It was a good day. It was a bad day. It was a challenging day, with a lot of both sides of the good-bad spectrum happening at nearly the same time.
The best part of the day is that Jessa came safely home on a completely uneventful flight. Yay! Her cat can now quit doing figure eights around Heide's legs.
The good thing about challenging days is that they teach us stuff, and they spark our creative energies at the same time. I've come up with a great chapter in the Elf Queen, and I just took a short break in its writing to craft a few words over here. You'll forgive me, I hope, if I just finish those few words and bounce back, because I'm really on a tremendously exciting roll over yonder.
Fingers of flame!
- TOSK
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Write Drunk, Edit Sober
"Write drunk, edit sober." - Ernest Hemingway
Hey, first, before I get into the main discussion, let me call out yesterday. It was National Cheesecake Day! Woo hoo! How did I miss that, hmm? The only thing better than National Cheesecake Day would be a time warp in which we could have National Cheesecake Day and National Milk Chocolate Day at the same time.
So, back to drunk and sober.
Last night I wrote about my new discovery, which is actually more of a new acquiescence to reality. Hey, I realized, I've got too much going on to do any of it well. When I wrote one book, I wrote it quickly, and then got to where I didn't know what I was going to write in the next one sooner. With five books at a time, though, I don't have as much attention to creativity.
But hey! Some friends pointed out, and rightfully so, that it's actually possible--and quite beneficial, some times--to have multiple works going at a time. Stephen King (the other one) even mentioned that as a process for once you're done with a draft; you set it aside and go work on something else for a while, after which time you can come back to it with a clear head. A friend said that Brandon Sanderson is known for having one book in writing and two others in editing phases.
Yes, but that's editing.
I'm sure the friend who said that is experienced enough to know the difference, but I'll 'splain it for everybody else. Writing is like filming landscape from an airplane while you fly over it. Sometimes you speed up to get past the boring parts, while sometimes you slow down and really take some time to examine features. Sometimes you zoom down and fly close to interesting mountaintops or stream junctions, while other times you fly high over the plains that are just a repetitive bunch of repetition.
Some of us are pantsers, and to us every flight is a new discovery, every turn of the curvature is a new landscape. Some are outliners, and they've at least got stakes out in the major peaks and valleys to go by. Some are like Robert Jordan (may he rest in peace) and set the altimeter on "treetop level" for the entire flight, while others are like George R.R. Martin and label every person they fly by with the chapter they'll kill them in.
Then you're done, the film is a wrap, and you fly back to do the dastardly editing. For editing you're not creating any new footage; instead, you're speeding some up, slowing some down, and cutting some out. Sure, you might add something, but it's not nearly the amount of what you've been taping.
There. I've explained, and hopefully you've learned something, and I've gotten to imagine flying around. Everybody's happy.
But seriously, writing is at its core a purely creative effort, while editing is the antithesis of that--a destructive effort at its cruelest, and a refining effort at its nicest. It's a whole different activity. It takes a whole different side of the brain, according to the people who study which parts of the brain we use for what.
When you write, then, you do what you need to in order for your brain to be free and creative. For some, that's drinking. Others have other techniques, to be sure, but that's what Hemingway meant with his quote. Write drunk, so that your creativity can flow. Edit sober, though, so that you can clearly see the work as it is for polishing or cutting as needed.
Write drunk, edit sober, then.
- TOSK
Hey, first, before I get into the main discussion, let me call out yesterday. It was National Cheesecake Day! Woo hoo! How did I miss that, hmm? The only thing better than National Cheesecake Day would be a time warp in which we could have National Cheesecake Day and National Milk Chocolate Day at the same time.
So, back to drunk and sober.
Last night I wrote about my new discovery, which is actually more of a new acquiescence to reality. Hey, I realized, I've got too much going on to do any of it well. When I wrote one book, I wrote it quickly, and then got to where I didn't know what I was going to write in the next one sooner. With five books at a time, though, I don't have as much attention to creativity.
But hey! Some friends pointed out, and rightfully so, that it's actually possible--and quite beneficial, some times--to have multiple works going at a time. Stephen King (the other one) even mentioned that as a process for once you're done with a draft; you set it aside and go work on something else for a while, after which time you can come back to it with a clear head. A friend said that Brandon Sanderson is known for having one book in writing and two others in editing phases.
Yes, but that's editing.
I'm sure the friend who said that is experienced enough to know the difference, but I'll 'splain it for everybody else. Writing is like filming landscape from an airplane while you fly over it. Sometimes you speed up to get past the boring parts, while sometimes you slow down and really take some time to examine features. Sometimes you zoom down and fly close to interesting mountaintops or stream junctions, while other times you fly high over the plains that are just a repetitive bunch of repetition.
Some of us are pantsers, and to us every flight is a new discovery, every turn of the curvature is a new landscape. Some are outliners, and they've at least got stakes out in the major peaks and valleys to go by. Some are like Robert Jordan (may he rest in peace) and set the altimeter on "treetop level" for the entire flight, while others are like George R.R. Martin and label every person they fly by with the chapter they'll kill them in.
Then you're done, the film is a wrap, and you fly back to do the dastardly editing. For editing you're not creating any new footage; instead, you're speeding some up, slowing some down, and cutting some out. Sure, you might add something, but it's not nearly the amount of what you've been taping.
There. I've explained, and hopefully you've learned something, and I've gotten to imagine flying around. Everybody's happy.
But seriously, writing is at its core a purely creative effort, while editing is the antithesis of that--a destructive effort at its cruelest, and a refining effort at its nicest. It's a whole different activity. It takes a whole different side of the brain, according to the people who study which parts of the brain we use for what.
When you write, then, you do what you need to in order for your brain to be free and creative. For some, that's drinking. Others have other techniques, to be sure, but that's what Hemingway meant with his quote. Write drunk, so that your creativity can flow. Edit sober, though, so that you can clearly see the work as it is for polishing or cutting as needed.
Write drunk, edit sober, then.
- TOSK
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Too Many WIP
"I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering." - Robert Frost
"Writing became such a process of discovery that I couldn't wait to get to work in the morning. I wanted to know what I was going to say." - Sharon O'Brien
Writing is a learning process.
I'm pretty sure I can safely announce that from a position of authority, having written three novels, a novella, many short stories, and now, as of tonight, 510 blog posts. I've learned something--sometimes something little, sometimes something pretty big--with every one of them.
And what I've learned, on a broader scale, over the past few months is a lesson that I've heard before from already-famous authors who've earned their stripes dozens of times over. It's a lesson I've talked about in terms of building business. It's a pretty simple lesson, really.
Focus.
Yep, that's it. Focus. Simple, direct, focus. Simple. Direct.
For example, you can't build multiple businesses at the same time. I mean, technically you can, if you do significant time management twisting and really work insane hours and then settle for mediocre results. But you can't do it extraordinarily well, because that requires creative talent. Creative talent, meanwhile, requires a certain amount of quiet, "gel" time.
Applying this to writing efforts--one thing I've been bad about, now that my trilogy is done, is starting all manner of other efforts. It's not hard, really. It's as simple as opening another instance of Scrivener and starting in on the new idea.
One thinks--hell, I thought--that coming up with story ideas would be the toughest part of writing books. It's not. Right now I have several dozen ideas that I'm pretty sure I'll never get around to writing. Yay!
But aren't those ideas worth something? No, not really. An idea isn't patentable, nor is it copyrightable. It's just an idea. It's, to use a simple but drastic term, worthless, at least until it's implemented. For a patent, an idea must at least be drawn out with some degree of clarity and explained in a manner that gives its implementation purpose. True, in our mixed-up intellectual property system here in the U.S., you don't actually have to build a prototype of your idea to patent it, but you do at least have to create it on paper.
Same with stories. "I have an idea for a boy who goes to wizard school" is worth less than the time it took me to type it. J.K. Rowling implemented that idea, though, and did so exceptionally (and commercially) well, and made a gigabuck.
So no, ideas aren't worth anything.
That's why the ones that really appealed to me, I've begun implementing. I wrote a Nanowrimo project that will some day, after significant fleshing out, be the fourth novel in my trilo--er, my series. Since December 1st, I've been fleshing it out little by little. I wrote a sci fi novel about a math professor turned pilot, and I've been fleshing that out significantly since I finally figured out where I wanted the plot to go. I've gotten to the editing process of the story of the Al-Can journeys. Then there's the others.
Five--count 'em, five!--books in various stages of writing thus lay open on my desktop. That's in spite of suggestion by several famous authors that if you start one, you should finish one. But noooooo, I've been sure that I can do it better. Betterer, even.
I finally came to the conclusion this week that no, I really can't do it better. And here's why. It's not that I don't have time to write. It's not that I can't follow the story lines. It's not that I can't keep the characters' voices straight--at least, I think I'm succeeding at that; I won't know for sure until I read back through.
It's that I'm not spending the creative love on each one.
When I wrote Cataclysm, I used to write a little on it in the morning, then drive to work thinking about where the plot might go. I'd drive home thinking more about it and then write what I'd thought about. Then I'd go to bed and my subconscious would consider it more until I awoke to begin the cycle again.
That's how I wrote it in just over a month. That's also how I used to put in 8,000 word weekend days. By the time I got to the keyboard to type, I'd done my creative due diligence and knew where it was going. In fact, I usually had figured out further than I actually had time to write that day.
Problem when I'm working on five books? I don't really think of any one of them on the way to work. That's because I'm creatively distanced from each one by the other four. Then when I sit down to write at night, I often stare at the keyboard for a while, unsure of where to go with whichever story is on top of my pile of windows.
It's a bad spot to be in.
Thus, from henceforth, I'm closing every WIP except the Elf Queen. I'll finish that story and then move to the next one.
Start one, finish one, is what I'll do from here on out.
- TOSK
"Writing became such a process of discovery that I couldn't wait to get to work in the morning. I wanted to know what I was going to say." - Sharon O'Brien
Writing is a learning process.
I'm pretty sure I can safely announce that from a position of authority, having written three novels, a novella, many short stories, and now, as of tonight, 510 blog posts. I've learned something--sometimes something little, sometimes something pretty big--with every one of them.
And what I've learned, on a broader scale, over the past few months is a lesson that I've heard before from already-famous authors who've earned their stripes dozens of times over. It's a lesson I've talked about in terms of building business. It's a pretty simple lesson, really.
Focus.
Yep, that's it. Focus. Simple, direct, focus. Simple. Direct.
For example, you can't build multiple businesses at the same time. I mean, technically you can, if you do significant time management twisting and really work insane hours and then settle for mediocre results. But you can't do it extraordinarily well, because that requires creative talent. Creative talent, meanwhile, requires a certain amount of quiet, "gel" time.
Applying this to writing efforts--one thing I've been bad about, now that my trilogy is done, is starting all manner of other efforts. It's not hard, really. It's as simple as opening another instance of Scrivener and starting in on the new idea.
One thinks--hell, I thought--that coming up with story ideas would be the toughest part of writing books. It's not. Right now I have several dozen ideas that I'm pretty sure I'll never get around to writing. Yay!
But aren't those ideas worth something? No, not really. An idea isn't patentable, nor is it copyrightable. It's just an idea. It's, to use a simple but drastic term, worthless, at least until it's implemented. For a patent, an idea must at least be drawn out with some degree of clarity and explained in a manner that gives its implementation purpose. True, in our mixed-up intellectual property system here in the U.S., you don't actually have to build a prototype of your idea to patent it, but you do at least have to create it on paper.
Same with stories. "I have an idea for a boy who goes to wizard school" is worth less than the time it took me to type it. J.K. Rowling implemented that idea, though, and did so exceptionally (and commercially) well, and made a gigabuck.
So no, ideas aren't worth anything.
That's why the ones that really appealed to me, I've begun implementing. I wrote a Nanowrimo project that will some day, after significant fleshing out, be the fourth novel in my trilo--er, my series. Since December 1st, I've been fleshing it out little by little. I wrote a sci fi novel about a math professor turned pilot, and I've been fleshing that out significantly since I finally figured out where I wanted the plot to go. I've gotten to the editing process of the story of the Al-Can journeys. Then there's the others.
Five--count 'em, five!--books in various stages of writing thus lay open on my desktop. That's in spite of suggestion by several famous authors that if you start one, you should finish one. But noooooo, I've been sure that I can do it better. Betterer, even.
I finally came to the conclusion this week that no, I really can't do it better. And here's why. It's not that I don't have time to write. It's not that I can't follow the story lines. It's not that I can't keep the characters' voices straight--at least, I think I'm succeeding at that; I won't know for sure until I read back through.
It's that I'm not spending the creative love on each one.
When I wrote Cataclysm, I used to write a little on it in the morning, then drive to work thinking about where the plot might go. I'd drive home thinking more about it and then write what I'd thought about. Then I'd go to bed and my subconscious would consider it more until I awoke to begin the cycle again.
That's how I wrote it in just over a month. That's also how I used to put in 8,000 word weekend days. By the time I got to the keyboard to type, I'd done my creative due diligence and knew where it was going. In fact, I usually had figured out further than I actually had time to write that day.
Problem when I'm working on five books? I don't really think of any one of them on the way to work. That's because I'm creatively distanced from each one by the other four. Then when I sit down to write at night, I often stare at the keyboard for a while, unsure of where to go with whichever story is on top of my pile of windows.
It's a bad spot to be in.
Thus, from henceforth, I'm closing every WIP except the Elf Queen. I'll finish that story and then move to the next one.
Start one, finish one, is what I'll do from here on out.
- TOSK
Monday, July 29, 2013
When in Rome....
I know, I know: "When in Rome, do as the Romans do."
Having spent much of my lunch hour reading about the history of Rome, I'd bet that the saying doesn't apply to the early years A.D.
I'd lose that bet, of course, as the saying has been attributed to written letters between two Bishops of the Catholic church somewhere around 390 A.D. The two Bishops later became Saint Ambrose and Saint Augustine, two of the four great doctors of the Latin church. Must've been true, then, right?
Only problem: based on what I can tell, Rome during those days was a downright crazy place to be. If I'd been in Rome, I can't imagine myself doing that crazy stuff.
See, it all started (this blog post, not the Roman thing) when I went to find out what, if anything, happened of interest ever before on July 29th. After all, a similar search yesterday turned up the goody goodness of National Milk Chocolate Day!!!! Yummmm! That was so much fun it shouldn't have been legal, I tell you what.
So what did I find? Well, July 29th is International Tiger Day, for one thing. And hey, that's kinda cool, if you're a tiger. Especially so, I think, if you're an international tiger. For me? Meh. I like tigers well enough, I suppose, as long as they're not trying to eat me. I don't like tigers as much as I like chocolate, though, and that's a fact. Sorry, tigers.
July 29th is also National Thai Language Day, but only if you're in Thailand, because hey, a National Thai Language Day wouldn't make sense anywhere else. My knowledge of Thai Language ends just after the term "pad thai," though, so I can't do much with that. Sorry, I really got nothin'.
Today is also the birthday of Wil Wheaton, which is a treat to all of the Trekkies out there who care to follow the actors' birthdays. I'm a Trekkie, but--well, not that much. Happy Birthday, Wil Wheaton, and here's hoping you have many more years of conflict with Dr. Cooper.
But the first Event listed for July 29th was intriguing. Like I said, the later years of ancient Rome were cray-cray. I always sort of knew that, but we didn't really talk about that, just like we never really talked about Aunt--oh, um, never mind. No, seriously, at least as far as Rome is concerned. In World History class, there was a Persian Empire, and a Roman Empire, and then along came Jesus who founded the Catholic Church and had an Inquisition and then the empire sort of imploded to become a city surrounded by the Eurozone. And sometime back then the city burned while an emperor played the fiddle (I thought they only had violins back then?) but it must've been rebuilt because sure as crap, it's still standing.
At West Point they taught us more about Rome, at least as far as the military history went. We learned about the Roman legions that pretty much kicked everybody else's tuckas. Except, of course, for the Persians, and sometimes the Germanic tribes, but at least they were good at kicking the English island inhabitants' buttocks. We also learned of a few key battles, but by the time the fall of Rome came about the military professors were getting tired of all that marching in squares stuff and introduced us to the knights on horseback and then the longbow. And then there was Napoleon. It--well, it all went by kinda fast.
The sad thing is that there's this whole rich history right there. I mean, like, right there in a single year's time in one town. Specifically, the Year of the Five Emperors. Really must've sucked to be in Rome, doing as Romans do, that year.
So the Events list for the year 238 A.D. (not the same Year I mentioned earlier--we'll get there) said that on July 29th, "The Praetorian Guard storm the palace and capture Pupienus and Balbinus. They are dragged through the streets of Rome and executed. On the same day, Gordian III, age 13, is proclaimed emperor."
Whoa. There's gotta be a story somewhere there. First of all, the first guy captured was named Pupienus. Say it out loud, I dare ya. Keep a straight face when you do it, I dare ya. Balbinus, the other guy, has a name that's nearly as funny to do that with, juvenile as it might be. Still, today I needed a chuckle, and I got one at the expense of some long-dead Roman emperors.
Hehe. Hehe. Poopy in us. Hehe.
So anyway, yes, the story. The story pretty much began with the assassination of Alexander Severus, the Roman Emperor named after the Harry Potter character.
Okay, fine, so it's more likely that the HP character was named after the Roman Emperor. Still, it's fun to think about it the other way.
Anyway, Severus's thirteen year reign over the Roman Empire was apparently the last peaceful time they had. By 235 a group of Roman soldiers were tired of peace and angry that Severus was securing that peace in part by paying enemies not to attack, so they took care of it in their own special way by turning on the emperor and killing him. Their leader, a guy who'd been promoted by the emperor himself, was a guy named Maximinus Thrax. Max was a darn good military commander, but he was also a mere barbarian in the eyes of the Roman Senate. He named himself Emperor, as so often happens in the annals of history, and went off to Africa to kill the guys, Gordian I and Gordian II, that the Senators wanted in the wreathed slot. When he succeeded at that, poof, he was Emperor.
No, that's not as funny of a story as one might expect of something that starts with poopy, but it gets better. Ole' Max realized he'd never actually been to Rome, though that was supposed to be his capitol, and so he turned his armies around from Africa and started that'a'way. The Senators really didn't want to see him, though, for the obvious reason, and so they elected Pupienus and Balbinus to save them from the nasty Maximinus.
Now we're starting to sound like an episode from the Transformers, aren't we?
So they beat him. Pupienus and Balbinus did, that is. And yay! everybody rejoiced, except of course for the guys who'd been following Maximinus. Well, them, and the Senators, who really didn't like the pair much better than they'd liked Max, and, well, pretty much the entire population of Rome, who apparently were pretty well fed up with the Better-than-Thou stock the poopy-twins came from. Oh, and there was a massive fire in Rome, too, which though nobody fiddled during it--at least according to recorded history--was still a serious downer to the people. Thus it was that the Praetorian Guard, generally the group that was charged with protecting the Emperor(s) back in those days, waltzed into the castle and killed them.
(well, they didn't actually waltz, since that dance wouldn't be invented for another 1300 years or so, but--well, you get my drift, right?)
Thus started the reign of Gordian III, the thirteen year old son of Gordian II, who if you'll recall was one of the two guys killed in Africa. He was popular, in part because he hadn't yet been old enough to piss anybody off, and thus he managed to keep his head (literally) for a whopping six years before dying in an undocumented manner, either in battle or, um, not, at the ripe old age of nineteen. That cleared his successor to be Emperor for five years before he, too, lost his head to someone who wanted the crown. And--well, the remaining verses are the same, just shorter.
Anyway, the two co-emperors, Pupienus and Balbinus, held the cherished seat for a whopping three months, which was, believe it or not, longer than some of their predecessors had.
Yes, there. Now I'm coming back to the Year of the Five Emperors.
It wasn't that I was curious who had the shortest reign, believe it or not, that drew me to that event. It was that the barbarian general who became Emperor, Maximinus, entered the service the first time under the reign of Alexander Severus, whose reign actually rode out the end of 193 A.D., the Year of the Five Emperors, and lasted for a whopping thirteen years after. But what about those who came before?
Pertinax started it.
Well, not really. The guy who actually got the fiasco going was--and I kid you not--named Commodus.
Now how's that Poopy-In-Us sounding, eh?
Anyway, Commodus--no, really! I can't make this good of a story up--had a twelve year reign as Emperor. In those, he became famous for devaluing the currency as well as for leaving the empire to be run by others while he did what Roman Emperors have since become famous for doing--you know, lewdness, debauchery, that kind of thing. People didn't like that mode of emperor-ship, so then he started taking a heavy-handed interest in how things were going, and people didn't like that any better.
No kidding: he had all the statues made over to look like him, and he even renamed all of their months after his twelve--count 'em!--names.
Finally, on the thirty-first day of December, 192, ole' Commodus got flushed. (sorry, couldn't resist another poopy joke). His lover poisoned his food (bummer, man) but when he threw that up--and he should've seen something else coming, you'd think--they sent his wrestling sparring partner in to strangle him in his bath.
Happy New Year! The New Years Resolutions, though, really sucked for Romans.
Now, after twelve years of somebody's megalomanic rule, who would you pick to succeed him? Of course, you'd want somebody who is respected and disciplined, right? And that's who they picked, in the form of Pertinax. (yeah, I could make another name joke here, but you're probably tired of 'em) Only problem is that when said disciplinarian turned his interest into enforcing discipline on you, you might not like him as much. And they didn't. In fact, when he tried to whip the ole' Praetorian Guard into shape, they up and killed him.
Bummer, again, right?
Bigger bummer, in fact: they decided, since they had the biggest swords in town, that the next Emperor would be of their choosing, and dang the Senate. They'd choose one, in fact, in a manner that would help them all--an auction. Not having eBay, they turned to a public auction in the arena.
And the guy who won it was outside, having been too late to the party to get a seat. Go figure--that's a heckuvan omen.
He won it by promising a huge amount of money for each member of the guard. Thus did Didius Julianus take the wreath of Roman Emperor, a post he held onto for all of nine weeks.
His first act? Devaluing the currency even further, something that really ticked off most of the Romans, and this launched a civil war. The Praetorian Guard had, by that point, become militarily competent at nothing except Emperor assassination, so they weren't much use against the people when the Senate said "hey, we didn't want Didius in the firstius place." When the Senate promised that most of the Guard would keep their heads, though, they dutifully did Didius in. And thus began the reign of Septimius Severus.
But...but...but...I'm sure you're wondering: who're the other two Emperors in the Year of the Five of 'em? I was. Turns out that one was Clodius Albinus, who was in Britain when Pertinax was killed. Clodius's men proclaimed him Emperor because they loved him. Then, once Didius was gone and Septimius was Senate-appointed Emperor, Clodius joined up with the new guy to fend off the claim of Dude #5, Pescinnius Niger. Niger fought a long and generally losing battle against Septimius and Clodius all the way out to the east as far as Antioch. He finally got caught and lost his head, leaving two Roman Emperors, Septemius and Clodius, face to face in a grudge match.
Of course, there can be only one. Granted, that hadn't always been the answer; in his early years Commodus had gone Number Two, after all. (you didn't think I could seriously go without the obvious potty humor, did you?) But Septimius didn't want to hear that, and so he turned around and attacked his new Caesar-rival.
Our story comes to a close with the Battle of Lugdunum, in what is now France. That battle, destined to determine which guy got to be the real emperor, apparently was huge, hosting nearly 150,000 troops on each side. As history shows, Septimius won, and Clodius Albinus lost his head, thus creating a trophy that was delivered to Rome to tell 'em who was now in charge.
And that's the Year of the Five Emperors.
- TOSK
Having spent much of my lunch hour reading about the history of Rome, I'd bet that the saying doesn't apply to the early years A.D.
I'd lose that bet, of course, as the saying has been attributed to written letters between two Bishops of the Catholic church somewhere around 390 A.D. The two Bishops later became Saint Ambrose and Saint Augustine, two of the four great doctors of the Latin church. Must've been true, then, right?
Only problem: based on what I can tell, Rome during those days was a downright crazy place to be. If I'd been in Rome, I can't imagine myself doing that crazy stuff.
See, it all started (this blog post, not the Roman thing) when I went to find out what, if anything, happened of interest ever before on July 29th. After all, a similar search yesterday turned up the goody goodness of National Milk Chocolate Day!!!! Yummmm! That was so much fun it shouldn't have been legal, I tell you what.
So what did I find? Well, July 29th is International Tiger Day, for one thing. And hey, that's kinda cool, if you're a tiger. Especially so, I think, if you're an international tiger. For me? Meh. I like tigers well enough, I suppose, as long as they're not trying to eat me. I don't like tigers as much as I like chocolate, though, and that's a fact. Sorry, tigers.
July 29th is also National Thai Language Day, but only if you're in Thailand, because hey, a National Thai Language Day wouldn't make sense anywhere else. My knowledge of Thai Language ends just after the term "pad thai," though, so I can't do much with that. Sorry, I really got nothin'.
Today is also the birthday of Wil Wheaton, which is a treat to all of the Trekkies out there who care to follow the actors' birthdays. I'm a Trekkie, but--well, not that much. Happy Birthday, Wil Wheaton, and here's hoping you have many more years of conflict with Dr. Cooper.
But the first Event listed for July 29th was intriguing. Like I said, the later years of ancient Rome were cray-cray. I always sort of knew that, but we didn't really talk about that, just like we never really talked about Aunt--oh, um, never mind. No, seriously, at least as far as Rome is concerned. In World History class, there was a Persian Empire, and a Roman Empire, and then along came Jesus who founded the Catholic Church and had an Inquisition and then the empire sort of imploded to become a city surrounded by the Eurozone. And sometime back then the city burned while an emperor played the fiddle (I thought they only had violins back then?) but it must've been rebuilt because sure as crap, it's still standing.
At West Point they taught us more about Rome, at least as far as the military history went. We learned about the Roman legions that pretty much kicked everybody else's tuckas. Except, of course, for the Persians, and sometimes the Germanic tribes, but at least they were good at kicking the English island inhabitants' buttocks. We also learned of a few key battles, but by the time the fall of Rome came about the military professors were getting tired of all that marching in squares stuff and introduced us to the knights on horseback and then the longbow. And then there was Napoleon. It--well, it all went by kinda fast.
The sad thing is that there's this whole rich history right there. I mean, like, right there in a single year's time in one town. Specifically, the Year of the Five Emperors. Really must've sucked to be in Rome, doing as Romans do, that year.
So the Events list for the year 238 A.D. (not the same Year I mentioned earlier--we'll get there) said that on July 29th, "The Praetorian Guard storm the palace and capture Pupienus and Balbinus. They are dragged through the streets of Rome and executed. On the same day, Gordian III, age 13, is proclaimed emperor."
Whoa. There's gotta be a story somewhere there. First of all, the first guy captured was named Pupienus. Say it out loud, I dare ya. Keep a straight face when you do it, I dare ya. Balbinus, the other guy, has a name that's nearly as funny to do that with, juvenile as it might be. Still, today I needed a chuckle, and I got one at the expense of some long-dead Roman emperors.
Hehe. Hehe. Poopy in us. Hehe.
So anyway, yes, the story. The story pretty much began with the assassination of Alexander Severus, the Roman Emperor named after the Harry Potter character.
Okay, fine, so it's more likely that the HP character was named after the Roman Emperor. Still, it's fun to think about it the other way.
Anyway, Severus's thirteen year reign over the Roman Empire was apparently the last peaceful time they had. By 235 a group of Roman soldiers were tired of peace and angry that Severus was securing that peace in part by paying enemies not to attack, so they took care of it in their own special way by turning on the emperor and killing him. Their leader, a guy who'd been promoted by the emperor himself, was a guy named Maximinus Thrax. Max was a darn good military commander, but he was also a mere barbarian in the eyes of the Roman Senate. He named himself Emperor, as so often happens in the annals of history, and went off to Africa to kill the guys, Gordian I and Gordian II, that the Senators wanted in the wreathed slot. When he succeeded at that, poof, he was Emperor.
No, that's not as funny of a story as one might expect of something that starts with poopy, but it gets better. Ole' Max realized he'd never actually been to Rome, though that was supposed to be his capitol, and so he turned his armies around from Africa and started that'a'way. The Senators really didn't want to see him, though, for the obvious reason, and so they elected Pupienus and Balbinus to save them from the nasty Maximinus.
Now we're starting to sound like an episode from the Transformers, aren't we?
So they beat him. Pupienus and Balbinus did, that is. And yay! everybody rejoiced, except of course for the guys who'd been following Maximinus. Well, them, and the Senators, who really didn't like the pair much better than they'd liked Max, and, well, pretty much the entire population of Rome, who apparently were pretty well fed up with the Better-than-Thou stock the poopy-twins came from. Oh, and there was a massive fire in Rome, too, which though nobody fiddled during it--at least according to recorded history--was still a serious downer to the people. Thus it was that the Praetorian Guard, generally the group that was charged with protecting the Emperor(s) back in those days, waltzed into the castle and killed them.
(well, they didn't actually waltz, since that dance wouldn't be invented for another 1300 years or so, but--well, you get my drift, right?)
Thus started the reign of Gordian III, the thirteen year old son of Gordian II, who if you'll recall was one of the two guys killed in Africa. He was popular, in part because he hadn't yet been old enough to piss anybody off, and thus he managed to keep his head (literally) for a whopping six years before dying in an undocumented manner, either in battle or, um, not, at the ripe old age of nineteen. That cleared his successor to be Emperor for five years before he, too, lost his head to someone who wanted the crown. And--well, the remaining verses are the same, just shorter.
Anyway, the two co-emperors, Pupienus and Balbinus, held the cherished seat for a whopping three months, which was, believe it or not, longer than some of their predecessors had.
Yes, there. Now I'm coming back to the Year of the Five Emperors.
It wasn't that I was curious who had the shortest reign, believe it or not, that drew me to that event. It was that the barbarian general who became Emperor, Maximinus, entered the service the first time under the reign of Alexander Severus, whose reign actually rode out the end of 193 A.D., the Year of the Five Emperors, and lasted for a whopping thirteen years after. But what about those who came before?
Pertinax started it.
Well, not really. The guy who actually got the fiasco going was--and I kid you not--named Commodus.
Now how's that Poopy-In-Us sounding, eh?
Anyway, Commodus--no, really! I can't make this good of a story up--had a twelve year reign as Emperor. In those, he became famous for devaluing the currency as well as for leaving the empire to be run by others while he did what Roman Emperors have since become famous for doing--you know, lewdness, debauchery, that kind of thing. People didn't like that mode of emperor-ship, so then he started taking a heavy-handed interest in how things were going, and people didn't like that any better.
No kidding: he had all the statues made over to look like him, and he even renamed all of their months after his twelve--count 'em!--names.
Finally, on the thirty-first day of December, 192, ole' Commodus got flushed. (sorry, couldn't resist another poopy joke). His lover poisoned his food (bummer, man) but when he threw that up--and he should've seen something else coming, you'd think--they sent his wrestling sparring partner in to strangle him in his bath.
Happy New Year! The New Years Resolutions, though, really sucked for Romans.
Now, after twelve years of somebody's megalomanic rule, who would you pick to succeed him? Of course, you'd want somebody who is respected and disciplined, right? And that's who they picked, in the form of Pertinax. (yeah, I could make another name joke here, but you're probably tired of 'em) Only problem is that when said disciplinarian turned his interest into enforcing discipline on you, you might not like him as much. And they didn't. In fact, when he tried to whip the ole' Praetorian Guard into shape, they up and killed him.
Bummer, again, right?
Bigger bummer, in fact: they decided, since they had the biggest swords in town, that the next Emperor would be of their choosing, and dang the Senate. They'd choose one, in fact, in a manner that would help them all--an auction. Not having eBay, they turned to a public auction in the arena.
And the guy who won it was outside, having been too late to the party to get a seat. Go figure--that's a heckuvan omen.
He won it by promising a huge amount of money for each member of the guard. Thus did Didius Julianus take the wreath of Roman Emperor, a post he held onto for all of nine weeks.
His first act? Devaluing the currency even further, something that really ticked off most of the Romans, and this launched a civil war. The Praetorian Guard had, by that point, become militarily competent at nothing except Emperor assassination, so they weren't much use against the people when the Senate said "hey, we didn't want Didius in the firstius place." When the Senate promised that most of the Guard would keep their heads, though, they dutifully did Didius in. And thus began the reign of Septimius Severus.
But...but...but...I'm sure you're wondering: who're the other two Emperors in the Year of the Five of 'em? I was. Turns out that one was Clodius Albinus, who was in Britain when Pertinax was killed. Clodius's men proclaimed him Emperor because they loved him. Then, once Didius was gone and Septimius was Senate-appointed Emperor, Clodius joined up with the new guy to fend off the claim of Dude #5, Pescinnius Niger. Niger fought a long and generally losing battle against Septimius and Clodius all the way out to the east as far as Antioch. He finally got caught and lost his head, leaving two Roman Emperors, Septemius and Clodius, face to face in a grudge match.
Of course, there can be only one. Granted, that hadn't always been the answer; in his early years Commodus had gone Number Two, after all. (you didn't think I could seriously go without the obvious potty humor, did you?) But Septimius didn't want to hear that, and so he turned around and attacked his new Caesar-rival.
Our story comes to a close with the Battle of Lugdunum, in what is now France. That battle, destined to determine which guy got to be the real emperor, apparently was huge, hosting nearly 150,000 troops on each side. As history shows, Septimius won, and Clodius Albinus lost his head, thus creating a trophy that was delivered to Rome to tell 'em who was now in charge.
And that's the Year of the Five Emperors.
- TOSK
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Happy Milk Chocolate Day!
Some days I'm full of pithy talk on the topics of writing, success, authorpreneurship, and so on. Other days, I got nothin'. Those days I just want to write my fiction and get on with the word count.
Today is one of those days.
Still, I committed to writing a post a day for 2013, and though I've already blown it, I plan to at least see the year out. Thus, I searched briefly online for something special about today, July 28, and found:
Woo hoo! Celebrate briefly with me, will you? After all, without milk chocolate, we couldn't have Peanut Butter Cups; they'd just end up being peanut butter lumps. Instead of Butterfinger, we'd be stuck with peanut butter crisps. Instead of Milky Way, we'd have long lumps of nougat. And, um, so on.
So let's say it again--happy Milk Chocolate Day!
Now, I couldn't find anywhere on Wikipedia or elsewhere evidence that this is an actual official special day. To my (brief and quite ineffective) research, Congress has never taken up the topic of milk chocolate day at all.
That said, Food.com's National Milk Chocolate Day page is pretty certain the day exists, and if they say it is, then I'm good with it. Right? Make sense? Who would argue with Food.com, anyway?
Besides, it's chocolate. Every day could be chocolate day and I'd be perfectly happy to celebrate.
This holiday beats the tar out of other things I could write about, anyway. July 28th is also, according to my inexhaustible friends at Wikipedia.com, the day Peru celebrates its independence from Spain. I'm sure that's a great celebration to Peruvians, but it means little to us here in Tennessee and I'm sure it means even less good to the Spanish.
July 28th is also World Hepatitis Day, a day named to raise awareness of Hep B and Hep C and their global impact on our health and welfare. An important topic indeed, but--chocolate.
Oh, and July 28th is also the anniversary of the day that Andorra joined the United Nations. Yay! Now, I challenge you--go find Andorra on the map. Uh huh. Hint: it's not in Africa. (yes, that was my first guess)
Did somebody mention chocolate?
Happy National(ish) Milk Chocolate Day!!!!
- TOSK
(PS: images courtesy of the folks over at Microsoft.com's Office team)
Today is one of those days.
Still, I committed to writing a post a day for 2013, and though I've already blown it, I plan to at least see the year out. Thus, I searched briefly online for something special about today, July 28, and found:
Milk Chocolate Day!
So let's say it again--happy Milk Chocolate Day!
Now, I couldn't find anywhere on Wikipedia or elsewhere evidence that this is an actual official special day. To my (brief and quite ineffective) research, Congress has never taken up the topic of milk chocolate day at all.
That said, Food.com's National Milk Chocolate Day page is pretty certain the day exists, and if they say it is, then I'm good with it. Right? Make sense? Who would argue with Food.com, anyway?
Besides, it's chocolate. Every day could be chocolate day and I'd be perfectly happy to celebrate.
This holiday beats the tar out of other things I could write about, anyway. July 28th is also, according to my inexhaustible friends at Wikipedia.com, the day Peru celebrates its independence from Spain. I'm sure that's a great celebration to Peruvians, but it means little to us here in Tennessee and I'm sure it means even less good to the Spanish.
July 28th is also World Hepatitis Day, a day named to raise awareness of Hep B and Hep C and their global impact on our health and welfare. An important topic indeed, but--chocolate.
Oh, and July 28th is also the anniversary of the day that Andorra joined the United Nations. Yay! Now, I challenge you--go find Andorra on the map. Uh huh. Hint: it's not in Africa. (yes, that was my first guess)
Did somebody mention chocolate?
Happy National(ish) Milk Chocolate Day!!!!
- TOSK
(PS: images courtesy of the folks over at Microsoft.com's Office team)
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Absurdly Funny, verse Two
In my post a few days ago, Absurdly Funny (the first verse), I discussed how humor is so often so very much in the eye of the beholder. Truth was borne out, too, as Kevin Downey Jr. became one of the first quarter finalists voted off of America's Got Talent. Apparently I, Howard, and Howie all found it funny while so many of our fellow Americans didn't.
That's okay.
Those of you who're friends of my personal account on Facebook have no doubt seen me post all sorts of funnies and not-as-funnies there. Often they get my friends to chuckle, and that makes me happy. After all, I kind of like being the class clown, the guy who makes people laugh even (or especially) on a bad day, because I believe in the power of laughter to make life (and health and other concerns) suck much less.
Today I was walking through PetCo trying to figure out what cat food our daughter had bought for her cat the first time. It was tougher than it sounds, as we'd brought neither the empty bag nor the daughter. As we stood in the aisle, though, I heard someone over the loudspeaker ask for help back in reptiles.
"Must have a reptile issue," I said to myself, and then chortled softly over what else that sounded like.
Thanks to the smartness of my smart phone, t wasn't long before my Facebook feed had a new post saying:
Our PetCo got some lizards in that were sick. First time the kids there had to deal with a reptile dysfunction.
No, that wasn't what had really happened. Then again, I'm a fiction author, a fact that makes Facebook posts incredibly well suited for me, as so much of what exists in FB-space is fiction. Bottom line: if you read something on my Facebook feed, be it author or personal space, take it with a grain or two of salt (and, if you can, an entire margarita on the side).
The amusing part of that is that of all the crazy cat pictures, all the jokes, all the sappy "we love our military" posts (hey, I'm a veteran, myself, so those come naturally to me) posts I've made, there's one particular post that in just a few hours has taken the lead and is climbing the charts for the most-shared post I've written.
Yes, it was the penis joke.
Isn't that ironic? (see yesterday's post for the answer to that)
Have a great weekend!
- TOSK
That's okay.
Those of you who're friends of my personal account on Facebook have no doubt seen me post all sorts of funnies and not-as-funnies there. Often they get my friends to chuckle, and that makes me happy. After all, I kind of like being the class clown, the guy who makes people laugh even (or especially) on a bad day, because I believe in the power of laughter to make life (and health and other concerns) suck much less.
Today I was walking through PetCo trying to figure out what cat food our daughter had bought for her cat the first time. It was tougher than it sounds, as we'd brought neither the empty bag nor the daughter. As we stood in the aisle, though, I heard someone over the loudspeaker ask for help back in reptiles.
"Must have a reptile issue," I said to myself, and then chortled softly over what else that sounded like.
Thanks to the smartness of my smart phone, t wasn't long before my Facebook feed had a new post saying:
Our PetCo got some lizards in that were sick. First time the kids there had to deal with a reptile dysfunction.
No, that wasn't what had really happened. Then again, I'm a fiction author, a fact that makes Facebook posts incredibly well suited for me, as so much of what exists in FB-space is fiction. Bottom line: if you read something on my Facebook feed, be it author or personal space, take it with a grain or two of salt (and, if you can, an entire margarita on the side).
The amusing part of that is that of all the crazy cat pictures, all the jokes, all the sappy "we love our military" posts (hey, I'm a veteran, myself, so those come naturally to me) posts I've made, there's one particular post that in just a few hours has taken the lead and is climbing the charts for the most-shared post I've written.
Yes, it was the penis joke.
Isn't that ironic? (see yesterday's post for the answer to that)
Have a great weekend!
- TOSK
Friday, July 26, 2013
Characters Say The Darndest Things
So yesterday I pointed to the folly of Mr. Harvard and Mr. Economist saying silly stuff to each other.
If Harvard professors and columnists for The Economist can't get this whole logic thing right, what hope do our characters, most of whom never went to Ivy League schools, have?
I recall, way back when in the days before I joined The Dark Side (Administration, specifically), I had the opportunity to teach a College Composition class. Now, you're probably wondering what an old grumpy IT guy is doing teaching writing, and you'd be correct to do so, but hey, I had just enough credits in the subject to teach Freshmen how to compose a dang sentence. Besides, the class needed a teacher who wouldn't get himself fired like the guy I was replacing had. So--there I was.
One day I delivered a particularly juicy and enjoyable lecture (to me, anyway) about the mechanisms we use to spice up our linguistic exercises. Our discussion of metaphors went down the freeway of academic discussion, bumping and scratching but eventually getting there. Similarly, similes were like a walk in the park compared to the less interesting (to the students) discussions of parts of speech we'd been having.
For the scintillating discussion of irony, I employed one of my favorite devices, the anti-example. Specifically, I displayed to the class the lyrics of Alanis Morissette's song "Ironic." This song has managed to become, from what I'm led to believe, one of the most oft-used anti-examples nation-wide ever since its recording in 1995, thanks to the fact that "Ironic" isn't. Well, it is, but that's only because it isn't. Ironic, that is. Confused? In the literary world (and the dictionary), irony is saying one thing and meaning the opposite. In the anti-perfect anti-example, every situation in the song was unfortunate, and sometimes entirely coincidentally horrible, but it was all meant as it was stated and therefore none of it met the definition of ironic.
Thus, because the song is titled "Ironic," but it actually isn't, it kind of is. One has to wonder whether its writers (Morissette and songwriter/producer Glen Ballard) were: a) devilishly brilliant in creating a song that was the meta-antithesis of what it claimed to be; or b) foolishly ignorant of the meaning of the term as well as the location of their dictionary; or c) purposely writing a commercial song that would appeal to the mindless masses who remember their high school locker location more clearly than anything they learned in their English class back then.
Personally, I suspect it was option c.
Regardless, I explained all of this and then we had a decent discussion on the topic. Class being over, then, and me being a competent teacher, I assigned an activity that would assess their achievement of the learning objectives. Specifically, I asked them to find an example of something we'd discussed that day, somewhere in modern or classic literature or art, and to describe it in three to five paragraphs that would be due at the start of the next class. (oh, and please, for the love of God, make sure you write complete sentences and have your nouns and verbs agree, okay? Please?)
(Anyone who's ever taught a Freshman composition class is probably giggling right now over my simple parenthetical request. Once again, though, please see option c above.)
Ironically (or not--which is it?), the first paper on the stack that next week was a treatise on how Alanis Morissette's song "Ironic" is right chock-filled with irony. No, I'm not kidding. Once I was done beating my head on the desk, I critically read the paper and hit on a dilemma: other than the seriously, horribly, fundamentally flawed premise, the paper was perfect. It was, like, a work of art (*snerk*--sorry). I mean it--all them subject thangs agreed with all them verb thangs, and periods were where periods were needed while commas were used correctly as well.
*sigh*
How's that for irony?
So now we have Harvard economists who can't make a logical economic argument, and college composition students who can't avoid using what the professor held up as what it ain't as the example of what it is.
And you want your characters who grew up on a farm an entire half-day's horseback ride from the Medieval-quality village to think clearly and expound perfectly? Yeah, right.
So go ahead, write the plot that needs to be written because it's interesting to read. Let the characters think and say whatever they're most likely to think and say, regardless of whether you might think or say that.
- TOSK
If Harvard professors and columnists for The Economist can't get this whole logic thing right, what hope do our characters, most of whom never went to Ivy League schools, have?
I recall, way back when in the days before I joined The Dark Side (Administration, specifically), I had the opportunity to teach a College Composition class. Now, you're probably wondering what an old grumpy IT guy is doing teaching writing, and you'd be correct to do so, but hey, I had just enough credits in the subject to teach Freshmen how to compose a dang sentence. Besides, the class needed a teacher who wouldn't get himself fired like the guy I was replacing had. So--there I was.
One day I delivered a particularly juicy and enjoyable lecture (to me, anyway) about the mechanisms we use to spice up our linguistic exercises. Our discussion of metaphors went down the freeway of academic discussion, bumping and scratching but eventually getting there. Similarly, similes were like a walk in the park compared to the less interesting (to the students) discussions of parts of speech we'd been having.
For the scintillating discussion of irony, I employed one of my favorite devices, the anti-example. Specifically, I displayed to the class the lyrics of Alanis Morissette's song "Ironic." This song has managed to become, from what I'm led to believe, one of the most oft-used anti-examples nation-wide ever since its recording in 1995, thanks to the fact that "Ironic" isn't. Well, it is, but that's only because it isn't. Ironic, that is. Confused? In the literary world (and the dictionary), irony is saying one thing and meaning the opposite. In the anti-perfect anti-example, every situation in the song was unfortunate, and sometimes entirely coincidentally horrible, but it was all meant as it was stated and therefore none of it met the definition of ironic.
Thus, because the song is titled "Ironic," but it actually isn't, it kind of is. One has to wonder whether its writers (Morissette and songwriter/producer Glen Ballard) were: a) devilishly brilliant in creating a song that was the meta-antithesis of what it claimed to be; or b) foolishly ignorant of the meaning of the term as well as the location of their dictionary; or c) purposely writing a commercial song that would appeal to the mindless masses who remember their high school locker location more clearly than anything they learned in their English class back then.
Personally, I suspect it was option c.
Regardless, I explained all of this and then we had a decent discussion on the topic. Class being over, then, and me being a competent teacher, I assigned an activity that would assess their achievement of the learning objectives. Specifically, I asked them to find an example of something we'd discussed that day, somewhere in modern or classic literature or art, and to describe it in three to five paragraphs that would be due at the start of the next class. (oh, and please, for the love of God, make sure you write complete sentences and have your nouns and verbs agree, okay? Please?)
(Anyone who's ever taught a Freshman composition class is probably giggling right now over my simple parenthetical request. Once again, though, please see option c above.)
Ironically (or not--which is it?), the first paper on the stack that next week was a treatise on how Alanis Morissette's song "Ironic" is right chock-filled with irony. No, I'm not kidding. Once I was done beating my head on the desk, I critically read the paper and hit on a dilemma: other than the seriously, horribly, fundamentally flawed premise, the paper was perfect. It was, like, a work of art (*snerk*--sorry). I mean it--all them subject thangs agreed with all them verb thangs, and periods were where periods were needed while commas were used correctly as well.
*sigh*
How's that for irony?
So now we have Harvard economists who can't make a logical economic argument, and college composition students who can't avoid using what the professor held up as what it ain't as the example of what it is.
And you want your characters who grew up on a farm an entire half-day's horseback ride from the Medieval-quality village to think clearly and expound perfectly? Yeah, right.
So go ahead, write the plot that needs to be written because it's interesting to read. Let the characters think and say whatever they're most likely to think and say, regardless of whether you might think or say that.
- TOSK
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