Here's a telltale sign you're reading a book that really isn't worth your time. Let's say it's a novel being pushed as exciting and action-filled, and is written with a plot-line that could almost get by as a Indiana Jones-type rip-off. Now, I know it's a novel, because it says "A Novel" right there on the cover, in case I thought a world-wide life-and-death treasure hunt for artifacts from the 7 wonders of the ancient world was nonfiction.
If you notice by page 34 that the author's favorite device of conveying action and excitement is by abusing exclamation points? Don't bother. Some of the more egregious examples from the bullet I just dodged:
"West leaped down into it -- to see a skeletal wraithlike figure come rushing out of the darkness at him, arms outstretched!"
"And suddenly the swamprunner was yanked forward, pulled along by the giant 747!"
"The large spike-riddled sliding stone loomed up behind them, rumbling over the doorway to the antechamber!"
All of those exclamation points scream of desperation, or of a writing tic the author developed back in 4th grade and was never able to shake off. It's like a little note saying, "Hey! This is supposed to be really exciting! Even if my written voice is mundane and I'm using a lot of adjectives to disguise this!"
I'll own up to a writing tic or two. Thankfully it's not this one.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Integrity Test
"I have this for you!" one of my students said this morning, with her trademarked cherubic squeal. She handed me a small card in a bright orange envelope, decorated in graffiti so specific to what we have studied in math so far this year it could have been used by others as state testing review. She told me that she'd been given an assignment while at church to give a thank-you for someone in her life that has a great deal of integrity, so she prepared cards for her teachers. I thanked her for what really was a touching gesture, then set the envelope on my desk, propped up against my pens and pencils in a prominent display.
"Read it now!" she said, her excitement spilling all over. I promised I'd read it, but that I had to start class right at that moment -- which I did -- and would get to it very soon.
"No, I want you to read it now!" she replied, still smiling and bouncing with anticipation. "I want to see you open it so I know that later you won't lie and say you read it!"
Such is the trust my integrity inspires.
"Read it now!" she said, her excitement spilling all over. I promised I'd read it, but that I had to start class right at that moment -- which I did -- and would get to it very soon.
"No, I want you to read it now!" she replied, still smiling and bouncing with anticipation. "I want to see you open it so I know that later you won't lie and say you read it!"
Such is the trust my integrity inspires.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Digital Timepieces and the American Revolution
Nephew #1 is starting to visit colleges, and it's got me thinking some about my own undergrad days. A lot of good stories, a lot of fond memories, a lot of learning and experience. Easily the most formative part of my life, and the one I look back upon with the most nostalgia. If I had the chance to relive any month of my life, I'd probably choose any random month between Sept. 1986 and February 1991 -- excluding the summers, when I had to work at my dad's drugstore, and Lord knows I don't need to go there again.
For some reason this story seems to be on my mind tonight:
It was my first quarter in St. Cloud, and I was loving it. My roommate and I got along great, and a lot of guys from his hometown were always around so I had a built-in circle of good friends early on. I loved the anonymity of college life; I could walk anywhere on campus and be completely ignored by the whole world. And believe me, after surviving the social politics of a cookie-cutter suburban high school, that anonymity was absolute bliss. Things were going really well. I was even enjoying most of my classes.
Most. But not all.
One that should have been great was "Early American History Until the Revolutionary War." No, that wasn't the actual title; even my freakish memory for detail can't drudge that up. I was looking forward to it because the content sounded interesting, but was about to be reminded that even in college, the teacher can make all the difference. The guy teaching the class, and I won't name him because this is the Internet after all, to this day is probably one of the three worst teachers I've had. Coke-bottle glasses, greasy black hair, short-sleeved button up polyester shirts... he really could have been the cousin genetically linking Dwight Schrutte to Louis from "Revenge of the Nerds." He was a very smart man and knew his subject, but couldn't teach his way out of a paper bag. Now, pair this fact with me having the class at 10:00 AM in an old, poorly-ventilated building, and in a classroom with twelve-foot windows filling the room with morning sunlight, and my admitted propensity for falling asleep in classes when I'm not engaged... I was dead meat on a hook before the syllabus was passed out.
Except for a brief time in the middle of the term. There were about ninety of us in there, sitting in rows of 20-30 1950s desk/chairs long. I usually sat in the back so I could write letters to my friends under the guise of taking notes (yes, this story predates e-mail, get over it), but this meant I had that morning sun beating down on me the whole time, keeping it just warm enough to make me constantly drowsy. One day I noticed the sun was shining on my fancy 80s digital watch, and reflecting a small patch of light on the ceiling above me. Since I don't really have any attention span to speak of, all it took was something shiny to distract me. I started moving my wrist with tiny jerks, marveling at how such small moves would translate into broad sweeping motions on the ceiling. I suspect Isaac Newton might have started out like this....
One day while I was playing with my watch reflection, much like a new pet, I discovered that I was not alone. There was another light on the ceiling, reflecting off another watch somewhere, swaying and swirling around just like mine but at the far end of the classroom. I don't remember which of us noticed the other first, but it didn't take long until we had some version of Reflection Tag going on up there. I'd move, he'd follow, he'd circle, I'd dodge. I'd cover my watch and reappear somewhere else, he'd shoot over to meet me at my new spot.
This went on for weeks. We even had a few fans who'd start to watch for us. I found this out when I noticed some people in the rows ahead of me looking at the ceiling one day instead of paying attention to the professor. I got a little thrill from that, but also felt a little self-conscious. I was still a brand new and naive freshman and pretty sure I was going to get in trouble for this somehow, so it all eventually died out.
As the class continued and the morning sun changed its angle over the quarter, we soon lost the back row sunlight, and I managed to catch enough of the class in the few weeks before the final to pull off one of the three Cs I earned in college. To this day I still don't know who had the other watch, but the experience sticks with me. And now, if I see a kid in my class playing the same light game while I'm teaching, I'll usually let it go for awhile because I understand the fascination. But you can bet I'm going to call on that kid after awhile to bring him back.
For some reason this story seems to be on my mind tonight:
It was my first quarter in St. Cloud, and I was loving it. My roommate and I got along great, and a lot of guys from his hometown were always around so I had a built-in circle of good friends early on. I loved the anonymity of college life; I could walk anywhere on campus and be completely ignored by the whole world. And believe me, after surviving the social politics of a cookie-cutter suburban high school, that anonymity was absolute bliss. Things were going really well. I was even enjoying most of my classes.
Most. But not all.
One that should have been great was "Early American History Until the Revolutionary War." No, that wasn't the actual title; even my freakish memory for detail can't drudge that up. I was looking forward to it because the content sounded interesting, but was about to be reminded that even in college, the teacher can make all the difference. The guy teaching the class, and I won't name him because this is the Internet after all, to this day is probably one of the three worst teachers I've had. Coke-bottle glasses, greasy black hair, short-sleeved button up polyester shirts... he really could have been the cousin genetically linking Dwight Schrutte to Louis from "Revenge of the Nerds." He was a very smart man and knew his subject, but couldn't teach his way out of a paper bag. Now, pair this fact with me having the class at 10:00 AM in an old, poorly-ventilated building, and in a classroom with twelve-foot windows filling the room with morning sunlight, and my admitted propensity for falling asleep in classes when I'm not engaged... I was dead meat on a hook before the syllabus was passed out.
Except for a brief time in the middle of the term. There were about ninety of us in there, sitting in rows of 20-30 1950s desk/chairs long. I usually sat in the back so I could write letters to my friends under the guise of taking notes (yes, this story predates e-mail, get over it), but this meant I had that morning sun beating down on me the whole time, keeping it just warm enough to make me constantly drowsy. One day I noticed the sun was shining on my fancy 80s digital watch, and reflecting a small patch of light on the ceiling above me. Since I don't really have any attention span to speak of, all it took was something shiny to distract me. I started moving my wrist with tiny jerks, marveling at how such small moves would translate into broad sweeping motions on the ceiling. I suspect Isaac Newton might have started out like this....
One day while I was playing with my watch reflection, much like a new pet, I discovered that I was not alone. There was another light on the ceiling, reflecting off another watch somewhere, swaying and swirling around just like mine but at the far end of the classroom. I don't remember which of us noticed the other first, but it didn't take long until we had some version of Reflection Tag going on up there. I'd move, he'd follow, he'd circle, I'd dodge. I'd cover my watch and reappear somewhere else, he'd shoot over to meet me at my new spot.
This went on for weeks. We even had a few fans who'd start to watch for us. I found this out when I noticed some people in the rows ahead of me looking at the ceiling one day instead of paying attention to the professor. I got a little thrill from that, but also felt a little self-conscious. I was still a brand new and naive freshman and pretty sure I was going to get in trouble for this somehow, so it all eventually died out.
As the class continued and the morning sun changed its angle over the quarter, we soon lost the back row sunlight, and I managed to catch enough of the class in the few weeks before the final to pull off one of the three Cs I earned in college. To this day I still don't know who had the other watch, but the experience sticks with me. And now, if I see a kid in my class playing the same light game while I'm teaching, I'll usually let it go for awhile because I understand the fascination. But you can bet I'm going to call on that kid after awhile to bring him back.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Horrendous
I'm caught up in the middle of a prolonged e-mail dialogue right now. About ten or so assorted cousins have started compiling a definitive list of.... hold on, I have to check the subject line to get this right: The 40 Most Incredibly Horrendous Songs Ever.
As it turns out, this is actually more difficult than you would think. It started when one of us got trapped in his car with the undeniable lyrical banality that is Loverboy's "Working for the Weekend." Not everyone agreed it was bad enough to be on that list, but one person did, strongly enough to say "Anybody who knows the name of any member of Loverboy should be attacked by a grizzly bear and then by a polar bear." So to define things better, we started coming up with parameters of what songs could be included on the list and why, agreeing on whether or not there should be veto powers and what would be involved... in short, a whole bunch of taking the idea behind this WAY too seriously. As one cousin's husband -- who, I have to say, is really golden when it comes to e-mail one-liners -- commented, "If you sing this email thread to any tune.... I nominate it."
But it got me thinking: How do you decide that a song is truly horrendous? One suggestion was that awful lyrics would be enough reason for the label, but that was quickly shot down. After all, the Grammys give an award for Song of the Year, not Lyrics of the Year. The lyrics are important, but the way they interact and compliment the melody defines whether or not a song works. Perfect example: Back in high school, Bruce Springsteen's song "Dancing in the Dark" bothered my sister a little. "If you listen to what he's saying, it's really a depressing song," she pointed out once, when it came on the radio while she was driving and I was rocking out in the passenger seat. "Why does he sound so upbeat when he's singing that?"
The best songs are the ones where the music and the lyrics just fit together so perfectly that you can't imagine them any other way. I feel if you are truly a music lover, you can't categorically dismiss any particular artist or genre as being without merit. Haven't always felt this way -- there was a time, back in high school, when I treated anyone who liked country music as someone with a contagious rash. But in my defense that was kind of my job as a suburban kid in the 80s. This was when the only country music that anyone knew was "Elvira" by the Oak Ridge Boys, and the band Alabama, and the only kids at my high school who listened to Alabama were all the kids who worked at McDonald's, so I think that was kind of a peer pressure thing for them more than anything else. But now, decades (!) later, I can't think of any genre or artist that is completely a waste of time. There are some I don't like myself -- still a lot of country, as it turns out -- but that doesn't mean I can't acknowledge any music having worth, to someone. Lady Antebellum? Nah. Not so much. Not a country fan, haven't really been exposed to them. But if "I Need You Now" comes on the radio, I won't reflexively start scanning for other stations. Do I have any Miley or Bieber on my iPod? Nope. But do I understand why many of the little girls in my class like them? Absolutely. Do I think that an overwhelming majority of the music played on The Current is pandering toward wannabe music snobs who are straining to hold on to the same hipster cred they assigned themselves in college? Umm... perhaps. But at the same time, I can think of at least five albums off the top of my head I've bought in the past two years that I wouldn't have even heard of if I didn't have The Current programmed onto my own car radio. So there you go.
And I think all of that diversity is awesome. I think one of the most important things anyone can have in their life is music that they really, truly love. I can't picture life without that. But it's that diversity that leads to the Horrendous label, because something I enjoy might be (and in many cases, is) something that most other people would just shake their heads in confusion about, more often than not because its from an artist that most people have never heard of before.
But come on. Do you really think anyone out there is going to say that "The Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats changed their life? Or that Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmastime" is anything but so awful it actually leaves a smudge on all other holiday music? There are always a few songs that get past the quality filters. But to pick the 40 strongest examples of this is really turning out to be something of a task.
So I'll throw this out there to any of my imaginary readers: Any nominations?
As it turns out, this is actually more difficult than you would think. It started when one of us got trapped in his car with the undeniable lyrical banality that is Loverboy's "Working for the Weekend." Not everyone agreed it was bad enough to be on that list, but one person did, strongly enough to say "Anybody who knows the name of any member of Loverboy should be attacked by a grizzly bear and then by a polar bear." So to define things better, we started coming up with parameters of what songs could be included on the list and why, agreeing on whether or not there should be veto powers and what would be involved... in short, a whole bunch of taking the idea behind this WAY too seriously. As one cousin's husband -- who, I have to say, is really golden when it comes to e-mail one-liners -- commented, "If you sing this email thread to any tune.... I nominate it."
But it got me thinking: How do you decide that a song is truly horrendous? One suggestion was that awful lyrics would be enough reason for the label, but that was quickly shot down. After all, the Grammys give an award for Song of the Year, not Lyrics of the Year. The lyrics are important, but the way they interact and compliment the melody defines whether or not a song works. Perfect example: Back in high school, Bruce Springsteen's song "Dancing in the Dark" bothered my sister a little. "If you listen to what he's saying, it's really a depressing song," she pointed out once, when it came on the radio while she was driving and I was rocking out in the passenger seat. "Why does he sound so upbeat when he's singing that?"
The best songs are the ones where the music and the lyrics just fit together so perfectly that you can't imagine them any other way. I feel if you are truly a music lover, you can't categorically dismiss any particular artist or genre as being without merit. Haven't always felt this way -- there was a time, back in high school, when I treated anyone who liked country music as someone with a contagious rash. But in my defense that was kind of my job as a suburban kid in the 80s. This was when the only country music that anyone knew was "Elvira" by the Oak Ridge Boys, and the band Alabama, and the only kids at my high school who listened to Alabama were all the kids who worked at McDonald's, so I think that was kind of a peer pressure thing for them more than anything else. But now, decades (!) later, I can't think of any genre or artist that is completely a waste of time. There are some I don't like myself -- still a lot of country, as it turns out -- but that doesn't mean I can't acknowledge any music having worth, to someone. Lady Antebellum? Nah. Not so much. Not a country fan, haven't really been exposed to them. But if "I Need You Now" comes on the radio, I won't reflexively start scanning for other stations. Do I have any Miley or Bieber on my iPod? Nope. But do I understand why many of the little girls in my class like them? Absolutely. Do I think that an overwhelming majority of the music played on The Current is pandering toward wannabe music snobs who are straining to hold on to the same hipster cred they assigned themselves in college? Umm... perhaps. But at the same time, I can think of at least five albums off the top of my head I've bought in the past two years that I wouldn't have even heard of if I didn't have The Current programmed onto my own car radio. So there you go.
And I think all of that diversity is awesome. I think one of the most important things anyone can have in their life is music that they really, truly love. I can't picture life without that. But it's that diversity that leads to the Horrendous label, because something I enjoy might be (and in many cases, is) something that most other people would just shake their heads in confusion about, more often than not because its from an artist that most people have never heard of before.
But come on. Do you really think anyone out there is going to say that "The Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats changed their life? Or that Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmastime" is anything but so awful it actually leaves a smudge on all other holiday music? There are always a few songs that get past the quality filters. But to pick the 40 strongest examples of this is really turning out to be something of a task.
So I'll throw this out there to any of my imaginary readers: Any nominations?
Friday, March 11, 2011
Tell Your Vision
Okay. I'm back. We had a rough couple of months there, but they're over with now. Spring Break started today and I was calculated and organized enough to ensure that I walked out of the building at the end of the day with absolutely NO school work to do over the next nine days. So now I'm sitting here with all kinds of time off and I'm ready to get back to some honest writing. Or in this case, rewriting. I didn't really do any writing over the past couple of months, but I sure lived a truckload of research, so it's time to get back to it. The fat is ready to be trimmed, the holes are ready to be plugged, the characters are ready to be energized and defined, and the whole sad story is about to become even more painful to read than it was before. Rewrites on "Following Infinity" commence tomorrow.
Maybe you've read it, maybe you have no idea what I'm talking about. To catch everyone up (which feels ludicrous to even think, since I still pretty much feel like I'm talking to myself when I write on my little blog here), this is the manuscript that actually passed in front of the eyes of a real-life literary agent last spring. Or, okay, at least part of it did. I'm not precisely sure how far she got before she sent me my politely-worded rejection. Which, while disappointing at the time, has ultimately been okay. It made me think hard about what else I could do with it, and now, having some distance and objectivity from when it was brand new and fresh, I'm ready to take a run at it again.
So, there it is. In case you were wondering. The reason I bring this up at all is just to say that I'm going to be making more of effort to keep up with the blog than I have been lately. Not because I'm looking to build a writer platform or increase my social-networking profile, but mostly just to practice. Gotta get back in shape if I'm going to do this right, after all. So look for some pretty random business coming soon to this space.
During this interim, I have given considerable thought to everything to do with writing: Why I feel compelled to do it, where it comes from, what my ultimate goals would be, that kind of big-picture stuff. I think I have a pretty good handle on it all now, and maybe having some guided purpose behind what I'm doing will help.
Let's find out....
Maybe you've read it, maybe you have no idea what I'm talking about. To catch everyone up (which feels ludicrous to even think, since I still pretty much feel like I'm talking to myself when I write on my little blog here), this is the manuscript that actually passed in front of the eyes of a real-life literary agent last spring. Or, okay, at least part of it did. I'm not precisely sure how far she got before she sent me my politely-worded rejection. Which, while disappointing at the time, has ultimately been okay. It made me think hard about what else I could do with it, and now, having some distance and objectivity from when it was brand new and fresh, I'm ready to take a run at it again.
So, there it is. In case you were wondering. The reason I bring this up at all is just to say that I'm going to be making more of effort to keep up with the blog than I have been lately. Not because I'm looking to build a writer platform or increase my social-networking profile, but mostly just to practice. Gotta get back in shape if I'm going to do this right, after all. So look for some pretty random business coming soon to this space.
During this interim, I have given considerable thought to everything to do with writing: Why I feel compelled to do it, where it comes from, what my ultimate goals would be, that kind of big-picture stuff. I think I have a pretty good handle on it all now, and maybe having some guided purpose behind what I'm doing will help.
Let's find out....
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