Hey, you! Yeah, you. The guilty party: that person who lazes about and doesn't write anything in that blog of yours. Time to dust off the ol' keyboard, crack your knuckles, and get to typing! The world is so full of things just waiting to be ranted about--so many stupid people drinking their cow milk, writing their inconsistent novels, dreaming about pulling teeth while they shatter the sacred dreams of others, and using their four-letter-word vocabularies to make themselves feel superior! So many lamentations just waiting to be shared with a world that doesn't care!
It's time to rail on the morons who smoke under your window. The man who beats his wife. The woman who thinks herself superior in the office because one hundred years ago she won the right to wear pants. Stop sitting back to try and take it. Don't take it! Beat it down! Scream to be heard! Use that first amendment to add your spiel to countless others.
Let's do this thing, and let the consequence follow.
4.25.2012
6.05.2010
Lament #0020 - Drat and Bloody Blast It All!
I always seem to do these rants in pairs. Well, here's today's second article, which also happens to be the big 20.
Let's ****'n get right into it. I **** bet you'll never guess what the **** we're going to ****'n talk about!
That's ****'n right!
Profanity. I'm going to admit right here and now that upon occasion there just isn't another word quite like that one on the tip of your tongue. Still, I find it an enjoyable challenge to express myself in less crass ways. Ways that make me sound eloquent, like I have a vocabulary surpassing four-letter words.
There are many who don't feel that way, but consider this.
It really does make you sound stupid when you use obscene language in every sentence. Not only that, it's rude--like spitting tobacco into someone's face. Yeah, let's face it. It's verbal assault.
There was a time, a century back, when using profanity in front of a woman was horrible. Men refrained from crass conversation while in a woman's presence, and if they slipped, they profusely apologized. Such is not the case now. Feminists just wouldn't allow it (it seems a feminist rant is in order; it keeps coming up). But there is such a thing as restraint; as respect. If a person isn't using four-letter words, you ****'n better not, either.
An example. A while back, a man on a bike ran into our car as my sister and I were pulling into a parking space. He was definitely in the wrong (ask any witnesses), but he got to his feet screaming the f-word, demanding compensation. He scraped my car, leaving a mark on the passenger-side door. Was I screaming at him for ruining my paint job? No. Were I or my sister swearing? No. And did his language ultimately avail him? Absolutely not. We threatened to call the cops and he skedaddled away right-quick.
It is possible to experience the highs and lows of life without cussing up a storm. If it's a habit, break it. If it's for reaction's sake, bear in mind you're the one sounding like an uneducated buffoon. There are plenty of other ways to express yourself, without calling everyone else awful names. And if your intention is to offend, take some anger management classes. You flipping need help.
Let's ****'n get right into it. I **** bet you'll never guess what the **** we're going to ****'n talk about!
That's ****'n right!
Profanity. I'm going to admit right here and now that upon occasion there just isn't another word quite like that one on the tip of your tongue. Still, I find it an enjoyable challenge to express myself in less crass ways. Ways that make me sound eloquent, like I have a vocabulary surpassing four-letter words.
There are many who don't feel that way, but consider this.
It really does make you sound stupid when you use obscene language in every sentence. Not only that, it's rude--like spitting tobacco into someone's face. Yeah, let's face it. It's verbal assault.
There was a time, a century back, when using profanity in front of a woman was horrible. Men refrained from crass conversation while in a woman's presence, and if they slipped, they profusely apologized. Such is not the case now. Feminists just wouldn't allow it (it seems a feminist rant is in order; it keeps coming up). But there is such a thing as restraint; as respect. If a person isn't using four-letter words, you ****'n better not, either.
An example. A while back, a man on a bike ran into our car as my sister and I were pulling into a parking space. He was definitely in the wrong (ask any witnesses), but he got to his feet screaming the f-word, demanding compensation. He scraped my car, leaving a mark on the passenger-side door. Was I screaming at him for ruining my paint job? No. Were I or my sister swearing? No. And did his language ultimately avail him? Absolutely not. We threatened to call the cops and he skedaddled away right-quick.
It is possible to experience the highs and lows of life without cussing up a storm. If it's a habit, break it. If it's for reaction's sake, bear in mind you're the one sounding like an uneducated buffoon. There are plenty of other ways to express yourself, without calling everyone else awful names. And if your intention is to offend, take some anger management classes. You flipping need help.
Lament #0019 - Majority Report
I am dumbfounded. Dumbfounded, I tell you.
Browsing through my art community, I stumbled about a club promoting hetero orientation (aka being straight). Heigh-ho, I thought. About time we have one. That's the trouble with being part of a liberal arts community. Liberals tend to latch onto the name and take over. (Sorry, guys, liberal arts is something entirely different! Check out your nearby dictionary.)
The club promotes pride in being straight. And, yeah. They get massively flamed for it. The entire profile page is littered with profane comments accusing the administrators of bigotry and hatred. These flamers call the club "another homophobic group pretending that it is not."
But that wasn't the best comment of the lot. Try this on for size, quoted exactly as it's written:
A second comment backs the first:
Once again, how is this not hateful and bigoted? I fail to understand how they can assume themselves immune from the tirade, when they seek out and then flame a Straight Club. Now, to be fair, I've never visited a Gay Club so I don't know if we heterosexuals ever traverse their domain and leave idiotic flames. If anyone does, stop. It only stirs up trouble. Persecution can only breed resentment and open rebellion.
Let's remember the Golden Rule, okay?
In closing, both quotes dictate that we in majority groups can't separate ourselves like that, because it discriminates against them. Uh, NO. If you can hang with your buddies, separating yourselves from us, we can have our own little hang spot for holidays, weekends, and art communities. It's honestly no different from religion- and fan-groups.
Seriously, people.
Browsing through my art community, I stumbled about a club promoting hetero orientation (aka being straight). Heigh-ho, I thought. About time we have one. That's the trouble with being part of a liberal arts community. Liberals tend to latch onto the name and take over. (Sorry, guys, liberal arts is something entirely different! Check out your nearby dictionary.)
The club promotes pride in being straight. And, yeah. They get massively flamed for it. The entire profile page is littered with profane comments accusing the administrators of bigotry and hatred. These flamers call the club "another homophobic group pretending that it is not."
But that wasn't the best comment of the lot. Try this on for size, quoted exactly as it's written:
"You don't understand the meaning of 'pride'. Just like saying 'white pride' is un-needed because it's the majority, theres no need to say straight pride- useless you're creating hate. As a black man i find this offensive, because the majority doesn't ever need to promote 'pride' since it's never subjected to hate, discrimination or bigotry."Whoa, whoa, whoa! Back up, people! I happen to find the above quote highly hateful, discriminatory and bigoted. As a white woman, I'm offended. But wait, as a Caucasian, does that count for anything? I am a woman, too, so maybe the feminists will back me up. Ha!
A second comment backs the first:
"Gays have gay groups because they are a minority. Groups help them find each other and allow them to socialize. You, on the other hand, have created a group which touts your pride in being 'normal'. Call yourselves what you want, say you aren't about hate or bigotry, but we all know who and what you really are."
Once again, how is this not hateful and bigoted? I fail to understand how they can assume themselves immune from the tirade, when they seek out and then flame a Straight Club. Now, to be fair, I've never visited a Gay Club so I don't know if we heterosexuals ever traverse their domain and leave idiotic flames. If anyone does, stop. It only stirs up trouble. Persecution can only breed resentment and open rebellion.
Let's remember the Golden Rule, okay?
In closing, both quotes dictate that we in majority groups can't separate ourselves like that, because it discriminates against them. Uh, NO. If you can hang with your buddies, separating yourselves from us, we can have our own little hang spot for holidays, weekends, and art communities. It's honestly no different from religion- and fan-groups.
Seriously, people.
10.06.2009
Lament #0018 - It's NOT Tom, Dick or Harry! Try harder!
My second rant of the day stems from a conversation with my sister last night, in which I was very heatedly lamenting a very strong pet-peeve of mine. It pertains to many fantasy novels, including those written by very prominent and respected names within the writing community. Before I proceed, I need to make it very clear that I admire and ardently respect these individuals, and that this is purely a personal preference--and that my own preference just makes more logical sense.
I will list four novels to use in reference to my pet-peeve, which is actually sort of a two-parter. Ready? Here they are:
Richard, Simon and Angela. Oooh, what do these characters have in common? Well, names like ours of course! Something wrong with that? No, not precisely. But let's try three other names, each from a respective series: Kahlan, Miriamele and Eragon. What's the difference here? Well, they aren't names like ours. Oh, sure. Each author has an explanation in the form of different parts of the world, yada yada. But that's sort of stretching the truth, don't you think? Again, I'm not disrespecting the genius of the stories (nor am I placing these three books on the same level, by any means) but it seems quite a stretch that the only names from our own world are commonplace English names. I don't see a Shao, Maria or Akira within the pages of these works.
Now, we take the fourth example, the Enduring Flame Trilogy, where there isn't a single "English" name to be found. "Great!" says I, "A real other world with no laziness attached." Quite the contrary, in fact. They went so far as to rename coffee, camals and oranges! But, now, here's a different kind of trouble altogether. It takes reading about shotors several times before we have a clear understanding that these are camals, in effect; not something utterly different and found in Star Wars. This isn't always a bad thing, but here's my point.
Take my world B'korba, in contrast to these other books (again, not comparing genius, don't take offense). There are no characters within my fantasy world called Harry, Tom and Mary. Only Sai, Fayne and Mikena. On the other hand, there are horses, apples and raspberry tarts. How can this be? Here's how.
A fantasy work is generally regarded by fans, myself included, as chronicled histories (while fictional) of other worlds. As such, it is an unspoken rule that these works are "translated" into English for our enjoyment. It's like taking a Japanese manga and putting English in place of Japanese in the speech bubbles.
There's a series, referred to as Detective Conan in Japan, called Case Closed in America. It's an early translation job in which all the characters (like Shinichi Kudo) are given different, American names for "easy remembering," (Jimmy Kudo?!) although it takes away the authenticity of the Japan-based work. Since, manga translations have been much more accurate (although far from perfect).
So, looking at a fantasy novel as a historical, translated work, is the translator seriously going to take the time to rename Sai, Sam; Fayne, Frank; and Mikena, MaryAnne? However, if what the characters are, in essence, riding are horses, is the translator going to call them naafari because in Sai's language that's how the same creature is referred? I highly doubt it.
My point: It's a different world. Don't be lazy, make it real! Take time. If a character is called Richard, don't call his significant other Kahlan--call her Kate! Or, better still, call him something closer to Kahlan's name.
Even if the author can come up with an explanation for why half the characters have English names and the other half don't, it comes across to me as laziness. You can do better, novelists. We expect you're brilliant enough.
I will list four novels to use in reference to my pet-peeve, which is actually sort of a two-parter. Ready? Here they are:
- Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth series.
- Tad William's Memory, Sorrow and Thorn trilogy
- Christopher Paolini's Inheritance cycle
- Mercedes Lackey and James Mallory's Enduring Flame trilogy
Richard, Simon and Angela. Oooh, what do these characters have in common? Well, names like ours of course! Something wrong with that? No, not precisely. But let's try three other names, each from a respective series: Kahlan, Miriamele and Eragon. What's the difference here? Well, they aren't names like ours. Oh, sure. Each author has an explanation in the form of different parts of the world, yada yada. But that's sort of stretching the truth, don't you think? Again, I'm not disrespecting the genius of the stories (nor am I placing these three books on the same level, by any means) but it seems quite a stretch that the only names from our own world are commonplace English names. I don't see a Shao, Maria or Akira within the pages of these works.
Now, we take the fourth example, the Enduring Flame Trilogy, where there isn't a single "English" name to be found. "Great!" says I, "A real other world with no laziness attached." Quite the contrary, in fact. They went so far as to rename coffee, camals and oranges! But, now, here's a different kind of trouble altogether. It takes reading about shotors several times before we have a clear understanding that these are camals, in effect; not something utterly different and found in Star Wars. This isn't always a bad thing, but here's my point.
Take my world B'korba, in contrast to these other books (again, not comparing genius, don't take offense). There are no characters within my fantasy world called Harry, Tom and Mary. Only Sai, Fayne and Mikena. On the other hand, there are horses, apples and raspberry tarts. How can this be? Here's how.
A fantasy work is generally regarded by fans, myself included, as chronicled histories (while fictional) of other worlds. As such, it is an unspoken rule that these works are "translated" into English for our enjoyment. It's like taking a Japanese manga and putting English in place of Japanese in the speech bubbles.
There's a series, referred to as Detective Conan in Japan, called Case Closed in America. It's an early translation job in which all the characters (like Shinichi Kudo) are given different, American names for "easy remembering," (Jimmy Kudo?!) although it takes away the authenticity of the Japan-based work. Since, manga translations have been much more accurate (although far from perfect).
So, looking at a fantasy novel as a historical, translated work, is the translator seriously going to take the time to rename Sai, Sam; Fayne, Frank; and Mikena, MaryAnne? However, if what the characters are, in essence, riding are horses, is the translator going to call them naafari because in Sai's language that's how the same creature is referred? I highly doubt it.
My point: It's a different world. Don't be lazy, make it real! Take time. If a character is called Richard, don't call his significant other Kahlan--call her Kate! Or, better still, call him something closer to Kahlan's name.
Even if the author can come up with an explanation for why half the characters have English names and the other half don't, it comes across to me as laziness. You can do better, novelists. We expect you're brilliant enough.
Lament #0017 - Where did all the support go?
All growing up, we hear the words of our families and teachers, all saying the same thing: "What do you want to be when you grow up?" They don't laugh when we answer "Astronaut", "Famous Singer", or "Princess." They only smile and reply, "You can be anything you want to be."
Then we hit our teenage years. We realize that princesses don't live in America, singers live poor lifestyles, and astronauts rarely make it into space. So we become rather cynical, or we jump to different dreams. As we decide on something a little closer to home, we share these new dreams with friends and family, and of course everyone is supportive (although their smiles may be a little less genuine, what does it matter? we'll show them).
When a teenager, I was asked what I wanted to be. My reply was always, "An author." "Of what?" "Fantasy." That answer was either followed by a badly guarded expression and a stiff, "Oh," or an excited, if disbelieving glint in their eye and, "Oh, really? When you're famous, I want to read it!" "Sure," I'd reply, beaming, absolutely certain that it would happen, and wouldn't they be surprised?
Then it was time to grow up. I moved out and my friends moved on. Upon occasion I would run into one of these long-ago friends and they'd ask, "How's your book? I still want to read it when your famous."
"I could give you a copy now," I offered.
"Oh, sure. That'd be great. I don't have a lot of time, but, ya know, I'd love to read it."
Naively, happily, I'd send them a copy. Six months later I had heard no response, and upon our next encounter:
"Have you had a chance to read my book?"
"Er, no. I've been busy, but I'll get to it soon. And hey, I still want a signed copy."
"Of course," I'd say, and after several such encounters with different people, I learned my lesson. Never again would I share my unpublished work with fair-weather friends. No doubt these same people, upon my actual published work, would reappear in my life with every claim that they, "read it before it was published!" (ha ha) and "She's my best friend."
"Right," I'd say. "After those who believed in me."
It seems that when we're small we can do anything, be anyone, and go anywhere. But when we're adults we're expected to change, become something ordinary and practical, or we just "won't go anywhere." How disheartening, how pathetic. That we set aside the dreams of our youth because no one really cares. Oh, certainly, I have a lot of dear supporters, especially within my own family. But of those friends who grew up with me, knowing my dreams, conversing with me about my story, I can count on one hand those who still actually believe in my ability enough to help me now, by reading a manuscript in their spare time.
One good thing, at least it's a means of knowing who really cares, and who only indulges in the moment. I will not forget the people who have supported me when there may be no national recognition; only a dear memory etched in my own heart, forever.
Here's to you, foul-weather friends. Those who believe in me now, before the future becomes our present.
Then we hit our teenage years. We realize that princesses don't live in America, singers live poor lifestyles, and astronauts rarely make it into space. So we become rather cynical, or we jump to different dreams. As we decide on something a little closer to home, we share these new dreams with friends and family, and of course everyone is supportive (although their smiles may be a little less genuine, what does it matter? we'll show them).
When a teenager, I was asked what I wanted to be. My reply was always, "An author." "Of what?" "Fantasy." That answer was either followed by a badly guarded expression and a stiff, "Oh," or an excited, if disbelieving glint in their eye and, "Oh, really? When you're famous, I want to read it!" "Sure," I'd reply, beaming, absolutely certain that it would happen, and wouldn't they be surprised?
Then it was time to grow up. I moved out and my friends moved on. Upon occasion I would run into one of these long-ago friends and they'd ask, "How's your book? I still want to read it when your famous."
"I could give you a copy now," I offered.
"Oh, sure. That'd be great. I don't have a lot of time, but, ya know, I'd love to read it."
Naively, happily, I'd send them a copy. Six months later I had heard no response, and upon our next encounter:
"Have you had a chance to read my book?"
"Er, no. I've been busy, but I'll get to it soon. And hey, I still want a signed copy."
"Of course," I'd say, and after several such encounters with different people, I learned my lesson. Never again would I share my unpublished work with fair-weather friends. No doubt these same people, upon my actual published work, would reappear in my life with every claim that they, "read it before it was published!" (ha ha) and "She's my best friend."
"Right," I'd say. "After those who believed in me."
It seems that when we're small we can do anything, be anyone, and go anywhere. But when we're adults we're expected to change, become something ordinary and practical, or we just "won't go anywhere." How disheartening, how pathetic. That we set aside the dreams of our youth because no one really cares. Oh, certainly, I have a lot of dear supporters, especially within my own family. But of those friends who grew up with me, knowing my dreams, conversing with me about my story, I can count on one hand those who still actually believe in my ability enough to help me now, by reading a manuscript in their spare time.
One good thing, at least it's a means of knowing who really cares, and who only indulges in the moment. I will not forget the people who have supported me when there may be no national recognition; only a dear memory etched in my own heart, forever.
Here's to you, foul-weather friends. Those who believe in me now, before the future becomes our present.
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