I've been told many times that night court is some of the best free entertainment in town. Admittedly, I've dragged myself down to the audience benches more than once to get giggles watching the judge and a parade of police try to bring forth coherence from the drunk and disorderly.
Now, for those of us blessed (for lack of brutal honesty) with children, another amusing diversion is to push them to work their brains when they have little interest in doing so. Oh, such a fuss. Hey, they need to earn their keep. Entertaining you is the least they can do in your honor.
There are lots of ways to get those brain juices pumping and you may already have your favorites. What I propose here is to engage their critical processes to productive end. Whether using stories they're reading or movies they're seeing, get your brood to show off what they've got by articulating what they do and don't like about the work. Add to that by having them go into detail about specific elements that do or do not serve the story well. Push their imaginations by having them share anything they might have done to improve the story.
There are many things you can do with that, taking it from directed conversation, to an organized game, to full-on home schooling if you like. The important thing is that you have fun with it. Oh, and get those brains active, too.
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Monday, July 1, 2013
Monday, September 3, 2012
16762--Reality From A Certain POV
I remember it used to be limited to things I was writing. That was fine. I would analyze my writing as I constructed it. That seemed to be quite practical, allowing me to assess whether or not I was moving things in a proper direction. If it wasn't making me happy, I could change it. "Oh, I'm building a cliched story, or at least something I've seen done before. Looks like I need to do something else."
Now--and though I say now, it's something I've seen building over several years--I can't just sit and watch a movie or a TV show or enjoy reading a story. As I take them in for processing, my mind is analyzing them. This isn't to say that I can no longer be entertained, but I've got a whole other nerd processor running simultaneously. I guess that means they're not doing enough to engage my brain. Yeah, I was that kid in school, with mom exchanging pages of notes with teachers about giving me extra work in class.
When it's entertainment time, I'm trying not to be spoiler guy for anyone else in the room. Fortunately, working out the mystery set-up of TV shows or movies ten minutes in doesn't mean I can't enjoy a good story and entertaining characters with well-written dialogue. In fact, it makes me look harder for them. It also makes me look for more news and read more non-fiction to give the Nerd a rest, but that's OK, too. I like learning. The Nerd loves Jeopardy!
With fiction, though, I'm looking for something that's not wasting my time. I want something that's well-written, whether comedy or adventure or drama, because while I'm immersing myself in the alternate reality the Nerd is at work. "Ah, here's the conflict character," he says. "Here comes the climax," he tells me. "This would've been better if--" or "Oh, they still need to do ______ because they still need the plot element of this character to ______ in order to justify the others doing ________." "Remember how all this started?" he asks. "Look at these changes _______ has gone through." "Oh, this is going to work out to be ________." "Needs more cowbell."
The Nerd isn't so much a critic as a clinician, breaking written works down into analytical elements. I suppose that means it lives in the left brain, being all logical in there. I know it's tied into the writing part because, as mentioned earlier, it does it to me, too--analyzing my writing as I'm writing, figuring out story formulas, story needs and such. Sometimes, it's almost like having a co-writer, I imagine, but with smoother communication. "Look, irony! Call Alanis Morrisette."
"What're you doing?" she asked as I backed up the movie for the fourth time to replay a single line of dialogue. "Is something wrong?"
"No, I just love the way he says that line," I explained. "It's this perfect inflection where you can tell he's in pain after being tortured, but sounding surprised that it hurt. It's just enough to make it sad and funny."
"You're such a nerd."
"It's a great delivery," I said, pushing PLAY. "Sorry." Sometimes it gets out in the open.
Eyes aren't just the windows to the soul, they feed your brain a tremendous amount of information you're not even fully aware is there. So what's that brain of yours doing with it? How is it affecting the way you interact with what, in effect, is your particular world? Something tells me that other writers must go through this sort of internal interaction much as I do, watching people as character studies and absorbing entertainments as analytical examples as well. You tell me, though. How does the world look from your POV and does your reality have enough cowbell?
Monday, September 26, 2011
16423--Lions and Tigers and Bears! Alright!
I was watching a group of actors perform an acting exercise. They seemed to think it was a standard sort of thing, giving them the chance to be creative and move around and think about things differently. OK, so not so different from a writing exercise. What the director told them to do was to pretend to be their favorite animal. I had no problem with this, but noticed something I found very odd. As the few others of us watched and quietly figured out what animal each actor was mimicking, I noticed that there were no predators. I also found it odd that no one else noticed this till I mentioned it.
No one else seemed to think it odd, but I sure did. At the least, I thought it had to be some manner of statistical anomaly. I feel like it has to be saying something about those people. Maybe it's indicative of actors in general. I don't know. I haven't been interested enough to start polling, but I'd be interested in any comments readers would care to leave here.
Maybe it says something more about me. I like animals well enough. Lots of them are delicious. I don't hunt them, but I don't get on anyone's case for doing so because, as mentioned, I do eat them and don't see any of them volunteering for that. Well, not since that Noah's Ark project, anyway, and that was just a story so far as we've been told that at best exaggerated a happening of far smaller scale. Wild animals went in by twos, but domestic animals went in by eights so that...Well, I'm sure you've had your share of meals before so I shouldn't have to spell it out. Even if I don't eat them, lots of my favorite animals are predators. And I'm not talking about just any predators. The ones that get my attention are typically apex predators. Even among the non-predators, the herbivores that interest me most seem to be the ones no one else is eating: rhinos, cape buffalo... Some people make sure to watch "Meerkat Manor", but I show up for Shark Week.
I'm sure that the appeal of a favorite animal has to say something about one's personality. Since childhood, I've found my likes skewing to the top performers: fastest, strongest, toughest, etc. I'm a big fan of heroic fiction, so I find great appeal in Superman. As much as I like other superheroes, I still often think of the Justice League as "Superman and the Back-up Squad". Likewise, for all the years of enjoyment I derived from the Legion of Super-Heroes comics, the fact that it spent many years titled as "Superboy and the Legion of Super-Heroes" made as much sense to me as Robin only being known as the last part of "Batman and...". Be honest: without the big guy there was no show.
I'm sure that my interests in types of animals and heroes and villains must have great influence over the stories I write. Why not? It certainly makes more sense than my great influences being found among my favorite foods. I imagine that if I adored hummingbirds and kittens, I'd probably be compelled to write wholly different types of fiction...or maybe not fiction at all.
How about you? Do you like cheetahs or parrots or giraffes best? Does this draw you toward adventures, romances, poetry or science journals?
Thursday, June 2, 2011
16306--A Fire of Unknown Origin...
Another life lesson already? Really? We're going to ease into it and it will all lead to writing. Trust me. "You just had to say it."
That's what they say up on the screen. One character says some fate-tempting line like "How much worse can it get?" or "At least it isn't...", thus inviting some ironically appropriate doom to come crashing down upon them. Another character of course says, "You just had to say it."
Me? I just had to take a poke at Underdog and ended up in the hospital myself. C'est la vie. I just couldn't resist. Anyway, I didn't think it was anything serious. It just seemed to be a minor infection that was causing a swelling in one of my sublingual salivary glands. You know, those funny little flaps under your tongue. Like most of the things in our bodies, we can usually ignore them quite easily until something irritates them. Mine was swollen and didn't seem to be squirting saliva anymore. OK, so blocked and swollen. I noticed that it got worse when I would eat. OK, so more saliva building up in there because production increases for food. Simple, except that that made it go from mildly uncomfortable to very painful. As a result, I decided to put off eating for a while to give the swelling a chance to abate completely. Unfortunately, after eighteen hours without food, the gland was only giving me more pain and my stomach was no longer in agreement with my plan.
The Emergency Department of Vanderbilt University Medical Center doesn't top my list of places to spend an evening. That's not to say I have anything ill to speak of it or its staff. It's obviously a great place to be if you need to be there, but I'd rather not have the need. Anyway, after a few hours in the general waiting area (a suitable place for writing, at least), I was finally moved to an exam room where I could continue waiting in private. Soon, I was seen by two nurses, a resident physician and her attending physician, none of whom had ever seen my increasingly painful condition before. As the senior medical professional present, the attending decided to pull out his iphone and take a picture. That sound, modern thinking allowed him to seek consultation without having to parade still more people through my new waiting area.
Before I got too comfortable, another nurse brought me a pill to alleviate my pain and, a little later, another nurse had me move to a new exam room. That one had a TV. I found something worthwhile on the Science Channel just before the oral surgeon arrived. He, too, was mystified, but curious. As with the others, we talked about my diet and health and medical history and what on Earth could possibly be going on in my mouth. He left to go talk with other people about tests and scans. By the time he returned, he agreed with me: something must be blocking my salivary gland. The best course of action seemed to be to attempt to drain the swollen gland to see if any source of infection could be found. He would use a syringe first and, if necessary, proceed to cut it open. "Fine," I said. "Numb it and do what you need to do."
Now, all this has been set-up for the point of this rambling. What? Yeah, I know, but bear with me and I'll get us through this as quickly as possible.
Probing with the syringe yielded nothing and, to really enhance the experience, he tried that before numbing the tissue. Oh, boy. Moving on to the surgical portion of the evening (this was two hours since the first exam room), we moved to a third exam room (no TV in the last one). He proceeded to numb everything under my tongue and start cutting. Accompanying the suction tube, he also wrestled several latex-clad fingers into my mouth and then a couple of other metal tools. Finally, after minutes of bloody struggle, his eyes lit up with astonishment and then a smile. "Wow. You are gonna be glad we found this," he told me. Rare and odd and something he'd never seen happen before, he showed me a bloody stone that he assumed was composed (like kidney or gallstones) of calcium that had worked its way into my mouth. I should hear the lab results next week. Still, he marveled at the fat little thing, measuring 23mm, that had apparently tried to come out through my salivary gland. Naturally, he and the resident from earlier (she'd returned to check on me) both pulled out their phones for this new photo-op. There were two new nurses who came in for a look. One ran off for a specimen jar. Such a fuss.
Now, on to the point of all this (Finally!) writing. As noted, the staff and I chatted. At one point, a pair of doctors went wide-eyed and slack-jawed before asking me if I was still in school or perhaps a nutritionist. I told them I was merely well-read. Later, the attentive resident also asked, "Wow, are you a nurse or a doctor or a PhD? You really seem to know your anatomy." Had they all really been thrown off so much by a little intelligent conversation?
I laughed politely and told her, "I'm a writer. I study a lot of things."
That seemed to lessen her puzzlement a bit, freeing her to turn and go. Like other "professionals", doctors seem to have a hard time grasping that people outside of their elite club also have the capacity to handle their secret language and guarded knowledge. They got theirs through study and practice. No one is born to it. If you find yourself interested in something, take the time to learn about it. Study and, if appropriate, practice.
Writing is the same: it is learned through study and practice. Though steeped in wonder and mystery for many, including doctors apparently, it is a craft that can be taught and learned. Dedication and focus can bring improvement. I started with reading and, with my imagination sufficiently sparked to activity, started writing. It began with cobbling together ideas and eventually building those into stories. Some I liked, others I felt needed polish. Some of them needed a lot of polish. There were classes in college, even leading to a technical major being coupled with a non-technical (creative writing) minor. I've found myself plotting and planning to great delight as delightful elements emerged to be eagerly fitted into place. I've also found myself flying by the seat of my pants and making things up as I went along. Both methods have their place and neither is perfect. If they were, no one would ever have to do rewrites. What would we writers do with all that free time then?
That's what they say up on the screen. One character says some fate-tempting line like "How much worse can it get?" or "At least it isn't...", thus inviting some ironically appropriate doom to come crashing down upon them. Another character of course says, "You just had to say it."
Me? I just had to take a poke at Underdog and ended up in the hospital myself. C'est la vie. I just couldn't resist. Anyway, I didn't think it was anything serious. It just seemed to be a minor infection that was causing a swelling in one of my sublingual salivary glands. You know, those funny little flaps under your tongue. Like most of the things in our bodies, we can usually ignore them quite easily until something irritates them. Mine was swollen and didn't seem to be squirting saliva anymore. OK, so blocked and swollen. I noticed that it got worse when I would eat. OK, so more saliva building up in there because production increases for food. Simple, except that that made it go from mildly uncomfortable to very painful. As a result, I decided to put off eating for a while to give the swelling a chance to abate completely. Unfortunately, after eighteen hours without food, the gland was only giving me more pain and my stomach was no longer in agreement with my plan.
The Emergency Department of Vanderbilt University Medical Center doesn't top my list of places to spend an evening. That's not to say I have anything ill to speak of it or its staff. It's obviously a great place to be if you need to be there, but I'd rather not have the need. Anyway, after a few hours in the general waiting area (a suitable place for writing, at least), I was finally moved to an exam room where I could continue waiting in private. Soon, I was seen by two nurses, a resident physician and her attending physician, none of whom had ever seen my increasingly painful condition before. As the senior medical professional present, the attending decided to pull out his iphone and take a picture. That sound, modern thinking allowed him to seek consultation without having to parade still more people through my new waiting area.
Before I got too comfortable, another nurse brought me a pill to alleviate my pain and, a little later, another nurse had me move to a new exam room. That one had a TV. I found something worthwhile on the Science Channel just before the oral surgeon arrived. He, too, was mystified, but curious. As with the others, we talked about my diet and health and medical history and what on Earth could possibly be going on in my mouth. He left to go talk with other people about tests and scans. By the time he returned, he agreed with me: something must be blocking my salivary gland. The best course of action seemed to be to attempt to drain the swollen gland to see if any source of infection could be found. He would use a syringe first and, if necessary, proceed to cut it open. "Fine," I said. "Numb it and do what you need to do."
Now, all this has been set-up for the point of this rambling. What? Yeah, I know, but bear with me and I'll get us through this as quickly as possible.
Probing with the syringe yielded nothing and, to really enhance the experience, he tried that before numbing the tissue. Oh, boy. Moving on to the surgical portion of the evening (this was two hours since the first exam room), we moved to a third exam room (no TV in the last one). He proceeded to numb everything under my tongue and start cutting. Accompanying the suction tube, he also wrestled several latex-clad fingers into my mouth and then a couple of other metal tools. Finally, after minutes of bloody struggle, his eyes lit up with astonishment and then a smile. "Wow. You are gonna be glad we found this," he told me. Rare and odd and something he'd never seen happen before, he showed me a bloody stone that he assumed was composed (like kidney or gallstones) of calcium that had worked its way into my mouth. I should hear the lab results next week. Still, he marveled at the fat little thing, measuring 23mm, that had apparently tried to come out through my salivary gland. Naturally, he and the resident from earlier (she'd returned to check on me) both pulled out their phones for this new photo-op. There were two new nurses who came in for a look. One ran off for a specimen jar. Such a fuss.
Now, on to the point of all this (Finally!) writing. As noted, the staff and I chatted. At one point, a pair of doctors went wide-eyed and slack-jawed before asking me if I was still in school or perhaps a nutritionist. I told them I was merely well-read. Later, the attentive resident also asked, "Wow, are you a nurse or a doctor or a PhD? You really seem to know your anatomy." Had they all really been thrown off so much by a little intelligent conversation?
I laughed politely and told her, "I'm a writer. I study a lot of things."
That seemed to lessen her puzzlement a bit, freeing her to turn and go. Like other "professionals", doctors seem to have a hard time grasping that people outside of their elite club also have the capacity to handle their secret language and guarded knowledge. They got theirs through study and practice. No one is born to it. If you find yourself interested in something, take the time to learn about it. Study and, if appropriate, practice.
Writing is the same: it is learned through study and practice. Though steeped in wonder and mystery for many, including doctors apparently, it is a craft that can be taught and learned. Dedication and focus can bring improvement. I started with reading and, with my imagination sufficiently sparked to activity, started writing. It began with cobbling together ideas and eventually building those into stories. Some I liked, others I felt needed polish. Some of them needed a lot of polish. There were classes in college, even leading to a technical major being coupled with a non-technical (creative writing) minor. I've found myself plotting and planning to great delight as delightful elements emerged to be eagerly fitted into place. I've also found myself flying by the seat of my pants and making things up as I went along. Both methods have their place and neither is perfect. If they were, no one would ever have to do rewrites. What would we writers do with all that free time then?
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