I Can't Read
Wednesday, March 25. 2009
No, I can't read. Not the way I used to, anyway.
Harry Turtledove has long been one of my favorite authors. I've always enjoyed his writing and his stories. But I cracked open a new Turtledove novel last night, and I couldn't make it through the first chapter without wanting to "fix" things.
There was flat dialogue. There was exposition of the "as you know, John" variety. There was repetitive word use. In short, there were several aspects of the writing which I identified as technical flaws, as elements I try to avoid in my own writing. I'm afraid I wasn't able to finish the chapter; I set the book aside with the intent to try again later.
Now, this experience—which is by no means unique to this one book—has several possible implications.- Perhaps I'm holding myself to too high a standard in my own writing. If so, good. I'd rather be too rigorous than be a slacker.
- Perhaps it's easier to get published than I'd been telling myself. Technically, I can write at least as well as some of my favorite successful authors. If I'm any good at storytelling, I ought to have a decent shot at selling a novel.
- I may have destroyed my ability to disengage the writing part of my brain and simply enjoy reading a good story.
It's the last point that concerns me, not only because successful authors must be avid readers, but also because I simply enjoy reading. I'd hate to think that my primary ambition—writing well—is incompatible with one of my dearest hobbies.
I'll be on a cruise ship next week, and while I'll of course have my netbook along to do some writing on my current novel, I'll also have to pick a book to bring for lounging on deck. I'd hoped Harry would provide some nice "summer-ish" reading material, and perhaps he still will, once my attitude has been suitably adjusted in preparation for cruising. Still, I'll audition another hopeful tonight and see if it's something I can read with a less critical eye. Hmm, Stephen King's The Stand (unabridged) is in my "to read" pile...oh, don't get me started...
No, I can't read. Not the way I used to, anyway.
Harry Turtledove has long been one of my favorite authors. I've always enjoyed his writing and his stories. But I cracked open a new Turtledove novel last night, and I couldn't make it through the first chapter without wanting to "fix" things.
There was flat dialogue. There was exposition of the "as you know, John" variety. There was repetitive word use. In short, there were several aspects of the writing which I identified as technical flaws, as elements I try to avoid in my own writing. I'm afraid I wasn't able to finish the chapter; I set the book aside with the intent to try again later.
Now, this experience—which is by no means unique to this one book—has several possible implications.
I'll be on a cruise ship next week, and while I'll of course have my netbook along to do some writing on my current novel, I'll also have to pick a book to bring for lounging on deck. I'd hoped Harry would provide some nice "summer-ish" reading material, and perhaps he still will, once my attitude has been suitably adjusted in preparation for cruising. Still, I'll audition another hopeful tonight and see if it's something I can read with a less critical eye. Hmm, Stephen King's The Stand (unabridged) is in my "to read" pile...oh, don't get me started...
Harry Turtledove has long been one of my favorite authors. I've always enjoyed his writing and his stories. But I cracked open a new Turtledove novel last night, and I couldn't make it through the first chapter without wanting to "fix" things.
There was flat dialogue. There was exposition of the "as you know, John" variety. There was repetitive word use. In short, there were several aspects of the writing which I identified as technical flaws, as elements I try to avoid in my own writing. I'm afraid I wasn't able to finish the chapter; I set the book aside with the intent to try again later.
Now, this experience—which is by no means unique to this one book—has several possible implications.
- Perhaps I'm holding myself to too high a standard in my own writing. If so, good. I'd rather be too rigorous than be a slacker.
- Perhaps it's easier to get published than I'd been telling myself. Technically, I can write at least as well as some of my favorite successful authors. If I'm any good at storytelling, I ought to have a decent shot at selling a novel.
- I may have destroyed my ability to disengage the writing part of my brain and simply enjoy reading a good story.
I'll be on a cruise ship next week, and while I'll of course have my netbook along to do some writing on my current novel, I'll also have to pick a book to bring for lounging on deck. I'd hoped Harry would provide some nice "summer-ish" reading material, and perhaps he still will, once my attitude has been suitably adjusted in preparation for cruising. Still, I'll audition another hopeful tonight and see if it's something I can read with a less critical eye. Hmm, Stephen King's The Stand (unabridged) is in my "to read" pile...oh, don't get me started...
If It's Not on a Dead Tree, Does It Count?
Monday, March 23. 2009
Adrian Dayton, via Twitter this morning: "Lol, just talked to a publisher- both his distributors have gone out of business. He told me point blank to skip traditional publishing."
Yeah, I've been seeing this particular train coming for quite some time. I've felt for the past year or so that I'm racing against the clock to finish my novel before the publishing industry goes completely belly-up. Why? Because I have this odd compulsion to see my words inked onto dead trees.
Honestly, the problem is this: The publishing industry is still clinging to print, and hasn't made the leap to digital. And I don't know that they'll be able to do that anytime soon. For print novels, there are established ways to measure success: specifically, sales (whence come royalties) and rankings (like the New York Times Bestseller List). I don't believe there are universally accepted analogues to these measures for digital publishing.
I could be wrong, having never signed a book contract before. I'm sure there's language in every contract nowadays to cover electronic rights. But I'm equally sure they're an afterthought, and the main focus of the contract is still on print media.
When we get to the point that there are digital-only publishing houses, and non-print works can appear on the NYTBL, then I think print will truly be dead for the novelist. I'd embrace that change, actually. I'd much rather buy my books over the 'Net, and take advantage of local print-on-demand services for when I need to take a book to the beach with me. But a lot of things have to change before that can occur.
For example, Barnes and Noble would have to go out of business...or at least, seriously alter their business model.
The biggest problem, though, is the fact that anyone can publish her work digitally today at almost no cost. In the absence of print novels, we could quickly see a glut of "inventory" out there on the Internet, with no way to tell what's worth spending one's time on. It's the information issue all over again.
The solution would be for the major publishing houses to make the switch to digital, keeping their imprints, logos, and popular trust. So then it would mean something for my novel to be accepted, edited, and published by, say, Tor Digital. Assuming there is some Verisign-like way to ensure that I'm not just claiming an imprint I don't have.
I'm sure all this will happen; it almost has to. I just hope it waits until after my first novel is published, or happens well before. I don't want to get caught in the middle of a paradigm shift—that's never a painless experience.
Adrian Dayton, via Twitter this morning: "Lol, just talked to a publisher- both his distributors have gone out of business. He told me point blank to skip traditional publishing."
Yeah, I've been seeing this particular train coming for quite some time. I've felt for the past year or so that I'm racing against the clock to finish my novel before the publishing industry goes completely belly-up. Why? Because I have this odd compulsion to see my words inked onto dead trees.
Honestly, the problem is this: The publishing industry is still clinging to print, and hasn't made the leap to digital. And I don't know that they'll be able to do that anytime soon. For print novels, there are established ways to measure success: specifically, sales (whence come royalties) and rankings (like the New York Times Bestseller List). I don't believe there are universally accepted analogues to these measures for digital publishing.
I could be wrong, having never signed a book contract before. I'm sure there's language in every contract nowadays to cover electronic rights. But I'm equally sure they're an afterthought, and the main focus of the contract is still on print media.
When we get to the point that there are digital-only publishing houses, and non-print works can appear on the NYTBL, then I think print will truly be dead for the novelist. I'd embrace that change, actually. I'd much rather buy my books over the 'Net, and take advantage of local print-on-demand services for when I need to take a book to the beach with me. But a lot of things have to change before that can occur.
For example, Barnes and Noble would have to go out of business...or at least, seriously alter their business model.
The biggest problem, though, is the fact that anyone can publish her work digitally today at almost no cost. In the absence of print novels, we could quickly see a glut of "inventory" out there on the Internet, with no way to tell what's worth spending one's time on. It's the information issue all over again.
The solution would be for the major publishing houses to make the switch to digital, keeping their imprints, logos, and popular trust. So then it would mean something for my novel to be accepted, edited, and published by, say, Tor Digital. Assuming there is some Verisign-like way to ensure that I'm not just claiming an imprint I don't have.
I'm sure all this will happen; it almost has to. I just hope it waits until after my first novel is published, or happens well before. I don't want to get caught in the middle of a paradigm shift—that's never a painless experience.
Yeah, I've been seeing this particular train coming for quite some time. I've felt for the past year or so that I'm racing against the clock to finish my novel before the publishing industry goes completely belly-up. Why? Because I have this odd compulsion to see my words inked onto dead trees.
Honestly, the problem is this: The publishing industry is still clinging to print, and hasn't made the leap to digital. And I don't know that they'll be able to do that anytime soon. For print novels, there are established ways to measure success: specifically, sales (whence come royalties) and rankings (like the New York Times Bestseller List). I don't believe there are universally accepted analogues to these measures for digital publishing.
I could be wrong, having never signed a book contract before. I'm sure there's language in every contract nowadays to cover electronic rights. But I'm equally sure they're an afterthought, and the main focus of the contract is still on print media.
When we get to the point that there are digital-only publishing houses, and non-print works can appear on the NYTBL, then I think print will truly be dead for the novelist. I'd embrace that change, actually. I'd much rather buy my books over the 'Net, and take advantage of local print-on-demand services for when I need to take a book to the beach with me. But a lot of things have to change before that can occur.
For example, Barnes and Noble would have to go out of business...or at least, seriously alter their business model.
The biggest problem, though, is the fact that anyone can publish her work digitally today at almost no cost. In the absence of print novels, we could quickly see a glut of "inventory" out there on the Internet, with no way to tell what's worth spending one's time on. It's the information issue all over again.
The solution would be for the major publishing houses to make the switch to digital, keeping their imprints, logos, and popular trust. So then it would mean something for my novel to be accepted, edited, and published by, say, Tor Digital. Assuming there is some Verisign-like way to ensure that I'm not just claiming an imprint I don't have.
I'm sure all this will happen; it almost has to. I just hope it waits until after my first novel is published, or happens well before. I don't want to get caught in the middle of a paradigm shift—that's never a painless experience.
An Ill Duck
Wednesday, March 18. 2009
The new practice chanter's here! The new practice chanter's here!
I mentioned on Twitter the other day that I ordered a practice chanter, the first step in learning to play the Great Highland Bagpipe (GHB). It's reported that neophytes generally spend a year or more with the practice chanter before ever attempting to play the "real thing." I got my instrument and the first three volumes of John Cairns' bagpipe method, which supposedly will take me all the way through to actual GHB playing, with or without a live tutor. In a year or so. Of fifteen minutes' practice per day.
I expect my family is going to harbor an intense dislike for Mr. John Cairns. Or, more likely, me.
Of course, I put the practice chanter—really an instrument in its own right, a sort of double-reed woodwind—together right away, after reading the "IMPORTANT! READ FIRST!" bit in the package I received from Mr. Oliver Seeler of Universe of Bagpipes. I read it twice, to be sure. Because it's IMPORTANT.
So apparently assembling the thing is very much akin to that scene in The Spy Who Loved Me when Bond had to c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y remove the detonator from a nuclear weapon, pulling it straight out. Otherwise he would break the reed, er, cause the nuclear weapon to "go off."
Also, using incorrect embouchure and / or blowing too wimpily into the chanter gets you what Mr. Seeler calls the sound of an "ill duck." I concur, and don't plan to do that again.
When played with a bit more gusto but just as much inexperience, the practice chanter sounds like this. Not quite Whiskey in the Jar yet, but give me a year or two.
I'll be posting some more audio clips from time to time of my progress, I'm afraid. You don't have to listen, of course. But I predict there will be a significant amount of rubbernecking. You know, like when you pass a 20-car pileup on the highway.
The new practice chanter's here! The new practice chanter's here!
I mentioned on Twitter the other day that I ordered a practice chanter, the first step in learning to play the Great Highland Bagpipe (GHB). It's reported that neophytes generally spend a year or more with the practice chanter before ever attempting to play the "real thing." I got my instrument and the first three volumes of John Cairns' bagpipe method, which supposedly will take me all the way through to actual GHB playing, with or without a live tutor. In a year or so. Of fifteen minutes' practice per day.
I expect my family is going to harbor an intense dislike for Mr. John Cairns. Or, more likely, me.
Of course, I put the practice chanter—really an instrument in its own right, a sort of double-reed woodwind—together right away, after reading the "IMPORTANT! READ FIRST!" bit in the package I received from Mr. Oliver Seeler of Universe of Bagpipes. I read it twice, to be sure. Because it's IMPORTANT.
So apparently assembling the thing is very much akin to that scene in The Spy Who Loved Me when Bond had to c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y remove the detonator from a nuclear weapon, pulling it straight out. Otherwise he would break the reed, er, cause the nuclear weapon to "go off."
Also, using incorrect embouchure and / or blowing too wimpily into the chanter gets you what Mr. Seeler calls the sound of an "ill duck." I concur, and don't plan to do that again.
When played with a bit more gusto but just as much inexperience, the practice chanter sounds like this. Not quite Whiskey in the Jar yet, but give me a year or two.
I'll be posting some more audio clips from time to time of my progress, I'm afraid. You don't have to listen, of course. But I predict there will be a significant amount of rubbernecking. You know, like when you pass a 20-car pileup on the highway.
I mentioned on Twitter the other day that I ordered a practice chanter, the first step in learning to play the Great Highland Bagpipe (GHB). It's reported that neophytes generally spend a year or more with the practice chanter before ever attempting to play the "real thing." I got my instrument and the first three volumes of John Cairns' bagpipe method, which supposedly will take me all the way through to actual GHB playing, with or without a live tutor. In a year or so. Of fifteen minutes' practice per day.
I expect my family is going to harbor an intense dislike for Mr. John Cairns. Or, more likely, me.
Of course, I put the practice chanter—really an instrument in its own right, a sort of double-reed woodwind—together right away, after reading the "IMPORTANT! READ FIRST!" bit in the package I received from Mr. Oliver Seeler of Universe of Bagpipes. I read it twice, to be sure. Because it's IMPORTANT.
So apparently assembling the thing is very much akin to that scene in The Spy Who Loved Me when Bond had to c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y remove the detonator from a nuclear weapon, pulling it straight out. Otherwise he would break the reed, er, cause the nuclear weapon to "go off."
Also, using incorrect embouchure and / or blowing too wimpily into the chanter gets you what Mr. Seeler calls the sound of an "ill duck." I concur, and don't plan to do that again.
When played with a bit more gusto but just as much inexperience, the practice chanter sounds like this. Not quite Whiskey in the Jar yet, but give me a year or two.
I'll be posting some more audio clips from time to time of my progress, I'm afraid. You don't have to listen, of course. But I predict there will be a significant amount of rubbernecking. You know, like when you pass a 20-car pileup on the highway.
Will Facebook Bring About Armageddon?
Monday, March 16. 2009
I commented on a post on a buddy's blog recently that I'll never sign up for Facebook because it could lead to the end of civilization. I base this position on an exchange that appears in Bring Me to Life.
Evan said, "How do you people manage without the Internet?"
"The what?" Kirin asked distractedly.
"The Internet. Huge network of all the computers in the world. Sum of all human knowledge. Well, all knowledge on Earth, anyway."
"Oh," Kirin said. "You mean the social network."
"Well, that's part of it, yeah," Evan allowed. "But it's not the most important part."
"Whether you consider it important or not," Kirin said, "it's the most critical component of the sort of super-network you're describing."
"Okay, whatever. How do you access it?"
"You don't," Kirin said. "We don't have such a construct. Our civilization has successfully dodged that particular catastrophic bullet."
"I don't understand."
"I believe," Kirin went on, "it's what caused the disappearance of the Slow Ones. Though it can't be proven, of course."
"Social networking?"
Kirin shrugged. Evan was tired of lines of questioning that led him down paths he couldn't get back out of, so he elected to change the subject.
That's a bit tongue-in-cheek, of course. I like to insert little "edge of the idea" scenes like the above into my SF novels, because I think they make the setting richer, keep the reader's interest, and might sometimes succeed in getting people to think. The books I've most loved reading have been the ones I find myself turning over in my mind the next day.
But seriously, all the time people are spending now "connecting" with other people has to take time away from some other activity. Are people sleeping less? Is the Gross Domestic Product dropping? Are people having fewer babies? Something has to give; as I've lamented in the past, time can't be created, it can only be rearranged. So perhaps it's not too farfetched to imagine that a society that becomes addicted to social networking is on the path to oblivion...
I commented on a post on a buddy's blog recently that I'll never sign up for Facebook because it could lead to the end of civilization. I base this position on an exchange that appears in Bring Me to Life.
That's a bit tongue-in-cheek, of course. I like to insert little "edge of the idea" scenes like the above into my SF novels, because I think they make the setting richer, keep the reader's interest, and might sometimes succeed in getting people to think. The books I've most loved reading have been the ones I find myself turning over in my mind the next day.
But seriously, all the time people are spending now "connecting" with other people has to take time away from some other activity. Are people sleeping less? Is the Gross Domestic Product dropping? Are people having fewer babies? Something has to give; as I've lamented in the past, time can't be created, it can only be rearranged. So perhaps it's not too farfetched to imagine that a society that becomes addicted to social networking is on the path to oblivion...
Evan said, "How do you people manage without the Internet?" "The what?" Kirin asked distractedly. "The Internet. Huge network of all the computers in the world. Sum of all human knowledge. Well, all knowledge on Earth, anyway." "Oh," Kirin said. "You mean the social network." "Well, that's part of it, yeah," Evan allowed. "But it's not the most important part." "Whether you consider it important or not," Kirin said, "it's the most critical component of the sort of super-network you're describing." "Okay, whatever. How do you access it?" "You don't," Kirin said. "We don't have such a construct. Our civilization has successfully dodged that particular catastrophic bullet." "I don't understand." "I believe," Kirin went on, "it's what caused the disappearance of the Slow Ones. Though it can't be proven, of course." "Social networking?" Kirin shrugged. Evan was tired of lines of questioning that led him down paths he couldn't get back out of, so he elected to change the subject. |
That's a bit tongue-in-cheek, of course. I like to insert little "edge of the idea" scenes like the above into my SF novels, because I think they make the setting richer, keep the reader's interest, and might sometimes succeed in getting people to think. The books I've most loved reading have been the ones I find myself turning over in my mind the next day.
But seriously, all the time people are spending now "connecting" with other people has to take time away from some other activity. Are people sleeping less? Is the Gross Domestic Product dropping? Are people having fewer babies? Something has to give; as I've lamented in the past, time can't be created, it can only be rearranged. So perhaps it's not too farfetched to imagine that a society that becomes addicted to social networking is on the path to oblivion...
Too Many Bags Out There
Sunday, March 15. 2009
I suppose I'm not giving anything away by stating that a pivotal character in the novel I'm writing is a bagpiper, since the "soundtrack" includes at least one air on the Highland pipes. I've long been enchanted by the unique sound of this instrument, and its ability to convey such a wide variety of emotions with a relatively limited musical palate (a lack of dynamic range, few actual notes, and a forced legato sound). Two of my all-time favorite musical experiences have been listening to Off Kilter at the Canada pavilion at Epcot, and standing eyes closed in the midst of a band of 16 pipers at a local Burns night. Couple that with my appreciation for fine Scotch and my ability to "stomach" haggis, and it seems I should have been a Scotsman.
For the record, Scotch whisky figures in Bring Me to Life in a minor role, but there is currently no appearance by a haggis.
Anyway, given my admiration for the bagpipes, it struck me recently that it would be fun to try learning to play them. I knew real pipes are quite expensive ($1000+ for a decent set), but one must spend some time (perhaps up to a year) learning on a relatively cheap practice chanter before ever picking up the real weapon. Off to eBay, then. And into a mire of confusion.
Following link after link after link from sellers, buyers, "disinterested" third parties, "unaffiliated" websites, fora, wikis...has that year of initial instruction passed yet? There is too much information available on the web regarding this topic, and as someone seeking expert advice on how to spend my hard-earned money, I'm overwhelmed.
I've complained about this phenomenon before—the Internet contains too much noise in relation to the actual signal (useful information) that's out there. And how can I determine what is actually worthwhile to read? Well, generally only by spending time reading it. Even then, how can I know whether what I've read is accurate? A decade ago, none of this information would have been out there, and I would have had to go buy a book to get some insights, or find an expert to talk to. Those would take money or more effort than click-click-clicking with the mouse, though, so here I sit, paralyzed by information glut.
The Internet needs an information referee. A co-worker and I have some ideas about how that could work, but we'd need to be Google to implement those ideas. Well, for now, it seems I should resist the temptation to try to learn about a new topic in any depth from my anonymous friends on the Internet, and go about research in the classical sense.
And at root, that's the solution: knowing that the Internet, though it may be the quickest solution, is often not the best solution. My generation has the ability to arrive at that conclusion. But will the next or the next?
I suppose I'm not giving anything away by stating that a pivotal character in the novel I'm writing is a bagpiper, since the "soundtrack" includes at least one air on the Highland pipes. I've long been enchanted by the unique sound of this instrument, and its ability to convey such a wide variety of emotions with a relatively limited musical palate (a lack of dynamic range, few actual notes, and a forced legato sound). Two of my all-time favorite musical experiences have been listening to Off Kilter at the Canada pavilion at Epcot, and standing eyes closed in the midst of a band of 16 pipers at a local Burns night. Couple that with my appreciation for fine Scotch and my ability to "stomach" haggis, and it seems I should have been a Scotsman.
For the record, Scotch whisky figures in Bring Me to Life in a minor role, but there is currently no appearance by a haggis.
Anyway, given my admiration for the bagpipes, it struck me recently that it would be fun to try learning to play them. I knew real pipes are quite expensive ($1000+ for a decent set), but one must spend some time (perhaps up to a year) learning on a relatively cheap practice chanter before ever picking up the real weapon. Off to eBay, then. And into a mire of confusion.
Following link after link after link from sellers, buyers, "disinterested" third parties, "unaffiliated" websites, fora, wikis...has that year of initial instruction passed yet? There is too much information available on the web regarding this topic, and as someone seeking expert advice on how to spend my hard-earned money, I'm overwhelmed.
I've complained about this phenomenon before—the Internet contains too much noise in relation to the actual signal (useful information) that's out there. And how can I determine what is actually worthwhile to read? Well, generally only by spending time reading it. Even then, how can I know whether what I've read is accurate? A decade ago, none of this information would have been out there, and I would have had to go buy a book to get some insights, or find an expert to talk to. Those would take money or more effort than click-click-clicking with the mouse, though, so here I sit, paralyzed by information glut.
The Internet needs an information referee. A co-worker and I have some ideas about how that could work, but we'd need to be Google to implement those ideas. Well, for now, it seems I should resist the temptation to try to learn about a new topic in any depth from my anonymous friends on the Internet, and go about research in the classical sense.
And at root, that's the solution: knowing that the Internet, though it may be the quickest solution, is often not the best solution. My generation has the ability to arrive at that conclusion. But will the next or the next?
For the record, Scotch whisky figures in Bring Me to Life in a minor role, but there is currently no appearance by a haggis.
Anyway, given my admiration for the bagpipes, it struck me recently that it would be fun to try learning to play them. I knew real pipes are quite expensive ($1000+ for a decent set), but one must spend some time (perhaps up to a year) learning on a relatively cheap practice chanter before ever picking up the real weapon. Off to eBay, then. And into a mire of confusion.
Following link after link after link from sellers, buyers, "disinterested" third parties, "unaffiliated" websites, fora, wikis...has that year of initial instruction passed yet? There is too much information available on the web regarding this topic, and as someone seeking expert advice on how to spend my hard-earned money, I'm overwhelmed.
I've complained about this phenomenon before—the Internet contains too much noise in relation to the actual signal (useful information) that's out there. And how can I determine what is actually worthwhile to read? Well, generally only by spending time reading it. Even then, how can I know whether what I've read is accurate? A decade ago, none of this information would have been out there, and I would have had to go buy a book to get some insights, or find an expert to talk to. Those would take money or more effort than click-click-clicking with the mouse, though, so here I sit, paralyzed by information glut.
The Internet needs an information referee. A co-worker and I have some ideas about how that could work, but we'd need to be Google to implement those ideas. Well, for now, it seems I should resist the temptation to try to learn about a new topic in any depth from my anonymous friends on the Internet, and go about research in the classical sense.
And at root, that's the solution: knowing that the Internet, though it may be the quickest solution, is often not the best solution. My generation has the ability to arrive at that conclusion. But will the next or the next?
« previous page
(Page 2 of 2, totaling 7 entries)