An observation for those of you expecting Madam's imminent return: considering the amount of profanity being issued from behind a certain locked door at this hour, I would not place a serious wager on it.
So that your stop here was not a complete waste of your valuable internet time, here are
Ten Items Madam Would Find Hard to Resist
1. For those of you with a street credibility deficit, or merely unadorned knuckles, do have a go at the GlassGiant.com's Bling Generator.
2. The mind boggles over the Automatic Prose and The Emily Dickinson Random Epigram Machine at Logopoeia.com.
3. Correct nature's unfortunate mistakes -- or give a nemesis a poufy blonde afro and Carmen Diaz lips -- with Getmakeovers.com's free virtual makeover.
4. Write your name or phrase as would an ancient Egyptian at Hieroglyphs.net.
5. Add quite nifty dimensional special effects to your image online at Chami.com's Image Embellisher.
6. GlassGiant.com also offers a random maze generator (Madam is inordinantly fond of labyrinths.)
7. Incompetech.com offers an interesting Name Generator.
8. Language is a Virus provides the instant muse gratification of an automatic Poetry Generator.
9. Especially for Dr. Hoffman, who shares Madam's love of cooking, meal suggestions from Random Food Generator.
10. Finally, why should one work when one may generate Work Haiku?
I am in debt to Gerard at The Generator Blog for all of the above links. Now I must return to the armament area and assure that the automatic weapons are fully operational and that Madam has not again exhausted the supply of nitro. I trust your week will be equally as pleasant and productive.
Yours Faithfully,
Alfred
Showing posts with label Alfred. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Alfred. Show all posts
Monday, February 27, 2006
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Bloggus Interruptus
The winners of the Redneck Haiku giveaway are:
Katherine
Cece Stuart
Carter
PJ
Winners, please e-mail me at LynnViehl@aol.com with your full name and ship-to address, and I'll get these out to you on Monday. Bubba Frank says "thanks y'all" to everyone who joined in.
I'm unplugging from the internet for a couple of days to carry out a top secret mission to save the world. That sounds so much more exciting than to finish my revisions, doesn't it? Yeah, I thought so, too. It should only take the weekend, but if I'm gone a bit longer don't worry -- this book has a history of not being very cooperative. If I can pry Alfred out of the weapons room, he'll keep you posted on my progress.
Katherine
Cece Stuart
Carter
PJ
Winners, please e-mail me at LynnViehl@aol.com with your full name and ship-to address, and I'll get these out to you on Monday. Bubba Frank says "thanks y'all" to everyone who joined in.
I'm unplugging from the internet for a couple of days to carry out a top secret mission to save the world. That sounds so much more exciting than to finish my revisions, doesn't it? Yeah, I thought so, too. It should only take the weekend, but if I'm gone a bit longer don't worry -- this book has a history of not being very cooperative. If I can pry Alfred out of the weapons room, he'll keep you posted on my progress.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Note from Alfred
Dear Writer Comrades, Curious Visitors, Loitering Jackals,
Commissioner Gordon, Friends,
She Who Plainly Doesn't Pay Me Enough has sent me to make her excuses. Again.
It seems that Madam has once again ensconced herself in the central command center. Doors have been bolted, computers networked, voice recognition engaged, weapons readied, the Hubble realigned, threats issued, the usual nonsense. The media has been alerted and SWAT remains on standby.
All this, to write. One must be grateful her career path did not take a turn toward something more immediate, such as platoon manuevering or rocket launching.
The final words which Madam uttered before she decamped were rather cryptic; something about Phillip the Fair, DNA resequencing, William de Nogaret, and Cheshire. Make what you will of it. I have relocated to the kitchen, where I can provide sympathy for her life partner, nourishment for her children, and concealment of the carbon steel knives.
I expect my employer will return on Monday, once creative calamity returns to mere chaos, or her supply of green tea runs out, whichever comes first.
Yours Faithfully,
Alfred
She Who Plainly Doesn't Pay Me Enough has sent me to make her excuses. Again.
It seems that Madam has once again ensconced herself in the central command center. Doors have been bolted, computers networked, voice recognition engaged, weapons readied, the Hubble realigned, threats issued, the usual nonsense. The media has been alerted and SWAT remains on standby.
All this, to write. One must be grateful her career path did not take a turn toward something more immediate, such as platoon manuevering or rocket launching.
The final words which Madam uttered before she decamped were rather cryptic; something about Phillip the Fair, DNA resequencing, William de Nogaret, and Cheshire. Make what you will of it. I have relocated to the kitchen, where I can provide sympathy for her life partner, nourishment for her children, and concealment of the carbon steel knives.
I expect my employer will return on Monday, once creative calamity returns to mere chaos, or her supply of green tea runs out, whichever comes first.
Yours Faithfully,
Alfred
Thursday, March 31, 2005
You and Them
Like schizophrenic patients, creative individuals often report odd sensory and perceptual experiences, feelings of restlessness and the inclination towards impulsive outbursts in association with rejection of common social values. -- Antonio Preti and Paola Miotto, Creativity, Evolution and Mental Illnesses
Writers are all a little crazy. Or, at least, that was my impression when I met the first bunch of them six years ago. I made my assumptions based on the behavior of a small insulated group, which was so at odds with my expectations of what other writers would be like that it rocked my little boat. Like that iceberg did the Titanic.
One of my parlor tricks is the way I identify, track and analyze patterns. If numbers didn't bore me to tears, I'd probably be working on Wall Street. But patterns of anything other than numbers -- colors, lines, shapes, sounds, values, actions, etc. -- fascinate me. This is why I have to keep any and all patterns out from my visual field when I'm working, or my attention strays.
That personal quirk was the only thing that kept me from telling Alfred to weld all the access doors shut after meeting my peers. I couldn't see enough of the pattern to make an intelligent analysis. That and eventually meeting another writer who surpassed my expectations, was definitely sane, and whose life experiences were almost identical to mine (because hey, I'm not crazy.) She genuinely screwed up my baseline.
I've learned some things from observing other writers and their group behavior, the most important being the mechanics of self-esteem versus peer ranking. To some degree, all writers want to be regarded as unique, and so they behave as to reinforce their individuality. With apologies to the sensibilities the following statement will outrage, that's a very predictable pattern of behavior among writers. Writers also want to be accepted, admired and/or emulated, thus they gravitate toward groups and competitions which they believe will provide those ego reinforcements. That's another fairly common pattern. Success in publishing largely depends on success with one of these patterns.
Yet with very few exceptions, these two patterns are completely incompatible, which is why I think so many writers are miserable. Have cake or eat it, but not both.
Groups appear powerful. They extend a sense of well-being via tribal acceptance. With it, they offer little opportunity for the majority to achieve success within their structures. You can try, but unless you have the charisma of a natural leader, chances are you'll end up feeling frustrated and rejected. The best you can hope for is acceptance and a few small benefits. It's also good to remember that if you're contemplating joining any group, you won't be rewarded for creativity, only for conformity.
Focusing on your individuality, on the other hand, reinforces the writer's creative foundations. It frees you from the restraints brought on by group expectations and their conformity strait-jacket. Yes, it's lonely, and that's the price you pay, just as the group-joiners sacrifice their individuality in return for the benefits of the group.
Writers are all a little crazy. Or, at least, that was my impression when I met the first bunch of them six years ago. I made my assumptions based on the behavior of a small insulated group, which was so at odds with my expectations of what other writers would be like that it rocked my little boat. Like that iceberg did the Titanic.
One of my parlor tricks is the way I identify, track and analyze patterns. If numbers didn't bore me to tears, I'd probably be working on Wall Street. But patterns of anything other than numbers -- colors, lines, shapes, sounds, values, actions, etc. -- fascinate me. This is why I have to keep any and all patterns out from my visual field when I'm working, or my attention strays.
That personal quirk was the only thing that kept me from telling Alfred to weld all the access doors shut after meeting my peers. I couldn't see enough of the pattern to make an intelligent analysis. That and eventually meeting another writer who surpassed my expectations, was definitely sane, and whose life experiences were almost identical to mine (because hey, I'm not crazy.) She genuinely screwed up my baseline.
I've learned some things from observing other writers and their group behavior, the most important being the mechanics of self-esteem versus peer ranking. To some degree, all writers want to be regarded as unique, and so they behave as to reinforce their individuality. With apologies to the sensibilities the following statement will outrage, that's a very predictable pattern of behavior among writers. Writers also want to be accepted, admired and/or emulated, thus they gravitate toward groups and competitions which they believe will provide those ego reinforcements. That's another fairly common pattern. Success in publishing largely depends on success with one of these patterns.
Yet with very few exceptions, these two patterns are completely incompatible, which is why I think so many writers are miserable. Have cake or eat it, but not both.
Groups appear powerful. They extend a sense of well-being via tribal acceptance. With it, they offer little opportunity for the majority to achieve success within their structures. You can try, but unless you have the charisma of a natural leader, chances are you'll end up feeling frustrated and rejected. The best you can hope for is acceptance and a few small benefits. It's also good to remember that if you're contemplating joining any group, you won't be rewarded for creativity, only for conformity.
Focusing on your individuality, on the other hand, reinforces the writer's creative foundations. It frees you from the restraints brought on by group expectations and their conformity strait-jacket. Yes, it's lonely, and that's the price you pay, just as the group-joiners sacrifice their individuality in return for the benefits of the group.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Absentee Note
Dear Weblog Reader:
Please excuse PBW from posting new entries. After stomping her latest deadline, finishing her first novel of 2005 and undergoing five hours of (successful) oral surgery, she was obliged to take some painkillers* and has been sent to bed.
Thank you,
Alfred
*P.S. I promise not to let her near the keyboard until they wear off.
Please excuse PBW from posting new entries. After stomping her latest deadline, finishing her first novel of 2005 and undergoing five hours of (successful) oral surgery, she was obliged to take some painkillers* and has been sent to bed.
Thank you,
Alfred
*P.S. I promise not to let her near the keyboard until they wear off.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Moms
My daughter, who worries about everyone's self-esteem, frequently tells me that I am the Best Mom in the World. Except on those occasions when I am the Meanest Mom in the World, usually when homework or brushing teeth is involved. Note to God: the next time you have a bright idea to do something like this, don't create long division or the cavity, all right?
My son, the Zen center of the family, doesn't say much about my momness. He does things instead, like wear my FM writing tshirt instead of his father's company-logo'ed work shirt to school on Dress Like Your Parents' Career day. When another boy asked Mike why he wants to be a (insert sneer) writer, my son was reported to have said, "Cause my mom makes more money than my dad." (See? That's my DNA.)
Recently I was invited to hang with a bunch of working moms and talk career versus raising the little ones. Bad coffee, low-fat muffins and women in pantyhose and full make-up at eight-thirty a.m. aren't my idea of fun, but if I don't get out of the Cave once in awhile Alfred starts to complain.
They sat me with the full-time working moms, all of whom were fifteen to twenty years younger than me, and way better dressed (and my shoes actually matched.) The big topics at our table were maternity leave, scrapbooking and reliable babysitters. I worked through every pregnancy, I got over crafts twenty years ago and my mom is the only babysitter we use, so I couldn't contribute much.
Talk then turned to careers. I've been out of the corporate game since 1992, but I was amazed at what females are willing to do these days for fifty thousand dollars a year. Sixty, seventy hour weeks, commuting to the city in the family's crappy second car, dodging supervisors bored with their wives while trying to figure out the latest version of what used to be called Lotus in my day (she says, in her best, old business crone voice) and cracking their skulls against those glass ceilings, only to come home and try to be a Good Mom. P.S., their kids hate them, they haven't had fun sex since Ronnie was in office, and their last vacation was a working one, while their letch boss who drinks his lunch gets the expense account, the secretary, the company car and the Quarterly Sales Meeting trip to Vegas.
One mom, though -- there's always one -- was happy, happy, happy. She loved her great job (which was important.) She adored her beautiful children (future Presidents.) Her marriage was perfect, her husband was perfect, her home was professionally decorated, yada yada yada. She couldn't imagine why other women couldn't emulate her success, if only they'd work a little harder at Finding Creative Solutions and Giving of Themselves.
After ten minutes of this, pretty much everyone at the table wanted her dead, but they brought around more lemon poppyseed muffins and the other ladies took consolation in low-fat consumption. Happy Mom eyed me, maybe because I'd been pretty quiet. "I didn't hear what it is that you do, dear," Happy Mom said as she stared at my tshirt, which read "Still Plays With Dirt."
"I'm self-employed." That's the standard answer I give everyone.
"At what?"
"I'm a writer."
"Really? My sister-in-law wrote a children's book, you know. It did very well, so she's going to write another this summer." Happy Mom gave me the patronizing, I've-got-relatives-more-important-than-you smile. "And what do you write?"
"Grownup books."
She hmmmmed a little fake interest. "Anything published?" Of course not, this tone implies. You're wearing a Still Plays With Dirt tshirt.
"A few things."
"Well, we're having a famous author as our guest speaker today. You might want to talk to her after the meeting." Happy Mom gives me a superior smile. "That's what this is about, sharing and learning from one another."
The lady who invited me gets up and announces that it's time for the guest speaker, a famous author who just moved into the area. A list of novels and genres are read, along with hits on the bestseller lists. Happy Mom gives her full attention to the podium.
Me? I walk up to it.
Happy Mom's face turns red, and stays that color for most of my speech.
My son, the Zen center of the family, doesn't say much about my momness. He does things instead, like wear my FM writing tshirt instead of his father's company-logo'ed work shirt to school on Dress Like Your Parents' Career day. When another boy asked Mike why he wants to be a (insert sneer) writer, my son was reported to have said, "Cause my mom makes more money than my dad." (See? That's my DNA.)
Recently I was invited to hang with a bunch of working moms and talk career versus raising the little ones. Bad coffee, low-fat muffins and women in pantyhose and full make-up at eight-thirty a.m. aren't my idea of fun, but if I don't get out of the Cave once in awhile Alfred starts to complain.
They sat me with the full-time working moms, all of whom were fifteen to twenty years younger than me, and way better dressed (and my shoes actually matched.) The big topics at our table were maternity leave, scrapbooking and reliable babysitters. I worked through every pregnancy, I got over crafts twenty years ago and my mom is the only babysitter we use, so I couldn't contribute much.
Talk then turned to careers. I've been out of the corporate game since 1992, but I was amazed at what females are willing to do these days for fifty thousand dollars a year. Sixty, seventy hour weeks, commuting to the city in the family's crappy second car, dodging supervisors bored with their wives while trying to figure out the latest version of what used to be called Lotus in my day (she says, in her best, old business crone voice) and cracking their skulls against those glass ceilings, only to come home and try to be a Good Mom. P.S., their kids hate them, they haven't had fun sex since Ronnie was in office, and their last vacation was a working one, while their letch boss who drinks his lunch gets the expense account, the secretary, the company car and the Quarterly Sales Meeting trip to Vegas.
One mom, though -- there's always one -- was happy, happy, happy. She loved her great job (which was important.) She adored her beautiful children (future Presidents.) Her marriage was perfect, her husband was perfect, her home was professionally decorated, yada yada yada. She couldn't imagine why other women couldn't emulate her success, if only they'd work a little harder at Finding Creative Solutions and Giving of Themselves.
After ten minutes of this, pretty much everyone at the table wanted her dead, but they brought around more lemon poppyseed muffins and the other ladies took consolation in low-fat consumption. Happy Mom eyed me, maybe because I'd been pretty quiet. "I didn't hear what it is that you do, dear," Happy Mom said as she stared at my tshirt, which read "Still Plays With Dirt."
"I'm self-employed." That's the standard answer I give everyone.
"At what?"
"I'm a writer."
"Really? My sister-in-law wrote a children's book, you know. It did very well, so she's going to write another this summer." Happy Mom gave me the patronizing, I've-got-relatives-more-important-than-you smile. "And what do you write?"
"Grownup books."
She hmmmmed a little fake interest. "Anything published?" Of course not, this tone implies. You're wearing a Still Plays With Dirt tshirt.
"A few things."
"Well, we're having a famous author as our guest speaker today. You might want to talk to her after the meeting." Happy Mom gives me a superior smile. "That's what this is about, sharing and learning from one another."
The lady who invited me gets up and announces that it's time for the guest speaker, a famous author who just moved into the area. A list of novels and genres are read, along with hits on the bestseller lists. Happy Mom gives her full attention to the podium.
Me? I walk up to it.
Happy Mom's face turns red, and stays that color for most of my speech.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Earlier
To squeeze fourteen more hours of writing into the schedule, I'm getting up an hour earlier each day for the next two weeks and starting the day at 4:30 am. Not a terrible hardship, as I hate to sleep anyway. It also gives me two full hours of blissful silence before I have to shift into mom mode and wake the kiddies.
The sun doesn't rise here until 7 am or thereabouts, so I have an extra hour of porch time for hand writing and reading, and the moon and stars to enjoy. It's pleasant to walk around the yard and look down at the valley without slapping on the sunglasses first. My sensitivity to sunlight has increased to the point of where I literally cannot step foot outside during the day without my sunglasses (unless I want a vicious migraine, of course.)
When I got up this morning, I thought of Stephen King's novel Thinner, and wondered what sort of curse a ticked-off gypsy might drop on my head. Earlier wouldn't work. Later, where I'd sleep more and more until I never woke up, would be, or Lazier, where I'd sit around and gradually become incapable of doing anything but sitting around. You think about stuff like this at 4:30 am, then you call the attorney and make sure your living will doesn't need any updating. You're positive it still says 'Pull the plug on me, babe,' right?
But not to worry. My trusted manservant Alfred will take care of everything, including the unpublished manuscript funeral pyre and ceremoniously scattering my ashes all over my mother's livingroom rug...
The sun doesn't rise here until 7 am or thereabouts, so I have an extra hour of porch time for hand writing and reading, and the moon and stars to enjoy. It's pleasant to walk around the yard and look down at the valley without slapping on the sunglasses first. My sensitivity to sunlight has increased to the point of where I literally cannot step foot outside during the day without my sunglasses (unless I want a vicious migraine, of course.)
When I got up this morning, I thought of Stephen King's novel Thinner, and wondered what sort of curse a ticked-off gypsy might drop on my head. Earlier wouldn't work. Later, where I'd sleep more and more until I never woke up, would be, or Lazier, where I'd sit around and gradually become incapable of doing anything but sitting around. You think about stuff like this at 4:30 am, then you call the attorney and make sure your living will doesn't need any updating. You're positive it still says 'Pull the plug on me, babe,' right?
But not to worry. My trusted manservant Alfred will take care of everything, including the unpublished manuscript funeral pyre and ceremoniously scattering my ashes all over my mother's livingroom rug...
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