For Whose Computer the Bell Tolls

Yes, I think we're all glad that's not how John Donne wrote it. The fact remains, though, that my computer is about to be retired. After I finish this post, I'll turn it off, tell my dad I'm ready, and we'll open it up and salvage what we care to salvage. After that, we'll mix the few useful old components with the new motherboard, processor, video card, tower, hard drive, and just about everything else to create a new entity. In fact, I believe the only chunks of metal we're going to end up using from this computer is the most recently purchased hard drive as a supplement, the DVD drive, the 3 1/2", and perhaps a fan.

I sorted through all my crap and figured out what files I actually want to save. I put all those on one spot on the hard drive we'll be yanking out. Then I sorted through that, decided what would induce a heart attack were I to lose it, and put that onto my flash drive. That last category is under 300 megabytes, and even some of that is just padding because I had space.

What I feel most right now is relief at letting the entire thing wash away into uncomplicated newness, and trepidation at the fact that I'm just going to start accumulating again. I would imagine that these are not the feelings most techies would feel before a major upgrade.

~Paul

Oh, and by the way...

Allow me to brag a little bit:

I wrote 50,400 words in November. It would've been more, but I decided to take November 30th off.

Okay, bragging's all done.

And no, you can't read it.

Not unless I have a temporary lapse of all forms of sanity, reason, and concern for your well being. Lucky for you, that last one's still intact.

Seriously. This novel is quite horrible, possibly hazardous. I love it to death.

Writing is bliss for me, even when it feels like I'm being dragged across broken glass (which is frequent). It gives me a direction and license to create. It's a release of pent-up emotion, energy, and neuroses. To use a quote I found floating around on the web, "Be creative. It keeps the voices out of your head." The literal truth of that may be in doubt for a lot of us, but the central meaning is that it keeps us from exploding. Writing, and creativity in general, is a Good Thing. Given that, you'd think I'd have notebooks upon notebooks upon doc files upon ink-stained napkins of written material. The thing is, though, that creativity requires a certain humility--a willingness to make mistakes and love them, or at least tolerate and learn from them--that is almost beyond me. One thing I love about NaNoWriMo is that it requires me to write less than sterling prose and to plot a tangled heap in order to keep up with my goal. This is the first time I came to grips with that fact, and this is the first year I was able to write 50,000 words I didn't have before.

When I'm willing to accept my limitations, when I'm actually willing to look them in the face, then I can finally get to work surpassing them. I began with no idea where this novel would go. I had no characters, no setting, and no plot. I now have all of those, albeit in an ungainly and unpolished form. More important, I have a better idea of how this novel should have been written in the first place. I'd like to do that rewrite. I'd like to finish up other projects I've started. I'd like to bring out some of the ideas I've never dared put to paper. Now, it's possible.


"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."
--Ernest Hemmingway


~Paul

Yup, Still Going At It

Just in case you're wondering... yes, I'm still working on NaNoWriMo. And I'm only one day behind, and only that because I took yesterday off after hitting the half-month point. Maybe I'll say something profound about this later, but for now... well, I'm still working on it.

~Paul

NaNoWriMo begins NOW!

What, that loser's coming back to try NaNoWriMo a THIRD year? That's right! And this time, the approach is different. In previous years, I came into the whole deal with a very good idea of what I wanted to write, and an intent to write well.

That didn't work out so well.

So this time, I didn't start with anything in mind. Well, somethings tried to creep in, but I hit them with baseball bats, bound and gagged them, and threw them into a mental closet. Today, I just started writing and saw what came out. I'll post today's labors here for anyone who hates themselves enough to read it.

Chapter 1

In an endless expanse, a being in silver robes drifted quietly. Or, he tried to drift quietly.

“So then, the planar quillboar, he was all, no, I’ll get you first! Look, I even have a ginormous club! Ha! But I was all, no you don’t, cuz I have a moon I can throw at you!”

Azarael, Angel of Death, Keeper of Secrets, The Blind Who Saw All, stretched his wings, and turned away from the center of the endless expnanse—the shimmering portal—and looked at the monkey who was regaling him, or attempting to, with tales of derring do.

“Have you nothing better to do, Jisha?”

Jisha did a backflip—for the fun of it, Azarael was sure Jisha would say had he asked, even though they both knew Azarael knew that Jisha knew that movement was relative and really nonexistant out here. It didn’t stop Azarael from turning from the portal, though, and it certainly didn’t stop Jisha from doing backflips. Ever. “Of course not. What could be more important than yacking at my favorite stiff?” Jisha asked, smirking.

“Well, I do have something better for you to do. Take a look at this.” Azarael turned back to the portal, stretched his wings, and spread his arms. He began chanting in an ancient tongue, forgotten by all men since Adam and all women since Eve. The Angels still remembered, though. They were not bound by the same fettters as mankind.

Jisha’s hackles rose as he listened to the ancient, noble tongue—sibillant hisses mixed with overpowering vowels and declarations, reaching not only into language, into ideas, but into reality itself and shaping the world.

Of course, the chanting wasn’t strictly necessary, but Azarael always liked creeping Jisha out. This was something that Azarael knew that Jisha didn’t know. The chanting thing, not the creeping out thing—they both knew that Azarael liked creeping Jisha out.

The portal flashed as a thousand supernovas, ripping into the endless void they floated in with the light of searing death—and it revealed the millions of shapes hovering in the distance, whether a mile or a billion was impossible to say in a void with no point of reference. They could’ve been specks or larger than universes, but what was certain was that they hung over the last bastion of the Angels, and they did not mean well. The light of the portal faded, and this time it held an image rather than a flat circle of light.

On the shimmering field was a young man, tall and dark-haired. Azarael spread his wings one more time, rising up as he did so, and pointed grandly to the being before him, spread across a portal a thousand miles across. “Behold, Jisha! This boy is our salvation! This boy shall be the prophesied one to restore the our foolishness to glory! This is our redemption!”

Jisha looked and blinked. “But.. he’s EMO.” It was true. The young man was decked out in studded belts and tight black clothing, his dark hair looked dyed, and no non-emo would go with that oh-so-stupid haircut that parted on the side and fell over to completely block vision from one eye.

Azarael sniggered. “The workings of the Infinite are mysterious, Jisha. Do not question the chosen vessel. Also, damn straight he is.”

“What do you think an emo can do?”

“A hell of a lot more than you think, Jisha.”

“And you want me to do what with him?”

“Find him. Help him. Put up with his emoness if necessary.”

Jisha sighed. “Well, at least he’s not a goth. ‘Life is a bowl of pain that shatters when it drops, when it drops from a thousand feet and a cliff so high it bleeds black agony in deepest darkest spring of eternal suffering that haunts my waking mind so hard it screams and bleeds and none of you understand me go away.’ Oh, so horrible! Why do they write poetry? They can’t write poetry! DON’T TRY TO WRITE POETRY!”

Azarael twitched. “You know, in Japan, white is actually the color of death, not black. So people who want to be creepy go around wearing all white.”

“And... you’re wearing...” Jisha looked Azarael’s silver robes over. “I don’t want to know. I really don’t want to know if you write poetry. Please tell me you don’t.”

Azarael burst out laughing. “So easy... so damn easy to wind up! Wow. For a monkey, you’re really twitchy. Now get out of here, furry one. And no more quillboars on the way out!”

Jisha rolled his eyes, saluted, and dived for the portal. He plummeted, at speeds well in excess of both an unladen swallow and anything we conventionally achieve on earth, and soon became a speck above the emo’s left ear. Jisha suddenly passed through the portal—letting out a burst of light as ginormous as the first and once again lighting up the menacing shapes that hung in silence, waiting their moment. When the light faded, the portal—its energies temporarily depleted—held only the darkest, dimmest light, barely indistinguishable from the void that had always hid it.

In the darkness, the Angel of Death waited.

Chapter 2

Wilson sat in the cafe, nursing his drink. The Cafe was mid-sized and pleasant; a few interesting neoart pieces claimed various parts of the wall and a few sculpture stands about the place, the music was soft and calming, and the steady whirr of the drink machines blended well with the sound of laptops clacking at the urging of their owners’ fingers. Wilson himself fit in pretty well; a dark red dress shirt and khaki slacks, necktie removed after the workday, a simple but nice black trench coat to keep away the rain as soon as he steps outside again; a professional but not stiff hairstyle, probably with a bit too much gel and somewhat spiked out as young men fresh into the work force will do to try to retain some level of cool. Simply another person escaping the world of work at the end of the day for a few minutes of relaxation and possibly creativity in a convenient cafe.

Of course, not everyone was a top-secret government agent who did not, officially, exist. There hadn’t even been movies or books written about his branch of the government—not using its real name, at least—because not many authors felt the urge to mix spy novels with high fantasy, which was absolutely absurd of course, let the bloody “speculative fiction” geeks worry about fantasy and we’ll keep our guns and fast cars and unrealistic Hollywood portrayals of espionage work, thank you very much.

If those authors could have seen some of the files on Wilson’s laptop computer, open on the table and currently displaying a game of Freecell, they either would have berated him as a lunatic or assumed he too was writing a novel (which gives him license to be a lunatic). Of course, first they’d have to get past the many layers of security, most of which were rigged to delete everything and make the computer blow up at the first sign of trouble.

Wilson hated his laptop. He’d had to replace it ten times in the first month of his job. He was a lot better now, but every time he opened it up to give the proper passwords he still winced in anticipation of a sudden detonation followed by a trip to reconstructive surgery.

Out of habit, he scanned the crowd surreptiously; in his experience, it wasn’t really worth it, since no one really even had an inkling that his branch of the government existed, except perhaps the Illuminati, if the Illuminati were in fact real, which he wasn’t ready to rule out yet. But still, better paranoid than dead. Even if the Illuminati probably wouldn’t take to grabbing people out of the streets, and if they were, well, who was going to stop them? They were the fricking Illuminati! Council of The Enlightened! Shadowy Force Directing History! They Who Shall Be Given Capitalized Titles! They could be watching him right now, deciding whether it was his time to simply...disappear. Whether he knew to much. Whether he hadn’t been able to learn enough. Whether he had selected the appropriate drink, or whether his sudden shift to tea instead of coffee today had foiled their attempt to poison him. Tomorrow he would get hot chocolate. And the day after that, he would go to the cafe down the street. The next day, back here for a cookie, no drink. Then he would drive across town to Red Lobster and eat there instead. He had it all planned out. They could never get him.

Out of nowhere, a ball of fur collided with his face. Wilson suddenly found himself on the ground, breathing through a mat of muffling dark hair, or trying to breath anyway, and rolling around. They found him! Screams broke out from the other customers; the fur suddenly left his face, and he could breath. Air! Sweet blessed air! The Illuminati were not going to suffocate him to death!

He rolled to his feet and pulled his vest gun just in time to see—a monkey. His gun dropped. How did a monkey get in here? Why did a monkey get in here? Where in the world did a monkey come from that was actually close enough that a monkey could feasibly get into a Seattle cafe? The monkey looked around and gave a little monkey smirk at all the other customers, who were hiding behind tipped over tables, drink counters, and a fallen light fixture.

“Wow,” the monkey said. “If I can do that kind of damage just by missing the portal center by a few miles, I wonder what I could do if I really put my mind to it?” The monkey darted toward the door (grabbing a hot chocolate from a table on its way out), and disappeared into the street. Wilson slid his gun back into its hidden holster before anyone noticed. The other people were babbling about animal control, cute fuzzies, and the possibility of nearby circuses.

They, of course, had not heard the monkey talk. They were far too mundane, by their own insistence, for that to happen. Wilson sighed, returned to his laptop, and began pulling up a file on monkeys. His workday was not, by any means, over.

Chapter 3

The Angel of Death smacked his forehead in frustration, then readjusted his blindfold. “Dammit, Jisha, can’t you just make a single dimensional shift without causing mayhem and picking up a bunch of tagalongs?”

Chapter 4

Calvin hated his name. It just didn’t seem to fit him. The problem was, he wasn’t sure what name would fit him. He’d wasted time, plenty of time going over the list and seeing if there was anything worthwhile. Benjamin? Ha. Victor? Did he look ready to punch someone’s face in? Fred and George were right out. He probably could’ve come up with some old Celtic name with some semi-appropriate translation if he really tried, but the fact was that he really didn’t care to. Sure, “Kieran” may mean something like “little dark one,” but did he really want to explain that to everyone who asked where in the world he had gotten a name like “Kieran”?

The solution, after many unfruitful hours of slapping out long lists and scratching everything out again, was to just go by “Cal.” Sure, it made him sound like a bloody jock, which was almost worse than the alternative, but still. Calvin.

“Hey, Mal.” Then there was Andrea, who just called him “Mal.” In return, he just called her “Rea,” though that also had something to do with the threats on his life when he used her full first name. Mal stood for many things. Most of them made no sense, at least not when used with Calvin. Malevolent. Some made no sense to someone who was not in on the joke. Malaclypse the Third. Some simply made no sense. Malagigel.

Andrea slid open the screen door and let herself in. Today, she was in a thick, Victorian-looking black dress with silver roses embroidered across the shoulders and down the arms. She claimed that black dresses during regular days helped her think and reminded her that she was different than the unenlightened masses. Calvin claimed it made her look hot, in a gothy sort of way. She certainly had the hair for it, too—long, naturally midnight black, tending to cover her eyes when she wasn’t looking, obedient to her whims. She was deliberately vague on how she achieved the obedient part. If pressed by Mal, though, she just said it was a secret.

“Hey, Rea.” He chucked the list of names away from the couch, swung himself back into a sitting position, and made room for her. She gathered her skirts up and took her place as though it were a throne. That was another side effect of wearing thick Victorian dresses. Andrea had to be slow and stately and absolutely sure of where all her fabric was, or she would manage to step on it with the not-so-Victorian combat boots she had underneath. Calvin wasn’t sure how she managed that, either.

“Very carefully, Mal. Very carefully.” Having completely seated herself, Andrea swung her feet up onto the couch and nestled into the space between the cushion and the thick, plush arm rest. “And give up the name thing. Mal works as well as anything. Better than everything.”

“Yeah, but that’s for you. Not everyone can use that name.” Calvin mirrored her pose so they could face each other, more or less, sharing the middle cushion for a footrest. “Besides, I’m not even sure anyone’s noticed that you call me that.”

Andrea shrugged. “Then they don’t pay attention, though that really comes as no surprise to those of us who have been paying attention all along. So, how’d the test go?”

“Which one?”

“Yes.”

“Math sucked, English was alright, I guess, Chem sucked.”

“And?”

Calvin winced. “And the motorcycle nearly killed me. Note to Rea: Don’t ride motorcycles. Note to self: Punch John. Other note to Rea: Punch John.”

Andrea arched an eyebrow. “Surely it wasn’t so bad you want to burn the forest down?”

“No, but a bonfire might be good. So, these special modifications he wanted to test with a light rider, apparently they all blow if you go above twenty.”

Andrea looked up over skeptically. “Blow up? You’re still here, right?”

“Okay, so blow up is too much. They still conked out and made the cycle fishtail and crash.” Calvin used his right hand to pull up the sleeve on his left arm, revealing a large bandage covering his shoulder and upper arm. “I managed to walk away with just this, but I’m still pissed at him. He promised to fix it, but I’m not getting back on that damn bike of his.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Andrea teased. Sooner or later, you’ll hop on and you know it, and it’ll probably be inside of a month.”

“Will not!”

“Will.”

“Won’t, and if I do, I’ll get you a CD. If I don’t in a month, you get me a CD.”

“Deal.” Andrea stretched and stuck her hands behind her head as a cushion. “Man, that was easy. Free CD for me.”

Calvin just rolled his eyes. “So. What about you? Where were you at lunch and after school? I thought you wanted to see John’s test.”

Andrea smiled, ran her tongue over her lips, and paused. “I had... an... interesting day. Yeah, interesting. I don’t have many of those.” She paused, glancing away from Calvin for just a second. “Normally, the days are depressing... but this, well...”

Calvin smirked. “You okay, Rea? Tongue tied doesn’t suit you. Want me to untwist it for you?”

“Maybe later,” she joked. “You see—”

At that moment, the screen door Andrea had walked through burst into shreds as a horde of screaming ninjas swept into the room.

~Paul

Would You Like To Take A Survey?

So. Today I saw an awesome picture that I had to hunt down.


Yes, it is just that awesome. Thank you for introducing me to it, Wren. In the course of googling this image, I randomly found one of those "about you" questioneers and randomly decided to take it. Don't ask how that happened. Enjoy.

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? My grandfather and the Apostle Paul.

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED? I almost cried today. It's been a few months since I really cried.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? Yes.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? Turkey... or corned beef... with cheese. Lots of cheese.

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS? No. No. No.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? Doubtful, as I'd make it really hard to get to know me. If I managed to hang around while simultaneously being non-annoying, and I could manage to put up with the extreme annoying emoness and/or boringness that I can occasionally display then I might let myself hang around long enough to become friends with me.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT? Less than I used to, less than I should, less than I'm going to.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? Yesh.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? No, unless someone I really trust and love and enjoy pleasing was willing to spend a long time slowly needling me into it; but if they were *that* insistent, I might start to doubt the love and trust part.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Those things with cinnamon swirls.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? Usually not, but sometimes; if it's my dress shoes, always.

12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? Most of me doesn't believe it most of the time, but once in awhile I happen upon evidence of it--the a small voice in my heart that knows better, great ability, occasional dedication and devotion... the sort of thing that likes to undermine my pessimistic worldview.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? Any of those things that start with something approximately close to vanilla and throw in all these things like ribbons of syrup/frozen chocolate, chunks of butterscotch stuff, etc. until the ice cream's just full of them.

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE? My odds of getting away with not acknowledging them.

15. RED OR PINK? Red

16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? My constant inability to do what I'm supposed to and what I want to.

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? Maren, sometimes Berit.

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU? Sure.

19. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING? Dark blue pants, no shoes.

20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE? A pair of tortillas. One was very badly folded because I'd let the pan get too hot and the shell was too crispy.

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? The hum of my computer.

22. IF YOU WHERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? Cerulean

23. FAVORITE SMELLS? new books, chamomile, rain-drenched land

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? My sister

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU? I found this on a blog and don't really know the person who posted it.

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH? Um... baseball? I don't really watch sports.

27. HAIR COLOR? It's either a dirty blond or a weird brown. Plus, it sometimes changes color depending on lighting and moisture.

28. EYE COLOR? Blue, dark blue at the outer edges, a small ring of olive next to the pupil.

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? No

30. FAVORITE FOODS? Shepherds pie, a good chocolate/peanut butter combination, crackers and cheese

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS? Happy endings... usually.

32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED? The Great Mouse Detective

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING? Dark blue, with green and tan stripes

34. FAVORITE SEASON? Anything that rains.

35. HUGS OR KISSES? Hugs, and occasional kisses on the cheek

36. FAVORITE DESSERT? Cheesecake (favorite dessert is subject to change based on mood without any warning)

37.5 WHAT DO YOU THINK #37 WAS? An opportunity for the questionee to freely provide self-revealing and self-analyzing commentary.

38.5 WHAT ABOUT 38? It concerned squirrels.

39. WHAT BOOKS ARE YOU READING NOW? You had to ask, didn't you? *Goes into the next room and brings back a stack of books, grumbling* I just finished reading Timothy Zahn's Thrawn Trilogy (Star Wars). I currently have bookmarks in Steering the Craft by Ursula LeGuin, Winter's Heart by Robert Jordan, The Elegant Universe by Brian Greene, and The Writer's Journey by Christopher Vogler. Most of those except Steering the Craft and The Writer's Journey are near the beginning. Books that I need to read before they're due back at the library are Do You Speak American? by Robert MacNeil and William Cran, Wizard's Hall by Jane Yolen, Mouse Guard Fall 1152 by David Petersen, The Annotated Alice by Lewis Carroll with notes by Martin Gardner, Characters & Viewpoint by Orson Scott Card, A Reader's Guide to Fantasy by a bunch of people, and Improving Your Storytelling by Doug Lipman. Happy?

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? Gasp! It's a desk! Oh wait, I have no mousepad.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT? Teehvee? What is this Teehvee you speak of? I watch DVDs, thank you, and none last night; although, I did check out Bringing Up Baby from the library, figuring that it's about time I sit down and see the whole thing instead of bits I've caught at random moments.

42. FAVORITE SOUNDS? Rain, thunder, water in general, Maren's laughter, Enya, and right now Pink Floyd

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? Beatles, as I can't name a single Rolling Stones song off the top of my head.

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME? Canada; as I was very young at the time, we'll say that doesn't count and go with Montana instead.

45. DO YOU HAVE SPECIAL TALENTS? Cognitive dissonance

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN? Colorado, in a suburb of Denver

47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK? I really doubt that I'll get anyone to answer this. What's that you say, dodging the question? Fine. I enjoy looking into Maren's head, and I miss communication with Emmett especially when someone involved in the conversation starts saying profound stuff, but I think right now I would be most happy if Berit saw this and posted her own.

~Paul

Computer=Evil

My harddrive is pitifully small. Once upon a time, I wouldn't have thought of 40 gigs as pitifully small. After living with it for so long, and dividing those 40 gigs across three partitions, and letting said partitions become horribly disorganized, I now know better. I bought an 80 gig harddrive last week with money that could've been spent more wisely. Still not a huge drive, but adequate for my purposes, especially as I'm simply adding the new harddrive in next to the old harddrive--a convenient 120 gigabytes when all is said and done.

I am convinced that Murphy coined his law while upgrading his computer.

After spending a ridiculous amount of time to turn a new partition on my new harddrive into an exact copy of my C boot drive, my computer suddenly refuses to look in its direction at startup. Doesn't matter how many settings we screw with, or if we completely disconnect the old harddrive and then go into the BIOS to convince the computer to look at the new harddrive as the system drive. The computer has designated my old harddrive as the Magic System Boot Drive and
refuses to boot on anything other than its beloved.

So. At this point, it looks like I'll end up sorting through about 35 gigs of data to see what I want to preserve, backing it up somehow, reformating and repartitioning the entire thing into something simpler than the five partitions in the wrong spots that I have now.

I
Hate
Computers

~Paul

Short for My Convenience

I really hesitate to call this a game, at least in the traditional sense, but go play it anyway. It'll only take a few minutes.

~Paul