#also i need you all to know moby dick is like the bible is to moby dick

[pennyserenade]

i'm being forced to read moby-dick, so i think its only right that i get to come on here and talk about it in relation to the x-files. the first order of business i want to bring up is the curious relationship first shared between the characters ahab and starbuck. after ahab announces to the whole crew that his motivations for this three year whale voyage is so he can find and defeat moby-dick, starbuck is a little perturbed. later, to himself, he muses, "my soul is more than matched; she's overmanned; and by a madman!…but [ahab] drilled deep down, and blasted all my reason out of me! i think i see his impious end; but feel that i must help him to it." starbuck is seemingly possessed by ahab's mission, though he can't entirely understand it and doesn't readily want to dedicate himself and all the ship to it. like dana scully, our life-long starbuck, we see starbuck become enraptured in a quest that is not entirely his own for a purpose he cannot express.

later still, we get an insight into ahab's thoughts on starbuck. melville writes, "starbuck's body and starkbuck's coerced will were ahab's, so long as ahab kept his magnet at starbuck's brain; still he knew that for all this the chief mate, in his soul, abhorred his captain's quest, and could he, would joyfully disintegrate himself from it, or even frustrate it." in episode one, dana scully and fox mulder share this relationship: she is presented to him as someone who could, if she'd like, effectively destroy him and his mission. he understands the importance of psychology and--dare i say it--manipulation the way ahab understands it with starbuck here. in order to continue his mission, ahab and mulder both know they must capture and hold the interest of their starbuck, lest their starbuck turn against them. while their white whales make sense to an ardent few, ahab and mulder know that it is starbuck alone who will make or break them. and starbuck, beyond all reason or doubt, commits.

[plaguedocboi]

Tell us more about Moby Dick!! :D

Ishmael is a fascinating little specimen let me tell you. He has a reputation for being a “boring narrator” but that’s complete bullshit. Right out the gate he’s like “hello this is my (fake) name, I’m poor, I’m depressed, but luckily when I can tell I’m about to kill myself I hop my ass on a boat because the water can cure whatever’s wrong with you, also we are all being controlled by the puppet strings of the divine and free will is an illusion. It is now Page Three.”

The entire first part of the book is his story of meeting, falling in love with, and marrying a hot tattooed Polynesian man in what may be the first recorded case of the “there was only one bed” trope and it only gets wilder from there. This really caught be off guard tbh, I had no idea that there was so much gay stuff in this book.

I honestly cannot even pick my favorite Ishmael moment. Could it be him being adamantly on the wrong side of the “are whales fish or mammals” debate? That he suggests narwhal’s horns would be good for turning the pages of small books? When he hides behind the mast and eats some spermaceti because he just has to know what it tastes like? When he tattooed himself with measurements of a beached whale but rounded all the numbers because he also needed room for the poem he was writing on his arm? The gay sperm squeezing chapter? When he made his drunk listeners fetch him a priest and a Bible so he could swear he was telling the truth? And then lied????

Ishmael’s musings range from beautiful, lyrical prose that makes you stop and reread the section because damn, and chapters about How Rope Works and encyclopedic writing about the whaling industry. There are lofty theological debates and accusations about the reader being a fish. You spend much of this book wildly seasick because Ishmael’s voice is manic, hilarious, and disorienting. Once you’ve finished this story, you, too, will feel like you’ve spent three years aboard a whaling ship.

Although the unhinged tangents are often amusing, many people complain because they probably account for 90% of the book with only the remaining 10% devoted to the plot. Surely if we just got rid of Ishmael’s Nonsense it would be better, correct? No. This is Ishmael’s memoir. He knows how it ends. These plot-delaying anecdotes are purposeful; he does not want to reach the end because it is The End. The death of his friends and his husband. The inevitable, unforgiving blade of fate that slices the lives of of the Pequod’s crew short and leaves him alone and adrift at sea. Enjoy his journey, because it may seem long now but it ends all too soon.

[residentbunburyist]

Moby-Dick or, The Whale by Herman Melville

This is a really difficult book to rate or review. I almost dropped it more than once near the beginning, turned away by its slow pacing, meandering focus, and... well. This is from 1850. I was prepared for racism. I wasn't prepared for Queequeg. Did you uh. Did you know that Ramadan is a queer heathen ritual performed by island cannibals where you put your hand-carved totem that you pray to on your head and then sit unmoving for 24hrs in an act of self-deprivation and humiliation? Did you know that true and not at all bonkers thing? (speaking of bonkers, recent science MAY suggest that a whale is in fact a mammal, BUT Bible says it's a fish. So... Jot that down.) I mean, that said, Ishmael realizes after a single night that the big scary heathen cannibal ISN'T actually a horrible person, and you should all get to know him guys, maybe we're being closed-minded about other cultures, and he's my best friend and also we share a bed and snuggle. (All joking aside, it does have a lot to say that is very much about how racism is useless and all men are basically equal and working class on a whaling vessel, and should be recognized as such, it's just said in a very 1850 kind of way.)

But after about 200 or so pages I kind of finally started to get into it. It's like those video games that people recommend where they're like 'hey you just need to get through the first 70 hours of gameplay and then it's good, that's totally worth it' and you're like 'that sounds insane what are you talking about if it took 70 hours to start having fun that's not a good game that's a sunk cost fallacy'. I started to really enjoy Ishmael's poetic navel-gazing (more like naval-gazing, amirite?), the technical chapters about equipment and how whaling works, and I especially loved whenever Ishmael/Melville got catty. when Melville wants to be catty, he's good at it. There are entire chapters just dunking on every culture's pictorial depictions of whales like 'what is that? Just a big fish?? That dorsal fin is stupid. None of you fuckers have ever seen a whale before, eat my ass. MAKE IT MORE MAJESTIC' And I appreciate that. Quote: "In another plate, the creator made the most predigious blunder of representing the whale with -perpendicular- flukes!" This man is SO passionate about getting drawings of whales right. He constantly has chapters that boil down basically to 'Okay but realtalk do you appreciate how big and cool whales are? Do you?? TRICK QUESTION NO YOU DON'T BECAUSE YOU'VE NEVER SEEN A WHALE YOU POSER. YOU'LL NEVER LOVE THEM LIKE I DO.' And I'm so here for that energy.

Basically what I'm saying is you can say a lot of different things about this book, some good, some bad... but at the end of the day it DID get me to start looking up whale facts to the point where my wife is sick of hearing about cool things about whales, and really I think that's all Melville ever truly wanted.

wow that one got away from me. Uhhhh tl;dr whales are fucking cool, and maybe the real moby dick was the friends we made along the way. (who then all die horribly)

[shembl]

Moby Dick FNP Chapter 22 - Merry Christmas!

Posting this here our of order compared to the other stuff for a couple of reasons. The first reason is it’s Christmas, so merry that, for all who celebrate or observe, and the second reason is that Whale Weekly has absolutely blasted past our pace and I think we should probably stick with the zeitgeist a bit I think.

We’ll still be pasting chapter by chapter, but here’s a little christmas treat; the sight of me desperately clinging to the discourse in an attempt to piggyback off Whale Weekly’s popularity.

We have more chapters in the bank which I’ll get around to posting soon, but in the meantime, Merry Christmas and please enjoy this slightly reworded, list-bulleted version of Chapter 22 of Moby Dick, now for Normal People

🐳 🐳 🐳 🐳 🐳 🐳 🐳 🐳 🐳 🐳 🐳 🐳

Chapter 22: Merry Christmas

There were a few last things to be done on the ship before we got going, mostly this was Charity, that nice lady from earlier, she was dropping off various gifts and nice things for the crew, including a nightcap (the hat type, not a drink) for this guy called Stubbs who was the second mate and also her brother in law, and also a spare bible for the steward, who’s name and familial links I am hazy on.

Then, Peleg and Bildad came out and stood all official-like.

Peleg turned to the chief mate and said “Now, Mr. Starbuck, are you sure everything is right? Captain Ahab is all ready—just spoke to him—nothing more to be got from shore, eh? Well, call all hands, then. Muster ’em aft here—blast ’em!”

“No need of profane words, however great the hurry, Peleg,” said Bildad, “but away with thee, friend Starbuck, and do our bidding.” I don’t know why, but Bildad always seemed to phrase things in the most ominous way possible.

Talking like a pair of big important order-givers weren’t they? At least for people who weren’t actually going out to sea with us! Don’t get me wrong, they probably know their stuff, but really shouldn’t Ahab have been the one up here shouting at everyone? Then I thought about it and remembered that his leg was bad, and that even if that wasn’t case, some captains just like to get drunk in their cabin, I’ve seen plenty of that in my time on boats, so really it was all okay. I relaxed a little. Not for long though, because just then Peleg started yelling at everyone.

“Aft here, ye sons of bachelors,” he cried, as the sailors lingered at the main-mast. Everyone over there started running around, wild-eyed.

“Strike the tent there!”—was the next order. I’d thought it was odd that there was a tent on deck to start with, so I suppose that taking it down was like a ritualistic re-boatening of the vessel, because tents don’t go to sea.

“Man the capstan! Blood and thunder!—jump!”—was the next command, and the crew did all these things.

The ship was getting under way, and anyone who knows ships knows that under way means it’s time for singing. Now, Bildad was never much of a party man in my experience, and he showed that at this time by singing some sort of boring religious song and tutting at the sailors who were en-masse, raucously roaring the hit shanty of the time “The Girls of Booble Alley.” 

I found myself somewhat comforted by this bizarre scene, there was us on a ship made of bones, with heads full of dark prophecy and a crew singing rude songs, but somehow this pious little paragon of virtue called Bildad, maybe we weren’t all totally damned, if someone like that could put up with us, could have a stake in all this, then surely God wouldn’t fuck us all up, would he?

By now I had stopped moving the capstan and told Queequeg to do the same, I can’t really think and do manual labour at the same time and I had quite some pondering to do.

My leg almost exploded with some outside blunt force trauma slamming into them. I looked around and saw Peleg’s own leg dragging back across the deck towards him. He was swearing at everyone and especially at me. That was my first kick of the voyage.

“Is that the way they heave in the marchant service?” he roared. “Spring, thou sheep-head; spring, and break thy backbone! Why don’t ye spring, I say, all of ye—spring! Quohog! spring, thou chap with the red whiskers; spring there, Scotch-cap; spring, thou green pants. Spring, I say, all of ye, and spring your eyes out!” And so saying, he moved along the windlass, here and there using his leg very freely, meanwhile.

“Captain Peleg must have been drinking something to-day. Methinks!” I quipped hilariously as my leg went completely numb.

Finally the anchor was up, so were the sails, and the ship was moving. It was almost enough to make you forget that today was Christmas, nobody had gotten me a present, but instead of a little to open, the world itself lay open before me, truly the greatest present of all. And in that world there were whales waiting for me to hack up!

It wasn’t exactly a white christmas, no snow or anything like that, but it was bloody cold and bloody wet and you know what that means, weather fans, that means it was icy!

Massive icicles were forming on all the ropes and bones about the place, hanging down like big cold daggers ready to take your eyes if you look the wrong way, for a seasoned sailor like me, it was just business as usual. Business on Christmas Day.

The winds howled and the sea splashed at us but all the time, right on the front of the ship, steering us through was weird old Bildad, singing a merry, optimistic and religious tune, cutting right through all the weather-related atmos.

“Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood,

         Stand dressed in living green.

      So to the Jews old Canaan stood,

         While Jordan rolled between.”

I wasn’t fully sure what he was actually talking about, but that’s art for you isn’t it, it’s not about the content, it’s about how it you feel, and I was taking some time out from all that backbreaking labour to have a stand around and a feel. Losing myself to the music I felt optimistic, I felt like it wouldn’t be long before I was off running and rolling around in verdant fields with a happy sky and loads of lovely food within easy reach, I let myself go there in my mind, away from this damp and cold body that imprisons it, away from the ship made of bones and the guy who kept yelling at me and kicking me. For just a moment I was free. I was optimistic.

Eventually it was time for Bildad and Peleg to leave. They’d gotten us out of the port, so it was time for them to head back to land. Their little sailboat pulled up and they got ready to go. Peleg seemed alright but there was something odd about old Bildad. He clearly didn’t want to leave, it wasn’t just a boat, here is a list of things it also was to him;

-A ship set for a very long and perilous voyage

-A ship with thousands of his dollars invested in it

-A ship with an old (almost as old as he) buddy in it (the captain) who was set to revisit all the all the terrors of the pitiless jaw

-A ship with everything important in his life contained in it

To express this anguish, poor old Bildad lingered long and;

 -Paced the deck with anxious strides

- Ran down into the cabin to say goodbye a few more times

- Came back on deck and looked windward, at the wide and endless waters

- He looked towards land

- He looked aloft

- He looked left

- He looked right

- He looked everywhere

- He looked nowhere

- He wrapped a rope around its pin

- He wrapped his own hand around Peleg’s

- He held up a lantern so that his face could be seen, and he wasn’t crying.

- He and Peleg stared at each other for a bit

- He said “Nevertheless old friend Peleg, I can stand it. yes. I can.”

Peleg took it all a little bit more sensibly, like a philosopher, a philosopher who isn’t afraid to cry.

And with that, Peleg offered a few words of support to his old pal “Captain Bildad—come, old shipmate, we must go.” he whispered before going full yelling-mode at the rest of the ship; “Back the main-yard there! Boat ahoy! Stand by to come close alongside, now! Careful, careful!—come, Bildad, boy—say your last. Luck to ye, Starbuck—luck to ye, Mr. Stubb—luck to ye, Mr. Flask—good-bye and good luck to ye all—and this day three years I’ll have a hot supper smoking for ye in old Nantucket. Hurrah and away!”

“God bless ye, and have ye in His holy keeping, men,” murmured old Bildad, almost incoherently. “I hope ye’ll have fine weather now, so that Captain Ahab may soon be moving among ye—a pleasant sun is all he needs, and ye’ll have plenty of them in the tropic voyage ye go. Be careful in the hunt, ye mates. Don’t stave the boats needlessly, ye harpooneers; good white cedar plank is raised full three per cent. within the year. Don’t forget your prayers, either. Mr. Starbuck, mind that cooper don’t waste the spare staves. Oh! the sail-needles are in the green locker! Don’t whale it too much a’ Lord’s days, men; but don’t miss a fair chance either, that’s rejecting Heaven’s good gifts. Have an eye to the molasses tierce, Mr. Stubb; it was a little leaky, I thought. If ye touch at the islands, Mr. Flask, beware of fornication. Good-bye, good-bye! Don’t keep that cheese too long down in the hold, Mr. Starbuck; it’ll spoil. Be careful with the butter—twenty cents the pound it was, and mind ye, if—”

“Come, come, Captain Bildad; stop palavering,—away!” and with that, Peleg hurried him over the side, and both dropped into the boat.

Ship and boat diverged; the cold, damp night breeze blew between; a screaming gull flew overhead; the two hulls wildly rolled; we gave three heavy-hearted cheers, and blindly plunged like fate into the lone Atlantic.

[unsoundedcomic]

I don't know about obsession, but if i may ask...

Do you like Moby Dick because it may be based in a true story or because it's written so well??

It's certainly inspired by the true story of the Essex, which was rammed by a sperm whale. Back in the old days it was considered kind of unseemly to write pure fiction. Novels needed to be a travelogue or a biography or a historical account or a religious morality tale - at least on the surface. Pure fiction was too much like a lie, and could get you a dark reputation.

So yes, most of Melville's books were "based" on real events, either others' accounts or stories from his own colourful youth and later travels. But once you read them, you see the narrative is just an excuse for explorations of social or philosophical themes and ideas. Though his first two books were more straightforward travelogues, he couldn't afterwards write anything straightforward to save his life. His readers at the time felt betrayed by this - they'd liked his funny, scary adventures in the South Seas! - but they didn't understand the rest and stopped buying his books. Melville eventually gave up his writing career, got a day job, and died in obscurity.

I mention all this because Herman Melville the man is a big reason why I like Herman Melville's writing. His life was fascinating, sad, and we know a lot about it. It's brilliant stuff to study. His writing, too, is fascinating and sad. I'll just stick to Moby-Dick here but I love all his work.

Moby-Dick was the first novel I ever read that felt like the author was speaking directly to me. I was in high school when I first came across it - I was going through a pirate phase and it was on my list - and it stopped me dead in my tracks. It's not just a novel; it's an anachronistic multimedia experiment. It mixes prose and script and poetry and quotes and dictionary entries with elegant language and salty sailor speak. It's eloquent and disgusting, elevated and deeply down in the dirt and foam. It is an explosion of contrast, a constant seesaw back and forth between the narrative reality of a captain obsessively hunting a whale, and a common sailor named Ishmael reflecting on what that hunt means, what whales mean, what the colour white means, what the sky means, what the universe means. In his ruminations, nothing is dismissed. He wasn't dusty Hawthorne obsessing over the Bible; instead he was a sailor with a wide but naive breadth of knowledge of "Eastern religions," Asian history, "South Seas cannibals," so you never know what he's going to bring up. His was the kind of eclectic thinking that you didn't often see expressed with such eloquence in the 1850s.

So yeah, I like it a lot because it's written really well :)

But also, it's very raw, and you feel the sloppy earnestness of Melville on every page. He's trying so hard to communicate with you and - knowing that so many of his contemporaries didn't understand him - it makes you feel kind of special and connected with him when you do understand what he's saying, and you agree. It's a novel that benefits in a very unique way from NOT murdering the author; from understanding who the author was, what he went through, how exuberant he was for so long and then how much the exigencies of publishing and finances beat him down.

We people who love Moby-Dick tend to really love Moby-Dick. I'm certain Melville himself is a big reason for this. We connect with his struggles. We celebrate the immortality of all artists by raising up his work and reaching back through the centuries to take his tarry hand.

[dearhummingbird]

too easily influenced! I’ve been doing alot of reading and now I want to buy a bajillion books — my Bookshop cart was at $400+! — I feel guilty only because I’ve got so many on my shelves that I’ve not touched! ughh. I don’t know to amend my bookbuying habits other than by staving myself off from bookbuying completely, which is what I’ve done the past year or so. I know I’d feel a lot better if I donated what I didn’t want to thrift stores I just haven’t prioritised it but now it feels real, it feels serious. also it feels like I’m in that place again where I only read books to learn or gain something, or to find a certain kind of answer that will comfort me; nothing necessarily wrong but, I’m older now, you know? I want things to be different, expansive, more so than before. I probably don’t make sense to you and sound pedantic but I understand what I’m talking what. anyway not trying to be dramatic and never want to create or recreate a space of shame when it comes to books anymore, so here’s a list of things I’d love to buy:

Miriam Toews’ Women Talking

Robert Alter’s The Art of Biblical Narrative

Shahida Bari’s Dressed: A Philosophy of Clothes

James Wood’s How Fiction Works

Paisley Rekdal’s Appropriate: A Provocation

Herman Melville’s Moby Dick

these are kinda up there; Miriam Toew’s because she seems funny and manages humour without detracting from the weight of what she’s talking about, i also love the premise of her books; Alter because of Jennifer from Insert Literary Pun Here, she mentions how Alter consolidates what everyone assumes to be narrative contradictions in the Bible to be instead narrative strategies, and that’s something I’m really really interested in because every time there’s a contradiction of some sort I, small-mindedly, doubt the writer and their capabilities, instead of giving them some kind of chance or thinking hey maybe this was an intellectual choice. I’ve realised this and that makes me wonder why I’m such a skeptic reader, why am I this distrustful? so easily put off, so quick to judge.. anyway I think the Bibles very interesting too so I really want it; I want Dressed because I’m starting to sew and I just want to read about fashion through a literary lens, and this looks like it; I want to read Wood because I don’t want to immediately invest in Serious Noticing; I want Appropriate because of @dorothea-rising who has very clearly had a lot of influence on this list! Moby Dick too and because I want to read Gilead, not that I need the former to read the latter but I kind of want to. 

if you really really want my full list I’m going to put it here(also because I want to!!) 

George Saunder’s A Swim in A Pond in the Rain

Craft in the Real World by Matthew Salesses

Luster by Raven Leilani(people either loved this or thought it was meh so I wanna see how I feel about it!)

Savage Conversations by Leanne Howe(because of Claire Reads! <3)

A Brightness Long Ago by Guy Gavriel Kay

Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style by W. David Marx

Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters(because of that interview about something like how straight people are increasingly seeing the world through a trans lens)

Changing My Mind by Zadie Smith

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer(duh!)

Lynn Nottage’s Intimate Apparel

All of It Singing by Linda Gregg

The Great Fires by Jack Gilbert 

Lauren Berlant’s Cruel Optimism

Infinitely Full of Hope: Fatherhood and the Future in an Age of Crisis and Disaster by Tom Whyman

Advice for Future Corpses (and Those Who Love Them): A Practical Perspective on Death and Dying by Sallie Tisdale

The Alleluia Files by Sharon Shinn(which I think is out of print which makes me very! upset! I put off buying this one for so long and now I got hunt it down and it’s my fault)

Sleeveless: Fashion, Image, Media, New York 2011-2019 by Natasha Stagg

The Art of Repair by Molly Martin

Notes From An Apocalypse by Mark O’Connell(because of Rosianna Halse Rojas + Parul Sehgal!!)

as you can see I’m kinda lusting for criticism + fashion, and btw I won Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous in a book giveaway(that came with a shampoo that’s locally and sustainably made! <3) which I don’t regret choosing because I’ve wanted it for months but Detransition, Baby was another option of three that I could’ve gotten! see, every book I have is influenced by one person or another and I always question whether I have any kind of readerly instinct because I always just read based on people’s recommendations.. it’s perfectly harmless but idk! Do you do the same?

currently from the library I’ve got The Essex Serpent, Uprooted, Rules for Visiting, The Gatekeeper by Nuraliah Norasid, When A Scot Ties the Knot by Tessa Dare, Love Medicine, Homeland by Barbara Kingsolver + A Cheater’s Guide to Love. 

[365days365movies]

February 21, 2021: The African Queen (1951) (Part 1)

The leading man!

It’s an old term from old Hollywood, and while leading men certainly exist today, it’s not something we really use anymore. And yet, we all have some concept of the leading man. First modern one that came to mind for me was Chris Evans. For the GF, it was this guy:

And that’s valid! But if we’re gonna talk about Hollywood’s leading men, we have to go BACK. FAR back, to the beginning of film, and to some of the most iconic film stars that helped define the term. These are guys like Errol Flynn, Jimmy Stewart, John Wayne, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Marlon Brando, James Dean, Rock Hudson, yesterday’s Cary Grant, and of course, Clark Gable.

And some of those guys will appear on this blog at some point this year, most likely. One of them is gonna pop up this month, even! But there’s one more leading man to talk about, and that’s Humphrey Bogart, one of the most prominent of the leading men of the 1940s and ‘50′s.

I mean, come on! Casablanca! He’s a classic leading man, and I’m excited to see more of him. But every leading man needs his leading lady, and there are plenty of classic ones to choose from. Lauren Bacall, Jean Arthur, Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Natalie Wood, Mae West, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Olivia de Havilland, Greta Garbo, Lena Horne, Sophia Loren, yesterday’s Deborah Kerr, my mom’s favorites Doris Day and Audrey Hepburn, and OF COURSE, today’s star: Katharine Hepburn.

The Philadelphia Story, Bringing Up Baby, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner! Another classic leading lady in another set of classic films. And, OF COURSE, these two starred together in today’s movie, The African Queen. And who’s the director of this film? MOTHAFUCKIN’ JOHN HUSTON BOIIIIIIIIIIII

Director of The Maltese Falcon, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, The Asphalt Jungle, Moby Dick, The Misfits, the original Casino Royale, and weirdly enough, Annie. AND he was an actor in The Bible, Chinatown, The Hobbit, The Black Cauldron, and weirdly enough, Annie! Goddamn, this movie’s got a lot of talent behind it! I’m genuinely looking forward to watching this, considering that it’s often considered one of the best films of the 1950s. So let’s do it, yeah? SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap (1/2)

We begin in German West Africa, where...yeah, it’s a little uncomfortable from modern day standards, as a group of indigenous people are in a service at a constructed Methodist Church, where two missionaries, Rose Sayer (Katharine Hepburn) and her brother, Reverend Samuel (Katharine Hepburn), are pretty unsuccessfully leading the singing of hymns.

As they do so, a boat called the African Queen pulls up, captained by Charlie Allnut (Humphrey Bogart). When he pulls up, he delivers needed supplies and mail to the village, which disrupts the ceremony (thank God), and leads to an interaction between Allnut and the Sayers, who invite him to tea.

The Canadian Allnut seems to be pretty relaxed, while the British Rose and Samuel are obviously pretty stuck-up. But this is probably not going to matter soon, as Allnut delivers the news that World War I has begin, leaving the status of the British missionaries in German-occupied West Africa in danger.

And as soon as they realize this, a group of German soldiers comes through the village, and soldiers gather up all of the people from their houses, and...Jesus, they set fire to the place! Why? I mean, it’s war, duh, but WHY? The villagers are taken away for what I’m sure are totally good reasons, as the village of Kungdu burns to the ground. Samuel and Rose are left behind, and Samuel’s clearly a little fucked up by the encounter with the soldiers.

Soon after, Samuel seems ill, forgetting that they’re even in Africa. She helps him to his room, and he falls to the ground, obviously not well. It’s central Africa, so this could be malaria, trypanosomaisis, yellow fever, a BUNCH of shit. But I’m sure he’s gonna be fine. He’ll be fiiiiiiiiiiiiine.

Oh, wait, he’s dead. We find that out when Charlie arrives to deliver more bad news: people are being taken from their homes to forcibly join the army, and the villages are destroyed in order to give them no place to go back to. Which is...disgusting, fuck me. 

They bury Samuel, and Charlie takes Rose onto The African Queen so that they can get away from the village before the soldiers return. This is backed by...very light-hearted music. Very poorly-timed sprightly music. I dunno, it really just doesn’t match the done, given that Sam just died, and they’re trying to escape.

We learn what some of the issues are for our two. The British won’t easily be coming because of the various German fortifications, including a large ship called the Königin Luise on a nearby lake. Said boat has a massive gun on it, posing major damage to any enemies. 

But Rose has an idea: using explosive gel and some pipes and cylinders, she has an idea to use The African Queen itself as a torpedo to plow up the Luise. Charlie points out that the only where there is down the dangerous Ulanga River, and past a German fort. And Rose guilts him for not wanting to help his Queen and country. And, with that, he agrees.

From there, it’s time for a boat trip! Like a road trip, but with a boat! Katherine learns to steer, and Charlie notes that he hasn’t fixed the safety mechanism on the engine because he likes kicking it. Y’know, psychologists say that catharsis doesn’t work like that, Charlie.

It would seem that Charlie knows this, and settles instead for a drink. And as he brings out his bottle of gin, Rose looks ABSOLUTELY HORRIFIED. Like he brought out a dead body instead of a bottle of alcohol; it’s even backed by this bombastic DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUN in the score! It’s weirdly hilarious.

The two take separate baths in the river, which has gotta be FULL of a bunch of stuff, but whatever. They tuck in for the night as it rains, and Charlie’s stuck outside while Rose gets the tent. Which is...supremely unfair, and ASKING for Charlie to get malaria or other diseases. Thankfully, Rose realizes this and allows him inside.

The next day, they come upon the rapids, which look dangerous...but also kind of fun, it that weird to say? I dunno, I’d go rafting down those. On a related note, I’ve never been whitewater rafting. Maybe one day, huh? Well, despite the ride and again, WEIRDLY sprightly music, they survive...and more. See, Rose LOVED it. Like, really LOVED it. She compares it to a bonafide religious experience, and says that she’s never experienced such joy from a...physical experience.

So, either she’s an adrenaline junkie, or that was some, uh...foreshadowing. Charlie’s a little less excited by this, and notes that the upcoming rapids are far worse. And Rose is just...SO FUCKING PUMPED for this. Shit, I think something’s awoken in her. Get this lady to a theme park, STAT!

But again, Charlie is NOT happy about this, and gets kinda drunk later in the day. While drunk, he insults her plan, and goes back on his agreement to go on. She calls him a coward, and she calls him a “crazy, psalm-singin’, skinny old maid.” Um, Charlie, maybe not the best idea to do that to a woman who’s just learned to joys of adrenaline and tsting her limits. She might retaliate by, I dunno...throwing all of your gin over the side of the river while you’re asleep.

Yeah, like that. Exactly like that. Some drunk fish in the river today, lemme tell you.

Anyway, despite this, Rose is pissed off, as Charlie still won’t go down the river. As he insists that all that’s down the river is death, she still insists that he promised to go. He finally agrees, despite thinking that they’re doomed to be food for the crocodiles. And so, they go.

They pass the fort, the Shona, and the Germans do indeed fire at them as they go down. And I mean the ENTIRE time they pass. They hit the engine, and Charlie has to fix it right amidst all of this. They also hit the boxes of blasting gel, but they don’t go off. And, as Rose rightly suggested earlier, the sun gets in the soldiers’ eyes as they try to fire on them. And they pass without a hitch! Except for oooooooooone tiny detail.

HALFWAY POINT! See you in Part 2!

[llawlietofficial]

callout post for tumblr user halfpromise

I’m sure you all knew this moment would come. I’m also sure these are things you’ve all been thinking sometimes too. but I can’t keep the truth in any longer. the people need to know. we all need to share and feel together. I’ve known her for a long time and I still feel like it’s my obligation to be up front about all this.

here it goes:

Wrote those who stand for nothing fall for anything

I could stop there that’s enough for me to die for. but I won’t. you can bet I’ll keep going.

Literally invented the English language

also answers long detailed asks about those because she knows the characters she wrote and the world so well and also takes time to give the people who love her work answers

isn’t offended by the fact that somehow tumblr keeps making me unfollow her (unless she’s secretly soft blocking me but she would never)

offered to send me chocolate covered digestives because I missed them after being in England for so long

when we first met I was terrified to send her a message because I thought she was too cool for me and then I freaked out when she responded but it turns out she was freaking out that I messaged her because she also thought I was cool. then we talked about moby dick for some reason. I still think that’s funny.

such a great dog mom

so aesthetically pleasing and works in a bookstore which really makes sense

just so fucking pleasant wow. and she’s always so grateful to anyone who likes her work.

also didn’t stop at 10 chapters like she’d planned but kept writing until it was longer than the Bible because that’s what we deserved

also wrote things other than those that got me through my yotsuba lawlight phase

OH ALSO DOES ART TOO BECAUSE OF COURSE SHE DOES

anyway everything about her is “what the fuck” so feel free to send @halfpromise a message even though she probably won’t see this until next month when she finally comes online again 😂

[minatsuki-on-main]

BTB background info masterpost

BTB’s lore is hard to keep in mind so here’s a comprehensive list under the cut. Obviously, this contains every possible spoiler. This is a description of parties at play, concepts and past events (I’m not summarizing the anime’s plot in its entirety) so it’s by no means exhaustive. I’ll make more posts later with details on the characters themselves. There’s a lot more even than what I wrote here, so if you have a question about anything (even plot-related), send me an ask and there’s a chance I’ll know. 

Contents:

Setting

RIS

Killer B

Jaula Blanca

Story of the Attack on Jaula Blanca

Restored Gods

Reggies

Market Maker

The Jetblack Epitaph Prophecy

Scientific Details

Erika Flick’s Death and the Dead Kyle Saga

Setting

The anime is set in a monarchy (more precisely a government led by a king) called Cremona

It’s an archipelago made up of several islands:

Most of the plot seems to happen on one of the bigger island complex on the right, but smaller ones are visited by characters in various instances too (for example Morta Island [not noted on the map] and Hols Island)

The anime is set in a timeline that deviates from ours around the 16th century but our culture and history exists in this universe up to that point (the Bible and Germany are mentioned)

The MCs seem to live in the capital city

Police and military are under the king’s supervision, as well as Market Maker

RIS (Royal Investigative Services)

Investigative division of the Royal Police

Various main characters work at the Coastal Branch (a group among RIS), specifically: Lily, Keith, Kaela, Mario, Brandon, Eric, Boris, Jean and others

This group gets assigned the case of Killer B at the beginning of the story

They’re under government supervision like every other entity

Market Maker has priority over them as an organization; they start secretly surveilling RIS and get granted access to their files by the government

The government also threatens to disband RIS (in the second half of the story) as a consequence of Keith’s disappearance after Jean’s death and RIS’s reluctance in investigating him

Killer B

Koku’s secret identity

Serial killer, his victim count is at 15 at the beginning of the anime

Murders by him are connected by him leaving behind a ‘BIIII’ shaped sign in various forms (written or carved onto surfaces, constructed from objects)

His crimes have two purposes:

Eliminating reggies involved in the Jaula Blanca attack out of revenge

Signalling to Yuna that he’s alive through their special sign (the BIIII symbol)

Story of Jaula Blanca Royal Scientific Institute

13 winged skeletons were discovered at the Jetblack Epitaph [a stone tablet with an encoded inscription on Mount Cremona] in the 16th century

They were initially thought to be gods who were humanity’s progenitors

Scientists began a research project to restore them

The king decided to politically exploit the project

Jaula Blanca was a research institute built with the funds to restore the gods but the scientists were corrupt (and presumably opium addicts)

They created the reggies (then called Promised Ones) through inbreeding (later repeated for centuries), deemed them failed byproducts and disposed of them or locked them up

The research was planned to be terminated

One researcher proposed to the king to create an organization (which would later become Market Maker) to earn money and get enough scientists to proceed with the project

The proposal was accepted

Jaula Blanca survived in order to produce reggies who became intelligence agents for the Royal Government and manipulated war and peace for money

Three cellular biologists arrived from Japan (among whom Heath Kazama Flick) and helped the project reach success

Jaula Blanca produced Koku and Yuna, successfully restored gods, then others based on them (see: the Restored Gods paragraph)

An attack against Jaula Blanca was carried out, destroying it and resulting in the deaths of most children there (see: the Story of the Attack on Jaula Blanca paragraph)

CEO at the time was Albert Puzo

Gilbert’s father

First person his son killed

His approach to research ‘softened’ gradually and got closer to Heath’s (which is why Gilbert killed him)

Story of the Attack on Jaula Blanca

Ideated and led by Gilbert Ross with the assistance of Market Maker reggies

The goal was taking Minatsuki away so Gilbert could keep him alive and manipulate him in order to use his brainwashing ability (see: the Reggies paragraph)

Took form in a sudden bombing and assault at nighttime in the time period when Koku was a child (around 10)

Heath Flick told Kirisame to watch over Koku and take him to a secret shelter, different from the one the other children were sent to

Koku was looking for Yuna instead of escaping

Eventually Heath found Koku before Kirisame could and told him to leave and that he’d find Yuna

At the same time Gilbert convinced Minatsuki to cooperate with him (see: the Jetblack Epitaph Prophecy paragraph)

Yuna was hiding in a classroom where Minatsuki (along with Izanami) found her, lied about being Koku’s brother and convinced her to come with him

Minatsuki, Izanami, Heath and Gilbert (followed by reggie soldiers) all met in the same place, where Minatsuki stabbed Heath

Gilbert left and took Minatsuki, Izanami, Yuna and Phantom Minatsuki (who had just been brainwashed by Minatsuki) with himself

Kirisame and Koku arrived at the secret shelter but were attacked by reggies

In order to protect Koku, Kirisame and some of the other restored gods sacrificed their lives

Koku went back to look for Yuna but only found their symbol on the blackboard, meaning that she had already been taken away

He found the mortally wounded Heath who gave him some pages of his notebook containing information about the gods and revealed that he could integrate the other gods’ body parts in his body (see: the Restored Gods paragraph)

Koku went back to his companions’ bodies and attached their body parts to himself

The Restored Gods

Successful experiment products from after Heath Flick’s arrival at Jaula Blanca

Actual reincarnations of the 13 winged skeletons

They were given numbers from 1 to 13

Have special body parts that can be transformed into steel called lohengrin

Koku and Yuna were created first and the others were based on them

Koku was number XIII

Resurrected Black-winged King

The gods’ appointed leader

His original special body part was his eyes (the right one was transplanted into Minatsuki; see: the Reggies paragraph) with memory manipulation and brainwashing abilities

Physically weaker than the others

Yuna was the chosen shrine maiden, number IV (written as IIII in Jaula Blanca)

Izanami was the other shrine maiden, number V

Numbers I, II and III were integrated in Koku’s body after the attack

The other gods beside him were also called Koku’s guardians and had the duty to protect him

When significant events mentioned on the Jetblack Epitaph are about to take place, Koku and Yuna undergo silver nuptial coloration which turns their hair a white-ish colour

Reggies

Short for Regulus Ginedrive Immoral Egersis

Produced by Jaula Blanca

Regarded as failed byproducts of the research to restore the gods by scientists

Reincarnations of a species of ancient demihumans created for fighting (not to be confused with the 13 restored gods)

They become unstable at age 20 with increasing murderous urges and loss of rational thought

Their weakness is blue steel, if it penetrates a part of their body it needs to be cut off and the blue steel has to be extracted (this was written in Heath’s notebook; both Koku and Keith knew about it)

The government uses them as intelligence agents (Market Maker members) and releases them into society as soon as they become uncontrollable

Having them unstable is profitable for the government as they would otherwise become too strong and leak the conspiracy behind the Jaula Blanca funds

Can remain humane for longer with the gold solution (see: the Scientific Details paragraph)

Their mental deterioration can be classified in grades (Keith rates Dead Kyle a grade-C)

The only reggie stabilized through treatment at Jaula Blanca was Minatsuki

Showed no signs of rejecting Koku’s right eye, which was transplanted into him

Could have been a dangerous military force and a basis for a vaccine to stabilize reggies so the government wanted him dead

Kept locked-up and hidden

Memory manipulation and brainwashing abilities like Koku’s

Was manipulated by Gilbert during the attack

Market Maker

Government group of intelligence agents who manipulate war and peace

Made entirely of reggies (see: the Reggies paragraph)

Main villains (Phantom Minatsuki, Laica/Real Minatsuki, Yuna, Izanami, Kamui, Kukuri, Takeru, Quinn, rabbit boy) are part of a special branch responsible for social disorder

Specialize in orchestrated crimes and wars, assassination, sabotage and infiltration

They utilize brainwashing (through Minatsuki’s eye)

Headquarters on the Moby Dick [a huge, white airship built during the war]

Members have a skull tattoo on their hand (which they usually cover up with gloves)

Involved in many gold thefts to acquire materials for the gold solution

Led by the real Minatsuki (who goes by ‘Laica’)

Want to capture Koku (Minatsuki’s personal goal)

Cooperating with Gilbert in covering up his crimes by brainwashing reggies into confessing to them, but not dependent on him

Privileged by the government over other entities

The Jetblack Epitaph Prophecy

Jetblack Epitaph: stone tablet on Mount Cremona with a codified inscription

Contains as much information as the Bible

Meaning changes according to combination and reading direction

Decoded by 12-year-old Keith Flick

Similies and metaphors

Uses ‘black’ as a synonym for ‘perfect’

Cremona’s first king defeated the original Black-winged King at the Jetblack Epitaph

Prevents Koku’s regenerative ability

Transcribed passages:

When Canopus shines bright, to the right is a new First, illegitimate spawns of the gods. Wings of pure madness will bring low the ephemeral people, and the howls of the dead will bring order to their brethren.

To the left, another Fourth. A cycle of evil slaughter. The moon of carnage traces out its eternal ellipse, and the hour the ash-colored dragon beats its wings will come at last. People of the black bones, gather ye together.

The Tale of the Two Shrine Maidens [the only unambiguous passage]: On the night of the 13th full moon the man chosen by the two shrine maidens gained power, companions and wings, and became the black-winged king. Their purpose fulfilled, the two maidens presented to him a blade that burned blue. “Decapitate one of us,” they said. The maiden whose head was cut off turned to ash and merged with the king, granting him still another power. The remaining maiden became his wife and fought at his side at Cremona’s summit, and shared his fate when the end came.

Gilbert convinced Minatsuki (when he was a kid) that if he killed Koku at the Jetblack Epitaph he would become an invincible king, a lie Minatsuki kept believing in as an adult

Scientific Details

Genetic information to revive the 13 gods comes from the Jetblack Epitaph deciphered by Keith

Inscription contains info about the form and abilities of the gods’ bones

At their 20th birthday, the reggies’ testosterone and dopamine levels get skewed (presumably high T and low dopa)

Gold solution:

Adjusts reggies’ hormonal levels

Requires actual gold to be made

Acts as a drug (probably due to being a dopamine agonist)

Withdrawal symptoms: bleeding from the eyes, mouth and nose; memory issues; increased aggressiveness; physical weakness

Can be taken orally or intravenously

Blue steel is some sort of oxidized form of steel and can be created from normal steel through heating

Erika Flick’s Death and the Dead Kyle Saga

Erika Flick

Keith’s adoptive sister

Similar to Lily physically and in character

Fell in love with a man she (in Gilbert’s opinion) shouldn’t have [implied to be Keith but never explicitly stated]

Gilbert was in love with her

Went to university with both of them

Killed by Gilbert

Dead Kyle

Nicknamed ‘Raven-haired Murder Machine’

Serial killer

Reggie

Participated in the Jaula Blanca attack

His adoptive father was a navy man and got him admitted to Ramon Psychiatric Hospital [in the Ramon Ports & Harbor District closed military area; full of reggies, Gilbert operates here too]

The one Erika’s murder was pinned on

8 years before the anime’s timeline Erika’s body was found cut-up and dumped in the mountains

Gilbert murdered her in (what appears to be) a fit of jealousy

Dead Kyle confessed (in a trial that was mostly for show) to being Erika’s killer, confirmed the murder’s location and the weapon, and passed the polygraph because of Minatsuki’s brainwashing at Gilbert’s request

Keith suspected Dead Kyle to be lying from this murder being different than his previous ones

Dead Kyle was hospitalized at Ramon Psychiatric Hospital

Eric and his team were planning to kidnap him to expose more covered-up crimes

Keith abducted him from the hospital and tortured him without authorization so Eric was forced to arrest him (which is why he was sent to the Archives Division for 7 years)

Dead Kyle escaped and was killed by Killer B (Koku) just before committing another crime

Gilbert proposed to stitch Erika’s body back together and leaked that the corpse had cedar and pine pollen on it, in order to reveal the murder’s location to Keith for his later plans

Next post will be about details on RIS members and generally people related to Keith’s side of the story; the one afterwards about restored gods and reggies. I also have a few screencaps to transcribe and theories about background events. Don’t hesitate to ask me about anything that is still unclear or correct me if I made a mistake/typo. This post might undergo updates.

Part two | Part three (soon)

[doctornolonger]

Jumping into Faction Paradox

Faction Paradox has a reputation as one of Doctor Who’s most obscure and high-quality spinoffs. Because of this, everyone’s been asking me: How do I get into Faction Paradox? Here’s my answer. (v3.4)

Faction Paradox and the War in Heaven first appeared in the BBC’s Eighth Doctor novels in the late 1990s. Since the Faction Paradox series is designed to be standalone from anything in Doctor Who, by no means do you need to read these novels, but if you want to know how the series fits into the Doctor’s larger universe, you should probably check out at least a few. Which ones you read depend on how into-it you want to get.

Want to dive straight into Faction Paradox? Read Alien Bodies, then Interference (parts one and two). And that’s it; you have all the background knowledge you need. Just skip straight to the next section. This is the track I usually recommend to Doctor Who fans interested in FP!

Want to take the leisurely route? See the sights? Spend a little more time with the Eighth Doctor and his companions? Your list is Vampire Science, Alien Bodies, The Scarlet Empress, The Infinity Doctors, Unnatural History, Dead Romance, Interference, The Blue Angel, The Taking of Planet 5, and The Shadows of Avalon.

Or just read them all in publication order to get all the character arcs and nuances. The last relevant novel is The Adventuress of Henrietta Street.

Once you’ve finished whatever path you started (or even if you decided to skip it), you’re ready for the Faction Paradox series!

Important note: Because FP has such a strong #aesthetic, the stories tend to use alternatives for a lot of familiar Doctor Who terms. (Maaaybe copyright also has something to do with it.) You’d probably be able to pick up on the connections via context clues, but just for clarity’s sake, here are the most important ones:

Time Lords are collectively called “the Great Houses”. (Individual Time Lords are “members of the Great Houses”.)

Gallifrey is called “the Homeworld”.

TARDISes are called “timeships”.

The Web of Time (and the part of the universe that it covers) is called the “Spiral Politic”.

The High Council of Gallifrey is called the “ruling Houses”.

If there’s anything else that’s throwing you off, look it up in my list of connections!

When it comes to starting Faction Paradox, I highly recommend beginning with The Book of the War. As it’s a sort of Bible for the rest of the series, it explains a lot of concepts that get carried into other stories, and checking back with it from time to time is basically guaranteed to always be rewarding. (Plus, Alien Bodies → Interference → The Book of the War is a really wonderful sequence for Doctor Who fans!) But it’s hard to find physical copies and some people struggle with the format, so feel free to skip it.

All the FP novels are completely standalone, so you can jump in anywhere. Some suggestions:

Do you like your end of the world as an emotionally devastating 1970s horror story, a bewildering occult urban fantasy, or a US Presidential Election gone wrong? If the first, read Dead Romance; if the second, read This Town Will Never Let Us Go; if the last, read Head of State.

Want your far-future human history to look like a culture-shocking techno-Heaven, or a classical scifi capitalism-vs-liberation setup? If the former, read Of the City of the Saved; if the latter, read Weapons Grade Snake Oil.

Would you rather your universe-spanning scifi epic to be Moby Dick with universes instead of whales, or I,Claudius with a war between all timelines where Rome never fell and all timelines where the Nazis won WWII? If the former, read The Brakespeare Voyage; if the latter, read Warlords of Utopia.

Would you prefer your staggeringly weird takes on the Great Houses to be contextualized by 16th century Mexico or 17th century England? If the former, read Against Nature; if the latter, read Newtons Sleep (legally free online!).

Another great way to start is through the audio stories, which are split between BBV’s Faction Paradox Protocols (scripts legally free online!) and Magic Bullet’s True History of Faction Paradox. I know a ton of fans who started with the audios, so this is definitely a great route! Both series are completely stand-alone from the books, although your enjoyment would probably be a little enhanced if you’ve read Alien Bodies and Dead Romance.

The final route I’ll suggest is the short story anthologies: in particular, A Romance in Twelve Parts is pretty great as a starting spot (even if its final story does spoil Of the City of the Saved). The Book of the Enemy has also been described as a “sampling platter” of the series’ Deepest Lore™, so check it out if you want to be tossed into the deep end. (Also I wrote a story for it yay!)

My last tip: At some point, go back and read The Adventuress of Henrietta Street and The Taking of Planet 5. They’re both Eighth Doctor novels, and they’re not at all prerequisites, but they both fit quite well into the FP series: the latter has strong ties to Simon Bucher-Jones’ stories, and the former explicitly shares a setting with the Protocols audios and the short-lived FP comic. Also be sure to read Alien Bodies and Interference, if you didn’t already!

In conclusion ... don’t worry too much about anything I just said. It’s the way that’ll probably give you the best understanding, but as I’ve said a billion times now, the Faction Paradox series is pretty beginner-friendly at almost every point! So feel free to start with either set of audios, or the first book you get your hands on. I started on Warlords of Utopia with zero context, and I did fine – and that was before Faction Paradox was even allowed on the Tardis Wiki!

If along the way you get confused by anything, just hit up r/factionparadox or my ask box and I’d love to help. Welcome to the Faction, and may the spirits guide you!

[the-six-month-novel]

Story Seeds

Odds are you already have a pretty good idea of what your novel is about, but on the off chance you're still floundering, today we're going to look at idea generation and development.

Most people don't sit down at their keyboard with a fully formed novel in mind. They start with a loose idea. A scene. A setting. A rough plot. Maybe just a character. Wherever you're starting from, it's important to have an rough idea of what your story's about before we get started.

Finding a Seed

In order for a story to grow we must first plant a seed, but where does that seed come from? The answer is surprisingly simple: Everywhere.

JK Rowlings conceived Harry Potter while stuck on a train. Khaled Hosseini was struck with inspiration for The Kite Runner while watching television. A dinner debate with friends moved Margaret Atwood to write The Handmaid's Tale. Ideas are everywhere, and as writers our job is to be constantly on the lookout for them. That probably doesn't help you much if you're stuck, so here are some things you can do to help court inspiration.

1. Read, read, and read.

It's amazing how many ideas flow from other works. James Joyce's Ulysses was inspired by Homer's Odyssey. Herman Melville's Moby Dick clearly found inspiration in both The Bible and Shakespeare's MacBeth and King Lear. Aldous Huxley's Brave New World borrows themes and dialogue from The Tempest. Even if you're not looking to borrow themes/ideas, the simple act of reading can inspire you to write.

2. Mind mapping and other brainstorming techniques.

This is easier than it sounds. Mind mapping involves writing down an idea that interests you and the finding subtopics that branch from the original. Other brainstorming techniques work much the same. The point is to get all your ideas onto paper and then figure out which ones work.

3. Delight your senses.

This can mean whatever you want it to mean. Visit an art gallery. See a film. Spend an afternoon meandering through a garden. Attend the symphony. Dine at a favourite restaurant. Sometimes engaging our other senses can help inspire creativity.

4. Have a genre in mind and then fill in a gap.

Maybe you've decided you're writing Romance. Or Science Fiction. Maybe you read exclusively in the genre and know no one's written a sweeping epic where the heroine falls in love with an intelligent, silicon based life form found living beneath the ice on Europa. This works particularly well if you really want to read a sweeping epic where the heroine falls in love with an intelligent, silicon based life form found living beneath the ice on Europa.

5. Use a story idea generator.

You may scoff at this, but you'd be surprised at how easily you can take a generated idea and make it your own.

Whatever you decided to use, be sure to own it. If you're not passionate about your idea you're not going to see it to fruition. Write for yourself first and foremost. Remember, this is a first draft and first drafts are about pleasing ourselves. We'll worry about our audiences later.

Growing the Seed

Now that you have an idea, how do you turn that into a fully fledged novel?

Okay, that's a bit of a trick question, because we're going to spend the month of August doing exactly that, but in the meantime here are some ways you can flesh out your idea while you wait.

1. Keep an idea notebook.

One of the reasons I carry a notebook around with me everywhere is so that I can write down ideas as they come. Say I've figured out I'm going to write that sweeping epic, and the next day I'm waiting for change at the grocery store and I'm struck with the sudden inspiration that my heroine is a translator who specializes in decoding alien languages. Into the notebook it goes. I've now not only further developed my character, but have also come up with a plausible reason for her to have fallen in love with our Europa alien.

2. Start a pinterest board.

I admit, I don't use pinterest (I lack the attention span for it), but I know a lot of writers who do. Maybe instead you just want an image folder (software like Scrivener give you a cork board for pinning images). Maybe you've set up a side tumblr. Maybe you like to print out images and hang them around your workspace. Whatever you choose, collecting images/quotes/art that inspires you can be a great way to flesh out your idea.

3. Make a playlist.

If you're the type who likes to write to music, start thinking about a playlist now. Does your idea feel dark and brooding? Upbeat and funny? Ominous and scary? Whatever tone you're going for, I guarantee you can find music to fit.

4. Read, read, and read.

I know we've mentioned this above, but it begs repeating. Seeing how other authors have structured and grown their ideas is a great way to flesh out your own, but you don't have to stop at fiction. Say your story takes place in Ancient Egypt. This would be great time to start reading up on the era. You can even pick up a few books on writing (we'll do a recommendation post tomorrow). Books like 45 Master Characters not only help with character development, but also include story arcs suited to your character type.

Remember, you don't need a fully plotted novel to start this workshop. But you do need an idea, as well as a rough idea of where you want your story to go.

[notbrianeno]

#290: Mew - Frengers

There’s a chicken-and-egg situation with Scandinavian music (yeah, sorry, get ready for some terrible and terribly broad regional generalisations, if not outright stereotypes), or at least that portion of it that reaches the English-speaking world. Or, well, the primarily- and often-only-English-speaking world. Most Scandinavians speak English very well; the difference being that most countries that speak English as a primary or official language are reluctant to make a significant effort to teach their young any other languages with any consistency or proficiency. Je m’appelle Tom, et j’habite dans Chicago. 

It’s frustrating; I can’t imagine, say, Built To Spill or Tame Impala writing a song as powerful and rich in imagery as Her Voice Is Beyond Her Years in Danish, yet we insist that our breakthrough Scandi-Nordic bands have either perfect English diction, or else blast us with glossolalic gibberish or impenetrable death growls...

I’m drifting; this wasn’t going to be about language, but about atmosphere. Here’s the chicken: Anglophone expectations of Nordic/North-eastern-Atlantic music to be deeply atmospheric, reflecting dark, misty mornings, endless dusk, and either absolute shitloads of trees or an unsettling, utter absence of any foliage larger than a few hardy colonies of moss. Here’s the egg: a lot of that music is, well, a good reflection of absolutely that environment. Of course, it feels like a stretch to lump Sigur Rós, Dimmu Borgir, and Of Monsters And Men into any kind of shared bucket (also vaguely ironic, potentially insensitive to harp on Icelandic music in a piece about a Danish band) BUT the common atmospheric thread prevails. My argument for extreme metal as a member of the ambient family of genres will wait for another time, but don’t deny that it makes sense. Drop the playback volume down a little, and black metal becomes a textural experience rather than a purely visceral one.

There’s a crack in the egg, of course, it is filled with all the pop, angular indie (like, say, Mew’s later work when they started hanging out with J Mascis), jazz, folk, hip hop and other genres that are brewing in those frosty locales just as much as anywhere else because we have the internet, we’re human, we love music, we love a variety of music, and it’s reductive and arrogant to assume a region (of several distinct countries with intertwined but independent histories, cultures, hopes and fears and shames) will produce a single kind of music for global consumption. 

In summary, I wonder how much we assume Scandinavian music to be atmospheric and moody is to do with our expectations, and just how dominant that sound is in the region’s music scenes as a whole. I sometimes need to remind myself to stay on track because I get excited about the opportunity to explore my thoughts about music and drift off onto other tracks; it’s like trying to clean out an attic or a storage locker, you get distracted by something shiny that you loved for many years, many years ago, and you lose hours to the re-examination of the Thing, and the Person that you were when the Thing was in your life, and the Person you are now, and how the Thing relates to this newer version of the Person, and before you know it, the sun is creeping down past the skylight and you’ve only made the mess worse, and you clamber back down the ladder with a lot of complicated thoughts that are in no way conducive to getting shit done, so you spend the rest of the night sitting on a chair from your childhood, turning the Thing over and over in your hands and thinking about what it means, if it means anything, and whether it’s OK for it to mean nothing at all any more.

Frengers is not like that at all; it’s no relic to be revisited but a living part of my cultural psyche. This is an album that I’ve been playing consistently for, Jesus, almost seventeen years. June 2003, me and Paul Harvey (my teenage friend, not the radio guy) took a train to Nottingham to see OK Go. Mew were opening, which was an utterly bizarre pairing, but one I was glad to see. I knew nothing about them, and I have never seen an opener so truly mind-blowing and powerful before or since. Just listen to the damn album. OK Go were also great, but a different kind of thing. They covered Toto’s Hold The Line, which was great. The show was at The Rescue Rooms, where I also saw Death Cab For Cutie that same year. We missed the last train and had to get a bus back to Loughborough that took twice as long. I had a nice night with a good friend who I haven’t  spoken to in too long. I should send Paul a message.

But Mew. I haunted The Left-Legged Pineapple* for weeks until they got in a copy of the Mew album, and it has been a fixture in my ears ever since then, almost exclusively between November and March. It will always be my going-for-a-walk-in-the-first-snow-of-the-season album, which if I’m being honest probably means it’s as close to my favourite album as I could ever settle on. It’s atmospheric, but it’s dynamic, there’s a good variety of tempos to keep it interesting, but not enough to be tiring or feel inconsistent or like more of a collage than a fine oil on canvas. There is loneliness and empathy in the lyrics. There is a Christmas song that feels OK to play before December. And it is bookended by what I believe to be both the best opening and best closing songs of any album, Born To Run included. It’s frankly unfair to every other band that they monopolise both ends of the bookshelf with such classics. I am a person who believes that the album, being a collection of interrelated songs no longer than 74 minutes in total (sorry, I’m a child of the CD age) but ideally as close to exactly 45 minutes as possible (i.e. to fit on one side of a standard audio cassette tape, so you can pair it with another thematically-appropriate album on side 2), is the absolute ideal art form. I will defend it from every angle against your Picassos, your Swan Lakes, your Hamiltons, your Lascaux cave paintings, your Moby Dicks, your Whitman anthologies and all the damn Shakespeare you can cram into a paper brick. A flat lump of plastic with minute grooves carved into a spiral, or a hand-span mirror digitally encoded with microscopic pips, or a magnetically-charged ribbon on a fragile, transparent spool, or nothing with any physical presence at all, a packet of data sent from a server through the air to a slab in your pocket and thence to an artificial vibrating membrane adjacent to the natural vibrating membrane of your inner ear... that’s the good shit, my friends. 

Where was I? oh, right. Mew. Albums. I’ve been lucky enough to see a few of my favourite albums performed in full. Without shame, and in total disrespect of an artists’ recent output, I love the anniversary album tour gimmick. The best format for a live show is the “an evening with...” format. You play an album in full, then you play a greatest hits set from the rest of your catalog. Perfect. A couple of these full album shows stand out to me. Okkervil River on the 10th anniversary of Black Sheep Boy - pure catharsis to hear the songs of an album I loved, I lived by for many months, and which at the time I no longer needed in my life. It felt like closure, victory, escape, somehow. That same year, I saw the Manic Street Preachers doing The Holy Bible in full (the twentieth anniversary tour bleeding into the twenty-first anniversary). This was a different kind of feeling; just as with Black Sheep Boy, this was an album I needed and spent years walking to its tempos, but it felt so far away, so deep in the past that I felt nothing hearing the songs live. I was an entirely different person back then, whereas I guess during the period where Black Sheep Boy was my beacon, I was just a worse version of who I am now, so there was something relatable.

In 2018, I got to see Mew performing Frengers in full for its fifteen anniversary. They opened with a mix of songs from other albums, then took a break and came back for Frengers, which was the perfect move because how could you possibly come back to the stage after the final notes of Comforting Sounds have died out? Unlike Okkervil River, unlike the Manics, this show was as thrilling, relevant and epochal as the first time I heard these songs in a red-lit Nottingham dive.

*at the time, one of two great independent record shops in Loughborough, the other being Castle Records, both long gone, sadly; I’ll have to write about them both sometime. Expect a story about Castle when I get into some other R.E.M. albums, and Left Legged when the randomiser turns up some of my Manic Street Preachers singles

[emmagreen1220-blog]

New Post has been published on Literary Techniques

New Post has been published on https://literarytechniques.org/hyperbole-in-literature/

Hyperbole in Literature

Hyperbole was one of the literary devices most favored by the Elizabethan and Romantic authors; most of them dealt with exaggerated feelings and larger-than-life characters, so it’s only natural that both their similes and their metaphors were hyperbolic. Modern writers, however, would probably sound melodramatic if they used the same bloated language; so, unless they are satirical or Gothic horror writers – they usually do not. In an exciting development, however, modern magical realists tend to use even more exaggerated hyperboles than Renaissance playwrights or 19th-century novelists; but they give them an interesting spin. See of which type below.

10 Examples of Hyperbole in Literature

#1: Homer, Iliad IX.379-392 (~ 700 BC)

I loathe his presents, and for himself care not one straw. He may offer me ten or even twenty times what he has now done, nay—not though it be all that he has in the world, both now or ever shall have; he may promise me the wealth of Orchomenus or of Egyptian Thebes, which is the richest city in the whole world, for it has a hundred gates through each of which two hundred men may drive at once with their chariots and horses; he may offer me gifts as the sands of the sea or the dust of the plain in multitude, but even so he shall not move me till I have been revenged in full for the bitter wrong he has done me. I will not marry his daughter; she may be fair as Venus, and skillful as Minerva, but I will have none of her: let another take her, who may be a good match for her and who rules a larger kingdom. (tr. Samuel Butler)

In the first book of the Iliad, Agamemnon, the commander of the Greek forces at Troy, offends Achilles, his greatest warrior, by unrightfully seizing the latter’s war prize, Briseis. As a result, Achilles withdraws from the battle altogether, and the Greeks start suffering loss after loss. Desperate, Agamemnon admits his error nine books later and sends Odysseus, Ajax and Phoenix to Achilles with an apology and a bunch of presents. Achilles’ anger, however, is so overwhelming that he rejects the offer in a remarkably hyperbolic language which gradually intensifies to culminate with the claim that even if Agamemnon could offer him “gifts as the sands of the sea or the dust of the plain in multitude,” he would still be unmoved. Aristotle uses this quote in his Rhetoric (reference) not only as an example for hyperbole but also as proof in favor of his opinion that “those who are in a passion most frequently make use” of this literary device.

#2: Gospel of John 25:21 (~ 100 BC)

Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.

The Bible – especially The Old Testament – is rich with hyperbolical expressions. For example, the land of Canaan is described in Exodus 3:8 as “a land flowing with milk and honey” and Solomon is said to have made “silver as common in Jerusalem as stones, and cedar as plentiful as sycamore-fig trees in the foothills” (1 Kings 10:27). The verse above, however, comes from the New Testament:  it is the last of the last canonical gospel, that of John. The idea behind it is pretty straightforward: only a small part of Jesus’ actions has been documented: no book could ever describe all of them, because, simply put, there have been so many. In the opinion of noted Bible commentator, Joseph Benson, the strangely personal “I suppose,” softens the hyperbole; “if this be one,” he adds, reminding us that even a glaring hyperbole can seem truthful to emotionally invested people.

#3: William Shakespeare, Hamlet V.1.254-256 (1603)

I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers Could not with all their quantity of love Make up my sum.

After the priest declares that Ophelia’s death “was doubtful” and that she may not be granted a proper Christian burial, Ophelia’s brother Laertes jumps into her grave. A second later, Hamlet, whom Laertes suspects to be the reason for Ophelia’s suicide, does the same. To justify his decision, he utters these three verses, whose meaning goes along the lines of “if Laertes has the right to do it, then I have twice the right.” Or, to use his numerical hyperbole: forty thousand times the right, since that’s precisely how many times Hamlet claims his love for Ophelia is greater than the one of her—or, for that matter, any other—brother.

#4: Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels (1726)

Golbasto Momarem Evlame Gurdilo Shefin Mully Ully Gue, most mighty Emperor of Lilliput, delight and terror of the universe, whose dominions extend five thousand blustrugs (about twelve miles in circumference) to the extremities of the globe; monarch of all monarchs, taller than the sons of men; whose feet press down to the centre, and whose head strikes against the sun; at whose nod the princes of the earth shake their knees; pleasant as the spring, comfortable as the summer, fruitful as autumn, dreadful as winter: his most sublime majesty proposes to the man-mountain, lately arrived at our celestial dominions, the following articles, which, by a solemn oath, he shall be obliged to perform.

Monarchs have adorned themselves with hyperbolical titles ever since Ancient Mesopotamia. This is what—among other things—Jonathan Swift tries to mock in this exceptionally long introduction to the law which should allow Gulliver some freedom in Lilliput. Even though Lilliputians are merely one-twelfth the height of Gulliver, they don’t seem that unwilling to exaggerate how their “most mighty Emperor” is “taller than the sons of men” and how the dominions of his country span to “the extremities of the globe” even though barely “twelve miles in circumference.” Of course, neither they nor Swift stops there; by the end of the sentence, one gets the feeling that what the great Irish satirist is ridiculing here is the very nature of hyperbole, the notorious hallmark of deceptive flattery.

#5: Mary Shelley, Frankenstein (1818)

The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw.

The sentence above is uttered—there’s no way of knowing whether in shock or relief—by Victor Frankenstein, after his brother Ernest informs him that the murderer of their youngest sibling, William, has been discovered. However, Victor knows that the murderer is none other than his gruesome creature, which is why he has a hard time believing it. It would be easier—he says in the conventionally excessive language of Gothic novels—for one to run faster than the winds or keep a mountain stream in check with a straw than to catch the murderer of William. It turns out that the murderer Ernest has in mind is someone else—William’s nanny, Justine—which leads to another emphatic exclamation by Victor, speckled with two common hyperboles: “Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is wrongfully; everyone knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?”

#6: Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (1851)

Nantucket! Take out your map and look at it. See what a real corner of the world it occupies; how it stands there, away off shore, more lonely than the Eddystone lighthouse. Look at it—a mere hillock, and elbow of sand; all beach, without a background. There is more sand there than you would use in twenty years as a substitute for blotting paper. Some gamesome wights will tell you that they have to plant weeds there, they don’t grow naturally; that they import Canada thistles; that they have to send beyond seas for a spile to stop a leak in an oil cask; that pieces of wood in Nantucket are carried about like bits of the true cross in Rome; that people there plant toadstools before their houses, to get under the shade in summer time; that one blade of grass makes an oasis, three blades in a day’s walk a prairie; that they wear quicksand shoes, something like Laplander snow-shoes; that they are so shut up, belted about, every way inclosed, surrounded, and made an utter island of by the ocean, that to the very chairs and tables small clams will sometimes be found adhering as to the backs of sea turtles. But these extravaganzas only show that Nantucket is no Illinois.

The tall tale is a fundamental element of American folk literature. In its essence, it is a tale related as if factual, even though obviously exaggerated. In his first description of Nantucket in the fourteenth chapter of Moby-Dick, Herman Melville borrows and reworks some of these tall tales told by the natives (and their “gamesome wights”) to describe how extraordinarily barren is the island of Nantucket (in fact, Encyclopedia Britannica informs us, even its name can be translated as “sandy, sterile soil tempting no one”). Hyperboles abound: since they are living on a sun-scorched “elbow of sand,” Nantucketers have to import even thistles and consider every blade of grass the equivalent of an oasis!

#7: Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court (1889)

There did not seem to be brains enough in the entire nursery, so to speak, to bait a fish-hook with; but you didn’t seem to mind that, after a little, because you soon saw that brains were not needed in a society like that, and, indeed, would have marred it, hindered it, spoiled its symmetry—perhaps rendered its existence impossible.

Want to see a literary device used to its best comedic effect? Then, leave it to the master of masters: Mr. Mark Twain. In his AH/SF-satire of the notion of romantic chivalry, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, an American engineer named Hank Morgan suffers a blow to the head and is somehow transported back to Medieval England. Naturally, he knows much more than everyone else there—yes, including Merlin—which is why he is able to ridicule the not-so-very-smart inhabitants of Camelot in the manner presented in the sentence above. Apparently, as far as Twain I concerned, a Medieval society such as the one idealized by the Romantics is possible only in the absence of any shred of common sense intelligence.

#8: Flannery O’Connor, “Parker’s Back” (1965)

The skin on her face was as thin and drawn as tight as the skin of an onion and her eyes were gray and sharp like the points of two icepicks.

“Parker’s Back” is one of the eleven stories which make up Everything That Rises Must Converge, Flannery O’Connor’s posthumously published short story collection. The sentence above is part of the description O’Connor gives of the wife of the title character, a skinny woman named Sarah Ruth. So as to direct the attention of the reader to this feature of Sarah, she exaggerates it, just like a caricaturist would do in a visual representation. No wonder that caricatures are sometimes called visual hyperboles.

#9: Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967)

It rained for four years, eleven months, and two days.

This is the powerful opening sentence of the sixteenth chapter of Gabriel García Márquez’s celebrated masterpiece, One Hundred Years of Solitude. It is written in the style of magical realism which makes prominent use of hyperboles such as the one quoted here. The sentence sounds almost biblical in its exaggeration (Genesis 7:12: “And rain fell on the earth forty days and forty nights”), but Márquez goes a step forward—not merely in terms of the length, but also through the use of precise numbers. We tend to accept as true precise numbers more than we believe rounded ones, and this makes Márquez’s hyperbole even more powerful and fantastical.

#10: Salman Rushdie, Haroun and the Sea of Stories (1990)

There was once, in the country of Alifbay, a sad city, the saddest of cities, a city so ruinously sad that it had forgotten its name. It stood by a mournful sea full of glumfish, which were so miserable to eat that they made people belch with melancholy even though the skies were blue. In the north of the sad city stood mighty factories in which (so I’m told) sadness was actually manufactured, packaged and sent all over the world, which seemed never to get enough of it.

Salman Rushdie’s Haroun and the Sea of Stories is a children’s book—but, just like Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, it is also a work of magical realism, both authors’ trademark technique. In fact, Rushdie’s opening description of this saddest of all cities may be a hat tip to a hyperbolic account by none other than Márquez, specifically this sentence from One Hundred Years of Solitude: “the world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point.” Be that as it may, it’s important to note that works of magical realism make use of absurd exaggerations and hyperboles quite often; the trick is that they don’t treat these hyperboles as hyperboles, but as factual claims, thus making them even more powerful and conspicuous.

[torreygazette]

as for me and my house: reflections on year 30

Hi, Danielle here. Yes, still single.

The edge has worn off a little as I careen towards 30. 

My brother's getting married in June. [This is a wonderful thing!] My worst case scenario throughout my early 20s was contemplating attending his wedding without a date. We're up on it, and I'm okay with it. All those years spent dreading this were wasted!

[cough don't let that stop you from stepping up, gentlemen friends, cough]

 I had vowed to myself that whichever came first, 30 or my brother's wedding, I would finally give online dating another try. 

Backstory: a friend once signed me up for eHarmony. I was 21, it was horrific, I had 5 matches in the ENTIRE United States, and I quit within 24 hours. Wasn't ready then. Also, we're no longer friends.

 Earlier in 2016, thinking I really needed to make an effort to meet more people, I tried. I sat on the couch with my stomach in knots (I HATE meeting people and I HATE spending money even more!) and I located the optimal coupon code combination, did my research to make sure I could get my money back, and clicked the order button. 

American Express, in its infinite wisdom, decided this was a fraudulent charge. 

My conscience is already giving me heck (this FEELS WRONG) and now my phone is buzzing with emails, texts, and calls, as my home phone rings, first American Express and then Mom, because my old home phone is still linked to my credit card. Mom says "has someone been shopping with your card?" and I'm thinking "oh PLEASE don't let them have said who the charge was from".....

 So when my heart stopped pounding, I consulted my matches and found that, while the system has improved, I still hate it. I hate being forced to evaluate people based on their stupid, stupid bios and a couple of photos. Oh really? You've read the Bible and Moby Dick? You love dogs and want kids someday? Great! So do TENS OF THOUSANDS OF OTHER DUDES. Everyone is shiny and happy and completely devoid of personality.

 I rely so strongly on the sense I get from people in person, it's borderline impossible to make connections in a setting like online dating. I felt no inclination to reach out to anyone, and once I realized that if this WORKED, I'd have to go on MULTIPLE DATES, I canceled as fast as I could. It was a weekend so I couldn't cancel until Monday. When I called and they asked for a cancellation reason, I said "this is hell and it makes me feel sick and I'd rather be alone forever", or something to that effect.

I know of several wonderful couples that met through online dating. It works. But it makes me feel physically ill, so I think I'm done. I just can't do it. I am 100% in or 100% out when it comes to liking people. Trying to have be interested in or open-minded about multiple people at the same time - even in the most above-board of ways - feels like cheating, thanks to my INFJ conscience.

 Later in 2016: I get offered a book to review called "Finding God in My Loneliness". Sigh -  I read the book. It makes some fair points about not being selfish, about sacrificing, pouring yourself out in the service of the church and the saints, building strong friendships, being aware that God is with you always, regardless of relationship status or how we feel about stuff.

All is well and good until [RECORD SCRATCH] there's an entire paragraph about how one of the perks of singleness is that you can buy a rotisserie chicken, and because you won't have to cook for 4 nights, you can spend all that lonely time in prayer & Scripture reading. 

This is a strong argument for singleness in the same way that "putting on duvet covers by yourself is hard" is a strong argument for marriage. Which is to say, NOT AT ALL.

Anyway, after much diligent research, I located the verse which backs up this theory: 1st Corinthians 7:8 NRCT (New Rotisserie Chicken Translation). "I say therefore to the unmarried and widows, it is good for them if they abide even as I, for verily, the whole of the rotisserie chicken shall be thine, and thou shalt eat upon it for four days and four nights."

 This rankled me on more than one level: alone time is good. It's good for all of us, and it's life-giving for introverts. But I actually need to be prodded to spend more time with people, not less. Getting to know people, in the conventional sense, is a SACRIFICE for me. Not so much the hospitality end of things - my home is really conducive to it, which is a blessing, but being willing to go out for coffee or a meal (have I mentioned I hate spending money?) or spending time with someone when I'd rather be at home... these things are hard for me to do. Opening up my home to people I don't already know and love? Hard! Sad! 

Yet I have felt so convicted about this recently - the importance of building relationships with the saints around you, bonding over food, drink, talk. The conviction has driven me far out of my comfort zone, but when it's important, you step up. 

 The book was making a valid point before it derailed running over that rotisserie chicken: you can't run from loneliness. You have to lean in. That has been a huge lesson in the last few years. Sometimes busy-ness and distractions are legitimate, and sometimes they can become an issue (although, unlike the author of this infamous book, I don't think Netflix is inherently idolatrous). But for Pete's sake. Rotisserie chicken is not a real singleness survival/coping tactic... is it? Would it not be as beneficial to listen to Scripture on tape while you cook a real dinner you can share with someone else? Would it not be as beneficial to meet a friend for coffee and discussion of spiritual things? #pietism!

 A couple of weeks ago: it's time to update the church directory. We contract with a big professional outfit to take the photos. They send around brochures advertising their services. ALL the verbiage refers to families. "Per family", "bring your family", "the whole family should wear", "plan on 1 hour per family". Out of 33 photos in a brochure, 4 show single people. In an age where many families are no longer nuclear, and in a church where there are many widows and widowers, and a handful of never-marrieds, this rings hollow.

 I go and get my picture taken. I am incredibly stressed out but finally get through it, and the salesman attempts to show me how my picture will look in a frame bearing the "as for me and my house" portion of Joshua 24:15 on it. I am momentarily amused (because I love taking things literally) as I imagine a picture of me embracing my literal house. 

No, the salesman probably won't find that funny, so I don't tell him, and I decline to purchase a disc of 12 photos for $250 (?!!! What am I going to do? Hand out wallet-size photos to prospective gentlemen callers? Wait. Damn. That might have been a good idea. Print my dating resume on the back and see what happens...) 

 Anyway, for better or worse, I'm ready to turn 30. I am more and more thankful for the "alone time" that has elapsed in my life - it has been invaluable in teaching me to value my family, friends, and church, it has taught me what I can and cannot live with in a prospective spouse, it has driven me into the arms of a merciful and just God. I cannot "make it happen" (which is what the world tells you), I cannot "stop thinking about it and then it happens" (which is what the Christians tell you). Aaron Everingham's poem "Adventu" comes to my mind. 

"while in the now and not yet we, the drowned, are succored by the breath of the Lord the Lord"

  I may be single forever, but screw the rotisserie chicken, I'm getting PIZZA. Who's with me?