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A quick note to apologise to anyone waiting for an e-mail from me, or for something of substace to appear in this particular forum. For once it's not a case of deadlines, although they have contributed to the problem. I'm suffering RSI and undergoing treatment for the same, and therefore exploring a variety of options like fancy keyboards and voice recognition software (not "oyster commission software" as the programme originally understood it to be) to see things right.
But it's not all bad, not by a long chalk. When not editing or coming up with ideas or future series, I've been watching Doctor Who DVDs, catching up on Carnivale, and seeing the odd circus act at the Adelaide Fringe. Loving the cooler weather. Reading some great books. Eating chocolate. And so on.
Oh, it's wonderful not to have to write 3 1/2 thousand words a day any more. (Never again ...)
does that mean I'm "eight-eyes" now?
Oct. 13th, 2008 04:57 pmUnder the category of "getting old", I offer progressive lenses, also called progressive addition lenses, progressive power lenses, graduated lenses, varifocal lenses, and no-line bifocals.
Sigh.
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Listening to: Solar Fields - Cocoon Moon
Sigh.
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Listening to: Solar Fields - Cocoon Moon
perhaps it's just me...
Feb. 2nd, 2008 12:34 pmAmanda and I just finished watching season one and two of The West Wing--which we liked, of course, despite being so slow getting around to it. Along the way, I've become aware of an odd thing.
At the end of every night's viewing, I go to bed with the theme to "My Favourite Martian" in my head. That's not a bad thing, although it is becoming a little repetitive. And if Ray Walston or ever had a walk-on, I think my brain would melt.
I have a similar problem with the "Roslin and Adama" theme from BSG, which always leaves me humming "Scarborough Fair."
It's a problem not in the sense that I reckon the composers have stolen anything. Far from it.
I'm just suffering from cognitive dissonance because the sources couldn't be more different. It's like listening to I Killed the Prom Queen and ending up with Kylie Minogue in your head, or finishing a meal of bangers and mash with the taste of strawberries in your mouth. Bear with me until it passes.
At the end of every night's viewing, I go to bed with the theme to "My Favourite Martian" in my head. That's not a bad thing, although it is becoming a little repetitive. And if Ray Walston or ever had a walk-on, I think my brain would melt.
I have a similar problem with the "Roslin and Adama" theme from BSG, which always leaves me humming "Scarborough Fair."
It's a problem not in the sense that I reckon the composers have stolen anything. Far from it.
I'm just suffering from cognitive dissonance because the sources couldn't be more different. It's like listening to I Killed the Prom Queen and ending up with Kylie Minogue in your head, or finishing a meal of bangers and mash with the taste of strawberries in your mouth. Bear with me until it passes.
"I could the degrees as I think."
Dec. 4th, 2006 08:44 amHmm. What the hell does that mean?
I found this sentence in the first draft of "Cenotaxis", a novella that will slip between the first books of the Astropolis series (due out in standalone form late next year from MonkeyBrain).
What it's supposed to say is a complete mystery to me. Context doesn't help at all. It's like something reached into my head, scrambled up my neurons just long enough for me to write these words--words that look perfectly correct on their own but together, in that order, make no sense at all--then retreated so subtly I never noticed what happened.
I deleted the sentence rather than try to work out what it meant, then I reconsidered and kept it out of curiosity. Now it's here. Perhaps someone can tell me what I was trying to say.
Personally, I'm hoping it's a coded message from the collective unconscious designed to join with other such coded "errors" in order to reveal some deeply profound truth about the universe (cf. the "garbage" text in modern-day spam). That's much more interesting than the assumption that I'm just wearing out.
I found this sentence in the first draft of "Cenotaxis", a novella that will slip between the first books of the Astropolis series (due out in standalone form late next year from MonkeyBrain).
What it's supposed to say is a complete mystery to me. Context doesn't help at all. It's like something reached into my head, scrambled up my neurons just long enough for me to write these words--words that look perfectly correct on their own but together, in that order, make no sense at all--then retreated so subtly I never noticed what happened.
I deleted the sentence rather than try to work out what it meant, then I reconsidered and kept it out of curiosity. Now it's here. Perhaps someone can tell me what I was trying to say.
Personally, I'm hoping it's a coded message from the collective unconscious designed to join with other such coded "errors" in order to reveal some deeply profound truth about the universe (cf. the "garbage" text in modern-day spam). That's much more interesting than the assumption that I'm just wearing out.
falling on my assonance
Sep. 24th, 2006 10:26 amAs my brain gets older, my neural nets continue to evolve in unpredictable ways. (I'm sure I'm not alone on that score.) Sometimes I find myself performing writerly tasks on autopilot that would once have required my full, conscious attention and, naturally, I like it when that happens. Just as often, however, I find myself making mistakes I've never made before. I'm reminded in those instances that what one learns has nothing to do with its value (just as evolutionary change proceeds in any direction, not just "upwards"). We learn mistakes as often as we learn new skills, prompted by the continuous acquisition of data, age-related attrition of neurons, or good old bad habits.
One of my strange, new mistakes is the rhyming typo, which occurs with increasing frequency the more I write. They're difficult to spot, since spellcheckers don't flag them; they are not, strictly speaking, spelling mistakes. They are the wrong word for the job, chosen instead of the right word by virtue of the fact that they rhyme. I'm not talking about the usual English craziness: "they're" for "their" or "there" etc. These are malaprops I never had to unlearn in primary school because I simply wasn't making them then.
My internal rhymer seems at times to have a bit of an accent, perhaps from somewhere near New Zealand. It writes "since" instead of "sense", "side" for "said", and "want" where "won't" should have been. I appreciate the more baroque substitutions for their cleverness, such as when "splendour" replaced "splinter" and "adventures" became "inventions", clearly not the same word but not a bad fit either (almost qualifying as an eggcorn). I've started jotting them down, as a reminder of the plastic weirdness of my brain, but I fear that I'm rewarding my errant mental module for making such mistakes. Is this any different from running immediately to a child when it squawks? Aren't I just asking for such behaviour to recur by consciously reinforcing the crossed wiring?
I don't know. And frankly, I don't mind that much. Copyediting exists precisely to pick up and correct this sort of mistake--and as long as I keep making new ones I'll know that my brain is working on more than just the superficial level. For every unconscious dysfunction their could be a dozen other, productively creative processes churning away in the background of my brain, preparing to surprise me with who knows what dazzling conjunction?
And even mistakes can lead in interesting new directions. Just look at Alexander Fleming's life for proof of that. Fingers crossed, anyway.
One of my strange, new mistakes is the rhyming typo, which occurs with increasing frequency the more I write. They're difficult to spot, since spellcheckers don't flag them; they are not, strictly speaking, spelling mistakes. They are the wrong word for the job, chosen instead of the right word by virtue of the fact that they rhyme. I'm not talking about the usual English craziness: "they're" for "their" or "there" etc. These are malaprops I never had to unlearn in primary school because I simply wasn't making them then.
My internal rhymer seems at times to have a bit of an accent, perhaps from somewhere near New Zealand. It writes "since" instead of "sense", "side" for "said", and "want" where "won't" should have been. I appreciate the more baroque substitutions for their cleverness, such as when "splendour" replaced "splinter" and "adventures" became "inventions", clearly not the same word but not a bad fit either (almost qualifying as an eggcorn). I've started jotting them down, as a reminder of the plastic weirdness of my brain, but I fear that I'm rewarding my errant mental module for making such mistakes. Is this any different from running immediately to a child when it squawks? Aren't I just asking for such behaviour to recur by consciously reinforcing the crossed wiring?
I don't know. And frankly, I don't mind that much. Copyediting exists precisely to pick up and correct this sort of mistake--and as long as I keep making new ones I'll know that my brain is working on more than just the superficial level. For every unconscious dysfunction their could be a dozen other, productively creative processes churning away in the background of my brain, preparing to surprise me with who knows what dazzling conjunction?
And even mistakes can lead in interesting new directions. Just look at Alexander Fleming's life for proof of that. Fingers crossed, anyway.
