November 2005 Archives

I reached 50,000 words around 1:30 in the morning on Sunday. It would've made sense to wait until later Sunday morning (maybe after eight hours of sleep and a cup of coffee) to cross that imaginary finish line, but when one is so close that he or she can hear the imaginary crowd cheering, it's hard to stop. That vision alone should have been a sign that it was past my bedtime because as everybody knows, at that hour, even imaginary people are sound asleep.

This year's experience was different from those of previous years. Two years ago, I relied heavily on write-ins to motivate me. Sitting in the same room as others as we struggled individually, together, spurred me on. Last year, I relied heavily on adventure. The word count seemed easier because I focused on hitting 30 cafes in 30 days (which I later revised to 25 Cafes in 27 Days after the fact).

This year, I visited eight cafes, wrote a third of the novel on an actual computer (not my trusty Palm V) and forgot to kill Cliff. The only write-in I attended was on the first day of the month. While I've enjoyed the feeling of camaraderie I've gotten from write-ins, I've disliked the fact that my productivity has dropped with each successive gathering. Perhaps I'll feel differently next year.

Instead of relying on write-ins or adventure to keep me going this time around, I relied on myself, which feels good to say now, but definitely didn't feel good while I was going through it. Writing in isolation may work well for great authors, but it doesn't work so well for an ordinary scribbler like me. I need fresh air, sunlight, a cup of coffee, a little music and the general murmur of conversation.

I suppose the question now is if I will participate in NaNoWriMo next year. If I do, I suppose I should add a twist, make the challenge more difficult. Maybe next year I'll start with a plot instead of stumbling upon it halfway through. I recently read an interview with the producers of Lost where they describe their show as a road trip. They know they want to get from Los Angeles to New York City and they know, in general, the major cities they want to hit along the way. They just don't know the exact route they'll be taking. Adopting their road trip analogy, I already know I want to get from San Jose to Cooperstown. I just have to figure out a way to keep myself from accidentally ending up in Rio de Janeiro as I did this year.

As I've done in previous years, here is NaNoWriMo 2005 in numbers. Last year's statistics are shown in parentheses:

Words written: 50,165 (50,151)
Hours of writing: 34.75 (34.67)
Highest one-day count: 3,906 (4,560)
Lowest one-day count: 0 (280)
Percent of novel written on my PDA: 67 (96)
Least productive day of the week: Monday (Friday)
Number of writing days: 23 (27)
Number of zero-word days: 4 (0)
Cups of coffee consumed (above "normal"): 27 (27)
Pounds of Skittles eaten: 0.35 (0.5)

Congratulations to all of those novelists who have already finished. For everybody else who hasn't reached the finish line yet, keep it up! Keep going! As of right now, you still have about 36 hours to go, which is plenty of time to write 50,000 words.

"That's the way it crumbles... cookie-wise."

I happened to watch parts of Billy Wilder's The Apartment this weekend on PBS. It starred Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine and won an Oscar for Best Picture in 1960. I loved the satire of the film and found it helped with my novel... procrastination-wise.

Speaking of which, consistency has been a problem this past week... writing-wise. I either have lacked the motivation or have been easily distracted by computer problems or Lost podcasts. The result has been three zero-word days. The nice cushion I built early in the month is gone. Today, I'm hoping for some heroics to get ahead of the daily quota again.

Over the last couple of days, I've been thinking about my novel... description-wise. I've been searching for the perfect "something meets something" label. As far as I can tell, my novel is The O.C. meets Timeline meets The Da Vinci Code. With any luck, it will all meet the Recycle Bin in another week.

Just in case I don't get another chance to post today, I wish you all a happy and tasty tomorrow, Thanksgiving-wise and turkey-wise, respectively. I leave you with one of my other favorite quotes from the movie.

"Ya know, I used to live like Robinson Crusoe. I mean shipwrecked among 8 million people. And then one day I saw a footprint in the sand and there you were."

Today, I'm wearing my navy blue Rob Thomas concert t-shirt under my white, black and blue plaid button-down shirt because I'm a rebel like that. Admittedly, a very mainstream and uncool rebel, but a rebel nonetheless. A rebel can also wear khaki slacks and black steel-toed boots, can't he?

Anyway, I'm wearing the shirt because M and I went see the lead singer of Matchbox Twenty perform at the Paramount Theatre in Oakland last night. I feel it's important to mention the shirt more than once because I shelled out $30 for it and any article of clothing that expensive better come with bragging rights or at least a guarantee to last thirty years.

Getting to the venue was easy. We parked in Fremont, rode BART to the 19th Street station and exited on 20th Street and Broadway, across from the theater. I didn't pay much attention to its exterior, but its interior was stunning. I loved the simple, streamlined look of the art deco design. The only aspect I didn't like was the carpeting, which was too dark and cluttered for my taste.

Anna Nalick was the opening act. I'm told she performed nearly every song from her CD, including "Breathe", the only song I really recognized. She was barefoot and liked to twirl around in her blue flowing skirt. She had a strong voice and great rapport with the audience. At one point, she noticed a woman holding up a cell phone, letting her friend listen to the show. In between songs, Anna asked for the phone and chatted with the fan right there on stage. The classic moment came when she said, "Well, I have to go. I'm kind of in the middle of something."

Thomas started just after nine and I knew it was going to be a great show right away. There were flashing lights, screeching guitars, pounding drums and enough bass to shake the theater and liquefy my innards. I now firmly believe that if live music doesn't make you feel like your lungs are collapsing and your ears are retreating into your head, then the artist isn't doing his or her job.

Despite feeling overpowered by the amplified instruments, the show was excellent. Thomas had such energy and presence throughout the night, but I thought he was at his best during the encore, when he mellowed out and sang "Leave" and "Push" with only his acoustic guitar as accompaniment. He's the type of singer that sounds almost exactly like he does on his albums, which is a good thing. What you hear is what you get.

He wore black pants, shiny black boots and a faded black t-shirt. When he sang, he often tapped his chest with his free hand. When he was done, he sometimes scratched behind his right ear. Why I remember this, I don't know. He would also cough right before or after every song, which makes me worry that his smoking will eventually catch up with him and ruin his ability to sing.

He performed at least one song from each of the Matchbox Twenty albums and omitted only two songs from his solo album. I don't recall his set in exact order, but these were the songs he played:

• 3 AM
• Push
• If You're Gone
• Leave
• The Difference
• This is How a Heart Breaks
• Lonely No More
• Ever the Same
• I Am an Illusion
• When the Heartache Ends
• Something To Be
• Problem Girl
• Fallin' to Pieces
• My, My, My
• Streetcorner Symphony
• Not Just a Woman
• You Know Me
• Let's Dance (a David Bowie cover)
• Smooth

The only other thing I wanted to mention was the audience. For the most part, everybody was considerate, enjoying the music in ways that didn't ruin the experience for others, but there were a few that had no concept of common courtesy. I'm all for people dancing to the music, but if the dancing is going to block everybody else's view, it's plain rude, as is using cell phones, using camera phones, kicking the chairs of those using camera phones and telling off the ushers asking you to stop dancing.

Anyway, to summarize: the theater was splendid, Anna and Rob were great and I'm an uncool rebel with an expensive t-shirt.

I'm operating on three and a half-hours of sleep and an extra cup of remarkably strong coffee today. That's because I was out all night Pottering. (When I'm fully awake and read that sentence again, I'm going to cringe and want to cry.)

We caught the first showing of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire at midnight. Now I can claim to be one of the first to see the movie. Well, actually, the first to see about 95% of the movie. I accidentally dozed off for a few minutes somewhere in the middle.

It was a spontaneous decision to go. We were watching the six o'clock news and they ran a story about the sold out showing of Goblet of Fire in Santa Cruz. This, of course, prompted me to ask M, "So, if our theater had available seats for Harry at midnight, would you go?" She said yes and eighteen seconds later (give or take an hour), we were at the ticket window.

We bought tickets and since there were only five or six teenagers camping in the seating queue, we decided to return an hour before the movie. When we returned, the group of six or so had become a mob of 1,123 (give or take a thousand). Teens and tweens made up most of the crowd with a few parents thrown in for variety. Nobody wore house colors or had lightning bolt scars on their foreheads, which was disappointing.

Anyway, afterwards, my initial opinion was that the movie was merely okay. I liked it, but was dissatisfied with how abruptly it seemed to end. In many parts, it felt as though the editor paid more attention to the clock than the story. And I couldn't get over Rupert Grint's hair. He plays Ron Weasley. His hair was very red, very big and very there.

With a few hours to sleep on it, my current opinion is that it was good (the movie, not the hair), but not great. The film had a wonderful blend of humor and heaviness, but it was spread over a forced mixture of action, suspense and romance (manifested as moments of awkwardness or jealousy). The usual cast of students and professors didn't have more than cameo appearances, but on the bright side, that allowed more time for the interesting and creepy "Mad-Eye" Moody, the latest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

Was the movie worth getting less than four hours of sleep? For avid Potter fans (and I include myself), I'd say yes. For others, I'd say no, but would also say it's a worthwhile matinee.

For future reference, here is how I would rank the four released Potter films from most to least favorite:

1. Prisoner of Azkaban
2. Sorceror's Stone
3. Goblet of Fire
4. Chamber of Secrets

Only two more years until Order of the Phoenix arrives!

It all started after I made a random remark about model trains in my last entry on Monday. That tiny remark sparked an itch in my brain, an itch I knew I would want to scratch somewhere down the line. As it turned out, down the line was later the same day.

As I was looking for a place to write in the library (I wanted a clean, well-lit spot), I spotted a copy of a magazine called Model Railroader. I should have kept on walking, but instead, I stopped and had the following internal dialogue:

Me: Ooh! Can I take a quick peek at the magazine?
Myself: No. You need to be writing. You don't have time for distractions.
Me: It'll only be a second, I promise.
Myself: No it won't. You're going to get carried away.
Me: Nuh-uh. Please?
Myself: No!
Me: Okay, fine. (pretends to walk off and then snatches the magazine anyway)
Myself: Grrr!

Well, myself was right about me getting carried away. A quick peek grew into reading a few articles and staring at a few photos. That led to surfing the web, reading a few more articles and staring at a few more photos. That snowballed into checking out two detailed books on the topic for further reading and staring (or what I like to call research).

By the time I got home, I was out of control. I stood in the living room and tried to envision all the furniture stacked in one corner and a model train running over bridges and through tunnels, between towering factories and rolling hills, all on a massive table in the middle of the room. Fortunately, there exists an impenetrable barrier preventing my wild imaginings from becoming reality and its called common sense.

As a hobby, model railroading seems like it could be fun. Until Monday, I never actually considered it seriously, most likely because I thought it was uncool, but now I can sort of see its appeal. The key is to start small and not go overboard; be passionate, but not obsessive.

What does that mean? Well, I guess that means doing more research, reading more, visiting hobby stores, seeing actual layouts and learning about what the hobby actually involves. Am I really going to enjoy dealing with wiring or soldering? Can I really see myself spending hours assembling miniature buildings or constructing roads out of foam board? Is it something I'll be committed to for years to come or something I'll grow bored of in a few weeks?

Those are some of the questions I have to answer before I dive in. All I know is that it makes me laugh to think that all this silliness started because of two words I wrote in a journal entry.

This three-day weekend, I

> visited the Conservatory of Flowers in San Francisco. The white, Victorian-style conservatory is a spectacular palace of wood and glass that houses five galleries: Potted Plants, Lowland Tropics, Highland Tropics, Aquatic Plants and Special Exhibits. The current exhibit, The Modern Art of Orchids, is on display through February of next year. Orchids of every size, shape and color, representing only a tiny fraction of the orchid species and hybrids existing in the world, were on exhibit. The display nurtured the idea of growing orchids in the garden. I know it would difficult, but I think it could be fun and possibly rewarding. They are magnificent flowers.

> wrote close to 6,900 words. I'm infinitely more productive and creative when I write away from the house. This isn't to say I write acceptably at home and amazingly on the road. Rather, I write terribly at home and tolerably on the road. This weekend, most of my progress happened at a Starbucks in Morgan Hill and It's A Grind in Gilroy.

> watched five seconds of the 49ers game. That's all I needed to see to know they would lose. For the third consecutive week, they failed to score a touchdown. So sad.

> finally ordered high-speed internet. I don't know why it took so long to make the switch. Even I could see the telegraph I was using was becoming obsolete. I guess it's just hard to toss what's tried and true for something new.

> succumbed to the Lemax Village Collection. Two miniature lighted buildings, four lighted lampposts, a set of mailboxes, a Christmas tree and a telephone booth now adorn the top of the piano, which is covered by white felt to simulate snow. I'm sure I can keep the collecting under control, but the "winter village" looks so empty and there are at least three other buildings, a few figurines and a tiny number of accessories I think would make great additions. Is this how model train addictions begin? Scary.

> read the first page of The Chronicles of Narnia. There are many pages left to go. Between all the other little tasks and projects that I want to do before the end of 2005, I want to at least finish the first two volumes. That will get me through The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.

With respect to NaNoWriMo, Thursday and Friday were drought days for me. There were plenty of dark clouds, but the resulting rain was minimal, a whole 347 words. The storm finally arrived yesterday. I hope it continues for a few days.

As you may have noticed, the progress meter is gone. Apparently, the site hosting it ran out of bandwidth and took it down, which bummed me out. I was rather fond of it. Anyway, as a poor man's substitute, I replaced it with simple, manually updated word count. It not only counts days and words, but also the number of hours and cups of coffee required for this year's effort.

I'm still not clear where the story is going. I have many characters running around, each receiving equal time in the spotlight. I don't know if I was aiming for an ensemble piece like Love Actually, but it seems to be the novel's trajectory so far (without the charm and humor of the mentioned movie). Here is an excerpt from Thursday's writing:

They pulled Abel up to the beach and dropped him on the sand. He didn’t move. Johnny said, "Wait, I don't think he's breathing."

"You've got to be kidding me. He's not breathing? How many times do we have to save this guy? I mean, really, there must be a limit," said an exasperated Tommy. He was here to surf, not resuscitate people. This was completely unfair, all things considered.

Johnny gave him a look and said, "I don't know, but I'm not kidding. He's not breathing."

"Lazy bum!" said Tommy. Johnny bent down. Tommy cried, "Wait! Let me do it. You got to do it last time."

"Yeah, but last time you insisted that I do it," said Johnny.

"Well, that guy smelled fishy. Don't give me that face. Plus, I didn't want to accidentally kill him."

"And what, you aren't afraid to kill Abel?"

"I know, I know, but I have to overcome my fear of unintentionally killing people eventually. Abel would be proud."

"On Abel's behalf, I'm going to disagree."

"Whatever! Now, step aside and let me get to it," said Tommy, kneeling down and taking deep breathes to calm his nerves.

That's when the surfer girl raced up to them, knocked Tommy aside and administered CPR to Abel. Her name, as she would later tell them, was Abigail Jones or Abby for short.

Now, wouldn't it be something if after saving Abel, the two were to start dating, eventually marry, buy a bungalow on the very beach where they met and have three children, thirteen grandchildren and forty-five great grandchildren? It would be something, wouldn't it?

Unfortunately, a shark ate Abby three hours later.

What this place needs is more photos. So, here is a shot of yesterday's sunrise. We've had plenty of dark clouds, but hardly any rain. I'm hoping the dry weather lasts through the long weekend. If it's going to rain, let it rain while I'm at work.

It's dark and drizzly outside. It's also Monday. I don't know why, but I feel like scoring things today, so on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being the bad and 10 being the good, I'd give this Monday a 4.

This morning, I had a hot cup of coffee, a tasty bowl of oatmeal (with brown sugar and maple syrup) and some peaches. I'd give breakfast a 7. And since the commute has been so smooth and the light rail is actually running on schedule, I'll give it an 8. Things are copacetic.

Over the weekend, I wrote approximately 4,000 words for NaNoWriMo. I'd give myself an 8 for effort, but a 3 for originality. I've been trying to develop creative plot twists, but everything seems so predictable. So far, my story has as many surprises as a merry-go-round. What I need is a merry-go-round that dumps water on people and plunges a hundred feet without warning.

I did half of my writing on Saturday, at the Il Fornaio cafe in Carmel, which I'd give a 9. Although it is an enclosed space, the place feels open and airy with its octagonal shape, towering walls and canopies hung high to diffuse the natural light shining through the glass ceiling.

I'd give a 6 to Orchard Valley Coffee in Campbell where I did the rest of my writing on Sunday. The place was bustling with activity during the Farmers' Market, which was great, but it just felt darker than usual inside, like a cave. Despite the large storefront windows, there wasn't enough sunlight for my liking.

I watched two DVDs over the weekend: The Eiger Sanction and Dogtown and Z-Boys.

The Eiger Sanction was a Clint Eastwood film from the 1970s. The official synopsis claims the movie is about a retired assassin (Eastwood) who comes out of retirement for one last mission, which just happens to involve killing an enemy assassin while climbing the Eiger, a mountain in the Swiss Alps. What the movie is really about is climbing the Eiger. All that other stuff is just an implausible pretext to fill the ninety minutes preceding the climb. The dialogue was unbearable, but the climbing sequences were fantastic. As a serious spy thriller, I give it a 3. As a spoof of a serious spy thriller, I give it a 7.

Dogtown and Z-Boys is a documentary about skateboarding. In the 70s, a group of teens revolutionized skateboarding by incorporating crazy surfing moves into their skateboarding style. Twelve guys and girl made up the Zephyr Skating Team (a.k.a. the Z-Boys) and they all grew up in Dogtown, an area that encompassed parts of Santa Monica and Venice, California. The insights by the various members were hit or miss, but the archival footage and photos were amazing. Overall, I'd give it a solid 6.

Well, that's all I have time to write this morning. I think this entry deserves a score of 4. I hope tomorrow's note is better.

Two weeks ago, San Jose State University unveiled the twenty-foot-tall bronze sculpture honoring Tommie Smith and John Carlos. The two SJSU alumni were the athletes who made a silent statement about the rights of African-Americans during their medal ceremony at the 1968 Olympics. They were both in attendance for the unveiling, as was Peter Norman, the silver medallist from Australia, who also participated in the protest on the podium.

The first time I saw the statue, I was captivated by it. The figures were larger than life, but so lifelike. I think it had such a powerful effect on me because it captured a powerful and familiar moment in civil rights history, a topic that is at the forefront of public attention with the passing of Rosa Parks last week.

It's difficult to explain, but when I look at the sculpture, the two figures seem to symbolize the African-American experience. When I look at Carlos, the bronze medallist, I see sorrow, struggle and the past. A step above him is Smith, the gold medallist. When I look at him, I see pride, strength and the future. A shared pair of gloves connects the two. Smith wears one on his right hand (representing black power) while Carlos wears the other on his left hand (representing unity).

My only quibble with the statue is the missing third man. According to Mark Purdy's article, the artist intentionally left Norman's spot empty so "people could climb up and pose for pictures and be encouraged to take a stand". I can appreciate the artist's desire to make his art interactive, but it still seems disrespectful to revise history and erase a man from the moment.

Despite that, this sculpture ranks as one my favorite pieces of public art on display in downtown San Jose. I especially like the ceramic tiles used for their uniforms. If you want to see the new statue for yourself, you can find it on the lawn (now known as the Sculpture Garden) bordered by Clark Hall and Tower Hall, in the northwest section of campus.

On Monday night, while I slept, an enthusiastic group of writers sat in a diner and waited for midnight to arrive so they could get the earliest possible start on NaNoWriMo. By the time I awoke, they were a few thousand words ahead of me.

As I sat down to begin my novel last night, I must admit to feeling somewhat behind those that had taken an early lead. I had to remind myself that this was a race against the calendar, not against other people. Before I began typing, I refocused on the game plan. My game plan is simple: write at least 1,700 words a day in a fun and relaxing environment.

Yesterday, I wrote on the train to Mountain View, in Books Inc. while eating a chicken Caesar salad, at the write-in on the second floor of the Red Rock Coffee Company and on the light rail train home. By the end of Day 1, I had logged a decent number of words and commuter miles. Here is an excerpt:

Mayor Grewsome moved his lips, silently reciting the entire speech from the beginning and upon finding the spot where he left off, assumed a more authoritative position in his hardwood recliner. He sipped his vodka martini and continued, "The first mission they built was Santa Beyonce, the mission you would be able to see from this very deck if the Mayor's Efficiency were ten stories taller and we were facing west and it was light outside and the mission still existed."

"Pardon me for interrupting again," said Rharles. "But may I be so bold as to ask what happened to Santa Beyonce?"

"Oh, well no one could say the name without snickering or mentioning jelly. Eventually, Father Barista, he was Santa Beyonce's caretaker, got so fed up that he ordered the mission destroyed."

"Wait, why did he not simply rename it?" cried the Prince of Rhales.

"It would seem that Father Barista was one to give orders before thinking them through. By the time the idea of renaming the mission came to him, the building was nothing but rubble. In its place, he built a mission of monumental proportions, one that no one would dare to snicker at. It took nearly fifty years to complete, but just one glimpse at Santa Britney will tell you it was worth every year. The mission, of course, is named after Saint Britney of Aheehee and the it's hard to miss."

"Yes, I couldn't help but notice the adobe skyscraper as our plane approached Som Fawn See."

"Ah, yes, the mission is fifty stories high and is home to the world's three largest bells, all five stories in height. I am told they can be heard from across the bay. Of course, I'm also told that ringing all three at the same time causes walls to crack, windows to shatter and pigeons to explode."

"Perhaps it would be possible to visit this marvel before I leave?" the Prince suggested.

"I don't know if that can be arranged, Rhuck, I mean, Your Majesty. I don't believe the church has received its latest shipment of earplugs."

"Well, I am certain we won't be needing them if we are inside and several stories below the bells, my dear Mayor."

"Oh, they're not for the bells, they're for the organ. It is twenty stories tall and requires a dozen men to operate it. I understand that certain chords are strictly forbidden since they would cause irreparable damage to the building. I also understand the church prohibited the organists from playing Handel's Messiah until they finds a way to cut the number of fatalities by at least half."