Assorted Nonsense

I think the thing I like best about the print media is the timely fashion in which they report the news…

Okay, that’s me being a smart ass, which usually gets me into trouble. I get that this article is not actually reporting Gary Gygax’s death, it’s a commentary on the life of the man.

But seven months after his passing?

Better late than never, I guess.

This painting is Santiago El Grande, by Salvador Dali. I love this painting. I first saw it when I visited a friend in Fredericton seventeen years ago. She took me to the Beaverbrook Art Gallery and when I first laid eyes on this painting I was blown away. You can see in the photo how big it is, and when I saw it up close I could not get over the at times almost photorealistic detail Dali managed to achieve. It was the first painting of its calibre I had ever seen.

Shortly afterward I travelled to Europe and visited the Louvre and the Musee D’Orsay, and several galleries in Florence Italy, and no painting in any of those places impressed me as much as Santiago El Grande. I bought a print of it and it hangs in my office at home. But the print is so small compared to the original that you can’t really get a sense of the painting’s majesty, or intricate detail.

I’m Fredericton right now, on a business trip. When I learned I would be going to Fredericton I knew that the one thing I had to do was see Santiago El Grande again. I hoped I would have time, and that the Gallery wouldn’t be too far from where I was staying. Turns out my hotel is the Beaverbrook Hotel… right next door to the Gallery! As soon as I checked in and deposited my bags in my room I hightailed it to the Gallery.

I had forgotten the layout of the Gallery, that you can see Santiago El Grande as soon as you step inside. There was only an hour left until close but I paid my eight bucks and went in. I spent about ten minutes staring at Santiago El Grande. As I approached the painting I overheard the final moment of a conversation another patron was having with a staff member about Dali. Once I finished admiring the painting on my own I approached the staff member and asked if he could tell me a bit about the painting.

“You’ll be sorry you asked,” he told me.

But I’m not at all sorry. It took him about fifteen minutes, but now I appreciate the painting even more. He pointed out many details that I had overlooked, such as the partial transparency of some of the figures, and how certain elements were foreshortened to give a three dimensional aspect if viewed from the right angle. He explained some of the history of the painting, how it came to be in Fredericton after the Catholic Church of Spain refused Dali’s offer of the painting. They weren’t refusing the painting so much as they were refusing the painter himself. After which Dali claims he had a dream that told him the painting belonged in a relatively obscure art gallery in Canada. And he told me much more.

Don’t pass through Fredericton without treating yourself to a glimpse of this fantastic work of art.

If I ever manage to cobble together some manner of art that’s even a thousandth as accomplished in my lifetime, I’ll be grateful.

I’m in Vancouver for three days, business trip. Ate at an Italian restaurant tonight where the special was Atlantic lobster. I thought, it’s my first trip to the Pacific, I’m not going to eat food from the Atlantic.

But then I wound up ordering Halibut, which was probably from the Atlantic.

It was horrible actually. What a disappointment. Slightly overcooked and just not an inspired dish, I’m afraid.

Fortunately the dessert of Strawberry Mousse almost made up for it.

Although many of you might have considered my previous post a stupifying bore, and far be it from me to blame you, I actually found it quite interesting. And not for the reason that you might think.

I found it interesting because I had to make a decision in the course of writing it. I came up with a line that made me laugh, and then had to decide whether to use the line. As I was making the decision I was acutely aware of the presence of my mother looking over my shoulder, and of the good opinions of all my clean living, clean thinking friends, all three of them.

No I don’t live with my mother, although I’m sure such an arrangement would be most pleasant and result in a good deal less cooking on my part. But she does on occasion read my blog and I value her good opinion of me.

If you read over the previous post I’m sure you’ll quickly note which line I’m thinking about. Maybe you don’t find it particularly funny, but when I thought of it I chuckled. Wrote it down. And promptly deleted it and replaced it with something infinitely more boring.

And then I erased that and put the line back.

Robertson Davies has said (or it has been said of him) that he couldn’t write worth a damn until his parents passed on. I don’t want my parents to pass on, I’m all for immortality for the both of them, but I’d love to be able to write like Robertson Davies. His writing was tame before the death of his parents (I believe, not having read his entire oevre), and it was only with their passing that he no longer felt their benign yet nevertheless judgmental presence.

So it was that I felt the need to grow up and allow myself to indulge in one fairly inocuous if crude expression for the sake of a minor chuckle.

Robertson Davies, look out!

Not.

I was reading over somebody’s shoulder today, waiting for a Go Train that never seemed to come.

They were reading a novel that had lots of blurbs on the front cover: “Riveting” and “A compelling read” and “Best Freakin’ Book Ever” kind of thing.

So reading over this woman’s shoulder I was strike by the prose. Kind of bland. Prose like “They got in the car. The car took them outside the town.” Hemingway wrote like that, didn’t he? Straight and to the point. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that, but I thought it was interesting because it’s not the way I write. I like prose with a little pizzazz to it, like the kind Bill Bryson and Douglas Adams write. You know, like the kind you’re not likely to get much of in, say, a blog like this.

Anyway, the other thing I noticed was the use of adverbs. As in, “Get in the car,” he told her merrily. “Okay,” she replied happily.

I don’t really know why, but I almost never use adverbs like that. I’m prejudiced against them for some reason. Just the same, sometimes I’m worried that not using adverbs like that hurts my prose, or even my story. Because it’s so much easier just to write:

“Put that thing down,” Rainer said irritably.

Then readers know Rainer’s irritated; I don’t have to think about it, and my readers don’t have to think about it. But I almost never do it because some instinct tells me it’s better if I show that Rainer’s irritated. Such as:

Rainer furrowed his brow. “Put that thing down,” he said.

Or do it with dialog: “Put that goddamn thing down,” Rainer said.

Or string them all together:

Rainer furrowed his brow. “Put that goddamn thing down,” he told Harold, shortly before snatching the mandolin from Harold’s hands and shoving it up his ass.

Ahem.

Now, I have no doubt that the book I glimpsed was a compelling read, and that the use of adverbs didn’t hurt the story one iota. And writing that way I bet you complete novels more quickly than with the approach I take, in which I agonize over each word, each sentence, each unused adverb.

It just ain’t my style.

Myself I blame Fred Obermeyer, an online pal who has critiqued some of my writing. Fred hates adverbs, and it’s his cybervoice I hear every time I use one: “Don’t think you need that adverb, Joe,” he’d write. “It dilutes the prose,” or the like.

Damn you, Fred. But I agree with you.

Sadly, I’ve never actually met Fred in person. Someday I hope to get the chance to tell him in person:

“Thanks for the advice,” I’d tell him earnestly.

Heh heh.

Wow!

Actual time to blog.

Naturally it doesn’t correspond with an ability to come up with anything resembling an entertaining post.

Hey, I just hit page 250 of the final draft of my novel. Exactly 103 pages to go of revision… assuming I keep all 103 pages left. Actually, if experience is any guide, it’ll probably morph into even more than 130 pages, as I always seem to be adding material. Which is fine as I want it to come out at 100,000 words. That’s the goal, and between the material I delete and the material I add I do believe it’s going to work out to around that.

Man, I can’t imagine actually finishing the thing.

Gawd I hope I finish the thing.

There are those who don’t believe I will finish it. There are even those who believe that subconsciously I don’t want to finish it, for some bizarre Freudian reason involving fish or something.

Let me just state here and now that I really want to finish it! I want to finish it so badly that I almost can’t stand it when the Go Train pulls into the station each morning and evening. Sometimes the Go Train is delayed en route and I couldn’t be happier! More time to write. Then they clear up whatever problem kept us back and sadly we are on our way again.

(I imagine retiring from my day job someday and attempting to write only to discover that I can only write on the Go Train. So I buy a monthly pass and spend my days traveling back and forth on the Lakeshore line, writing contentedly away.)

And with that my four and a half minutes of available blogging time is all used up. You might think that an entire four and a half minutes should have produced a post infinitely more interesting than a hackneyed update of where I am with the novel…

…but you would be wrong.

I just received the following e-mail, all the way from Greece.

Whoo-hoo!

How much is 60 Euros?

Dear Mr Mahoney,

We published your story JOHN’S WORST ENEMY in issue # 407 (28/5/08). According to our rates (3 EUROcents per word) your fee for the publication rights of the abovementioned story is 60 EUROS.

We will send 3 copies of the magazine to the address printed on your invoice or any other address you will send us.

Have always in mind that we are always open to new submissions (from 500 - 2.500 words). We do not publish any more, but rarely, longer stories in installments. Strictly Science Fiction stories, no Fantasy or Terror.) As we need a new story every week we would be gratefull if you could “spread the word around” to your fellow authors.

Thank you once more time for your cooperation.

Best regards,

Anna Boviatsi
Editorial Secretary

Here is a sample cover of what the magazine looks like.

Blossom is gone. She’s been missing since the night of the flood. I expect she’s all right, just living elsewhere. At least I hope so. I don’t really like cats, but I like her. And my other two cats.

It’s just other peoples’ cats I don’t like.

Anyway if you see her, tell her I said hi. Ask her if she wouldn’t mind dropping us a line sometime. Ask her if there’s anything she needs. She can always come back and get it, no questions asked. It’d be terrific to see her again.

Even if only for a little while.

The other day I ran into a gentleman I hadn’t seen in a long time. He was someone I really looked up to. Although he was retired now, he had taught me a lot about the work that I do. I considered us friends, and it was good to see him again.

We shook hands, chatted for a bit, and then he said, “What was your name again?”

Clearly I had not made as much of an impression on him as he had on me.

Nevertheless I took the opportunity to convey to him just how much I felt he had taught me during the time we had worked together. I explained at some length how important I felt it was to continue his legacy, and how I had worked hard to do so.

I made the mistake of taking a breath at one point. “Right,” he said. “Well, I have to go now.”

Probably I had embarrassed the man, and that’s why he left so abruptly. Or maybe he just had to pee.

Did the encounter undermine the respect I have for the man?

Of course not.

But it was damned amusing.

Just in case you haven’t seen it yet…