logophilius

Writing to the Smallest Audience

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Thu, 09 May 2013 12:46:00 +0000

My first blog post with digitalrelevance is up over at their blog. It's about the idea of writing to just one person instead of to a broad, varied audience. Check it out, and make me look good at my new job.

Time Flies When You're Having a Breakdown

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 09:02:00 +0000

Did you miss me?

Yes, my plan to celebrate National Poetry Month with daily poetry readings fell through. And yes, on top of that, I haven't posted in two weeks.

And yes, I went to the annual conference of the American Copy Editors Society (ACES) and haven't even blogged about that yet. But I have a good excuse: I took a new job.

I literally (and I mean literally literally) dropped off my acceptance of a job offer from Slingshot SEO on my way to the ACES conference in St. Louis. What followed was two weeks of preparing to leave John Wiley & Sons while steeling myself to start at a new place. And even though I was excited about moving to a smaller, more agile, more exciting company, leaving the corporation I had been with for over 12 years could be nothing but stressful.

But I did it. It's still stressful, and I still worry about whether I made the right choice, but all things seem to be going in the right direction.

So, yes, I took a new job as an online editor at Slingshot SEO in Indianapolis, which, in the time between my acceptance of the job and my first day last Monday, had rebranded itself as digitalrelevance™. (For what it's worth, my mother approves of the name change. "Slingshot" only made her think of Eddie Haskell.)

Also in the last three weeks, I have been working on my forthcoming e-book of short stories and shorter poems, Seasonal Work. My new publishing target is early May. What I can share with you now, though, is the cover image! (At least until I decide that it needs more futzing and redo the whole thing.) Here it is:

(Take note of the sign in the window.) Any comments are appreciated, of which the first will likely be that there's too much going on in the image. I'm fine with that. It mirrors what's inside.

I will be blogging more often again soon. I have a lot to share. Watch this space!

And the Winner Is...

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 01:45:00 +0000

Thank you to the seven of you who entered my 500th-post contest!

That's right, seven of you. As if I have a seven-sided die.

Instead of going to any great lengths to pick one of seven, I did the unfair thing. I eliminated Tony Noland from the running and used a standard, six-sided die to make a decision among the rest of you.

(Why Tony? Because I had already planned to send him a free copy of the finished e-book anyway.)

So I rolled a die and counted down from the top of the list, in the order that I saw them (reverse chronological). And the winner is . . .

Chuck Allen!

So, Chuck, I'll be contacting you in the near future.

Everyone else keep an eye on this space for my forthcoming e-book later this month.

We'll try this contest thing again when I hit 1,000 posts, sometime in 2018.

Today's Poem: Oh Captain! My Captain!

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Sat, 06 Apr 2013 13:56:00 +0000

Today I feature a Walt Whitman poem whose opening exclamation was made famous (at least to people of my generation) by the wonderful and wonderfully sad movie Dead Poets’ Society. It appears in his famous collection Leaves of Grass in a section called “Memories of President Lincoln,” and it’s a great example of metaphor.

The video on this one isn’t exactly thrilling, made almost entirely of bits of video I shot during my trip to the ACES 2013 conference in St. Louis. But at least there’s something the look at.

(I never did find out why the flags were flying at half-staff in Illinois. Could it have been the death of much-beloved Chicagoite Roger Ebert?)

O Captain! My Captain!
by Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up — for you the flag is hung — for you the bugle trills,

Walt Whitman (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths — for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From the fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

The last poem in the “Memories of President Lincoln” section is short and sweet and quite suitable for an epitaph or cenotaph. Consider it a bonus poem for being a day late getting this one posted.

This Dust Was Once the Man

This dust was once the man,

Gentle, plain, just, and resolute, under whose cautious hand

Against the foulest crime in history known in any land or age

Was saved the Union of these States.

Today's Poem: John Clare

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Thu, 04 Apr 2013 12:31:00 +0000

Today's poem comes from John Clare, an Englishman who spent a lot of time in British asylums. He couldn't always remember who he was and at times claimed to be married to women he wasn't married to, and even claimed to be Lord Byron or William Shakespeare.

Whether his poems, which were distinctly unselfconscious, were a reflection of his mental problems or an escape from them is anyone's guess. But here is one in which he recognized who he was.

I feel I am, I only know I am,

And plod upon the earth as dull and void:

Earth's prison chilled my body with its dram

Of dullness, and my soaring thoughts destroyed.

I fled to solitudes from passion's dream,

But strife pursued — I only know I am.

I was a being created in the race

Of men, disdaining bounds of place and time,

A spirit that could travel o'er the space

Of earth and heaven, like a thought sublime —

Tracing creation, like my Maker free, —

A soul unshackled — like eternity:

Spurning earth's vain and soul debasing thrall —

But now I only know I am, — that's all.

Today's Poem: Complaint of the Skeleton to Time

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 12:31:00 +0000

Today's reading is not of my doing, but of the poet's . . . and his friends. Here is Allen Ginsberg reading his own poem, "Complaint of the Skeleton to Time," from the album The Lion For Real (and courtesy of Spotify).

It's a fun little piece. Can you listen to the whole thing without smiling?

Today's Poem: The City in the Sea

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Tue, 02 Apr 2013 12:31:00 +0000

The City in the Sea

by Edgar Allan Poe

(1809–1848)

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim West,

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines and palaces and towers

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down

On the long night-time of that town;

But light from out the lurid sea

Streams up the turrents silently —

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free —

Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —

Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers

Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers —

Up many and many a marvelous shrine

Whose wreathéd friezes intertwine

The viol, the violent, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from a proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves

Yawn level with the luminous waves;

But not the riches there that lie

In each idol's diamond eye —

Not the gaily-jewelled dead

Tempt the waters from their bed;

For no ripples curl, alas!

Along that wilderness of glass —

No swellings tell that winds may be

Upon some far-off happier sea —

No heavings hint that winds have been

On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!

The wave — there is a movement there!

As if the towers had thrust aside,

In slightly sinking, the dull tide —

As if their tops had feebly given

A void within the filmy Heaven.

The waves have now a redder glow —

The hours are breathing faint and low —

And when, amid no earthly moans,

Down, down that town shall settle hence.

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

Shall do it reverence.

April is National Poetry Month!

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 12:31:00 +0000

As the title says, April is National Poetry Month.

Last year, I wrote a bunch of silly poems throughout the month. This year, I decided to mark the month a bit more seriously . . . and play around with some new software at home. Throughout April, I'll be featuring poetry readings here on the blog — every weekday if I can manage it. And they'll be snazzed up with background music and a little something to look at.

We'll start with a little silliness for April Fool's Day: Lewis Carroll's "The Walrus and the Carpenter," featuring historical illustrations from John Tenniel.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

by Lewis Carroll

"The sun was shining on the sea,

Shining with all his might:

He did his very best to make

The billows smooth and bright —

And this was odd, because it was

The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,

Because she thought the sun

Had got no business to be there

After the day was done —

'It's very rude of him,' she said,

'To come and spoil the fun!'

The sea was wet as wet could be,

The sands were dry as dry.

You could not see a cloud, because

No cloud was in the sky:

No birds were flying overhead —

There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Were walking close at hand:

They wept like anything to see

Such quantities of sand:

'If this were only cleared away,'

They said, 'it would be grand!'

'If seven maids with seven mops

Swept it for half a year,

Do you suppose,' the Walrus said,

'that they could get it clear?'

'I doubt it,' said the Carpenter,

And shed a bitter tear.

'O Oysters, come and walk with us!'

The Walrus did beseech.

'A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,

Along the briny beach:

We cannot do with more than four,

To give a hand to each.'

The eldest Oyster looked at him,

But never a word he said:

The eldest Oyster winked his eye,

And shook his heavy head —

Meaning to say he did not choose

To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,

All eager for the treat:

Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,

Their shoes were clean and neat —

And this was odd, because, you know,

They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,

And yet another four;

And thick and fast they came at last,

And more, and more, and more —

All hopping through the frothy waves,

And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Walked on a mile or so,

And then they rested on a rock

Conveniently low:

And all the little Oysters stood

And waited in a row.

'The time has come,' the Walrus said,

'To talk of many things:

Of shoes — and ships — and sealing wax —

Of cabbages — and kings —

And why the sea is boiling hot —

And whether pigs have wings.'

'But wait a bit,' the Oysters cried,

'Before we have our chat;

For some of us are out of breath,

And all of us are fat!'

'No hurry!' said the Carpenter.

They thanked him much for that.

'A loaf of bread,' the Walrus said,

'Is what we chiefly need:

Pepper and vinegar besides

Are very good indeed —

Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,

We can begin to feed.'

'But not on us!' the Oysters cried,

Turning a little blue.

'After such kindness, that would be

A dismal thing to do!'

'The night is fine,' the Walrus said.

'Do you admire the view?

'It was so kind of you to come!

And you are very nice!'

The Carpenter said nothing but

'Cut us another slice.

I wish you were not quite so deaf —

I've had to ask you twice!'

'It seems a shame,' the Walrus said,

'To play them such a trick.

After we've brought them out so far,

And made them trot so quick!'

The Carpenter said nothing but

'The butter's spread too thick!'

'I weep for you,' the Walrus said:

'I deeply sympathize.'

With sobs and tears he sorted out

Those of the largest size,

Holding his pocket-handkerchief

Before his streaming eyes.

'O Oysters,' said the Carpenter,

'You've had a pleasant run!

Shall we be trotting home again?'

But answer came there none —

And this was scarcely odd, because

They'd eaten every one."

Come back tomorrow for some Edgar Allan Poe!

The Milestone Post with the Milestone Contest

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 01:17:00 +0000

Milestone blog posts always deserve some sort of fanfare, and this is my 500th post on Logophilius, so let’s seen how my fans fare.

First, though, let me thank any of you who consider yourself a fan. (Even you, mom!) If I could mention you each by name, I would...but I really don't have any idea who you are. So, to all my anonymous and seminonymous readers: Thank you thank you thank you!

Now, on to the matter at hand:

I’ve been pulling together an e-book of short stories and shorter poems, many from this blog, tweaked and re-edited, but also a few new ones that haven’t yet seen the light of day. I wanted to use my 500th post as an opportunity to give away a copy or two.

But the book isn’t finished, and likely won’t be until mid-April. Far from nixing the giveaway idea, though, this actually opens up more possibilities. So here’s the deal:

The Prize

The winner of this contest will win a free copy of my e-book (titled Seasonal Work) when I finally get it put together and published -AND- since the stories are still in editorial flux, I will write the winner into one of the short stories.

If this contest gets more than 10 entrants, I will award a SECOND free copy of the e-book to another lucky person, and (thinking big) I will give away another free copy for every 10 entrants thereafter.

I will pull out my trusty, dusty D&D dice to determine the winner(s).

How to Enter

To enter the contest, just leave a comment under this post revealing something about your relationship with short stories, for example, your favorite short story, you favorite short story author, or a very short story about your full name and credit card numer (don't forget the security code on the back!). I'm not particular.

The contest will run until Monday, April 8, 2013 at 4:37 p.m. Eastern time. Only one entry per person.

No trolls, please. I simply don't have any trolls in any of my stories and don't want to have to write one in.

Tell all your friends! After all, the more who people enter, the more your odds of winning stay exactly the same!

Jack Frost Gets In One Last Read before Spring

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 22:54:00 +0000

I Don't Know Grammar: An Editorial Confession

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 17:29:00 +0000

I have been copy editing for over a decade, and in that time, I've had to come to grips with my personal editorial shortcomings (every editor has some). And today, National Grammar Day, seems like the perfect time to confess one of those shortcomings to you, dear readers:

I don't know what grammar is. Not really.

I've never been entirely sure exactly where the line is drawn between grammar and other writing issues, such as usage and syntax. And I don't think I really need to.

As with anything, plenty of issues clearly fall into one camp or another. For instance, verb conjugation is a matter of grammar; spelling errors are not. But other situations are not as clear cut, and sometimes trying to see where grammar ends and usage begins is like trying to see where blue ends and purple begins.

I could give you some examples of where I think things get muddled, but some reader would take the time to tell me where my examples should fall in the linguistic spectrum. And then someone else would disagree with the first person's evaluation, and thus would begin a protracted and pointless back-and-forth.

And that's not the point I want to make. My point is this: I don't really need to know what grammar is.

This might sound odd coming from an editor, but give it a little thought. I'm not saying that I don't need to know the rules and guidelines of grammar. I'm saying that I don't need to know what qualifies as a grammar issue, or usage issue, or a punctuational or morphological or syntactical or psycholinguistic issue. An editor never works in just one of these worlds. An editor, instead, focuses on good writing, which takes in grammar, usage, style, tone, and so much more.

Yes, a good editor needs to know what are rules (it's vs. its), what are guidelines (parallel structure), and what are matters of style (Oxford comma vs Nazi comma), but more important than any of these is the quality of the piece of writing. Grammatical writing isn't always good, and good writing isn't always grammatical.

A good grounding in grammar is important, for anyone. But by that I mean an understanding of the basic mechanics of how our language works and how sentences are put together. But no, editors and writers don't need to know which linguistic cubbyhole to confine each little thing to, any more than your average person needs to understand kerning, ligatures, and serifs in order to read.

And I'm alone in this belief. National Grammar Day isn't very old, but already it has generally expanded to cover all types of editorial issues, and not just grammar. for instance, the winner of this year's National Grammar Day tweeted haiku contest* was of a more general editorial vein, and the second through fifth place entries and the honorable mentions included haiku about (mis)spelling, punctuation, and language peeves.

Yes, grammar is a thing, and for smooth and interesting communication, it's an important thing. But don't get so caught up in the minutiae of grammaticality that you lose what was good about a piece.

Grammar is only a small part of writing. Any good editor knows this. Any good writer knows this. Any avid reader knows this.

If you agree at all, help me prove it. I would love to hear your examples of "bad" grammar used in great literature, shared in the comments below.

* For what it's worth, I tweeted two entries to the National Grammar Day tweeted haiku contest:

Not a whole colon,
But a vampire emoji:
Two semicolons.

The subjunctive mood
Would not have been created
If I had been king.

[UPDATE, later that same day: There is a certain (rather large) aspect of all this that comes only after years of experience. I had that in mind when I began this post with the fact that I have been editing for over a decade, but in my haste to get this online, I forgot to pick up that thread.

Grammar is important, yes. But after years of writing and editing, everything I have learned has cohered into one mass of word-ness, and I draw from that mass when I write and when I edit.

I used to know a some grammar. I used to be able to show you the difference between past progressive tense and past perfect tense. I can't do that anymore with out looking it up, but -- and here's the important part -- I can use those tenses correctly.

The same is true in math. Once the Pythagorean Theorem becomes a part of your mathematical toolbox, you don't care whether the theorem is technically algebraic, geometric, or trigonometric. You just use it.

Like math, writing and editing are skills learned in pieces, but the pieces make up an entire spectrum of a larger whole.

Over time, the science of grammar yields to the art of writing and editing. It's really a much simpler idea than perhaps I made it out to be. ABH]

[UPDATE #2, on 3/6/13: Jeremy Butterfield wrote a nice post about what grammar is and is not, and how blurred that distinction can be, over at his blog.]

Double Ent-tendres

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Wed, 27 Feb 2013 17:25:00 +0000

It's Three-Word Wednesday time, and today, we use the words douse, naughty, and pale.

Some trees come alive in the night

After Luna has doused her pale light.

Naughty pines, like an eel,

Writhe and wriggle until

Morning would find them standing upright.

The Way to a Man's Heart

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 19:01:00 +0000

My triumphal (or at least monumphal) return to three-word Wednesday begins with the words heave, ponder, and valid. So here's a limerick for you:

Tammy-Jo hopes that I'll validate

The bad cooking she plopped on my plate.

I try to use tact --

Ponder first and then act . . .

But then heave it all up on my date.

How to Write When You Don't Feel Like Writing

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 02:59:00 +0000

It’s easy enough to get behind the idea of writing every day, but finding the time and the inspiration to actually do it, day after day, every day, is another story.

As it turns out, writing is hard.

But it’s also really easy.

If you can find 20 minutes, a pen, and a piece of paper, you have everything you need to write. For inspiration, you need only these three steps:

1. Pick a character. It can be anyone or anything. If you aren’t working on a larger writing project, just pick something. (It doesn’t even have to be a person; I once ended up with a story told from the point of view of a passport.) If you have a work in progress but are stuck, pick one of those characters, pull them out of the story, and put them in a new situation.

2. Give the character something to want. Every character should want something.

3. Put something between the character and what the character wants. It’s all about the conflict. That conflict, of course, can be internal or external, physical or psychological, magical or mundane.

Regardless, you’ve got what you need to start writing. Tell us about the character. Have him/her/it try to sate that desire. Give is the deets on who or what is trying to keep that character from that dream. Before you know it, you will have written something.

Journal 2 Feb 2005 pg 2 (Photo credit: Terry Bain)

This afternoon, I pulled out my trusty notebook while I waited for my lunch and quickly went through these steps. I started writing about 10-year-old Joey, who wants more than anything to be an astronaut. Had I gotten far enough into the story, I was going to have his vision start to go. How could he become an astronaut if he could barely see?

But I didn’t get that far. My sushi arrived a page-and-a-half later.

But the important thing is that I wrote something. I exercised my writing muscles.

Will what I started eventually become a Bradbury-esque story about the power of a child’s imagination? Probably not. Did it make me a better writer? Of course!

Writers write daily the way runners run daily; not to get from point A to point B, but to stay in shape for the marathons to come.

Now stop reading and go write something!

Romeo and Juliet, an Alternate Ending

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 12:44:00 +0000

Valentine’s Day is all about love, of course, and when you think about love, what literary piece first comes to mind? Since you can’t help but see the title of this post right above this paragraph, you ought to already be thinking about Romeo & Juliet, which would be the right answer.

Though R&J is all about love, it has that sad, tragic ending. We so want those two to live happily ever after, and finally bring the feud between the Capulets and Montagues to an end. What kind of romance is it that instead of giving us a happy ending gives us death for two young lovers?

So I’m here to change that.

What follows is an alternate ending for Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet. In this version, Friar Laurence arrives before Romeo has a chance to drink the poison that ends his life. The result is, I hope, more relatable to today's high school readers.

When we pick up the scene, Romeo has snuck into Juliet’s tomb, only to find Paris there. The two fight, and Paris is killed. Romeo then kneels by his fallen love (that would be Juliet, not Paris) and begins soliloquizing, phial of poison in hand:

ROMEO.
Here will I remain
With worms that are thy chambermaids: O, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest;
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. — Eyes, look your last!
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death! —
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
Here's to my love!
[Lifts phial to lips as Friar Laurence enters, short of breath.]

FRIAR.
Hold fast, young Romeo!
Be still and living whilst I catch my breath.
[Bends forward and wheezes.]

ROMEO.
Good Friar Laurence, what doth bring you here

Romeo and Juliet with Friar Laurence (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Unto this sepulchre to love’s own death?

FRIAR.
[Still breathing hard]
The lady . . . Juliet . . . the angels shan’t…

ROMEO.
Do spit it out, apothecary, for
I have but little time to kill.
FRIAR.
                                          The girl!
The angels shall not have her soul tonight!
Her death is false!

ROMEO
                            What sacrilege is this?!
You make her play the ghost? The poltergeist?
The undead vampire waiting here for night,
Whose sparkle dare not see the light of day?
Just look how pale, how still she lies like stone.
I ought to run you through, I should!

FRIAR
                               But no!
A potion, not a poison, by mine hand
Hath drawn the masque of death upon her face,
But it will fade away, in time, as light
Returneth to afford you all Love’s grace!

ROMEO
A potion, eh?

FRIAR.
                 Yes, ’twas our secret scheme —
Well, hers — to show her kinsmen naught but death,
To give young love a better chance at life.

ROMEO
Huzzah! Alas! It’s unbelieveable
That I shall live again within her light.
How quickly doth the potion work? How soon
Until our hearts again be joyful?

FRIAR
                                               Soon.
Exactly when, I do not know, but I
Did follow to a tee the recipe
For forty-two-ish hours of falsity.

ROMEO
Didst thou say forty-two-ish?

FRIAR
                                            Give or take.

ROMEO
To loiter here too long might prove mistake
If any Montague shouldst come to mourn.
I know that I should flee and wait for love’s
Return into my happy heart. But yet,
To know the truth, to know she will awake,
Brings hope unto my soul! I cannot wait
To hear her sigh! No, I cannot! I kiss
Her deep in sweet anticipation now!
[Kisses Juliet]

FRIAR
The scrunchy face you make, what does it mean?

ROMEO
I would expect this tomb to smell of death,
But it’s a rose compared to her foul breath!

FRIAR
’Tis but a side-effect of time!
ROMEO
                                              What’s this?
What are these marks I find upon her face?

FRIAR.
Th’ affliction of the skin that visits all
The adolescent girls. We call them zits.

ROMEO
Are they a sign of sickness? Doth death come?

FRIAR
If anything, they indicate a lack
Of proper hygiene. Juliet herself
Has suffered from this blight for nigh two years.

ROMEO
’Tis true? I ne’er had noticed it 'til now.
Our meetings, though, were harried, and occurr’d
At night, the only light from off the moon.

FRIAR
But as she grows to womanhood, the zits
Will fade. Unless, that is, this bumpy flesh
Doth indicate French pox.

Photo credit: Corrado Cambiaghi

ROMEO
                                         French pox! You mean
The ailment spread by beasts with double-backs?

FRIAR
It might be thus, but acne’s likely it.

ROMEO
Do you imply my Juliet hath...
[Makes a V shape in front of his crotch]
                                                 ...y’know.

FRIAR
They say a stranger to the baser joys
Young Juliet is not; a Friday night
Spent pining in her room, a rarity.
’Tis rumored, sir, that she is known — and you
Know what I mean — by sailors, slaves, and boys
Down by the docks. Or so they say, my lord.

ROMEO
’Tis rumored?

FRIAR
                      Yes. ’Tis rumored, Romeo.

ROMEO
But dost thou trust the idle, braggart chat
Of louts, slubberdegullions, scalawags,
And boastful jerk-offs? Hast thou any proof?

FRIAR
[Pauses to think]
Well, Paris, laying here so newly slain,
Didst run through all my prophylactic stock
Within the nearest fortnight past—

ROMEO
                                                    But soft!
I heard a sound! What sound is this? What — Oh!
What new, more wretched stink assaults my nose
And eyes?!

FRIAR
                     Methinks the lady farted, sire.

ROMEO
I thought her breath smelled bad, but this! Like Hell
Hath open’d up betwixt her cheeks, expell’d
The pungent odors built o’er eons past!
Oh sulphur! Brimstone! Eggs left in the sun!
Who knew my Juliet could so exhale

Photo credit: clevelandsurfkid

This noisome breath of Lucifer himself!

FRIAR
Too much, good sir! 'Twas but a tiny toot!

ROMEO
What was I thinking?! Married at my age?

Betrothed unto this thing of cratered face
And epic flatulence? I killed a man
For her? Too quickly did I fall for love.
I yet have wild oats to sow abroad!
What madness here! Good Friar, hast thou pen
And parchment?

FRIAR
                          Yes, of course. But why?

ROMEO
                                                                 I wish
To pen my last goodbye to her, the slut
Whose perfum’d scent had brought me to the brink
Of ruin but who now reclines in stink.
[Writes on parchment.]
I prithee that you’ll stay to see this through?

FRIAR
I will. The lady hasn’t paid me yet.

ROMEO
Here, take this letter. Juliet will wake
And wonder where I am. These words will tell.

FRIAR
And what of you?

ROMEO
                             Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps
I’ll go to Venice, for I hear that there,
Along the coast, the goddesses descend
In summertime, their oily, curv’d back ends
Just barely cover’d o’er in brightest silk.
Perhaps I’ll find a rich one I can milk.

FRIAR
Good luck, my friend. I hope you get a piece. . .
[Romeo exits.]
…That fills your burning loins with much disease.

[Friar waits, peeking into coffins and sarcophagi, pocketing any jewelry he finds.]
[Juliet awakes.]

JULIET
The morning comes. It worked! Yes, I awoke!
Good Friar! — but where is my Romeo?
He was to be beside me when I woke
And bring an end to all our days of woe.

FRIAR
He left a bit ago. He left this note.

JULIET
A note? His words already pen my soul!

FRIAR

But first, there is the matter of my fee.
Ne’er have I been paid for your false death.
Th’ingredients comprising what you drank
Are not your common herbs, and they’re not cheap!

JULIET
You’ll get your fee, you sod! Give me my note!

[Reading]
My dearest Juliet: When first we met
You were the stars that led me through the night.
But ev’ry night must end, the moon must set
And sun must rise in harshest morning light.

The morning shone when mourning died, and I
Saw truth within your face I’d failed to see:
Our love would not endure the by and by.
(But rest assured: It isn’t you; it’s me.)

Too young were we to launch this loving plan,
But maybe, when we’re older, we could date —
Once time has passed and I’ve become a man,
And you have dropped a little bit of weight.

Naïve we were that we refused to see
That I was not for you, nor you for me.

Postscript, feel free to pawn my mother’s ring.

Oh, friar! What douchebaggery is this!
And zounds! Didst he just call me fat?
Where hath my husband gone?

FRIAR
                                                  He’s off to live
Where maidens, barely dress’d down by the sea,
Inebriated, scamper through the surf
And offer up their bodies there for free.

JULIET
He went to Venice?

FRIAR
                               Bingo, Juliet.

JULIET
These adolescent games just make me sick,
And Romeo's the worst. God, what a dick!
I’ve had it with these hormone-driven boys.
I need a man who knows what I am worth
And understands a lady’s needs. No cad,
No kid, no Romeo nor Paris knows
A single thing about relationships
And what it takes to make them last. I'm through!
From now until I die, it’s older men
For me. Here, take this ring and be consideréd
Full-paid.

FRIAR
                I will, my lady. Thank you so.
But tell me how you feel now, after death.

JULIET
I don’t feel bad, although my stomach growls.

FRIAR
Two days you haven’t eaten! Let me help.
I know a place just down the street to dine
That has a great, romantic atmosphere.
I wouldst be honoréd if you would let
Me buy you dinner.

JULIET
                                 Sure. Whatever, dude.

FRIAR
And then, after we’ve eaten, I would think
That we might go to my place for a drink.
[Exuent]

This post grew from an idea sparked by @Mededitor and encouraged by @AllisonLCarter, and I thank them both.

Fluke

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Mon, 04 Feb 2013 17:00:00 +0000

At least three separate people, on three separate occasions, have recommended the works of Christopher Moore to me. Weird, quirky, fun, they said. Right up your proverbial alley.

I remembered seeing Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal on the new fiction shelf at the library, and I thought it sounded intriguing back then. (I do so enjoy irreverent explorations of religion.) So when it came time to pick my next book, I set about tracking down Lamb.

But Half-priced Books didn’t have it. Indy Reads Book didn’t have it. The library had a waiting list in double digits. And I didn’t (don’t) have the money to risk paying full-price on a book by an untried author.

So I picked up Fluke, or, I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings from the library instead. And I wasn’t disappointed.

The Story — Four and a half out of five humpbacks

Fluke is divided into three sections, the first of which, in my opinion, is designed to lure the reader into interesting, well-researched, and otherwise familiar (literarily speaking) territory. Like following a path through the woods. The story revolves around Nate Quinn, a world-renowned but self-conscious marine biologist who has devoted his life to studying whale songs. He is joined by his research assistant Amy Earhart, who is sexy, snarky, knowledgeable, and entirely too young for Nate. (In other words, the perfect woman.)

The weirdness begins early in the novel, when Nate witnesses a breeching humpback whale that has some strange markings on his flukes — the twin “wings” of a whale’s tail. Almost immediately, strange things start to happen. There’s a ransacked lab, a sunken boat, and the appearance of a blond-haired Rasta boy from New Jersey.

Moore weaves an impressive amount of actual biological research through the story as the mysteries mount. (If you’ve read Neal Stephenson’s Zodiac, it’s right along those lines, both in the story and the presentation.) You’ll learn something you didn’t know before you started reading this book, including more than you want to know about whale penises.

Cover via Amazon

But then the first section wraps up in an very unexpected way. The path through the woods leads to a clearing, and there, in the center, is a cottage made entirely of candy.

From the first sentence of the section third of Fluke, my immediate reaction was a gape-mouthed WTF?!

With extra F.

But in a good way.

The story veers way off the expected course. The witch’s candy house opens to reveal that it’s not a house at all, but a giant whale, and you’re inside it. Christopher Moore reimagines the entire ocean ecosphere to suit his new, twisted version of marine evolution and introduces his science-minded protagonist into it. One of the joys of this story is experiencing this new world through a character who is as ignorant of it as we are. Everything that is new to us is new to him, too.

I don’t want to give away too much of what happens, and giving away any interesting details would be giving away too much. I’ll give you this, though: The human race might be in danger of extinction, and the protagonist might try to save it. And that humpback whale might get the pastrami on rye he’s been obsessing over.

Also, Moore gives us a happy ending. Endings, really. The last chapter of Fluke will have you cheering for Nate Quinn and wishing that the real world was more like Moore’s fictional one.

The Writing — Four out of five humpbacks

Moore’s writing style is laid back. This isn’t Dickens, or Austen, or Pynchon. It’s imminently and easily readable, a fun little book for reading on an airplane or stretched out on a beach or when you’re laid up in bed with the flu. Not that he dumbs down the vocabulary; he just doesn’t dress up his prose.

In fact, a lot of technical vocabulary is thrown around in Fluke, but Moore does a wonderful job of balancing explanation with the movement of the story. (Note to writers: Introducing a character who, like the reader, doesn’t know all the technical jargon makes the explanations seem quite natural to the action. Having that character almost permanently stoned, as Moore does, just makes it more fun.)

But there were two things that kept me from awarding this novel a higher rating. First, the book could use one more proofreading pass. I saw no major problems, but there were a few dropped articles and misspelled words, especially toward the end.

Second, Moore uses one humor technique too many times. The joke is simply this: Have a character say exactly what he’s thinking. It looks like this:

Cielle stood and gathered up her parcels. “Let’s go, Nate. I’m taking you back to your apartment.”

Nate still had a couple bites of his sandwich left. “Hey, I’ve still got a couple bites of my sandwich left,” he said. (219)

The first few times, it was funny. Quirky. But then, as the joke was repeated, it lost its zing.

All told, a great book. Moore does a wonderful job of building mystery and suspense and craziness and then paying off big-time at the end.

Who Should Read Fluke

People who enjoy the works of Kurt Vonnegut, Douglas Adams, or early Neal Stephenson.
Anyone looking for a good read on the beach, on a cruise, or particularly on a Hawaiian vacation.
People who worry about what we humans are doing to the oceans.
Oceanographers, marine biologists, aquarium staff, and sushi lovers.

And Another Thing... by Eoin Colfer

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Tue, 22 Jan 2013 04:35:00 +0000

I was surprised when I found this novel on an unarranged shelf of hardcovers at the local Dollar Tree. It didn’t seem so surprising after I finished it.

As far as funny sci-fi goes, Eoin Colfer (of Artemis Fowl fame) aimed high. At the top of the front cover of And Another Thing . . . are these words:

Douglas Adams’s

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Part Six of Three

Like I said, he aimed high. Unfortunately, he missed.

The Story — One of Five Stars

Cover via Amazon

The sad part about this novel is that it contains the seed for a good, interesting story about the colonization of a manufactured planet. But then Colfer tried to drop that story into Douglas Adams’s universe, like making a banana split with kosher pickles.

The good part of the novel involves the colonization of the artificial planet Nano (manufactured by the Magratheans, naturally) and the problems that go along with it. The central problem is the lack of a deity to guide the people of Nano. So the planet’s “manager,” a shyster named Hillman Hunter, is trying to find a “Grade A god,” which leads to my favorite cameo in this novel: Cthulhu.

“Our last god was a less is more kinda guy. Sent his son down, but didn’t show up too often himself. I think, and no disrespect to the man himself, that was probably a mistake. I honestly believe that he would put his hand up to that himself now if we could ask him. What I’m asking you, Mr. Cthulhu, is: Are you going to be a hands-on god or an absentee landlord?”

“Oh, hands-on, absolutely,” he said, leaning forward to make clear eye contact as Hastur [the Unspeakable] had advised. “The days of blind faith are over. People need to know who is blighting their crops or demanding virgin sacrifice. And now I am going to look away, but only because prolonged eye contact will drive you insane.”

That could be a fun little story, but it’s unnecessarily intertwined with Vogons trying to wipe out all Earthlings everywhere (and in every dimension), an immortal insulter looking for someone who might be able to end his life, and good old Zaphod Beeblebrox trying to bring Thor back to prominence in the universe while turning a tidy profit.

The Writing — Two of Five Stars

Eoin Colfer tries too hard to be funny, and he does it in a way that interrupts the flow of the story. The novel is peppered (dandruffed might be more accurate) with “notes” from the Hitchhiker’s Guide itself, usually to create a joke where one didn’t exist, or to try to prop up or redirect a joke that was already there. For example, take this statement from Heimdall (yes, the Heimdall of Norse mythology) to Zaphod:

“Misunderstandings? Misunder . . . Zark me. You have a lot of nerve. You have enough sheer bloody gall for an entire bucket of gallstones.”

Guide Note: Gall stones: light gray pebbles found on Damogran. Very cheeky. (101)

I chose one of the short examples here simply for brevity’s sake. Imagine one or two hundred words of moderately entertaining badinage shoehorned into every third or fourth page of an otherwise straightforward story. In short, it couldn’t build any momentum.

Without these sidebars, the Hitchhiker’s Guide itself makes an appearance only at the very beginning and very end of the novel. Perhaps Colfer thought he needed to keep reminding us of which fictional universe we were in.

But it wasn’t all bad. It gets two of five stars because there were some gems hiding in there. Some quotable quips, precise puns, and decent wordplay — like this one:

Alone. That was the dreaded word. He, Arthur Dent, was a lone man, alone and lonely. On loan from another dimension. A low no one with no one to lean on. (269)

Not Douglas Adams (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The late Douglas Adams
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Conclusion

Eoin Colfer is no Douglas Adams.

And Another Thing . . . is very put-downable. I don’t recommend it to anyone but die-hard Douglas Adams or Eoin Colfer super-fans, just to say you’ve read the entire corpus. If that describes you, look for it at your local Dollar Tree.

A Bit about Roget and Thesauruses on Thesaurus Day

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 15:18:00 +0000

Today is Thesaurus Day, marking the birth in 1779 of Peter Mark Roget, whose name has become synonymous with synonymous.

Roget's Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases Classified and Arranged so as to Facilitate the Expression of Ideas and Assist in Literary Composition¹ grew out of his incessant list-making, which he developed as a coping mechanism.² And he had a lot to cope with. Both his father and his wife died young, and an uncle committed suicide in Peter's presence.

It seems logical, then, that Peter struggled with depression. And like many depressed souls before and since, he turned to words to battle the sadness.

The word thesaurus comes from the Greek thesauros, meaning both "a treasure" and "a giant, talkative lizard with an overinflated ego."³ Those who hold to the notion that the way words were should be the way words are can use the plural thesauri; for the rest of us, thesauruses is just fine (and fun to say).

You can call a person who writes thesauruses a thesaurist, but really they're just another form of lexicographer (lexicos = "of words" + graphikos = "of writing").

A good thesaurus can be a great writing tool, but it can also be overused. Some turn to a thesaurus in an attempt to add variety to otherwise dull and repetitive writing. That word-processing programs come with built-in thesauruses makes it even easier to pursue this shortcut.

This can lead to some awful (or hilarious, depending on your point of view) results.

And that is how I choose to mark Thesaurus Day, Peter Mark Roget's birthday: By repeating the content of this blog post a second time, but with (supposedly) synonymous substitutions of words from MS Word's built-in thesaurus.

Happy Thesaurus Day!

Presently, it is Thesaurus Day, marking the naissance in 1779 of Peter Mark Roget, whose appellation has become identical with synonymous.

Roget's Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases Classified and Arranged so as to Facilitate the Expression of Ideas and Assist in Literary Composition propagated out of his unremitting list-making, which he industrialized as a surviving contrivance. And he had an allocation to muddle through. Both his pater and his helpmeet croaked fledglingly, and an uncle committed recklessness in Peter's manifestation.

It appears commonsensical, then, that Peter thrashed with melancholia. And similar to many dejected atmospheres before and since, he turned to verses to scuffle the despondency.

The word thesaurus emanates from the Greek thesauros, denotating both "a prize" and "a colossal, garrulous lizard with an outsized self-image." Those who hold to the conception that the manner words were should be the tactic words are can utilize the plural thesauri; for the remainder of us, thesauruses is just adequate (and pleasurable to vocalize).

You can call an individual who engraves thesauruses a thesaurist, but categorically they're just an alternative form of lexicographer (lexicos = "of words" + graphikos = "of inscription").

A virtuous thesaurus can be a prodigious writing utensil, but it can also be hackneyed. Some journey to a thesaurus in an endeavor to enhance multiplicity in otherwise leaden and pedestrian lettering. That term-handling applications are originated with integrated thesauruses makes it even cooler to hunt this shortcut.

This can produce some horrific (or uproarious, contingent on your idea of vision) outcomes.

And that is how I've cherry-picked to mark Thesaurus Day, Peter Mark Roget's centenary: By resaying the content of this editorial a subsequent time, but with (evidently) equal changeovers of words from MS Word's integral phrasebook.

Joyous Thesaurus Period!

¹ Also the name of Fiona Apple's next album.
² If Wikipedia is to be believed. I went all-out for this research, eh?
³ One of those two translations of thesauros is inaccurate.

Someone's Wrong on the Internet, A Sonnet

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 17:26:00 +0000

A Three-Word Wednesday sonnet. Today's words are dismal, luscious, and waffle.

The luscious colors of a well-made page
Bedazzle eyes that stare into the screen
That mirrors back this electronic age
When beauty, with a single click, is seen.

We scroll the page; inspiring words we find
From out a blogger's deepest sacred heart —
And we are touched in spirit and in mind.
A kindred soul we've found, though worlds apart.

But then we see it: He wrote "tow the line."
An error, yes, but surely we're not trolls
Who point out flaws! Or should we undermine
The writer's joy t'appease our dismal souls?

We waffle 'twixt precision and regret
When someone's wrong out on the Internet.

Passport

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Fri, 11 Jan 2013 04:10:00 +0000

When Hillary’s passport was new, each fresh expedition brought the thrill of the unfamiliar and the hope of a lifetime of new experiences around the world. And there were many experiences on many expeditions.

For instance, in Japan, one of the passport’s first destinations, it was handled delicately by the long, gloved fingers of a smiling young woman who bowed incessantly. But in Greece, a sweaty bear of a man with greasy, furry fingers barely glanced at the passport before smashing his great ink stamp onto one of the pages.

Big hands, little hands, even hands missing fingers; Russian winters, summers in the French Riviera, monsoon season in Southeast Asia; rain forests, deserts, glaciers, jungles — Hillary’s passport had experienced it all. Everything a fresh young passport could hope for.

But after a few years, the passport began to realize that its youthful dreams were naïve.

After a while, all that travel started wearing the passport down.

Over the years, it had seen countless airports and been stowed in numerous hotel safes. It had passed through hundreds of hands — from thick, calloused, sausage fingers to dainty, manicured digits. Each new handling brought with it a new inky stamp, smearing the passport’s pages letters from Greek and Cyrillic alphabets; logograms in Korean, Mandarin, Japanese; and collections of numbers marking a long chronology of world travel.

So frequently was the passport handled that one of the Ps had been worn completely off the cover, and Hillary had taken to calling it her “assport.”

It was sometime around the second trip to Greece that the idea of home reached the passport. It was an odd idea at first: a single place that one could always come back to. A stable, predictable, familiar place where one could just relax and be. No strangers’ rough hands. No stamps.

But Hillary’s travels continued, and the idea of home haunted the passport so much that it thought it might throw a staple from the longing. It didn’t want anything special, just a sock drawer, or a shoebox in a closet, or even the dusty space behind a refrigerator, anyplace where it could cease its constant movement and manhandling.

Soon, each expedition brought, instead of thrills, a dark sense of distress. Of misery. Of remorse. Until finally, one evening in the cold darkness of some Parisian hotel room safe, it decided it had had enough.

Hillary’s passport was done with travel . . . but wasn’t that really up to Hillary?

The aromatic mix of salty ocean air and street vendors’ spicy meats was immediately recognizable as soon as Hillary stepped out of the airport: Jamaica, one her favorite vacation spots.

The plane had been delayed in Miami, and Hillary’s hurried gait indicated a packed schedule that she was already falling behind on. Freshly stamped, the passport was dropped into the hodgepodge of personal items in Hillary’s oversized shoulder bag. She slid into an automobile of some sort, and the passport, practically mad from the month of solid travel since its decision to stay still, foresaw another short sentence in a dark hotel safe.

It was surprised when the door opened and Hillary emerged, not in front of her usual fancy hotel, but onto the beach. Gulls cried, children laughed, and the sounds of a steel drum wafted into the open top of Hillary’s bag, along with the brightest sunshine ever to reach the world-weary passport.

The bag soon landed on a hard floor that swayed slowly back and forth in a way that the passport remembered from other boat trips. An engine fired up nearby, and the passport sensed forward motion. The engines grew louder as the boat picked up speed, and soon the rocking motion was replaced by rising and falling as the speedboat skipped across the waves. With each jump the wallet and the coin purse jockeyed for position.

The boat must have launched from a particularly large wave, because when it thudded down, Hillary’s bag fell sideways. Through the bag’s opening, the passport no longer saw empty sky, but the white, spreading foam of the boat’s wake slicing through glistering blue sea. The beach was a shrinking white line backed by old, green trees and the clean angles of resort buildings that climbed into a clear azure sky.
It was the most beautiful thing the passport had ever seen, and the passport had seen a lot.

The boat came down hard again, and the contents of Hillary’s purse shifted, pushing the passport closer to the open top.

And it saw an opportunity.

The passport concentrated on pulling its covers together, closing itself as tightly as possible. When the next wave came, it opened its pages hard, springing from the bag.

For a moment, the passport was airborne and surrounded by light. It was a thrill like none the passport had experienced since its very first travels.

Then it hit the water.

The boat’s engine noise receded. The cool waves rocked the passport wildly so that it started feeling dizzy, and it liked the feeling.

Even as the passport enjoyed the sun, the constant movement, and the susurrus sloshing of the waves, its pages absorbed the salt water, softening and thickening. That, too, was a new, thrilling feeling.

Photo credit: Wikipedia

Before long, the water-logged passport sank under the waves. The sunlight danced across its cover as it drifted downward, passing wide, colorful creatures and schools of tiny, shiny, silver slivers shifting in unison. As the passport sank, the light dimmed, and the ocean shifted slowly from a transparent blue to a dark green.

The passport floated down, down, down, coming to rest lightly on the ocean floor. White sand wrapping around its edges like the world had caught it and held it there.

Above, the environment was alive with movement, strange new creatures traveling in all directions to unknown locations, while the passport just rested and watched.

It was home.

2012: The Year of High Resolution

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Sun, 30 Dec 2012 13:40:00 +0000

At the end of 2011, I set forth a new twist to the standard New Year’s Resolution schtick, resolving to do twelve specific things, one for each month of the year. Some good things happened in the last year, but as far as these resolutions were concerned, 2012 was pretty much a failure:

January: Read David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest and Neal Stephenson’s REAMDE

Once upon a time, I had enough free time and few enough responsibilities that I could read a 1400-page novel in a month. But I don’t get long college summers anymore. I started Infinite Jest in January but didn’t finish until August, and I haven’t even picked up REAMDE yet. (I’ll be starting that in January 2013.)

February: Write a solo for unaccompanied clarinet

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think I managed to set down a rough sketch of some melodic elements, but now I don’t even know where those sketches are. Not even close to a finished solo.

March: Finish the first draft of Circles

Circles was to be my first completed novel, but as I re-read it and started editing, I saw too many problems. Too many mysteries I couldn’t keep secret, too many cardboard characters, too little motivation for the protagonist. So I abandoned Circles and started a new novel, a dystopian novel that I’m currently calling Life Begins.

So, no, I didn’t complete this resolution. But on the plus side, I’m 16,300 words into my new pursuit (which I haven’t touched since October because of NaNoWriMo and Christmas — see below).

April: Post five times a week to this blog

This one I actually completed! April being National Poetry Month made it a little easier, as it gave me an excuse to write silly little poems about legal pads, turnips, and urination, among other things.

May: Cross something off my bucket list

This was supposed to be something besides “write a novel,” since that should have been done by the end of March. So, technically, no, I didn’t do this, except I did finish a (short) novel in December, so I can cross that off my bucket list.

June: Create a webcomic

Unfortunately, not my creation. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I was going to call it “Polly See Me,” and it would be a one-frame comic. I sketched out some puns and wordplay that just needed illustration, but, alas, I never got to the drawing part.

But I’ll share one with you: The caption would read “The plight of the stepladder,” and the image would show someone or something yelling at a stepladder, “You’re not my real ladder!”

July: Enter a short story contest

Though I didn’t do it in July, I did enter a short story in one of Glimmer Train’s short story contests in October. So, SUCCESS! (I finally got the rejection back on the 26 December.)

August: Move Logophilius out of Blogger and onto a proper domain

I still haven’t done this. I still want to do this. I don’t have the funds to get it done right now, either, but, to quote Counting Crows, there’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last.

September: Collect and edit my writings and consider self-publishing

I actually sort of halfway did this one. After collecting them all and re-editing maybe half, I realized that I didn’t have enough content to justify a whole book. It’ll come eventually, though.

October: Draw the sphinx and dragon picture

This was an idea for an illustration that my sons and I came up with at the end of 2011, and back then I thought I could get an Awesome Father Award if the real thing showed up under the Christmas tree in 2012. Didn’t even start it. No award for me.

Trombinet or claribone? (Photo credit: minhtu)

November: Write a duet for clarinet and trombone

But I have been nominated for an Awesome Father Award for getting this one done. I arranged the music from Super Mario Bros. into a duet as a Christmas present for my trombone-playing elder son. I intentionally made it more difficult than he can currently play, but I’m hoping for a performance by next Christmas.

December: Finish first round of editing for Circles

Since I abandoned Circles back in March, I obviously didn’t do this as planned. The idea behind this resolution was that I would have a “finished” novel by the end of 2012.

Though it wasn’t the novel I had planned for a year ago, I did finish writing and (first-round) editing a short novel in December.

After getting knee-deep in the trombone/clarinet duet for my elder son, it didn’t seem right to leave my younger son out of the picture. So, starting in November (for NaNoWriMo), I began writing a fairy tale in which he, my younger son, is the protagonist.

It’s a short thing — 30,000 words — but it’s done, and it’s a book-length fictional story. So I’m going to call this resolution completed.

Unfortunately, I didn’t quite get it done in time to have it printed up and waiting under the Christmas tree. What he got instead was a copy of the cover image with a promise that the book itself would be coming in January 2013. And it will.

And then I’ll see if someone in publishing might actually be interested in it.

Altogether, then, I managed to fulfill 5 1/2 of 12 resolutions. A failing grade, unless we’re grading on a curve — in which case, I need to know how you all did on your resolutions last year so I can calculate where I stand.

Though I didn’t do everything I had hoped to do last year, I’m still pretty proud of what I did accomplish. I get to cross something off my bucket list, and came out with two original creations to mark the the year 2012. And next year will be even better and more productive!

I’ve set out a single health-related resolution for 2013, but I won’t be posting about that here. If you’re interested, I will be posting my progress on my more personal, less focused blog, Soluble Fish.

Ten Great Things about the End of the World

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Thu, 20 Dec 2012 11:00:00 +0000

Thinking about the apocalypse can be scary. The end of all of one's hopes and plans in some great (and possibly painful) conflagration is enough to give anyone nightmares. But the end of the world isn't all bad. Here are ten things you can actually look forward to after the planet is destroyed/the universe ceases to exist/everyone else is raptured:

1. No more annoying buzzwords, catch phrases, or misguided portmanteaux.
When the world ends, there will be no more selfies, bromances, or chillaxing. No more jokes that make people LOL, no more YOLO, and no one will ever again complain that your blog posts are TL;DR. Nothing will ever again be described as being impacted by leveraging synergies.

And there will literally be no more literally.

2. No more celebrity "news."
Goodbye, Paris Hilton. Goodbye, Snooki. So long, Kelly Osborne. Adios, Kardashians. And Dane Cook? Well, just screw Dane Cook. I'd like to say it was nice to have known you, but really, it wasn't.

"I keep my hand here so you can't choke me to death." (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

3. No more in-laws.

No caption needed, I think. (from Awkward Family Photos)

4. No Star Wars VII.
If the world ends tomorrow, you will not have to make that difficult choice about whether to shell out the big bucks to see Star Wars VII, and then about whether to see it in 2D, 3D, IMAX, IMAX 3D, or 4D Holographic.

"Cinderella, I am your father" (Photo credit: Gilderic Photography)

5. No more crappy mornings.
You know how sometimes you roll out of bed just before the alarm clock goes off on a Monday morning, and it's all gray and drizzly outside, and you drive to work and drag yourself through a monotonous day, barely feeling anything and just wanting to crawl back into a warm bed and stay there forever? Yeah, you won't have to deal with that anymore. No more hangovers, no more alarm clocks, no more work.

Photo credit: murdelta

6. No more crappy drivers.
You know that guy talking on his cellphone in front of you who doesn't notice when the light turns green? Or that woman who changes her mind at the light and turns right from the left-turn lane? Or the guy who pulls out into the intersection in slow traffic and then just sits there in front of you in his SUV waiting for traffic to move while your light turns green, then yellow, then red again? Or how about the woman on the highway who tailgates you in the right lane even though you're already going 10 miles over the speed limit?

Guess what: It's the end of the world for them, too.

"Get outta the way, you pussy!"
Photo credit: PDXdj

7. Read my lips: No more taxes!

"Unless we can pass that End-of-the-World Tax in time!" (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

8. No more annoying grammar and usage errors.
If the world ends, you will never again suffer a misplaced apostrophe, misused quotation marks, egregious homophonic mix-up, or misspelled tattoo. (Just soak that in for a moment. Feels good, doesn't it?)

You will also never again have to put up with trolls who question your intelligence, your parentage, and the dispensation of your fecal material simply because you made a typo in a blog post.

9. No more dieting!
If the world ends, you will lose more weight than you ever thought possible without even trying!

The weight will come off on way or another!(Photo credit: apalapala)

10. No more pointless, self-serving, linkbaiting (and self-referential) top-ten lists.

A Three-Word Wednesday Limerick: Hire an Editor

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 17:13:00 +0000

Today's three words are abnormal, dangle, and lavish.

An editor knows how to wrangle
Participles that just want to dangle,
And your abnormal text
Will be lavished, not hexed,
If you hire a pro to untangle.

See what others have done with these three words at ThreeWordWednesday.com.

Dirty Words

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Fri, 07 Dec 2012 13:03:00 +0000

The following is a true story.

Well, it's really closer to two or three true stories combined into on. We call that literary license.

Some of the names have been changed to protect ~~my reputation~~ the innocent and sensitive.

Dirty Words

Three generations of family sat around a large table enjoying a Thanksgiving meal with all the fixings. Everyone was having a great time until great-aunt Linda splashed gravy on her new white shirt.

"Aw, hell," she spat.

"That's not a nice word!" said eight-year-old David, always parent-pleaser.

"That's right, David," his mother said.

"Oh, come on. There's nothing wrong with the word hell," Linda objected. "It's in the Bible. Besides, I bet David's heard a lot worse on the playground."

David's rabble-rousing grandmother asked, "Is that true, David?"

Thanksgiving at the Trolls (From martha_chapa95)

"Is what true?"

"Have you heard other dirty words at school?"

David's normally smiling face shrank and his eyes darted from his mother to his father, neither of whom seemed to want to help with this question. "Um . . ." he hummed, stalling.

"I bet David knows a lot of dirty words," Linda teased.

David's heart fluttered, and he blushed from neck to temples.

"Do you know any other bad words, David?" his grandmother asked.

". . . Yeah. I guess so," he said after much contemplation.

"Like what?"

David's jaw dropped. "Well, I'm not going to tell you!"

His mother finally entered the conversation, but not in the way David had hoped: "Why not?"

"Mom!" David yelled. "Because it's a cuss word. I'm not supposed to say cuss words!"

"Would you whisper it to me?" his grandma asked.

"Yeah," his mother encouraged. "Would you whisper it to Grandma?"

"Well . . . " He hemmed and hawed.

"Come on," Grandma said. "I promise you won't get into any trouble for whispering it to me."

David didn't know what to do. He knew he wasn't supposed to say those bad words, but his grandmother's promise of penalty-free cussing finally got the best of him. "Okay," he said reluctantly.

He slid out of his chair and dragged his feet to the end of the table where his grandmother sat. "All right, David," his grandmother reassured him. "Tell me what other bad word you know."

David took a short breath and let it out quickly. Then he leaned in to his grandma's ear, cupped his hand around his mouth, and whispered, "Poop."

David's grandmother made a noise that sounded like something behind her nose had imploded. She pressed her lips together tightly, and her face turned redder than his. David thought her head might explode from trying to hold something in — a cough? a sneeze? a burp?

David's Butt (Photo credit: zeekslider)

She gave her grandson a reassuring hug. "That word's okay, David. Poop isn't a bad word."

All around the table, David's family members tried not to snicker and failed.

"It isn't?" David asked incredulously.

"No, honey. It's just fine."

"Oh." David felt both confused and relieved.

"You thought poop was a cuss word?" his mother asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Why did you think it's a bad word?"

David answered, "Because it means shit."

Literature Needs More Groupies

noreply@blogger.com (4ndyman) — Tue, 04 Dec 2012 13:30:00 +0000

Last night, I went to the monthly Indy WordLab meetup, where writers of all types and skill levels come together at a great bookstore and try some new things with their writing. Erik Deckers kicked off this particular WordLab by talking about some of the mechanics of humor writing, and then we set off into our various corners to write something funny, based on his advice.

After a while, we came back together to share what we had created. Maybe half the writers (of around 14) shared their humorous works with the whole group.

I was one of them.

I was feeling pretty good about what I had written before I got up in front of the group, and the reading went (I thought) very well. The story won the chuckles I was hoping for at the pseudo-punchline, and got outright laughter at the final line. I couldn't have bought a better response.

Erik "Don't You Wish Your Boyfriend Was Writerly Like Me" Deckers (Photo credit: BlogWorld & TBEX events)

(You can read that story right here on Friday.)

It went so well, in fact, that my infinite ego thought I might have even been impressive. And, as a single man, only one type of person is worth impressing: women. Could it be possible that I had so impressed one of the young ladies that she might swoon, even metaphorically? (I wasn't kidding about the infinite ego bit.)

But then, anticlimactically, I drove home with nothing but my thoughts. I was alone, something I hate to be when I'm feeling so good. Joy like this is meant to be shared!

Much like the tires of my Nissan Versa across the dashed line, my mind drifted as I drove home. What must it be like to so impress a woman with one's artistic skills that all her modesty and clear thought is superseded by outright lust?

A few artists have some experience with this. Pablo Picasso surely had his share of obsessed female fans hoping to pose nude for him, as did Salvador Dali. The boys of Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, and their ilk certainly have reaped the benefits of the raging hormones of anonymous women. Even Franz Liszt occasionally had to duck to avoid a flying corset during a performance.

Now, I've never signed a woman's bare chest, or awakened next to a naked woman I couldn't remember, or taken a paternity test, and I don't know any writers who have.

OH MY GOD! LOOK AT HIS TIGHT PROSE!

(Except maybe the paternity test part.)

But why not? Literature can be just as sexy, if not sexier, than rock 'n' roll! Young female fans might not be able to see a writer swaying his hips as he writes, but they can certainly be affected by an author's lascivious description of said hip-swaying. I may not be a looker, but Cyrano de Bergerac proved to me that I didn't have to be. (Perhaps he made some promises that the literary world couldn't keep?) And besides, Mick Jagger isn't much to look at either, but he certainly got much more "satisfaction" from his art than I ever have.

Where are the groupies for writers?

Where are the literary nymphets? The screaming [18-year-old-and-above] girls who get hot for a nice turn of phrase? The buxom, blonde biblio-bimbos? The short story sluts? The promiscuous princesses of the published page?

It just doesn't seem fair, does it?

I suppose it's for the best, though. If writers did have groupies, I'd probably just be complaining about how all the hot ones went home with Erik last night.