Hundredth, and Final, Post
Ok, I confess, that was a bit of a tease. Yes, it is the hundredth post. And it is sort of the final one. Because for post 101, I'll be moving this blog over to my new website, www.simplemystery.com. Because, let's face it: www.all-about-the-book.blogspot.com? What was I thinking?
But in the meantime, I'm going to swipe an idea from my pal Kelly and use this hundredth post to solicit questions from the audience. Anything you want to ask me about, I'll do my best to answer in the next post. Questions about writing welcome, questions about anything else welcome as well. I sort of doubt I have many lurkers, except maybe my Dad, but if I do, this would be a great time to delurk!
See you on the flip side,
Jane
But in the meantime, I'm going to swipe an idea from my pal Kelly and use this hundredth post to solicit questions from the audience. Anything you want to ask me about, I'll do my best to answer in the next post. Questions about writing welcome, questions about anything else welcome as well. I sort of doubt I have many lurkers, except maybe my Dad, but if I do, this would be a great time to delurk!
See you on the flip side,
Jane
Ten Years, Man
So, it's a new year all over again. And since we're changing the penultimate digit this time around, I'm thinking less about everything that's changed in 2009 and more about everything that's changed since 2000.
When 2000 rolled around it was, if you'll recall, a big damn deal. I'm talking pomp and circumstance, and dancing in the streets. Remember... hee hee... Y2K? I was just twenty-two, spending a good chunk of my time resenting my awesome job at a newspaper because they expected me to spend so much more time on it than I'd ever had to spend on college.
And then here it was: 2000. A big freakin' number that said clearly that we were moving forward into the future, that this was a Day to Be Marked. It never honestly occurred to me that I'd even be seeing New Years Eve 2010. I mean, I expected to, but only in the way that you expect to die someday. It was a length of time I really couldn't envision.
But here I am. And I'm a different me. In evidence of which, I offer these pictures.
.jpg)
These are the shoes I wore on New Year's Eve 2000. I wore them around downtown Fort Worth, in the midst of a rockin', rollin' Texas-style celebration. They hurt my feet, my toes nearly froze off, and I spent all night worried that I'd scrape through that thin sheen of blue to reveal the papier mache or whatever was underneath.
And here are the shoes I wore this year:
.jpg)
I wore them in my living room, while Mark and I watched a Burn Notice marathon, then switched to the Times Square ball drop for the last five minutes. We toasted with half a can of Coke apiece, kissed, spoke of our undying love and fidelity, and then got back to Burn Notice. Full disclosure: I was also wearing socks at the time.
So what those shoes are saying, I guess, is that things change--sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better, and often for both.
That's how my life has been, but much more on the better side than the worse. I've got a decade less of life to run with here in 2010, not to mention fertility and facial elasticity. But I've also got a husband and a life I love. And I think (I hope) I'm more a bit wiser now, a bit more generous, more patient.
What I'm not, and what I would have expected to be by now, is finished.
I'm not finished figuring out how to be the person I want to be. How to be disciplined, and courageous, and stylish, and organized. Nor am I established in my career. By any measure, I'm farther along than when this millennium started, but I am not there.
And because I'm 2010 me, and not 2000 me, I'm old enough to know that maybe you never really get finished. Maybe it's all really about the journey
Or maybe that's malarkey, but here are a few things I know:
When 2000 rolled around it was, if you'll recall, a big damn deal. I'm talking pomp and circumstance, and dancing in the streets. Remember... hee hee... Y2K? I was just twenty-two, spending a good chunk of my time resenting my awesome job at a newspaper because they expected me to spend so much more time on it than I'd ever had to spend on college.
And then here it was: 2000. A big freakin' number that said clearly that we were moving forward into the future, that this was a Day to Be Marked. It never honestly occurred to me that I'd even be seeing New Years Eve 2010. I mean, I expected to, but only in the way that you expect to die someday. It was a length of time I really couldn't envision.
But here I am. And I'm a different me. In evidence of which, I offer these pictures.
.jpg)
These are the shoes I wore on New Year's Eve 2000. I wore them around downtown Fort Worth, in the midst of a rockin', rollin' Texas-style celebration. They hurt my feet, my toes nearly froze off, and I spent all night worried that I'd scrape through that thin sheen of blue to reveal the papier mache or whatever was underneath.
And here are the shoes I wore this year:
.jpg)
I wore them in my living room, while Mark and I watched a Burn Notice marathon, then switched to the Times Square ball drop for the last five minutes. We toasted with half a can of Coke apiece, kissed, spoke of our undying love and fidelity, and then got back to Burn Notice. Full disclosure: I was also wearing socks at the time.So what those shoes are saying, I guess, is that things change--sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better, and often for both.
That's how my life has been, but much more on the better side than the worse. I've got a decade less of life to run with here in 2010, not to mention fertility and facial elasticity. But I've also got a husband and a life I love. And I think (I hope) I'm more a bit wiser now, a bit more generous, more patient.
What I'm not, and what I would have expected to be by now, is finished.
I'm not finished figuring out how to be the person I want to be. How to be disciplined, and courageous, and stylish, and organized. Nor am I established in my career. By any measure, I'm farther along than when this millennium started, but I am not there.
And because I'm 2010 me, and not 2000 me, I'm old enough to know that maybe you never really get finished. Maybe it's all really about the journey
Or maybe that's malarkey, but here are a few things I know:
- The 2010 me likes comfortable shoes and doesn't care who knows it.
- Burn Notice is very, very good.
- The optimism I felt at the beginning of 2000 is nothing like the optimism I have now. And I think that's because I've got the right companion for 2010.
In Case You Haven't Heard, Vampires Are In
Take a look at this snap of the Teen section at the good ol' B&N and tell me if you see what I see.
I see a metric ton of red, black, and purple. A good assortment of chillingly beautiful, yet otherworldly faces. And confirmation that vampires aren't just a thing in teen fiction anymore; they're The Thing.
This, my friends, is the power of marketing, and of storytelling. Between them, Stephanie Meyer and her publisher have moved an entire generation. I predict we'll be seeing ripples of this effect in adult fiction for years to come.
I see a metric ton of red, black, and purple. A good assortment of chillingly beautiful, yet otherworldly faces. And confirmation that vampires aren't just a thing in teen fiction anymore; they're The Thing.
This, my friends, is the power of marketing, and of storytelling. Between them, Stephanie Meyer and her publisher have moved an entire generation. I predict we'll be seeing ripples of this effect in adult fiction for years to come.
I'm Officially Old
Mark and I had this conversation in the car today:
Mark: "You know what? Maybe we should start bringing plastic cups with us when we travel."
"Why would we start bringing plastic cups with us when we travel?"
"Because then we wouldn't have to use the glasses in the hotel rooms."
"Oh, right, because of that thing I read. That they don't really wash them, just swab them out with the cleaning rag."
"Right. We could bring plastic cups, and then we could use those instead."
"Sounds great." (Pause.) "You know, maybe what we should really do is start keeping a sleeve of plastic cups in the car. Then they could be called into service on any number of occasions."
"That sounds really good."
Then we high fived. Ok, we didn't. This isn't even a verbatim transcript; I added in a little bit of the dreaded DAE (dialogue as exposition) to catch you up on our previous marital conversations. But I think it's pretty clear that any days we had as a young, hip couple are officially in the past.
Mark: "You know what? Maybe we should start bringing plastic cups with us when we travel."
"Why would we start bringing plastic cups with us when we travel?"
"Because then we wouldn't have to use the glasses in the hotel rooms."
"Oh, right, because of that thing I read. That they don't really wash them, just swab them out with the cleaning rag."
"Right. We could bring plastic cups, and then we could use those instead."
"Sounds great." (Pause.) "You know, maybe what we should really do is start keeping a sleeve of plastic cups in the car. Then they could be called into service on any number of occasions."
"That sounds really good."
Then we high fived. Ok, we didn't. This isn't even a verbatim transcript; I added in a little bit of the dreaded DAE (dialogue as exposition) to catch you up on our previous marital conversations. But I think it's pretty clear that any days we had as a young, hip couple are officially in the past.
Merry Christmas, Awesome Dude
This is the third year in which I've been treated to the breathtaking Yuletide spectacle that is my neighbor's Christmas display. Actually, he isn't really my neighbor, meaning that I can't see his house from anywhere on my street. Except for at Christmas, when I can.
Lest you think this isn't impressive enough, here is the view of the side lawn.
Maybe it's just me, but something about this year's decor seems... I dunno, subdued. What happened to the rest of the Peanuts cast? I swear there used to be more of them out here. And why does the Abominable Snowman have electric boobs? I really can't say.
At least this drummer boy border is new -- and a worthy addition, I think.
Yes, I know, I know. Some might find this annoying. But me, I can't help but admire someone who isn't afraid to dream big.
So Merry Christmas, Mr. Insanely Overdecorated Lawn Man. Your power bill is large, but your heart is ginormous.
Lest you think this isn't impressive enough, here is the view of the side lawn.
Maybe it's just me, but something about this year's decor seems... I dunno, subdued. What happened to the rest of the Peanuts cast? I swear there used to be more of them out here. And why does the Abominable Snowman have electric boobs? I really can't say.
At least this drummer boy border is new -- and a worthy addition, I think.
Yes, I know, I know. Some might find this annoying. But me, I can't help but admire someone who isn't afraid to dream big.
So Merry Christmas, Mr. Insanely Overdecorated Lawn Man. Your power bill is large, but your heart is ginormous.
First Partial Request
Well, what a whirlwind day. Remember that rejection I blogged about oh, six hours ago?
Well, it wasn't entirely a rejection. I mean, it was a no. But at the end of that no was a "Why don't you contact this other agent? He likes mysteries."
So, I did. I researched Mr. Other Agent, then sent him a query, mentioning that he had been recommended to me by Ms. First Agent. And darned if he didn't e-mail me right back with a request for the first fifty pages.
So, the first partial has been dispatched into cyberspace, and I am keeping my fingers crossed. We'll see if my "pro status" lasts through the emotional loop-de-loop that is the partial submission.
Well, it wasn't entirely a rejection. I mean, it was a no. But at the end of that no was a "Why don't you contact this other agent? He likes mysteries."
So, I did. I researched Mr. Other Agent, then sent him a query, mentioning that he had been recommended to me by Ms. First Agent. And darned if he didn't e-mail me right back with a request for the first fifty pages.
So, the first partial has been dispatched into cyberspace, and I am keeping my fingers crossed. We'll see if my "pro status" lasts through the emotional loop-de-loop that is the partial submission.
First Rejection
So, I woke up this morning to a nice fat rejection note in my inbox. I've always prided myself on the fact that I was one of those people who, darn it, could just take rejection. No big deal. Part of the business, baby.
Yep, I've always prided myself on that, but I have to admit it hasn't always worked out that way. When I was shopping around my last book, a rejection letter would get me down for a whole day, maybe two.
But this time? It looks like I'm over it. No more sticking my tongue out at the agent's web page. No hiding the e-mail in a sub-folder so I won't accidentally see it and get depressed all over again. I am fine with it, and (call me supremely arrogant) more surprised than disappointed.
Which means I guess I'm now... a businesswoman. Or maybe just a grownup.
Yep, I've always prided myself on that, but I have to admit it hasn't always worked out that way. When I was shopping around my last book, a rejection letter would get me down for a whole day, maybe two.
But this time? It looks like I'm over it. No more sticking my tongue out at the agent's web page. No hiding the e-mail in a sub-folder so I won't accidentally see it and get depressed all over again. I am fine with it, and (call me supremely arrogant) more surprised than disappointed.
Which means I guess I'm now... a businesswoman. Or maybe just a grownup.
Cafe Throwdown
When you spend most of your days with your nose buried in your laptop, you don't see a lot of high drama. But today was an exception.
I was sitting in the Borders cafe, which was pretty crowded. A group of medical students had taken the table next to the wall, the one with easy outlet access. Another woman had taken the table next to theirs, and since she had no plug of her own, she had stretched her laptop cord across the aisle to their outlet.
Eventually a bookstore employee arrived. She tried to bring humor to the situation. "Uh oh, the cord police are here," she said. "We can't have cords stretched across the aisles." Then she asked the two parties to switch places.
You would have thought she asked them to strip naked, such was the stink they caused. The woman with the laptop immediately started yelling. The medical students joined in the ruckus. The laptop lady began to mimic the bookseller's request in a high-pitched, silly voice.
The bookseller tried to keep her cool, but a little irritation was starting to creep into her voice. I could scarcely blame her.
Finally, the patrons agreed to change places. And in the inevitable shuffling of bags, it was revealed that one of the medical students had brought in a bag of McDonald's takeout to eat while studying.
"You can't have food from other places," the bookseller told him. Whereupon he insisted that he'd done so several times before and never had a problem. Dude, seriously? I mean, if you sneak in a little baggie of nuts I'm not going to judge you. But McDonald's? For real?
At last, the switching of places was done. The Micky D's was banished to the medical student's backpack. The bookseller left. And the woman with the laptop continued to loudly grouse about her, calling her, among other things, a "fuckin' bitch."
I don't get it.
Senseless rudeness always get me down. Inattentive rudeness, everyone's guilty of that from time to time. Rudeness through misunderstanding, that happens too. But plain ol' I'm-pissed-so-I'm-going-to-make-you-feel-bad rudeness? Blows my mind.
Besides that, your relationship with an establishment you frequent is just that, a relationship. It involves give and take. The baristas and booksellers owe me decent service; I owe them the occasional purchase. And we both owe each other basic good manners and civility.
And there is one thing that guides my behavior when push comes to shove, when cord issues or cleanliness or noise threatens to create a conflict: It is more their place than mine.
I don't go into your home and object to the standards you've set for it, and I don't do it in your place of business either. If there's a rule I can't live with, I am free to go elsewhere. I'm certainly not going to pitch a fit because I can't have things my way.
I wish I could make the people in the cafe understand that way of thinking, but I can't. All I can do is what I did: track down the bookseller in the back of the store and tell her that I've always appreciated her pleasantness and that I was sorry she was treated that way. Which leaves me feeling a little good, a little ineffectual. Maybe Miss Manners could have done a better job.
I was sitting in the Borders cafe, which was pretty crowded. A group of medical students had taken the table next to the wall, the one with easy outlet access. Another woman had taken the table next to theirs, and since she had no plug of her own, she had stretched her laptop cord across the aisle to their outlet.
Eventually a bookstore employee arrived. She tried to bring humor to the situation. "Uh oh, the cord police are here," she said. "We can't have cords stretched across the aisles." Then she asked the two parties to switch places.
You would have thought she asked them to strip naked, such was the stink they caused. The woman with the laptop immediately started yelling. The medical students joined in the ruckus. The laptop lady began to mimic the bookseller's request in a high-pitched, silly voice.
The bookseller tried to keep her cool, but a little irritation was starting to creep into her voice. I could scarcely blame her.
Finally, the patrons agreed to change places. And in the inevitable shuffling of bags, it was revealed that one of the medical students had brought in a bag of McDonald's takeout to eat while studying.
"You can't have food from other places," the bookseller told him. Whereupon he insisted that he'd done so several times before and never had a problem. Dude, seriously? I mean, if you sneak in a little baggie of nuts I'm not going to judge you. But McDonald's? For real?
At last, the switching of places was done. The Micky D's was banished to the medical student's backpack. The bookseller left. And the woman with the laptop continued to loudly grouse about her, calling her, among other things, a "fuckin' bitch."
I don't get it.
Senseless rudeness always get me down. Inattentive rudeness, everyone's guilty of that from time to time. Rudeness through misunderstanding, that happens too. But plain ol' I'm-pissed-so-I'm-going-to-make-you-feel-bad rudeness? Blows my mind.
Besides that, your relationship with an establishment you frequent is just that, a relationship. It involves give and take. The baristas and booksellers owe me decent service; I owe them the occasional purchase. And we both owe each other basic good manners and civility.
And there is one thing that guides my behavior when push comes to shove, when cord issues or cleanliness or noise threatens to create a conflict: It is more their place than mine.
I don't go into your home and object to the standards you've set for it, and I don't do it in your place of business either. If there's a rule I can't live with, I am free to go elsewhere. I'm certainly not going to pitch a fit because I can't have things my way.
I wish I could make the people in the cafe understand that way of thinking, but I can't. All I can do is what I did: track down the bookseller in the back of the store and tell her that I've always appreciated her pleasantness and that I was sorry she was treated that way. Which leaves me feeling a little good, a little ineffectual. Maybe Miss Manners could have done a better job.
The Third Book
One of the lines I like to use with my friends is that "Writing a book is like writing three books." If they need an explanation, the shorthand is this: "It's just so much more work than you think it's going to be."
But in fact, the three book analogy is a little more apt than that. It really is, I'm not kidding, like writing three books. The first book is the first infodump, those 75,000 or so words that sort of contain a plot. Out of that you pull the second book, the book that makes sense, the book where the gun your character acquired on page 50 doesn't mysteriously disappear on page 200 just because you need her to be in danger. And finally you preen and polish your way to the third book, the book that has a theme, the book where relationships build the way they're supposed to, and everything feels resonant and real.
For me, it was when I crossed that boundary from second book to third book that I began being able to actually hold the whole thing in my head. Suddenly gone from my mental canvas were all the little half-formed subplots and alternate courses I'd rejected along the way. I could remember where this bit was, where that bit ended up. And when I made a change to one scene, I had an instant mental map to the four other places I'd need to touch to make it work.
After a lot of that touching, and fiddling, and fussing, I'm ready to say that the third book is done.
I sent out query letters last night, but not before spending a long time worrying about it. I had two voices in my head. One said, "The book is strong. You know the book is strong. The query letter is strong. You have had your group look at it two times (which was perhaps excessive). The synopsis is strong. The first five pages are strong. For God's sake, send it out and get it working for you."
And then the other voice would say, "It's mid-December. Everybody's busy this time of year. Agents have parties to go to, presents to shop for, relatives to avoid discussing uncomfortable topics with. In short, they have lives. For all you know, they're already checked out for the month. Do you really want your query to be one of the twelve hundred they come back to on January 2nd? Besides, if you wait and send it mid-January, you can spend another month worrying about whether the third sentence in paragraph 17 might have too many syllables."
In the end, that last argument was the one that did it. The fact that I simply didn't know what else I'd do to the book, besides fret over it, convinced me to send it out.
These days most people prefer e-queries, so that's what I sent. And I already got one response, albeit a "I got your query letter and will review it" response. Which began with the words "This is not a form rejection." Nearly stopped my heart. "Oh, my God, it's a non-form rejection!" I thought. "I hate those too!"
But in fact, the three book analogy is a little more apt than that. It really is, I'm not kidding, like writing three books. The first book is the first infodump, those 75,000 or so words that sort of contain a plot. Out of that you pull the second book, the book that makes sense, the book where the gun your character acquired on page 50 doesn't mysteriously disappear on page 200 just because you need her to be in danger. And finally you preen and polish your way to the third book, the book that has a theme, the book where relationships build the way they're supposed to, and everything feels resonant and real.
For me, it was when I crossed that boundary from second book to third book that I began being able to actually hold the whole thing in my head. Suddenly gone from my mental canvas were all the little half-formed subplots and alternate courses I'd rejected along the way. I could remember where this bit was, where that bit ended up. And when I made a change to one scene, I had an instant mental map to the four other places I'd need to touch to make it work.
After a lot of that touching, and fiddling, and fussing, I'm ready to say that the third book is done.
I sent out query letters last night, but not before spending a long time worrying about it. I had two voices in my head. One said, "The book is strong. You know the book is strong. The query letter is strong. You have had your group look at it two times (which was perhaps excessive). The synopsis is strong. The first five pages are strong. For God's sake, send it out and get it working for you."
And then the other voice would say, "It's mid-December. Everybody's busy this time of year. Agents have parties to go to, presents to shop for, relatives to avoid discussing uncomfortable topics with. In short, they have lives. For all you know, they're already checked out for the month. Do you really want your query to be one of the twelve hundred they come back to on January 2nd? Besides, if you wait and send it mid-January, you can spend another month worrying about whether the third sentence in paragraph 17 might have too many syllables."
In the end, that last argument was the one that did it. The fact that I simply didn't know what else I'd do to the book, besides fret over it, convinced me to send it out.
These days most people prefer e-queries, so that's what I sent. And I already got one response, albeit a "I got your query letter and will review it" response. Which began with the words "This is not a form rejection." Nearly stopped my heart. "Oh, my God, it's a non-form rejection!" I thought. "I hate those too!"
You Know You're a Geek When
)
You can proxy up an entire board game from stuff you've got lying around the house.
Guess Where I'm Blogging From
I'm en route to DFW tonight, to spend Thanksgiving with my parents, brother, and sister. Delta is debuting a new service, in-flight wifi. They want to charge $10 for this eventually, but it looks like the first taste is free. It's a very slow connection, so I don't think they'll hook me longterm. But realistically, I am a hopeless cheapskate, and therefore not their target audience.
The spread of wifi seems to be really accelerating. Just last month Borders bit the bullet and started providing free wifi to compete with Barnes and Noble. Things are cutthroat in that cafe now; you can't get an outlet to save your life.
Meanwhile, Google is busy making plans for netbooks running its new Chrome OS, an operating system that is fast, cheap, and simple to use -- because all it is, basically, is an access portal to the internet. Which means the spread of wifi is a very, very good thing for them.
Are we heading toward a whole new world? Or is it really true that the more things change, the more things stay the same? I don't really know, but it kind of blows my mind that my kids will grow up more pluggged into the global community than I could ever have dreamed of in my youth.
Actually, it kind of blows my mind that I'm sitting on a plane blogging, using words like "the global community" to talk to that community while I drink my free half-a-coke and the captain warns us about turbulence.
But that's life here on the bleeding edge.
The spread of wifi seems to be really accelerating. Just last month Borders bit the bullet and started providing free wifi to compete with Barnes and Noble. Things are cutthroat in that cafe now; you can't get an outlet to save your life.
Meanwhile, Google is busy making plans for netbooks running its new Chrome OS, an operating system that is fast, cheap, and simple to use -- because all it is, basically, is an access portal to the internet. Which means the spread of wifi is a very, very good thing for them.
Are we heading toward a whole new world? Or is it really true that the more things change, the more things stay the same? I don't really know, but it kind of blows my mind that my kids will grow up more pluggged into the global community than I could ever have dreamed of in my youth.
Actually, it kind of blows my mind that I'm sitting on a plane blogging, using words like "the global community" to talk to that community while I drink my free half-a-coke and the captain warns us about turbulence.
But that's life here on the bleeding edge.
What Did You Bait Yours With Today?
I wish pedantry wasn't so much fun, because everyone hates a pedant. And with, I suppose, good reason. Showing people up is not nice.
But there's such joy in it, I tell you! And so, for the next five minutes, I will give myself permission to be a nasty smarty-pants and present to you:
But there's such joy in it, I tell you! And so, for the next five minutes, I will give myself permission to be a nasty smarty-pants and present to you:
Three Humorous Homophones I See All Over the Internet
(And Occasionally in Print)
(And Occasionally in Print)
- "My kids know how to tow the line." I always picture a kid with a line slung over his shoulder, pulling for all he's worth. It is properly toe the line. As in, to not make the roller coaster operator yell at you.
- "We were able to eek out a compromise." Ball your hands into fists, squint your eyes and squeal "A compromise!" It's fun. Correctly, this is eke out a compromise.
- "I was waiting with baited breath." My absolute fave. Caviar is good, but some people swear by a good old-fashioned worm. It should be bated. As in abate, to diminish or repress.
Sunday
We are entering the home stretch, folks. The cards indicate things I have left to do for my book. On the left, tasks not yet completed. In the middle, tasks in progress. And on the right, tasks already completed this week.
Getting there.
Getting there.
Jane's Guide to Editing in the Tub
- Put your hair up with a chopstick. This not only keeps it dry, it looks writerly.
- Think ahead. If you tend to accumulate almost-but-not-quite-out-of-ink pens, scribble test before you get soaked.
- Keep a washcloth nearby so you can keep your hands (and pages) dry.
- You can tolerate a much longer, much hotter bath if you get a cool drink. I recommend a big 32 oz. of Naked Juice, available at half price from Sam's.
- Bubbles are not compulsory, but are recommended.
Racism, Realism, and the 20th Century
Writing a book that takes place in 1928 requires certain adjustments. Adjustments in my way of thinking, but also in my way of using words. Kitty uses "O.K," not the more modern spelling "okay." She would never dream of taking the Lord's name in vain. And when she wants to call bullshit, she calls "applesauce" instead.
But there are times when I just can't go whole hog for 1928 speech. Such as, when it comes to race. The language of 1928 was, let's face it, pretty racist. And I don't just mean the actual words, like, you know, like that word. I mean the grammar was racist.
Pick up a newspaper from the early twentieth century, and you'll notice something funny. A story about a white man reads, "Joe Watson was run over by a car today." But a story about a black man reads, "Joe Watson, colored, was run over by a car today." The subject's race was apparently as essential to the article as the subject's gender is today.
And then there's the use of words that denote race as nouns, rather than as adjectives. Maybe you'll think this is a small quibble, but I think it's not. I think it matters. Say something like "A Negro was sitting on the park bench," and you're using the word "Negro" in place of the word "man." It begins to sound like you don't think the subject is a man at all -- at least not in the same way that "a (white) man sitting on the park bench" would be. Kitty uses twenties vocabulary such as "Oriental" and "Negro," because those are the words that are available to her -- but she would no more say "a Negro" than I would say "a black."
And her attitudes are, I'll cheerfully admit, much more egalitarian than the average person of her day. Kitty sees race very easily -- in fact, she sees it with a finer grain than most modern people, as she generally notes the heritage of white characters, be they Irish or Italian or Polish. But she doesn't stereotype, look down on, or fear people because of their race. She believes all men are created equal.
This may not be realistic, but realism doesn't necessarily make good fiction. And there are other things to worry about besides realism: (1) the reader's enjoyment of the book (reading about characters who are badly out of step with modern mores isn't all that enjoyable) and (2) my own morals.
But there are times when I just can't go whole hog for 1928 speech. Such as, when it comes to race. The language of 1928 was, let's face it, pretty racist. And I don't just mean the actual words, like, you know, like that word. I mean the grammar was racist.
Pick up a newspaper from the early twentieth century, and you'll notice something funny. A story about a white man reads, "Joe Watson was run over by a car today." But a story about a black man reads, "Joe Watson, colored, was run over by a car today." The subject's race was apparently as essential to the article as the subject's gender is today.
And then there's the use of words that denote race as nouns, rather than as adjectives. Maybe you'll think this is a small quibble, but I think it's not. I think it matters. Say something like "A Negro was sitting on the park bench," and you're using the word "Negro" in place of the word "man." It begins to sound like you don't think the subject is a man at all -- at least not in the same way that "a (white) man sitting on the park bench" would be. Kitty uses twenties vocabulary such as "Oriental" and "Negro," because those are the words that are available to her -- but she would no more say "a Negro" than I would say "a black."
And her attitudes are, I'll cheerfully admit, much more egalitarian than the average person of her day. Kitty sees race very easily -- in fact, she sees it with a finer grain than most modern people, as she generally notes the heritage of white characters, be they Irish or Italian or Polish. But she doesn't stereotype, look down on, or fear people because of their race. She believes all men are created equal.
This may not be realistic, but realism doesn't necessarily make good fiction. And there are other things to worry about besides realism: (1) the reader's enjoyment of the book (reading about characters who are badly out of step with modern mores isn't all that enjoyable) and (2) my own morals.
My Small Contribution to the Health Care Debate
I usually try to keep politics off this blog, partly because I know not everyone wants to hear about it, but mostly, I confess, because I am a coward and I fear losing friends. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems like political discourse has gotten a lot less friendly and a lot more scream-y over recent years. And of course the health care debate is no exception.
I am no fan of government-run health care, but I have to admit that the current system needs work. And so, though I know it would not solve everything, I present my own modest proposal:
No flat co-pays.
It's all about externalities. In economic terms, an externality is when someone makes a decision but doesn't bear the consequences of that decision. When you buy a plane ticket your boss is paying for, that's an externality. And generally externalities lead to extra costs: you just aren't as careful with someone else's money as you are with your own. Maybe you forget to buy that ticket until after the rates go up; maybe you pay through the nose for a direct flight you wouldn't have bought with your own scratch.
It seems to me that a lot of the problems with American health care can be traced to two externalities:
A couple of years back, Mark had a bruise on his leg that wouldn't go away. Many days after the injury, it was still dark-colored and painful. I convinced him to go to the doctor to check it out -- maybe the bone had a stress fracture? Or maybe I was a nervous Nellie. Anyway, he went.
"It's not a stress fracture," said the doctor. "To be honest with you, I think it's just a bad bruise. There's a small chance -- really small -- that you could have a blood clot. If you want, we can do an ultrasound to be sure. But honestly I don't think it's necessary."
For us, this decision seemed easy. We were paying the same flat co-pay either way, so why not just do the ultrasound? The other decision -- leave and come back in a week or so if the pain persisted -- might wind up costing us time, whereas this option cost us nothing.
If we had been paying a percentage-based co-pay instead, maybe it wouldn't have been such a no-brainer. Maybe we would have looked at the extra cost and decided against it. But as it was, we made a decision that benefited us marginally and hurt everyone else on our plan.
And we weren't alone. Because this is the same thing everybody else is doing when they assent to all these "extra procedures" the touted government efficiency is supposed to prevent. These people aren't evil, or even necessarily all that callous, they're just sensible. And because of an externality, they have no incentive to act differently. Heck, they don't even have an incentive to check over the bill and make sure the services their insurance was billed for were actually performed.
Make patients bear some of the costs of their own decisions, and you would enlist them in keeping those costs down.
So that addresses Externality #2, and now we're back to Externality #1: insurance companies don't care how bad you feel. Well, in my ideal world, what you'd "buy" for accepting a percentage-based co-pay would be greater control over your own health care decisions. Now that you're working to balance the two concerns at hand: -- your health and the cost of your care -- your insurance company should be able to just butt out and more or less let you run things.
Also, decouple insurance and employment and you'd allow consumers to punish bad business practices by (1) switching providers and (2) spreading word of mouth. Then maybe, just maybe, the insurance company would care how you feel.
I am no fan of government-run health care, but I have to admit that the current system needs work. And so, though I know it would not solve everything, I present my own modest proposal:
No flat co-pays.
It's all about externalities. In economic terms, an externality is when someone makes a decision but doesn't bear the consequences of that decision. When you buy a plane ticket your boss is paying for, that's an externality. And generally externalities lead to extra costs: you just aren't as careful with someone else's money as you are with your own. Maybe you forget to buy that ticket until after the rates go up; maybe you pay through the nose for a direct flight you wouldn't have bought with your own scratch.
It seems to me that a lot of the problems with American health care can be traced to two externalities:
- The insurance company is involved in making medical decisions, but they don't care how bad you feel and
- You are involved in making medical decisions, but you don't care how much the insurance company pays
A couple of years back, Mark had a bruise on his leg that wouldn't go away. Many days after the injury, it was still dark-colored and painful. I convinced him to go to the doctor to check it out -- maybe the bone had a stress fracture? Or maybe I was a nervous Nellie. Anyway, he went.
"It's not a stress fracture," said the doctor. "To be honest with you, I think it's just a bad bruise. There's a small chance -- really small -- that you could have a blood clot. If you want, we can do an ultrasound to be sure. But honestly I don't think it's necessary."
For us, this decision seemed easy. We were paying the same flat co-pay either way, so why not just do the ultrasound? The other decision -- leave and come back in a week or so if the pain persisted -- might wind up costing us time, whereas this option cost us nothing.
If we had been paying a percentage-based co-pay instead, maybe it wouldn't have been such a no-brainer. Maybe we would have looked at the extra cost and decided against it. But as it was, we made a decision that benefited us marginally and hurt everyone else on our plan.
And we weren't alone. Because this is the same thing everybody else is doing when they assent to all these "extra procedures" the touted government efficiency is supposed to prevent. These people aren't evil, or even necessarily all that callous, they're just sensible. And because of an externality, they have no incentive to act differently. Heck, they don't even have an incentive to check over the bill and make sure the services their insurance was billed for were actually performed.
Make patients bear some of the costs of their own decisions, and you would enlist them in keeping those costs down.
So that addresses Externality #2, and now we're back to Externality #1: insurance companies don't care how bad you feel. Well, in my ideal world, what you'd "buy" for accepting a percentage-based co-pay would be greater control over your own health care decisions. Now that you're working to balance the two concerns at hand: -- your health and the cost of your care -- your insurance company should be able to just butt out and more or less let you run things.
Also, decouple insurance and employment and you'd allow consumers to punish bad business practices by (1) switching providers and (2) spreading word of mouth. Then maybe, just maybe, the insurance company would care how you feel.
Zombies Ate My Weekend
I may be just a mild-mannered writer in a ruffle-collared blouse, but even I have dreams that in the Zombie Apocalypse, I will be one of the few to survive. I imagine boarding up the windows and, if necessary, taking out the stairs from the first story of my house to the second. Zombies can't climb rope ladders, don't you know?
Anyway, this weekend I got the chance to try out my zombie busting skillz for the first time, with a little gem from PopCap called Plants vs. Zombies. Basically, you defend your home from zombies by planting various plants, each of which have abilities such as shooting peas, tossing watermelons, or expelling poisonous gas.
Mark downloaded it first, then after a few hours he let me take a crack at it. He watched me play the first few levels. "Ah," he mused, "to be young again and playing Plants vs. Zombies for the first time."
I totally get it, babe. Because, man, these plants! These zombies! They are totally addictive, and it's only now, after a full two days of immersion, that I am starting to break away.
What's so great about Plants vs. Zombies?
First of all: cute! The art in the game is really charming; even the zombies manage to look adorable. I mean, look at that guy. With a cone on his head! Silly zombie.
Second of all: grindable! The game has a wealth of things to buy, complete, collect, and otherwise muck about with. It's chicken soup for the obsessive compulsive soul.
It's been a long time since I enjoyed a game this much, and to be honest it doesn't come at the best time. I am, for the first time in a long time, in flow with my writing. Deep flow. Like, rip tide. I'm talking push-on-through-to-the-end-of-the-book-and-get-it-in-the-mail flow. And if my flow has one nemesis in all the world, it's -- no, not zombies --gaming.
I hope I won't be accused of melodrama if I say that, through gaming, I have come to understand how alcoholics feel about alcohol. It's not just a compulsion, you understand. It's love. It's the beautiful, rich color of a really good scotch. It's the giddy feeling you get when you toast a zombie with your Cob Cannon just as he steps onto your porch.
For better or worse, but I think forever -- I love to game. Love it enough to ignore the other things I love, like reading and socializing and writing my book. And so to have some zombie come and woo my inner gamer right now, just when I've gotten into flow -- well, it frightens me. Which is why the mouse I need to play this game is at home, and I am currently at Borders.
Blogging about Plants vs. Zombies.
Anyway, this weekend I got the chance to try out my zombie busting skillz for the first time, with a little gem from PopCap called Plants vs. Zombies. Basically, you defend your home from zombies by planting various plants, each of which have abilities such as shooting peas, tossing watermelons, or expelling poisonous gas.
Mark downloaded it first, then after a few hours he let me take a crack at it. He watched me play the first few levels. "Ah," he mused, "to be young again and playing Plants vs. Zombies for the first time."
I totally get it, babe. Because, man, these plants! These zombies! They are totally addictive, and it's only now, after a full two days of immersion, that I am starting to break away.
What's so great about Plants vs. Zombies?First of all: cute! The art in the game is really charming; even the zombies manage to look adorable. I mean, look at that guy. With a cone on his head! Silly zombie.
Second of all: grindable! The game has a wealth of things to buy, complete, collect, and otherwise muck about with. It's chicken soup for the obsessive compulsive soul.
It's been a long time since I enjoyed a game this much, and to be honest it doesn't come at the best time. I am, for the first time in a long time, in flow with my writing. Deep flow. Like, rip tide. I'm talking push-on-through-to-the-end-of-the-book-and-get-it-in-the-mail flow. And if my flow has one nemesis in all the world, it's -- no, not zombies --gaming.
I hope I won't be accused of melodrama if I say that, through gaming, I have come to understand how alcoholics feel about alcohol. It's not just a compulsion, you understand. It's love. It's the beautiful, rich color of a really good scotch. It's the giddy feeling you get when you toast a zombie with your Cob Cannon just as he steps onto your porch.
For better or worse, but I think forever -- I love to game. Love it enough to ignore the other things I love, like reading and socializing and writing my book. And so to have some zombie come and woo my inner gamer right now, just when I've gotten into flow -- well, it frightens me. Which is why the mouse I need to play this game is at home, and I am currently at Borders.
Blogging about Plants vs. Zombies.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
