Here Come the Countdown

Alright, it's done.

Provided all goes well, I will be spending tonight in the company of friends (and, just maybe, family); and, together, we will be celebrating the end of 2009 and the beginning of 2010.

I've said before I'm big on rituals; this is no exception. While I try to avoid the insane laundry-lists of New Year's resolutions that plague so many people, I do think that the New Year's holiday is a fun and useful way to hit the Reset button and try to get things together.

Normally, I have a long reflection on the previous year, but this year, it's pretty simple: 2009 was rough. I know I said 2008 was rough, but you must understand, 2009 was rough in comparison to 2008. I dealt with feeling like a failure and some pretty hefty bouts of depression, and in my social circle, that felt like getting off lucky. Near the end, it was hard to believe that some of the things that happened in January and February happened this past January and February—hadn't some of this happened somewhere else, some other time, earlier in my long life?

But then again, not all of that was because of misery. The year has felt full because the year has been, well, full. I've done more writing this year than I think I have any year previous, and met more ideas about new experiences and revisited adventures with a profound "Yes". It's been rough for me, and often the new adventures were the kind with the screaming and the resonant cello music; but in the end, life is about adventure; and as I've always said, I'd rather live on a rollercoaster than a merry-go-round.

So this year is about more of that. This year is about picking up the skills I've been wanting to pick up; about getting to the state of health that I have desired; about writing and fighting for success in same; and about making the changes in work, love, and play that I can see waiting for me on the horizon. And that is all about New Year's I have left to say.

So by way of farewell: 2009. You were a thuggish prick; but one that made me really think about how I live my life—I think I'll call you the year of Tyler Durden. And like Tyler Durden, you were useful and entertaining for a while...but I'm very, very glad you're gone.

Goodbye, 2009. You were difficult, but you were full.

Hello, 2010. I'll be watching you.

And to everybody else: Happy New Year.

Not Providence: Before 2009 Self-Destructs

Part 21 is alive and kicking. From now on, Randall will be known as "The Negotiator".

Okay, not really.

Enjoy the update, folks; the peacekeepers of Book Two will see you one more time in the New Year.

Review: Sherlock Holmes

Short version: A well-crafted and visually enthralling reinterpretation of the Holmes mythos, with a high degree of attention and faithfulness to same; worth a watch for anyone who is willing to take their Holmes with a dash of irony.

Longer version, con MILD SPOILERS:

Robert Downey, Jr. plays a degenerate genius faced with a new and dangerous challenge; Jude Law plays the more traditional and upright man who acts as Abbott to Downey's Costello. They fight crime in a stylized but largely faithful rendition of Victorian England.

Sound good?

Now add in that their characters are adaptations of two of literature's most famous characters, and that the film is being directed by none other than Guy Ritchie, he of the camera ninjitsu and stylized violence.

If that doesn't still sound like it's worth a try, you're right; this movie isn't for you. As for myself, I went in to Sherlock Holmes a skeptic, and came out grateful for my willingness to try something new.

First of all, let me say: Yes, in this movie, Holmes and Watson beat people up. However, it is clear that this violence is a stylistic choice on the part of the director and the writer, not just somebody slapping the Holmes name onto a Victorian action movie. The detective work is all there, right down to the insane leaps of deduction that we could have made, too, if we'd had Holmes' peculiar body of knowledge; this Holmes just adds bareknuckle fighting and Bartitsu to his list of skills—skills which, as the writers have tried to make clear, are here and there implied in the original stories, and which are approached by the film in the same way it seems likely that Holmes would approach them: analytically and with a cold precision that a normal person could not muster at that speed.

Let me also say that the version of Holmes brought to life by Robert Downey Jr. and Ritchie's cinematography is one of my favorites of all time. Holmes is captured here as an eccentric genius, prone to bizarre behavior and serious self-abuse when not occupied by a case, lacking in social graces when his work does not require them, and self-absorbed in the extreme. In addition to Downey's acting, Ritchie's methods of portraying Holmes' thought process are mesmerizing; I really felt like I saw (and heard) the world the way a mind like Holmes would experience it.

I have to give credit to the other points of brilliance shining in this movie, too: Law's performance as Watson, the original straight man, is pitch-perfect, showcasing the character's intelligence and his occasional distaste for Holmes' lifestyle, and adding in a fast-paced banter that makes the relationship engaging and gives it the feel of a deep and lasting friendship. Mark Strong is delightfully scene-chewing as neo-fascist Lord Blackwood; Rachel McAdams does a great job as a character whose identity I will not spoil; and the rest of the crew are excellent, as well. Ritchie's camerawork is amazing throughout, and whoever is doing foley, prop, and set design for this movie deserves a nomination or two for capturing a filthy, crowded, dismal view of Victorian London, and for fascinating gadgets that manage to capture the genius of their creators without veering off into unnecessary steampunk.

Special praise has to be given to the script, though, above and beyond making fight scenes in a Holmes movie actually work. The script is not only engaging, witty, and atmospheric, but seems, to this amateur's view, painstakingly researched; it captures the climate—social, political, and meteorological—of England in that time; builds on scientific theory both from that era and (in the case of the inventions) a bit beyond; and gets its dates and facts straight both for actual English history and the (sadly) fictional history of Holmes, Watson, et al. And on the note of history, the most important of the script's strengths is the sense of love: the feeling that the writers knew the Holmes stories well and wanted to do them justice, even as they traveled a bit of a different path than more traditional versions of the character and his mythos. The story feels like fan-fiction, but more Laurie R. King than GeoCities: this is fan-fiction worthy of being published, provided it comes with the caveat that the writer knows where they've strayed from canon.

If I had to put a black mark on the film's record, it would be its preoccupation with being epic. The movie feels like it was born to be marketed as "Sherlock Holmes's greatest adventure yet", with the plot very publicly encompassing the entirety of England and involving a plan to—what else?—take over the world. Likewise, for as much as I praised the fighting for being interesting, one or two of the action segments felt a little shoe-horned in, as though this started as a much more action-oriented script and got cut down to size. The movie is at its best when it's the calculating, bizarre version of Holmes involved in a dark mystery, with the action blended in here and there as appropriate; a massive chase scene with a giant French bruiser feels like a maraschino cherry on my steak.

END SPOILERS

All that said, I highly recommend this movie, with the caveat that being too much of a purist about Holmes will make this movie feel like a drag. But if you can accept a mention here or there of fighting skills turning into Holmes beating people up with night-sticks, you'll find a clever little mystery and a lot of fun bits of Holmes trivia, wrapped up in a stylish and witty shell that even manages to be a little bit cerebral. I give this movie four out of five brilliant deductions, absolutely none of which are elementary.

Review: Christmas

Christmas this year was nearly flawless.

I won't get into an itemized list of loot—I'm at least five years older than finding that awesome—but I will say that the gifts for all of us were very well-received by their intended targets; that I procured a couple books, one of which I had never heard of but which had great promise; and that I have now added to my day that great modern ritual that is delay-brewed coffee. The biggest gift news, of course, is that I am typing this blog entry from the keyboard of Wednesday, King of the Acer, the new Aspire laptop that has joined my little family of inanimate objects I talk to like roommates. (Tenbones, the Vaio who had been my previous literary companion, is now retired and living out his dotage in continued service to Tyler and country.) So, everybody please try to make the young'n feel welcome, and be glad for old Tenbones, now consigned to being the computer full of music and movies and the occasional CD.

More than presents, however, this year really was about family. I've heard it said that Christmas really is better for adults than for kids, and while I miss some of the magic it held as a child, I have to agree. As an adult, I can be enchanted by the lengths to which NORAD went with their Santa tracker; I can appreciate the joy of others unwrapping their presents as much as myself; I can enjoy the little things like a drink with my dad or the joy of waking up to the smell of breakfast casserole. This year drove it home in occasionally painful, but almost always exultant ways. The only bad part about it is that Santa left us for another year, and I was forced to come back south and tackle all the mundanity again.

But soon, I tell myself, it will be New Year's. Soon there will be celebration. And every morning, or at least the mornings on which supplies do not run low, there will be fresh-brewed cups of dark coffee, ready for me to drink.

One last time, before I let this part of the holiday slip by: Merry Christmas, everybody.

Christmastime, Pretty Baby

I think my writing work is taking a nap for the holidays.

That's right; today is the last day of the grind, and then after a night with a houseguest it's off to the Great Green North of Mendocino County.

My Christmas got off to the exact right start this weekend, as I received a present from a new friend who I keep insisting can't possibly be that new, and an old friend whose company I had not shared in a long while. I am now the proud owner of my first Christopher Moore book; and of a black piece of canvas that says, simply, "What Would You Attempt if You Knew You Could Not Fail?".

I nearly teared up opening that one. It is now proudly displayed in my living room, in full view of my armchair, where I will sit, and read Christopher Moore, and think that I know exactly what I would attempt—and I'm attempting it nearly every day. Fantastic timing on that one.

So, just one more day; just a few more QA jobs; and then it's the long drive and the foggy windows and the constant winding greenery that leads to my house (and yes, the hotel that looks like a golf course fucking a salmon run). My aunt will put on her reindeer pajamas; my father will crank the Elvis Christmas album; and we'll crack more than one bottle of wine and get down to the important business of playing board games, opening presents, and spending time with family. And during that time, we'll all reflect on our year and be grateful for the time to be with each other—though the food may be fattening, though one or two of our usual guests may not make it, though the fireplace may fill the house with smoke, it's Christmas, damn it, and nothing is going to make it anything less than that.

It's likely that I will not have time to blog while I am up there, so I leave you with these thoughts: Whatever holiday you're celebrating, whatever you choose to call it, I hope yours is incredible; and I say to you, with all the best hopes and intentions: Merry Christmas.

Not Providence: The Opposite of Holiday Cheer

Time to open your present, Gentle Readers!

...Oh, thanks for trying to save the wrapping paper, I really appreciate it...

...nah, it's okay...

There you go! Aren't you excited?!

It's Part Nineteen!

Because nothing says "Happy Holidays" like traumatized children.

My Perfect Day

(Posted from my Formspring.me site; this one seemed worth sharing.)

What would your perfect day look like?

I would wake up early, 8 or 9, in a warm bed, with an overcast day outside. I'd get up to a clean, warm house, and I'd go for a jog through a lovely, crisp, autumnal little neighborhood.

Returning home, I'd meet up with the woman I've chosen to marry and have coffee, a bagel with the works, and a blueberry muffin for breakfast; then I'd kiss her goodbye and sit down to write. Writing would go smoothly and perfectly, all the words synching up, the plot challenging me but being overcome, the characters all sparking to life; then after writing, I'd get to take a walk through a winter-frosted forest complete with a strange abandoned house and a frozen lake.

From there, I'd go to a job in radio or voice-acting--just part-time, enough to have fun and to help pay the bills.

I'd meet my mom and dad for lunch at a little cafe: something middling-light like the sausage sandwich at the cafe by the Menlo Park Caltrain.

After the late lunch, it's back to work to finish everything up at the "day job".

In the evening, I'd read and watch whatever DVD I'm working my way through at the time, finishing in time for my wife to arrive home and for me to start preparing dinner (assuming we aren't going out for tapas to celebrate something). Then we'd curl up on the couch (because in my perfect day my living room can support a couch) and watch a movie before heading out to live music or a spoken-word event up in San Francisco.

At night, well, at night there'd be sex. Duh. And then we'd snuggle and get enthralled in some deep conversation until we were both too browned and muzzy to try to talk anymore.

That, right there, is my perfect day. Minus the treasure hunt that threads its way through the whole day and at least one opportunity to wear a pirate hat.

Ask me anything

The Christmas Spirit

I've been having a lot of trouble this year with getting into Christmas.

This is weird for me; Christmas is usually my favorite time of the year. Everyone's merry and happy, families are together, there's a certain magic in the air. This year it feels like no-one is trying; like Christmas has been some lights strung in my living room and the need to buy presents and maybe some catered lunches in my office. I blame the recession (also the Commies); I assume that somehow, in most budgets, Christmas just got cut completely. I don't even know if I've seen any ornaments.

But this...somehow, just this tiny little video was enough for me to get myself into the Christmas spirit. It's silly, it's sometimes obvious, but it's creative and it's well-wishing and it's just plain cute; and I think maybe that was what I needed. Perhaps Christmas really will be Merry this year.

I think I'll go see a tree tomorrow. I can't afford one of my own...but maybe I can go see someone else's to tide me over until I decorate the one at my folks' house.

Yeah. That'll do.

Not Providence: Uploadageddon

Alright, my assorted barnyard animals...

It is done.

Since real-life troubles and circuitous legalese have prevented me from having sale-ready, collated copies of Not Providence Book One ready for holiday consumption, I have gone ahead and done it.

As of now, tyler-hayes.com includes the NEW, IMPROVED Prologue, "The Devil Inverted; the entirety of Book One, "The Progress Trap"; and is fully up to date on Book Two, "Magical Thinking". The site updates are not fully complete—the old and much less personally-enjoyable titles are still in evidence here and there—but this will hopefully hold you over. Also, make sure you load my stylesheet; the updates now include some poor man's protection against site-scraping that will make your reading life hellish if it doesn't load, and I promise there is nothing invasive in there.

Read.
Enjoy.
Disseminate.

Merry Christmas.

Not Providence: Pardon Our Nonexistent Dust

Point the first: Part Nineteen is alive and kicking. Who pieced that together?

Point the second: Things are going to look weird around tyler-hayes.com for the next few days. I'm doing some site overhauls and my schedule is such that they're happening piecemeal. You'll be seeing some weirdness with formatting (though hopefully not actual breaks in said formatting), places where the titles of Not Providence's books mismatch, and other little oddities; I swear they are temporary and will be made as non-intrusive as possible.

Point the third: We are now beginning our serious push to increase our readership (beginning now so that there's momentum behind the push after the holidays end), so if you aren't reading Not Providence or following the blog, please note that Book One, "The Progress Trap", will be going back up on the site some time today; and if you are reading, I'd love it if you'd recommend it to someone who might like to give it a try. Consider it a very low-budget Christmas present.

And now, off to Real Work. Have a great day, everybody.

A Subjective Smackdown from One of the Greatest

I was sitting here in my little cave, fuming at my lack of success (you know, unlike every other asshole who ever tried to write a novel), and I found myself flashing back to my time in the retail mines; and in particular, back to a co-worker who outspokenly derided genre fiction as less than literary (just the most forward of a whole little cabal of people who agreed with that statement); and as I fumed, I logged on to the Intertronic Communicizer, and discovered this as my Literary Quote of the Day:

"Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'" - Edgar Allan Poe

Eat your heart out, Cody's staffers; Poe is here to deliver the smackdown.

Yes, this is pointless and petty. I've been cooped up in my house with nothing but my stuffed triceratops and philodendron for company, let me have my small victories.

The Trouble with Stopping

Sometimes, it's hard to make oneself stop editing.

A manuscript can spring from you, full-formed and with all its sentences in order; but inevitably, when reading it over a second time, one finds those places in which the muse was not speaking quite as loudly, those little sentences put there because they had to be, those sections that clearly meant something deep in the beginning but were lost along with some alternate plot or characterization. And these finds are good; these rough spots are there to be planed down, to be transformed and perfected.

Except that one will find more of them on the third go-through.

And the fourth.

And the fifth and sixth and so on.

A piece of writing is rarely perfected; rarely brought to that sort of shimmering silver Ur-place that it existed in when it was conceived. Rarely are the turns of phrases as witty, the characterizations as deep, the thought processes and philosophical conundrums as bone-deep and challenging as they were when the ideas lumbered into ones' forebrain, demanding to be written down.

Aldous Huxley has gone on record as saying he wished he could re-write the ending of Brave New World; Franz Kafka demanded his writings be burned rather than published. Neil Gaiman catalogs this agony practically every time a new book is published. Every writer feels a certain amount of ecstasy in the act of creation, but every writer is also unsatisfied with what they have wrought. It's never quite what was imagined; never quite what was expected; and in some ways, that's the most exciting part, but in other ways, it makes reading one's own work a terrifying disappointment.

Me? I'm editing Done with Mirrors for what has to be the fourth time, forcing myself not to make too extensive a set of changes. I am going through and checking for a common grammar error I make (or rather, checking for those places in which "grammar error" is the operative word rather than "stylistic choice"), and in the process polishing up a little thing or two I see on the way.

After that, though, I refuse to let myself read this draft again without someone else's input; refuse to let myself revise it again; because if I don't stop, I will be some character from some terrible British comedy, revising for the thousandth time a novel that will never be published.

I'll never be perfect; but damn if I won't kill myself trying.

Not Providence: 'Sup

Part Eighteen is up, and I am too sick to really say anything more about it. I had fun writing it; you have fun reading it; let's all have fun together, or possibly go out to the lobby.

Part Nineteen should be on schedule, barring unforeseen boon or calamity. Thank you for your continued support.

Bawdy Storytelling

So, first of all: Not Providence will go up tomorrow, though perhaps not at the usual time; I didn't get a chance on my lunch break to get the edited update converted for Web viewing, and may not finish it before the 9-5 starts tomorrow morning.

And why, do you ask, did I not finish that tonight? Why, Tyler? Why would you strand us like this?

Two words for you: Bawdy Storytelling.

Some of you may have heard of this, and if so, and you like it or aren't in the SF Bay Area, feel free to move on and not read this post. If you haven't heard of it, then read on.

Bawdy Storytelling is exactly what it sounds like: perverts getting together and listening to perverts talk about being one, in the form of 10-ish minute stories told up on a stage at a nice bar in the Mission.

Bawdy Storytelling is also some things that are not apparent from the name: Bawdy Storytelling is an honest and friendly community; incredibly, sides-clutching funny; encouraging of newcomers; and a showcase for some really, madly, deeply talented storytellers. There are performers at this show who have blown me away with their skill at facial expression, powerful delivery, and just plain balls-out honesty. Bill Hicks would be proud.

It's late, and I recently took some Alka-Seltzer Cold (the night-time formula, because I'm wild and uncouth); so it is entirely likely that my words are not encompassing the true worth of Bawdy. So I'll tell you a story.

I have attended Bawdy Storytelling twice.

The first time, when giving my ride directions to my office (the show starts at a time such that we needed to hurry there right after I get off work), we miscommunicated about the road, and she wound up five miles east of where I was and unable to see a street sign. We fought traffic the whole way. And when we got there in time for the inspirational opening ukelele piece (oh yes, it's true), we were ecstatic.

The second time, my ride got held up at home, and then took an incorrect exit and wound up headed north instead of south; she arrived at 6:30 instead of 5:30, when we had been told that it started an hour early, at 7, instead of the usual 8. We were not the most cautious drivers on the way there, but were safe. And when we got there at 7:20 and discovered it indeed not only planned to start at 8 after all, but wound up starting late, we were pleased. And as soon as we knew the date for the January show, we immediately started making plans to be there.

Something about Bawdy sabotages our days (though mine was pretty gentle to me, I expect due to the Sick taking care of the bad luck already), and yet, we always find time to be there. I was dubious for months, but now I can't imagine missing it for anything that doesn't involve blood or wedding rings. When I say Bawdy Storytelling is amazing, I mean it; if you can put up with some nasty words and some very frank discussion of sex (and I mean frank in all caps, twenty-point font, letters of fire), it is some of the best performance I have ever had the pleasure to see, and especially for the $10 entrance fee.

Now, the organizer of the show very strongly encourages us to spread the word and help Bawdy Storytelling grow; so if you are interested, please, check out their website at bawdystorytelling.com, and see if the topic and timing for next month's show interests you. I might be there; who knows, I might even be onstage.

But not if you attend, Mom; there are some experiences that I think we're both happy keeping separate.

Not Providence: Restate My Assumptions

There are approximately five reasons I am willing to miss a Not Providence update (assuming I don't individuate all the different reasons I or a loved one could be having a medical emergency). One of the good ones just happened.

It may take a person involved in the creative life to understand why this is exciting, but, I have rather unabashedly been pitching a novel while I work on Not Providence and my magazine submissions. So far it's been exactly what you'd expect: a whole lot of digital slammed doors, the words "not for me", and the whole time the thought that, you know, maybe a guy could be happy with a career in Account Management...

And then, because God is the biggest of bitches, I got an email back that was a bit rosier.

I of course won't go into details, but the bottom line is that I was asked to submit sample chapters and the rest of the usual novel proposal rigamarole (details to come when it isn't late and the details aren't boring). This does not, I must stress, mean that I have representation; and I am braced with a heart full of wonder for the strong likelihood that I will still get a "No". But this is farther than I have gotten yet, and after the way this year has destroyed me in terms of my artistic aspirations I really can't be grateful enough to know some of the effort mattered.

But, that happened this morning; then today was the 9-5; then tonight was getting the query packet together, and dinner, and getting the query packet together, and telling my parents so they didn't hear it entirely via the Internet. When I got off the one it was 10:01, and I had not even touched tomorrow's update. And tomorrow night I'm busy.

So, that said, it looks like this week's update is to be pushed to Thursday, and today's "writing work" will have consisted of prepping for tomorrow's query submission. This may seem like bad news for you Not Providence lovers, but the truth is that work on the serial was begin to become wearying, and having a week off in which I got to undertake such a major hurdle for my (shall we say) mainstream writing career was probably just what the doctor ordered.

So, no Randall in Mudville tomorrow. But at least now I'm upbeat enough to believe he'll continue to thrive.

A Research Request

Dear Intertronic Communicator,

A writer (that's me) is beginning a Research Phase and is requesting Real Stories of True Horror.

To wit: I am seeking information on gunshot wounds—actual gunshot wounds, not the strangely survivable scratches that occur in films. I need detailed info on GSWs that have been non-fatal to the victim (a vegetative state does not count for my purposes); any details you can provide, or resources you can point me to that I would understand with only basic understanding of the human body, would be appreciated. Yes, gore is absolutely acceptable, even invited, so please do not be afraid to shock me; I just want to get my physics right rather than trust either Hollywood or TVTropes to be steering me in the right direction.

And before there is concern about spoilers: no, this is not for a specific project; a specific project triggered it, but mostly it stems from my realization that I'm not sure what kind of ballistic punishment a piece of meat about our size can sustain and survive, nor what sort of state it'll be in afterward.

Your assistance in this most important and grisly matter is appreciated.

Sincerely,
He Who Posts

Not Providence Once More

Part Seventeen is up, on time and actually readable. Enjoy it; there may never be a Book Two, Part Seventeen quite like it.