Happily addicted to the web . . . .

(Or, In Which Helen Should Avoid Resolutions, Part II)

No, I didn't revise as much as I planned to last month. Anyone really surprised? I did. however, generate a few thousand words of new material, and I spend a considerable amount of time struggling with my novel's setting.

The story's set in a very specific City, which I know lots about; the problem is what world this City is in. Apparently the story gives off a futuristic vibe (which was part of my original idea); but it contains some magical/supernatural elements which prevent it from being the future of our world. Right now I'm thinking it's the future of a sort of parallel universe--our world + my particular brand of "magic." (Sort of like Watchmen, which is our world + "superheroes."*)

Anyway, some small amount of progress has been made by me. And no doubt (no doubt)** there would have been more, had I spent less time online. Hulu is simultaneously a delight and the bane of my existence . . . all those TV shows, available whenever you want them! Ack. But in five days or so my semester will essentially be over,*** and I'll be back home without wireless. Which will be good for my soul and my writing.

Before that happy day, however, I must survive two juries (piano and organ) . . . and actually I probably won't do any writing until after Christmas: I have two full services Christmas Eve and one Christmas morning. So not much chance for relaxation until Boxing Day, when I intend to sleep very late and do nothing useful all day.

Yet despite all this, I am happy. An elusive and fragile state, to be sure: I'm always hesitant use these words, lest the force of words destroy so ephemeral a feeling. But I played my Toccata in Convocation today, and it went splendidly. I haven't performed in a long while (church is a whole different creature), and it's so nice to know that I can still perform--and that I can even enjoy it. Also I spent half an hour outside this evening looking at the moon (which apparently was the closest and brightest full moon in fifteen years), and then came inside and drank hot chocolate whilst ordering Christmas presents.

I only wish it was colder. :-)



*With the important exception that my novel is not a cynical-yet-brilliant deconstruction of an entire genre. (Hopefully it will have a brilliant moment or two; but no cynical deconstruction, thanks!)

**Insert Alan-Rickman-as-Snape-voice here.

***Yes, I split that infinitive. Gleefully, I might add, and with malice aforethought. There is absolutely no reason to not split infinitives in English. (See what I did there?) The only reason it's "wrong" is because some stupid grammarians in the seventeenth century thought that English should be Latin. This is also the reason we aren't allowed to use double negatives--which Old English, and even sixteenth-century English, used freely. Thus we are deprived of a form of dramatic emphasis native to our tongue, and are not under no circumstances to never use it. Solely because some stupid dead guys thought every language should emulate Latin.

In Which the Black Dragon Comes South, and Havoc Ensues

Actually, spanokopita and scarecrows ensued, but that doesn't sound nearly as impressive (though it does have a nice alliterative ring to it). And this post is not primarily about the Black Dragon. (So far, I'm not sure it's about much of anything, besides unnecessary parentheticals.) I just wanted to use that as a title of something, because I like the way it sounds. She did come south, though. This was a good and joyful thing, and is well-documented on facebook. Her visit was notable for many reasons, including the afore-mentioned spanokopita and scarecrows (as well as the unmentioned and decidedly unimpressive Macaroni-Masquerading-as-Exotic-Greek-Cuisine), and its only fault* (besides the macaroni) was its unavoidable brevity.

A few weeks later, I'm rejoicing in almost-autumn weather (the leaves have changed, finally, but I'm still wearing short sleeves), and trying to hatch plots to visit all my scattered friends: the Black Dragon's visit has reminded me how much I miss them. So far, these plots are insubstantial and hypothetical, but hopefully some of them will materialize. (I'm also trying to come up with a scenario which would allow me to be in Oxford and Santa Fe simultaneously. Pretty sure that's an exercise in fruitlessness . . . but right now it seems easier than choosing between an amazing three-week study-abroad opportunity and the Glen Workshop. Besides, it would be a fascinating cultural experience.)

I thought about trying NaNoWriMo this year; I have a new novel idea, which is mostly outlined. But unfortunately I sketched out a few scenes back in September, when the idea struck--which means I would have had to come up with another idea. So instead I'm resolving to spend November seriously revising the novel I finished** back in May.

Of course, I'm starting almost a week into November, which is not ideal--but I need some kind of deadline. The whole thing is kind of a tangled mess right now, and if I let it sit much longer I'll never be able to untangle it. I'm thinking I'll try for a minimum of 1,000 words a day . . . which would get me through 24,000 words by the end of the month. It's half the word-count for official NaNoWriMo (am I spelling that right?)--but revising/rewriting is an inherently slower process than the intitial writing. (For me, anyway; others may write more slowly to begin with, and have less of a mess on their hands afterwards.)

Anyhow, that's the goal. I'll try to post on my progress; should help me stick to it, and also breathe some life back into this poor neglected blog of mine.


*(The visit's faults are not to be confused with my faults--the worst of which, at the moment, appears to be the overuse of parentheses. I find them terribly addictive.)

**I use this word pretty loosely (there's so much more to life than words . . .)

Numbers, novels, and organ-playing nomads

Behold, many months have passed, and the moon hath waxed and grown thin, and summer hath come and departed*--and here much blogging!

In other words, I just realized how long it's been, and figured I should do something about it. Only trouble is, a lot's happened since I last blogged--guess I should start with the present, and work backwards.

Classes started today. Yes, I'm beginning my . . . how many is it now? . . . my thirteenth straight semester of college. My seventh straight year. However you want to look at it.

But--and this is a significant but--I'm only a part-time student this semester. I'm also living in Rivertown, which means a 10-minute drive to classes (instead of 45 minutes). Huge blessing--the commute was draining, and I'm not sure I could've kept it up another year. Of course, I now have an hour commute to my job . . . . it's 15 minutes from home, but in the opposite direction from Rivertown. It's a church job, though, so I only have to be there on Wednesdays and weekends--which means a long drive twice a week instead of 5 times. So I'm still semi-nomadic, but I'm expecting less stress.

Plus, I love the job. It's not perfect (what is?)--and there are a lot of things I wish I knew more about (conducting, for instance). But I'm learning a lot just being there--about music and people and churches and committees--and I know enough about music that I can teach them some things, and hopefully prepare them to carry on without me. (I'll graduate in a couple of years, and will need to move on. Probably to grad school. (Not even going to count those years right now . . . I don't want to think about it.))

Also, I've got a recital coming up--the projected date is February. Suite by a French Baroque guy named Clerembault; three Bach chorale preludes (including "Wachet auf"); and a couple of 20th-century pieces (also French). This means I actually have to practice, regularly and intensively; but it should be fun, too.

I kind of hate practicing. It's like writing: really hard to make yourself sit down and do it--but once you can play the piece (or once the scene starts working), there's nothing better in the world. The trouble is, there are lots of days when you can't play the piece, or your setting is hopelessly confusing, and you realize you have to ditch a good ten pages of your novel and come up with a completely new way to get your protagonist where she needs to be for the climax to work.

But it's worth it. So I'll be busy practicing, and revising, and maybe by February I'll have a readable novel to go along with my recital.

In other news, I just finished listening to David Byrne and Brian Eno's new album "Everything That Happens Will Happen Today." It's good stuff--and it's mostly responsible for this blog post, so I figured I should mention it. Plus, free streaming. Always a good.

Oh, and I'll try to post again before February. Lots of good summer stuff happened, and should be recorded for posterity. Or, you know, whoever actually reads this thing.


*At least, it's departed somewhere. Presumably. In these southern regions, it'll stick around another month at least.

song of the day

I thought that we’d be
Further along by now
I can’t remember how
We stumbled to this place . . .

I wanna do better
I wanna try harder
I wanna believe
Down to the letter

Jesus and Mary
Can you carry us
Across this ocean
Into the arms of forgiveness

I don’t mean to laugh outloud
I’m trying to come clean
Trying to shed my doubt
Maybe I should just keep
My big mouth shut . . .

So tell me your troubles
Let your pain rain down
I know my job I’ve been around
I invest in the mess
I’m a low cost dumping ground

Trouble is I’m so exhausted
The plot, you see, I think I’ve lost it
I need the grace to find what can’t be found

I wanna do better
I wanna try harder
I wanna believe
Down to the letter

Jesus and Mary
Can you carry us
Across this ocean
Into the arms of forgiveness


-- Linford Detweiler (Over the Rhine)

This is a Novel

And I wrote it.







Kind of an exciting thing to say. I mean, I've known I wanted to write books at least since I was ten (maybe longer); and while I've completed some long projects before (a novella in high school, a screenplay in college), I've never completed a full-length novel before. I wrote the last bit early one morning last week (right before having a wisdom tooth surgically removed, with local anaesthesia. Not an experience I want to repeat).

But this accomplishment is almost as daunting as it is exciting. Because when I say "this is a novel," I really mean "this is 200-odd pages of rough draft, and it still needs lots of time and attention before it's presentable." And, honestly, the thought of revising something this long is rather overwhelming . . . which is probably why I've barely looked at it since I finished it.

But hey, it's a novel.

And I wrote it.

But where shall I begin? And what should I presume?

Those are the questions we must ask.

At the moment I'm dutifully asking them, as I sit in my local Panera, staring at the 44,772 words of novel on my computer screen, and the seven pages of scribbled notes that are supposed to help me finish with it. At the moment, they aren't helping in the least. (A writer's life is terribly hard.)

This is actually the first time I've been to this Panera. It's not as nice as the one near the Small and Peculiar College, where I went several times, and I find myself missing SPC as a result. (Not the classes, you understand, but the excursions.)

Spring classes here ended almost two weeks ago--which means I'm through with both theory and skills forever. (Those of you who are, or have been, music majors will understand. Those of you who aren't or haven't been, think Latin.) I celebrated by eating cheap sushi and going to see a disturbing Romanian film. It was great fun. (Yes, I'm aware that I have strange notions of fun.)

Since school ended, I've been watching season 3 of Lost at Glim's instigation (I had given up on it after season 2, but I've been reconverted), sleeping, and trying to work on my novel. (Life is much less crazy when you have one part-time job, instead of two part-time jobs and full-time college.) I've also been keeping up with Battlestar Galactica. Season 4 is off to a good start: last week's episode was brilliant, and I can't wait for more.

In the meantime, my novel languishes . . . . and if I ignore it any longer, I'm afraid it might do something drastic.

And indeed there will be time . . . . . . time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

Mea cula, mea culpa . . .

mea maxima culpa.

Not at all sure I have the right Latin there, but you get the idea. I've read many books the last couple of months, and haven't posted a single word about any of them. Resolutions and my blog? Very bad combination, seemingly.

But I've been tagged with a book-ish tagging thing, so I figured I should post.

"The Rules:
Pick up the nearest book of 123 pages or more. (No cheating!)
Find Page 123.
Find the first 5 sentences.
Post the next 3 sentences.
Tag 5 people."

I first saw this at work when I had no books whatsoever . . . so I came home, sat down at my computer, and discovered that I had two books equally close to me. No, actually there are three . . . so here you go:

what made him shudder in his veins: He begged for mony to free his friend from the dungeons of Charles of Anjou, where he was awaiting execution. Oderisi allueds to Dante's own exile, when Dante, proud as he is, will likewise be required to do what mortifies him--to subsist upon the generosity of others. (Dante's Purgatory, trans. by Anthony Esolen.)*

We three. We're free. How many sappers die? (Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient)

There was therefore a ready audience for anyone who cared to speak out against what was happening. Reputedly Luther spoke out on 31 October 1517, celebrated in later days in German-speaking lands** as Reformation Day. That day, he may or may not have publicly advertised his intention of setting up an academic disputation on the subject of indulgences by tacking to the Castle Church doors in Wittenberg a copy of ninety-five statements or theses to be disputed--much is uncertain in the anecdotes about these tumultuous years, and not even the doors themselves can bear witness, having been destroyed in a fire in 1760. (Diarmaid McCulloch, The Reformation)

And, with that having done by me, I hereby tag everyone who commented on my last post. Assuming, of course, that they actually visit my blog again after my ridiculously protracted silence. I probably would have given up on me by now. :-)

In other news, I have a church service to play for in the morning--after which I must begin work on an atonal composition, based on either a 12-tone row or an all-combinatorial hexachord. Since my notions of both things are still rather fuzzy--and the composition is due next week (!)--this could be an interesting undertaking. I shall try to post again soonishly.

(Oh, and I've only finished one of the three books . . . I'm only 59 pages into The Reformation and even less on the Purgatory. Novels are so distracting! Especially when they have yellow covers.***)


*The page ends here--hence the lack of the requisite third sentence.

**Also at certain English- and Latin-speaking colleges.

***That was a theatrical reference, for those of you who weren't homeschooled.