Book Review: The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss

Writers of the Future Award winner Patrick Rothfuss' debut novel is a sailing example of how very detailed a character study can be. The Name of the Wind is the name of the novel. It's the story of the magician/warrior/hero/antihero Kvothe raising himself from a favored son of a traveling minstrel troupe in the beginning of the book to a shining example of mysterious innkeeper with a more mysterious past, also at the beginning of the book. It makes a sort of sense when you read it. The novel is constructed Frankenstein-wise in storytelling format, where the bulk of the tale is bookended by oldish Kvothe sharing his history. And goodness gracious but Mister Rothfuss is devoted to this character's history. Plot is suspended for some five hundred pages in the middle of the book to allow all the nuances of Master Kvothe's character to be thoroughly explored. Admittedly, Master Kvothe is an engaging character to follow, both witty and driven. He's an ideal tragic hero, quite built up with spectacular advantages above his peers, but his amazing amazingness never manages to annoy one because one finds oneself too bloody irritated by Kvothe's incredible failings which more than counterbalance his remarkable genius. The book is layers of Kvothe's victories carried up by the blunders he causes himself to need to repair. The cycle is amazing. Kvothe does something to set you in awe, and you are in awe for a page or two until he makes you smack your forehead with the book because he's gone on tripped something terrible. Then you're interested for the next fifty pages because you want to find out whether he fixes it again. Then he does...then he trips again, but worse. Bang on the litso, flash in the glazzies.

The cycle is exhausting. It is also fortuitous because the book lacks for enormous stretches one aspect which this critic would consider essential: plot. I mean...it's interesting, because I think that perhaps M. Rothfuss had been watching a lot of very good TV while writing The Name of the Wind. The book is constructed quite episodically. There are many small plot arches, driving the story forward in hops. But except for infrequent brushes with the initial conflict introduced inside the first hundred pages, M. Rothfuss he suspends for the next four hundred fifty pages. The book is seven hundred thirty pages long. Way more than half of the book has zero plot. Four hundred fifty pages are pure character development. It's entertaining and beautifully described character development, but every twenty pages or so it makes you say, "maybe the story starts on the next page..."... then it doesn't.... Shit, dude. Long time to sit around and wait. Then, ooh ooh, then the reigition of the plot comes upon what I would term a tenuous note at best. By damn, I'll take a tenuous note after reading for five hundred fifty pages.

Grrgle.... You may ask, why would I read through it that far? The fact of the matter, my fair compatriots, is M. Rothfuss has a way with words. He has a gift for description and a knack for characters. His every character is both familiar and original, maintaining a comfy level of, "oh, yeah, I know that guy," without lapsing into cliche. The characters are peopled upon a backdrop with a similar level of comfortable nearness just quirked to the left enough to feel original. Kvothe and his fellow spirits are not actors and their world is not the movie set that fantasy is often set upon. Kvothe is alive in a world, touchable and present, and you could almost walk through the book into the streets with him.

Almost. I extend this as high praise. And, therefore, I do recommend this book. I do not recommend it to everyone. I do not recommend this book to people who value plot and intrigue, nor to those frustrated by zig-zags in story and floating conflict and suspended promises. My recommendation for The Name of the Wind goes to those kids who love winding descriptions, love the opportunity to really get their fingers twisted in the dirt and really get to be on first name terms with the story's ghosts, and especially to those kids who need a long book to fill the time between things. The Name of the Wind's every page is a window into another world. It's a good, long, meandering trek into a poetic place. Them that like that, and are okay without much story, will love this book.

Enjoys.

More detail! More words!

I am in the middle of what will amount to the thirdish and finalish draft of my novel, tentatively titled A Book of Ferryman's Heralds. What is most interesting to me about it, aside from how there seems somehow to be those weird "character" things and "story" things and even some "plot" things is that the third draft is already as long as the second draft. That would seem logical, except that the story is halfway as far in, and this draft has taken less than half the time to write. It's a fascinating thing to contemplate. While I feel that I haven't gotten as far, since the events I wrote today aren't even to the story's technical "midpoint"--an important storytelling term I learned recently--at the same time I feel like I've gotten much further. I think these are the reasons:

1) I'm using twice as many words. That doesn't mean I'm throwing in a lot of "gasps" and adjectives, which is what it could mean. What it means is that I'm taking my time to be thorough in describing things. I did not, as I usually do, rush through and assume that my brilliant images will communicate psychically, my concepts and designs will be clear even though there's no reason they should make sense. Rather I take my sweet time with all the little pieces and use sufficient words and time to describe how they all look, smell, sound, and fit together. Every moment can last a lifetime.

2) I'm giving my characters space to contemplate and to expand on their situations. In the past, I've always assumed that my characters would take care of themselves. I tended to write quite cinematically, just describing what it would look like people did and I'd assume that readers could keep up. That would work all right in the movie version when my characters are acted out as well as they are in my mind, with all the emotional states sort of dancing across their faces. My descriptive powers are not yet where they need to be to keep up with my imagined acting skills, however. And besides, I'm writing a mythologically inclined fantasy. Putting in poetic thought process lends itself to the storytelling.

3) I'm including damn subplots. I've always left subplots out of the novel proper, assuming that the hints and vagueness with which the main characters treated the subplots would be sufficient for the story. Subplots often feel less interesting to me than main plots. But when I started to explain the actions of my main characters to myself during my world-building kick recently I realized that the subplots I needed were really good and very interesting. In exploring my subplots I've managed to discover that my novel as it is can be a good conduit for me to expostulate and explore something I really like, which is various classical story structures. If I imagine character X as the main character, my novel is a classical tragedy--if character Y is the lead it becomes a stereotypical Hero's Journey with a personal touch--and the rest. I now enjoy subplots.

Those are the main reasons. I explain the doubling in words briefly as an increase in thoroughness.

Why I'm explaining: The way I see it, care and thorough treatment are often lacking in creative endeavours. Sometimes we meet writers with a proclivity toward intentional fantasy bloat, and we should not err in their direction. However, if you find that your attempts at novels often seem to stop on page twenty-four, and you don't know how the story goes from there, you may be leaving out half of what needs to be said. I suggest relishing the moments.

And some sweet tunes.

"Ready for This" by Tim Minchin AND Glimpse of Eternity

Here we are, on the first of December: another of the arbitrary dividers
we've imposed between now and earlier. Paranoia about the continuity of time
does very little for us except worry us that those moments will never come back.
That's one way of looking at it. Another, perhaps more comforting way, is to
remember that a version of you is earlier than now, still being alive then.
Perhaps a confusing thought, but if you really think it through you get a
glimpse of eternity. This is a true truth.

Tim Minchin. Funny man.

Comic Book Review: Spawn

I read volume one of the Spawn anthologies. I've been meaning to read the Spawn books ever since the movie killed my soul. I have a history with the character Spawn, going way back before I read him or saw him or anything.

The movie came out when I was thirteen, and one of my buddies became immediately obsessed with the character. I liked this kid, and I've always had a bit of a follower psychology, so I decided to be obsessed with this movie as well, even though I knew nothing about it. Somehow I found a poster or saw a preview for it after that, though, and thusly saw the look, felt the attitude, of the character Hellspawn. That masked face and impossible cape and green eyes lodged in my head, like the shading of a really good ghost story. It impacted my imaginings and my creativity, and much of my writing secretly had a few drops of an idealized Hellspawn in it, because I never saw the movie when it was released, and never knew it was a comic book.

Years passed, and Spawn lurched around the back of my head, till finally I was driven to wikipedia. I read about Spawn, and the Violator, and the world Todd McFarlane invented. The art impressed me, the stories intrigued me, and the fact that the whole thing was a comic book first totally took me by surprise. I got the movie and watched it, and it did, in fact, shatter some of my childhood dreams. Completely obnoxious.

It discouraged me. Thus I failed to speedily procure the comic book.

Several years passed. I had many adventures, and eventually found my lady love. Among her many charms is a picky love of comic books. She loves Todd McFarlane, especially, and I trust her taste, except in liking me. Spawn's been reintroduced to me as a literary pursuit to consider.

The other day, I saw volumes one, three, and four of Spawn anthologies at the library. On an impulse, I grabbed volume one and checked it out. I read it fast, and these are my impressions:

The characters are great, the world is great, the situations are provocative, the art is as pretty a comic book art as you'd want. It's a good book for the reading. It ought to have movied up something gorgeous. Stupid, careless movie mongers, mutilizing it.

I found the overall plot of the anthology irritatingly vague and diffuse, and the story from issue to issue moves more slowly than I'd like. Each issue has fewer revelations than I'd write into them, which is one reason why it ought to have movied up gorgeously. What ought to have happened is a streamlining of the story, so the important bits were emphasized, and the world was made more smelly, and the repetition was repeated less. The movie ought to have been good. I'm frustrated with the hosers who messed up Spawn the movie.

Overall, I like Spawn. I'll read the next anthology. I want more of this world. Todd McFarlane wins.

Lesson 0: The Five Act Plot

Shakespeare was, among other things, a failure as a fashionista. I mean to say, that lacey collar thing really sucked. Not going to lie. However, we remember him for his writing, and so shall be left aside his fashion sense.

He called himself "The Poet", as did his contemporaries, and everyone else. It's a fitting title for him, because his originality came from his turn of phrase more than anything. Through his turn of phrase, his characters and their stories were made compelling, to put it mildly. Through the prettiness of his language, normal people were laid bare in such a way as to be seen beautifully. That was his genius: to set forth a reality so real that we believe it as we believe our lives. And his forum of choice was the five act play. As I understand it, the term "five act play" wasn't one used by him or anyone else. However, the formula of the five act play is the formula that he followed for every single play he wrote. And it's a winning formula. So effective is it that almost every movie we watch now sticks to the same formula. And here is the formula, presented with a famous story as an example:

Act 1: In the first act, the main characters are introduced, as are their conflicts and back grounds. The purpose of Act 1 is to describe the main plot. In Star Wars: A New Hope, the first act begins just after the text scrawl ends--that's technically a prologue. The first act of Star Wars explains that Leia needs Obi-Wan Kenobi's help.

Act 2: In the second act, secondary plots, characters, and conflicts are introduced. Act 2 of Star Wars is where Luke Skywalker comes in, all set to start his hero's journey, where he begins to learn the ways of the Force and become a Jedi. (For an analysis of the hero's journey/adventure, wait till I've written it.)

Act 3: In the third act, everything is thrown topsy-turvy and made difficult. This is where messes happen. In Star Wars, this is where Obi-Wan and Luke team up with Han Solo to get off Tatooine, and where Luke starts his Jedi training with the little training remote on the Falcon, and where they head toward Alderaan. The division between acts 3 and 4, here, is a little fuzzy, because of the reasons I'll explain in the next paragraph.

Act 4: In the fourth act, some way of concluding the plots and conflicts is suggested. However, the messes in the last act are made messier, so that the conclusion of plots and conflicts, while seeming inevitable, also seems impossible. In Star Wars, this is where the Death Star is explained as a doomsday device. They start doing this as soon as the Falcon is caught in the Death Star's tractor beam, as a demonstration of the Death Star's power. Then they have that scene where their battle plan is outlined from the Death Star plans they got from R2. This is also the scene in which the battle around the Death Star starts, but does not finish. This act ends about when Red Leader gets killed, and Luke has to start his attack run.

Act 5: Then it's climax time. In the fifth act, everything is fixed. In Star Wars, this act begins when Luke stars his attack run, and everything thereafter is the remainder of the fifth act. You have your climax, and your conclusion, and your feel-good moment of emotional relief in this act.

So that's Shakespeare's winning formula. The thing works, it's undeniable. Dial in a story, make your characters and situations work well, and this is a sure-fire entertainment.

My question, then, is: can the formula work with a short story? I plan to find out. I have a short story that I wrote for a class, and my teacher wrote on it that it was a "genuine pleasure to read." And I agree. I have written few things that I enjoy reading--I almost never reread these blogs, even. That story was a genuine pleasure, though. However, I showed it to another writer friend of mine. She's a super smart lady, who got her masters in creative writing and all, and she wrote on it, "ever heard of plot? Look into it." And that was a legitimate comment, too, because at that point I hadn't ever heard of plot. Now that I'm analyzing Shakespearean plot structure, I'm going to revisit that story and see if I can plug it into this winning formula and make something pretty of it. I understand the story I wanted to tell, and I did it pretty close to well, so it should work. I'll document my progress here, so keep an eye out for a repeat of the five act diagram above, but with the characters Trick and Moxy and their adventures, instead of Luke and Star Wars stuff.

Sound like a plan? Good.

Definitions: Metaphysics, Epistemology, Anthropology

Before I continue in te blogosphere, I need to define three terms. I'm going to use these terms a lot. These definitions aren't mine. As a check/balance thingy to help my consistency, I'm paraphrasing the definitions commonly used for these terms by philosophers through the ages. Not because I'm much of a philosopher, mind. These definitions just seem the most useful, and they're the definitions that I use for these terms. So here they are:

Metaphysics: From Greek, "meta" is above, and "physics" is physics. Therefore, the physics above physics. That is to say, those most universal rules that govern reality.

Epistemology: From Greek, "episteme" is knowledge, and "logos" is words, or way, or science. Epistemology is the science of knowing. How things are known, what is known, how knowing relates to being, is epistemology.

Anthropology: From Greek, "anthropos" is man, and "logos" is words, or way, or science. Anthropology is the science of man. It tries to answer questions like, "What is man? How does he tick? What are his modes and motions and motives?"

I need to define these terms. Probably, they'll get scattered all over my blogging. And since metaphysics and anthropology especially have other definitions that a lot of people know, and I mean them in these philosophical senses, then I want to be clear.

Thanks. Bye.

Third submission of "Totem" and the speech

Stardate 21230.6/The Year of Our Lord 2009, September the ninth

Wednesday

Dear folks,

It was actually two days ago. On Monday. All very exciting.

This afternoon I gave an ad libbed speech on the subject of how the Dalai Lama supports the fact that civilization rests on the curiosity of writers. Giving a speech on that topic off the cuff is kind of exciting, I tell you no lie. I think I totally muffed it. I was able to speak clearly, annunciate all my words, and I managed to hit all my points and in the right order without getting lost. That was good. But it wasn't MOVING--unless it was, and I just couldn't hear it. All I know for certain is that no one laughed at the funny parts, and no one told me afterward what they thought. Now I don't know where I messed up, or if I did. I can't tell where I need improvement.

Still, it was essentially my first speechifying gig, and I actually did it. I feel like I've accomplished something today.

Sincerely,

Bouncy Mind

Fatima

Writing fiction and talking to people who write fiction has taught me that everyone's a sadist. Everyone likes seeing misfortune happen to other people. It's given me a kind of pessimistic view of, like, everything, but in an ironically funny way. Suffering is entertaining, apparently. Weird, but seemingly true. We take a cruel pleasure in seeing people messed with, or messing with them ourselves. Just for chuckles, we're all out to get each other.

Are we all doomed, then, to being quietly and politely evil forever? I posit not.

Sometimes, I see people with a kind of reverse sadism. Two days ago, I was at the dentist, and this fellow walked in, clearly not feeling that great. Feeling bitchy, I thought. And, upon seeing this dude, the hygenist got this huge, wicked smile on her face, and proceeded to try and cheer him up. The thing being that her methods were distinctly insidious. Through evil prodding and jabbing she probably got him in a tolerable mood inside of five minutes. They walked out of the room, and I didn't see the guy again. But I'd talked to that particular hygenist before, and she's kind of contagious.

There she was, taking a wicked pleasure in insidiously causing another human being happiness. It was kind of weird, but not really all that weird.

We aren't all evil, that's what the moral of the story is.... Or maybe we are all evil, but sometimes our evil would prefer seeing happiness rather than suffering. We greedily want our way. That's kind of evil. Maybe some people evilly just want good stuff to happen.... I'm confused, now.

Fantasy Rock and Roll?

Of late, many of the science fiction ideas, characters, worlds, groups, whole stories, etc, that I've been making up have been characterized and defined, at least in part, by rock and roll. T. Volker and the Rough and Ready Corps, of Eve and Shenectady notoriety, for instance, are children of AC/DC, specifically "TNT" for Volker and "Dirty Deeds" for the Corps.

Right now I'm foraying into fantasy though. And I don't know what kind of music to listen to. Rock and roll speaks to my soul, somehow, and I believe there's rock and roll in my fantasies. I can't think at the moment, however, of any groups, songs, or eras that seem fitting to characters like Twig and situations like Finger searching for luck.

As I write this an ironic thought occurs to me. For a long time recently all of the rock and roll I've been listening to has been old, classic. Some of it has been dated, and all of it has been era defining or defined by its era, and all the eras have been markedly ancient, in a sense.

Right now I'm listening to "Girl's Not Grey" by AFI. It came out in 2003. And although it isn't really perfectly vibrating with ideas I have of fantastical ilk, it's closer to the right mood, better idea.

We think of science fiction, and at first blush we imagine the new, the shiny, the chrome, the cutting edge. First blush fantasy tends to evoke feelings of age and agelessness and the ancient. I'm finding it interesting, fascinating, and pretty peculiar that I'm identifying newness with fantasy and oldness with science fiction.

Another thought has just occurred to me, and that's the revolutionary qualities of a lot of the music that I listen to. The Beatles were almost the first people to do what they did; The Ramones invented an attitude; Hendrix revolutionized guitar; Thin Lizzy inspired practically everything; the Stones just went kablooie all over the place. The old rock and rollers were the inventors, the cutting edge musicians. They were the explorers, reaching for newness, not sure where they were headed and forced to create shiny exploration at every turn. But what have we got now? New kids inventing NOTHING. You read articles about the brand new shooting stars on the rock and roll scene and the article is just a list of names that these new kids remind us of--oh, yeah, Endeverafter is like Led Zeppelin with Thin Lizzy sprinkled all over the top. The revolution is over, and we are living in a time when rock and roll is old. Still magical, but not being discovered anymore: it's come, and it's old, and it has stuck and will not leave. This is where we live, in rock and roll world. The magicians of old have brought us to this point when young heroes are discovering dragons to battle and corporate mogul warlords to overthrow...

Simple, Fruity, Philosophy, #1

I find it interesting how all apples are shaped like apples, but no apples are shaped like each other.

Philosophically, life is like an orange: rhymes with nothing.

Personallity

Hey everybody in the world! Find somebody between the ages of nine and fifteen and remember how people are supposed to act! Yegawds. I've had it up to here--this high--with adults. You're a bunch of stinkers.

And when I say "somebody" I mean one somebody. Not some group or another. Sheeshers.

I LIKE TO DREAM! part 1

"Yes, yes, right between my sound machine,"--John Kay

A whole bunch of my favorite song lyrics have to do with rock and roll. Not too strange an idea, really, just sort of circular, and self actualizing...or self defeating, depending on how you look at it.

I'm fortunate in that I am controllably ADD. That is to say, I can have divided and often opposing feelings about something and not overload or become confused. So to have many of my favorite songs in the rock and roll genre to be on the topic of rock and roll both pleases and displeases me. It pleases me in that these are things which describe something that I like. And displeases me in that these songs seem to have been lazy in their choice of subject matter. They please me in their representing the reality that rock and roll is open to many interpretations. And displeases me that much of the descriptors, ideas, and imagery are predictable, even if you've never heard this particular "I like rock and roll" song.

To be continued...

Theme Songs: Drift Away

"Day after day I'm more confused,/but I look for the light through the pouring rain./You know that's a game I hate to lose./I'm feeling the strain./Now ain't that a shame."--Mentor Williams, Steppenwolf

I identify with music. And I identify with words.

Making any leaps of judgment here? Okay, good; I'll assume we're all on the same page.

I have begun compiling a list--playlist--of theme songs. Songs that are already floating around in the void. So far they mostly fall into the "no duh it's that one" column. However a couple have really surprised me. A phenomenon in itself quite shocking since I'm talking about me choosing something to be associated with something that I made up.... Not a strangity that I think I can explain.

Steppenwolf is an old band, and they have an old song most everyone has heard. The "Give me the beat boys to free my soul, I want to get lost in the rock and roll" song. It's called "Drift Away". It's a pretty feel good, ephemeral song. Almost sad, really. Not high tempo, blood and guts rock and roll. More classicky, more artistic.

I was just listening to it and reading Jenny's blog about revision, and thinking about the revision that I've been putting off on "Taking Bluegrass". And I associated "Drift Away" with "Taking Bluegrass". It felt right. It didn't think right; my intellect said "NO! NOT HARD CORE ENOUGH! TOO MUCH OF A SOFTY SONG! GAH! BRIGHT AND SUNNY FEEL GOOD! BAD BAD! CROSS FINGERS! BACK! HISS!"

But then I listened to the lyrics, real close. And the intellect started to agree with the instinct.

So all the other songs on my playlist are the theme songs of characters. But this one is for a short story. Or, more specifically, for my protagonist's mindset. Not for the character, because this is a transitional point in her life and she was never this way before and won't be again later on. So it's all very cool.

It occurs to me now, though, that the revision which "Drift Away" associates with is one most of my readers won't be familiar with.... So...yeah, make like a door and be open [minded].

Propagandist Reality

For a little while, I thought that I did not exist.

I had lost my birth certificate and my sociel security card and my voting registrating and all the receipts I got for any paycheck I ever got and all my school information. And for the longest time I wondered...did I, then, not exist? I mean to say, without a social security number, no birth certificate, would America admit that I was even here?

The state of mind made me think about myself a great deal. How would I really feel if America would not admit that I existed? It felt odd, this state of mind that this homeland country had no connection to me, and I none to it. None to anything. Paper, words, lists, are important for our social reality. Not being on this paper, in these lists, would make one, I think, more real, almost. A less metaphysical, and thusly more tangible blot in space-time.

Jason Bourne, for instance, has no social security number.

Fortunately, I found all my information. I exist again.

Macaroni and cheese is hard to eat with chopsticks...

Of all the stuff I've ever eaten with chopsticks, mac and cheese is making my hand hurt the most.

I have recently resolved to carry a pair of chopsticks with me whenever I go out to eat. Partly because I like the idea of chop stick jujitsu saving my life some day--I know no jujitsu, so this is unlikely to happen--but mostly because eating with chopsticks is a little slower and a little more difficult than eating with a fork. I think I eat too fast. Food is hard to enjoy in fast forward.

It's strange, but food actually tastes different off chopsticks. I've eaten my share of macaroni, and I tell you it's never tasted quite like this. I've been thinking, therefore, about taking things for granted, like the taste of forks. Metal has a flavor, plastic has a flavor. I don't know what forks taste like because I've never used anything else. Like water--I can't really describe the flavor of water because I'm immune to it. And bamboo has a flavor which is different than forks, and so I can taste it. So it changes what the food tastes like.

Writing this, I've begun to wonder... If I become more accustomed to the flavor of chopsticks, will I begin to taste forks?

Some people may have realized this about me, but I sometimes have issues with concentrating. I like to center my thoughts. Eating is a solid, incredibly tangible thing to do. In making it a little more present and thought provoking, it has become a little meditative and centering. My thoughts get some straightened out because of these chopsticks.

I once read somewhere somebody saying they had asked some Chinesey why they still used chop sticks. And this Chinesey said that it was more civilized. And being the guy I am, I said, "Ah, I see what you mean. Yes indeed." And thought, "That makes precisely no sense." But I think I may begin now to see what this Fu Munchulia was getting at.

Okay, time to go finish the mac. I just needed to rest my hand.

Klingons have almost all the right parenting ideas

My brothers are yella. Yellow bellied. Why is this? Because they have been taught to value fairness and--oh my god, Paul McCartney is barefoot!

Sorry, lost my train of thought. To resume: Because they have been taught the value of fairness and cooperation. What the hell use to them are those values, I ask you? What use? I shall tell you now why they are of no use: because they assume the unity in community. Something that cannot be assumed. Fairness and cooperation necessity everyone being on the same page. We learn from sci-fi on the subject of utopian society that everyone being on the same page is not only really creepy, it's indicative of an underlying insidiousness which is invariably too terrible to be believed.

Fairness and cooperation are ideas that one believes in, but many must act in motivation of the same for them to come to pass. If an individual is taught fairness and cooperation he will expect it of society, and act in its interest only loosely. If many individuals do the same we are left with what?

Yella bellied hosers, that's what.

To improve society, values must be changed. We must look inward and rediscover honor and integrity. Know one ever really says honor anymore, not in a serious way. It's sad, it's insidious, and it's unfortunate. Because we can only ever really control our own selves. And if we all have integrity, if we all respect and hold honor dear, then fairness will follow, and cooperation will come. And we won't be yella.

Oops, forgot my soap box. I'll be back in a second.

Survival and Civilization

We were talking about the human condition in my literature class tonight. I was thinking about desires to survive ruling out desires to propogate the species. Food is scientifically provably more desirable than sex.

I was also thinking about women brains and men brains. They actually did a study to discover: do men and women think different? With exceptions, obviously, this study they did suggest they do in fact think different. Women think in sort of webs: their thoughts go all over the place, connect together, and centrally have a goal. Men think in lines: see a deer, kill a deer, eat a deer, live till tomorrow. Which implies this: Women drive civilization, culture, society; lasting things. Men drive survival from today till about Tuesday. We don't usually think past Tuesday. Wednesday doesn't matter that much.

Which makes sense to me. The first novel was written by a woman. In Japan, no less, back when women were denegraded to a really shameful degree. My opinion is the novel is the highest expression of cultural initiative. By that I mean that providing a cohesive and lengthy piece of fiction is by far mankind's most impressive act of intellect. Writing a novel is the heighth of communication. Communication is one of the things that makes us intellectual, and not just instinctual, creatures.

What right, forsooth

"Or relearn something."--my real-world, neither writer nor piratical chummy John

As a way to begin a conversation, recently I've taken to asking people what they like to read, and once they tell me I usually ask why. I ask these questions generally expecting not to have read what they've read; instead I ask with a mind toward thinking about my own writing.

So one time when I asked my chummy John what he liked to read, he told me some books that I'd heard of but hadn't read, including, but not limited to, the Grapes of Wrath. And I tried and failed to say what genre they were in, and he said that he liked to read books that made him feel as if he'd learned something, or relearned something, or that just generally had a point.

I've been thinking about that. I've been thinking about my own writing, and I've been wondering what there is, if anything, to be learned from my stories. I never write with a mind toward educating the populace. I know of at least one instance when I specifically deviated from putting a lesson into my story. I had the excuse that the point of the story was almost the opposite of the suggested lesson, but there you are. I generally just write with an eye and an ear toward "the story", and just telling it.

But then, I've also had the experience of folk reading my stuff and coming back to me with all this inner meaning and analysis which I meant naught into it. So, yeah. Whatever.

I don't really know. Literature is mostly meant, I think at some level, to be an exploration into human nature, not really more or less, just complexly so. And if I continue to strive for quality then this purposes of representing the human animal in trueness and deep complexity will indeed instruct those reasoning individuals my readers on the subject that literature explores at some level. (And that was possibly the most complicated sentence I have written for months.) But I've never set out with that educational intention.

Back to my quote. After speaking with my chummy John, I went off by myself and for a long time I thought. And pondered. There was definitely some pondering. I thought about what my not necessarily brilliant with words but well meaning chummy John was really trying to get at, and additionally I deviated from it a little and evolved the idea, and I came to the question: What justifies this? Why does this story have a right to exist? Not comparatively, but standing alone, why does this story exist? And I tried to apply this sort of vague question to my ideas, to the stories I'm working on, one in particular that I'm getting pretty wrapped up in.

So far I haven't been able to answer. I feel sort of giddy in a sort of subvocal, bass violin, fresh-baked bread smell, sort of way with this question. I told my little brother today, "Just say things that matter," when I was starting to argue about something for the sake of arguing about something. And I feel like, even if they don't educate, I don't want to ever tell a story that doesn't matter.

I have no answer the the question, "What justifies this?" The story that I tried to apply it to is eighteen pages long, and will probably be a novella, or a novel, so it doesn't need to answer that yet.

Taking a page from Ali-demon's blog, here are interactive questions: Do you try to only say, or write, things that matter? Do you try and educate with your writing? Hope that people come away feeling like they learned something? Or are you just whatever about it all? Or some of it all? How do you feel about llamas in the new year? Or in the old year? We're not particular.

Trusting the Past

I have been evaluating myself as a historian, and juxtaposing my approach to "conveying the facts" to the past, to history recorded up till now.

When I tell a story, I almost never leave anything out. Listening to my tales of the truth and the past you will always get the whole story. In general, however, you'll get some other stuff as well.

For instance, me and some of my sibs were driving home the other night, when an add comes on the radio. "Order our radar jammer now! Save hundreds of dollars! Never get another speeding ticket!" These are almost direct quotes, word for word, I shitteth thee and thine not in the slightest. The honest to goodness truth.

But the last couple of times before now that I've told this story, I've added on thustly: Blaze on past the cops in their cruise cars at eighty--VROOM!--they'll never know you were there! Call now and save hundreds!

The add didn't say that. I believe the use of this device would be specifically to jam the radar guns in those non-descript white vans that automatically check your speed, take your picture, then e-mail you the ticket.

Additionally, I like to phrase things in more interesting ways than the bad radio commercial writers like to phrase things. So forced excitement and banality, that is to say the original voice, is covered up with my own sort of whatever.

I was telling someone just now about this habit I've got of taking the facts, deciding they're dull as they are, and then sort of floofing them up to be more memorable. I was speaking of this in the context of wondering what historians of the far future would think of things in a general sort of way with my accounts of truth as their only guide to the past. Then this person I was speaking with mentioned that I want to study history. I do. I'm interested in what was. But it occurs to me now that there is more than a tiny little possibility that age old historians had a reasonably moiesque--that is to say, similar to mine--view on recorded data.

This taken to be true, just for the sake of argument at this moment, all history books should on average be assumed to be exactly half lies. And the other half should be assumed more or less dull.

I choose however not to see history as if it were all written by the moiesque. I assume it was all written by liars, and I will therefore keep an open mind.

The end.

Strong Coffee octothorpe one

Unfiltered stream of consciousness: Start time: 2:35.

Ready...go!

Hannibal [the two famous Hannibals: Hannibal called Canibal, and Hannibal who attacked the Romans over the alps on elephants and thusly took them completely by surprise. They expected Hannibal, they expected the alps. The elephants took them completely agawp]. whoop, have a banana. The alps are a mountain range in, near, around, and outside of Sitzerland. Swiss cheese. Switzerland had the Swiss, and they didn't speak Swedish. Sweden speakers of the Swedish. Swedes weren't neutral. I don't even know if Sweden had been invented when there were any World Wars. Switzerland was neutral. They were neutral, and so all the people from The Great Escape wanted to go to Switzerland and buy Swiss Army Knives and holey cheese. Not holy. Holy meaning sanctified. (Not sanctimonious. Nor sacrosanct. Although sacrosanct would, conceivably, be closer. Sacrement and sanctify and sacrosanct seem to have things in common.) The Great Escape, where the Aussie got away without incident. Coincidence? Probably. Australia, like siberia, was the place where bastard imperialists of ancient days sent their criminals. The criminals proliferated, and now they have their own countries. Australia has the lowest murder rate--apparently--and Siberia has tigers. [Tigers of siberia are more bigger than Tigers of India. India has all the small versions of bigger animals. Like elephants.] Where did Hannibal, not a canibal, get his elephants? There aren't any elephants in Europe. He must have imported them from India. Where everyone is castrated, and that's why they speak in high voices. {David Beckham. Craig Furguson. Broken DVD player. Fixed DVD player. Uncle needs a hard drive.}

Ending time: 2:45.

Whoa...