Getting Stuff Done

I'm busy getting focused. I finished one story on Monday  - just a shortie, but it's done - and almost completed another today. I know how it ends, and it's not an epic saga either, so it should be done and pretty much polished by Friday after two lots of commuting-writing on the way to the Arvo Job. Then I've got two more stories lined up for completion. I'm feeling productive writingwise again :)

Alas, I've also had to fit in a lot of napping and sleeping lately. I hope it's a passing phase, but if there's one thing I've learnt over the past 2 years, it's if I need to rest, I MUST rest. Obey the body. It's busy doing stuff too. Give it what it needs to get on with the job.

So writing + Arvo Job + normal daily stuff + napping = not much blogging. For now.

Bedtime :)

Naughty Writer

Writers like to think of themselves as the poor, suffering, misunderstood underdogs of the publishing industry (and we are! We really, really are!) but over the last couple of weeks I've come across a few examples of editor and publisher misery caused by... hmmm, my fellow writers.

There was an email from a publisher exhorting writers not to review their own work on Amazon, the reason being that Amazon's review policies prohibit writers from reviewing their own work and if said writer is reported, Amazon comes down on the publisher, which makes the publisher look bad. Apparently, this is an ongoing problem, but I'm at a loss as to why anyone would do such a thing. Review your own work? It's embarrassing to even think about someone being so unprofessional. What would you even write about your own piece? Something along the lines of This is a fabulous story of great depth and intelligence and humour and complexity and subtlety and anything else you want it to be obviously written by a genius, who just happens to be me...? :)

Speaking of reviews, there's always the perennial problem of the occasional unseemly Internet ruckus caused by oversensitive writers wildly responding to reviews they don't like (not having written them themselves, obviously). The best advice I've seen in ages on how to deal with this situation is over at Alan Baxter's blog:

http://www.alanbaxteronline.com/authors-responding-reviews/

Don't worry, it's succinct.

In the meantime, Lakeside Circus, which is just starting up and is dealing with a influx of material and wrangling many writerly egos, felt it necessary to post a piece about reading guidelines, because many writers are such creative giants  that they seem to feel they can skip such mundane constraints (in this case, among other things, sending non-spec fic stories to a magazine that deals in speculative fiction), and another about experimenting with personal rejections. The latter included a warning :

Here’s the problem, though: for every author who takes the notes in stride, we have another who feels the need to reply to the rejection. Saying, “Thanks, I hadn’t thought of that!” is okay–it’s not necessary, but we don’t mind hearing from you. What we do mind is the authors who reply to argue with the rejection, who insult our staff, or misread the suggestions in order to complain that the fault lies in our reading instead of in their writing.

Too many of those, and we’ll go back to form rejections.

It's sad that they felt the need to add that last warning. Personally, I cannot fathom why anyone would think that being aggressive is appropriate behaviour in this, or any other business. If you're a writer who can't deal with rejection letters, then you really need to find another creative outlet - they're part and parcel of the landscape, for most of us, at least. This post also helps me understand why so many publications do default to form letters. Of course, that just makes the personal ones all that more exciting and special.

Finally, there's the poor, beleaguered literary agent, and if you don't already occasionally pop over to Slushpile Hell, billed as One grumpy literary agent, a sea of query fails, and other publishing nonsense, do so now. You'll do a lot of groaning, but also laugh. And it's a wonderful example of what others in the industry deal with on a daily basis, and a lesson in how NOT to behave if you wish to establish a reputation for professionalism. Mind you, most of the examples used seem to be from the extreme end of wannabe writerly egos running amok and demonstrate a pathological lack of perspective. At least I very much hope they do.

So be good, writers. Do your homework, abide by the rules, be professionally polite, and save your rantings about the unfair treatment of writers for your Facebook pages or blogs :)

And if you truly don't like the way things are, there's always self-publishing...

They Shoot Computers, Don't They?

Today's stupendous post has unfortunately been postponed due to computer problems which have only just been (maybe) resolved. It's too late for blogging now - I'm off to bed. I've got an early start at the Arvo Job tomorrow, and I don't want to squander the restorative effects of my Wednesday R&R.

My Internet computer has been a tad rickety and overly temperamental the past few weeks. I think it's time for my IT brother to pop over and either massage it back to wellness or put a bullet in it and bury the whole kit and caboodle down some back paddock.

A Welcome Change

After a record breaking, for this time of the year, ten consecutive days of humid 34-37 degree heat, a cool change swept across the state today, providing glorious relief for the sweltering masses. There was no way I was going to stay inside, so I took Rover into the backyard, set myself up on the Xmas Swing, and wrote for a few hours on my latest SF masterpiece (the writing experiment is going well). Then I did a lot of reading.

Alas, I'm off to hospital again next week for tests, meaning that about four days ago, a serious case of scanxiety kicked in. Last time this happened, six months ago, I couldn't compose a written sentence for the life of me the fortnight leading up to the scan. This time, fortunately, I'm channelling my imagination and nervous energy into writing, so at least I'm still productive. And it keeps my mind occupied with other things such as the mechanics of alien invasions, downloading humanity and the like :) However, I may not be terribly chatty on ye olde blogge over the next week until this matter is resolved.

Blog, Ho!

I've been "busy" easing into a new schedule that sets aside regular blocks of time for writing to whip my story producing output back into shape, and more hours of exercising my poor battered body to get it back into close-to-Olympic-athlete shape :), as well as getting to and through the Arvo Job (reduced hours help) and getting out and about for films and social stuff because those areas of life are important too, all without pushing myself into any fatigue zones that might hinder recovery. Stress is a no no too, so rushing about is verboten, as is siphoning off designated sleeping hours to do other things.

It's early days yet, but it seems to be going well (I just have to accept I can't fit in quite as many writing hours as I'd like, so I'm making the ones I scrounge really count!) except for the blogging component. But I'm on it. Once I work out how to slip the odd online natterfest back into my routine, she'll be apples.

Ye Olde Blogge

So modern bloggers do tend to go on about service providers, eh? Sorry. Still - off on a tangent here - we humans being what we are, if les blogs had existed in the fantastic old days, do you think folk would have used the medium to bellyache about missing telegrams? To moan about dawdling posties? To wail about how they were certain that Beryl down at the post office was steaming open their letters and reading the contents and then gleefully sharing her information with all and sundry? To go on about the deteriorating quality of letter writing paper and how uncaring companies would not listen to legitimate complaints about how their inferior pulp caused smudged lines, warped penmanship, and thus reduced the standing of otherwise upstanding citizens within the letter writing community? To natter about their brand new fountain pen nib bending out of shape at the slightest pressure and how the rude man at the stationary shoppe refused to swap the faulty product or refund their money?

I was just sort of wondering.

Dial A for Adventure

I was reading this morning about a new phone app that deliberately gets people lost so they can experience the cold hand of fate and the thrilling vagaries of chance. This is how some people choose to escape the rule of GPS devices that always know exactly where you are and behavioural tracking programmes that take all the thought out of people's lives by anticipating desires and recommending what they should read, watch, think, do and whom they should follow and hang out with to achieve maximum happiness.

 Sorry, I'm a bit slow sometimes, but lets see if I understand this correctly - there are grownup people with minds of their own who are reasonably conscious of the fact that they're so enslaved by their mobile phones that their lives have been organized and homogenized and made safe to the point of blandness that they conclude that they need to shake things up to make life interesting again. In short, they self-diagnose that they're in sore need of an unplanned adventure. However,  instead of just putting the damn phone away for a while and going for *shudder* (is it even possible) a completely cost free, disconnected walk, they buy an illusion of freedom for $2.99, or whatever liberty is going for these days, and bravely set off on a journey where they once more hand over their choices to their phone? They toddle about the neighbourhood obeying the phone's command to 'turn left instead of right' or 'follow the next redhead you meet' and consider this an exhilarating foray into the unexpected? And by the by, isn't that a bit stalkerish? I swear, if I ever catch anyone tailing me who then uses the excuse that their phone made them do it...

Anyway, give me a break. This is all so irrational it makes my head hurt.

I also read article about the perennial criticism of how the very technology designed to ward off our intrinsic fear of being alone and apart from the comfort of the herd is actually driving us further into isolation. Mainly, it was a spiel on that modern phenomenon that we all know so well - people sitting outside on a beautiful sunny day oblivious to the weather and each other because they're busy phoning, Facebooking, tweeting, checking emails or surfing the net. Or people sitting with other people at a cafe but each is talking/texting to another, faraway person on their phones about how much fun they're having being with the people they're sitting with, perhaps snapping a "spontaneous" photo a la the standard, wacky fun pose for their Facebook page and sneaking in a few words about what an awesome time they're having with these awesome people, and if you don't believe them, check out the Facebook pages of those very same awesome people and they'll for sure confirm all this social awesomeness. 

Again, my head hurts, but I doubt things will change anytime soon. We are but undeveloped babes in the wood at this point in time, at the mercy of our primitive emotions and overwhelmed by sophisticated influences that push all our instinctual buttons and exploit our primal fears. The technology is all still too new, exciting, massively entertaining, and, let's face it, extremely useful, and we are are mostly still so afraid of the unknown and uncontrollable, anxious about the brutality of life, and too terrified of going it alone to risk not being connected. Friends and likes make people feel relevant, safe, and important in a tumultuous world that does its best to erase each person's uniqueness. I Facebook, therefore I am. Facebook is the cyber equivalent of those amulets made up of things like pebbles and feathers that have a special meaning for an individual and which are then worn to ward off the unruly demons of the natural world. And yet, just as superstition can be the undoing of otherwise rational people, the modern obsession with instant connectivity and an outright  dependance on social networks to bolster one's sense of being is as inimical to a well-balanced, happy individual as any banned drug. 

I just hope that we as a society eventually grow out of our infantile desire to avoid discomfort zones, to have nannybots coddling us and telling us how great we are every minute of the day, to have apps replace original initiative and recorded lives replace real living. I hope one day we take back control of this truly amazing and wondrous technology, that we learn to integrate and control it  on a personal level rather than blindly serve and obey it, and that we use it to expand our horizons into the great beyond rather than to shrink our individual worlds into tiny, homogeneous bubbles of self-serving, self-righteous self-adulation.

May we grow mature enough and wise enough to know the difference. And may we once again feel brave enough to venture forth upon adventures of the unscripted sort.

Wanted, Preferably Alive, Please.

So every now and then one looks at one's blog's statistics, and one oohs and aahs over people from exotic faraway lands dropping by (thank you), and then one checks traffic sources and stuff to see why those people ended up here and discover that they were probably seeking a learned dissertation from an expert on some esoteric subject but got me rambling on about some inanity instead, or they were looking for another Gitte Christensen (usually that Danish actress or the bigwig manager of a major company). This week someone - how exciting- put in the search words 'Gitte Kristensen criminal'.

Not me, was my first thought. But then I reconsidered. Maybe, I thought, a group of friends from my wild youth in Denmark were having a reunion party and my name came up in conversation, and then they began to wonder what had become of me, and maybe in their drunkenness they forgot that I was a true Christensen, not one of those pretenders starting with a 'k', and maybe they surmised that by moving to Australia, a shady land riddled with the descendants of convicts where TV production companies obsessed with tattooed criminals spend a substantial amount of their budgets on creating countless mini series about underworld figures, I would naturally fall in with a bad crowd (they're drunk, remember) and turn to a life of petty larceny.

That, or someone out there is looking for a Gitte who is a lot meaner and tougher and maybe bigger than me. Possibly she has tattoos - not that there's anything wrong with that.

A Very Modern Nightmare

So yeah, I slept in BIG TIME this morning, and as my mind emerged from whatever wild and weird joint it hangs out in while I snooze, it presented me we a terrifying scenario: my blog had been hijacked by an extremely sinister, underworld criminal organisation populated by beefy, overcoat-wearing thugs from central casting circa 1935. The mob boss was appropriately well- dressed in a snazzy, stripey suit, and he did all his extorting business from the backseat of a vintage gangster car using a mobile phone. He was very mean. The more distressed I grew, the more smug and over-confident he became. My mind even presented this unlikely scenario in black and white, an arty-farty device that leads me to suspect that my subconscious was very consciously showing off and doing a fair bit of hijacking of its own, mainly from cinematic sources like On the Waterfront (which I caught again a few weeks ago) and anything with James Cagney or Edward G Robinson in it.

And what did these tough guys want? As classic crims, their goal was uninspiringly basic - it was merely about procurring an obscene amount of money. Mostly the dream focused on my inability to access my blog, and how helpless I felt. It was terrible! To up the anty and make me sweat when I couldn't cough up, the heavies started posting horrible opinion pieces and pictures that outraged everyone, and even though I tried to cunningly leave comments all over the Internet to alert the world to the fact that I was no longer in control of my blog, this nightmarish media-mafia kept outsmarting me, heading me off in the back alleyways of cyberspace. As they did the typical overcoats-and - scarves-and-hats-and-brandishing-smoking-automatic-weapons-in-profile shots, mob minions mocked my attempts as clumsy and typical of most marks. Those dirty rats laughed evil laughs as I squirmed. My subconscious does not do subtle, it would seem.

If the alarm clock hadn't woken me at a certain despairing moment, I wonder if I would have triumphed? I suspect so, since the plot was mostly strung together clichees and cardboard characters, and the thugs were all so arrogantly despicable that they were practically begging for their comeuppance. Perhaps I would have lured my enemies into a deserted warehouse, pulled a Tommy gun from a violin case and mowed them down in the best gun moll fashion. Perhaps, whilst wearing a natty beret and cheekily chewing gum, I would have infiltrated their organisation and finagled a financial sting to bring down their whole sleazy empire, thus freeing the Internet forever from such extortion rackets and liberating blogs everywhere.

Yes, I'm pretty sure my subconscious had already scripted an upbeat, empowering ending. Maybe tomorrow morning...

I'd Better Get a Move On

The sun is shining and the world looks bright and glorious, but unfortunately I'll have to down the stronger pain killers, hop on a train, and spend the day getting to Melbourne for more hospital business. I'm pooped already just thinking about it.

He he - my sister just texted that I should remember my brolly :) Will do. And once again, thank goodness I'll be getting a lift home.

Sleepyhead

I was going to do it, I swear, I really was, I was going to get this blogging thingie up and running again and maybe even upload a photo or two from last week, but now that I'm here, my eyelids keep plopping down...

Unbelievable. I think I'll go have some soup instead. And apple and blueberry crumble. I really must get around to telling you about the lovely lady responsible for these goodies (I have more in the freezer), but for now, I'll go park myself in front of a screen, whack on a movie that I probably won't stay awake long enough to see the end of, and fuel up.

Recuperating bodies sure use up a lot of energy.

Watch out! Here I come! Vroooooom!

Thanks to my oldest little brother kindly spending his Sunday afternoon on upgrading every aspect of my technological life and streamlining various connection problems, my internet computer, if it were a car, would now look like this:

No more gurgles and groans, and boy did I upload that picture quickly! Who knew blogging could be so easy?

What's For Dinner?

All connoisseurs of things feline should pop over the Robert Hood's very cool blog Undead Backbrain and read about this yummy horror movie:

http://roberthood.net/blog/index.php/2012/05/02/breaking-news-the-moggies-are-back-for-a-third-helping-of-human-flesh/

There are pictures of mutant cat-monsters. Mutant cat-monsters that eat... well, I'll say no more.  

Almost Human

As much as I hate kowtowing to reality, I had to accept yesterday that a week’s recovery probably means a week, or at the very least more than 3 days, and so I’ve deferred my commuting and Arvo Job schedule until tomorrow. Today I hope at the very least to string together a few ideas and do some meaningful writing, as well as go for a long walk during which I plan to inhale copious amounts of invigorating country air. Naps will be only be taken on an absolutely-need-to-nod-off basis, and schlepping around dozily wondering what to do next will be severely curtailed. I’m going to try for a normalish day.

On the upside, I’ve had time to catch up on a few Internet stories, including the ongoing adventures of Commander Camilla Corona SDO, the inspiring US Astrochicken who recently headed up an extremely dangerous NASA mission.

In her own words:

"I flew into one of the strongest proton storms in years. The source of the radiation was sunspot AR1429, which unleashed more than 50 solar flares during the first two weeks of March. At the peak of the storm charged particles hitting Earth's upper atmosphere deposited enough heat in only three days to power every residence in New York City for two years. It was pretty intense. Earth-orbiting satellites reported proton counts ~30,000 times normal," she said.

If you don't know her, Camilla is a true Renaissance rubber chicken. Not only is she NASA’s Solar Dynamic’s Observatory’s mascot, but being a type A rubber chicken, she spreads her enthusiasm for all things spacey by visiting classrooms, science fairs, festivals and exhibits to teach about the Sun, space weather and space exploration. Recently, prior to her latest mission, she trained (and hung out) with Russian cosmonauts in Star City, and posted about the experience on her blog. Not a prude, she freely recounts her recent run-ins with space station toilets and explains the whole business of going about your business when off planet. She tweets, and is on Facebook, Google+ and other social media, and tirelessly spreads the inspirational messages that science is cool, that science is for everyone, that space is the biggest adventure of all, and, very importantly, that space adventures are for girls too. She does all this while providing historical information about past space missions, slipping in a spot of gossip about astronauts, giving updates on NASA’s present work, and posting photos of the wonders of the universe. The world could definitely do with a few more rubber chickens like Camilla.

But not only is Camilla intelligent, brave, gregarious and media savvy, as an everygeek’s rubber chicken, she’s not averse to pop culture. After her Star City training, and an international meeting in Helsinki, our jet-setting Commander Corona stopped over in London to attend a Dr Who exhibition and investigate the Dalek phenomenon.


Ah, if only my life were as glamorous and exciting and useful as this rubber chicken’s.

Doctor's Orders

So, with a little help from family, friends and wonderful hospital staff, I’m back from my latest adventures, those of the not-so-fun, medical type.

If I’d dragged myself to the computer and blogged last night, I would have uninterestingly posted: ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. Likewise, if I’d crawled to my keyboard this morning. Possibly in a few hours when the pills I’ve just popped wear off, if I feel inclined to bore you, I might once more haul myself here and tap in ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, but right now, I’m fine. I’ve been doing exactly what my post-surgery sheet says I should do – nothing strenuous - which I’ve interpreted as permission to chat and email to my heart's content, watch movies, read for hours, sit in the garden and study cat-chook behavioural dynamics, and indulge in long and leisurely scourings of the internet without feeling guilty. I also choose to take it as an excuse to do a lot of linking and copying rather than raise a sweat composing an original post.

So I discovered that Richard Harland has also blogged about the joys of attending Supanova last weekend *** over at Ripping Ozzie Reads. I did see him and Michael Pryor, whom I recognised from this session of the novel writing workshop I did two years ago, and suitably steampunk the pair and their friends looked too.

And apropos the link to Women Fighting in Reasonable Armor that I posted last week***, back in January, spec-fic funnyman Jim C Hines posted a piece called Women Striking a Pose (Women and Fantasy Covers) in which he put his own body on the line and copied the often ludicrous I-do-fight-but-much-more-importantly-I’m-darned-sexy stances women warriors are forced to adopt to sell their creators' prose. His verdict then was: My sense is that most of these covers are supposed to convey strong, sexy heroines, but these are not poses that suggest strength. You can’t fight from these stances. I could barely even walk. A few days ago, to balance the equation, Jim blogged about posing like a man for urban fantasy and romance covers. One of his conclusions this time was: Male poses do not generally require a visit to the chiropractor afterward.  I love the shots with his teddy bear. Very sexy.

And startlingly in tune with my own private zeitgeist, Kristine Kathryn Rusch has posted about the Real World and life’s many adventures getting in the way of writing:

I want to be robo-writer, the person who can write through anything. But I don’t know any writers like that... Some things just slow you down or take you out for a while. And while I understand that, I sure as hell don’t like it.

She concludes with wise words about writers giving themselves a break:

If you’d call in sick to a real job, then don’t write today. If your boss would tell you that you’re being ineffectual and you need some time off so go home, dammit, then you should really knock off writing for the day. If you’d take a vacation or compassionate leave or family time at the day job, then do so as a writer.

Which brings me back to my very own veg-out today. Happily zonked out on painkillers, I’m tempted to hit the keyboard and bash out some sub-par prose, I really am, but instead, I shall go outside again, stop to smell a rose along the way (and yes, there are Real World roses in the back garden for me to sniff), sit in the sunshine, crack open a book and just be for what's left of today.

*** okay, two weeks ago. What can I say-time flies in blogland.

Hmmmm

Well, I got the browser problem sorted out. It works the way it should now, I think.

Not impressed. I don't like it, not at all.
Still, it's free, so can I complain? I shall ponder upon this situation.

I Just Wanna Blog

Aaaaaarg, supposedly Not Evil Google is herding me. I knew a change was coming, but I thought I had a while longer to check it out. Now they've arbitrarily, there's no going back, changed my Blogger dashboard and setup with a supposedly superior version, but it all looks flimsy and cheap and messy and yuck to me. Also, since my browser apparently won't support it, things don't work properly, so I'll have to tinker. Or move to WordPress. I hate it when technology herds me by withdrawing options rather than convinces me with the power of their superior product to change my habits (and yes, I'm looking at you again, Victorian Public Transport System devised by people who haven't studied the habits of flesh and blood commuters, measured their body sizes and fitness levels, tallied their ages, considered their special needs, taken a squiz at the amount of luggage people cart around, or ventured onto a packed tram or train during peak hour...)

Anyway, if things starts looking funny, or this blog disappears, you'll know why. As is, fiddling around with a glitchy system, I'm not having fun. I'll get back to this when I have more time.

Commuter's Lament

(Can be sung to the tune of Herman's Hermit's No Milk Today, if you so choose. Just make sure there's no-one around to hear you.)

No blogging yesterday,

My trains and trams were late all day,

Oy vey! Oy vey! Oy vey!

I've finally made it home - hurray!

:(

Writing in circles

I'm a sucker for a good Venn Diagram, so I couldn't help filching this from Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds blog. He gives good writing advice, especially his 25 Things Writers Should Stop Doing (Right F*****g Now) post, which went viral. I've actually printed out that piece so I can use it to correct my course whenever I wander from my writerly path. But beware, his language is not for the faint-hearted. Really. Truly. I'm not kidding. I don't mind, but some might.

Onwards to one thousand?

This is my five hundred and first post. Given that when I tentatively started this blog back in January 2010, I didn't think I'd make it to February 2010, that's not bad. Since it looks like something I'll keep doing for the foreseeable future, I've been wondering whether I should, you know, redecorate it. Make it spiffier. Get in a consultant and a colour coordinator. Something to think about.

Anyway, to mark the occasion, let me share some news that's making me go tee hee with quiet glee. Go take a look at the cover art for the upcoming anthology Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations. See a familiar name there amongst those impressive others? Tee hee. And one of the stories mentioned on the back cover is mine. Tee hee. I'm actually a bit flummoxed. Happy, but flummoxed.

Now that's a nice start to the week. :)