I have kicked the internet out of my house. However, I cannot, simply canNOT, bring myself to call the cable company and cancel my service. So I took my internet cable to work, locked in the draw and purposefully lost the key. As with most resolutions I was HIGHLY motivated... at first. And then: "Oh, my God, I hear crickets. Cool." And then "Oh my God, I can hear the crickets and they WON'T shut up!" And then I started to chew my fingernails. "I don't have internet, WHAT can I DO!" "You can write more," I replied to myself and since I was talking to myself I knew it was BAD. So then, I went to get the cable of the drawer but I PURPOSEFULLY lost the key, remember. And because I'm oddly principled, I refuse to buy something I already own EVEN if it's just ten bucks. (To be clear, I have no idea how much a cable costs but I wouldn't buy it again for dollar.) So tHeN my boss asked, "What are you doing?" I looked up from where I lay whimpering on the the floor after losing my fight with the drawer. "I don't have the internet, or the key to this drawer to get it OuT and the coffee shop has started billing me by the second." "That's, um, strange," she replied. "Well get up. You're scaring your coworkers." So DON'T lock your internet in a drawer unless you want to confuse your boss and scare your coworkers. Let this be a lesson to you. As regular blog readers will know, I replaced a buy ridden LG Ultrabook with the Samsung Serious 9. As you can see from the photo it's sleek and thin. You can read the technical specs from any number of sites but what I want to talk about is what it's like to write on. For years, I've felt that manufacturers neglect writers when they design laptops. So first, the Samsung gets really high marks for being comfortable to type on... for hours. The the keyboard is spacious and very responsive. It's also back lit for those who like that kind of thing. But the best feature about the keyboard is that it sits slightly lower than the palm rest. You'll find that your hands rest in a way that prevents most unintentional bumping of the track pad. Samsung took it a step futher. The track pad itself is slightly recessed, too. Combined it's nearly impossible to bump the pad by accident. But if you do bump it, the track pad isn't slippery. I've hated all the track pads on every laptop I've owned over the years. I hated how they'd highlight text while I was typing but I especially loathed the LG because it would highlight, delete the entire passage, open several programs and on a few occasions close out the word processor. But even though I'd take a sticky track pad over a slippery one, the Samsung has balance. Gone or the frantic searches in my bag for the portable mouse. With my fingers on the keys, I flick my thumb and scroll around my manuscripts with now fear of anthing being deleted. The final feature that every writer will love is the anti-glare screen. It's not just a fancy word for matte finish. Writing is pretty seditary, but it's not an issue with this laptop. I tuck my Samsung 9 in my backpack along with a few snacks, and hit the trail instead of the local coffee shop. The screen looks great inside our out, just adjust the brightness levels to suit. This is the first notebook that has trully let me be a writer on the go. The Samsung 9 is also supper light at 1.16 kilos and I was told it has about 6 hours battery life. But just using it to type, I find I get between 7 and 8 hours. And whether you're writing or downloading music and movies, or all of the above with 4 gigs of RAM and 128 gigs of SSD there's pleanty of power under the hood. This computer won't come cheap. Stateside I think it sells for 1499.99 but you can make up some fo the price by going to the park instead of the coffee shop. Plus there's no compisees with this machine, making it well worth every penny. You don't have to watch a lot of reality TV before you see competitors trying desperately become what they think the judges want. From a psychological standpoint the need to fit in is hardwired into our DNA. Back in the day, I mean really back in the day, if you didn't fit in you were tossed out of the village and probably got mauled by a bear. Of course its 2012 so fitting in still maters. I bet you thought I was going to say the opposite. Nope. We are social creatures and fitting in matters. From American Idol to the Glee Project to Project Runway contestants are striving to find where they fit, not only in the competition, but in a larger world. Writers are different only in that the bulk of our time spent hone our skills is spent alone. It's good for nurturing creative abandon. Sooner or later, the need to have our efforts reinforced by others sets us to sharing our week, either with a writing group or with friends and family. We like it when our friends say "your hair looks good" and we like it when people say, "I liked that story." There is nothing wrong with wanting approval. There is nothing wrong with being part of the crowd. Just watch a little reality TV and you'll see that talent isn't only a piece of the equation. The IT factor is somehow being you-- all the things that make you different from the talented person next to you -- and somehow fitting in. How do you do that? Own who you are. Don't try to be somebody else. Don't try to be the person other people think you should be. We met for the first time on a weekend in early December 2011. LG Ultrabook was showcased on a laptop pedestal under glimmering lights that accentuated it's stamped titanium chassis. I moved closer. It spoke me in low, husky whisper. "i5 core, 4 gigs of ram, DDR2, 13.3 inches, ultra-portable." The geek in me swooned. The writer in me moaned. The accountant in me clutched tightly at my purse strings. The LG Ultrabook continued. "You can afford it. Treat yourself. You've been a good little writer, tap-tapping on that tiny Idea Pad keyboard. You deserve me." I went home but LG Ultrabook's voice was in my head. It whispered sweet nothings. "9 second start up time. That's 0nly 9 seconds between start-up and your idea on my screen. It's 13.3 inches. I have a spacious key board." I began stalking LG Ultrabook where ever it was sold. "I want you, " I whispered stroking it's stamped titanium one afternoon in Home Plus. "You're drooling all over the keyboard." A salesman grabbed me by the arm. " Please stop fondling that computer. You're making the other customers uncomfortable." "I'll buy you." I called over my shoulder as I was escorted of the store. "As soon as your on sale!" This is a rather funny explanation how I broke my cardinal rule for purchasing electronics. (Always buy the cheapest thing that offers your must have features. Compromise on the rest. Upgrade guilt free in two or three years. ) And it also explains why I was so sad yesterday. Despite a 1000 good reasons to insist on a refund or replacement computer, I was, still am reticent about saying goodbye. I even made a mind map to clarify my thoughts. In the end it came down to stability. It was too prone to shock. It was like a pocket CD player that skipped songs at the slightest jolt. Goodbye LG Ultrabook. I'm sorry that it ended this way. I eat, sleep and breathe writing, so it really feels like overkill to talk about it on my blog. Crazy right? A writer who doesn't write about writing? But there's really only three things you need to do to be a good writer. (Thought I was going to tell you, didn't ya? Ha.)
Anyway, one of the writers in my critique group has a story with a cat in it. This got me to thinking that I could tell a few pet stories. I've had pets my entire life, except now. I live in a small apartment and I just don't think it's fair to have a cat or do. I'm a gold fish murder as well as a plant killer. So no fish. But, let me tell you about Princess. She came to live with my family when I was about five and not because she wanted a home. She was a stray who would have been happily stayed a stray if my mother wasn't late for everything. Consequently, it was a rare day that I didn't waddle into school late. On this particular morning, I left our house and walked the two blocks to school among few stranglers. We happened to be living in a Norman Rockwell kind of town. Parents rarely drove their kids, even us kindergarteners. By the time I had arrived, the bell had run and the playground was deserted except for two kids and a black and white cat. I can't remember if the kids were girls or boys. I do remember they had cornered the cat on this strange sloping architectural element. I really don't know what it was for, but on recess the big kids would kill a soccer ball up and down the slop. The cat was dirty and miserable because it was also raining. After a second bell rang, the big kids dashed into the school. I immediately re-cornered the cat, scooping her into my arms. And she promptly set about scratching and biting for the entire two blocks back to my house. I entered the house with "Mommy!" And I think this was promptly followed by some shouting as to why I wasn't in school. This was followed by several exclamations as she come out of the dinning kitchen and saw me standing there with a cat, covered in scratches, and wearing copious amounts of blood. I quickly explained how I had bravely saved the cat from the big kids, embellishing of course. I had rushed in under the spray of stones to save the cat's life from bully's who then chased after me. I'd had no choice but to bring her home. I don't really remember how I persuaded my mother to let me keep the cat or her transition from feral stray to a member of the family. Maybe, she believed the story I'd told. At any rate, she was named Princess. I do vaguely remember arguing with my sisters on what her name would be. I don't really know who chose it. Princes was a unique cat. I don't think we tamed her, but rather she adopted us. She and my mother both shared a fondness for cheese corn and TV. The cat and my mother would sit on the couch watching late night shows. If Princesses dinner wasn't timely enough, she'd get into the pantry, pull out an individual packet of cat food morsels and open it. She never had a litter box. She came house broken and would yowl at the top of her lungs until she figured out how to open the back door and let herself out. I don't believe she could open the front door. She came and went, living with us when it suited her and living in the wild when it suited her. At some point, she started bringing us gifts of dead squirrels, skunks and opossums. She loving deposited them on the front porch for us to find on our way to school in the morning. Despite being wild, she let my sisters and I dress her up in baby clothes. We even put blush on her checks and rolled her around in a baby carriage. Next to our house with a random duplex. Crotchety, Mrs. Blake lived next door. She had a fat gray cat and was probably a cat lady. She'd watch my sisters and I rolling Princess around in a stroller dressed up in baby clothes. "Stop abusing that cat!" She'd shout. I don't know if we were or not, but I do know for certain Princess didn't mind. She was a character and by that I mean, she hated everybody but us. One of her favorite pastimes was to lay on the side walk ( and later Mrs. Blake's walkway.) She'd roll over like she wanted her belly rubbed. A strange cat, she actually enjoyed being scratched there and all the neighbors had seen us petting her like that. So, at one time or another about all of them walked up to her lying on the sidewalk and reached down to give her a pet. At which point, Princess would lock on to their hand, all four claws and teeth, and not let go until it suited her. Usually, after the neighbor had started shouting for help. Our mother would come out of the house and say, "Princess," in a stern voice. Princess always released the neighbor in a way that could only have been her idea. She'd then go bounding to our porch and sit upon the railing like a queen to her thrown, tail curled around her paws. When she did this she always wore that hard, disapproving look only cats have. Over time, the neighbors would gaze up at her as though asking for permission before passing our house. If Princess came off the porch, many would cross the street. And that brings us back to Mrs. Blake, the cat lady. She thought that she had a way with cats and was determined to rescue Princess from being dressed up in baby clothes. And was promptly attacked by Princess. After that day Mrs. Blake held a deep hatred for the black and white cate. Princess apparently felt the same way because she took to find creative ways to surprise Mrs. Black. This included spring from a tree branch onto the old woman's shoulder when she went to get her news paper. She'd also just lay on Mrs. Blake's walkway staring at the door and flicking her tail the way cat's do when they think. After that, her favorite spot became Mrs. Blake's front step. The old woman took to leaving the house by the back door. After several years of being haunted by Princess, Mrs. Black moved. And that's when the whole neighborhood knew without a doubt that Princess ruled us all. The older I get the more I believe there is no such thing as a bad word. Still, I rarely use expletives in my daily vocabulary. This link about shit amused me. It amused me more so because I live abroad and a lot of this is simply lost in translation. Koreans hear the word used in English movies so often they think Americans say shit all the time. So shouting "ice cream" and "Oh, shit!" will get a relatively equal response. And shouting "Baskins!" will stop traffic.
Anybody who knows my writing, knows proofreading is my weakest skill. I get better at it all the time, but as compared to other writing skills, I'm still riding this short bus. So, I've been looking for to hire an editor to proofread before I release my short story collection.
I tried EFA and quickly became overwhelmed. EFA doesn't defined memberships by experience: pro, semi-pro and entry level. In contrast, to have a pro membership with SFWA you have to meet certain sales criteria. I started sifting through the profiles, looking for a bargain, probably a semi pro with good rates. What I found were a lot of entry level editors at pro rates. I suddenly realized it was going to take a while of going through profiles and interviewing potential editors. I'm fairly confident in the quality of the stories I'm releasing, so the one thing I know I don't want is a paid critique partner. After searching on EFA for several days, I did a google search on how to find an editor. This led me to a thread on Absolute Write. The writer suggests I try Elance. Hat held in hand, I posted a job saying this is what I can afford to pay. Within minutes the bids started rolling in. At first I was delighted. Then, overwhelmed. Then suspicious. I discovered many of the offers were like those Sale signs in the windows of electronic stores here in Korea. There's never a sale. Many had bid low, but actually quoted pro rates, or bid low and asked me to describe the project only to give me a different quote. About 70% of the freelancers wanted more than pro rates. Most of these acted like they were doing me a favor for discounting it so much. (On a side not, it's never good to go into a business deal where the person you're paying, thinks they're doing you a favor.) Even so, I found a couple who looked like a good match, one was highly rated. And I sent them a sample page of a published story with some intentional typos. They dug into it like a critique partner. One missed the typos and the other added enough commas to make my eyes bleed. A third, rewrote the page. A quick Google search for Elance scam (which I should have done before signing up!), turned up a plethora of complaints. I want to state that Elance isn't a scam in and of itself. However, the biggest complaint against Elance is the lack of skilled workers. The second is the number of loopholes freelancers have to work the rating system. I decided to close the job. Because I hadn't found an editor and I really want to get Midday out, I asked if anyone in my critique group would swap. Ambrose said he'd just do it. What I got back was a meticulously proofread manuscript, with a handful of suggestions that were stylistic, but in a way that was true to my voice. So in the end, I found what I was looking for. I offered him a job as I have a few other projects. We're working out how to manage our friendship and business relationship. I don't want to come off as a writer who is resistant to changes. But there are a couple of editing dos and don'ts. A do is where the editor sees a better way to say something while staying true to the author's voice. A don't might be, the editor injecting their voice into the story while writing out the author. I had this happen to the extreme last year with 'They're All Called Bob.' A magazine accepted with a few "minor" changes which turned out to be significant rewrites. I felt like I had been replaced! I questioned a lot of these changes when I should have declined publication. I didn't quite have to guts to just walk away from an acceptance. Newbie mistake! The editor replied with a strongly worded letter, telling me what my characters were thinking and doing. I realized he had changed so much of the story, that he saw the characters as his. I learned a lot about myself as an author through this experience. When writers start out, it's hard to tell the difference between help and being replaced. Partly, because new writers don't have a voice yet. We start out emulating others. Hiring an editor isn't just about words. It's about making something great while preserving one's individuality. I think back to two years ago, imagine myself trying to find an editor. The truth is I probably would have paid too much, gotten a poorly edited story, and thanked the editor for it. Do you know the difference between an editor and a critique partner? If not you might pay for a Ferrari and end up with a Renault. Yesterday. I mentioned I was working on two collections of short stories. I've actually had my nose to the grindstone on these projects for months. I've got the covers done last week and sitting on them has been killing me. Anyway, I've decided to make it official. Midday Musings will release on March 4th with Midnight Whimsy to follow.
Two years ago a friend of mine was staying at my place. She had to catch flight from Incheon Airport. I was living in Wanju at the time, about two hours by direct bus. She got up at Six A.M.. Because of insomnia, I sometimes don't sleep for weeks at a time. When it's at it's worst, I might get an hour an night. Falling asleep can take hours and sometimes not at all. If I do fall asleep, I'll wake up in as little as thirty minutes. It makes me grouch and irritable and not myself. When I agreed for her to come stay with me a month prior, I was getting about five hours a night. By the time she came, I was in a rough patch, not having slept more than three hours a night for two weeks. As would have it, we stayed up late chatting and around one, I fell into the deepest sleep I'd had in months.
As you can imagine, I was not particularly happy to be woken up at 6 A.M.I didn't get up to see her off, which resulted in her slamming things. We hadn't seen each other in a while, so she'd kind of come for my company as much for convenience. Well, I don't really know how a two hour bus ride to the airport was convenient. I wasn't being a good friend-- I was awake by then, but drifting in and out of sleep -- and knew it. But I was too exhausted to drag myself out of bed. I remember telling her there was some fruit in the fridge. I think it was apples. It was a sad peace offering. "I brought my owned damned tangerines," she barked. "I know," I barked back. "Refrigerators don't generally make their own fruit." I fell asleep and by the time I woke up, she had gone. We made up later. In the meantime, I had a great idea for a story. In it, the refrigerator would produce fruit. The story was first called "Don't Eat the Fruit." I later retitled it, "Irresistible." I'm particularly proud of this story. At the time, I hadn't done anything remotely like it. You could say it's my first real story. Today, it found a home with Bards and Sages Quarterly. |
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