Hey Jon! I'm not going to stop blogging :P

Just wondering something, from everybody out there reading these posts. I know there's at least, you know, one of you.

Lots of characters are based on some aspect of their creator. This is clear to varying degrees in the stuff I've written, but there's one aspect of myself that I've never explored: none of my characters share my visceral reaction to dishonesty. I just don't think people would consider it realistic for the main character to go into convulsions upon trying to lie, not without outside intervention. So, does anybody else feel like something about them is 'unrealistic'?

In the spirit of a story I lost somewhere

"What's this bit? 'I, the undersigned, do hereby consent to remain bound by this contract, notwithstanding the love or grace of any entity that may or may not exist'?"
Satan winced. "Standard loophole-closing. The world is full of otherwise decent, moral people, who'd default from a contract like this in a heartbeat."
"Lousy tippers, too, I bet."

Nnnn...

I can't get motivated for NaNoWriMo... part of it is my schedule... I need the time to unwind...

Also, this semester is just kind of horrible.

In addition, my mind keeps on wandering off to other projects...

Maybe if I were more interested in these characters... I mean, the setting is awesome.

Nanowrimo Day 2: Current status: 1259 behind

(Note: my wordcount goal will not advance on Mondays and Tuesdays. To compensate, I'll try to put in four hours of writing a day, the rest of the week.)

"Fine, thanks." A host of questions flashed through Elaine's mind. She knew the answer to most of them, though. "What do I do now?"

"Now? You survive."

Later, they walked down the streets together, finishing up Ken's rounds for the day.

"My biggest complaint about this place is the atmosphere. It's just a little hard to handle."

"The barren desolation of a city that grows to accomodate a non-existant population?"

"No, I meant that it's mostly helium."

"Oh... that."

"Am I getting you down? I'd hate to be a burden."

"No, it's no problem. You don't have to do much to pull your weight down here, just—get back!"

Dull clunks echoed down a sidestreet. After far too long, their source stepped into view. The first thing Elaine noticed about the man was that her eyes couldn't stay on him. Some aspect of his being was so aggressively non-descript that the effort of seeing what was so unremarkable made her tear up.

The man spoke, in a voice just like Ken's (hopefully, she would learn to distinguish voices once she got over the falsetto effect). "So, Ken, you got yourself a girl from the new shipment of meat. I never figured you'd go for brunettes."

"Easy, Layton. She's new here. You don't want to scare her, do you?"

"Maybe I don't, and maybe I do. Either way, I don't see what you care. Shouldn't you be on the phone somewhere, ass-kissing the high-and-mighty?"

"You sick voyeur, where have you been spying on me from? I thought those moments I shared over telepresence were private and special."

Layton and Elaine stared and Ken uneasily. "Umm..."

"It was a joke. Honestly, is there some rule that says I'm not allowed to have a sense of humor, just because my job is keeping people in line?"

Layton shifted uncomfortably. "Okay, honestly... I was going to rough you up for fun, but now I'm too disturbed to do anything like that." He stalked off, the chains that supported his clothing clunking as he went.

"Who was that?"

"Elaine? What do you think of me?"

"Well, so far, you've seemed honest, reasonable, an odd sense of humor... Is that wrong?"

"Most of the guys down here, and the women as well, would like nothing more than to bash my face in. They've decided that fun is more important than order. You're going to have to take a side, too."

Update

Effective tonight, I am changing the way I set up my daily goals. I'm still behind, but I'm caving to reality and redistributing when I plan to work.

ATTENTION EVERYONE

I would like to make a statement about NaNoWriMo:

"Oh god. The pain. Make it stop. Make the hurting stop. So. Much. Pain. Stop it. Aargh."

Thank you.

Thoughts on Dark Blue

I'm really digging the setting that I worked out by dashing off words. Frontier may make next to no sense, but oh well.

Today's update is going to be fun. Just have to remember to write it...

Nanowrimo Day 1: Current status: 769 behind

Ken stared at the colors of the sky. Some snake-oil peddler in marketing had thought that a new sky would attract more people to the project, but looking at the whorl of green and purple above him always just reminded him of the darkness just beyond. By now, he barely remembered what the old sky looked like. "I think the thing I miss the most is clouds. The fog in here just isn't the same." Nobody heard. A lump of trash blew by. There was supposed to be a state-of-the-art automatic cleaning system, but few enough people had been interested in the project that there were no maintenance workers. Eventually, the cleaning robots became part of the trash they had been built to collect.

A chime sounded, and a soft, female voice—paradoxically, much deeper than his own—resounded through the dome: "Attention, residents. Attention, residents. A new convoy of staff has been sent in. Please welcome them, and extend appropriate courtesy." Nothing like that had happened in years; before communications got locked down, Ken and the others had been pretty vocal about how unpleasant the working and living conditions were. Headhunters had scraped a few more groups together in spite of this, but the new people had simply added their voices to the chorus. Over the years, the flow had petered out. Some had left, while others, like Ken, had no idea what kind of life was left for them in their former homes. By the time he worked up the courage to request a transfer out, he was informed that it would be impossible. Well, for now, there was nothing to do but his daily rounds.

The layout of Frontier never got any easier to navigate. Most of the city's subsystems never needed any maintenance, and chugged merrily along, never ceasing despite the lack of input. The streets were modular, and frequently moved on their own, according to some strange priorities that nobody had ever been able to account for. The wide thoroughfare he had been strolling down, for instance, abruptly took a sharp right into a dead end. It didn't pay to get to attached to anything you couldn't carry with you at all times; more than once, Ken's home had run away while he was out.

Ken was a security officer; so long as he had a patrol, he got money in his account. Once, years ago, he'd been too drunk to patrol.

"We're sorry, but this is a dereliction of duty, and we will take disciplinary action."
"How do you even know I wasn't on patrol?"
"Surveillance footage."
"If you've got cameras everywhere, why do you need me?"
"We don't have cameras everywhere. We just have cameras near you."
"So you watch the watchmen. Whose job is that? Some voyeuristic temp?"
"If you must know, it's Neural Net 38's job. And now that I'm done giving you information that you'll never need, I'm off to dock your pay properly for all this."

Later that day, he had realized he only kept his job because firing him would be too expensive. In the end, it was good money, if nothing else.

A klaxon sounded. Ken stopped walking, and stared up at the sky. The analog projection at the center indicated that several hours had passed since the announcement. Unbelievable. Even in this maze, he could get used to his route. He angled left; the port was somewhere in that direction, last he saw, and the new crew needed someone to welcome them. It was easy enough to get there; just vault the counter at the abandoned bar, go several blocks north in the basement passages, emerge from the supply closet in what was meant to be a daycare (that bit never stopped being weird) and the port was in sight.

Various lights flashed. Somewhere, far away from here, the panels that would label those lights were bolted to the wall by the internal remodeling system. After a tremendous grinding whir, the airlock shuddered open, dislodging years' worth of dust. As the dust settled, a single figure became visible. "Just one woman?"

She stepped forward unsteadly. As she cleared the airlock, it ground shut once more.

"Miss? Are you okay?"

She giggled. "Everything sounds so... so funny." She began to sway.

"Miss?" Ken rushed forward to support her. "You might be reacting badly to the change in pressure. But if you can answer, I've got so many questions. Why were you the only one on the sub? Who are you? Why come here?"

"Um... I think... that thing you said about pressure... I don't think I can answer any questions right now." She collapsed completely onto his shoulder. Ken sighed, and hefted her to the nearest apartment building. As security personnel, he had access to all the rooms in various kinds of buildings, so he could at least get her, whoever she was, to a bed.

Elaine groaned, and forced her eyes open. White walls, coated in dust, swam into focus. An unfamiliar room... She levered herself up, and looked around more. The room looked like any other apartment. A man sat in a chair at the other end of the room. He had sandy-blond hair, and a full beard. The next thing she noticed was the baton at his waist. Her eyes widened.

Ken, seeing that she was awake, rushed over. "Are you feeling any better?"

Oops...

Sorry for, like, not posting, anybody who reads this. I plan to make it up in the following month, with daily, long-for-me updates, of the novel I plan to rough-draft: Dark Blue, a sci-fi horror western.

Above the Deeps History: Part ???

The largest campaign carried out by the Empire of Hind was the annexation of the southern land, known to its locals as Pabirk. Though the rulers and scholars of Hind had known of the island for years, due to testimony from Bu surveyors, all previous attempts to make landfall had been thwarted by natural barriers. Though the Bu were perfectly capable of navigating the barriers, none of the natives allowed them to approach enough to attempt communication.

The Brahmin commissioned the creation of tablets depicting elements of the Great History of Hind that had proven most popular with the natives of the islands near Pabirk. The tablets were bas-relief engravings, in which each distinct element was separated from the others. The tablets were then painted over with gold. These proved resistant to the ravages of the sea, and attractive to the natives. Eventually, the Bu were able to win a few over, and each of the two groups, Bu and natives, struggled to learn each other's languages.

A few short years later, the natives had become loyal subjects of Hind, and some of the local Brahmin and Kshatriya expressed interest in bringing civilization to the rest of Pabirk. Surely, such a deed, while tremendous, was their dharma in such a land. In addition, they could not bear the occasional sight of their cousins, dooming themselves to an ignominious fate, by way of ignorance.

Got some stuff coming...

The upcoming post is a cursory examination of a question that few have dared ponder: What would it be like if India had been an expansionist empire that sent sapient octopi, capable of communicating with humans, to Australia, for the purpose of converting the Aborigines to Hinduism?

Random stream of consciousness...

The discrete nature of genes and alleles is just how things are. It could be determined in the nineteenth century, and it can be confirmed now. However... There might be other potential models of heredity, with the slight disadvantage, so far as serious science goes, that I can't think of a physical substrate that would support them.

What I have in mind is much different from the idea of 'blood'. That would be boring and invalidate evolution. Suppose, instead, that allelic information were somehow encoded in the sum resonances of a harmonic oscillator... Every allele would have an 'anti-allele', and they would combine simply by adding wave-functions. Now, it probably wouldn't be good to accumulate high amplitudes in a given component, so I'm visualizing high amplitudes increasing the odds of mutation to a lower amplitude at a higher frequency (this probably doesn't make physical sense, but it's a matter of allowing infinite scope for 'dumping')

Presumably, specific genes would have their own 'carrier wave' frequency, or something like that. Or perhaps, each gene would be physically located within a scaffolding-type structure that aligns genes for addition.

I haven't thought about this too much, and I'm too sleepy to do more, but I think it's good to think about things that don't exist; you can't look up the answer, so you have to sharpen your intellect.

How I Would Do It: The Matrix

So, I'll admit, up front, that I haven't actually seen any of the movies, making this entire setup more than a little suspect from the get-go. However, people on the internet love to discuss the movies, so I've got a bit to go on. Some of these ideas are taken from Film Forensics.

So, obvious changes: originally, the humans provided computing power instead of electrical power. This obviously makes more sense, and, as the comments there noted, sets up some more interesting conflicts.

The general sentiment there was against the mysticism that apparently pervaded the series like sweat in a locker room, but I think there could be a place for it. Scads of confusing, possibly contradictory symbolism would be fine, as long as it's confined to the Matrix. There just needs to be a way to establish that the original programmers used... interesting naming practices (

marypoppins = ( superman + starship ) / god

And all.)

I'm still a bit giddy from reading The Man Who Was Thursday, so maybe my ideas about the Matrix being regulated by the musings of a bunch of poets in a coffeehouse shouldn't be taken too seriously, but I actually think they make perfect sense.

Because the Matrix seems to be the only sustainable way for people to live in that environment, it makes more sense for the main character's job to be fixing problems rather than tearing down the system.

Had to dig around a bit to find this...

I suppose it isn’t strange
That we’re so attached
To the shells we fall into.

While we’re inside it
We can’t know what it’s like outside,
And if we decide to leave
We can’t climb back out,
So the impatient ones break down the walls.

When they want to tell what it’s like
They find that the shell is gone
And really, they can’t remember where they left it,
Anyway.

So it goes.

And yet... are they truly lost?
Does the hawk return to the egg?
Yet the hawk is definite and real.
And the unborn chicks hear the shrieks of their parents,
And yearn to fly.

We’re not like that.
Not really.

Themes I want to see in stories, at some point.

People decrying the foolishness of trying to make super-strong robot slaves... Because the damn things have so many design compromises to allow them to perform their feats of strength, that they're basically useless. They're made with government contracts, of course.

A setting in which a ruling class of magicians discourages "science", because it's supposed to be opposed to magic. In the end, it turns out that the main effect of this was to discourage innovation in "sciencey" endeavors, which threaten the mages' supremacy. Or something... Point is, the opposition is fundamentally political.

So yeah, posting little dribbles of stuff is pretty neat

Lance's face paled. "But you have to support the League! We're the central institution for the redistribution of wealth to trainers in need! We're too big to fail!"

I've ranted elsewhere about the dangers of comparing onesself to Monty Python. That said, allow me a moment of hyposcrisy.

"We'd like to opt out of your service. Here are our names."
"Just a moment... Sorry, I'm afraid I can't help you. These names aren't listed in our database."
"So you're not going to let us opt out."
"I'm afraid it can't be done."
"But the customer is always right!"
"Not only do you wish to not be the customer, were you even using the service in the first place?"
"That's not the point! It's a scandal if you prevent people who'd like to opt out of your service from doing so!"
"I'm afraid the issue here is out of my hands. If you're not using our service, you can't opt out of it. Your quarrel is with the English language."
"Well, escalate me to that department!"

A thing in my head

"You're the gym leader?" Ash gaped. "But you're only eight. People can't be gym leaders until they turn, you know, ten."

I really should get around to writing this stuff up and posting it...

I’m supposed to get a small country to rule after this war is over, for “distinction in battle”. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with a small country. Use it as an end table, perhaps.

I haven't put anything up in quite some time, so...

Have a willfully obscure joke:

"My superhero has no nose."

"How does he smell?"

"Magnetically!"

As-yet-untitled short story

This is my attempt to pull off noir-film-style narration. Unfortunately, ever character I write invariably ends up sesquipedalian.

The NASA moon missions were a highly successful attempt to convince the world that the United States could send a man to the moon. The attempt succeeded because it was an effort to convince the world of the truth. This principle holds in most every endeavor. To convince the world that you are dead, let them see your death. Ratsachiel Chiam stood in the middle of a courtyard. All around him, concrete walls held hope prisoner. Grass poked up around his old leather shoes. That grass was the only thing in that courtyard with any hue, as if God’s animation budget had run out. Ratsachiel had something to say on that grey, overcast day in the middle of October. “Excuse me, everybody—” the crowd looked up with momentary interest as he slumped over dead.
High above, right next to a vacant arch in the wall, Ratsachiel Chiam slumped over into the shadows. He’d done it, he’d really done it. Now what? He looked at the ring he had given himself. “It will give you more power than you can dream of, once you kill me,” he repeated the words he had spoken to himself.
Several hundred and nine-tenths years later, I slumped into the beaten recliner behind my desk after another unproductive day of fruitless stakeouts. I’m a detective, you see. Moonlight’s the name, Michael Moonlight. As I can’t effectively threaten anybody who reads this, I’ll wait until some hapless rube laughs at the name to explain why you shouldn’t. I wasn’t thinking about my name, or the stakeouts. I was thinking about the bottle of Moonshine 259 in the bottom-right drawer of my desk. As always, it nearly had my name on it. Often, in a town like this, ‘nearly’ is all you get.
Before I could wrestle the dented drawer out of its steel lair, thunder crashed through the room and threw me against the far wall with all the panache of a drunken pitcher. I picked myself up. My gaze followed. The dust that had so evenly covered the floor was blown back. Lines of especially shallow dust revealed the amateurish finish on the old wood. As I followed them to the point where they crossed, they got thicker and thicker until they were obscured by a man carefully prying plugs out of his ears.
He was reasonably built, but not reasonably dressed. A stretched net shirt was draped over his chest with all the care and meticulousness of a temp who’s just been told he has five hours to live. Myriad wrinkles obscured the precise relationship between his pants and his legs. “Ah... hello. Mister Moonlight? I have a job for you, or maybe you have one for me, or perhaps we’re supposed to pass it off...” He consulted an elaborate scribble on his left forearm; it probably meant something. “Sorry, I’m usually better with this kind of thing.”

Coming Soon (like, I start working on it later tonight, hopefully): The Stultifying Tale for the Edification of Children and Social Inferiors

This was inspired by one of my courses, which focuses on analysis, etc. The book we have to analyze, etc, has a certain je ne sais quois, which gave me the idea for this: a book about gunfights, explosions, and a boy who refuses to keep pets because he knows they'll die for a cheap tug at the readers' heartstrings.

It's not a very developed idea, but I have no problem with making it up as I go.

Nothing to see here yet

This will be my writing blog.  I will post stuff here.  Just not right now.  Ow... academics.