In addition to catching up on blog entries, I’m also still sorting through photos, and uploading them to Flickr. If you’re interested, you can see them by clicking on the photo link in the right-hand sidebar, or clicking here to see them organized into sets: Link
The sets from locales I haven’t blogged about yet (like The Alps and Ljubljana) may still get some more photos added to them. On a related note, Flickr’s uploader is really dang slow.
Posted in Travel | Tagged Europe, Photos, Travel | Leave a Comment »
Note: At this point I’m catching up on blog entries from home. As I post them I’ll back-date them to the day they happened.
I came to a realization earlier today: I’m too old to stay in hostels.
Don’t get me wrong, I like hostels. They’re a cheap and easy way to get a room, and the social atmosphere means you’ll almost certainly meet interesting people. But when you look around the lobby and realize everyone is ten years younger than you, it’s kind of startling, especially if you still think of yourself as young. I’m only 29, but at this particular locale, across from the train station in Munich (München, as the locals call it), I half expect people to start calling me Grandpa.
On top of that, while you do undoubtedly meet interesting people, they tend to be the sort of people I spent most of high school trying to avoid: loud, boisterous jocks and socialites whose idea of visiting a place is to spend as much time as possible there either drunk or stoned, whose goal in traveling is, apparently, to remember as little of it as possible.
I’m sharing a room with some of them tonight: four guys, Americans, early twenties, way too macho for their own good. The testosterone sloshes through the room like we’re in a giant hormonal wave pool with the agitator set to “tsunami,” as they try to one-up each other with tales of smoking hashish in Amsterdam, sneaking into the trendiest clubs in Berlin, and in general leaving a money-strewn trail of cigarette butts, marijuana smoke and alcohol-saturated puke through the capitals of Western Europe.
I suppose they’re friendly enough, and I even get an offer to go clubbing with them, which I turn down on account of “I’ve got an early train to catch.” Which is true, although of course it’s just a convenient excuse. People like that make me feel every bit the introverted geek that I actually am.
The funny thing, I’m comfortable with being an introverted geek. I like who I am (well, mostly). But put me in a room with a bunch of noisy jocks and suddenly I have to fight the urge to curl into a ball in the corner, where hopefully they won’t notice me. Maybe it’s just that I’m outnumbered four to one, but I don’t think so. What is it about people like that that makes me so freaking uncomfortable? I mean, I was way more comfortable around the metalheads in Quedlinburg, and I’m not a metalhead. Maybe because being a metalhead and being a geek are similar in that you’re seeking to define yourself in a way that’s separate from the mainstream, whereas jocks pretty much are a living, breathing representation of said mainstream.
I guess in the end, I just don’t like these people. They’re loud, overbearing, and obnoxious (for example, smoking in the room despite being reminded that it’s non-smoking), and I simply don’t relate to them. I mean, at all. Having a conversation with them is pointless, because (a)we have nothing in common and (b)they react with skepticism and surprise if you suggest that maybe you’re just not into clubbing until 6 am, or you aren’t over here specifically to party. I mean, that’s why they’re here, and isn’t everyone else just like them?
After a few minutes, I throw my camera bag over my shoulder, and head out into the city. I don’t have any particular destination, but then, that’s not really any different than usual. My method of exploring cities is usually to get lost in them, and just follow my instinct, looking for interesting sights or landmarks, and see where I end up. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn’t, but I enjoy it. It’s a style well-suited to a solo traveller. If I were doing this with somebody else, we’d probably kill each other after the first day.
I eat dinner at an outdoor cafe– this time of year, all the cafes are outdoors. People around here love to get outside in the evenings, even though the heat of day hasn’t really faded yet. Across the street, there’s a wide open green space where a group of people play a hard-fought game of soccer, with two backpacks marking each goal. It’s a diverse group: guys, girls, young people, and old people, as if college professors were playing alongside their students.
As I sip my beer, I can’t help but think about the encounter at the hostel. It’s not that I’m adverse to partying or going clubbing, it’s just that I’d rather have a root canal that do it with my current roommates. I know they say you should meet people while you travel… but dammit, does it have to be people like that?
Other than that, I really like Munich, for many of the the same reasons I like Berlin. There’s an abundance of green in the city, and the streets and the sidewalks are wide, with plenty of room for pedestrians and bikers (although if I’m not paying close attention, I usually manage to end up walking in said bike lane). On top of that, the city practically oozes history, and you could spend weeks exploring, making your way from one square to the next, seeing what there is to see.
And then of course there’s the beer. Last night was the World Cup final, so I made my way to a place near the Munich Olympic Park where a massive screen had been set up, and drank some excellent weissbier from a liter mug while I watched the Netherlands fall to Spain… alas. After the game ended, I staggered in the general direction of a train station, but must have missed it, because I had to rely on some American expats with a map to point me in the general direction of the hostel. Fun fun.
After tonight, I’ll have spent two nights in Munich. Not bad, considering originally I wasn’t sure if I was going to spend any at all.
Tomorrow, though, it’s time to move on. The Alps are calling.
Posted in Travel | Tagged Europe, Germany, Hostels, Munich, Travel | Leave a Comment »
Well, I can check “Go to German Heavy Metal Festival” off my list of Things To Do Before I Die.
Don’t get me wrong, it was fun, and the hearing damage I suffered when I was ten feet from the stage for Krypteria and Delain was totally worth it. As for the other bands, a few were really good, some were decent, and some were just trying too hard to be hardcore, the end result of which was that they were lousy– at least, in my opinion.
The worst part was the heat. Here’s a bit of advice: if you ever have to pick between suffering through a heat wave in Europe or suffering through a heat wave in America, pick America. It may be five to ten degrees hotter, but we have iced drinks and air conditioning to compensate. In Europe (at least the parts of it I’ve been to), air conditioning is rare, and drinks with ice in them are even rarer, which means you pretty much have to sweat out the heat wave, even if you aren’t going to outdoor events.
At the festival, they’ve been coping by spraying the crowd down with hoses, and I’ve put up with some really loud music I don’t particularly like in order to get wet– it’s pretty much the only way to stay cool. The next best option is claiming one of the high-demand bits of shade and hoping for a breeze, but it’s a poor second choice. To make things worse, security is technically not supposed to allow outside drinks in– and the drinks they sell you are 8-ounce cups of beer, warm cola or warm sparkling water at two to three Euros apiece.
Luckily, most of the security guys will let you slide by with a bottle of water, but some of them are evil.
Meanwhile, in addition to exploring the German metal scene, we’ve also been exploring some of the local towns. Quedlinburg is a UNESCO Heritage Site and was one ruled by an abbess, from an abbey/fortress/compound that sits on a tall hill in the Southwest part of town, and provides an impressive view. The cathedral has a pretty cool crypt, which we almost got locked in when a tour group left and shut the door behind them. We finally figured out how to work the latch, but for a moment I was worried. I don’t know how to say, “Help, I’m locked inside the crypt” in German– although it definitely seems like one of those “Essential Phrases” that guidebooks about foreign countries should include.
We’ve also been monitoring Germany’s progress in the World Cup– or, rather, its demise at Spanish hands, which we watched at an outdoor cafe in the town square. (Later, we tried to sleep through the noise of drunk, disappointed football hooligans in the street, with limited success.)
And of course, we’ve been trying the local Biergartens. I’ll definitely say this for the Germans– they make some mighty fine beer, and the food in general has been pretty good, too. (I know, I complained about it on Twitter a few days ago, but that was mainly just an excuse to make a pun involving “wurst.”)
Tomorrow Mark and Roberta head home and I strike out on my own. I’m actually booked on the same train to Munich that they are– but after that, they head for the airport, and I head for a hostel, to spend two days in the capital of The Free State of Bavaria. I predict drinking will occur. Although not, sadly, of ice water.
Posted in Travel | Tagged Beer, Europe, Germany, Heat Wave, Music | Leave a Comment »
The Berlin Holocaust Memorial is a series of 2,711 gray monoliths, which all together take up an entire block near the center of the city. On the outskirts of the Memorial, each monolith is about waist high. As you walk toward the center, they get taller, and the ground begins to dip lower, as if the entire thing is built on the inside of a giant, shallow bowl. By the time you reach the middle, you’re lost in a forest of stone slabs, unable to see anything but slate gray and, if you look high enough, the sky above.
There are no words on the Memorial, so at first glance, you might wonder at its purpose. It seems an odd thing for a series of unmarked gray stones to take up such a large swath of land in one of Europe’s most bustling cities.
But if you look closer, you see that not all the slabs are the same. Some are crooked, leaning slightly in one direction or the other, and the top surfaces aren’t entirely flat. If you look across the top of the memorial, at the undulating field of stones, your mind wants to find a pattern, but it can’t. Is it just a group of stone blocks, slowly rising in the center, or is something deeper going on?
I’m an idealist when it comes to storytelling. I believe strongly in the power of stories to promote empathy among human beings: when a person shares his story with another, those two people can then relate in a way they couldn’t before. I believe that storytelling, whether through writing, or film, or some other medium, is the greatest unifying force in the world, and maybe, if enough people of different backgrounds are able to tell their stories to each other, maybe there really will come a day when things like wars can be relegated to the history books.
Good stories can bridge individuals, and cultures, and countries… stories remind us that people who are different from us are still people, with hopes and dreams and families and friends of their own, and that those people aren’t just abstractions, they aren’t just stereotypes, they’re full-fledged human beings. I think this is true for both fiction and nonfiction; any story where you have to relate to characters different from you, where you have to put yourself in the shoes of someone else, whether that “someone else” is real or not, helps us learn to empathize.
But in Berlin, the strange gray stones stand as a stark, disturbing reminder that stories can be twisted.
In the 1930s, Adolf Hitler and the Nazis weaved a story of their own. But it didn’t break down stereotypes, it reinforced them. It was a story which denigrated and demonized an entire group of people, taught that those people were not worthy of empathy, respect, or even the slightest shred of human decency– it taught that they were vermin, or lower than vermin. Mired in problems, economic and otherwise, the German people were looking for someone to blame for their plight, and the Nazis told a story that gave the Germans the villain they had been looking for: the Jews.
A story like that has many things in common with the Holocaust Memorial in Berlin. It’s not something that hits you all at once. But if it’s told enough, over and over again, it builds into something sinister, and slowly it skews your perspective. The facts and details don’t line up, but you may not even notice, so lost are you in the greater overall mass of the structure.
And then, like the Germans of the late thirties, you get totally surrounded by the field of oppressive monoliths, losing sight of the real world for this alternate world of inescapable wrongness, looming over and consuming you. You completely lost sight of the real world, when all you thought you were doing was exploring a field of simple gray stones.
Even if you do manage to stay outside of the slabs, they still warp the landscape, corrupt the horizon. Whether you’re standing on the edge of the thing or right smack dab in the middle, they will affect your worldview, and not for the better. The Memorial is a wordless reminder that words have power, and like any great power they can be misused, sometimes to horrible, horrible effect.
I’m still an idealist. But as I leave the Memorial behind, heading back toward the Brandenburg Gate, I can’t help but feel chilled by the very real power of storytelling’s dark side.
Posted in Travel, Writing | Tagged Berlin, Europe, Germany, Storytelling, Travel | Leave a Comment »
I’ll be back-dating these entries to the day they happened. There probably won’t be a blog entry for each day, just whenever one pops into my head and I finally get a chance to write it.
By my count, this flight was my seventh round trip over an ocean since 2000, so they’re kind of becoming old hat. But I haven’t gotten any better at sleeping through them, which is disappointing. Heck, for this trip, I even bought one of those pillows that are shaped like a horseshoe and wrap around your neck. Dang– I thought for sure that would do the trick.
In the end, I got maybe twenty minutes of sleep, which is pretty much par for the course for me. (Actually, to be honest, I might have been able to get more, but Invictus was on, and I wanted to see Morgan Freeman playing Nelson Mandela.)
(Yes, I’m a weak man.)
So we landed at the airport at about 9:30, and I got to the train station shortly after 11 (getting there was WAY more of a chore than it should be, thanks to the otherwise-efficient Berlin public transport system.) I’m meeting a couple of friends, Mark and Roberta, in a little town called Quedlinburg this evening, but Quedlinburg is only a three-hour train ride away– which means I’ve got time to kill.
So I stash my luggage in a locker to go for a walk around Berlin. I love walking around the city– I got to do in 2008, and I loved how green and modern the city feels, while at the same time retaining a lot of character in buildings like The Reichstag and Brandenburg Gate.
The day is beautiful, sunny but not too hot, and despite operating on no sleep and almost no caffeine, I’m feeling no sign of jet lag as I walk. So far so good.
Posted in Travel | Tagged Travel, Jet Lag, Europe, Germany, Berlin | Leave a Comment »
It’s a sign of how crazy the past couple weeks have been (both at work and in life) that I haven’t gotten a chance to write a post about this yet, but on Tuesday July 6 I’ll be going to Europe for two weeks.
There’s a long story behind how this all came together, but it basically started as a whim. A few months ago, I noticed that a few of my favorite bands of all time are playing at a rock festival in Germany– Krypteria and Delain, to name two. I remarked in passing to some friends of mine that I wished I had someone to go with, and as it turns out, they were interested! So without much hesitation, we decided to seize the opportunity. For three days we’ll be staying in the town of Quedlinburg while we sample what Germany has to offer, in terms of food, language, sightseeing, beer, and of course, metal.
After the concert is over, I’ll be striking out on my own, and likely heading south to Austria, to pay a visit to my old friends The Alps. I had a chance to take a train ride through the Alps in 2008, but unfortunately I was in a hurry and didn’t get a chance to see much except what I could see through the train window (which was nonetheless impressive). So hopefully this time around I’ll get the chance to do some hiking– maybe even settle down in a little town for a few days and put my feet up. My vacations the past few years have been somewhat manic, often involving hurried charging from destination to destination in an effort to squeeze as much as I can out of two short weeks, but I’d like to take things easier this time. Will it happen? We shall see. Old habits are hard to break.
In preparation for this trip, I’ve been learning a little German– the most important phrase of which, of course, is Entschuldigen sie, meine Deutsch ist nicht gut. Sprechen sie Englisch? (Excuse me, my German is not good. Do you speak English?) However, I have learned other key phrases, such as Wo ist die Toilette? (Where is the restroom?) and Ein Bier, bitte (A beer, please), just to cover the, er, goings-out and goings-in, as it were. (On a side note, anyone know any good German football cheers, in case Germany makes the World Cup final while I’m over there?)
Like I did with my Australia trip last year, I’ll be blogging whenever I can, although probably not every day. I may be posting to Twitter more often (see “The Tweeted Path” in the right-hand sidebar for my Twitter feed), although it depends on what kind of Internet and cell phone access I end up having. Probably not much, if the Australia trip was anything to judge by.
My plane leaves in about 67 hours, and I’ve barely planned past the first three days. Should be fun!
Posted in Travel | Tagged Europe, German, Travel | 1 Comment »
In this post from last month, I mentioned that Wil Wheaton and John Scalzi have been holding a fanfiction contest, in which the goal is to describe what the heck is going on in the picture on the right. Well, the contest is over, and my entry is among over 350 others that got submitted. Regardless of who ends up winning, it was really fun to write, and it’s all for a good cause.
Since we’re allowed to share our entries, here’s mine. I think it is, almost certainly, the geekiest thing I’ve ever written (and keep in mind that I say this as a former writer of anime fanfiction). Not that that’s a bad thing, mind you. I’m just sayin’.
———————–
The Bacon Chronicles: I Can Has Vengeance?
Or,
A Tale of Two Kitties
John walked through the remnants of the Dealer’s Room, smoke still rising from the scattered debris. Amidst the scraps of wacky slogans still legible on burned T-shirts, and the torn pages fluttering on the breeze, lay utter devastation. His nose burned at the horrific stench. It wasn’t the stench usually associated with such conventions… no, this was the stench of death. But the smell of incoming bacon was absent, which meant for the moment he was safe.
Nearby, someone coughed weakly. Under the carpet of wreckage was a survivor! He dug through a layer of unpainted Warhammer figurines and then, lifting aside the charred remains of a Felicia Day love doll (was that sort of merchandise even legal?), he uncovered a person’s head. It was… green! And the visage looked familiar somehow.
“Are you okay?” he asked the injured man.
Suddenly, recognition dawned on both of them. “SCALZI!”
#
Wil awoke in darkness. The ground was rocky; he seemed to be in some sort of cave. What had happened? He struggled to remember. He had been judging the Star Trek Papier-mâché Hat Contest, when suddenly the room had shook. A horrible noise and odor had overwhelmed his senses, like a roomful of LARPers after Taco Night, and then blackness.
Something moved in a distant corner of the cave, and he smelled… breakfast? The scent of bacon filled his nostrils. Then, from deep in the blackness, he saw a pair of glowing green eyes. “U are Da Wheaton.”
The voice was calm, dispassionate, but high-pitched, as if Leonard Nimoy had been born a chipmunk. And somehow, Wil could even hear the misspelled words. “U has proven urself worthy,” it continued, “and we has brought u here to serve a great purpose.”
“Purpose?” he coughed. “Where am I?”
“Our lair. Our refuge, where we pwanned our revenge after Da Enemy humiwiated us!”
The eyes of the creature passed from the shadow into the light, giving Wil his first good look at his captor. The thing was undeniably cute, but the scent of bacon mixed with the evil glare in its eyes served to create a simmering atmosphere of delicious terror.
It had the front of a kitten, the back half of a horse, and massive feathery wings. A golden unicorn horn stuck out of its head, and as Wil stared into the creature’s eyes, he felt his mind wilting away, as though it was somehow invading his very thoughts.
The kitten approached, and he shrank back from the atrociously adorable abomination.
“U will help us destroy our enemy,” it said. “Our enemy, who cursed us wif dis burden. Dis… fing.” It turned to the side, displaying what looked like strips of bacon attached to its flank. “We will suffer dis insult no wonger. Our enemy will pay dearly for da torment it has infwitced upon us!” The kitten paused for dramatic effect. “We are Da Roflmeow, and we will has revenge!”
#
Scalzi stared at his spinach-colored doppelganger, considering for a brief moment that “Spinach Colored Doppelganger” would be a superb name for a rock band. For another brief moment, he considered piling debris back on the thing’s Scalziesque countenance, finding the remains of the hotel bar, and seeing how much whiskey he could get through before help arrived. But then his chartreuse counterpart spoke.
“Thank the gods! I am Scalzorc of The Clan Sifwa, and we have little time. Hurry, John Scalzi, I require your aid!”
Scalzi sighed, put aside his plans for intoxication, and began helping unbury the orc. The day had started so innocuously. He had been on his way to host a panel on Green Chicks in Sci-fi, when an earthquake had struck. He had tried to get outside, but instead found himself helping pull people from the wreckage of the Dealer’s Room. Then, a chasm had appeared in the floor, swallowing an entire booth of novelty dice, and the aroma of bacon had filled the air as something emerged from the hole.
In the smoky darkness it looked like the offspring of a kitten and a pterodactyl, as if some uber-cute Nazgul had emerged from the depths of hell. It had lunged toward him, and he had taken refuge under a table of Brandon Sanderson hardcovers, frozen in terror until the bacon-scented monstrosity had disappeared.
The Scalzorc stood up, and he realized that the two of them really were mirror images of each other, right down to the goatee. “Okay,” he crossed his arms, “being John Scalzi is my schtick. What’s the deal?”
The Scalzorc unsheathed his weapon and shield from his back. “I am hunting my nemesis, and it hunts me. Across realities and universes we have battled, and now we battle here.”
Scalzi looked at the strange orc and wondered how, exactly, he had fallen into Lord of the Rings/Sliders crossover fanfiction.
“This ‘enemy’,” he said. “What is it, exactly?”
“A monster beyond time and space,” the Scalzorc said. “which I have never been able to kill. The best I could do was place a burden on its flanks, which would alert me whenever it approached.”
Realization dawned on him. “The bacon.”
The Scalzorc nodded. “Yes, during a ferocious battle, I was able to attach strips of bacon to its flank, so it could never sneak up on me.” The Scalzorc tapped his nose. “I can smell bacon from leagues distant. It is the favored food source of our clan.”
“And what does your nose say now?”
The Scalzorc sniffed the air. “I smell nothing. The creature must have retreated from this world back to my own. We must go.”
“Wait, ‘we’?” Scalzi asked. “I’m just a writer. If I had other talents, I’d have a real job.”
“You are the Scalzi of this world, are you not?” The orc turned to him. “All Scalzis, of all worlds, are connected to this creature. You will never be free of it, until it is dead.” The orc walked over to the wreckage of a medieval armor-and-weaponry stand and lifted a crossbow. “Take this. As a Scalzi, it is your destiny to hunt this creature, and halt its trail of devastation.”
Scalzi reached for the crossbow. “I’ll do it, on one condition.”
“Yes?”
“I want the character rights for this story.”
#
“I has brought ur armor to dis place as well,” said the Roflmeow. “Is how u proved ur worth to me. Put it on, den we must go.”
“My armor? But I’m not a warrior…”
“U ARE!” The eyes of The Roflmeow burned into him, and Wil felt his resistance to the creature fading as he stared into its demonically adorable face. “I HAS SEEN U DO FINGS DAT WOULD DESTROY A WESSER MAN! U HAS PROVEN UR BRAVERY AND FEARWESSNESS MANYFOLD, BUT NUN MORE SO DEN WEN YOU DONNED DA ARMOR!”
Wil’s will wilted, weakened by the withering, willful words of the wicked… um, Woflmeow.
“NOW PUT ON DA ARMOR!”
He realized that something was laying at the creature’s feet. It was not armor, just a sweater. But it looked vaguely familiar, and as he realized what it was, the tattered remains of his sanity fled screaming like a little girl.
#
When he had donned the clown sweater, that tragic garment which still haunted his nightmares, the last mental remnant of Wil Wheaton had fled, most likely to the nearest subconscious tavern for several pints of mental Guinness.
The shattered man who now rode The Evil Roflmeow, adorned in Evil clown sweater and clutching an Evil halberd in his Evil right hand as he furrowed his Evil brow, had no more remnants of Wil Wheaton in him than the Evil tar beast had had of Tasha Yar after devouring her in the TNG Episode “Skin of Evil”.
They emerged from The Roflmeow’s cave, and soared over the volcanic landscape, seeking prey. Rivers of lava flowed below them, lighting up the barren plains. Then, in the dark red glare, the Clown-Sweatered Man Formerly Known as Wheaton spotted their target.
#
A squeal filled the air, and from the clouds of ash, a monstrous shape emerged. Scalzi watched, horrified, as the thing flew toward the Scalzorc, with Wil Wheaton, vengeful clown god of the heavens, riding upon the monster’s back. Wait… what? Somehow, Wil had fallen under the evil creature’s influence!
There was no time to think. From his hidden vantage point, he fired the crossbow at The Roflmeow, sending the bolt arcing through the air. But at the last moment, the Roflmeow dived, and the bolt whistled over the monster’s head.
#
The remnants of Wil Wheaton, watching through the eyes of the body that now acted solely at the Roflmeow’s whim, saw the enemy turn. The man had green skin, but he looked familiar. The scruffy goatee… the thinning hairline… my god, it’s Scalzi!
Summoning his last ounce of strength, Wil struggled to turn the halberd away from his friend. The Roflmeow was so caught up in its dive, claws reaching out for its nemesis, that its control slipped, and Wheaton, with a supreme act of Wilpower, twisted the halberd and plunged it not into the mysteriously orcish Scalzi, but into the feline head of his tormentor instead.
#
Scalzi watched, stunned, as Wil suddenly made a face like a Tyrannosaurus passing a beachball, and plunged his halberd into the kitten’s head. But too late! The creature slammed into the Scalzorc, and the pair of them, along with Wil, fell to the ground in a pile of wings, weapons, and Wheatons. He hurried over.
Wil lay slumped over the Roflmeow’s limp form. “Scalzi? You’re not green any more…”
“No, that was…” he realized the Scalzorc was still trapped under the Roflmeow. A moment later, he found the Scalzorc pinned, his head sticking out from under the monster’s corpse.
“Scalzi… is it over?”
“Yes,” he said, “it’s over.”
“Good,” he whispered, “then Scalzis everywhere may live their lives without fear, and I may rest at last… forever.”
“Wait,” said Scalzi, “we can get this off you!”
“It is too late, my human friend,” said the Scalzorc. “Go. Danger approaches.”
The ground rumbled, and the red glow in the air grew more intense. In the distance, Scalzi saw that a river of lava had split in two, with one branch headed right for them! He hoisted Wil’s arm over his shoulder, helping him climb up an embankment to safety. Scalzi turned and watched as the two fallen enemies were consumed by the lava, and raised a hand in silent salute to his friend.
At last, he turned to Wil. “I have no idea how we’re going to get home.”
Wil thought for a moment, and snapped his fingers. “I know! Reverse the polarity!”
“Polarity? Polarity of what?”
“Hell if I know… but whenever we didn’t know what to do on Star Trek, we reversed something’s polarity.”
Scalzi looked down at the clown sweater that Wil still wore. “I have an idea. Give me that thing.”
As he turned the clown sweater inside out and Wil put it back on, the ground shook. “It’s working! Thank God for Deus Ex Machina!”
A chasm opened in the ground, and they fell through.
#
“I’m home!”
Scalzi opened the door, and hugged Krissy as she threw her arms around him. “Welcome back, honey. How was the con?”
“Well… it gave me a great idea for a story.”
A soft meow attracted his attention, and he reached down and scratched behind the cat’s ears. “Hey, Ghlaghghee. I hope you had a better weekend than I did.”
He stood up to hug Krissy one more time, completely missing the strange gleam that emanated from Ghlaghghee’s eyes, and the faint smell of bacon that permeated the kitty’s fur.
Posted in Writing | Tagged Contests, Fanfiction, Geek, Writing | Leave a Comment »
As the title of this post suggests, last week I attended a writers’ panel at a local Barnes & Noble with five sci-fi and fantasy authors from the Raleigh area. I’d never been to a panel like this outside of a sci-fi con, so I decided to check it out– and besides, I like listening to authors. They’re always quirky, interesting people (in my experience).
The authors in question were David Drake, Kelly Gay, James Maxey, Mark Van Name, and Lisa Shearin. Of them, I was only familiar with David Drake, but I came away impressed with everyone. There were about 30 or 40 people in the audience, and when question time came, I asked one of the first questions, which was: “When you’re in the middle of writing a book, what’s your daily routine like? Do you write in a particular place and time of day? And do you restrict yourself to one project at a time?”
Okay, so it was really more like three questions, but they didn’t seem to mind. And I had a reason for asking what I did. Since I’m in the middle of trying to write a novel, I was curious to hear from a few professional authors how they structure their routine, particularly authors who have a day job (only David Drake and Kelly Gay write full-time). And each person’s answer was different, although there were a couple threads in common: (1)write every day, even if just for half an hour. And (2), only work on one project at a time. I was somewhat surprised to hear the second one, but it does makes sense, and it’s similar to a response I heard at a ConCarolinas writing panel, namely: you can only get paid for the things you finish.
Recently I’ve been pretty good about writing every day, but not so much about writing on the same project every day: I tend to jump around, with about five or six projects going at any one time, and as a result have a difficult time finishing stuff (case in point: my novel). Part of me always wants to jump to the latest and greatest idea. But if I want to do this for real, I need to follow through and complete my projects. It’s the way I can even potentially get paid for them.
In the process of answering another question, Mark Van Name said something else that resonated with me: professional writing is hard and doesn’t pay well (except for a very select few). If you have to write, then write. But if you can possibly not write, if you can do anything else, then you should really do that instead.
Oddly, I found this encouraging. Over the past couple months, I’ve come to the realization that writing is what I want to do, full-time, professionally. And even if I spend the rest of my life trying and failing at it, I still wouldn’t regret having tried.
I’ve never published a story or an article and gotten paid for it, nor I have a finished a draft of a full-length novel. But I’ve spent most of the last several years generally unsure of what I want to do with life, unsatisfied, mentally adrift, never quite sure of where I want to go or what I want to do. And it’s only when I think about writing, whether it’s travelogues, or novels, or short stories, that I feel like I have a direction, that I feel a strong, burning passion to do something.
When I think about how hard it is to write, and on top of that how hard it is to make a living as a writer, it doesn’t discourage me: it makes me want to do it even more. That, above everything else, makes me sure that this is the path I want to pursue. For years I’ve put off writing, afraid of writing things that turned out to be crap, or simply afraid of trying and failing. It’s time for me to stop being afraid of failure and just write.
This has strayed quite a bit from a report on a writing panel, hasn’t it? Nevertheless, it was these thoughts that occupied me as the questions continued. I did still pay attention… from other questions, I learned that vampires are on the way out and zombies are the hot monster of the moment (but where are the teenage zombie romances?). I also learned (or, rather, confirmed) that short stories aren’t worth it, economically speaking, and that while everyone has a different story of how they broke into the business, writing, like all businesses, comes down largely to who you meet and who you know. That doesn’t worry me too much; like any business, there are ways to network and meet people in the field (cons and events like these, for one). Besides, my first priority right now isn’t getting published, it’s writing more.
Time to get back to work!
Posted in Life, Writing | Tagged Writing, Panels, Routines | Leave a Comment »
This weekend, the Broadway musical “Memphis” won the Tony Award for Best Musical. It was a triumph I was glad to see, because as I mentioned in this post from January, my brother Charlie is part of the ensemble. He was with the show while it was in La Jolla Playhouse in San Diego, and then at the Fifth Avenue Theatre in Seattle, and was able to stay with it when it graduated to Broadway.
So congratulations to Charlie and the rest of the Memphis cast! Even setting aside the fact that my brother is in it, it was a great musical, and from what I’ve seen and heard, the cast and crew seem like a really great group of people.
Because I have a keen appreciation of schadenfreude, I poked around various news sites to see what the reaction was. I was pleased to note that overall Memphis garnered a lot of praise, even from the media. But I did find a few critics whose tears I could savor, most notably Michael Reidel of the New York Post, who complained about musicals being created for “hick audiences around the country” by “cynical producers who want to make pots of money.” I found this particularly amusing, because hey, news flash Mike: you work for freaking RUPERT MURDOCH. I think you’d best get off that high horse there.
Seriously, though, I was intrigued by the articles which complained that the Tony voters went the safe choice in “Memphis”, instead of choosing the edgier “Fela!” or “American Idiot.” I realize it’s a debate that goes on in the media all the time (mainly after awards shows), but this time I had a stronger connection to it: first in my brother, and second, now that I’m actively working toward the goal of being a creative professional myself, this debate has a direct impact on my own work as well.
I didn’t see the other nominated shows, but if Memphis is more accessible to mass audiences, isn’t that a good thing? As an aspiring writer, my goal is tell a really good story that touches people’s emotions. Isn’t that the very definition of accessibility? What’s the point of producing something edgy if no one wants to see it? Art for art’s sake, I guess. To that I say bah humbug.
I don’t write this post because I take the criticisms of Memphis personally– after all, Memphis won the Tony no matter what certain critics think, and I don’t think a Broadway production the size of Memphis needs to be defended by me. No, I’m more interested in the larger debate on what makes good art (be it theater, writing, movies, painting, music, etc.)– is it edginess? Originality? Accessibility?
For me, this is what art is, and always will be, regardless of what either critics or the dictionaries say: it’s a creative work designed to evoke an emotional response in the viewer/reader/watcher/listener, and to hopefully make them think. Successful art, then, is art which evokes the response it was aiming for (which doesn’t have to be a specific emotion). All other things that we strive for in art, such as originality, are in service of that higher goal. Accessibility, then, is another factor in service of the art: if more people see it and are touched by it, the art, whatever medium it’s in, is stronger as a result.
Anyway, those were just a few thoughts that came to me as I celebrated Memphis’ win. And as I expressed in my earlier blog post about Memphis, I think it’s a great story, even from a writing perspective. Anyone who thinks it was solely about racism was not paying close enough attention: what made it good was that it wasn’t just an outdated morality play, it was a drama involving very real, very believable, and very flawed characters. The 1950′s were just the backdrop against which their personal stories played out.
Anyway, I hope no one interprets this post as sour grapes against the critics who blasted Memphis’ win (well, except Michael Reidel, at whose expense I will continue to enjoy a hearty laugh). Rather, this debate, on what makes creative works like musicals “good”, has a very real and very direct impact on me as a writer, and it’s interesting to contemplate. I don’t think there really is a right answer… I have my opinion of course, and some people will disagree with me, which is fine. But if I ever get a novel published, I just want to spin a good yarn that’s fun to read; to hell with what the critics say. Memphis was the Broadway equivalent of my favorite kind of novel.
Congrats again, Memphis!
Posted in Writing | Tagged Memphis, Musicals, Storytelling, Writing | Leave a Comment »
The Roan Highlands is a stretch of the Appalachian Mountains in Tennessee, and it’s famous for having some of the beautiful mountain meadows in all of Appalachia. It’s also famous for its wildflowers, particularly the rhododendrons, which bloom in June… right when we happened to be visiting.
So with that in mind, I enthusiastically packed my camera and headed off, hoping that our worries about rain that weekend would prove to be nothing more than worries. The plan was to park at a bed and breakfast near the trail, then get the owner to shuttle us to a place called Carver’s Gap. From there we would then walk about 15 miles along the Appalachian Trail (and a third of a mile along a road) back to the bed and breakfast.
As we parked and unloaded our gear, it began to rain, and we began preparing for a long day’s hike through the wet. But almost as soon as we had donned our rain gear, the shower stopped. So when we reached Carver’s Gap and began our trek upward into the mountains it was cloudy and humid, but pleasantly cool and most importantly, not raining.
Sure enough, the rhododendrons were on full display, with countless clusters of pink blossoms scattered across the hillsides. Plenty of other wildflowers were competing for attention, too, and we saw lots of cameras mounted on tripods as seemingly hundreds of photographers swarmed along the trail, seeking to capture the beautiful displays of not just pink, but yellow, orange, red, white, and purple as well.
As we rose higher into the mountains, the number of dayhikers and photographers dwindled. Eventually we left the meadows for the cover of forest, and the wildflowers too became more scarce, though what flowers we did see were still impressive. The most interesting find of the day was a Gray’s Lily growing on the side of the trail. Gray’s Lily is a rare, possibly even endangered flower that only grows in a few locations in Tennessee, North Carolina, and Virginia, mostly high meadows above 4000 feet. Apparently one of the causes of its rarity is that it’s often eaten by grazing cows (more on this later), so we were lucky to find one mere inches off the side of the trail.
There were also entire fields of Queen Anne’s Lace (aka Wild Carrot), which unlike Gray’s Lily is an invasive species and generally to be considered an obnoxious weed. But it was still pretty in its own way, mainly for the arrangements of flowers which branched out by the dozens from the tall stems, and the flurry of tiny insects that created a hive of activity (no pun intended) on each bunch of blossoms.
By the time we reached Overmountain Shelter, a massive barn-like structure that was to be our stopping point for the night, the skies had cleared and the afternoon Sun was shining overhead. We discovered that we would be sharing the shelter with a few other hikers and a large crew of volunteers who were in the midst of doing a trail reroute, so we made friends (I cozied up to the people who were listening to the US-England World Cup match on a portable radio), and then spent the afternoon relaxing. We explored the area around the shelter (including traipsing down phantom paths that gradually disappeared into overgrown brush), and watched our fearless leader Josh Hartman stand on one foot and juggle. I even took a turn myself, just to prove that I could indeed keep all 3 balls in the air at once (ignoring the way they all fell to the ground about two seconds later).
As the sun went down, Josh and I used the zoom lenses on our cameras to take pictures of cows grazing on Big Hump several miles away. Big Hump is the largest of the Roan Highlands meadows, and we could see it quite clearly, stretching along the top of a ridge which loomed large on the left side of the valley. Conquering it would be tomorrow’s work.
As we arose the next morning, we were greeted by a foggy, humid day. Big Hump, which had been so clearly visible the previous night, was now socked in by clouds. Rain had fallen in the night, but except for a brief sprinkle as we were having breakfast safely under the shelter roof, it seemed to have tapered off. So we crossed our fingers, hoping that like the tease of a shower we had endured before setting off the previous morning, that would be the end of it.
But a few minutes after we began our ascent, the skies opened up, and soon we were trudging along, heads down, making our way up a steep climb in the pouring rain. As we walked, the trail turned in a muddy little creek, rivulets of water flowing down the mountain and soaking our boots and shoes in the process. The nine miles to the road was beginning to look like a very long hike indeed.
The reason I titled this post “Reminiscing from the Roan Highlands”, in addition to having an affinity (some would say ailment) for alliteration, is that the last time I hiked this stretch of the AT was in 2004, during my Georgia-to-Maine thru-hike. It was winter, so the landscape was brown, the trees were bare, and there wasn’t a wildflower to be seen for miles, but we did get some amazing views. In my trail journal entry from that day, I described being able to see Mt. Rogers and White Top in Virginia, Mt. Mitchell and Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina, and in general I remember this area as having some of the most spectacular scenery of the southern AT, sort of a Franconia Range for the southern Appalachians.
But views were not to be had today, so I had to make do with reminiscing. The rain stopped as we reached the top of the ridge, but the clouds stayed, and so we made our way across wide, grassy meadows that, while still pretty on their own, were completely socked in by the fog.
The climb up Big Hump was a long one, and since we could only see about fifty feet in front of us, it kept looking like we might be nearing the top. But whenever we moved a little further up the mountain, we would see that the length of our climb had extended by exactly as far as we had walked. Doug, one of my hiking companions, accurately described it as “Nature’s Treadmill.”
We reached the top, hoping for a miraculous parting of the clouds, but alas, it was not to be: the fog was as dense as ever. We did get some sporadic parting of the clouds on the way down, offering a few tantalizing glimpses of distant ridges, but by and large the clouds stayed with us until late morning, long after we had made our way off the grassy meadows. Back under forest cover, we began to push harder to get to the road, scrambling over long stretches of very slippery rocks (including one which gave me a nice bruise on my ass as a souvenir), which finally, a couple of miles before the road, gave way to a gently-downward sloping dirt path and a much simpler and more pleasant hike through the woods.
All in all a good trip– we missed out on some views, but the wildflowers were amazing, and I got a lot of practice with macro photography. If you’re interested in the full set of pictures, click here.
Posted in Travel | Tagged Appalachian Trail, Backpacking, Mountains, Photos, Roan Highlands, Travel, Wildflowers | 1 Comment »
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