte is composed of blades whose margins are deeply lobed giving them an appearance similar to that of an oak leaf.
how far to stray
One of you all emailed to ask me just how far she could stray from the original nonfiction 911 piece - could it be almost totally different? Yes yes yes yes yes. So long as you were moved to write the fiction by the nonfiction you wrote and the stuff it brought up from your gooey chocolate centers, goferit! This photo is an example of someone starting with something and ending up with something very different from what he had planned to shoot.
Michael Swanwick
I ran across Carol Emshwiller just after she finished writing Ledoyt and she said she was in mourning, that all these people she had lived with for years were suddenly gone and it felt as if they'd all died. "Doesn't it feel that way to you, too, when you finish a novel?" she asked.
I thought about it. "No," I decided. "It feels like all these characters who have suffered under my persecuting hand have been set free. I imagine them running joyfully in all directions, as hard and fast as they can, so that I can never catch them and put them in another book again."
-M.S.
I thought about it. "No," I decided. "It feels like all these characters who have suffered under my persecuting hand have been set free. I imagine them running joyfully in all directions, as hard and fast as they can, so that I can never catch them and put them in another book again."
-M.S.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Holy Introduction Batman
Hello all,
My name is Bill and this is my introduction. I play video games a lot.
There was this one time I wrote an introduction and I couldn't think of anything so I wrote this.
Well thats about it folks
see you in class
p.s.
I do other things besides play video games, I read books (mostly sci-fi fantasy and horror, but I am open to anything that interests me), I write (mostly like the stuff i read), I play football and am an avid sports fan( thats a lie), I watch movies ( I mostly like movies that are good, but bad movies are pretty cool too), and I listen to music( mostly heavy metal, anything that has good guitar).
My name is Bill and this is my introduction. I play video games a lot.
There was this one time I wrote an introduction and I couldn't think of anything so I wrote this.
Well thats about it folks
see you in class
p.s.
I do other things besides play video games, I read books (mostly sci-fi fantasy and horror, but I am open to anything that interests me), I write (mostly like the stuff i read), I play football and am an avid sports fan( thats a lie), I watch movies ( I mostly like movies that are good, but bad movies are pretty cool too), and I listen to music( mostly heavy metal, anything that has good guitar).
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
On Divine Intervention and Mustard Stains
Hi everyone, it's Angela. It's taken me a while to get on this because at first I thought I was once again proving I missed the technological window, but apparently I just missed out on the email.
Wednesday last week, I got grab and go from Franklin DC and decided to sit in that little area with the benches surrounding the plot of grass near the greenhouse. They didn't have any bagels left when I went, and I was heartbroken. So, I grabbed a turkey sandwich and a couple of mustard packets. Mustard packets are dangerous. Mustard in general is quite dangerous. It stains you, your fingers, your clothes, sometimes without you even noticing. The worst is going to some place like disco bowling and when they turn on the black light lo and behold, you have a mustard stain on your khaki pants. I even remember watching this movie, "Notorious", a Hitchcock with Ingrid Bergman and Gregory Peck. In it, Ingrid Bergman shares a picnic with Gregory Peck and is found out by the mustard stain on her finger.
To continue, I sat on the bench, opened the mustard packet, and it split in two! I paused, frozen completely. I stared down at my pants. Nothing. I looked at my shoes. Nothing. My shirt, My hair, nothing! There was one large blob of mustard on the ground in front of me, but I was saved! It was amazing. It was proof of something, I'm not sure what. It couldn't have been luck, I'm never that lucky. Something for all of your brilliant minds to ponder...
Wednesday last week, I got grab and go from Franklin DC and decided to sit in that little area with the benches surrounding the plot of grass near the greenhouse. They didn't have any bagels left when I went, and I was heartbroken. So, I grabbed a turkey sandwich and a couple of mustard packets. Mustard packets are dangerous. Mustard in general is quite dangerous. It stains you, your fingers, your clothes, sometimes without you even noticing. The worst is going to some place like disco bowling and when they turn on the black light lo and behold, you have a mustard stain on your khaki pants. I even remember watching this movie, "Notorious", a Hitchcock with Ingrid Bergman and Gregory Peck. In it, Ingrid Bergman shares a picnic with Gregory Peck and is found out by the mustard stain on her finger.
To continue, I sat on the bench, opened the mustard packet, and it split in two! I paused, frozen completely. I stared down at my pants. Nothing. I looked at my shoes. Nothing. My shirt, My hair, nothing! There was one large blob of mustard on the ground in front of me, but I was saved! It was amazing. It was proof of something, I'm not sure what. It couldn't have been luck, I'm never that lucky. Something for all of your brilliant minds to ponder...
Late introduction holla!
Hi, I'm Lindsey, and I've missed our last two classes due to being felled with an angry, angry cold. Way to make a first impression, right?
At any rate, I'm a rather short girl with rather short hair. I'm another vegetarian in the class (yay!), and I'm a huge fan of all things cute. I watch entirely too much TV, and I've recently developed a big thing for vintage books.
I write very short fiction. My longest piece so far was actually only seven typed pages! Working on length is a big issue for me, because I really do want to write a full-length novel, which I've been working on in small snippets. I recently went through a writing dry spell over the summer, so I'm excited to be getting back into it.
And now I've run out of things to say. See what I told you about my length thing?
At any rate, I'm a rather short girl with rather short hair. I'm another vegetarian in the class (yay!), and I'm a huge fan of all things cute. I watch entirely too much TV, and I've recently developed a big thing for vintage books.
I write very short fiction. My longest piece so far was actually only seven typed pages! Working on length is a big issue for me, because I really do want to write a full-length novel, which I've been working on in small snippets. I recently went through a writing dry spell over the summer, so I'm excited to be getting back into it.
And now I've run out of things to say. See what I told you about my length thing?
Readings to attend at least one of
Gang,
There are the only two fiction readings in the Visiting Writers Series this fall (see bottom of this post), and I'd like you to attend a fiction reading. Amherst Books, though, lists many other readings on their website, several fiction ones for October. In order to spare yourselves the last minute panic, please consider going to a reading (if you recall, you all have to attend one and write a short response to it) before, say 11/15. You can find Amherst Books' October listings here and November ones here.
UMass Readings:
The Visiting Writers Series at the University of Massachusetts Amherst (some events held at the University Gallery, some at memorial hall - see schedule is
pleased to announce the Fall 2007 schedule of readings. For more than 40 years,
the VWS has brought outstanding poets and writers to the university campus for
public readings of new work.
Joanna Scott
Sunday, October 4, 8pm, University Gallery
JOANNA SCOTT is the author of seven novels, including Liberation, Tourmaline,
Make Believe, The Manikin, and Arrogance, and two collections of short fiction,
Various Antidotes and Everybody Loves Somebody. Her books have been finalists
for the Pulitzer Prize, the PEN-Faulkner, and the LA Times Book Award. Awards
include a MacArthur Fellowship, a Lannan Literary Award, a Guggenheim
Fellowship, the Ambassador Book Award from the English-Speaking Union, and the
Rosenthal Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. She is the
Roswell Smith Burrows Professor of English at the University of Rochester.
Sam Michel
Thursday, November 8, 8 PM at University Gallery
Sam Michel is the author of a short-story collection, Under the Light, and a
novel, Big Dogs and Flyboys, to be published this October. He has taught at
Phillips Academy, Andover, and in the graduate writing programs at the
University of Florida and the University of Massachusetts. He divides his time
between Massachusetts and Montana, where he writes and builds rock walls.
There are the only two fiction readings in the Visiting Writers Series this fall (see bottom of this post), and I'd like you to attend a fiction reading. Amherst Books, though, lists many other readings on their website, several fiction ones for October. In order to spare yourselves the last minute panic, please consider going to a reading (if you recall, you all have to attend one and write a short response to it) before, say 11/15. You can find Amherst Books' October listings here and November ones here.
UMass Readings:
The Visiting Writers Series at the University of Massachusetts Amherst (some events held at the University Gallery, some at memorial hall - see schedule is
pleased to announce the Fall 2007 schedule of readings. For more than 40 years,
the VWS has brought outstanding poets and writers to the university campus for
public readings of new work.
Joanna Scott
Sunday, October 4, 8pm, University Gallery
JOANNA SCOTT is the author of seven novels, including Liberation, Tourmaline,
Make Believe, The Manikin, and Arrogance, and two collections of short fiction,
Various Antidotes and Everybody Loves Somebody. Her books have been finalists
for the Pulitzer Prize, the PEN-Faulkner, and the LA Times Book Award. Awards
include a MacArthur Fellowship, a Lannan Literary Award, a Guggenheim
Fellowship, the Ambassador Book Award from the English-Speaking Union, and the
Rosenthal Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. She is the
Roswell Smith Burrows Professor of English at the University of Rochester.
Sam Michel
Thursday, November 8, 8 PM at University Gallery
Sam Michel is the author of a short-story collection, Under the Light, and a
novel, Big Dogs and Flyboys, to be published this October. He has taught at
Phillips Academy, Andover, and in the graduate writing programs at the
University of Florida and the University of Massachusetts. He divides his time
between Massachusetts and Montana, where he writes and builds rock walls.
Monday, September 17, 2007
your authors
Okey-dokers, gang, here's a list of some of the writers you listed as faves (with focus on the ones I'd never heard of - if you'd rather bring in a page of Whitman or Shakespeare or someone not on the list below, that's great too.)). Please bring in a page photocopied 23 times for us all to read. You can bring more than one page if you like. Try to find a page that exemplifies the author's work and what you like about it and be able to show and tell us about him/her. If you're really and true too broke to make 23 copies, see me. If more than one person brings in the same author, that's cool too. Have these for next tuesday, 9/25. Thanks. Here they are (please pardon any misspelling from my misreading of your handwriting), and I've added a couple that some of you mentioned in class that you've been reading:
Michael Swanwick
Greg Egan
Francesca Lia Block
James Howe
Frank Miller
Tod Williams
Robert Charles Wilson
Neil Gaiman
Jumpa Lahiri
Terry Goodkind
Douglas Adams
Robert Frost
Frank McCourt
Carson McCullers
Kurt Vonnegut
Frank O'Hara
Aldous Huxley
e. e. cummings
George Orwell
Mark Doty
J. K. Rowling
Charles Bukowski
James Tate (Umass faculty member, fyi)
Edgar Allen Poe
Kazuo Ishiguro
Emily Dickinson
Amy Hempl
Raymond Chandler
Michael Chabon
Jeffrey Eugenides
Salman Rushdie
Mark Spitz (?)
Chris Bachelder (UMass faculty member, fyi)
Michael Swanwick
Greg Egan
Francesca Lia Block
James Howe
Frank Miller
Tod Williams
Robert Charles Wilson
Neil Gaiman
Jumpa Lahiri
Terry Goodkind
Douglas Adams
Robert Frost
Frank McCourt
Carson McCullers
Kurt Vonnegut
Frank O'Hara
Aldous Huxley
e. e. cummings
George Orwell
Mark Doty
J. K. Rowling
Charles Bukowski
James Tate (Umass faculty member, fyi)
Edgar Allen Poe
Kazuo Ishiguro
Emily Dickinson
Amy Hempl
Raymond Chandler
Michael Chabon
Jeffrey Eugenides
Salman Rushdie
Mark Spitz (?)
Chris Bachelder (UMass faculty member, fyi)
various and sundry
Emily emailed me and asked what some of my favorite books/authors were, seeing as you all told me yours. It was a surprisingly hard question. As I get older, I find that I like different authors, different movies, different music, different books, for various purposes, for various ways in which they inform me, so it's harder to call any one "favorite" any more. That said, here, somewhat edited/expanded, is what I pulled out of my hat in response to Emily:
I love Haruki Murakami (Japanese, contemporary). I do like Raymond
Chandler quite a bit. Just read a book by David Mitchell called 'Cloud Atlas'
that was pretty darn great. I must admit that I'm both a a George Saunders and Lydia Davis fan. Raymond Carver is one of the great short story writers ever. I don't read much scifi but I've loved a couple of Phillip K. Dick novels. There's a slim little book by the actor/playwright Wallace Shawn (see photo - you may know him from "The Princess Bride" or as a Ferengi, but he's also one of our greatest living playwrights) called 'The Fever' that's a great political monologue. Charles Bukowski is not the greatest writer and he's arguably a pig but I've read and really got a lot from his stuff. That first Dave Eggers book, 'A Heartbreaking Work . . . " I love and hate and love and hate. I've read two Ursula Le Guin books that I thought were terrific, but it's been a while, The Left Hand of Darkness and The Dispossessed. Didn't mention this in my email to Emily, but Flannery O'Connoor is another incredible story writer, sez me. I could go on all day, but there's a start. Oh, there's also poetry. If you think you hate poetry, read Frank O'Hara or a Bukowski poem or two. Robert Lax is also a strange and wonderful poet.
***
As for me, in terms of introduction, well, you can go here (jamiebergerwords.com).
You'll find a cute little book about my dog, some journalism, and some fiction and nonfiction that's, well, a bit "adult" to be sharing with my college students, but I'm guessing some of you have already looked and it's in the public domain so there you go. Please, though, let's leave my work out of the class and the blog, okay? If you really want to respond or ask a question about something of mine, drop me an email. I'll bring that dog book into class sometime.
Friday, September 14, 2007
The Old Roll of Toilet Paper
A (partly humorous, hopefully) draft of a response to The Old Dictionary. Reading it again, the story struck me as callous. So I hyperbolized. But some of this is pretty much quoted from the book in a different context.
I have an old roll of toilet paper, about 15 years old, that I need for something that I was just making. Its pieces are brownish in the middle and brittle, and very large in the fashion of toilet paper from the early 90s. I risk tearing them in half when I part them from their kin. There aren't very many left now. Each time that I use it, I have to ask myself if I have enough. Should I leave the house? Should I get more, or should I wait and use the rest? What if I forgot to get more? Then I'd have to use it, and there would be no more left. No more comforting net. No more last-ditch backup. When I took it off the shelf today, I realized that it was more precious to me than my own son. Each time I handle it, I take the greatest care to use as little as possible. What struck me today was that even though my son should be more important to me than this roll of toilet paper, I can't say that each time I deal with my son, my primary concern is not to unroll him too much. My primary concern is almost always something else, for instance to make sure that he makes it back to the car with the alcohol fast enough because I'm too drunk to be sold any, or to quiet him down because I have a headache. If he gets harmed in the process, that doesn't seem to matter to me as much as getting the thing done, whatever it is. Why don't I treat my son at least as well as the old roll of toilet paper? Maybe it is because I can see how much toilet paper is left. When I snap off a piece, it is unmistakably diminished. My son does not look diminished, cowering in a corner or nursing the dog's wounds. Certainly his body is weak and brittle, and is easily harmed by me. I have bruised his body, and sometimes it doesn't heal the same. It's pretty obvious to me when I have hurt his feelings, but it is harder for me to care. He usually seems to mend, and since I can't see them, out of sight, out of mind. Maybe I treat the toilet paper better because it makes no demands on me, and doesn't fight back. Hold on a second.
I, I, I, me me me, I me I.
That's better. Maybe I am kinder to things that don't seem to react to me. But in fact my house plants do not seem to react much and yet I don't treat them very well. They demand light, but it hurts my eyes. Their other demand is water. Vodka has water, doesn't it? They usually die pretty quickly. Most of the ones left look pretty strange. Some of them were nice-looking when I bought them but are strange looking now because I haven't taken very good care of them. Is there any other reason to like a house plant, if it is not nice-looking? Am I kinder to something that is nice-looking? I'm sure I could treat a plant well even if I didn't like its looks... despite the fact that I haven't treated any of my plants well thus far. I should be able to treat my son well when he's not looking good or when he keeps talking incessantly about school and annoying me. I treat the dog better than him, even though the dog is more active and more demanding. It is simple to give him food and water. I make my son take him on walks, though not often enough. He seems sad all the time. I have also often slapped his face, though the animal rights groups told me never to hit him anywhere near the head, or maybe they said anywhere at all. I'm not even sure I'm not neglecting the dog when he is asleep. Maybe I am kinder to things that are not alive. I honestly can't really think of anything that I'm kind to, though, other than that roll of toilet paper.
I have an old roll of toilet paper, about 15 years old, that I need for something that I was just making. Its pieces are brownish in the middle and brittle, and very large in the fashion of toilet paper from the early 90s. I risk tearing them in half when I part them from their kin. There aren't very many left now. Each time that I use it, I have to ask myself if I have enough. Should I leave the house? Should I get more, or should I wait and use the rest? What if I forgot to get more? Then I'd have to use it, and there would be no more left. No more comforting net. No more last-ditch backup. When I took it off the shelf today, I realized that it was more precious to me than my own son. Each time I handle it, I take the greatest care to use as little as possible. What struck me today was that even though my son should be more important to me than this roll of toilet paper, I can't say that each time I deal with my son, my primary concern is not to unroll him too much. My primary concern is almost always something else, for instance to make sure that he makes it back to the car with the alcohol fast enough because I'm too drunk to be sold any, or to quiet him down because I have a headache. If he gets harmed in the process, that doesn't seem to matter to me as much as getting the thing done, whatever it is. Why don't I treat my son at least as well as the old roll of toilet paper? Maybe it is because I can see how much toilet paper is left. When I snap off a piece, it is unmistakably diminished. My son does not look diminished, cowering in a corner or nursing the dog's wounds. Certainly his body is weak and brittle, and is easily harmed by me. I have bruised his body, and sometimes it doesn't heal the same. It's pretty obvious to me when I have hurt his feelings, but it is harder for me to care. He usually seems to mend, and since I can't see them, out of sight, out of mind. Maybe I treat the toilet paper better because it makes no demands on me, and doesn't fight back. Hold on a second.
I, I, I, me me me, I me I.
That's better. Maybe I am kinder to things that don't seem to react to me. But in fact my house plants do not seem to react much and yet I don't treat them very well. They demand light, but it hurts my eyes. Their other demand is water. Vodka has water, doesn't it? They usually die pretty quickly. Most of the ones left look pretty strange. Some of them were nice-looking when I bought them but are strange looking now because I haven't taken very good care of them. Is there any other reason to like a house plant, if it is not nice-looking? Am I kinder to something that is nice-looking? I'm sure I could treat a plant well even if I didn't like its looks... despite the fact that I haven't treated any of my plants well thus far. I should be able to treat my son well when he's not looking good or when he keeps talking incessantly about school and annoying me. I treat the dog better than him, even though the dog is more active and more demanding. It is simple to give him food and water. I make my son take him on walks, though not often enough. He seems sad all the time. I have also often slapped his face, though the animal rights groups told me never to hit him anywhere near the head, or maybe they said anywhere at all. I'm not even sure I'm not neglecting the dog when he is asleep. Maybe I am kinder to things that are not alive. I honestly can't really think of anything that I'm kind to, though, other than that roll of toilet paper.
The math guy's introduction
Hi everybody. I'll try to keep this short, but I doubt it will be.
I guess I should probably introduce myself as well. I'm the one with glasses, short dark brown hair, and I've walked in late at least once a week so far (I'm trying to get better with that, I swear). Obivously, having somebody with my background is a bit odd. Let's face it, math majors spend most of their time doing homework or working on a program that will crack some impossible theorem that nobody outside the math department has ever heard of. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) I hate programming, so I don't exactly fit the mold of my own department either.
So, let's move on to something more substantial about me. I'm a bit of a gaming nerd. By a bit, I mean I'd play them for 6 or 7 hours a day if I didn't have other things to do. None of WOW or any other online RPG though, I'd rather pay for a game once then pay monthly. I'm a Futurama and Family Guy fan, but the show's steadily getting worse (they started losing it in the third season, but there are still flashes of brilliance). As for music, I like rock, but I can be fairly picky. As in, I listen to Crossfade, Hinder, Three Days Grace, Hoobastank, and a bunch of others, but I can't stand the Red Hot Chilli Peppers or the Foo Fighters. It's weird, yes.
Oh, shameless plug for an RSO. I'm a member of the UMass Shotokan Karate Club. Our website is here but it hasn't been updated for a while. If anyone's interested in training, let me know, I'll go through a little explanation of when/where we train and such.
Now that that's out of the way, I can (breifly, I hope) explain why the hell I'm in this class. I've been writing on and off since the start of high school. Through all that time, I only have 4 stories I'm will to admit exist (only one of which is even remotely worth reading), and a bunch of dicarded ideas that couldn't get off the ground. All of these are fairly long (25+ pages, single spaced), which is probably carrying over from the fact that I played Final Fantasy a lot. I still do, which probably doesn't help the process.
Well, I think my ramblings have taken up enough space for now. I'll see you guys in class. Who knows? Maybe I'll be on time.
I guess I should probably introduce myself as well. I'm the one with glasses, short dark brown hair, and I've walked in late at least once a week so far (I'm trying to get better with that, I swear). Obivously, having somebody with my background is a bit odd. Let's face it, math majors spend most of their time doing homework or working on a program that will crack some impossible theorem that nobody outside the math department has ever heard of. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) I hate programming, so I don't exactly fit the mold of my own department either.
So, let's move on to something more substantial about me. I'm a bit of a gaming nerd. By a bit, I mean I'd play them for 6 or 7 hours a day if I didn't have other things to do. None of WOW or any other online RPG though, I'd rather pay for a game once then pay monthly. I'm a Futurama and Family Guy fan, but the show's steadily getting worse (they started losing it in the third season, but there are still flashes of brilliance). As for music, I like rock, but I can be fairly picky. As in, I listen to Crossfade, Hinder, Three Days Grace, Hoobastank, and a bunch of others, but I can't stand the Red Hot Chilli Peppers or the Foo Fighters. It's weird, yes.
Oh, shameless plug for an RSO. I'm a member of the UMass Shotokan Karate Club. Our website is here but it hasn't been updated for a while. If anyone's interested in training, let me know, I'll go through a little explanation of when/where we train and such.
Now that that's out of the way, I can (breifly, I hope) explain why the hell I'm in this class. I've been writing on and off since the start of high school. Through all that time, I only have 4 stories I'm will to admit exist (only one of which is even remotely worth reading), and a bunch of dicarded ideas that couldn't get off the ground. All of these are fairly long (25+ pages, single spaced), which is probably carrying over from the fact that I played Final Fantasy a lot. I still do, which probably doesn't help the process.
Well, I think my ramblings have taken up enough space for now. I'll see you guys in class. Who knows? Maybe I'll be on time.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
on tendinitis and speech recognition
I don't mean to capitalize on the space here, so I'll be as brief as possible.
Some of you might be interested in trying speech recognition because you can't type fast. I wouldn't recommend it.
As is evidenced in the post below, writing with speech recognition is not easy. Even with an expensive microphone and a fast computer, it basically consists of the following:
1. Say a sentence fragment
2. Wait for the software to recognize it
3. Read over your sentence fragment to make sure that no errors were made. I get errors at least once or twice a paragraph, sometimes nine or ten times.
4. If any errors exist, correct them by speaking, which also takes time
5. Repeat until you get a full sentence.
Even in an environment free of distractions, it can be difficult to hold not just the point of the current paragraph and sentence in your mind, but the conception you have of the flow and the tone and the language of it, and the way it all fits together. This can be seen in my post below: editing could have fixed many of the issues with disorganization, but editing is pretty darn difficult too. In some writing tasks, it's simply not worth the effort past a certain point.
That said, I'd like to warn you all. You don't want tendinitis. If you're feeling pain in your wrist or hand as you type or write or do anything really, don't ignore it. There are things you can do -- an ergonomic desk and keyboard, better writing practices, etc. -- that can help you avoid it. In many cases, tendinitis is life long. For a few months after I first injured myself, I couldn't really even take care of myself. It's not something that you can work through; working through it eventually leads to a type of paralysis of the hands. If you have any questions at all on the matter, from what you can do to prevent it to what to do if you suspect you're developing it, please feel free to ask me.
Trust me when I say that you don't want it.
Some of you might be interested in trying speech recognition because you can't type fast. I wouldn't recommend it.
As is evidenced in the post below, writing with speech recognition is not easy. Even with an expensive microphone and a fast computer, it basically consists of the following:
1. Say a sentence fragment
2. Wait for the software to recognize it
3. Read over your sentence fragment to make sure that no errors were made. I get errors at least once or twice a paragraph, sometimes nine or ten times.
4. If any errors exist, correct them by speaking, which also takes time
5. Repeat until you get a full sentence.
Even in an environment free of distractions, it can be difficult to hold not just the point of the current paragraph and sentence in your mind, but the conception you have of the flow and the tone and the language of it, and the way it all fits together. This can be seen in my post below: editing could have fixed many of the issues with disorganization, but editing is pretty darn difficult too. In some writing tasks, it's simply not worth the effort past a certain point.
That said, I'd like to warn you all. You don't want tendinitis. If you're feeling pain in your wrist or hand as you type or write or do anything really, don't ignore it. There are things you can do -- an ergonomic desk and keyboard, better writing practices, etc. -- that can help you avoid it. In many cases, tendinitis is life long. For a few months after I first injured myself, I couldn't really even take care of myself. It's not something that you can work through; working through it eventually leads to a type of paralysis of the hands. If you have any questions at all on the matter, from what you can do to prevent it to what to do if you suspect you're developing it, please feel free to ask me.
Trust me when I say that you don't want it.
Novelizing
So I've been writing a novel.
I don't know how many of you have tried to write a novel. This is probably my third attempt; it's the first one with any likelihood of actually succeeding.
Writing a novel is hard. Unless you're Jack Kerouac, sitting down and pounding out a novel stream of consciousness, an incredible amount of work goes into planning and researching and in my case filling in some of the blanks... to borrow a metaphor from class, how the mattress gets from point A to point B.
When I read a novel that someone's written, I feel like I've been given a large cross-section of their diary. So much of who you are goes into what you write. Sometimes when I'm writing even a short length story, I get hung up on what it says about what's going on in my head. I want it to make sense to me -- to be something that I feel not just as an idea, as a possibility, or as a story, but as a reality. That's the only way I ever really feel comfortable disseminating my writing. I know that this is something that I need to get over.
This one has been brewing for at least two years. It started as just the kernel of an idea. I'd always been fascinated by superheroes, but found their portrayals generally lacking. With a few exceptions such as The Watchmen, there seemed to have been few attempts to give them a "serious literary treatment." I in no way mean any offense to comic books. I'm just saying that they didn't tell the types of stories that I wanted to hear about superheroes.
So let's take an analog for Superman. Let's take an ordinary Joe -- in this case, an ordinary Jonah -- with all his biases, baggage, and problems. With all of who he is outside of his superpowers. And when we give him those superpowers, let's have him not get caught up in platitudes like "with great power comes great responsibility." After all, his problems don't suddenly cease and he doesn't suddenly become different because he gains these powers. This is a poor example, but I hope you follow me. Humans in essence are not "made to be" happy; when we find happiness and contentment for too long, we inevitably develop feelings of discontent and restlessness. We always find problems, no matter how small, to focus our lives on. It is a natural and perhaps necessary part of life. Simply being able to do almost anything should certainly be no different.
My favorite science fiction has always been the kind that uses its science to explore and illuminate the human soul. In "From Where You Dream," Butler talks about how you should write from the white hot, burning center. He says that you should only write from there. Personally, I have to disagree to an extent. That's where this story comes from -- 2 years of thought, ideas, meaning, and experiences, two years of my life spent burning up inside over the characters, the settings, the themes and plot and narrative and tone and meaning and everything. Instead of writing directly from that white hot place, I've extracted and distilled it into its purest form: what I want it to be. And because of all this planning and thought, what I want it to be and what it is shaping up to be is infinitely closer to my white-hot core. It's closer to becoming a reality like I discussed above.
As a further point of disagreement, what if some of the meaning you derive from life comes from analyzation and abstraction? After all, we make choices about our lives. Emotions are not the only things that inform these choices. In Teranesia by Greg Egan, one of the key themes was finding continuity in life. The main character hears about a mathematical method for plotting a straight line with no reference except for your own path. This is then tied profoundly into the story and theme of continuity in what I hope are pretty obvious ways.
I'd like to end this with two observations by successful authors.
Someone (I forget who) wrote in his introduction to one of the Nebula Awards compilations of the 80s -- I believe it to be the 11th, but I may be incorrect -- that extroverted science-fiction writers tend to write somewhat introverted novels that are full of thought and ideas and not as much action, and vice versa. I grew up a deep introvert -- deep in the sense that I was extremely introverted, not necessarily claiming that I had any more substance than average. Now, while still an introvert, I can sometimes straddle the fence. I've had to struggle some to find the correct balance for the story I'm trying to tell. How do you all feel about this observation? Do you find that you, yourself, tend to write characters that are extroverted where you are not, and vice versa?
Terry Goodkind wrote, "if you have a message, send a letter. If you have a story, write a book." This is one of my favorite pieces of general writing advice. How do you feel about it?
I don't know how many of you have tried to write a novel. This is probably my third attempt; it's the first one with any likelihood of actually succeeding.
Writing a novel is hard. Unless you're Jack Kerouac, sitting down and pounding out a novel stream of consciousness, an incredible amount of work goes into planning and researching and in my case filling in some of the blanks... to borrow a metaphor from class, how the mattress gets from point A to point B.
When I read a novel that someone's written, I feel like I've been given a large cross-section of their diary. So much of who you are goes into what you write. Sometimes when I'm writing even a short length story, I get hung up on what it says about what's going on in my head. I want it to make sense to me -- to be something that I feel not just as an idea, as a possibility, or as a story, but as a reality. That's the only way I ever really feel comfortable disseminating my writing. I know that this is something that I need to get over.
This one has been brewing for at least two years. It started as just the kernel of an idea. I'd always been fascinated by superheroes, but found their portrayals generally lacking. With a few exceptions such as The Watchmen, there seemed to have been few attempts to give them a "serious literary treatment." I in no way mean any offense to comic books. I'm just saying that they didn't tell the types of stories that I wanted to hear about superheroes.
So let's take an analog for Superman. Let's take an ordinary Joe -- in this case, an ordinary Jonah -- with all his biases, baggage, and problems. With all of who he is outside of his superpowers. And when we give him those superpowers, let's have him not get caught up in platitudes like "with great power comes great responsibility." After all, his problems don't suddenly cease and he doesn't suddenly become different because he gains these powers. This is a poor example, but I hope you follow me. Humans in essence are not "made to be" happy; when we find happiness and contentment for too long, we inevitably develop feelings of discontent and restlessness. We always find problems, no matter how small, to focus our lives on. It is a natural and perhaps necessary part of life. Simply being able to do almost anything should certainly be no different.
My favorite science fiction has always been the kind that uses its science to explore and illuminate the human soul. In "From Where You Dream," Butler talks about how you should write from the white hot, burning center. He says that you should only write from there. Personally, I have to disagree to an extent. That's where this story comes from -- 2 years of thought, ideas, meaning, and experiences, two years of my life spent burning up inside over the characters, the settings, the themes and plot and narrative and tone and meaning and everything. Instead of writing directly from that white hot place, I've extracted and distilled it into its purest form: what I want it to be. And because of all this planning and thought, what I want it to be and what it is shaping up to be is infinitely closer to my white-hot core. It's closer to becoming a reality like I discussed above.
As a further point of disagreement, what if some of the meaning you derive from life comes from analyzation and abstraction? After all, we make choices about our lives. Emotions are not the only things that inform these choices. In Teranesia by Greg Egan, one of the key themes was finding continuity in life. The main character hears about a mathematical method for plotting a straight line with no reference except for your own path. This is then tied profoundly into the story and theme of continuity in what I hope are pretty obvious ways.
I'd like to end this with two observations by successful authors.
Someone (I forget who) wrote in his introduction to one of the Nebula Awards compilations of the 80s -- I believe it to be the 11th, but I may be incorrect -- that extroverted science-fiction writers tend to write somewhat introverted novels that are full of thought and ideas and not as much action, and vice versa. I grew up a deep introvert -- deep in the sense that I was extremely introverted, not necessarily claiming that I had any more substance than average. Now, while still an introvert, I can sometimes straddle the fence. I've had to struggle some to find the correct balance for the story I'm trying to tell. How do you all feel about this observation? Do you find that you, yourself, tend to write characters that are extroverted where you are not, and vice versa?
Terry Goodkind wrote, "if you have a message, send a letter. If you have a story, write a book." This is one of my favorite pieces of general writing advice. How do you feel about it?
Ciao
Hey all. Jumping on the bandwagon of introductions here: I'm Grace, the one with the black glasses (they're green on the inside!) and hair somewhere in the blonde range of colors. You may or may not be able to recognize me from that description--but my name will presumably come up in class at some point, so it's all good.
About me... I call myself a writer, though I don't think I write as much as I really should. Even when I spend what ought to be a satisfactory amount of time writing (read: one part writing, three parts staring out the window waiting for words to appear) I still berate myself for not being productive enough.
I'm also a reader! I'm one of those people who dislikes reading more than one book at a time; something about jumping between multiple storylines bugs me. The last book I read was "The Eyre Affair" by Jasper Fforde, which looked promising but didn't live up to my expectations. It's the first in a series; I wasn't sufficiently hooked to want to read the rest. I tend to have favorite books rather than favorite authors, and some (though not all) of those books are The Stolen Child (Keith Donohue), Never Let Me Go (Kazuo Ishiguro), The Thirteenth Tale (Diane Setterfield), The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini) and The Raw Shark Texts (Steven Hall). And I'm a Potter fan--one who was severely disappointed by the seventh book, but a fan nonetheless!
I don't watch much TV on the whole, but I adore House, and have recently become addicted to Dexter. I enjoyed Lost up until the end of season two; the latest season was somewhat lackluster. The writers are clearly not well-acquainted with the concept of plot continuity.
I like coffee, music, good food, earrings, my two-year-old PowerBook G4, proper English grammar, and foreign languages. I dislike hot weather, close-mindedness, and having lots of spare change.
About me... I call myself a writer, though I don't think I write as much as I really should. Even when I spend what ought to be a satisfactory amount of time writing (read: one part writing, three parts staring out the window waiting for words to appear) I still berate myself for not being productive enough.
I'm also a reader! I'm one of those people who dislikes reading more than one book at a time; something about jumping between multiple storylines bugs me. The last book I read was "The Eyre Affair" by Jasper Fforde, which looked promising but didn't live up to my expectations. It's the first in a series; I wasn't sufficiently hooked to want to read the rest. I tend to have favorite books rather than favorite authors, and some (though not all) of those books are The Stolen Child (Keith Donohue), Never Let Me Go (Kazuo Ishiguro), The Thirteenth Tale (Diane Setterfield), The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini) and The Raw Shark Texts (Steven Hall). And I'm a Potter fan--one who was severely disappointed by the seventh book, but a fan nonetheless!
I don't watch much TV on the whole, but I adore House, and have recently become addicted to Dexter. I enjoyed Lost up until the end of season two; the latest season was somewhat lackluster. The writers are clearly not well-acquainted with the concept of plot continuity.
I like coffee, music, good food, earrings, my two-year-old PowerBook G4, proper English grammar, and foreign languages. I dislike hot weather, close-mindedness, and having lots of spare change.
hi
i'm sarah. i'm probably most recognizable by the jangly bracelets and the curly blonde hair with its own zipcode.
i have a radio show on WMUA on saturday nights from 11pm - 1am, which nobody listens to, because a. about twelve people listen to college radio to begin with, and b. eleven of them have better things to do on saturday nights. so if you're ever sick or nursing a broken leg or under house arrest on a saturday night...you know.
i just finished reading U.S.! by chris bachelder, and now i'm reading misfortune by wesley stace. i recommend both.
currently, i'm pissed because i can't get tv-links (http://www.tv-links.co.uk) to work. i don't have a tv, because 9 times out of 10, i hate watching tv. this is really inconvenient for that one time where all i want to do is watch tv. which is now. so if anybody else does have a tv, i suggest you spring for the fancy channels, because showtime has this new show called "californication" which seems totally promising. david duchovny is this surly, womanizing guy with writer's block, and if the pilot is any indication, it's completely awesome.
uh. that's it, i guess. see you in class!
i have a radio show on WMUA on saturday nights from 11pm - 1am, which nobody listens to, because a. about twelve people listen to college radio to begin with, and b. eleven of them have better things to do on saturday nights. so if you're ever sick or nursing a broken leg or under house arrest on a saturday night...you know.
i just finished reading U.S.! by chris bachelder, and now i'm reading misfortune by wesley stace. i recommend both.
currently, i'm pissed because i can't get tv-links (http://www.tv-links.co.uk) to work. i don't have a tv, because 9 times out of 10, i hate watching tv. this is really inconvenient for that one time where all i want to do is watch tv. which is now. so if anybody else does have a tv, i suggest you spring for the fancy channels, because showtime has this new show called "californication" which seems totally promising. david duchovny is this surly, womanizing guy with writer's block, and if the pilot is any indication, it's completely awesome.
uh. that's it, i guess. see you in class!
What up?
to follow suit with Dave, I'm digitally introducing myself as well. I'm Nellie, the sort-of-redhead goth chick with the lip-ring. I'm pretty cool, I guess.
So, some stuff about me...I'm a pretty gigantic nerd. Like, I know most people say "oh, I'm such a nerd", but no, I mean it. I play video games, I costume, I LARP, I watch artsy movies, I make witty (I hope) literature references in everyday conversation. Maybe they're not witty, but I still make them. I also listen to a crazy wide array of music. Like, right now, I'm listening to Ray Charles, before that, Pentaphobe, sort of industrial tribal bellydancing music.
Right now, I'm reading Alan Moore and Dave Lloyd's V for Vendetta and Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five.
Also, favourite painting ever...It's called Le Trahison des Images (The Treachery of Images) by Rene Magritte, a Belgian surrealist. I plan on getting another one of his paintings done as my second tattoo once I get money.
So, some stuff about me...I'm a pretty gigantic nerd. Like, I know most people say "oh, I'm such a nerd", but no, I mean it. I play video games, I costume, I LARP, I watch artsy movies, I make witty (I hope) literature references in everyday conversation. Maybe they're not witty, but I still make them. I also listen to a crazy wide array of music. Like, right now, I'm listening to Ray Charles, before that, Pentaphobe, sort of industrial tribal bellydancing music.
Right now, I'm reading Alan Moore and Dave Lloyd's V for Vendetta and Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five.Also, favourite painting ever...It's called Le Trahison des Images (The Treachery of Images) by Rene Magritte, a Belgian surrealist. I plan on getting another one of his paintings done as my second tattoo once I get money.
Introduction
Hello all. Dave (the tall bearded tendinitis guy) here. Just digitally introducing myself.
EDIT: A little more about me. I'm a vegetarian. I'm from around here, but my heart is back in New York City, where I lived and worked as a professional software developer. I got tendinitis lifting radiators.
I invite you to my Facebook (just got it a few days ago so nothing interesting yet)
What used to be a very inspirational writing blog for me - Hitherby Dragons and its main page
Free office software to write in roughly equivalent of microsoft office but FREE - OpenOffice
Right now I'm reading "House of Leaves" by Mark Z. Danielewski and recommending "The Iron Dragon's Daughter" by Michael Swanwick.
Finally, a lot of people don't know this, but you can usually write your favorite authors. You should use your own judgment, but I've done it a few times, and gotten nothing but good responses.
EDIT: A little more about me. I'm a vegetarian. I'm from around here, but my heart is back in New York City, where I lived and worked as a professional software developer. I got tendinitis lifting radiators.
I invite you to my Facebook (just got it a few days ago so nothing interesting yet)
What used to be a very inspirational writing blog for me - Hitherby Dragons and its main page
Free office software to write in roughly equivalent of microsoft office but FREE - OpenOffice
Right now I'm reading "House of Leaves" by Mark Z. Danielewski and recommending "The Iron Dragon's Daughter" by Michael Swanwick.
Finally, a lot of people don't know this, but you can usually write your favorite authors. You should use your own judgment, but I've done it a few times, and gotten nothing but good responses.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
welcome writers!
Jamie's Fall 2007 creative writing class, his is our blog. Write something. Or don't. For instance, about "Sea Oak" or anything else we've talked about, or anything that's on your mind going into a workshop. Or anything you struggle with or take great joy in about writing. Or about Brittney's comeback performance or how you're a secret Yankees fan. A secret Brittney fan. Anything, really. Show us a picture. Don't be shy. Or do. It's up to you. This piece, above, about the inert bodies, is a piece of art by Jenny Holzer. She makes visual art out of words. Her work is in all the big museums. Is it art? Literature? Neither? Both? Is she being sincere? Ironic? Both? These are not questions you have to answer. You don't have to do anything, it's your blog. Welcome.
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