Good Writing: Efficiency part 2

I didn't discuss everything I wanted to in my last post concerning efficiency. There's one aspect of the quality that's fairly universal in writing, and that's word economy.

It's generally considered better writing to describe a concept or other subject in as few words as possible. Of course if you take this too far you can wind up being too vague to communicate anything. A description of the universe and its workings could be "there's stuff," but that does very little to establish anything of importance about the realm of our experience. This doesn't diminish the tedium of an exhaustive list of traits the observable universe possesses. That may be useful for science, but not for an answer.

I don't have the confidence to provide you with what I think a good description of everything looks like.

I suspect I should provide some good examples of the merit of word economy. Take poetry. Especially today, with the prevalence of free verse, there is an emphasis on making every single word in the poem belong and carry as much weight as possible. The conventions of English grammar are loosened in this pursuit. Incidentally I find this to be part of the reason many people find poetry inaccessible. It is language abstracted, reduced and elevated by a presentation much unlike what you experience in spoken word or in prose.

But word economy applies to prose just as well. The word "that" is often extraneous, and can be omitted from many sentences without any sacrifice in meaning. Word processors and writing professors alike discourage the use of phrases that take more words to say the same thing as "like" or "but."

I guess what we're striving for is an utterance that comes as close as possible to meaning what it says. That's not to imply it says what it means. Buried meaning, that can be read into the diction or syntax or tone of what is written, is of high value in today's writing environment. It's probably why literature studies in school stress a search for symbolism in works. It is an effective way to encourage deeper reading, which is valued because of reasons I won't get into in this blog post.

Honestly word economy can be as hairy as any other aspect of efficiency. Fantasy descriptions can be florid with adjectives and compound sentences and adverbs, and plenty of people love it that way. I return to my question that ended the last blog post: is their preference indicative of a lack of culture via delight in archaic and "inferior" means of discourse?

I would say that aesthetics play a large part in the value placed on words, and there is a great deal of differing opinion over what is valued aesthetically and to what degree.

Just be careful when you're writing, because if it takes too ling to say what it's saying then people will tl;dr you right in the face.

Good Writing: Efficiency

Often times my thoughts about writing manifest as insecurities about my own writing ability. I think about how I might not be stacking up, that the quality of what I write is a failing grade or at least not one that excels, and it brings me back to a fundamental question. For the purpose of this blog post I will choose to phrase it like this, "What is good writing?"

Of course to approach this empirically (as I presume should lead to improved objective results) I must distrust my own instincts when attempting to answer the question. Instead I rely on the answers peers, participants in the field, and educators have given me.

The first answer to the question is often to call the merit of the query itself into uncertainty. I could cite a book whose advice I respect, On Writing, but some may consider Stephen King to "not be a good writer," and if that argument is given its head then the question I suppose devolves into "who are good writers?" The answer to that is of course as subject to personal opinion as others. Is R.A. Salvatore a good writer because his prose for battle is oft gripping? Do my reader even agree with this statement? Do they possess the faculty of experience to judge that assertion true?

In addressing all this I suppose one method is for me to establish criteria, which I intended to do in the first place.

I have been told, have heard told, have told others that one element of good writing is efficiency. A story as humans tell it is a machine, regardless of its organic parts. It is something we fabricate towards a purpose, as opposed to the fellow creatures we encounter during the course of our existence. Those are not of our creation and contain mysteries we have yet to unravel. Yes, the best of stories can contain mysteries that baffle the author as well as the reader, but most if not all of those are parts of the whole lifted from life and rendered into the mechanism of the tale to borrow the effect that mystery has on people who live real lives.

An efficient machine does not have spare pieces hanging from its sprockets. These would interfere with the way the machine runs, slowing it and possibly even rendering its purpose unattainable. This is also true with stories. One memetic explanation of this principle is Chekov's Gun. That is, if you mention a gun hanging over the door it had better be fired before the end of the story.

It isn't that simple, since it would be just as important were the gun to fail to fire at a critical moment, or if the gun were one path for it owner to take in the story but he or she follows another. In the first case the gun as it stands as a literal object in the story is still a direct mechanism whereas the gun is abstracted to a symbol when its purpose is to provide a tight bundle of meanings for the reader.

There is another complication, and this enters some hairy territory. Speculative fiction (which includes fantasy and science  fiction) often includes pieces to the story that serve little purpose but to establish a setting that is compellingly other. In more "literary" examples the same cogs that establish this setting are driving elements of symbolism or of mechanical purpose to the plot of the work, but there are plenty of other works where this does not seem to be the case.

So the question with these arises, "Are the pieces which are essential to the abstract atmosphere of the story, but not the progression of the story itself, meaningful enough to be included in 'good' writing?" And that question is one of the finer points in the dilemma of my existence as a writer. I have friends who feel that the niceties of speculative fiction do not carry enough meaning to allow the genre, especially the more flourish examples of fantasy, to be counted as works that are well-written. I also have friends who, like me, think that fantasy is just the best thing.

What troubles me about this is that I can easily find myself immersed in a fantasy that may in fact be too embellished to still be good writing, granted the extraneous details themselves are interesting enough. Or I find myself liking a story because I see the things which are unnecessary as being there for comic relief or as goofy asides necessary only to preserve the emotions the author(s) seek(s) in the audience without detracting from the story that's being told. And other people have little tolerance for these things.

Does this mean I like bad things, or that more things are good to me than to other people?

There will likely be more where this came from but for tonight that's all I've got.

Christmas Prognostication

So in the interest of continuing my mobile writing experience I received two new portable keyboards for me to use on the go.  I'm using one to type this up now, still on my phone (even though I could be writing on my computer if I had taken it out of its bag).  It's looking more and more to me like I'll be able to do writing on the go.  Merry There are a fare share of hitches that seem to come with this territory, but as I practice with it  some more I think I'll learn to work with them and be fairly proficient after all.  That being said I should stop blogging  and get back to enjoying Christmas with my in-laws.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Thoughts scattered in time

I guess one of the troubles I have with receiving critiques of my own writing is that it has a tendency to dash my hopes. Oftentimes I am trying to elicit a certain emotional response from the reader, but some other details get in the way or the reader first feel invested enough yet.

If I were to try and diagnose the underlying weakness in my writing behind such difficulties, I would point to my high degree of introversion, though the manifestations of it in my writing may be manifold. For instance the surface explanation may be that I simply don't have the same emotional makeup as many if my potential readers and so what causes emotional distress in me is not what arouses the same in them. Crowds of people as small as a score can make me fairy uncomfortable, but some people thrive in such numbers.

It goes deeper than that, though. Certain situations can render me almost paralyzed with something between fear and anger, and I have rarely if ever handled these times in my life with grace. I have several friends who have expressed confusion (if only with their faces) over my paralysis in these situations. Perhaps it's only my perception but I feel I come across as something more animal than human in those moments.

The time between the above and this paragraph is the space of a few days, and considering I have seven minutes of my break left it's possible there will be another gap before this post is made.

In some of my free time I have been re-envisioning the work of my youth. Most of my free time is sent watching Sword Art Online, playing Guild Wars 2 and Facebook games, or reading Homestuck and theories thereof. There's food consumption in there somewhere but that's more of a part-time job than a way to spend my free time.

And as predicted it has been another few days. Honestly I should just post this before the year ends and this becomes even more of an incoherent mess. So here you go, a post in which I ramble.

More Extended Breaktime Thoughts

The temptation when blogging on a phone during the breaks at work is to complain. Not necessarily to complain about work, but that doesn't excuse it. Instead let's talk about writing.

The books I've read and classes I've taken indicate a writer must most often make time for writing rather than merely discover it or act on inspiration. I am if the opinion that inspiration should be neither ignored nor depended upon. It is too fleeting and too picky. So I guess I agree with my education:  it is best for a writer to arrange for acts of creation to take place. 

The trouble is I am not acting on this sage advice. I spend much if my day gaming or reading articles when I am home from work, and at work I have an hour of time free to do my own bidding. As of yesterday I am trying to spend at least a large chunk of that time blogging, but this doesn't account for my hours if dereliction at home. For that, I think there are a few more hurdles to overcome than simply typing into a phone rather than playing Angry Bird Ninja Jetpack on it.

I have expressed both publicly and privately that I would prefer to stay at home and write rather than tire myself it and punish my joints for fifteen cents an hour more than minimum wage. The self-same poor home habits as I have now wouldn't go away if I quit my job.

So I guess the solution is to man up and type words into a computer whenever I get the chance. Here goes.

Breaktime Thoughts

So this is my first attempt at blogging from my phone, and it is probably not going to be super profound.  Mostly it is an experiment in what I can make work.  Now... What to talk about.

I could talk about my views on sex or alcohol but that would take a while so maybe I'll be more simple. 

November was a hard month for me, and December is passing at an unreasonably quick pace. I haven't been as grumpy as I was afraid I'd be, mostly because I have so much to be thankful for.  Mostly I co tinge to fight a battle with complacency--fueled by my exhaustion from work.  I have only had this phone fir about a week but I am glad I thought to check for a bloggers app because this is a better use of my time than playing silky games like Bad Piggies. Even if they're really fun.

If I am good you should see more mobile blog posts coming out in the next few weeks. Otherwise I'll  just be disappointed in myself.

Anyway have a good one.

Peace.

There Are Halloween-Theme Leaves All Over My Lawn

I've gone almost the whole month of October in silence, at least with regards to the awakening and the subsequent consumption of perennial Asteraceae that this blog proposes to be its subject.  It's a far cry from the business of the early summer, when every day I had something to say, even if it wasn't particularly noteworthy.  I haven't been whiling away in purposelessness.

Not quite.

I've made no secret that I'm working now.  It's full time, and I admit that for the most part I've made vegetative choices with my off-hours.  There's a strong attraction I find for that sort of thing.  Something to take the edge off, to give it a fitting set of connotations.

I've also recently discovered that I need something to take the edge off, because without it I'm kind of a nasty person (fun fact I almost spelled nasty "gnasty").  It may be that I need to hone one edge and dull the other.

A week or two ago I discovered that I'm short on time.  Graduate school applications are coming due around the turn of the year, and I've some ways to go to be prepared.  I keep telling myself and my family that if I'm going to do what "needs to be done" I will need to divest myself of distractions, but I never do it.  I keep the good ones and the bad ones, and my pile of non-job responsibilities just grows on my non-existent desk.  Too much non on the one hand and not enough on the other.

I won't turn this into a memorandum post for myself by listing the aforementioned responsibilities.  Suffice to say I have enough writing to do without writing this blog, but that's probably an excuse.  I'm writing it now, aren't I?

I'm working on some song reviews that may go up in the next weeks, depending on all that.  Should be an interesting diversion.  We'll see.  I like that expression.  Here's the plan guys.  Let's watch and find out if it actually happens that way.

Usually it doesn't.

Autumnal

I am affected by the seasons.  Profoundly.  The trees change their leaves then shed them (or at least the deciduous do) as things get bleaker.  I just get...

Bleak.

As I have mentioned before, this is my first fall not going back to school.  One consequence of this is that this is my first autumn not spent amongst my immediate peers.  Another is that it is a season of special change, the sort of change I have never known.

Things are being pruned away.  My hope is that with time new buds will form which will blossom into sweeter, more robust fruit than I have ever produced, but when I am looking at the present rather than the hope of the future the outlook is not so bright.  I can taste the entropy of the universe on my tongue.

"Winter," as they say, "is coming."

I am eating more food for lunch today than many people eat in a week.  It's only a bowl full of taco with a bag of tortilla chips.  Leftovers.

The Teacher says, "This too is meaningless."

I get "tired" this time of year.  Often I choose not to let myself speak, because what comes out is dreary or, sometimes, vicious.  Sometimes it is both.

Back when Facebook wasn't a thing, when I was a teenager and Myspace existed in the public consciousness, I wrote a blog called "the Penumbra of a Bitter Winter."  It consisted of many of the same thoughts as you see here, though at more length.

I'd like to think I've learned lessons in wisdom, in tact.  Then, sometimes, I cast a blanket over a group of people with the word "idiot" on it, not thinking or caring that I have friends beneath that blanket.  I do it because I am bitter with the brokenness of the world, but that is no excuse, and I don't make it as one.  After moments like that, I call myself a fool and it seems the boulder I've been pushing slips my grasp and tumbles back down the hill.  This, too, makes me tired.

I want to be good.  I want to walk blameless in the sight of God and men.  All the quibbles over the word "man," all the tearing down and building up of language, of humanity—this, too, tires me.

And now what I want is to write down some song lyrics.

Cannot Keep You
Gungor

They tried to keep You in a tent
They could not keep You in a temple
Or any other idols to see and understand

We cannot keep You in a church
We cannot keep You in a Bible
Or it's just another idol to box You in

They could not keep You in their walls
We cannot keep You in ours either
For You are so much greater

Who is like the Lord?
The maker of the heavens
Who dwells with the poor?
He lifts them the ashes and seats them among princes
Who is like the Lord?

We've tried to keep you in our tents
We've tried to keep you in our temples
We've worshipped all our idols
We want all that to end
So we will find you in the streets
And we will find you in the prisons
And even in our Bibles
And churches

Who is like the Lord?
The Maker of the heavens
Who dwells with the poor?
He lifts them from the ashes and seats them among princes
Who is like the Lord?

We cannot contain
Cannot contain the glory of your name
We cannot contain
Cannot contain the glory of Your name

We cannot contain
Cannot contain the glory of your name

Who is like the Lord?
You took me from the ashes
And You healed me from my blindness
Who is like the Lord?


----

And I think I'll just leave it at that.

Words

Every morning I wake up before dawn to climb into a box made of metal and plastic and hurtle through what would be a seven-hour journey by foot in forty minutes so that I can spend the day cleaning machines covered in the coagulating, cement-corroding syrup which condenses from a mixture of soda and various alcoholic beverages.  I do this so that every Thursday an abstracted number will be added to the abstracted number "in my bank," said abstraction waiting there to be exchanged for physical goods necessary (or more often tertiary) to my survival and that of my spouse, who accompanies me on these daily adventures.  My spouse and I have aspirations for the abstraction building "in our bank," because this abstraction may serve to facilitate certain improvements to our quality of life, or more realistically the addition of more inscrutable objects by which we entertain ourselves or otherwise occupy our time.

When the determined time has finished, my spouse and I interact with a machine that manages an abstraction tangential to the one that will facilitate the exchange of goods.  Interaction with this machine permits us to remove our obligatory nominating placards and make a temporary exodus from the building where we toil, via the self-same plastic/metal box/machine that makes an otherwise prohibitive traversal trivial—barring the intrusion of Odocoileus Virginianus on the linear space maintained for box/machine travel, which could prove disastrous for the journey and perhaps the vitality of both occupants of our box.  We make such an exodus every day without fail, excepting the days we are arbitrarily given to rest from our toil.

On arriving back at the opulent shelter where our time is spent when not transported elsewhere by the miraculous fire-box, we exchange our (often soiled) work attire for more comfortable wear, and proceed to make use of smaller boxes crafted with the express purpose of connecting us to networks of other human beings through similar boxes, with the secondary effect of stunting our visual and auditory communication with the human beings who share the abode with us.

Which is what I'm doing now.

I'm also telling you about what I've been doing for the last couple weeks in nearly the most obscure way possible without losing everyone.  Though maybe I did lose everyone.

Anyway, that helped me survive a bit.  Don't have much else to say.  Later guys!

Jobness

I suspected having a job like the one I have now, working retail with two days off a week, and having only six hours of free time on the average day, would be soul-sucking.  Funny thing is usually work itself is fine.  It's getting up at five in the morning and going to bed at 9.  It's feeling like I don't have the time to do all the things I want to do.

Complain complain complain.  I know, I should just suck it up and work because that's what everyone else is doing.  Frankly, I'm lucky to have a job at all in this economy, considering my age and my education.  Especially, considering my experience.  People don't seem to want to hire someone who doesn't already have "ALL the experience."

More complaining.  Okay, I'm blessed to have a job, and I've been spoiled by the levels of free time I've had in my life up to now.  Now I have to learn to balance it all, and frankly that's gonna be rough.

Here we go, I guess?