The Book, the ‘Zine, the Net and their Authors

This article first appeared in FANG Vol. 1 in 2005.

There was once a time, just between the rise of the fast-food, fast-everything economy in the West in the seventies and the flourishing of the modern Internet in the ‘90s, when the distribution of one’s  art through amateur media was possible, although it wasn’t easy. The availability of small-press printing methods, not to mention photocopiers and stencil machines, made it possible for individuals to make magazines in moderate quantities – with the assumption, of course, that they’d fill this magazine with interesting material.

Always a Bridesmaid

"I have it all worked out in my head."

This is where the divide between Not Writers and Writers is thinnest: Story Ideas.

Creativity, at its core, is a misnomer. We don't actually create anything new, because we're not capable of inventing anything we don't already comprehend: we can't conceive of something we can't conceive of. The actual definition of creativity, as we use it day to day, has more to do with synthesis. Scientists and artists alike innovate by making connections that others haven't thought of, and practice brilliance by figuring out how those connections really work.

A story idea is just that; you bundle up a bunch of stuff you already know (types of people, events, technology, politics, dramatic constructs) and realize that particular bundle feels really, really juicy. If you're into sci-fi, maybe you've conceived of a perspective on FTL- or time-tavel nobody else has done before. If you're into melodrama, maybe you've hit on a particularly poignant emotional crisis and if you're a mystery writer, maybe you've put together an especially stupefying murder plot.

That's what gets our 'creative' juices flowing. We feel the vibrations coming off this bundle of concepts, we marvel at the gleam of the interconnecting lattice, the whole thing thrums with potential and it's a thrill to refine and crystallize that rough rock into the jewel we know is in there.

For the Not Writer, that's all too often where the process ends.

Endless cycles of thought and imagination, talking about it to one's Inner Circle, but nothing goes to paper. And it's easy to unerstand why; you feel an obligation to produce a product that's worthy of the potential you know the idea has. You want it to be as good as it can be, so you don't want to write it any less than that.

Which of course means that you spend all your time Not Writing it.

The sad reality is that most of these bundles of inspiration are quite hollow, once you try to pick them apart. Like the many other disappointments of a grown-up's life, nobody enjoys confronting this when it happens to them, but the Not Writer shies away from that confrontation by staying within the comfort zone of the Idea Phase. The less you put to paper, the better it looks in your mind's eye.

The Writer knows the pain of this confrontation, but bears it stoically, and keeps his tears at bay. He knows that it may be hard, but it brings rewards, and he maintains a positive attitude toward the disappointment. Recognizing the flaws and inadequacies of the idea, after all, is the first step toward fixing them and improving the story, or recognizing that the cost/benefit ratio is such that the idea isn't worth the time.

If you have an idea, write it out!

In synopsis form at first, as a stream-of-consciousness, then break it down into a loosely structured set of notes or dive write in and start penning the first chapter in draft form. In the process you'll feel the excitement and power of the parts that have real value, and also the tinge of inadequacy of the parts that are too weak, too thin. With enough experience, you'll realize what you need in order to bolster the weaker aspects or, worst comes to worst, that the idea lacks so much that there's no story to be made of it in this form.

I love talking about ideas as much as the next guy and very often I'm a Not Writer, overindulging in the idea phase, postponing the outlining and actual writing as long as possible and justifying it to myself by saying that I'm letting the idea percolate and mature in my mind. Often that's true, often it's not, and often it takes me far too long to realize the difference.

When someone tells me their idea for a story, that's wonderful. It's lots of fun to explore a new concept, but unless I know they've a reputation for productivity, I tend to take statements like "This story can easily span three novels, when I write it all out," with a grain of salt.

It's a painful thing to see that a great idea looks like shit once it hits the page, but an idea in your head is no use to anybody else, and while that may satisfy a Not Writer, a Writer has to produce a real story every now and again.

- Alex F. Vance

No Time to Write

"I have this cool idea for a story, but I won't have time to write it until after finals."

This is a perfectly legitimate thing to say if finals are next week, but not if they're in five months. Stress, health problems, uncertainty at work or at home, children -- all of these are legitimate distractions that require careful, prolonged attention and consequently prevent long, solid, intense investments in writing, that's absolutely true.

But there's more to writing than just those intense, satisfying, all-else-by-the-wayside engagements that make us feel like consummate creative titans.

A working adult has very few opportunities to spend four hours at a time doing anything without distractions. There's chores and shopping, there's a day job or study, there's social activities and an endless, structural cycle of little distractions. And there's a predictable incidence of conjunctural distractions as well. Illness, accidents to one's person or property, unexpected changes in employment or home situation -- and anything that can happen to you can happen to your friends or relatives, which may also impact the stability of your daily life substantially.

The Not Writer doesn't feel that he or she can perform under those conditions, and believes it best to wait till they're resolved. In fact, though they'd never articulate this even to themselves, it's almost as if Not Writers feel that writing a little bit under those conditions will actually inhibit their ability to do the inspired binge-writing they see as an ideal.

Like writer's block, many of these excuses are indeed legitimate. Again, serious, unexpected life changes or tragedy near to the heart have tremendous effect on our emotional state and our ability to function, and we're all responsible for making our own priorities.

But rare is the circumstance that prohibits us from feeding ourselves, or bathing, or dressing. We take walks, drive, read, watch TV, play games, hang out with friends -- often in short intervals, true, but those are things we rarely neglect no matter what else is going on in our lives.

To the Writer, writing is like bathing or cooking. The Writer doesn't often put it off entirely; when times are hard and stress is high, the Writer writes a little less per day or week, but rarely nothing.

The surest way to realize whether you're being a Not Writer is hearing yourself say "I don't have time to write." If you have time to say that, you have time to write.

Doesn't have to be a masterpiece, doesn't have to be part of the Epic Ten-Novel Saga you're 'working on'. A quick domestic scene, a little joke, a tragic monologue... there's always something in your mind that you can write and there's always a moment to do it in.

Institutionalize the habit of writing, ingrain it in your daily activities as you do eating, bathing, and masturbating. As little as a hundred words a day nets you a novella in a year -- and when the stars align and the spirit moves you, you can still binge-write a couple grand of brilliant prose.

- Alex F. Vance

Writer's Block

Imagine the scene. Hip youngsters, well-read and literate all, lounging in a diner or cafe and discussing, over steamingly exquisite coffee, the pain of their writer's block. How their prose is stunted, their characters mute, the well of their inspiration dry and dusty. Sophisticated music plays in the background, providing a mellow undertone to their sophisticated, tragic discourse. Thelonius Monk, maybe, or Annie Lennox. M. C. Hammer, perhaps.

"Finally I have the time to write, and now my muse has left me!" they wail, and take another sip of espresso. Adjust their turtleneck. Sweep back their shoulder-length hair, and clean their trendy ebonny-rimmed glasses. "I hope this writer's block passes soon."

Mockery, to be sure, but let me be clear: writer's block is no myth, any more than impotence or claustrophobia. It can be the consequence of psychological stress and cause further stress on its own, it can have serious repercussions for one's personal pride and self-image, a vicious spiral of disappointment and despair.

Thankfully, in reality, it's surprisingly rare. The vast majority of cases of writer's block can actually be classified as a heady melange of laziness and trepidation, or perhaps intimidation. And that's a really happy fact, because there's an easy solution to it.

You ready?

The Not Writer

I'm a writer, and I'm fairly proud of that. I take the craft seriously (most of the time), I've worked to hone my skills, I've studied. Much to learn, still, but that only makes it more fun. Many of my friends are writers too, and I know many writers who aren't friends but still awesome, and I take great delight in seeing people practicing the craft of storytelling with ever greater passion and sophistication.

When I'm asked for writing advice, however, I stop being an enthusiast and become a brutal drill sergeant. From my nostrils spews a venemous vapour called 'pessimism' and my eyes shoot lasers called 'terror'.

"Writing," I always say, "is a sordid beast that feeds on your pride and vomits only exhaustion and self-loathing. Writing," I always add, "leads to anger. Anger leads to hate, and hate..."

Well, you get the idea. I don't talk about 'finding one's voice' or 'research' or 'style'. These are important topics for writers, to say the least, but they're far more personal topics; many writers can solve them on their own and any individual piece of advice offers no guarantee of actually fitting a particular writer's sensibilities. There are of course some stand-bys that never miss their mark: "Read Strunk & White once every six months," or "Let your manuscript 'cool down' for at least three weeks after you finish it, before returning to edit," that sort of thing.

But that's advice for writers, and most people who ask me for advice are not writers. Read that sentence correctly, now: I don't mean that they aren't writers, I mean to say that they're Not Writers.

This isn't a disparagement, now. I don't by any means look down on Not Writers or dismiss them out of hand. Not Writers can sometimes write very well, paradoxically, and often study hard, being very eager to learn.

The difference between a Not Writer and a Writer is the difference between someone who could write and someone who does. A Not Writer is someone who experiences blocks and obstacles and timing issues and lets them prevent him or her from actually writing. A Not Writer may certainly be creative, insightful and capable of writing lyrical prose, but most of the time they're too busy Not Writing to get any Writing done. That's such a shame, such a waste, and that's the reason I so often deploy Tough Love upon those who ask for advice.

"My studies are really intense this semester, I can't focus on anything else right now," says the Not Writer. "I just can't seem to find any inspiration," he says, or "It just isn't gelling for me, I don't understand it."

The Not Writer enjoys conversing with other writers (many of whom, themselves, are Not Writers), seeks insights and techniques and delights in sharing stories of the writing experience and often clearly has an affinity for the craft, but at the end of the day he's spending all his scant free time Not Writing, and Drill Sergeant Alex Fucking Vance holds no truck with that bullshit.

Not to say I haven't been guilty of it myself, or even that I've outgrown it, though I'm twice as hard on myself as I am on others. I've often caught myself Not Writing and, some self-flagellation later, set myself straight. There are times when the words just flow, when the emotions and plot twists and characters spark from my fingers to the keyboard, and when that doesn't happen it feels unsatisfying and frustrating and humiliating. But a Writer mustn't put up with that nonsense.

In what will hopefully be a short series of posts, I'll try to highlight the most common reasons that keep creative, insightful people mired in Not Writerhood, and share my perspectives and solutions, all for the betterment of mankind.

Stay tuned.

- Alex F. Vance

Announcing Heathen City Vol. 2: Paved with Bad Intentions

Heathen City Volume 2: Paved with Bad Intentions (2009)

It's time. By Gosh, by Golly, it's finally time. A year in the making. A gaggle of artistic titans. ZooshWolf, Krahnos, Vahnfox, Blue_Panther illustrate four scintillating stories, with Fel and Charha's impeccable skills rounding out the art team. And a gorgeous cover by Kaji.

The hotly-anticipated second volume of the Ursa Major Award-winning graphic novel is coming this summer. Anthrocon. July 2. Available for pre-order NOW.

Forget about what happens after Malloy so casually juggled grenades on the good ship Corinthia. The question you should be asking is: what happened before?

Four stories, illustrated by an international team of superb artists, expose at the roots of the Maranatha mystery by exploring pivotal moments in the lives of the people involved.

Owen's first foray into the world's oldest profession, Tony Caulfield's formative years, Malloy's escapades mere hours before that fateful phone-call - and a stranger whose part in all this has yet to be discovered.

These stories push the boundaries on all sides, with romance and comedy stacked against terror and madness, tracing the perilous course between heroism and naiveté, innocence and villainy, and all the while there glimmers the dread of something wicked slouching toward the horizon... 

But there's always time for a bit of fun on the side. After all, you only live once.

Coming July 2. Get it at Anthrocon or pre-order and save $5 - buy #1 and #2 together and save $10!

- Alex Vance

On the issue of marriage.

Since it's likely that any posts in the near future will revolve around Heathen City and promotion thereof in anticipation of the (hopefully) very near-future release, here's something unrelated, that I've been wanting to put down for a while, and recently found an opportunity to when a friend contacted me for my perspectives on marriage for an advanced class she was scheduled to teach. Also, I love run-on sentences and WILL NOT APOLOGIZE

The separation of church and state, in my view, is a good thing, but in many civilizations religion was the first true civil order, offering synchronization among citizens and social services far beyond the scope of whatever ruling body officially held power.
Hospitals, orphanages, and other essential civil services were provided first by the church and later adopted by the state, as governing bodies became equipped to (and interested in) expanding their portfolio of services to their entire citizenry. The same applies for legal functions previously executed by the church, such as inheritance, birthright and in some cases adoption.
Governments have adopted these legal functions from the church in the same way that photography adopted portraiture from the art of painting, leaving behind the true core of any religion: exploring and acting upon each person's individual relationship with the Above. (To complete the painting metaphor, the removal of portraiture as a significant practice in painting left the pictorial arts with their true core: personal expression of the artist, exploring the personal experience of reality rather than merely producing a facsimile).

Marriage is one of these functions too, and in my view, it belongs with the state. The legally and justly elected establishment of a nation, constructed to represent the thoughts and priorities of its citizens, should be the arbiter of the definition of marriage.
The highest obligation of the law is to be fair, the most significant portion of which is to be consistent. The practice of legal precedent is the best example: a decision, once made, informs all future decisions on an identical decision.

In the issue of gay marriage, if gays are considered equals to straights and their relationships likewise, then 'marriage' is one of their rights -- as it is a civil institution governed by the law of the state.

However, for many people, the Church remains an important factor in their lives and to them, the institutions' ecclesiastic origins mean more than their current state-run incarnations. I am actually not at all offended when a Christian tells me they support legally-equal civil unions among gays, but that, to them, marriage is a sacrament under Christ, and that they don't like that word to be used.
I disagree with them, of course, but I can't at all fault them for their desire, and find it wholly reasonable in the context of their faith.

But as I am unaffiliated with any formal religion, while I'm on this Earth I am a citizen of my nation first. If there is to be a special term for a marriage under Christ that's separate from a marriage under the Law, I have no problem with that at all -- but it cannot be 'marriage'. That belongs to the state, which is to say, to every citizen of the nation. The practice predates Judeo-Christian religion, and the modern incarnation of the Church has no more claim over it than the extinct faiths of pre-Roman Europeans.

They are of course more than welcome to invent a new word for their view of marriage - and I actually don't mean that as any form of mockery. Though I do of course invite whimsical suggestions as to which word would be appropriate :)

NO on 8: We interrupt your porn for a public service announcement.

Proposition 8 is a proposal to eliminate gay marriage in the state of California. Same-sex couples can already legally get married in that state, but if Prop 8 is accepted, the constitution will be amended to define 'marriage' as a union between a man and a woman.

The No on 8 movement is a group opposed to the proposition, who are campaigning to spread awareness and encourage Californians to vote against the measure. These efforts rely on community involvement; people donating their time and informing others they know, but also through a donation-funded media campaign using television spots and print advertisements.

It's a very hot issue. People like Steven Spielberg, Bruce Wayne Bastian, Larry Page & Sergey Brin have publicly spoken out and donated large sums of money to No on 8; even companies like Apple, inc. have made public statements and financial donations in the interest of preserving the rights of their Californian employees.

Even our kooky little fandom is getting involved. Kamui (the artist responsible for the awesome cover of HC #1) gathered links to a bunch of journal posts and pictures (we know how you all love art) showing other furfags' rah-rah spirit:

http://www.furaffinity.net/journal/501230/

If you live in California, you should absolutely consider casting your vote on ballot day, November 4.

Even if you don't, there are other ways you can contribute:

http://www.noonprop8.com/action

Even a tiny donation is worth-while. And of course it costs nothing to spread the word.

The visibility of this issue makes it an important one for gay rights across the globe. Being Dutch, and therefore legally endowed with the same set of rights that my heterosexual countrymen enjoy, I generally don't pay much attention to gay rights issues. The success of No on 8 is important because it's a highly visible statement that there is no such thing as 'gay rights', just, you know, rights.

Spread the word, donate a bit of money if you can. It's a good way to sustainthe gradual progression of the world to a more open, free society. Consider it an early wedding gift for any friends you might have in California!

http://www.noonprop8.com/

Appreciation

While I understand the delightful buzz of a good review or the surprised elation at hearing that someone you’ve just met is aware and appreciative of your work, I’ve never fully understood how sensitive some people can be regarding their work.

I have a love of pulp, be it fiction, art, cinema, music... Pulp is mediocre, but competent. Good enough, but not really good.

Modern media, starting with publicly affordable photographic journalism through radio, television and nowadays teh intarwebz have poisoned our ability to appreciate works on a less absolute scale. While we were in Paris last year, my boyfriend drew a delightful sketch of the back of the Louvre while I sat beside him reading and taking notes, the two of us swapping pencils occasionally because my mechanical pencil has an eraser and his has a better tip size -- since then he hasn’t done much sketching since he wasn’t pleased with the results.

We saw very different things in the same sketch. He saw flawed proportions, crooked angles and clumsy detailing. I saw straight lines and a surprising resemblance to the actual building. He saw a drawing that would be sneered at in an architectural office, I saw a drawing that showed immense promise, especially since it was his first try.

Excellence is freely available to us, or at least, the knowledge of it. You can see pictures or films of the most beautiful and artful things ever devised by the hands of man for free after a few seconds of Googling. You can buy CD recordings of the most sublime music of the last few centuries for a few bucks in the drugstore bargain bin. In school, Shakespeare and Multatuli are thrown at young folk with such force they have to try to dodge them -- a few hundred years ago, in the town where I now live, the sight of a horse meant for riding rather than ploughing was news that kept buzzing around the area for months.

I’m not trying to argue that we should lower our expectations or worse, aspirations, simply that we re-evaluate the process by which we judge works of creativity. The movie Serenity didn’t change my life or my expectations of cinema, but it was good fun, well-written and, gorrammit, it had a hover-craft chase in it. Compare a product to its goal rather than its pinnacle, and all of a sudden mediocrity switches from being ‘less than good and much less than excellent’ and becomes a genre of its own.

Hilversum III bestond nog niet...

Video killed the radio show, but you know what radio killed? Singing, whistling, and quality buskers. Much that once was was lost, for none now live who remember it -- a time when construction yards rang with crude, poorly-sung ditties, when butchers wheezed entire arias with all the skill of a practiced lip-flautist and when a fiddler on a street corner didn't just make good money on account of being a novelty, but actually improved the lives of people that passed him.

People are quiet on the streets, because there's always noise coming from somewhere. People are ashamed to sing--how perverse! What a terrible waste! It doesn't matter if you don't have the world's finest voice or if you can't quite hold the tune; if you know the words and follow the melody and sing with conviction, you're golden.

Several years ago I had an experience that solidified my opinion in this regard. I was walking down a high street, empty since all the shops had already shut, and from not too far away I heard someone raise Gilbert & Sullivan -- Sighing Softly to the River or some such, one of the G&Ses I happen to know, anyway. My first instinct was to join in, but I felt myself shrinking, looking around to see if nobody was looking. While it was a shame I felt that need, fortunately there wasn't anyone to be seen so I joined in, close harmony to begin with and then, when the other voice picked up confidence, I struck out in another voice or counterpoint or whatever the crap it's called.

It lasted only a minute or two; I never saw who it was that was singing, probably someone living above a shop, or sitting outside a cafe in some side street, and I passed out of hearing shortly after the song was over. But that was cracking good fun.

I want more of this. I want to live in a world where people crack open their putrid maws, rattle their phlegmatic vocal chords and belch out vile tunes without heed of the opinion or aural comfort of others. Sure, it's annoying when somebody misses a note -- so join in and let your own voice guide his.

Down with radio!

Down with digital recording!

Vive la chanson!

Dirt Herding.

Of late, my goal's been to make money and I've really been putting my education and my writerly sensibilities to work, breaking my back in factories and raking leaves and such. The latter got me a cold--yay cold!--and the former got my hands covered in bruises and wounds. When I came home at night the skin on my fingertips was so marred by the dirt and the heavy-duty soap at the paper factory that everything I touched felt coarse, and now I can't see my fingerprints--but that's not important now.
What's important is that I learned a new activity. In sweeping the floor while coughing my lungs out, red-eyed from all the paper sawdust in the air, I noticed while I was climbing across the gaping, chomping blades of The Shredder (guess what what does) that there was a hose dangling from the ceiling, with a gun-style handle at the nozzle. Some of you may recognize this as a compressed air hose.
A world of Newtonian play opened up for me. Blasting the floor with the proper intensity, from the proper height, causes the dust to be blown away in a circular fashion, so to guide the dirt into the proper corner for later sweeping took some skill, which I slowly developed. Blast to get the dirt moving, then shoot past the rim to get the excess back, then step around...
Sweeping would indeed have been easier, but much less fun that this: dirt herdin'. Git alawng, li'l dawgies!

This mode of speech reminds me of the White Wolf Western Omnibus by Hal Dunning -- which has nothing to do with the role-playing games manufacturer, but rather a tawdry Western fiction writer. I picked the book up for two pounds at a thrift shop in Belfast and the style of it is a constant marvel to me.
I write long, you see, detailing the look and feel of things. People, places, motions, intentions, interior dialogue, all that post-bicameral stuff, but not Hal. For Hal, it's perfectly possible for a man to ride into town, round up a posse, head over to Hacksaw Johnson's farm to bring the varmint to justice, hang him in the village square and then go to the Lone Star Saloon to drink to their victory, all in one single page.
The amount of plot in his stories is astonishing to me.
While I was giving the NaNoWriMo workshops at the local American Book Centre, I brought two books to illustrate writing 'short' (Good old Hal!) and writing 'long', for which I had brought my Oscar Wilde collection in hardcover where I had a three-page sentence bookmarked.

Merry christmas, everyone!

FurRag - beta.

"Hey Osfer, have you been a big dirty slacker lately? I haven't seen you post anything--no stories, no LJ posts... have you turned lazy and unambitious?"

Haha, no. Aside from the fact that I'm courting two prospective employers in the real world and that I've been offered a job as editor of a fairly well-known furry publication, aside from the fact that I've started the first of a series of five NaNoWriMo writing workshops I'm giving, aside from the fact that I'm participating in this madness with the full intention of getting the result published--I've been working on a project.

Yes, yes, I know, "you and your fucking projects", but listen, this is a doozy. A sweet and talented coder friend sacrificed way too much of his free time to make some of my more frivolous dreams come true, while the fabulously talented Kamui contributed reams of artwork and the result is this:

FurRag, the definitive furry fiction archive (beta).

Even at 15% of its planned functionality it's already on a par with the functions of just about every other fiction archive out there and there's tons more to come. Despite the fact that it isn't finished it's now been opened to help furry participants in the National Novel Writing Month through the nifty integrated per-chapter and full-story word count and forum integration functions.

Zawesomes, now?

October to November

After the Day of the Dead comes All Hallow's, or Hallowmas or Sammy
Haine or whatever poncy name is given to good old Halloween. For those
three mice and two squirrels that didn't get spammed by me yet, FANG's Halloween edition is out and an early bird who orders now can still have it in time for the Dread Eve.



Yeah, I know. Months with no updates, and then spam? Just wait. There's more.



These past months, together with an old friend and brilliant coder whom
I won't name unless he says it's okay I've been developing a new story
archive, a rather ambitious undertaking that will take quite some time
to fully develop. However, since it offers some functionality eminently
suited to NaNoWriMo a beta version will be made available to the public specifically for use during NaNo.

Should be good fun!

Black and blue teeth.

Dark stains on my fingers and my front teeth, illegible, light grey scribblings on a blank sheet of paper, a wad of tissue paper in the waste basket. A sense of humble achievement.
I pick up a box of cartridges and discard it--wrong kind. I pick up another, nod approvingly and, flicking it open with a thumb, empty it into my hand. Ammunition spills over my fingers, cartridges clattering to the floor, but I pay them no mind. I only need one. I slide it into the mechanism--a solid click--and seal my weapon, ready to fire.

The spare, then, my holdout. Quickly I whip it out, this second, no different from the first but for its colour. It, too, fails me, and I am lost.
Or I would be, were the situation quite so urgent. As it is, I've no adversary in need of smiting. nor am I in danger of being smote myself. But it's important to be ready, and it's plain that I am not. This must immediately be remedied.
I gather my tools and spread them out on the desk and carefully, I dismantle my armaments. I set the pieces apart, on a cloth so they won't roll or slip or otherwise vanish, as small things are wont to do when no-one's looking. I check the cartridges, toss them away and exchange them for new ones. I try again--and again, nothing.

At this point I should make it clear that I'm talking about pens, not guns. The metaphor was nice, so far, but I really can't keep it up. So, pens. Fountain pens, to be precise, implements d'ecriture which I haven't used in a while, having favoured such scribbling tools as the extremely pocketable Lamy Pico, which, for all its portability, is still just an average ball point pen, and a very nice and super-cheap home-brand 0.7 mm rollerball in a luscious dark blue that looks simply sublime on cream paper. Or, in cases where I'm feeling particularly unsure, a mechanical pencil which is styles after a scalpel, to look really clever.

I am, you may observe, something of an enthusiast of old-school longhand. It's a craft I haven't practiced much, a fact which has a chicken-and-egg relationship with the very low legibility of my chickenscratch. As a wee lad I spent my modest pocket-money on pens and markers of different qualities, none of which I ever managed to use to depletion, but which I kept organised in my overstuffed pen box at school, systematically employing different tools for different tasks. Of course, it may also be that I was a spendthrift child with hamstering tendencies, which isn't abnormal, who was so geeky as to be unable to think of anything better to hamster than pens.

In gasps and hiccups, my delight in handwriting has resurged in the last few years. The grudging admission that a PDA simply can't function properly as a data entry device for text, even when equipped with a cute little keyboard led to my stomping off to buy a fucking notebook, and the urge to find the very awesomest notebook available.
This led me, of course, to the moleskine. Which of course needed a suitable writing implement to complement it.
Trial and error in shops (the great advantage with having an obsession with stationery rather than, say, vintage cars is that it's a far less costly love-affair) and on-line research showed that, curiously, it was the cheap home-brand rollerball that was most suited to the moleskine's creamy paper, which brought out the radiant gold in the dark blue ink to make the text truly shine, giving the permanent illusion of wet ink--despite the fact that the ink could withstand even a thorough scrubbing with a licked finger, once dry.
I nevertheless kept an arsenal of alternatives at hand, none of which, I'm now ashamed to say, were fountain pens. This was due to the fact that I selected the moleskine particularly for its ruggedness, to serve as a notebook-on-the-road, which could withstand the rigors of being jangled about in a loosely-packed bag all day and still offer the sturdiness to comfortably write in it even without a flat surface to lay it down on. And fountain pens simply aren't the implements you want to use when being jostled side to side on a train or bus or tram, as I so frequently am.

Still, those precious fountain pens beckoned me. Some two or three years old, the both of them, by no means ancient and priceless only in that they cost next to nothing at the time. Plain and nicely weighted, red and silver, and both, it turned out, thoroughly clogged.
Daunted I was not. Off to the bathroom I went with them, with a stash of tissue paper, a glass and (wisely) rolled-up sleeves. What followed was an hour of careful rinsing, patient dripping, a gradual raising of the temperature, drying, soaking... Not of the whole pens, of course, only of the nib, made, as most fountain pens are, of iridium.
A Platinum Group Metal, iridium is hard and brittle, tough to machine, and the most corrosion-resistant metal known. Given that it's also fairly cheap, this makes it an excellent metal for making pen nibs, which (ideally) are permanently exposed to some fluids. This marvelous metal is fairly rare, having come to our lonely little planet either as a sediment from the cosmic dust that constantly drizzles onto our little globe or, more cataclysmically, as a major constituent of some meteorites, such as that found by the Alvarezes in the late '70s in clay around the K-T Boundary, which became one of the major proofs for the theory that the dinosaurs were wiped out by a meteorite.
Ah, but I digress somewhat.
Not that the above isn't interesting--more interesting, at the very very least, than sucking warm water through a fountain pen nib and spitting out the blackened result into the sink. The staying power of that dried, cloying ink, utterly perplexes me.
Of the two nibs, one could be saved; the other, despite my efforts remains uncooperative. The rescued pen is quite weak, still, the presence of minuscule amounts of water in the capillaries causing the ink to be quite pale on paper, but in time, she will heal (the pen is called Martha and is among the few women I have ever loved). Black ink had clogged her veins and I've put her on a diet of blue, so the faded ink is turning slowly from grey to lilac, with blue to follow some time later.

There is something inherently magical and terribly dangerous about writing by hand. There is a finality to what you write that engenders claustrophobia and performance anxiety, for while a well-written page is a work of art, the smallest blemish, the slightest falter can ruin its splendour. Not to mention that it's terribly hard to go back and make corrections. It's only ink on paper, but it might as well be chisel on marble, it's so final and to write anything longer than an essay on a topic you've already worked out, brain-wise, is terribly daunting.

Still. I think I'll give it a go. Just to get my handwriting in shape, and just to train my hand. Should the RSI (or Carpal Tunnel Syndrome) I occasionally suffer from in my right index and middle fingers flare to unbearable degrees, rendering me unfit to type for a year or more, I may have to turn to longhand ad my only alternative.

I shudder at the prospect, of course. But perhaps a year of the musty scent of paper and the satisfaction of black ink-stains on my fingertips is not so bleak a future.

Being a modest geek, my friends and I occasionally indulge in a night of role-playing. Nothing kinky, mind, just pen-and-paper stuff. Despite my long-ago-failed efforts to the contrary, no costumes or props are involved, only mirth and beverages.

One session, some years ago now, took place in the darkest of dark ages, the Middle Ages. I played a werewolf and so did my friends and together we wandered through a zombie-infested castle, dispatching dread beasts left and right. Ingvar, my werewolf, was nominally the leader of the group, but due to cursed dice he spent most of his time disabled. During the first round of combat against a horde of ROUSes he was trapped under a door, for example. Later he set a vampire free. He wasn't exactly the brains of the operation.

At one crucial point, a battle took place with, I believe, a mage of some sort. Ingvar rose to the occasion, brandishing whatever weapon he wielded with a great deal of vim, and was struck on the leg with a fireball, which the game master at the time informed me was 'bale fire'. Bale Fire, it turns out, is a type of fire straight from the Pit of Hell that takes its fuel from the Blooded Netherworld and therefore  can burn underwater or in space.

Shit, thought Ingvar, I'm in a tight spot!

He batted at his leg and, of course, his hands caught fire. His comrades were busy fighting the mage, so he had to take care of himself. Spotting a bed with linen sheets he ran for it, to use the sheets to douse the flames, to snuff them and deny them the oxygen they'd need to resurface. Against all odds, this failed and the bed turned into a Blazing Inferno. Again, thanks to cursed dice, Ingvar was subsequently unable to manage the monumental athletic feat of jumping off the bed, either.

 

All this very neatly becomes a metaphor for last night, when I finally got tired of the unwieldy forum system I'd implemented on www.osfer.com. I know, I thought, I'll just install a phpBB module for Mambo, my CMS. If you don't understand what that means, don't worry. I scarcely understand myself sometimes.

Off I toddled, wrestling with a very inconvenient yet still highly rated FTP client to get the module uploaded. Subsequently, it didn't do what I wanted and I found there was another module which would do what I wanted. I know, I thought, I'll just restore the backup I made before I started fiddling with the site.

I tried uploading the original files. I tried various ways of reloading the mysql database. I tried using my hosting provider's automatic backup restoration function, and with everything I tried the site became less and less functional and now, well, the bed is on fire and I can't jump off it.

So for the time being I'm just going to sit here and wait for competent help. I've sent a very polite and pleading mail to the good boys at my hosting service, asking them to magically and manually restore my site to the way it was yesterday. I feel like a cat stuck in a tree with the moon high overhead, meowing softly in hopes that keen firemen will bring me safely down.

 

Back in the groove.

So, what have I been up to that’s dragged me away from my LiveJournalling duties? Fuck all, is the answer.

Every three weeks or so I play Werewolf: The Apocalypse (soon to be The Forsaken) with the gang, which is an exercise in snack-munching coke-swigging comically violent geekery and always good fun. Intrigue, danger and romance! I shoot crime on a regular basis. I’m far less crap than I used to be. Speaking of geekery, I helped out a friend by volunteering to play an NPC in a Vampire LARP session he organised (if you don’t know what those acronyms mean — you’re way cooler than me) and, while I felt silly, it was a surprising amount of fun once all the players got into the same celestial groove. I yearn for theatre.

Writing, writing, writing. That is, I should be and today I am. Somebody wrote to me in response to my pennings and gave me the best compliment ever — and I quote:

“I fanboy at you.”

The fact that Google lists no occurrences of those four words in thar order makes this compliment extra special to me and anyone who dashes that illusion I will repay by dashing his (or her, one never knows) skull in.

————

Johnny and Jotun visited this evening so I didn’t get a whole lot of writing done. Nor did I get a chance to play World of Warcraft. Curious thing, my mum has recently lectured me on my addiction to that game because she happened to see me playing it on four or five separate instances. Fact is, I can barely scrape together the time to play it at all, between work, school, friends and — here’s a word Orrin hates, kiss kiss — hobbies I just can’t find the time. I’m lagging behind my fellow gaming chums by a substantial degree and that’s demotivating. Plus, lately I’ve rarely had the opportunity to play for more than half an hour without at least a five-minute interruption, which is hamering my progress as well. Also, I’m really crap at this game.

 

 

Hopping on the bandwagon.

1. As a child, got burned by hot tea — but for reasons as yet unexplained, the tea spilled over my side formed a steam bubble under my skin which exploded  so instead of becoming a second or third degree burn it ecame simply a patch of bare muscle where the skin could regrow, rather than a dirty scar. Score.

2. Wrote and directed a play for twenty 12 to 18–year-olds using no sets and hardly any props, with a technical manual that turned out to be twice as thick as the already hefty script.

3. Co-scripted, co-directed and co-wrangled a shor film in Belgium located on a small abandoned trainyard owned by a supposed former Nazi war criminal (this is pure speculation).

4. Spent twenty-two and a half hours editing and colour timing said film in order to meet self-imposed deadline, only to realise, when watching the results after ten hours of not working on it, that it isn’t funn and doesn’t make sense.

5. Taught an insightful and popular writing workshop to people who uniformly had far more writing experience than I did and yet ended up worshipping me as a god.

6. Lived in Holland for twenty-four minus one half year without ever, ever smoking weed or trying any drugs of any kind. Not even aspirin, till I was twentyish.

7. Made no spelling mistakes in English or Dutch at all, whatsoever during exams until puberty.

8. Upon waking up and being handed the phone by my mother, I managed to tell my friend Bart that, no, he can’t come around because I’m not at my mother’s place, I’m at Dad’s, so convinced of this that I convinced him. I noticed that I wa s in my own bed, my mother was talking to me and Bart didn’t have my dad’s number, but by the time this information eased into my brain I didn’t connect it with what I said to Bart and I didn’t call him back to tell him I was at mum’s place after all.

9. During school camp, on the last night, when everybody had decided to party through the night and not sleep, left the dormitory where everybody was screaming and talking and laughing for thre minutes and roughly twenty seconds, only to return to find everyone asleep. All other dorm rooms were filled with people asleep in attitudes of misbehaviour. I went around the farmstead where the camp was organised, turning off lights and alarm clocks and spent three hours doing dishes and making breakfast so the morning crew wouldn’t have to get up so early.

10. Screamed so loud when Wolfie, who is a shit-fucker, sent me a link to a truly heart-stoppingly scary Flash movie in the middle of the night that I woke not only everybody in my house, but also set four dogs in the neighbourhood to barking — while I know for a fact that nobody in half a mile of my house owns a dog.