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  • The New Vonnegut

    I got really excited a few weeks ago when it was announced that a never before published Vonnegut novella had been discovered and was being released. Sadly, it was only in ebook format (though super cheap) because Vonnegut is one author I really do prefer to read in paper. But nevertheless, I waited until April when I had another free book to read through Amazon Prime and promptly downloaded Basic Training.

    Vonnegut apparently wrote this novella fairly early in his career–as was judged by the address on the manuscript–but I think it’s as eloquent as anything he wrote. I was thrown by the utter realist nature of the piece (no time traveling aliens or Ice-9) but it was engaging and imaginative. The story focuses on a young boy who’s parents have been killed and he move in with his uncle and cousins on their farm. The uncle is a veteran called “The General” by everyone he knows and he runs his farm as though it were a military unit. The young man, Haley, is a slight boy who aspires to become a professional piano player and the rough physical life of the farm is quite a shock.

    From what I know thus far of Vonnegut’s style (I’m still very much an amateur, but I’m working my way through his books) this novella is pretty representative. If you enjoy his outlandish set-ups and precise prose, you’ll definitely enjoy Basic Training. Even without aliens and world-ending scientific discoveries.

    Cover of Basic Training

  • Cake Tribute to “The Night Circus”

    So, I was struck by the craving for a flourless chocolate cake after watching co-workers devouring one I was allergic to, so I decided to embark on one that was dairy free. And then, Erin Morgenstern informed her fan base (which includes me) that the chocolate mice that feature in her novel The Night Circus can be found at Burdick Chocolates. So, I decided to combine my craving for the two into one baking experiment.

    I wanted to have a flourless chocolate cake with white chocolate and raspberry drizzles. It was a challenge to find either vegan white chocolate or cocoa butter to make my own, but Cambridge Naturals came to my rescue with 16 ounces of gorgeous pure cocoa butter. And then no one had any fresh raspberries, so I settled for a wonderful raspberry jam.

    Using this cake recipe and this white chocolate recipe, I think i had a raging success. It is delicious, and dense, and totally coma inducing. It is also black, white, and red, as any good nod to the circus should be…

  • Language Flash

    This one was fun guys, you should totally join in–post your response to yesterday’s prompt in the comments!
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    It was my second night on a stool in the new bar. Well, the bar wasn’t new, it was just new to me. And judging by the drapes on the wall of the basement, the ratty rugs, and the leaking bean bag chairs, nothing about this place had been new for a very long time. It didn’t much matter though since it was run out of the basement of a friend of this guy’s and they just served free booze to all their friends. Occasionally people would chip in when they had the money, but mostly the alums from their school kept the booze stocked so the underclassmen didn’t have to pay to get drunk.

    I know this sounds all kinds of sketchy, but it’s not, promise. It might have been a lot sketchier except that the entire contingent of patrons was comprised of complete geeks who were much more interested in swapping stories of their latest experiment or LARPing game than getting in the pants of some freshman girl.

    And that really seemed to be all that they talked about. Never classes, or work. And it was only occasionally what brew they had going in their test tubes. More likely than not, you’d walk in the back door and down the tight staircase (if you’re over six foot, watch your head) and trip into a conversation about game mechanics and combat.

    “Don’t you remember those ‘zed? That game was wicked. I thought for sure you’d have been dead but you’d buffed your regen counter to the point that no one could get a kill shot! And then you were up and took all those poor NPCs out and they had no idea what hit them.”

    “I know! But you were really brilliant as the General. Too bad you had to be an NPC, stupid work getting in the way of a perfectly good 10 day. You should have been there, cutting your usual swath through the undergrads.”

    “They should develop a mechanic for distance play, for people like me who have to work from fuck-nowhere Canada every week.”

    This was LARPing–Live Action Role Playing. To be clear, we’re talking about people who get together, write complicated plot lines and character bios (up to 70 or so) and then run a live game that can take anywhere from 2 hours to 10 days where students and alumni are running around the school firing nerf darts and disc guns at each other, forming alliances, solving puzzles, and generally freaking the hell out of exchange students.

    It took me a few conversations to actually understand what these people were talking about: ‘zed referred to the enemy characters in a particular game kind of like zombies; NPC was non-player character or basically just a person wandering around without personal game objectives and were there to move the plot along; mechanics were how the game functioned since you obviously couldn’t actual kill your classmates; buffing your stats meant doing something to get creative with the mechanics in your favor. Luckily, I was a girl who enjoyed gaming, so I could understand a lot of what they were talking about in a general sense since a good majority of the functionality was taken directly from those tabletop and console type games. But then you run into odd subjects, like the love mechanic.

    You can’t very well have two people who don’t actually know each other get their characters to seduce each other for information. Particularly with just how socially awkward these geeks were. Maybe some lubed up frat boy could have handled it, but not these kids. So mechanics were introduced to handle these situations, such as backrubs.

    “Do you remember Kai? God, I was such a man-whore. I was seducing all these women to get the formulas and I had kind of staked out this one classroom for the mechanic, but then their commandant found out and stormed the place? The look on their faces when they came through the door with their guns out and saw her totally face planted on the table while I went to town on her back, that was hilarious.”

    “Well you do give good backrubs.”

    And they all talked about this as if it was the most normal, mundane events. Like you or I might talk about what happened at work, or rehash a game of flag football. Except they talk as though they are those characters. The reference to Kai? That was his character’s name. But they just keep talking as if he and Kai were interchangeable and the events of the game truly happened. And the conversation flowed smoothly and quickly through game after game while they got drunk.

    I know I drifted in and out of the conversations; I didn’t have any knowledge of the games they had played and I found their complete suspension of disbelief a bit uncomfortable, even as a writer, so I would occasionally just stop paying attention. A phrase here or there would jump out and I might sometimes ask for more clarification on a point of reference or a game, but for the most part I just nursed my drink in the corner.

    It was at one of these times that I noticed a slight change in how they were talking that caught my attention. It sounded like one of their friends had gotten hurt in one of the games.

    “Yeah, he’s doing fine now, got some good scars for it though.”

    “Wait, so, did this actually happen?”

    “Ha! Yeah. His girlfriend stabbed him seven times while he was asleep, he woke up, got the knife away from her, then restrained her until the cops got there. Kind of hilarious.”

    “Didn’t she have a crossbow in the mail, too?”

    “I know! Completely inept and no patience. The crossbow would have been way more cool.”

    “Seriously. If he had been dating one of the girls from our school, she would have gotten the job done right on the first stab.”

    There was a round of agreement from the crew at the bar and I just sat back into my dark corner again, seriously rethinking some recent romantic decisions.

    Screen grab from the movie Role Models

  • Writing Prompt #20

    Play along with the writing prompt by posting your responses in the comments either here or on my response!
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    Language is something that most people take for granted. They don’t find they need more than a basic vocabulary or notice how fascinating the history of specific words can be. And then others…others create whole languages. Anyone out there speak Klingon? That is a whole unique language created for the Star Trek universe. Yeah, yeah, and Tolkein’s Elvish. I just think Klingon is more impressive since thousands of people have actually learned how to speak it.

    Anyway, language doesn’t have to be verbal, it doesn’t have to have history that is thousands of years old. Take a look at the language of the fan below. Someone decided they wanted these fan movements to mean something to use as a flirting language. Your task now is to develop a new language. It can be as simple as the gestures used by the catcher in a game of baseball or as complex as Klingon. The point is not the grammatical construction itself as what a new language can do for your character.

    A listing of the meanings of various fan movements

  • How Can We Be on 18 Already?

    Janet Evanovich is another author I can reliably go to for a popcorn quality read. Her books are fluff and air, but fun from start to finish. And just recently, her eighteenth book in the Stephanie Plum series hit the shelves.

    Cover of Explosive Eighteen

    Explosive Eighteen is the most recent in a long line of ridiculous bounty hunter fun. Stephanie just can’t do anything right and this time is no exception. When the book starts, apparently something fight-like happened between her two long-time lovers in Hawaii and she has accidentally become the target of several head hunters. Literally, they’re ready to scalp someone for the information they are after.

    I had been worried after the last couple of Plum novels as Evanovich’s writing seemed to be flagging, almost as if she were tired of the characters and the style, but she has recovered in this one. She is back to her funny and devil-may-care self. You’ll never catch me saying she is high literature, by any means, but for an entertaining afternoon, she’s perfect. (Literally, afternoon. I think it took me three hours total.)

    Anyway, not much more can be said about entertaining fluff books (literally, it’s like eating spoonfuls of Marshmallow Fluff–empty calories, guilt-inducing, yet somehow utterly satisfying) but I’ll take a moment here to address the movie adaptation of her first Plum novel while I’m here.

    Movie Poster for One For the Money

    So, the first worry with movies like this, for me at any rate, isn’t the writing. It’s the casting. After 17 books worth of living with these characters, I have very particular images of what some of these people look like (particularly the hotties…). I have to say, the casting of Stephanie, Morelli, and Ranger were all spot on. They were absolutely perfect. The two I was a little unhappy with were Grandma Mazur and Lula. I really really wanted Betty White for Grandma Mazur and someone like Queen Latifah for Lula.

    Seriously though, wouldn’t that have been wonderful?

    And I do have to say one thing about the writing. It stuck wonderfully close to the novel, but that is actually its downfall. The transitions from scene to scene were rather abrupt and awkward and it took me a moment to realize that this was entirely because whoever the screen adapter was didn’t bother to make it screen friendly. They basically just turned the novel into dialogue but forgot to translate it for screen. The same devices and lines that work perfectly well on the page often look stiff and awkward on the screen. Something to keep in mind, aspiring screenwriters. It has to look and sound authentic when someone actually says it.

  • Finally Done with the Dragon Tattoo

    So in that marathon of junk reading that I was doing during sick-time, I finally managed to finish the Millennium trilogy (or as it’s better known, those Girl With a Dragon Tattoo books). For all those books are overly long, they really don’t take much time at all to read. Maybe that’s because I just skim all that irrelevant detail that makes up over half the book, but I’m getting ahead of myself here.

    All told, now that I’ve finished the entire story arc, I have to say the story and character through-lines are well constructed and engaging. There is a compelling story there and I can tell why people loved his work. You do come to care about Lisbeth and her freedom. And when the evil psychiatrist is getting his come-uppance, you can’t help but feel viciously satisfied. But that is far from saying that I am completely happy with the books.

    For a diversion, they function just fine, but there is one major problem with the work: Stieg Larsson has an unhealthy obsession with details. Here’s the thing. I do not need to know every step our character made as he gets up in the morning, does his morning toilet, prepares breakfast, and then walks to work. Maybe if this functioned as a carrier for his inner monologue–no, probably not even then. It’s just not relevant. All we really need are a sentence or two, with a couple details, that enable the reader to fill in the gaps. We do not need four pages detailing his morning actions that have absolutely no bearing on the plot whatsoever. This man desperately needed someone to hack away at his manuscripts with a judicious red pen and the books would have been half the length. This would not only be a service to the reader, it would also help keep those slow parts of the novels from dragging quite so much.

    This also pertained to the exacting directions Larsson gave us everytime one of his characters took to the street. You could almost use the book as a map for finding your way around the major cities, but it’s just not needed. Yes, I’m impressed with your familiarity with the surrounding area. No, you don’t need to prove that you have a map pinned to the wall next to your computer. I do too, but you don’t see my writing riddled with extraneous geographical locators. It’s enough to say “From the office, he went to such and such hotel” instead of spending two paragraphs walking us through it.

    But overall, that’s my only complaint about the novels. I may have felt they were a bit needlessly graphic at times, but that’s less of a concern to me then the criminal waste of verbs and names. I almost feel bad saying I’m okay reading the scenes which are a startlingly vivid portrayal of rape and torture compared to the long tedious descriptions, but that’s just me. At least in the rape scenes, the plot is moving forward…

    Cover of Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest

  • Old Man Flash (Fiction)

    Mr. Clark went to her every month. He wanted to go more often, but the bus all the way out to her was expensive and he could only really afford it that often. There was always a present in his bag for her; flowers, cards, a book he though she might enjoy. This time, it was the anniversary of when he had officially started courting her and had been given the honor of escorting her to a dance thrown by the local spinster, so he brought along a corsage for her.

    The bus route took them along the edge of several large estates, with long winding rows of hedges lining the street and drives. They were all carefully manicured and absolutely forbidden. He hadn’t been back on the main grounds of his old employer since his body had grown too old to keep up with his chores as head butler. He was too prideful. But the lordling had been kind enough to give him a small stipend to live off of for the rest of his life and to allow his sweetheart to remain on the land she had grown up on and served her entire life.

    The path that Mr. Clark used to get to her approached and he hauled himself carefully out of his seat and made his unsteady way to the front of the bus. It was always the same bus driver, and even though there wasn’t supposed to be stop along these roads, the man always let him off and on his return route an hour later picked him back up. The old man had only needed to stammer his explanation once for the driver to agree to this unorthodox agreement. They never counted passengers anyway on his bus, so it was no skin off his nose.

    Mr. Clark staggered down the stairs and steadied himself against the style that would take him over the stone fence and into the old church yards. No one had used the church in generations, but it still stood at the back of the lordling’s land, unattended but superstitiously protected. The graveyard attached to it was almost uniformly old broken headstones that you couldn’t even read anymore. The only exception was an angel, carved very recently, seated in the clear space under an elm tree. She held her hands out in benediction and Mr. Clark made his way to them, grasping them tightly.

    “Hello, my love. It’s a wonderful day today, just your favorite. Clouds skittering across the sky.” He fumbled with the box that the corsage was in, finally managing to undo the flaps. He pulled out the orchid, specially picked from the flower seller stand at the station, and tied the ribbons around the angel’s wrist. “I know they’re your favorite. Its a good thing there are so many greenhouses now, I can get them any time now. Remember how we had to schedule the wedding for when they were in season because you insisted on having them in your bouquet?”

    His knees creaked as he sat down in the circle of the angel’s arms and leaned back against her. “It makes me so tired now, coming out here, but I’d never miss it, not even once. Did you know our lordling was going to be getting married next month? It’s a love match, too. Remember how we never thought that would be allowed to happen, how they were reviewing those candidates like horses? I’d say it’s a good thing that his parents passed before they had gotten him squared away. At least now he has the chance to be as happy as we are.” He patted the knee of the statue and leaned back against it. “I’m just going to close my eyes for a bit, before the bus comes back. Wake me when it’s time to go, love?”

    When the bus returned an hour later, Mr. Clark was not waiting. Nor did he show up for the rest of the day. The driver hoped that he had caught a ride in a passing car, but didn’t give it a second thought.

  • Writing Prompt #19

    I would love to see how some of you handle these prompts, put your response in the comments!
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    Old man looking at the ground.

    Who is this old man? What is he doing? Go!

  • They left me Hungry…

    So, when you’re queued up for tests involving sedation of any kind, it’s best to pick up a book you don’t care if you remember anything about. I’d read The Hunger Games back in September but had no great urge to read the sequels, but low and behold you could borrow them for free on the Kindle and I didn’t care about whether I remembered them or not. They foot the bill perfectly.

    It took a grand total of three days to read the second two books, and that was around hospitals and work. So, I think I estimated that I spent five hours on each one. They were diverting and entertaining, but I think that’s about the best that can be said for them. Here’s why (SPOILERS TO FOLLOW):

    Katniss is just a tool. Yes, she can be badass when she wants to. No, I would never be able to accomplish the feats of willpower and strength that she does. HOWEVER. In the second and third books she is constantly being manipulated, kept out of the loop, and is, in essence, a pawn for both sides of the revolution, regardless of the fact that District 13 keeps pretending she’s their queen. She’s not. And by the time you reach the end of the third book, she’s no longer even an active participant in anything. It’s not her who breaks down the stronghold, she just gets to watch her sister die. It’s not her who catches and kills President Snow. She’s around, but what she does makes no actual difference to the revolution. In fact, President Coin keeps trying to off her because she thinks the Mockingjay would make a better martyr than figurehead.

    And so, at the end, we’re left with a broken and ineffectual girl who, when they try one more time to use her–this time as Snow’s executioner–who finally makes a difference and kills the harpy Coin instead. The one decent act Katniss was given in the entire latter half of the third book.

    I spent a lot of time asking myself if I would have made different choices as a writer and what the choices that Collins made actually did for the characters and the story. In The Hunger Games, I feel like the author actually did make the best choices for story and character. Katniss, while being played by her sponsors and the government, was still and active character making a difference in her world. Collins strips this away from her towards the end of the trilogy and I found that extremely disappointing. I probably would have decided to make her the damn hero and sure as hell wouldn’t have killed her sister. The only point that had was to make her choose one boy over another and it just ended up feeling contrived.

    All that being said, I will definitely make the case that I would prefer to have children reading these books over Twilight ANY day. They’re bloody and vicious, but are very well written at a sentence, paragraph, character arc, cultural enrichment level. I may dislike what Collins did with Katniss’s character, but I still think she was on to something with all of this. Maybe not quite as strong as Harry Potter, but definitely in the running for good books for young adults to read.

    As for the movie? It did a pretty good job sticking to the first book, except for cutting a few unnecessary characters and having one riot too early. Otherwise, my only complaint was that Peeta wasn’t hot enough. Especially if she ends up choosing him in the end…

    A sign at a theater saying, "Due to limited ticket availability, guests will be chosen at random to fight to the death in our area."

  • Zombi, You My Love

    So, I’ve read a lot of books recently while waiting for doctors and the like, so I better get started catching up on my reviews. I’m starting back in with Zombi, You My Love by William Orem, a wonderful professor of mine at Emerson who oversaw my first confrontation with playwriting. The class was incredible–but I definitely think I need to leave playwriting to the professionals.

    But back to Zombies. I had a chance to read his newest novel, Killer of Crying Deerwhile in his class. It was a beautiful story about an abducted British boy being shipwrecked with a tribe of the Shell People in the Florida Keys in 1699. When we talked about it, Orem asked if I found the language difficult because he had gotten comments to that effect from other people. I had to stop and think about it, because I had gotten so absorbed in the story, but I had noticed it the language having a distinctly different flow and feel. My conclusion was that it felt like I was actually reading a translation from the Shell People’s language–an extrodinarily good translation that brought me solidly into their culture but a unique occurance with an author writing in their native language.

    At the same time I purchased Killer of Crying Deer, I had also purchased his collection of shorts about Haiti: Zombi, You My Love. It got buried on my shelf and I found it again when I was getting ready to head out west and needed something to read. I wasn’t sure what to expect from the stories, other than being set in Haiti before the overthrow of Duvalier (pre-1986).

    What I found was a series of stories from 1936-1985 which weave and connect, drawing various local and visiting characters into a rich tapestry portraying life in the island country. From pompous aide workers to overworked nurses and Vodou priests, Orem has a story for every kind of person living on the island. Some are mystical, others brutally honest about the conditions and attitudes of the people.

    My two favorite stories in this collection are Bright Angel and Ló Bó Dlo. They were both stories that dealt with Vodou, but in different ways. Bright Angel was about a young woman who ends up pregnant by a man from the Dominican Republic and initially goes to a houngan, or Vodou priest, for an abortion. She ends up changing her mind and trying to get him to reverse the process about half way through. Ló Bó Dlo was about a young man who was refusing to carry on his family’s Vodou heritage. His father was a griot as was his father and his father before him, etc. He was breaking with tradition and contemplating leaving Haiti.

    Both of these stories had an incredible lyrical quality to them that almost made them seem like an oral tale, rather than a story confined to the page. The mysticism seemed almost logical and inevitable in them and contributed to the feeling of overall satisfaction at the end of the story. I feel that Angel had a happy ending, whereas the ending for Blo was much more ambiguous, but I put the book down at the end of both of those stories to better savor the sensations and feelings that Orem managed to evoke.

    The whole collection is quite excellent and when you start noticing the recurring characters, it’s fun to make the connections between them and notice the subtle web that connects the whole island together.

    Now I want to get my hands on his other collection, Across the River, and, if I could find them, his one-act plays. They are not, unfortunately, published in a separate collection, but I sure wish they were.

    Cover of Zombi, You My Love