Monday, March 28, 2016

Leitmotif in Writing

Stumbled across this Nerdwriter video today, looking for inspiration as I continue revising Doleful Creatures.

My last blog post focused on the fact that as I write the story, I’m trying to write it as a chiasmus, showing the development of Jarrod’s character from weak and haunted to unburdened and looking at the present, rather than being shackled to the past. As I organize my story, I’m also focusing on making my characters sound different and be different. The concept of leitmotif, I hope, will help me in that quest.

Not that every character is going to have one – but the major characters ought to have some kind of leitmotif that helps them stand apart. Not that I need another device in this book, as the chiasmus is going to keep me busy. So maybe for The Hermit of Iapetus . . .

News Genius! An Entirely NEW Way to Make Lame Comments Online

Because the Internet isn’t already awash with nasty, banal, nonsensical and otherwise useless comments on the nasty, banal, nonsensical and otherwise nonsensical stuff that is clogging the tubes, we now have News Genius, a new tool that allows the ordinary Joe or Jane the power to “annotate” the written word as it appears online.

They might be annotating this blog right now. Though to find out, well, I’m not sure. Notifying folks their stuff is being annotated doesn’t seem to be a feature of News Genius (probably you can find out if you’re being annotated by becoming a News Genius member, but I don’t know as their FAQ is a little on the sketchy side).

I applaud their goals as lofty. They include this in their brief FAQ on how to make a “Good” annotation:

The best annotations confront the underlying text in some way—whether it’s a fact check, a difference of opinion, or simply an updated look at an older piece of writing.
Highlight a strong word, phrase, or succinct idea. Then add your original take, coupled with:
  • Meaty context with links to sources
  • Rich imagery (i.e. interesting videos, photos, infographics, archived tweets, or gifs)
  • A question or prompt for other readers/annotators to reply to
Nicely said. This is the kind of annotation I try to do myself (the old-fashioned way, with sticky notes and pencils or pecked out on my tablet) and what I encourage my English students to do as they read a text.

So let’s look at some of the examples (a link taken directly from the News Genius FAQ):

Don’t worry if you can’t actually see any of the annotations there. I couldn’t either. They appear to be missing, without explanation. Maybe you have to have a Genius account to see them. Although I could see riveting annotated Buzzfeed articles when the links are provided properly. Also missing are annotations from the other examples they provide. I don’t know why. I also don’t know why you’d want to annotate an article about Kim Kardashian, but then I am a stuck-in-the-mud fuddy-duddy who only encounters the Kardashian clan when looking up “Keeping Up Appearances” on YouTube. (Annotate this: I am a snob, yessir.)

Here’s what annotations are supposed to look like.

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to be enriched or enlightened by any of this (and this is offered by “Leah,” Managing News Editor at News Genius (in an era when anyone with any semblance of a website can declare themselves Managing News Editor, just as John Pinette can declare himself the Boss of Ham).

I see a lot of good potential here. But if anyone thinks News Genius is going to elevate discourse or whatever, snork, you’ve got another thing coming. The trolls will take over, as they have every other commenting platform – and that’s basically what this is, another commenting platform. Here’s what the Captains Obvious at have to say:

One thing News Genius hasn’t taken into consideration: a very real potential for abuse.

No kidding. Because the Internet is rife with abuse and scorn, drowning out the useful in a wave of stupidity. In fact, I’ve even had to give up reading the comments on local news stories because even in this hick tub area, the trolls are dominant. And no matter how much hand-wringing goes on at News Genius about how they’re not all trolls, that the vast majority of annotators are wonderful, thoughtful people who contribute to web culture and commentary and love to pet furry kittens, trolls will come in and it’s the trolls that will get the notoriety and will stain the very webby fabric that makes up News Genius.

The only way to combat that is outright censorship – banning the worst of the trolls. But as soon as a site starts banning, well, you can guess what happens.

So I want to know:

When I read an annotated article, can I easily filter the banal from the constructive without spending more time curating the list of annotators than it would to read the article?

Can web sites opt out of Genius annotations? (A corollary: Should they? (And if you answer YES or NO, than it’s clear you don’t realize the answer is best given as “is grey area”.)

Will News Genius do anything to bring us out of our news bubbles (given that we can probably opt to technologically follow or ignore people we want to see or would rather not)?

Can I declare myself the Boss of Pizza?

Does News Genius really think your garden-variety commenter/annotator want to be “accountable for the things we say and the sensitivity behind them”?

Monday, March 14, 2016

Moseyin' Dwight

So what do you do when the first 200 pages of your 404-page manuscript have serious problems, including boring exposition, that have to be fixed, even when you thought the book was ready for publishers?

You call in Moseyin' Dwight and Standoffish Andrew, that's who.

In other words, you start revising the novel again. And you make sure your main characters show up strong in the beginning, with explanations for their motivations and moods and such. Keep the exposition to a minimum, or at least controlled in a way that it helps the story along, rather than being the story in its own right.

And that's okay. I've been re-reading the book over the past few weeks and have noticed (I hope) most of the problems. I'm going to have to come up with some kind of system to keep all the fixes that need fixing organized so I follow through with a few things throughout the novel.

I'm excited about it. I've got a good path forward on how to fix things. Hoping I can have it doctored up so I can write a new novel for NaNoWriMo in November. Doleful Creatures has kept me bottled up for the past two Novembers.

Saturday, March 5, 2016

Doleful Creatures: Rebooting

Chapter One: Ask Now the Beasts

With a wet thump the badger pinned the magpie to the sodden grass.

The bird flapped its free wing in the badger’s face but the badger dodged, bit to the bone, and broke it. “You won’t fthly now, you dethil!” the badger spat, pushing down with its paw tighter on the magpie’s chest.

The bird flapped its broken wing feebly, jerking its head to and fro to avoid the froth and saliva dripping from the badger’s leering jaws.

“Aloysius, please!” the bird croaked.

“Pleathe? Pleathe!“ the badger roared. With a free paw it stamped the flapping wing to the ground, twisting on the broken bone. The magpie winced. “Thlee didn’t get a pleathee out, I’ll warrant, before thlee died! And you dare athk me pleathe?”

The badger panted. Strong as it was, it had lost much blood. Half its teeth were broken and bleeding and one of its hind legs still dragged the steel trap that had shattered its foot. The magpie could feel the weight of the animal pushing it into the mud underneath the grass, but not its strength.

The badger licked its broken teeth and let out a whimper.

“I couldn’t know, Aloysius, I couldn’t know they’d be here!” the magpie pleaded.

“Couldn’th know,” the badger repeated. “Maybe the beaverth knew. But we all know now! Build that dam, you thaid, and they, the foolth, lithened. You and your Rebekah – “the badger spat out part of a molar – “dragged uth here, Landi and I. For a lark! A lark! Foolth built their dam, had to built it higher. And nobody thought the humanths wouldn’t come?” The leg pinning the bird’s broken wing to the ground trembled, and the magpie could breathe again as the badger shifted its weight to its haunches and one good hind foot.

“We lotht the battle, we lotht the war, Jarrod,” the badger said. It turned its head to one side and vomited up blood and foam. It drew a huge breath and seemed to choke on it as the rain fell and more foam bubbled at its lips. “Landi,” it said, and the strength left its front paws. The badger collapsed atop the magpie and rolled to one side, shivering, sobbing, choking on the rain.

“Landi,” the badger whispered. And then was still.

The magpie stroked at the badger’s side with a free claw and nestled its beak into the fur at the badger’s breast. Through the slow, rattling breaths, it heard the heartbeat, punctured by coughs and quiet, rattling sobs and the splatter of rain as it drenched them.

“I’m sorry, Aloyisus,” Jarrod said. And he too was still.

Grey-blue clouds wept onto the canyon grasses, pattering onto the snow still lying in the shadow of the bigger rocks and trees.

The creek cascaded through a yawing hole in an enormous beaver dam, a twisted pile of logs and branches and mud., The lake behind it diminished, showing the outlines of the chain of small ponds the beavers and formed the summer before, the ponds where their kits played and swam and splashed and thumped their tails in the mud.

Scattered near the dam near the shores of the former lake, bodies.

Necks snapped in the jaws of traps. Tongues lolling, eyes empty, not blinking at the raindrops that fell on them. Beavers old, some with kits curled up next to their stiffening bodies, shivering in the cold rain. Some young, bearing looks of surprise and agony and fear.

And there, in a trap, a badger – smaller than the other one, white-starred on the broken face.

And here, an oddity: A magpie, also dead in a trap, strained at the chain that kept the trap tethered to the ground, its wings outstretched like a dropped flower, its beak straining toward the dead badger whose paws lay outstretched, nearly touching the end of the dead bird’s beak.

Jarrod closed his eyes. The rain fell harder and he thought, between patters of water, that Aloysuis’ heart was slowing. Ebbing. Growing weaker. But perhaps, he thought, it was only the natural rhythms of the body. Not death. Because the badger’s breath, though slow, was steady.

He woke. The rain had stopped and the skies had cleared, revealing a half moon in the darkening blue. The Moon’s Eye stared down at him. The breeze was warm and Jarrod found that as Aloysius had slept, he had turned his snout down into his chest near his beak, so they were breathing the same air.

“Little magpie,” a voice said.

Jarrod jerked his head, trying to find the source of the voice. He jerked too hard and winced as the broken bones in his wing sang through and blanched his eyes with streaks and stars of whitish light.
“Little magpie,” the voice said.

Jarrod blinked and stared at the moon, which stared back.

“Little magpie,” the voice said again.

“Yes?” Jarrod asked.

He felt gentle nudges on his chest, along his legs, down the bones in his wings. Where the nudges found hurt, the nudges probed and the hurt blinded Jarrod, but then disappeared like mist in the sun.
“Who are you?” Jarrod asked.

“I am He Who Marks the Sparrow’s Fall,” the voice said. He thought for a moment he saw the Moon’s Eye wink. As the voice spoke and pronounced his name, Jarrod felt as if he’d been plunged in cold mountain water and brought to the surface again, exhilarated at the breath and the cold of the water, yet feeling as at home in the water as a wood duck.

“Oh. Oh, oh lord,” Jarrod said as he felt his chest tighten and the tears well. He Who Marks the Sparrow’s Fall. Or the Sparrow-Minder, sometimes called derisively. Most in the wood knew of Him, spoken of at dark and furtive times by mothers offering comfort or fathers offering the last shreds of courage before the floods or claws or teeth or drought came to claim those he sought in vain to protect. His own mother, he recalled, spoke of Him as he and his siblings learned to fly.

He was a late flier, was Jarrod. Saw both a brother and sister die young, the brother learning to fly and snatched from the air by an owl.

He only minded the fall. Why not the flight, he remembered his father asking. Why not the flight?
But his mother taught him not to question. To be a Good Bird. To be patient and to accept what happens as what was meant to be. His father, he remembered, left the nest when such talk came up.
He opened his beak and his father came out.

“Oh lord,” Jarrod said. “Where – “

“Where was I, when all this happened?” the voice asked.

“Yes, lord,” Jarrod said. “My Rebekah, she is – she lies . . . “

“She is now with me,” the voice said. “As is Landi the badger. And so many of the beavers. They are all with me.”

“Could you not mind them?” Jarrod shouted as the blood rushed in his head and water coursed out of the broken dam. “You mind them now they’re dead, but not when they were alive? At the fall!” he shouted. “Why always at the fall?”

Jarrod again felt the nudges of the invisible hands, stroking his feathers. Where they touched, a shivering thrill went down his spine and the whitish light of pain was yellow as the marigolds.
“I am told I am cruel,” the voice said. “Do not think you are the first.”

“Why mind the fall?” Jarrod asked. Just as soon as he felt the warmth and comfort from the invisible hands, it faded and it felts as if his heart and mind turned from flesh to stone. “When you could mind the flight?”

But ask now the beasts and they shall teach thee; and the fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee. . .

Other voices sang as if in the wind, the sky, the trees, the air, the moon and its eye, the ground and its tunnels, the leaves and their green.

Or speak to the earth, and it shall teach thee: and the fishes of the sea shall declare unto thee.

Who knoweth not in all these that the hand of the Lord hath wrought this; In whose hand is the soul of every living thing, and the breath of all . . .
Though he could see his father’s hunched shoulders, the voice he heard was that of his mother, singing a rhyme of similar vein in the magpie tongue. “The fowls of the air will tell thee,” she would sing “that He minds the flier’s fall . . . “

He opened his beak to speak, and his father came out again: She sang the song to comfort, and she sang the song to tease. When she would finish, he who had been hunched on the branch near the nest, pretending not to listen, would hop back to her side, lean against her and say “Almost, you convince me to believe again.”

Then he remembered: Rebekah is dead. Gone her voice, her laughter, her gentle taunts and proddings to fly high in the sky, far along the creeks and rivers, low among the tree branches to meet those who lived in the wood and hear their songs and laughter and share their joy and maybe make them a little less frightened of magpies.

And their fledglings. Somewhere, they lived. She often worried about them. Wondered if they still flew, if they had fledglings of their own. And he heard his father in him: “They are their own worry now.”

How empty that felt.

Now, she is gone. More emptiness.

Be a good bird, he heard his mother say.

How long had it been since he thought of her. Did she still fly? And his father, brooding, melancholy to her happiness – Did he still gaze up at the bright moon and tell little ones the story of the Moon’s Eye?

The Moon’s Eye, that looks on all, and remembers all and connects all to those who have come before and to those who come after.

“We could find them” she told him. “How far could they have gone?”

So they flew long flights, always asking, always stopping when they saw birds of black and white.
They never found one. But she remained hopeful. “We have our lives to look,” she said.

“Ever faithful, though doubtful,” said He Who Minds the Sparrow’s Fall. “Just like y our father. Just like your mother. I have for you a task. Look!”

Jarrod looked and first beheld his wing, though stiff, healed of hurt. He looked further and saw ethereal paws stroking Aloysius’ back, gently freeing the broken foot from the trap and caressing it until it regained mostly its former shape and the skin and bone healed and crusted blood faded away.
But as the red faded, Jarrod thought he saw wisps of white, growing like blind roots seeking the sun but never finding it, shooting out of the ground and wrapping themselves around the still form of the badger. Even when Aloysius stirred and got groggily to his feet, the tendrils flexed and bent and moved with him, though ever shot their sickly feelers into the ground beneath him.

“Here, your mission, Jarrod,” the voice said. “For you I give the call to rescue. This one. He will not remember. He will not remember what good has been done to him this day. He will curse you. He will curse you for the death of his beloved. For from this day, he will be in thrall to the other. To The Lady, my sister.”

Jarrod saw Aloysius as if through ice on the surface of a lake, in shape and form but exaggerated with whorls, bulges, bubbles and the flotsam of leaves and twigs frozen in the water. He tasted the gall rising in his throat as Aloysius stumbled over to the still form of Landi, face a grimace of pain. Aloysius lay next to her and wept.

“Find him, Jarrod,” the voice said. “Find him, and set him free.”

“I don’t need another task,” Jarrod said.

“Complete one, complete many,” said He Who Marks the Sparrow’s Fall. And he felt his presence leave, like one flying into shadow, out of the sun.

Then Jarrod closed his eyes. The ice melted and he heard anew the sobs of his friend.

The sun set and darkness filled the canyon.

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

Doleful Creatures – Swiss Cheese

In French they call it “le paradoxe du fromage a trous,” or “the holey-cheese paradox”:

The more there is of cheese, the more there are holes.
More there are holes, there is less cheese.
So the more cheese you have, the less cheese you have.

As I look at Doleful Creatures again, I see the holey-cheese paradox all the way through it.

One of my beta readers said she enjoyed the latter half of the novel more than the first half – and after re-reading the first 100 pages, I have to agree with her. These first hundred pages are filled with those cheesy holes. And what is there, well, it makes you wish you could eat the holes rather than the cheese. So I’ve got some work to do to bring some cheese in to mix with the holes I’ve already got. 

And I’ve got to decide what holes and what bits of cheese to toss as I bring in more cheese and more holes.

Before I let this metaphor get away from me completely: I’m still VERY excited about this book. I think I can pull it together, after lucky Revision No. 13.
But I’m not going to start that revision until I finish reading the entire book, and see where the holes stand and where the cheese lies.

The first part of the book is weak on characterization – I’m more than ten chapters in  on this read and have YET to encounter Aloysius, one of the main characters from the tail end of the book. He’s there in those pages, but in an earlier form, which this book was not what the second half came to be. How did I ever think this was ready to send to a publisher? I just don’t know.

The balance here will be bringing in the right amount of cheese and holes, so I end up with what looks like a complete ball of cheese, not one cobbled together from a few cheese balls, which is what I have now.