Old Man's War by John Scalzi (48)
My criteria for a good book are simple. To quote the author, simple is not easy. The fact that I giggled and misted up in a span of two pages? That fits my criteria, and I know it wasn't easy.
I loved the book. It did all the things I hoped it would do--carried me along so well that I forgot the outside world and brought me through the holidays, as well as breaking my "finish half a book and stop" slump.
Well worth walking up both hills to get this sucker. (grin) Perhaps a more detailed analysis later, when I'm not all tuckered out from a hard few days of family visitation and driving and playing a lot of The Sims 2.
The Woman Who Rides Like a Man by Tamora Pierce (47) (re-read)
This book just didn't compare to the rest of the Lioness Quartet in my teen-aged mind, and upon re-reading it now, it really feels like a middle book in a lot of places. The next book has the actual adventures in it, the ones that Alanna wants to go on at the end of In the Hand of the Goddess. This book always seemed to be a lot of hanging around in tents.
That said, I think that some of the more important character development happens in this book, and I do find those scenes to be the most interesting parts. The painful fights with Jonathan--so necessary to Alanna's growth--are even more painful now that I've grown up. I like the shift towards George best of all--he was vague enough not to be scary when I was growing up, and now I'm pretty amazed at the subtlety with which Pierce portrays this crime boss, doing it in a way that doesn't horrify younger readers--but rather does older readers. Collection of ears, indeed.
Pulled an A- in my class. Too bad it counts for nothing whatsoever. Ah, the joys of non-degree candidate status.
I've felt nothing but relief at the thought of going home every night and not thinking I should study. The relief is doubled when I realize I don't have to go to class the next day. Totally the opposite of how I felt when I started taking the class, which was utter relief that I could get some intellectual stimulus into my day and not have to be at work the full 40 hours a week.
I should be content to be a working stiff for another few months, at the very least; hopefully the next time something like this overtakes me, I'll just bite the bullet and get an advanced degree. But that takes so much planning--money planning and the GRE, for starters. And I don't actually want to *do* anything with any degree I might acquire.
This is a helluva fix to be in, let me tell you. Yes, yes--suffering is wanting what you can't have and having what you don't want, but it's also not knowing what you want and possibly also wanting things that will bring you other things that you don't want.
In reality, the writing of stories and the research that goes into that *should* be enough to keep me intellectually stimulated; what I mostly feel is a lack of guidance in pursuing these things. I like going to lecture. I like prompts and prodding. I do not like to be lectured, prompted or prodded about *writing*, so the solution here is not "on-line workshop!"
Furthermore, the 3 hours a week that I was able to be away from my job and thinking about other things were extremely refreshing. And I have to think, if that's all it really takes to make me feel at peace with the world, I've got to find some way to implement this in real life. Some way to work a 90% appointment instead of a 100% appointment. Of course, if I weren't a wage slave--if I were an actual librarian--I would only have to work 37 hours a week. Likewise, if I worked practically anywhere else in the university, I would have half an hour knocked off my work day. What's with the library, anyway?
I suppose I could ask the boss about flex time--take half-hour lunches and leave three hours early on Wednesdays--very French--in theory to go write. But I wouldn't write. I'm a schmuck that way. I'd go sleep or run errands or something stupid--and even if I did write, it wouldn't be the right thing to do. I have enough time to write (by some definitions of "enough"); what I don't have is that break in the day at work where I throw things into high mental gear and get excited about something.
Oh, well.
I'll figure it out.
I read Whatever on a fairly regular basis. I don't remember how I found it, I certainly never got into any big name blogs other than Wil Wheaton's... I was definitely reading it occasionally before WorldCon, and I guess afterwards, I made it a regular thing. Ok, mystery solved.
Anyway, I was pretty psyched about his novel, Old Man's War. 'Cause, well. It's a great premise. And I love Starship Troopers. And people keep comparing it to that.
So, when I got a Borders giftcard by accident (it was indeed by accident: a big case of right place, right time), I decided that the perfect reward for being lucky enough to get an accidental giftcard was a copy of Old Man's War. It would also, I decided, be a good reward for studying for my exam, and a good motivator to actually read some more this year. After my exam on Friday, I headed out to Borders and braved the crowd--where I ran into Lou prowling the DVDs--and found nary a copy of the book.
Horrors! The author had reported several sightings of his book; how could Borders, in the heart of Bordersland (even though not Store 1), not be carrying this book? Were they just sold out--? Where was my instant gratification?
Thwarted! I wanted a copy of The Human Evolution Coloring Book last week, and it still hasn't arrived from Amazon.com... so I was picturing waiting for a full week (plus Christmas) to get the book.
Not just any book, either. The cool, surgical scrub green of the cover now represented a Holy Grail of Reading Refreshment to me. This would be the magical book that reinvigorated my passion for reading! That overwrote all desire to watch telly and read fic and surf the internet! But it was not to be found! If Borders doesn't have it... OH, GODS OF READING, WHY HAST THOUGH FORSAKEN ME??
Ahem.
It was a disappointing weekend, to say the least: no coloring book, no Scalzi.
On Monday, I checked the Borders website, and it swore on its mama's grave that Store One had a copy.
Well. Ok. It's Monday. It's the second shortest day of the year. It's snowing. And the wind-chill is zero degrees, Farenheit. (You gotta give Michael Moore props--I didn't have to look up the spelling on Farenheit.) Edit: OK, apparently not. Fahrenheit. Fahrenheit, Fahrenheit, Fahrenheit.
And I'm going to Borders to get a copy of Old Man's War.
I decided I might die of cold-induced sinus headache before I got to Borders across the Diag, so I drove over. "They validate, right?" I asked Brandon, who agreed. Then I parallel parked inside a parking structure (which I think tells you just what sort of demons are in charge of Ann Arbor's parking regime).
This, let me tell you, is a lot of freakin' work for one book.
Brandon was all freaking out about the Borders floorplan reorganization, but since I could actually see the section I wanted from the front doors, I was ok. But I usually am. I like change. I, in fact, will instigate change if I don't get enough of it.
No book on the shelf.
This is not a change. I'm already not a fan.
Time to assay the info desk. A very tired-looking employee is willing to believe the book is not on the shelf, but not before he checks the shelf himself, even though I told him it wasn't there. I'd just like to point out that *I* do this to patrons, so it is obviously the correct behavior in some settings--but in a bookstore where books are shelved alphabetically by author's last name? A little insulting. What I'd like is a badge that certifies my familiarity with the alphabet and the basic rules of classification that would give me speed-pass options at bookstore information desks. Can anyone arrange that?
Anyway, he checked the shelf. The endcaps. He double-checked his computer. He checked some restocking carts randomly scattered about. He triple-checked his computer.
"Is it a new book?"
"Very new," I said. "But your website says you have it."
"I guess... I could check in the back." He wandered off. Only what I wanted you to do in the first place, buddy.
In the meantime, I picked up the paperback of Tooth and Claw, and a book about a modern woman who gets thrown back into Roman times, written by Judith Tarr and Harry Turtledove. On the former--been waiting for that. On the latter--I picked up the book to read the back blurb because of Judith Tarr's name. But I decided to buy it because it was a modern woman thrown back into Roman times. I realized: I have a sub-genre that I will read anything from. It was sort of pleasant to realize I have a weak spot like that. Where nothing will ever seem too cheesy or lame to dive into. Not that this one looks cheesy or lame.
Once I'd congratulated myself on having yet another fine, low-class quality (this time of being a non-discriminating reader in at least one sub-genre), the anemic store-guy came back, book in hand.
"Excellent! Thank you!" I burbled. I didn't even get a smile or a "welcome."
That was fine. I scurried off to make my purchases, went home, did my chores, chatted with one of the Julies on-line about my own novel, went to bed to read... and fell asleep in the middle of chapter two.
Which says nothing about the book--I'm enjoying it so far, and am as pleased as punch that I didn't have to kill anyone to get a copy.
Even though I forgot to both use my Borders giftcard and failed to have my parking validated.
I made a keen to-do list, which included "put away laundry" and "cat boxes" and such. And also "write a story."
Well, I got half the things done. "Write a story" wasn't one of them.
Thank goodness the weekend includes 2 days. Now, to lobby Congress for 3.
My instructor told me both in writing and in person about the excellentness of my paper. Just when I thought I'd given up completely on the dream of academic glory in my future... blast.
I studied last night for my exam, so no writing. I wasn't exactly gung-ho about said exam--I had a sense of resignation to mediocrity. But I studied nonetheless, and did useful things like learning the date of the post-plague Peasant Rebellion in England, and actually looked at my essay outlines more than once. So, when I sat down to the test, I was somewhat heartened. But turning it in and getting my excellent paper back at the same time really gave me a lift. An A is almost as good as getting published. Too damn bad that A's are easier to get.
The Peoples of the British Isles: From Prehistoric Times to 1688, A New History by Stanford E. Lehmberg (45)
A clean, concise and clear overview of my favorite times in my favorite place. My quibbles are minor...
After the execution of Charles I in 1649, England had no king until 1660. It was almost as if eleven years without Parliament had to be balanced by a similar span of time without a monarch before the traditional partnership between king and Parliament could be restored.
As analysis goes, it's not. As speculation, it's romantic. But in fact, 11 years of "personal rule" (not tyranny, as the book is quick to caution) by the king, followed by 11 years of rule of Parliament, is, in fact a coincidence. Little bits like that, phrased like that, seriously detract from my pleasure in reading history. "Coincidentally, the eleven years without Parliament..." would be a fine starting poing. "Almost as if" should never show up in a history book. It either was or it wasn't, or the author should acknowledge his/her hedging. Speculation should be handled as speculation--which this book manages to do properly, now and again. A sentence from the previous chapter:
According to a persistent legend, Cromwell was heard to mutter: "cruel necessity" [at the execution of Charles I].
The Way Back by Cory Martin (46)
The OC media tie-in
Verdict? There is much better fanfic out there. The only thing--and when I say "only," I mean that's it--the only thing going for this book was the brief flashes of setting detail that showed that the author is not actually a zombie. In fact, those flashes were so brilliant, I had to wonder what the hell happened in the rest of the book. (I'm guessing someone had a formula to follow.) Dialogue? Completely un-showlike. Emotion? Leaden. Themes/tropes/motifs? Dropped in like planet-busting asteroids. Continuity errors? You betcha. Grammatical conundrums? Gordian. And yet. I felt like there was an author in there who knew what s/he was doing, but wasn't allowed to bust out of framework to make anything actually work for the poor reader.
Actually, I'm rather glad it didn't work for me. It'd be a hard road in life, to be carting around OC media tie-ins.
Sickly yesterday, so no writing. Did read a god-awful media tie-in, but I'll post my review of that once I have read something respectable and can report on both simultaneously... It only makes sense in my head, I suppose.
Have heard back from two point five out of three readers on "The Lonesome Dark," and generally have heard good responses. Apparently, high-concept writing works for me, or something. I had A Statement I wanted to make in this story, and had little notion of what the rest of it should be, other than a visual that completely doesn't apply to the story (a girl on a black horse pelting through a barren landscape) and a jokey-fake working title ("The Pony Express Crossing Singularity Creek"). Nonetheless, they all bought it. Or claimed to. I hope it's not the kind of buying it where "Well, we couldn't find anything *wrong* with the story, so we'll guess that we like it." But that's just the self-doubt talking.
(Takes out hammer of smiting and heads out after the self-doubt.)
Haven't started writing for the night yet, so that means... I must have written during class! And ohyesIdid. Not heartwood words, but detailed outlining for "Thaw," if that's what it's name truly is. And as fast as my prof could explain the Rump and the Long Parliament (not in that order, of course), I was simultaneously taking notes from the lecture for my alternate history of lost America.
Multi-tasking.
I'm going to settle in and transcribe my various notes from today (and the last few months, too). Troublesome notes, some of them are, notes I have no idea what to do with except put them in the think bank... notes like "Beowulf and Grendel as superhero and supervillain respectively"--which I think may already have been done, but not how I'd do it, of course.
Nomail.
Having finished "The Lonesome Dark," I suppose it's time to actually put the polish on "Sticks and Bones," which was the last short I finished. (It'd be nice to finally get "The Paradise Covenant" shipped off, too, but at this point, I feel it to be nicely mediocre.)
(Actually, let's address mediocrity for a moment. I feel like fantasy might be the genre of choice for short-form fiction for me. Why? Because out of the (counts on fingers; gives up counting on fingers) mumblety-three stories I've finished and circulated, I've felt that the fantasy shorts are the ones that actually seem to work best. Likewise, I'm getting the intense feeling that fantasy long-form and I are not meant to be happy bed-fellows, while I still have hopes for sci-fi long-form. I'm sure it's just one more layer of self-doubt that I should chip away at. And yet, I momentarily embrace this layer and say It is True. It is Also Late, which is doubtless why I'm sounding like a scattered freakpants right now.)
So. Semi-official trunking of "Paradise Covenant" until I figure out how to make it sing (I think it may just need to be rewritten with kick-ass characters. Like I have *that* ability). "Sticks and Bones" and "The Lonesome Dark" poised for the vault over the transom. Maybe by the beginning of next week, so they can languish through Christmas on someone else's desk. What a cheery proposition. But I'd like to see them sent off before I bring The Bitter Road back into the fold and start reworking that (January's task) and before I begin By Right of Conquest. (I'd also like to write another short story or six, but that's another negotiation.)
Worked on "The Lonesome Dark" with reasonable diligence. Was surprisngly closer to the end than I thought, and rounded it off upon my return home.
There's definitely a trend to this, I think. I can work hard or I can slack at Write Club, with varying results, but when I return home after and spend that last hour before sleep sitting alone in my bed, writing, I usually get some extremely efficient work done. It's some weird combination of scene change and that feeling of having a deadline.
Fire from Heaven: Life in an English Town in the Seventeenth Century by David Underdown (44)
Read for class (and for a paper). It was enjoyable reading for all that it's scholarly and densely packed. Underdown definitely approaches the material like a scholar, in that issues are thematically, not narratively, addressed, and there's no way to really follow one person's lifetime easily throughout the book.
I particularly liked learning about the link between Dorchester, England and Dorchester, Mass. We get a lot of misinformation about the Puritans and the Pilgrims and alla that in the American school system, and it was kind of nice seeing where some of that started back in England, and how different a Puritan town in England seems than one in New England. (Stories of Puritan colonies in New England always seem vaguely sinister to me, and perhaps they should: if you didn't get along with the Puritans, where were you going to go? The wilderness? Whereas, in England, options abounded.)
This was a book that felt doubly useful, because it relates to research I'm doing in the extreme pre-planning phase of my alternate America story. Definitely felt like it was time well spent for that as well.
After I stopped working on my paper last night (about three pages in, so only two left tonight), I couldn't stop myself from opening up Word again and pounding out a 499 word flash fiction of an idea that'd been lurking in my mind for some time.
I'm not convinced that it's meant to be flash fiction, but basically, I wanted to get something out of my head that's been in there a while. I can see all the ways to expand it into a real story, and I think (though I've sought guidance from Julie, before I make any real decisions) that it would only benefit from being longer, and having you know, actual story elements in it. (At the moment, it's a character in a setting in a situation, and that's the end. If you're going to go that far in a flash fiction, you should probably just go all the way, y'know?)
Also, it's a story that depends on imagery: a glacier, gleaming across an empty prairie; a girl in a black bonnet on her wedding day while spaceships fly overhead; a dream of a farm trapped beneath the ice; two boys in button-hook boots scrambling over a morraine to look at a melting ice field. I covered very little of all of this in the story. (Which might be called "Thaw" but might also be called "Old Order" or "The Inherited Earth" because it's a future where everyone has left the planet except for the Amish, who stay to ride out the next ice age. When the interglacial comes... Anyway.)
Still and all, it was a pleasure to finish something, even if it's not finished. Know what I mean?
If I could just finish the last chapter in a number of books--no few of which are for school--I'd not only increase my book count but probably also do really well on my upcoming exam. I will finish three books by Monday. I will because I have to, and if I don't read them by Monday, I probably never will.
One, I'll finish off by tomorrow. Just a chapter shy at the moment, and I will finish it off doubtless while I write this pesky paper.
Paper. Pesky, pesky paper.
Uhm, anyway, that little diatribe aside, I must tell you how much I long to write fiction again, simply because I cannot.
Stupid time wasting. Could have been writing fiction all along, you know. I should be ashamed.
Don't worry, I am.
Queried on two outstanding submissions. Haven't heard anything yet.
Such is the way.
I was on an extended Thankgiving break, which accounts for a recent blank space in the journal. What I find most depressing is that I haven't actually managed to read a single book from cover to cover in that time. I have read halves of books, and I have certainly purchased enough books in the meantime that anyone would suspect that I have an urgent (or perhaps even desperate) reading habit.
Such does not appear to be the case, however.
I am so far off target from reading a hundred books this year, there is absolutely no way to make up for it (unless I read only children's books from here on in, then, maybe). Can I even make it to 60, which has been my yearly average of late? Unlikely, but it's possible. How 'bout 50? That's not a pipe-dream. If I just read the other half of all those books I've started, I'd hit 50 in no time, right?
We'll see.