I ran the 2008 Bank of America Shamrock Shuffle 8K this morning. The Shuffle is the kick-off for the Chicago racing season and, for many of us, the true start of spring. In keeping with the kind of winter we had and the way spring has started, it was below 40 degrees at the starting line. For the first time since I started running this race (1997, I think), I wimped out and wore tights instead of shorts. I felt like a real wuss when I saw the guy with no shirt, covered in green body paint and wearing a neon green wig.
I set a personal record today by over a minute — I came in under 36 minutes, far and away my best time ever. Yes, I’m bragging, but with a purpose: I have discovered the secret to fast times, and I’m going to share it with you. It isn’t training; I haven’t done much running this winter, or any cross training. It isn’t diet; I have not been particularly careful about what I’ve been putting in my mouth the last few months. And I got less than seven hours of sleep last night.
Here’s the secret: drugs.
This morning, I arrived downtown just over an hour before the start of the race. I parked, emerged onto Michigan Avenue, and immediately began to look around for a dealer. I knew there had to be one nearby. There! I ducked into a storefront doorway, and placed my order. Minutes later, I had it: a double espresso. I gulped it down while it was still hot, and I was off to the races!
Oh, I know the side effects, but I was willing to bet I could get to the port-a-johns before the race started, and in fact I handled that issue just fine. Mrs. Unfocused says I need to put an asterix by my time this year, but I say if the major leaguers can do it, so can I. I just hope that I don’t develop a tolerance and have to move up to triple and quadruple espressos, because that could get expensive.
I’m going to feel it tomorrow, that much I promise you.
I just passed a milestone on Meet the Larssons: 50,000 words (50,083 as of 10:24pm CDT, to be exact). It’s a long way from done, but it’s moving along nicely. I have the word meter set for 100,000 as my target, and that’s probably right for the first draft. I expect to cut some of that in revision — maybe 10,000 words — not to make it shorter but because I’ve either overwritten some of the technical details (what we refer to at the firm as “lawyer stuff,” or would, if we weren’t charging for it) or just to tighten up the prose. I also expect to have to write additional scenes or partial scenes, so it may all net out even in the end.
My target when I’ve finally crunched through the editing process is somewhere between 90,000 and 110,000 words, which should be enough to tell the story without channeling James Michener (I should be so lucky). By no coincidence, this seems to be the range that editors and agents are looking for from a first-time novelist (at least according to Editorial Ass and Nathan Bransford; I also noticed that it’s what Scalzi hit with Zoe’s Tale).
Fifty thousand words is not just the halfway point for my target word count for MTL; it is also the target word count for NaNoWriMo, which I plan to use to hack through as much as I can of my second novel in November. Apparently, all I need to be able to do in November is knock out an average of three times as many words on the novel each day as I have managed for MTL.
Happy Easter. We’ve been invaded by hostile, replicating nanobots, of supposedly “natural” origin. They struck the most vulnerable member of the family first, of course — Junior woke up yesterday with a fever and stuffy nose and a cough, then threw up as his body attempted to expel the nanites, to no avail.
One by one, our defenses appear to have failed. By last night, Unfocused Girl, Mrs. Unfocused, and I all had mild fevers, but our diagnostic equipment has been malfunctioning, and is therefore unreliable. Mrs. Unfocused had the highest fever of the three of us, but this morning Unfocused Girl woke up with a stuffy nose and cough. Between her and Junior, they are emitting enough grey goo to convert most of the eastern half of the continent.
The nanobots are using our bodies’ energy for their own replication, leaving us droopy and listless. The vaccination I received last fall appears to be useless against this strain of nanite.
Don’t let this happen to you. Avoid potential carriers of nanobot infection, and remember to wash your hands often — the soap won’t disable the nanites, but may make your skin slippery enough at the molecular level that they will be unable to find purchase.
At least we have lots of candy.
The first draft of Test Tube Beneficiary is done, done, done. It’s my first complete work of fiction (not counting the flash fic I posted on my Fiction page last month — it’s still there, if you’re interested) in 16 years. Go, me.
I’m going to print it now, and go to bed.
Update (6:10pm): I published this post originally at 1:03am. I’m finally having my celebratory glass of wine. Most importantly, the Mrs. read TTB this morning, and gave it her seal of approval. I was (and am) very excited that she didn’t hate it — by the time I woke up this morning, I had convinced myself that it would need to be largely rewritten — and, despite the facts that she doesn’t particularly like science fiction and that I used to help her fall asleep by telling her about my cases, she really liked it. The only real issue is whether it’s actually science fiction: she thinks that it may be so near-future, and the extrapolation may be so subtle, that it doesn’t actually qualify as sci-fi. It’s not ready to send out yet — I need to take it through the revision process — but when it is, I’ll have to evaluate the potential markets.
Until Tuesday, progress on “Test Tube Beneficiary,” my short story in progress, had come to a halt while I tried to make some headway on the novel. On Tuesday, though, I brought my MacBook on the train and got a few hundred words written on TTB. On Wednesday morning, I rewrote the last couple of paragraphs I had written on the train home the day before, and realized that while I knew how the story was to end, I had no idea how I was going to get there.
I went to the gym over lunch and had a decent run (listening to I Should Be Writing on the iPod, natch), and by the time I was done with my shower, I had the roadmap to the finish. I stood dripping wet in the locker room with a towel wrapped around my waist, tapping away on the crackberry to get it all down in an email to myself (using Gmail so none of it ends up on the firm’s server).
Between the train home and what I wrote after the kids got to bed, I knocked out 2300 words yesterday. I did more on the train this morning. I’ll be done by the end of the weekend, if not before. Then — and this is the key, this is one of the big lessons from reviewing all those rejection slips — I’m going to have to edit the thing. But not before I open up a nice bottle of wine and celebrate a little.
Animal behaviorists know that if you don’t reward the mouse for getting through the maze, he won’t be so keen to scurry as quickly the next time. Along the same lines, I think I’ve already mentioned that one of the things I find most difficult about writing the novel is that there is no feedback at all. Blog posts get hits and comments, flash fiction is complete in a weekend and receives almost instantaneous reaction, even a short story can be completed in a reasonable period of time.
I’ve been writing Meet the Larssons since January 2, and until Thursday night, no other human had ever seen a word of it. I wrote 1700 words while on a plane on Thursday evening, a complete scene. I wasn’t entirely happy with the scene, but I didn’t think it was miserable dreck, either. I got home just in time to say goodnight to the kids before they went to bed, then had a couple of glasses of wine with the Mrs. The wine must’ve hit me hard, because I offered to show her the scene I’d completed on the plane, unedited. She accepted.
No fireworks, no belly laughs. It wasn’t a fireworks or belly laugh scene, just two people who don’t know each other well having a conversation in a bar, but the lack of any visible reaction made me crazy. I pestered her a couple of times until she told me to be quiet. Finally — FINALLY! — she finished. She said it was pretty good, but obviously rough, and some of the technical explanations could probably be cut, but without having read the previous 210 pages or so, it was hard to be sure. Not, in other words, a pile of miserable dreck. Then she read one screen’s worth of text from a previous chapter over my shoulder (I was checking something several chapters back), and she said she liked that even better. Go figure.
The important thing is that I got my cheese. I’m not completely wasting my time. I’ll get back in the maze now, and I’ll scurry as fast as I can, and I’ll twitch my nose the whole way.
What a way to start the day. This is the last time I ever take an online quiz just because Scalzi links to it. We’re the same age, but he tests like a teenager and I test like Middle-Aged Man from Saturday Night Live (actually, I suspect that just knowing who Middle-Aged Man is marks me as old).
You’re not a hoopy frood
You thought you were really with it and in with your younger colleagues but they just laugh at you because you can’t hear beyond this!The highest pitched ultrasonic mosquito ringtone that I can hear is 14.1kHz
|Find out which ultrasonic ringtones you can hear!
From Blue Oyster Cult in high school to Bob Mould in law school, I went to loud concerts and didn’t wear earplugs. The worst was the Squeeze show at The Pier in Manhattan in 1986 or 1987 — I had great seats, in the third row, directly in front of a two-story stack of speakers. I couldn’t hear well for a couple of days, which even then I knew was a bad sign. I used to be a hoopy frood, but at least I have the memories.
What? What’dya say? Speak up! Damn kids.