Viable Paradise
Oct. 9th, 2005 05:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lenora_roseI want to live by the sea.
I've known this for years, really. I feel connections with large bodies of water, but even Lake Winnipeg always seemed like it was missing, something, an echo of the real. This is odd; I've really only been oceanside once, when I was nine - although that covered so many different bits of oceanside it boggles the mind; Vancouver/Victoria, Hawaii, Fiji, New Zealand, Australia, and even bits of Bali. (Singapore and Thailand we mostly ended up in city).
But I'd also spent that whole summer prior to the trip at and around Lake Winnipeg, splashing in grand waves and the like, and I think that helped really set it in my head when I hit the real thing (Not to knock Lake Winnipeg: it gets tides, surfable waves in some places, and some decided undertows.)
Even seeing Boston Harbour from the plane, as we wheeled around for our landing, struck me as real sea in a way that even crossing over the Great Lakes ont he way to TO hadn't. And that was before the ferry ride, with its attendant smells and gulls (The ferry ride was at sunset, too, which made for extra beauty in spite of some boppy fourteen year olds who had to take the trip with their radio blaring and lots of giggling. I like that they were having fun, I just felt oddly solemn myself, drinking it in, and so I stayed on the other side of the boat, to keep from turning curmudgeon on them. The sky was all familiar and wonderful, the water was not, quite, and so it made a perfect mix.
I arrived in the first onset of real dark, and Bill, who claims he's only Staff-spouse and occasional travel aide, picked me up, handed me a plate with a hamburger and potato salad, and drove me to the site. He did apologize that since it was dark, he couldn't really give me a tourist-summary of the places we passed by.
I already mentioned walking into the room and being hailed by all who were there (Everybody but Bill) -- what I didn't mention was that they also immediately handed me a stack of manuscripts about four inches high, and a folder with all the schedule stuff, and a bag with an odd party favour, which I was told I'd have to trade at least once before I left. I did so in time, had some real salad and another burger, and started to absorb the names of folk, correctly spotting both my roommates and two people I'd seen posting on Absolute Write. I recognized Patrick and Teresa Nielsen Hayden from the two times I'd seen them at a con (I don't think the reverse was true, but that's how it goes with minor fan vs. Major Editors and Bloggers.) I'd seen a couple of photos of Jim Macdonald, too, although he still managed to come across as bigger & taller than I'd expected, but the other three instructors were utterly new to me. But of course, everyone was wearing a name tag of some kind, which helped.
The main thing for the rest of Sunday Night was a pair of games of Mafia, to help everyone learn names - helped extra by my roommate Anna's suggestion that everyone say their name and claim not to be mafia, which all of us did (nobody who was mafia flubbed up enough to reveal themselves, but I think that was only half the point). Then we all had the sense to scatter, as we had to read the first pieces of work for critique the next day.
Thankfully, since I was running on 4 hours of sleep and 12 hours of travel time, that proved to be only two manuscripts' worth (While we were given everyone's manuscript (22 in total), we only had to read something like 7 through the course of the week - two almost every day we weren't in the hot seat ourselves, and one for that day.) The work was good enough in one case to keep me awake and thinking. Not unflawed, but good underneath.
For obvious reasons, I won't say anything more specific about the manuscripts, or the critiques other than my own, and I won't name the vict -er, critiquees -- but it was interesting that everyone I talked to seemed to be taking at least some of the ones they hadn't critiqued home to read, because their roommates had been raving about that one, or because that person gave really good critiques, or... I've got my stack here.
The first morning went by, first the group crit session with its two victims, then James D. Macdonald's lecture on plot, which involved watching a complete chess game with the moves and their purpose explained, looking at a Victorian paper model house, and watching him play card tricks. I'd read Jim' analogies and comparisons before, but it's another thing to see the house, and the chess game, in action. And yes, much was learned about plot.
The afternoon included a much more free-form collegium, a time of semi-planned open discussion. This first day, that was Laura Mixon running us through writing exercises, some of which involved walking around, or handling objects (As![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cicadabug
mentioned on her journal, this is where she dropped Teresa Nielsen
Hayden the first time with her "Prosthetic rectum" remark) and Jim's
assignment of the dreaded Titanic exercise, a short story assignment
that had to be finished by Thursday.
Then my first one on one with Steven Gould. This was relatively painless, interrupted because we were watching over his daughters swimming in the pool while we talked.
A quick note on my project: I'd put in the first 41/2 chapters of a novel, and a summary of the rest of the novel. The first three chapters are one point of view, the rest of the novel is from another (And also slips back a bit in time).
The discussion wandered, but he made some useful points, including questioning how much of chapters one through three I would need as the story progressed. Since Jim had already been talking about the things the author needs to know and draw out in detail that the reader doesn't, I filed it away as worth thinking abut. Steven, incidentally, didn't have a strong opinion whether it should or shouldn't stay, pointing out that since he couldn't read anything past chapter 5, he didn't know what was and wasn't necessary. He just felt the question was worth exploring.
Then we all regrouped for supper, parted briefly to do more reading of manuscripts, or writing about the Titanic (I turned on my computer long enough to brainstorm and write up opening paragraphs, then type up and save the text of my last LJ entry).
And rejoined to go and look at the water. The skly was utterly clear, but it was predicted to cloud over the rest of the week, so they decided to go early. I don't know if the relevant Jellyfish at the bridge are spelled Ctenophore or tinafore, the spellings I've run into in past VP lists, but they flare and fade in the night water in glorious display, and reading mentions in prior VP diaries does no justice to what it's like watching the startled sparkles. Oh, beauty in all its forms! I also got into a conversation with Aaron Brown about character, which left us on the bridge, watching the jellyfish flare, or watching the stars above, for a considerable long while after most others had crossed the road to the ocean-side beach.
We finally crunched down across the seashells and the sand in our turn, and discovered that there were sparks in the beach-water, too, but smaller. I confirmed that it was safe to splash in among these glitters and that the worst danger would be finding my shoes when i got back to shore, (Although why I asked when Steven Gould's daughters and Teresa were already in, I don't know), then rolled up my jeans and waded out, and ran my fingers through the water and watched the sparks that followed. It's like all the special effects spell-glitter in the world, but better, because it was real. I also found that sending a spray of water out caused sparks all the way out. I seemed to end up talking mostly with Emma Gould, because most adults didn't go out, or didn't stay long. Then I made my way back, found my shoes with no problem, and sat down with Sharon Mock and her husband Zak a while, on the shell-covered rocks. (There were snail-shells everywhere.) They also promised me use of their internet connection to post my already-out-of-date entry on arriving safely. Jen Pelland tried to convince us of the horrors of the water, and the things in it, and sent me into gales of laughter. Mostly, I would guess by the shells, it's snails out there.
On the way back, I got into a conversation about the Arrogant Worms with Carol and Bill, who caused Teresa to fall over with their rendition of "I am Cow".
(No, I never got Teresa to fall over. I'm not that funny.)
Then I got back, hung up my jeans to dry, visited Sharon and Zak long enough to post my entry and find out that either my e-mail account was mis-set-up on my laptop or it didn't want to receive mail from a Canadian Provider down there. I passed on the option of going to their website and getting my e-mail that way, since there was nothing urgent, and, curled up in my blankets read my roommmate Anna's story. She'd already admitted that her first one-on-one, with Teresa, left her confused. Teresa had not received the revised version of her story, and, on skimming it, seemed to think the first one was better. I'd already promised to read the first version, too, but for the group thing. I wanted to stick to the one (Almost) everyone would have.
The next day proved cloudy and even misty as predicted. It hummed by, in its own way; after having received the reassurance from my roommmates both that it was a good idea, i asked Patrick, the one I'd most wanted to have a one-on-one with, if he'd give me a one on one on a *different* project. He said sure, of course; either way, ti would be about the same number of extra pages of reading.
During Anna's critique, however, Jim and Steven got into a disco-dracula discussion, peaking with the two of them singing "Ah-ah-ah-ah/ Stayin' Dead/Stayin' Dead" -- at which point I opened my big mouth and mentioned that someone could write a story about that. See, Jim waits for these things. He promptly assigned me one, to finish for Friday. (I later got to be the witness to him catching Joel the same way, when Joel mentioned the toilet in his room kept flushing in the middle of the night when all were in bed, and made a passing remark that there was a story in there...)
Laura's lecture took place outside, which meant pauses whenever airplanes went by, since one of the other girls had a bad allergic reaction to the excess bleach in our usual meeting room. It was on the "Care and Feeding of your Beast", basically about the balance between the logical, critical mind and the creative side, (The "beast"), that comes up with the ideas and the images that will make the story. I drew a bunch of one of my own created species' all over the page, one of whom ended up knitting, since Teresa was across the circle from me. (Doodling does not necessarily reflect on my attention span. I find that, unless there are specific facts, like dates or books and authors, I remember more of a lecture if I listen than if I try to write it all down, and this lecture was all soft sciences or subjectivity. But my hands get restless. University long since taught me I pay better attention drawing than I do if I write notes, and I pay better attention doing either than if I try to jot bad poetry, or story notes, in the margins.
In the afternoon, I had my one on one with Jim Macdonald, which was probably the single most useful run through I had on that project, since we could range past the text on the page and he could force me to look at where it was going, and what I would need to do to give this book a really satisfying ending, based on my summary and the questions he asked about what would and would not come up. He did, however, assign me a second additional project, which was to write 500 words of that same climax with the missing character -- never mind that most of the text between isn't written. I also handed Patrick the printout I'd made of the other story chunk, without any summary since I haven't managed a satisfying one yet.
That night was Beer with Billy, the pizza, beer, root beer, and Shakespearean play reading. We did Antony and Cleopatra, and I ended up the drunken third triumvir, who gets imprisoned or killed partway through (Most of that particular ending happened offstage, during a scene during the three minutes I was out of the room through the whole play. I have nothing if not excellent timing.) I was partly impressed that Emma and Pippin, the children of Laura and Steven, and of Doyle and Jim, respectively, were not only present but eager.
Then I went back to my room and read the work for the next day, which started otu pleasantly enough, but ended in the wee hours of the morning, when I ran into a scene with major problems at a time when I was, at best, too grumpy to be tactful. I did realise the mistake in the morning (And the object lesson of why not to edit with a pen), and warn that particular critiquee that while I felt my poitns were valid, she should please ignore the snarky tone, and blame it on the hour, and not her work, as the hour was definitely the big mover.
Wednesday afternoon was free, free freee! So I decided it was a good time for a walk.
This might have been a mistake.
But I'm getting headachy, so more tomorrow.
I've known this for years, really. I feel connections with large bodies of water, but even Lake Winnipeg always seemed like it was missing, something, an echo of the real. This is odd; I've really only been oceanside once, when I was nine - although that covered so many different bits of oceanside it boggles the mind; Vancouver/Victoria, Hawaii, Fiji, New Zealand, Australia, and even bits of Bali. (Singapore and Thailand we mostly ended up in city).
But I'd also spent that whole summer prior to the trip at and around Lake Winnipeg, splashing in grand waves and the like, and I think that helped really set it in my head when I hit the real thing (Not to knock Lake Winnipeg: it gets tides, surfable waves in some places, and some decided undertows.)
Even seeing Boston Harbour from the plane, as we wheeled around for our landing, struck me as real sea in a way that even crossing over the Great Lakes ont he way to TO hadn't. And that was before the ferry ride, with its attendant smells and gulls (The ferry ride was at sunset, too, which made for extra beauty in spite of some boppy fourteen year olds who had to take the trip with their radio blaring and lots of giggling. I like that they were having fun, I just felt oddly solemn myself, drinking it in, and so I stayed on the other side of the boat, to keep from turning curmudgeon on them. The sky was all familiar and wonderful, the water was not, quite, and so it made a perfect mix.
I arrived in the first onset of real dark, and Bill, who claims he's only Staff-spouse and occasional travel aide, picked me up, handed me a plate with a hamburger and potato salad, and drove me to the site. He did apologize that since it was dark, he couldn't really give me a tourist-summary of the places we passed by.
I already mentioned walking into the room and being hailed by all who were there (Everybody but Bill) -- what I didn't mention was that they also immediately handed me a stack of manuscripts about four inches high, and a folder with all the schedule stuff, and a bag with an odd party favour, which I was told I'd have to trade at least once before I left. I did so in time, had some real salad and another burger, and started to absorb the names of folk, correctly spotting both my roommates and two people I'd seen posting on Absolute Write. I recognized Patrick and Teresa Nielsen Hayden from the two times I'd seen them at a con (I don't think the reverse was true, but that's how it goes with minor fan vs. Major Editors and Bloggers.) I'd seen a couple of photos of Jim Macdonald, too, although he still managed to come across as bigger & taller than I'd expected, but the other three instructors were utterly new to me. But of course, everyone was wearing a name tag of some kind, which helped.
The main thing for the rest of Sunday Night was a pair of games of Mafia, to help everyone learn names - helped extra by my roommate Anna's suggestion that everyone say their name and claim not to be mafia, which all of us did (nobody who was mafia flubbed up enough to reveal themselves, but I think that was only half the point). Then we all had the sense to scatter, as we had to read the first pieces of work for critique the next day.
Thankfully, since I was running on 4 hours of sleep and 12 hours of travel time, that proved to be only two manuscripts' worth (While we were given everyone's manuscript (22 in total), we only had to read something like 7 through the course of the week - two almost every day we weren't in the hot seat ourselves, and one for that day.) The work was good enough in one case to keep me awake and thinking. Not unflawed, but good underneath.
For obvious reasons, I won't say anything more specific about the manuscripts, or the critiques other than my own, and I won't name the vict -er, critiquees -- but it was interesting that everyone I talked to seemed to be taking at least some of the ones they hadn't critiqued home to read, because their roommates had been raving about that one, or because that person gave really good critiques, or... I've got my stack here.
The first morning went by, first the group crit session with its two victims, then James D. Macdonald's lecture on plot, which involved watching a complete chess game with the moves and their purpose explained, looking at a Victorian paper model house, and watching him play card tricks. I'd read Jim' analogies and comparisons before, but it's another thing to see the house, and the chess game, in action. And yes, much was learned about plot.
The afternoon included a much more free-form collegium, a time of semi-planned open discussion. This first day, that was Laura Mixon running us through writing exercises, some of which involved walking around, or handling objects (As
cicadabug
mentioned on her journal, this is where she dropped Teresa Nielsen
Hayden the first time with her "Prosthetic rectum" remark) and Jim's
assignment of the dreaded Titanic exercise, a short story assignment
that had to be finished by Thursday.Then my first one on one with Steven Gould. This was relatively painless, interrupted because we were watching over his daughters swimming in the pool while we talked.
A quick note on my project: I'd put in the first 41/2 chapters of a novel, and a summary of the rest of the novel. The first three chapters are one point of view, the rest of the novel is from another (And also slips back a bit in time).
The discussion wandered, but he made some useful points, including questioning how much of chapters one through three I would need as the story progressed. Since Jim had already been talking about the things the author needs to know and draw out in detail that the reader doesn't, I filed it away as worth thinking abut. Steven, incidentally, didn't have a strong opinion whether it should or shouldn't stay, pointing out that since he couldn't read anything past chapter 5, he didn't know what was and wasn't necessary. He just felt the question was worth exploring.
Then we all regrouped for supper, parted briefly to do more reading of manuscripts, or writing about the Titanic (I turned on my computer long enough to brainstorm and write up opening paragraphs, then type up and save the text of my last LJ entry).
And rejoined to go and look at the water. The skly was utterly clear, but it was predicted to cloud over the rest of the week, so they decided to go early. I don't know if the relevant Jellyfish at the bridge are spelled Ctenophore or tinafore, the spellings I've run into in past VP lists, but they flare and fade in the night water in glorious display, and reading mentions in prior VP diaries does no justice to what it's like watching the startled sparkles. Oh, beauty in all its forms! I also got into a conversation with Aaron Brown about character, which left us on the bridge, watching the jellyfish flare, or watching the stars above, for a considerable long while after most others had crossed the road to the ocean-side beach.
We finally crunched down across the seashells and the sand in our turn, and discovered that there were sparks in the beach-water, too, but smaller. I confirmed that it was safe to splash in among these glitters and that the worst danger would be finding my shoes when i got back to shore, (Although why I asked when Steven Gould's daughters and Teresa were already in, I don't know), then rolled up my jeans and waded out, and ran my fingers through the water and watched the sparks that followed. It's like all the special effects spell-glitter in the world, but better, because it was real. I also found that sending a spray of water out caused sparks all the way out. I seemed to end up talking mostly with Emma Gould, because most adults didn't go out, or didn't stay long. Then I made my way back, found my shoes with no problem, and sat down with Sharon Mock and her husband Zak a while, on the shell-covered rocks. (There were snail-shells everywhere.) They also promised me use of their internet connection to post my already-out-of-date entry on arriving safely. Jen Pelland tried to convince us of the horrors of the water, and the things in it, and sent me into gales of laughter. Mostly, I would guess by the shells, it's snails out there.
On the way back, I got into a conversation about the Arrogant Worms with Carol and Bill, who caused Teresa to fall over with their rendition of "I am Cow".
(No, I never got Teresa to fall over. I'm not that funny.)
Then I got back, hung up my jeans to dry, visited Sharon and Zak long enough to post my entry and find out that either my e-mail account was mis-set-up on my laptop or it didn't want to receive mail from a Canadian Provider down there. I passed on the option of going to their website and getting my e-mail that way, since there was nothing urgent, and, curled up in my blankets read my roommmate Anna's story. She'd already admitted that her first one-on-one, with Teresa, left her confused. Teresa had not received the revised version of her story, and, on skimming it, seemed to think the first one was better. I'd already promised to read the first version, too, but for the group thing. I wanted to stick to the one (Almost) everyone would have.
The next day proved cloudy and even misty as predicted. It hummed by, in its own way; after having received the reassurance from my roommmates both that it was a good idea, i asked Patrick, the one I'd most wanted to have a one-on-one with, if he'd give me a one on one on a *different* project. He said sure, of course; either way, ti would be about the same number of extra pages of reading.
During Anna's critique, however, Jim and Steven got into a disco-dracula discussion, peaking with the two of them singing "Ah-ah-ah-ah/ Stayin' Dead/Stayin' Dead" -- at which point I opened my big mouth and mentioned that someone could write a story about that. See, Jim waits for these things. He promptly assigned me one, to finish for Friday. (I later got to be the witness to him catching Joel the same way, when Joel mentioned the toilet in his room kept flushing in the middle of the night when all were in bed, and made a passing remark that there was a story in there...)
Laura's lecture took place outside, which meant pauses whenever airplanes went by, since one of the other girls had a bad allergic reaction to the excess bleach in our usual meeting room. It was on the "Care and Feeding of your Beast", basically about the balance between the logical, critical mind and the creative side, (The "beast"), that comes up with the ideas and the images that will make the story. I drew a bunch of one of my own created species' all over the page, one of whom ended up knitting, since Teresa was across the circle from me. (Doodling does not necessarily reflect on my attention span. I find that, unless there are specific facts, like dates or books and authors, I remember more of a lecture if I listen than if I try to write it all down, and this lecture was all soft sciences or subjectivity. But my hands get restless. University long since taught me I pay better attention drawing than I do if I write notes, and I pay better attention doing either than if I try to jot bad poetry, or story notes, in the margins.
In the afternoon, I had my one on one with Jim Macdonald, which was probably the single most useful run through I had on that project, since we could range past the text on the page and he could force me to look at where it was going, and what I would need to do to give this book a really satisfying ending, based on my summary and the questions he asked about what would and would not come up. He did, however, assign me a second additional project, which was to write 500 words of that same climax with the missing character -- never mind that most of the text between isn't written. I also handed Patrick the printout I'd made of the other story chunk, without any summary since I haven't managed a satisfying one yet.
That night was Beer with Billy, the pizza, beer, root beer, and Shakespearean play reading. We did Antony and Cleopatra, and I ended up the drunken third triumvir, who gets imprisoned or killed partway through (Most of that particular ending happened offstage, during a scene during the three minutes I was out of the room through the whole play. I have nothing if not excellent timing.) I was partly impressed that Emma and Pippin, the children of Laura and Steven, and of Doyle and Jim, respectively, were not only present but eager.
Then I went back to my room and read the work for the next day, which started otu pleasantly enough, but ended in the wee hours of the morning, when I ran into a scene with major problems at a time when I was, at best, too grumpy to be tactful. I did realise the mistake in the morning (And the object lesson of why not to edit with a pen), and warn that particular critiquee that while I felt my poitns were valid, she should please ignore the snarky tone, and blame it on the hour, and not her work, as the hour was definitely the big mover.
Wednesday afternoon was free, free freee! So I decided it was a good time for a walk.
This might have been a mistake.
But I'm getting headachy, so more tomorrow.
