In order to get this French movie I wanted, I had to download a piece of software called Graboid. It's pretty worthless, much like the short-lived Veoh player, but I've managed to squeeze some drama out of it. When I went to Preferences to see where it was putting the downloaded file, I saw a checkbox that said "Enable Adult Content." It was unchecked. I've been staring at it for two hours now with a consistent 120-bpm heartbeat. Is it just talking about the movie I'm downloading? Or is it talking about my life? Do I dare click it? How do I know I'll be able to unclick it if I find out that I'm actually an immature kid inside? Am I really that sheltered? Eh...I don't know, I'm pretty sure it's just for movies. ...But I wonder if it enables it for any movie... then this software wouldn't be as useless as it so wholeheartedly pretends to be. Then maybe I could even be pursuaded to watch The Visitor again. Deep breath. Click.
The 30-day trials are moving along nicely. Crunches are probably the easiest part of the deal, as they take up very finite periods of time to complete. Drinking water is the hardest, especially when your newfound friend in France has a fridge full of Cokes and is willing to email you one duty-free. Not cursing is not too much of a challenge, being as I don't talk to myself outloud, and I spend most of the day alone. Nevertheless, every now and then I fail, though I usually catch myself in the middle of the first syllable.
On a happy note, someone managed to read my novel! A guy I met through Natasha, whose name I will keep to myself for fear of tainting him with my reputation, read it and gave me some comments and pointers. Very exciting. This motivates me to edit it, and perhaps add. It also reminds me that February Album Writing Month is imminent. In the translated words of Song A Day For A Year Superman, "j'ai peur!"
Tomorrow, it's back to NJ for me. I'm stopping for a couple of hours in Boston to wave my hands, and then home.
On consciousness:
Madelyn: hehe, i didnt think much before that sentence
Madelyn: well, like most
Madelyn: of mine
Mark: yea, most of everyone's
Madelyn: you're too optimistic
...
Mark: did u think before that one?
Madelyn: not really
Mark: ur consistent
Showing posts with label NaNoWriMo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NaNoWriMo. Show all posts
Friday, January 9, 2009
Saturday, November 29, 2008
50,081
Finished my novel today, though I won't officially admit it till 3.4 milliseconds before deadline - midnight tomorrow. Meanwhile it's time to get drunk beyond all reasonable limits. Or at least have some ice-cream. Or get really really really ridiculously drunk. Ah, life is full of choices when one doesn't need to be alive the next day to finish a novel.
To be honest...damn...there is no way to finish this sentence. Scratch that from the shorthand. No, don't write this down. Stop writing what I'm saying. Ugh, nevermind. Stupid stenographer...hmm, didn't think you'd write that.
My drive for writing this novel gradually disintegrated as the month wore on. By two weeks in, I was pretty bored with where the plot was going. However, I couldn't have the one or two people that still have respect for me lose that last drop. So I kept writing words like a really intelligent and good looking zombie, occasionally having a burst of creativity and writing readable content, but mostly trundling or trudging or whatever it is that guy in A Knight's Tale was doing when he lost his clothes to gamblers and found himself left only with dignity and nudity for companions. No, I have absolutely no idea how that analogy is relevant, but there are whole books that are entirely irrelevant. Catcher in the Rye for one.
Now that the novel is done, I'm in the position of that Jew with his hive of sheep and gaggle of cows living in his bedroom/kitchen/living room/house with him, when he goes to the rabbi and the rabbi says "now let the beasties out." My day is suddenly a good two hours longer and I feel as free as a naive American thinks he is.
Having written the worsd 'naive American,' I am reminded of Native Americans, a subject which was responsible for many admissions of ignorance a week or so ago. I had just seen a French movie where the main character was discussing the relative carnage of various centuries. The 20th century wasn't the bloodiest, he claimed, with a violent death metedout to a mere hundred million. By comparison, this character stated, the 16th or 15th or whatever century was the last for Native Americans, was a bloodbath. The combined forces of European colonists murdered "150 million" Native Americans.
My often misanthropic words belie the intrinsic optimism of my nature. I am trusting bordering on gullible. I listen to people with an innocently agape mouth, unprejudiced ears and dilated pupils. I believe pretty much anything anyone says when I don't have the option of arguing with them. As this Frenchman was merely a few pixels, and fictional ones at that, he could not be challenged even if I spoke French. So I took him at his word and thus had to endure Mario's horse-like neighing when I decided to show off my knowledge to him. By his estimate there were 10 million at most, and 9 million of those he attributed to his penchant for being an order of magnitude optimistic. I decided to research the question on Wikipedia upon regaining my composure lost in the unforgiving storm of Mario's ridicule.
Turns out, there were anywhere from 10 to 112 million plus or minus a tribe or two. Hard to believe that it's so exact, but that's modern statistics for you.
Armed with this knowledge, we headed to the Sunday feast at the Hinshaw's and demanded of everyone there in turn to give their estimates. At the end of the meal we came to several conclusions:
1. All Americans know how many Native Americans there were, but no two can agree on so much as the order of magnitude.
2. There was definitely at least one Native American.
3. Native Americans were most probably counted by being shot. So a Native American may have been counted many times depending on his/her relative immunity to bullets. Let's hope we never have to take a census in China.
To be honest...damn...there is no way to finish this sentence. Scratch that from the shorthand. No, don't write this down. Stop writing what I'm saying. Ugh, nevermind. Stupid stenographer...hmm, didn't think you'd write that.
My drive for writing this novel gradually disintegrated as the month wore on. By two weeks in, I was pretty bored with where the plot was going. However, I couldn't have the one or two people that still have respect for me lose that last drop. So I kept writing words like a really intelligent and good looking zombie, occasionally having a burst of creativity and writing readable content, but mostly trundling or trudging or whatever it is that guy in A Knight's Tale was doing when he lost his clothes to gamblers and found himself left only with dignity and nudity for companions. No, I have absolutely no idea how that analogy is relevant, but there are whole books that are entirely irrelevant. Catcher in the Rye for one.
Now that the novel is done, I'm in the position of that Jew with his hive of sheep and gaggle of cows living in his bedroom/kitchen/living room/house with him, when he goes to the rabbi and the rabbi says "now let the beasties out." My day is suddenly a good two hours longer and I feel as free as a naive American thinks he is.
Having written the worsd 'naive American,' I am reminded of Native Americans, a subject which was responsible for many admissions of ignorance a week or so ago. I had just seen a French movie where the main character was discussing the relative carnage of various centuries. The 20th century wasn't the bloodiest, he claimed, with a violent death metedout to a mere hundred million. By comparison, this character stated, the 16th or 15th or whatever century was the last for Native Americans, was a bloodbath. The combined forces of European colonists murdered "150 million" Native Americans.
My often misanthropic words belie the intrinsic optimism of my nature. I am trusting bordering on gullible. I listen to people with an innocently agape mouth, unprejudiced ears and dilated pupils. I believe pretty much anything anyone says when I don't have the option of arguing with them. As this Frenchman was merely a few pixels, and fictional ones at that, he could not be challenged even if I spoke French. So I took him at his word and thus had to endure Mario's horse-like neighing when I decided to show off my knowledge to him. By his estimate there were 10 million at most, and 9 million of those he attributed to his penchant for being an order of magnitude optimistic. I decided to research the question on Wikipedia upon regaining my composure lost in the unforgiving storm of Mario's ridicule.
Turns out, there were anywhere from 10 to 112 million plus or minus a tribe or two. Hard to believe that it's so exact, but that's modern statistics for you.
Armed with this knowledge, we headed to the Sunday feast at the Hinshaw's and demanded of everyone there in turn to give their estimates. At the end of the meal we came to several conclusions:
1. All Americans know how many Native Americans there were, but no two can agree on so much as the order of magnitude.
2. There was definitely at least one Native American.
3. Native Americans were most probably counted by being shot. So a Native American may have been counted many times depending on his/her relative immunity to bullets. Let's hope we never have to take a census in China.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Your easy life
So National Novel Writing Month is steadily chugging along. I've been keeping to a pace of ~1666 words a day in an unprecedented feat of anti-procrastination. Yes, I feel very ashamed. No, you can't leave judgmental comments, I'm under enough stress as it is. For those of you who haven't already read it in Scientific American, it has recently been discovered that the pain of childbirth is like popping zit when compared to creating a novel. So it's been hard to force myself to procrastinate, as much as I would love to.
Because judging anyone is heavy on the psyche, and because I claim to care about others' well-being, I will help you not to judge me. I will justify my betrayal of the technique so fundamental to success in school, college, the workplace, testing of oddly shaped lumps in the breast or under the armpit...well maybe not the last one. You see, I'm up against a formidable enemy - the cold vice-like hand of fear. There's a fundamental quality that separates this project from past ones. This quality is the voluntary nature of the undertaking. I am not doing this project for a grade. I am not doing because my fat boss is breathing down my neck. I am certainly not doing it because my personality demands a high degree of planned action. I'm doing it because I'm a badass, and doing it will scream my badassness (short for bodaciousness) to the world. I'm doing it because every word that brings me closer to meeting the deadline makes my enemies weep bitter tears of envy and defeat. And...I'm doing it because I care.
Now normally, the word "care," when used by a male and not preceded by a negation, raises suspicions of high estrogen levels, homosexuality, or homosexuality. It is common courtesy to follow up a statement involving the word "care" with "Did you mean scare?" as in:
"I love caring for old people."
"Did you say care or scare?"
"Umm...scare, of course. Ha! Caring for old people, that's for sissies. I scare for them. They pay well to scare their own. Extra, if you cause a heartattack."
The exception is when "care" is uttered by a badass, in which case the world takes it in stride without a second thought. This is that case.
Caring is the procrastinator's nightmare. For those of you amateurs who think procrastinating is easy, try investing some personal interest and you'll quickly find yourself slipping. Caring about a project makes procrastinating feel like you're holding in number one: for a short while it's bearable, and then you get to thinking that if you don't go now, you may never go again. Or, for those of you with tubes taking care of your urine I/O, it's like not sleeping for more than forty eight consecutive hours: you experience an acute lack of will-power. You brain says to you: "Come on, just go to sleep for a little while, and try this experiment tomorrow. Really, there's all the time in the world to try this another time. Listen to me! I'm so convincing!" And you give in, unless you're Jesus Christ or a donkey.
That is my situation. Daily, I dip below the threshold of will-power necessary for fueling procrastination, and I give in and write another 1666 words. Once I do, I feel guilty. It's a hellish existence. Prometheus had it easy.
Because judging anyone is heavy on the psyche, and because I claim to care about others' well-being, I will help you not to judge me. I will justify my betrayal of the technique so fundamental to success in school, college, the workplace, testing of oddly shaped lumps in the breast or under the armpit...well maybe not the last one. You see, I'm up against a formidable enemy - the cold vice-like hand of fear. There's a fundamental quality that separates this project from past ones. This quality is the voluntary nature of the undertaking. I am not doing this project for a grade. I am not doing because my fat boss is breathing down my neck. I am certainly not doing it because my personality demands a high degree of planned action. I'm doing it because I'm a badass, and doing it will scream my badassness (short for bodaciousness) to the world. I'm doing it because every word that brings me closer to meeting the deadline makes my enemies weep bitter tears of envy and defeat. And...I'm doing it because I care.
Now normally, the word "care," when used by a male and not preceded by a negation, raises suspicions of high estrogen levels, homosexuality, or homosexuality. It is common courtesy to follow up a statement involving the word "care" with "Did you mean scare?" as in:
"I love caring for old people."
"Did you say care or scare?"
"Umm...scare, of course. Ha! Caring for old people, that's for sissies. I scare for them. They pay well to scare their own. Extra, if you cause a heartattack."
The exception is when "care" is uttered by a badass, in which case the world takes it in stride without a second thought. This is that case.
Caring is the procrastinator's nightmare. For those of you amateurs who think procrastinating is easy, try investing some personal interest and you'll quickly find yourself slipping. Caring about a project makes procrastinating feel like you're holding in number one: for a short while it's bearable, and then you get to thinking that if you don't go now, you may never go again. Or, for those of you with tubes taking care of your urine I/O, it's like not sleeping for more than forty eight consecutive hours: you experience an acute lack of will-power. You brain says to you: "Come on, just go to sleep for a little while, and try this experiment tomorrow. Really, there's all the time in the world to try this another time. Listen to me! I'm so convincing!" And you give in, unless you're Jesus Christ or a donkey.
That is my situation. Daily, I dip below the threshold of will-power necessary for fueling procrastination, and I give in and write another 1666 words. Once I do, I feel guilty. It's a hellish existence. Prometheus had it easy.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
NaNoWriMo
In accordance with piece-of-advice #3 from the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) intiation email, I am notifying the world that I will be writing a novel during the course of November. I will start on the 1st, stop on midnight of the 30th, and somewhere during the course of the 30 days, I will write 50,000 words of something that will be at least pure garbage. Piece-of-advice #3 says that if I flake out at any time, you have permission to deem me pathetic and to express that opinion freely. Yes, yes, I know, with this blog's three-billion+ readers I will be reading praise-brimming comments till November 2030, but what the hell, I'll take that chance. Other people who have put November to NaNoWriMo's sacrificial altar include Natasha...yea, Natasha. However, if someone decides that they could use a thirty-day-long kick in the balls, I would be glad to oblige. ...And also they should sign up for NaNoWriMo.
Tomorrow is Halloween, and the Mendiolas + extended family are having a party. I have been invited as the token "friend," which says a lot about the Mendiola's and their standards for friends. Then again, look at Mario, and you'll wonder about their standards for family. Anyway, Ben, Daniel, Mario and I have been ordered to dress up as the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Daniel and Ben are in charge of supplies, Mario and I are to put the costumes together. I have more faith in my novel-writing abilities than in my costume-building skills so disappointment is inevitable. At least we won't be disappointed with that.
On a low note, food is running low. I finished off three boxes of grape nuts today, each having only those crumbs at the bottom that are always left until all the boxes full of full-fledged grape nut chunks have been devoured. The fridge is nearly empty, in accordance with moneysaving rule #2: "never shop until you've eaten everything in the refrigerator and licked the racks clean (Note: do not lick the inside of the freezer, or you might find out why you shouldn't have done it)." There's an egg or so, but those will be today's dinner, along with the remnants of the Angel Food. Yes, believe it or not, there's still Angel Food left over, though my previous comments on its quality render this fact unsurprising. Mostly we've been prefering oatmeal in large quantities, and so far nothing has proven to be as filling/$ as the tubs we buy biweekly. Once the oatmeal and the Angel Food are gone though (later today), we'll have to resort to ancient wisdom to keep our bellies full. I'm having trouble deciding between D'Artagnan's: "He who sleeps, eats," and the Russian: "A ton of water replaces a kilogram of bread."
Tomorrow is Halloween, and the Mendiolas + extended family are having a party. I have been invited as the token "friend," which says a lot about the Mendiola's and their standards for friends. Then again, look at Mario, and you'll wonder about their standards for family. Anyway, Ben, Daniel, Mario and I have been ordered to dress up as the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Daniel and Ben are in charge of supplies, Mario and I are to put the costumes together. I have more faith in my novel-writing abilities than in my costume-building skills so disappointment is inevitable. At least we won't be disappointed with that.
On a low note, food is running low. I finished off three boxes of grape nuts today, each having only those crumbs at the bottom that are always left until all the boxes full of full-fledged grape nut chunks have been devoured. The fridge is nearly empty, in accordance with moneysaving rule #2: "never shop until you've eaten everything in the refrigerator and licked the racks clean (Note: do not lick the inside of the freezer, or you might find out why you shouldn't have done it)." There's an egg or so, but those will be today's dinner, along with the remnants of the Angel Food. Yes, believe it or not, there's still Angel Food left over, though my previous comments on its quality render this fact unsurprising. Mostly we've been prefering oatmeal in large quantities, and so far nothing has proven to be as filling/$ as the tubs we buy biweekly. Once the oatmeal and the Angel Food are gone though (later today), we'll have to resort to ancient wisdom to keep our bellies full. I'm having trouble deciding between D'Artagnan's: "He who sleeps, eats," and the Russian: "A ton of water replaces a kilogram of bread."
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