You may never want to open a story with one of these sentences.
It was a dark and stormy kite.
Brent Entwhistle knew he would get in trouble one day for peeling the banana from the wrong end and now that day had come.
“It’s the new watusi!” Cyril bleated.
John “Hawk” Dirk examined the bomb with great care, noting the timer only had forty seven days left on it.
She whipped her luxurious golden hair around, like a yellow bed sheet flapping in the wind.
“You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog,” Byron said to the boy as he rode past on his bike, suddenly realizing that that curse of speaking only in Elvis song lyrics had come true.
Abraham Lincoln swiveled around and pointed a Howitzer at Booth, thus beginning the craziest version of history yet.
The family reunion would be awkward this year, Jane knew, but all she could do was hope the others would forget about her out of control bionic peg leg and move on.
The killdozer thundered relentlessly toward the tranquil town of Sleepyville, but it would meet its match with the murderhoe that lumbered to meet it.
“I’m only one man,” Ben said to the desperate crowd assembled before him, “but if you clone me I could be a hundred men!”
The first and only rule of writing is to write (so I say).
Today the weather changed from weirdly hot to slightly cooler than normal, clouds gathered up in the sky (their favorite gathering place) and presented the threat of showers (it sprinkled a little). I opted to skip my lunch walk because I don’t like walks in the rain or on the beach or around candlelit dinners or mostly because I was paranoid the sprinkle would become a downpour and I’d return to work sopping wet. I also wanted a day off from the walks to show my right leg how beneficent and kind I am, to encourage it to heal and be wonderful and normal once more.
My usual plan when I skip the lunch walk is to curl up (well, not actually curl up, that would be uncomfortable) with my Surface Pro 3 in the staff lounge and do some writing. How much writing did I do at lunch today?
None.
But I surfed the internet. Oh yes, I learned about new gadgets, read opinions on various things and caught up on the news. But writing? Not a word.
I felt bad and proceeded to have an afternoon filled with cascading or at least remarkably coincidental failures. Karma? Perhaps.
I noticed kobo.com was highlighting something called James Patterson BOOKSHOTS. Before reading further I speculated on what these might be. Photos of James Patterson novels that have been shot at with guns in artful ways? James Patterson book covers re-imagined as placemats for your favorite home-cooked meals (I suppose a better name for those would be BOOKMATS)?
It turns out these are novellas that promise to be under 150 pages and under $5. That’s $5 Canadian, so almost free.
Right now two of these books are available, each for $3.99. “The revolution in reading” promises approximately 50,000 more titles in the next few months, with more to come beyond that. None of them appear to be written by James Patterson. They cover a variety of genres, ranging from thrillers using Patterson’s characters to romance and non-fiction.
Some (many? most?) of these books are banking on the mere presence of the Patterson name to sell them. Do I really want to read a book of quotes from Trump and Clinton? I might if I trust Patterson in a vague, general way and admire his work (“He wrote some kids book, he must be a nice guy”). And the publisher is so confident in this premise (“Patterson’s name alone will sell a book of quotes from Trump and Clinton”) that they are pushing ahead with the aforementioned five million or so books (er, BOOKSHOTS).
The whole thing is predictable–authors attaching their names to books they haven’t actually written is hardly a new thing or exclusive to Patterson–but also weird and a little depressing. I mean, if Stephen King lent his name to a series of cookbooks, I would find it interesting in an abstract sense, wondering if the recipes were all about how best to prepare vampire bat goulash (ghoulash?) or crunchy almond spiders, but if it was just King’s name slapped on each volume I’d be thinking “cash grab” and pass. Actually, I’d pass regardless, because I’m not particularly yearning to find out what sort of recipes Stephen King has to offer. The cash grab is the depressing part.
The weird part is attaching the name to all manner of genres. It’s as if Patterson’s brand is so strong it can be used to promote anything. Why stop at books? Why not James Patterson clothing, lunch boxes or toiletries?
On the positive side, this does give other writers an opportunity to get their work published, and with the Patterson brand behind the books, a greater chance to be noticed. The low price and low page count also pushes these into the impulse buy zone, further increasing the odds that some of them will be picked up.
Now I’m conflicted. I kind of want to hate James Patterson BOOKSHOTS because, come on, it’s a money grab. But if it helps writers, especially new writers…maybe it’s not as horrible as I’d like it to be.
I’m still not picking up Sacking the Quarterback, though.
It got up to 31º C today, nearly 10 degrees above the average. Even the breeze was hot. Given that this is still the first week of June you might think this would be an omen pointing toward a very hot summer. However, the forecast is calling for rain and below seasonal temperatures just days from now, so who knows.
One day we’ll have smart robots that will know exactly what weather is coming. And they will use it against us because robots don’t care if it rains.
I went for another long walk today and once more wore my Hokas. The weather was much warmer, edging past the mid 20s as one of those fancy high pressure ridges has formed over the area (Weather Underground has a post about “dangerous, extreme heat blanketing the west” this weekend).
After completing the 18+ km route (walking counter-clockwise around Burnaby Lake this time) I noted the following vs. the last big walk:
my overall pace was even faster, 8:38/km vs. 8:54/km
my right leg started to feel achy after only one km; once the endorphins kicked in it wasn’t too bad
the right ankle twinged briefly again at the 8 km mark. Very weird that it would be that predictable.
the right shoe was rubbing one of my toes, which didn’t happen last time. Maybe the socks made the difference? The toe was rubbed red but never got to where it started bleeding
I jogged a few times in brief bursts and felt okay while doing so
I actually felt a strong urge to jog several times, simply to get back sooner because the shoe rubbing on the toe was bugging me a lot. A strange and unpleasant incentive, but at least it gave me the opportunity for a few test runs (ho ho).
The heat didn’t bother me. It’s much more tolerable when walking vs. running.
Oh, and the dirty corgi? This was a little weird. I passed by a number of people, given the zippy pace I was keeping, and one couple had a dog with a docked tail. I think all dogs should have big tails that can effortlessly sweep items off a coffee table and it strikes me as a little cruel to dock tails simply because it’s tradition or whatever. Anyway, it made me start thinking about other dogs that usually get docked and the corgi immediately came to mind. A few minutes later I passed a couple with a corgi. How strangely coincidental! The corgi was unleashed (no surprise there) and was distracted by a small mud puddle that had lingered since the last rain, so I (seemingly) walked by unnoticed. After sating its curiosity, it ran up to me from behind and for reasons only it will know, jumped up to say hi. Being a corgi, it only made it as far as my left hand, which it covered in water and grit from the puddle it had waddled through. I was both amused and annoyed. I washed when I got home.
I don’t like dogs. Still.
The walk was a mixed bag. The pace means the soreness of the right leg wasn’t enough to slow me down and the little joggy bits seemed fine, but after three weeks without runs I’m still uncertain whether I should try a run now or wait a little longer.
The washer broke a month or so ago, though it feels like five years. It would spin then shake then combine both until it felt like it was trying to reach escape velocity. We replaced the rubber ring (after waiting several weeks for the hard-to-find part to ship) that forms the seal when it’s washing (it’s a front loading machine) but after doing this the washer continued to made grindy noises and more disturbingly, smoke. We opted to replace it. Although the dryer still works, we further decided to replace them as a set and began looking for deals.
We found a matching set of Samsung machines at Coast Appliance and they have been delivered. We will install them soon™ and I expect it to be tremendous fun because they are stacking machines and weigh about as much as a pair of mated elephants. Despite that, I can safely say after dealing with a local laundromat for the past month, a place that features washers that leave your clothes with enough water in them to fill a bathtub, as well as staff who apparently hate customers and cleaning clothes, I am actually kind of excited about doing laundry at home again. As a side benefit, the purchase also made me clean the living room to make temporary storage space for the new machines (I don’t recommend replacing large household appliances as a means to encourage you to clean the house, as large household appliances are kind of expensive and you should probably clean anyway, because dust should never become so thick that you can carve into it.)
If you ever talk to someone who’s read The Lord of the Rings books, it’s inevitable that you get to that question: Did you read the songs?
For me the answer was not a straightforward “no” because I did read some of them, then I read fewer as I worked my way through the story, then I just plain stopped. But I still had a great time reading The Lord of the Rings.
The same can be said of Neil Gaiman’s latest collection, Trigger Warning, which intersperses a few poems–the equivalent to Tolkien’s songs–in among the short stories. In his second collection, Fragile Things, he describes the poems as “bonuses for the kind of people who do not need to worry about sneaky and occasional poems lurking inside their short-story collections.”
I read some of the poems, then read fewer of them, the just plain stopped. But I still had a great time reading Trigger Warning.
This is a hodgepodge of stories, covering everything from modern horror to high fantasy, all of it presented with Gaiman’s usual dry wit and depiction of the world as a place both dark and beautiful.
I enjoyed all of the stories but being who I am, the ones I enjoyed most were the Twilight Zone-esque “The Thing About Cassandra” in which imagined loves are perhaps not so imaginary, “Orange,” which uses a question and answer format to show the transformation of a young, tanning-obsessed woman into something rather more cosmic and “The Man Who Forgot Ray Bradbury,” which paints a chilling portrait of a man who forgets words, with more impact than one might expect. Stories based on Dr. Who and Sherlock Holmes are well-executed and the final and original piece, “Black Dog” features Shadow from American Gods, in a story about murder, ghosts and the power of the mind to both protect and destroy.
This is an easy recommendation for anyone who enjoys Gaiman’s writing, but I feel there is enough variety here to entice those unfamiliar with his work.
Today I woke up with an immense pressure headache.
I also went to bed the previous night the same way, though the pressure was not quite as immense then.
I’ve also been stuffed up the past few days so perhaps this is a renewed mega-allergy attack for an allergy that I have yet to identify but may be associated with pollen or other spring-related junk in the air. Whatever it is, it made me feel almost dizzy just to stand up. Bending down to tie my shoes was like diving in a submarine to the depths where The Great Old Ones await.
I opted to take the day off work then self-medicated with some Advil. After letting it kick in I decided to get outside, thinking that some fresh air might help and the exercise (probably) couldn’t hurt.
I tracked the walk, which took me to Burnaby Lake, around it and then back, a total of over 18 km. My pace over the first few km was in line with recent walks, starting around 9:30/km but then something strange happened (this is the first strange part of the walk). My pace picked up and continued to pick up. Save for the final km, when I finally started feeling weary, I stayed at or under 9:00/km for an overall average pace of 8:54/km. This is my best walk in months and rather unexpected. Even stranger (part 2) was that my right leg and foot (and my left foot, for that matter) felt fine throughout. I had a brief twinge in the right ankle around the 8 km mark but it lasted only a few moments and never returned. The leg continued to feel fine post-walk. It feels fine now.
What was so different about this walk compared to the others where the leg and foot have felt cranky and sore?
I wore my running shoes. The color migrating Hokas, to be precise. And I think that was enough. The Hokas may not retain their color well but they do provide a noticeable level of support. My normal walking shoes are Scarpa light trail hiking shoes. With my orthotics inserted in them they are eminently wearable but without them my left foot will start crying about me being a mean-spirited barbarian sometimes within mere minutes of walking out wearing them. Could the shoes really make that much difference? Possibly.
I’m going to wear my new Brooks Cascadia shoes for the rest of the week and see how they compare. Hopefully the results prove interesting, just not ancient Chinese curse interesting.
The third and final strange part of the walk came near the end. I had just exited the Brunette River trail onto North Road. There was a car in the curb lane on the bridge facing south with its hazard lights on. The rear bumper showed signs of damage, presumably from a rear-end collision. There appeared to be bits of the car on the road, under the bumper. None of this is strange because, as they say, accidents happen.
The strange part is there was no sign of the other presumed vehicle in this presumed accident. And no sign of the driver. Or any drivers. Or emergency vehicles. Or anything or anyone else that might be related to this looks-lik-an-accident. Just a slightly damaged car sitting in traffic by itself.
I got out of there quick, not just because the strangeness perturbed me, but because a car sitting on a busy road as rush hour commenced seems like a good way for more accidents to happen.
