Turning the deep sod under.
Technically, this is a day off. Though I might argue that by allowing myself to make a journal entry, which will inevitably concern work, I'm marring the offness. So, let's call this a 98% day off. Yesterday, I looked at my day-planner and realised I'd not had a genuine day without writing or the busyness of writing in at least two weeks, and most likely a few days more than that. So, today I intend to make this entry, have a hot bath, play Final Fantasy XII, and see The Fountain. Not necessarily in that order.
I wrote 1,667 words yesterday. Which makes it quite a decent writing day. I didn't finish up until just before 8:30 p.m. (CaST).
There were some good comments to that portion of yesterday's entry which was concerned with the horror show that living the life of a working writer can be. I was particularly taken with the following, in which James A. Owen (coppervale) wrote:
Regarding this, and the comment below about not expecting to find any special insights about making it work (while reading your journal):
That underscores the misunderstanding a lot of people have about what we do. There seems to be an implied social contract for writers to explain how we do what we do, or impart the secret, or whatever, that no one expects of say, Mechanical Engineers. With them, the answer would be "lots of education and a desire to do the work - or you'll never survive'. But that answer (which could also be ours) works for THEM, because people can't really dabble in Mechanical Engineering. A Mechanical Engineer does whatever they do without being expected to casually pass on the way to become a Mechanical Engineer. It's not our job to help someone become a writer, or make them feel better about the prospects of being a writer. Our job is just to write. And when a new writer realizes that THAT'S their job, too, then they won't have to have the decision justified by whatever you, or, I, or Neil, or Poppy might say. Because they won't need it.
I doubt I could say this better, and so I will not now try.
Now, from the Why-Do-I-Keep-Doing-This-To-Myself Dept., last night Spooky and I watched what is quite possibly the worst theatrically-released film of 2005 (at least, of those I've seen), Uwe Boll's craptacular BloodRayne. I have long since learned to come to a movie based upon a videogame with the lowest expectations. In this case, I only hoped that it might be sexy and fun in a dumb sort of way, which is how I would desribe BloodRayne II (I never actually played the first game). I thought I would get at least that much. Wrong. Wrong. And wrong again. If it is possible for a film to fail in every way possible, no exceptions, then that is BloodRayne's sole success. Wooden acting (Michael Madsen was doing it on purpose, I am convinced) and a non-existent script. Some of the worst fight choreography and cinematography I've ever seen. Really, the cinematography of this film is a wonder, managing somehow to produce all the ill effects of a pan-and-scan conversion on widescreen. I stopped even trying to pay attention halfway through. Even the presence of Michelle Rodriguez could not hold my attention. I'm pretty sure the whole thing must have been filmed at some abandoned Dracula theme park in Romania. There could have been something campy and fun here, something along the lines of Stephen Sommers' Van Helsing (2004). But there isn't. Don't waste your time.
Afterwards, I played a couple more hours' worth of Final Fantasy XII before bed, reaching the Ogir-Yensa Sandsea. Read "Shelob's Lair" from The Two Towers. Fell asleep about 3 a.m. listening to The Moon and the Melodies, a 4AD Cocteau Twins side-project.
By the way, is anyone out there reasonably fluent in Sindarin? I need to translate a few things, and I don't yet trust my own abilities. Any assistance would be appreciated. Thanks. Anyway, today there will be neither doughnuts nor platypus. But I must set about the business of not working...
I wrote 1,667 words yesterday. Which makes it quite a decent writing day. I didn't finish up until just before 8:30 p.m. (CaST).
There were some good comments to that portion of yesterday's entry which was concerned with the horror show that living the life of a working writer can be. I was particularly taken with the following, in which James A. Owen (coppervale) wrote:
Regarding this, and the comment below about not expecting to find any special insights about making it work (while reading your journal):
That underscores the misunderstanding a lot of people have about what we do. There seems to be an implied social contract for writers to explain how we do what we do, or impart the secret, or whatever, that no one expects of say, Mechanical Engineers. With them, the answer would be "lots of education and a desire to do the work - or you'll never survive'. But that answer (which could also be ours) works for THEM, because people can't really dabble in Mechanical Engineering. A Mechanical Engineer does whatever they do without being expected to casually pass on the way to become a Mechanical Engineer. It's not our job to help someone become a writer, or make them feel better about the prospects of being a writer. Our job is just to write. And when a new writer realizes that THAT'S their job, too, then they won't have to have the decision justified by whatever you, or, I, or Neil, or Poppy might say. Because they won't need it.
I doubt I could say this better, and so I will not now try.
Now, from the Why-Do-I-Keep-Doing-This-To-Myself Dept., last night Spooky and I watched what is quite possibly the worst theatrically-released film of 2005 (at least, of those I've seen), Uwe Boll's craptacular BloodRayne. I have long since learned to come to a movie based upon a videogame with the lowest expectations. In this case, I only hoped that it might be sexy and fun in a dumb sort of way, which is how I would desribe BloodRayne II (I never actually played the first game). I thought I would get at least that much. Wrong. Wrong. And wrong again. If it is possible for a film to fail in every way possible, no exceptions, then that is BloodRayne's sole success. Wooden acting (Michael Madsen was doing it on purpose, I am convinced) and a non-existent script. Some of the worst fight choreography and cinematography I've ever seen. Really, the cinematography of this film is a wonder, managing somehow to produce all the ill effects of a pan-and-scan conversion on widescreen. I stopped even trying to pay attention halfway through. Even the presence of Michelle Rodriguez could not hold my attention. I'm pretty sure the whole thing must have been filmed at some abandoned Dracula theme park in Romania. There could have been something campy and fun here, something along the lines of Stephen Sommers' Van Helsing (2004). But there isn't. Don't waste your time.
Afterwards, I played a couple more hours' worth of Final Fantasy XII before bed, reaching the Ogir-Yensa Sandsea. Read "Shelob's Lair" from The Two Towers. Fell asleep about 3 a.m. listening to The Moon and the Melodies, a 4AD Cocteau Twins side-project.
By the way, is anyone out there reasonably fluent in Sindarin? I need to translate a few things, and I don't yet trust my own abilities. Any assistance would be appreciated. Thanks. Anyway, today there will be neither doughnuts nor platypus. But I must set about the business of not working...