Thinking with a pen

You might think that thinking takes place entirely in your head.  You imagine a contemplative sitting on a rock in the mountains somewhere, thinking great thoughts.  There probably are people who can put complex ideas together that way, but I am not one of them.

To really think, I need to have a pen in my hand, writing on a pad of paper.  That's the technology I started thinking with, and it's probably the one I will go out with.  I write the thought, reread it, and add to it.  The ink on the page is a storage buffer--but that's not all it is.  In order to exist as a narrative thought, it seems, I must write it.  Even as I write, ideas appear, ideas that would have remained unthought if I was not writing.

I do have to be careful how I annotate and arrange these notes.  What seems clear when I write can be incomprehensible weeks and months later, when it comes to collate all the thoughts, and distil them into something meaningful.

If you're wondering, I'm a black rollerball on yellow lined paper guy.  Lately I've favored a 5x8 junior-size pad, in a taped-up vinyl pad holder, since that's easiest to toss in my bike panier.

I'll be doing this for the rest of my life.  Even if books disappear, I'm thinking that pens and pads won't, though perhaps, someday, an electronic version with the right feel of stylus on surface will appear, read my handwriting, and store the text in searchable form.  But scratching on a pad will always remain the visible manifestation of my thought.

The Floating Egg

I just finished reading a charming book on geology by Roger Osborne, The Floating Egg.  Not, as far as I am aware, published in the US:  I picked it up at Brattle Book Shop on my lunch hour (it had somehow made it onto my not-to-be-finished-in-my-lifetime "to read" list, though I don't remember how), while I was actually considering the purchase of Herman Kahn's Cold War classic On Thermonuclear War.  Another day for that one.

It is actually a series of historical vignettes of geology and geologists in Yorkshire, most of them in the 19th century.  He includes many well-chosen excerpts from their writing, and makes up only a few characters, which he points out clearly.  He actually has a gift for fictional scene setting, and might consider writing a novel set in the period.

There are many unedifying squabbles about who owns or can sell plesiosaur fossils taken from the cliffs, an impoverished geologist trying to get money for his collection, a meteor that lands on a colorful character's land, and someone who puzzles out the glacial history of the area.  Excellent for anyone who wants to write a novel with a 19th century geologist as a character.  It may inspire me, though I'd prefer to set it here in New England, where we have our own glacial landscape.

Portrait and landscape

A few weeks ago I complained about having to get a widescreen monitor when my previous monitor died.  I found the screen too short and too wide, with printed lines as endless as midwestern freight trains.

I've solved the problem, in a fashion.  I upgraded my driver so that it permits screen rotation, and picked up an Omnimount WS3 desktop mount that lets me rotate the screen.  This gives me a tall narrow screen when I want, and a wide one when I want.  The tall one is really tall, so I generally use a window somewhat shorter that the maximum so I don't have to crane up at the top menu.

Here's what it looks like when displaying full text:

And, so you can see the mount, here it is moved out of the way:

BTW, this gives you a decent idea of what my desk usually looks like:  not that messy, given my natural tendencies.  A few souvenirs, art work by offspring, and the all-important container of MetaPhor (actually an agarose I got a lab friend to give to me).

Moby-Dick as science fiction

In the Kessel/Kelly anthology The Secret History of Science Fiction is a story by Carter Scholz called "The Nine Billion Names of God", which is a series of letters between Scholz and an SF magazine editor to whom Scholz keeps submitting a word-for-word duplicate of the Arthur C. Clarke story..."The Nine Billion Names of God".  It is a replay (as it vaguely admits) of the Borges theme from "Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote" (a good chunk of the literary end of SF consists of various attempts to reify and extrapolate themes taken from these parable-like stories), and is intermittently amusing.

"Pierre Menard" involves a word-for-word duplicate of at least part of Don Quixote.  Both Borges and Scholz fiddle with context and interpretation.  How much of the meaning of the words is there on the page, and how much comes from elsewhere?

I've been thinking about genre lately, particularly stimulated by Secret History (which I will be writing more on).  So here is my own exact duplicate experiment.

Herman Melville's Moby-Dick was published in 1851, and has bizarrely motivated characters in a realistic setting Melville himself experienced, that of a Nantucket whaler.  What if, instead, the book had been written, word for word, in 1751, when none of the technology, society, and practices described in the book existed.  Would that book have been science fiction?

I pick Moby-Dick for this thought experiment, rather than, say Middlemarch, because of its obsession with process, with group activity, and with specific technical detail--and perhaps because of its entirely male cast.  If all that had been made up, rather than observed, it might read like a work of Golden Age science fiction.  What about that work, the 1751 work, would not be like science fiction?

I don't have an answer right now.  So I will come back to it at some later time.

 

The image of the Sack of Rome

The sacks of ancient cities were brutal events.  They usually followed an extensive siege, sometimes lasting years, so the population was already starving.  Then the besiegers, in miserable shape themselves, finally burst in and took their revenge.

They also took everything that could be moved, killed most of the population, and enslaved the rest.  This was as true at Troy as it was at every subsequent event.  In 146 BCE, for example, the Romans totally destroyed both Carthage and Corinth, two great cities of the ancient world.  Both were eventually refounded as Roman colonies, and those are the ruins we now see.  Lucius Mummius, destroyer of Corinth, was mocked by sophisticates because he didn't seem to understand the artistic value of all the statues and other works he looted.

But what was the Sack of Rome?  If you think about it, you may have a hazy image of Classical temples looming against a smoky sky as the city burns, and hairy barbarians from up north rampaging among the fat, decadent Romans.  Maybe an image like this:

Alaric and his Visigoths, 410.  These guys had been besieging the place for quite some time, but it was part of a longer struggle between the Goths and the Emperor Honorius.  It took three days, and was pretty much just an organized looting, after which they left.  Note that by this point, Rome hadn't been the functional capital for quite some time.  The East was ruled from Constantinople, the West from various places--at this point, Ravenna.  I remember this picture from National Geographic, particularly the half-naked adolescents being offered up to the Visigoths by their mothers, though their gestures are intended to look protective.

Then came this one

Geiseric and his Vandals, 455.  Geisiric ruled North Africa, and launched a major expedition from Carthage (almost exactly 600 years after that city's destruction by Rome) to spend a good two weeks in a systematic looting of the city.  No battle, no siege, though there was no doubt violence.  The forces were from North Africa, but Vandals were from eastern Germany, and their population mostly descendants of Phoenicians and Italians, plus desert tribes, so I'm not sure about the ethnic composition here.  And they came by ship, so I'm not sure about the horse either.  The menora was itself presumably looted from Jerusalem by Titus over 300 years earlier.  And, given how much there is to steal, I don't know why those two in the background are struggling up the victory arch: to pry out the bronze lettering?  Knock a few heads out of the relief?

Rome was already rapidly losing population because the Vandals, by capturing North Africa a couple of decades earlier, had cut off the source of its dole grain, and this comprehensive looting must have accelerated the decline.  It was pretty spectacularly depopulated from now until the later Middle Ages.

There were some later events during Justinian's unfortunately successful attempt to reconquer Italy, and the subsequent wars with the invading Lombards, but by that point there was not a lot of movable stuff left. There really is no one Sack marking the end of Roman power, and certainly nothing like that suffered by Carthage and many other victims of Roman expansion.

I think the modern vision of what happened to the Eternal City at the end of Antiquity is actually influenced by a much later Sack of Rome:  that of 1527.  Charles V's (largely German) troops looted, tortured, raped, and burned the city for months, bringing an end to its Renaissance golden age.  It was horrific, and must have seared itself into the imaginations of Europeans.  When they thought of sacks of the city by Germanic barbarian tribes, they projected the events of the dramatic recent one back, though in reality, those had been relatively orderly procedures by comparison.  Recent history influences our perception of deeper history much more than we usually realize.

 

Behind the boiler

Here is a copy of a piece I had in the Tor newsletter this month.  The original may be found here.

 

My favorite writing space in my life was a tiny room in my apartment, above the porch, just big enough for a desk and a couple of bookshelves. It was cold in the winter and hot in the summer, but it had great light and felt completely separate from the world.

Of course, at that time, I had a life kind of like that office, clean and neat and organized. I’d saved enough money to take some time off and make it as a writer.

I won’t say I failed (five novels and one short story collection), but I can’t claim to have made it big either. I got married, had children, went back to work...and went through a dry spell in my writing. It was a choice I made freely, because usually life just shows up and saying “But I’m writing!” to that knock on the door can be a mistake.

Plus, a family is a really convenient excuse for not getting writing done, though they seldom enjoy being told that.

But as the kids have gotten older and more easily neglected, I’ve had some time. I took the old desk left over from that nice well-lit office (really a door on two filing cabinets) and set it up behind the boiler in my basement. I separated myself from the washer/dryer and the play area with bookshelves, and taped geological maps of the Southwest on the walls. I set up a Writer user on my computer that has all non-writing programs blocked and has no internet access.

I didn’t quit my day job, and, in fact, worked hard to succeed at it. But, early in the mornings before going to work, and during any spare weekend time, I started writing Brain Thief.

Now, more than ten years later, Brain Thief is finally being published.

Here is what I have learned from this experience:

  • It’s the production on your worst day that determines your overall production, not your production on your best day. A succession of days with nothing written can eat any number of days with many words written, like the seven lean years devouring the seven fat years in the story of Joseph.
  • I write less than I used to, but can’t delude myself into thinking I would write twice or three times as much if I had all day to do it. I spend 23 hours looking forward to that one hour in the morning, and do my best to make it count.
  • No one wants to listen to you whine about how your desk is behind the boiler in your basement, because if that’s as romantic as your struggle gets, you can just get back in line.
  • People at your day job may find it interesting that you also write, but they won’t cut you any slack because of it (even if your desk is behind...etc.) They actually only care about the work you do for them. So you should do it as well and as honestly as you can.
  • Take a look around yourself at your day job. This is what most people do all day. Many of them are devoted to their work. All human passions eventually surface in the workplace. Shouldn’t something in your writing reflect all that? Just don’t try to caricature your ex-boss as a world-ransoming supervillain. Unless that was your organization’s actual line of work and her actual job title, in which case you don’t need advice from me.

Index cultural fossils: music and cars

An index fossil is one that lets you date a stratum, since the conditions under which it was laid down may vary, making it otherwise hard to identify.

In historical movies set in the United States after the end of WWI, popular music and cars serve the same purpose.  Other things (like radio newscasts, or a popular TV show in the background) might do the same, but their use usually requires some plot or character action.  Music and cars are everywhere.  Music has the additional benefit of generating a soundtrack which can be marketed for little additional cost.

I recently saw Me and Orson Welles, which has a fairly extensive playlist of music from around its date, 1937. 

(Short review:  okay movie, a bit obvious, great performance from Christian McKay as Welles, Zac Efron as Richard is is too pretty and is no way suitable to the adorable lit geek Gretta Adler, and James Tupper really does look like the young Joseph Cotten--but could we avoid the coming-of-age cliche of the beautiful and talented woman who dumps you for the connections offered by a powerful older man, despite your overall wonderfulness?  Maybe she dumped you because you are an annoying dweeb.  I'm saying this as a friend.  That's why you wrote the book/movie/blog post to get back at her, right?  Get over it.)

Anyway I seem to remember something about music and cars.  Oh, of course, Manhattan 1937.  The index fossil of index fossils is Benny Goodman's "Sing, Sing, Sing", so that is here, along with some other old standards.  But it isn't as bad as a Woody Allen soundtrack, which all indicate Allen's abiding fear that if we hear a tune we can't instantly identify, we will go into convulsions, bad for ticket sales.  For some reason, the one I liked best, was Jimmy Dorsey's (brother of Johnny and Latissimus) performance of  "The Music Goes Round and Round", under the credits.  Only tunes that are both 1) big pop hits, and 2) get listened to or revived later are suitable as musical index fossils.

As usual, the round-fendered cars are all gleaming and perfect, even the taxicabs.  In real life these are owned and maintained by auto enthusiasts, who don't seem interested in keeping cars in a state of arrested decay, say, five years past their prime.  And, also as usual, only cars from immediately prior to the movie year are visible.  No surviving Model T delivery truck, held together with spit and baling wire, putts by in the background.  I noticed this particularly in Hollywoodland, set across the 1950s, where every car is gleamingly perfect.  Sure, it's LA, but the seedy detective playbed by not-quite-seedy-enough Adrien Brody has a beautiful car too.

 

Would we accept a period movie in which the cars range from nice new ones to miserable heaps from two decades before, and a sound track of miserable novelty songs and romantic ballads by people no one ever heard from again?  Probably not:  movies are about dreams, not reality.  But it's interesting to note how close to reality different movies feel like getting.

On getting up early to work

A few years ago, a magazine article changed my life.  In the February 2002 The Atlantic, Joseph Epstein had wrote about he became an Early Riser.  I had gone back to work.  I had two children.  I was getting no work done.  And here Epstein had a straighforward solution:  get up early.

I'd always resisted that.  For me, the best time to get up is 7:15.  Early by some standards, maybe, but certainly leaving only enough time to get ready for work, and go.

Epstein's description of how he faced a similar situation inspired me.  And I did what he did:  I started to get up early.  Not quite the 5 AM he seems to easily manage:  5:30 is pretty good for me.  But that gives me the hour or more that I need to get some writing done.

I won't claim that my eyes snap open and I say "Rejoice, for this is the day the Lord has made."  There's usually some desperate negotiation between various selves, sometimes another warning bleep from the alarm.  It helps if I have a work that's going well--at some level I'm anxious to get back to it.

I weigh myself, go downstairs, turn on the coffee maker, and head down to the cellar, behind the boiler, my place of grace.  At this season I turn on the electric radiator under my desk.  I record my weight in my spreadsheet (the morning self is more obsessive than the daylight self), turn on KBPS (a Portland, Oregon classical station I started listening to because I could get their commentary-light overnight show in my morning), and switch to my Writer user (no internet access, no programs but MS Word), and get to work.

Many nights I don't get to bed early.  I stay up reading.  It makes the morning more painful, but I don't really regret it.  But, like Epstein, if I go through all that trouble and pain and then sit there staring at some inert pixels, I feel like an idiot.  I do my best to get something done.

I'm not advising this for everyone.  But, if like me, you have a life, and a job, and also the need to make your mark somehow, it's really worth a try.  Done right, it's like unconvering a new continent.  It's the discovery of uncolonized, unspoiled time.  No one else is up.  The world is quiet.  Give it a try and let me know how it goes.

And give thanks to Joseph Epstein, who inspired it all.

The only meta-resolution I need

I long ago gave up on New Years resolutions that involved improving myself.  Not that I can't stand improvement, but self-improvement is so incremental that it is not amenable to any great statement of intent.  Instead, I picked a grand meta-resolution:  to make only resolutions that involve having more fun.

I'm not alone in directing my attention to work.  That's fine and necessary:  I have a demanding day job, and write my fiction mornings and weekends.  But I sometimes neglect to have the fun that is kind of the point of being alive.  Making resolutions to do so seems a bit absurd, but I find that they pay off.  I resolve to see more movies, see more friends, and do other things I enjoy.

So today, when a friend called to take advantage of a beautiful snowfall we just had to go cross-country skiing, I did it.  I had things I could have done at home, and even had to consider it a bit, but, really, doing anything else would have been dumb.  I'll see if I can keep it up.  I never get out to the movies enough, even though I make the same resolution on that year after year.  But the meta-resolution remains.

Where I'll be at Arisia

I will be at Arisia (Cambridge, MA  Jan 15-18).  Here is my schedule, with comments:

Friday, 8 PM, The Best Science Fiction of 2009
Ian Randall Strock, Gardners Dozois, Candra Gill, James L. Cambias

People try to put me on panels like this all the time, and I always dodge, because I don't read enough SF in any given year to participate adequately.  But Gardner requested my presence, and I have obeyed.

Saturday, 2 PM, The Next -Punk
Mario Di Giacomo (moderator), Sarah Smith, Rachel Silber, Israel Peskowitz

If I can't keep up with the present, how can I discern the path of the genre in the future?  This time it is my old friend and housemate Rachel Silber who is responsible, and again I obey.

Saturday, 4 PM, Whither Hard SF?
Allen Steele, Danielle Ackley-McPhail, Stephen R Wilk, Mark L Van Name

"Whither"? In the future, all hard SF will involve archaic grammatical constructions!

Sunday, 2:30 PM, Reading
Just me.

I'll probably read from the new book, Brain Thief.  What else?

 

You can get anything you want, as long as it's what everyone else wants

My mother, who grew up in the Soviet Union, always said that about the United States.  So even when she came to this country, in the 50s, she was noticing the lack of a Long Tail.  This wasn't Henry Ford producing Model Ts in only black, this was a general problem of production for small market segments.

We're supposed to be over that, aren't we?  So why am I having so much trouble finding a non-widescreen monitor?  My monitor stopped working yesterday, in the middle of actual dayjob work (I don't usually work from home, but my son broke his leg and needed someone in the house with him).  A quick check with the laptop revealed a huge selection of big widescreen monitors at nice prices--one of which I eventually bought at a Staples around the corner.

I spend most of my time on this screen writing.  A widescreen gives me lines that are too long to read comfortably.  And I have no interest in having multiple windows visible--even single tasking puts a serious strain on my underpowered brain.  Surely I'm not the only one who wants this.  Why, then, is a simple portrait-orientation monitor suddenly so hard to find?

I felt the same way when, back in the days of PDAs, they all went color.  I kept addresses, dates, and other such information on it.  All color meant was that battery life went way down.  Then, with cell phones, the same thing happened.

This isn't some kind of curmudgeonly "I liked it better before" thing--at least I don't think it is.  It's a "why can't I buy it if I want it?" thing.

It's also a "is everyone else crazy?" thing.  I would have guessed the market would be split into the two types, with work-oriented people getting one, and entertainment-oriented people getting the other.  Does this show I would have failed in monitor marketing, or that I would have scored a success in an underserved market segment?

Just mark this market segment underserved.

A rose by any other name

How many articles, books, and blog posts have this as a title?  I'm not even going to google it--go ahead if you want to.

But the question is, would it smell as sweet?  More and more studies show how subject our perceptions are to context, expectation, and the inherent hacked-together nature of our sensory circuits.  We think we perceive things, but that is largely an illusion.  Sometimes this happens even when we are prepared for it:  even if you know the lines in the optical illusion are actually straight, you see them as curved.

But when Juliet goes into her semiotic discussion of Romeo's name (Romeo and Juliet, Act II Scene II) she's misleading us--part of the excitement of Romeo is that he is forbidden, a bad boy Montague.  If he changed his name, he'd be less interesting.

A company name is that way too.  It seems like no big deal--let's call ourselves something, people know how good we are at what we do, after all, it won't make much difference.  Only it can, it really can.  People, even in their professional capacities, make capricious and arbitrary decisions all the time.  They don't t hink they do, of course.  If holding something warm makes you think of a new person you meet as having a warmer personality, without your having any idea that you're being influenced, you have to know that a company's name can influence you at an unconscious level.

Now, this doesn't necessarily mean that you need to drop half a million dollars on that plausible branding company's year-long rebranding scheme, but it does mean you shouldn't take it for granted.  And you should give it the time and resources it deserves.

This is occupying a certain amount of my time at work, with a fair amount of stress.

Habit is everything

And the most important conscious decision you can make is what habits to acquire.  Conscious decisions otherwise seem almost epiphenomenal, "say it, brother!" exclamations to validate unconscious decisions already made.

So I biked to work today, though the day never got above 15 F.  I'd never start biking on a day like today, but I have a habit, and so it actually takes a carefully considered decision to keep me from biking in.  Fortunately, the modern world is full of great equipment:  with balaklava, neoprene booties, lobster mitts, and warm jacket, it's really not uncomfortable.  The worst is the tiresome unpeeling when I get to work.

I've been too busy at work to get to the gym at lunch, so this has been my only workout for the past few days.  If you have to exercise in order to get home, you are way more likely to do it.

What caused the financial crisis?

Another of the ways I make my bike ride to work more dangerous is listening to podcasts from Russ Roberts' Econtalk.  Roberts is a great interviewer, and sounds quite boyish.  The best of the recent ones was one with Charles Calomiris, about the banking crisis.  Calomiris manages to talk at great speed with complete clarity on a complex topic, barely letting the usually gabby Roberts get a word in edgewise.  "All I learned about economics I learned from reading blogs" isn't completely true of me, but has a lot of truth in it--and most economics books I've read are by people who blog as well.  Despite these less than impressive credentials, I think I understood Calomiris pretty well.

Moral hazard is behind a lot of what goes wrong, not just in banking, but in healthcare as well.  Build a guardrail, and people not only get closer to the precipice than they would otherwise, they lean on it, then build their houses on it.  Everyone is enraged when it breaks and everyone falls in.  Don't blame Calomiris for this metaphor--it's all my own.

Calomiris is dismissive of securitization and "originate and distribute" as the causes, and is persuasive on that score.

The interview is worth a listen, maybe two--I think it covers a lot of issues very clearly.  The Richard Posner interview on the same topic a few weeks later was quite otherwise.  Though I'm a big fan (I love Sex and Reason), I thought he was dull and a bit of a blowhard--I'm not persuade he's the right person to go to on this topic.  Calomiris clearly is.  I'll tell you what I learned about the FDIC some other time.

Giving voice to silent cars

In its annual Ideas issue, the NYT Magazine notes that hybrid and electric cars are completely silent, which makes them dangerous to pedestrians, who can't hear them coming.

I certainly depend, almost unconsciously, on the sound of approaching cars while I'm bicycling.

In fact, I think people underestimate how noisy cars really are, being so used to them.  I wouldn't mind things getting quieter, without sacrificing those unconscious cues we use to keep ourselves safe.  The article wonders what sound would be best, but doesn't mention one that might be fun:  the clipclop of hooves and the neighing of horses.  With a little effort, we could have the soundscape of a 19th century street, without the smell- and turdscape.

Russian light show

Rockets stopped being entertaining long before we actually managed to land on the Moon, but it seems that the Russians are working on ways of making them fun again.  Just think:  mysterious blue spirals in the sky!  Who needs the things to actually do anything?

I remember reading the people in northern Russia always saw a lot of UFOs, because the secret cosmodrome at Plesetsk fired off all sorts of rockets without ever informing anyone of the base's existence.  NASA has been much less entertaining of late.

However, the most interesting phrase in the story I linked to is "Celebrity astronomer Knut Jørgen Røed Ødegaar".  This guy could get a reality show just based on that attributed title and his name alone.

 

The evolution of metaphor

From Peter Frost, of Evo and Proud  something I've read about elsewhere: that we really do tend to think of someone as having a "warmer" personality if we are holding something warm, and that washing really does make us feel less guilty--Pilate was on to something.

This stimulates three thoughts.  One: we always overestimate the influence of our thoughts in our decisions, and underestimate things we don't even perceive.  Two: metaphor is woven into the very way we perceive the universe. It's not just a rhetorical technique.  Three: knowing about this and taking it into account can help you control your environment to allow for more rational decisionmaking (that is, if that is your goal.  It is mine.)

Frost thinks this means we are reusing neural pathways evolved for other purposes, which explains the seeming high heritability of complex and recently evolved behaviors.  I think we've only just started moving toward an understanding of where our sense of the world really comes from.