Monthly Archives: May 2010

Published: May 30, 2010

A Quick Request for Help

Normally when I write a blog, I try to make it something that can appeal to a wide audience.  Something that it’s worth your time to read no matter who you are.

For example, if I answer a piece of fanmail asking for writing advice, I try to make the blog entertaining even if you’re not an aspiring writer. I make jokes, arcane references, and interesting word usements.

So today, I’m sorry. Because this blog is really just for one person. That’s something I don’t ordinarily do.

Here’s the story:

A couple months ago, a reader sent me a piece of mail. She’s in a high-school senior, and she invited me, in a very polite, n0-pressure way to her graduation party.

It was a lovely letter. And it was a very charming and genteel request. So I thought to myself, “What the hell, if I’m not doing anything that day, maybe I will stop out.”

Then it turned out that I was free that day, (This Monday, Memorial day.) What’s more, I was going to be driving from Madison to Stevens Point that evening. And her hometown was right on my way home….

So I decided I’d stop by and surprise her.

Here’s the problem:

Two days ago when I went looking for the letter she sent, I couldn’t find it. I remember putting it somewhere safe so I wouldn’t lose it. And I can only assume that it’s still there, too safe for me to find it.

I never contacted her, because I wanted it to be a surprise. Also, I didn’t want her to be disappointed if I couldn’t make it.

That means I don’t have any record of her name, the address, or time of the graduation party. I can’t even remember the name of her hometown. I just remember that it was somewhere in south-central Wisconsin.

So here’s what I’m hoping.

That you, that one particular reader, happen to read this blog in time, and drop me a line letting me know when and where your party is. Barring that, maybe one of your friends might read this blog and think to themselves, “Mandy is a big Rothfuss fan, and we live in the right area, maybe she’s the one that blog is about…” Then they’ll tell you to get in contact with me.

(Mandy isn’t the name, mind you. Like I said, I can’t remember the name.)

I realize it’s kind of a vain hope, but I just can’t find the letter.

Here’s what I don’t want:

Now this is the big thing. I don’t want a hundred people to e-mail me asking if I’ll come to their graduations, keggers, bat mitzvas, ritual scarifications, handfastings, whatever.

I really don’t want this. I am specifically asking you n0t to do this. Not in the comments below, not in an e-mail to me. Seriously. Don’t wheedle and bribe and beg at me.

The reason is this, I just can’t go to everyone’s party. So if I have to slog through 30 of those e-mails, I’ll feel guilty as well as put upon and clawed at. And that bad feeling will shit on my day and completely negate any good feeling I’d get out of stopping by the party I’m actually hoping to swing through.

I’m trusting y’all to be cool about this. This is a test, in a way. I’m betting that y’all are polite, civilized people. Please don’t let me down.

Also, please don’t e-mail me with wild speculations as to who it might be. If you think it might be your friend, please e-mail them, not me.

Lastly, (and I hope this goes without saying) but don’t pretend to be the person who sent me the letter if you’re not. The letter had a few distinguishing features, so I’ll find out after a quick e-mail exchange. When that happens, not only will you be on my eternal shit list, but my faith in humanity will be damaged. I’m trying to keep that faith undamaged for at least another year or two….

So for that one reader out there: how about it? Is there a chance in hell that you might check my blog the day before your graduation party?

For the rest of you, I hope you have a lovely memorial day.

With love,

pat

P.S. If you’re in the Madison Area, I’m doing a reading/signing at Room of One’s Own at 2:30 today. Feel free to swing by….

Labels: blogging, calling on the legions, trepidation
posted by Pat 101 Comments
Published: May 28, 2010

A Brief Musical Interlude

So earlier this week, I was hanging out at the local coffee shop, re-reading The Wise Man’s Fear for roughly the billionth time. Tightening and tweaking. Seeing what I can trim. Checking all the interconnecting plot threads like a spider with OCD going over its web.

I tend to hide in the back of the coffee shop when I’m doing this. A little bit of ambient noise is nice. It’s one of the main reasons I go to the coffee shop for this sort of work, actually.

You see, I have two problems when I’m revising. First, when I get into a book, I’m really into it. You can pretty much set me on fire and I wouldn’t notice.

Second, I’m working really hard to make this book really captivating.

Both these things work against me when I’m doing revisions. If I get pulled into the story, I enjoy myself, but don’t get any editing done. The sound of conversation and the occasional pretty girl walking by helps keep me from falling into my reading trance. Hence the coffee shop.

But too much bustle can be too much distracting. It’s a fine balance. On the days when I don’t need much distraction, or I’m just caffeineing up, I sit in the back room. They use it for shows some nights, but most days it’s just empty.

Okay. Enough background? I think so.

So I’m working on the book and some people come into the back room and start to set up their equipment. I look up and realize it’s almost 7:00. I’ve been editing for about 6 hours and lost track of time.

I get rid of my dishes and start to tidy up my table, thinking I’ll go somewhere else to edit. Maybe grab some dinner. But then the band does a little bit of a sound check…

At first I listen just to be polite. (I am from the midwest, after all.) But then I get pulled in. The singer has a voice like honey on warm bread. And the music is my favorite sort: Strong vocals, good lyrics. Some covers, but but a lot of the songs were original. Original and good.

They kept me there for the whole set despite the fact that I was hungry and I knew I should be editing. Still, I didn’t feel too bad. I do write about musicians, after all. I should probably occasionally watch people, y’know, make some music.

They had a pretty good patter too. They talked about music. About their lyrics. They told a few little stories, including how there was one song in particular they would start playing whenever they were out busking and saw a kid. Something about that particular tune always tended to draw the children over to them…

Afterwards I wandered up to the stage and reassured them with my standard line, “Hello, I’m not a hobo about to ask you for spare change. I’m actually a writer, would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

They were delightfully tolerant of me, and answered a couple of questions. The drummer and guitarist both let me look at their hands to see what sort of callouses they had.

Then I asked my big question: “That song you played. The one you used to draw the kids over while you were busking…”

They said they knew what song I was talking about: “Strong Enough to Catch My Fall.”

“I don’t suppose you have a recording of that?” I said.

They didn’t.

I said I’d love to see the lyrics sometime, but I didn’t push the point. The reason is, when I heard the song. I thought, “This is Denna’s Song.”

But I couldn’t just *say* that. Walking up to a band and saying, “one of my characters would totally sing that song!” has to be about the geekiest things it’s possible for a writer to do. I can’t say why, but to me it feels as geeky as walking up to a stranger at a bar and telling them about the time your favorite D&D character killed this troll this one time…

So I tried to play it cool rather than risk being that overenthusiastic guy. But before I left, I asked them if they’d like copies of my book.  I’d listened to their show, they could read by book. Fair’s fair, after all…

A couple days later, they were nice enough to drop me an e-mail with the lyrics to the song. I read the lyrics, and thought, “Yeah. That pretty much hits the nail right on the head.”

When I e-mailed them back, I told them if they ever did record a version of the song, I’d love to put it up on my webpage.

The very next day, (today, in fact) they sent me this link.

I was surprised. I’d been thinking that to record a song you need a studio and one of those big boards with all sorts of knobs. And you need a guy wearing headphones to fiddle with those knobs while saying, “Let’s try those three measures again. But this time with more tremulentatso!”

Or something. I can’t remember any real music terms right now. It’s late.

The point is that I’m a little ashamed of myself. I immediately thought of recording music as this long, arcane, artificial process.

They thought: “He wants a recording? Find something that records and point it at us and we’ll make some music.”

And then they made some music. They didn’t piece together a song out of 20 different takes. There’s no pitch-tuner or mixboard here. You know why? Because these folks are real musicians. Making music is what they do.

So y’all should really go check it out. They recorded it specifically so I could share it with you, and it would be a shame if you didn’t take advantage of that.

Did I mention that it’s the Hillary Reynolds Band? It’s the Hillary Reynolds Band.

If you want to hear more of their stuff you can head over onto their myspace.

They’ve got a few shows listed there too. So some of you might be able to catch them live if you’re in the right part of the country.

That’s all for now, folks. Enjoy the music.

pat

Labels: cool things, music, the craft of writing
posted by Pat 91 Comments
Published: May 25, 2010

And Now for Something Completely Different….

Here’s the deal. I’ve got a hellacious pain in my neck, so I’m in no mood to hunch over my manuscript right now.

I’m caffeinated, and I’m bored.

So while I’m waiting for the drugs to kick in, I’ll answer questions here on the blog. You post them in a comment, and I’ll post a reply.

The rules:

1. Bite sized questions are best. I’m not looking to write essays here. Think popcorn, not steak.

2. You can ask any question.

2b. Don’t post 20 desperate, flailing questions hoping that I’ll answer one of them. Post one or two clever questions instead. We’re looking for quality here, not quantity.

3. I reserve the right to ignore your question.

3b If I ignore your question, it’s not because I hate you. It’s probably just because I don’t have anything witty to say on the subject.

4. I reserve the right to lie, or at least be wildly inaccurate.

5. Complete sentences, punctuation, and spelling words out in their entirety is encouraged. I’m more likely to pass over your question if it contains abhorrences like “ur.”

6. Nobody can make fun of your question.

6b. Except for me.

7. If I’ve already answered the question in a blog or one of my innumerable interviews, I’m going to pass over it.

7b. If someone wants to reply to those questions with a link to the appropriate blog or interview, that would be nice.

8. I obviously won’t answer spoiler-ish questions about the book.

9. I’ll probably trim unanswered questions out of the comments just to streamline things for future readers.

(Edit: I started to do this, but after trimming away 50 questions I realized it was too much work. So I’m leaving the unanswered questions where they are. Some of them are pretty funny anyway, but I just couldn’t think of good answers, or they showed up too late.)

10. One question per comment. No multi-part questions.

I’m probably only going to do this for a couple hours while I’m catching up on my e-mail. If it’s fun, maybe I’ll do it again in the future…

Let’s see how this goes….

pat

Edit: It’s been a fun couple hours. But I think I’m pretty much done for the evening. I might come back and do some cleanup, or answer a few of the remaining questions. But I won’t answer any that are made after this point. (1:00 AM) So don’t bother trying to slide one in. Just save it for next time.

Thanks for playing, everybody.

Labels: Fanmail Q + A, Machine Gun Q&A
posted by Pat 417 Comments
Published: May 21, 2010

Circadian Spring

Okay. I’m going to tell a little story. But for it to make sense, you’re going to have to understand two things…

First, my sleep schedule is wildly variable. When I’m in the thick of revisions, it’s not odd for me to be up until 5 or 6 AM. Neither is it odd for me to sleep until 2 or three in the afternoon.

Second, spring is a confusing time in Wisconsin.

Don’t get me wrong. Spring is great. In Wisconsin we appreciate spring way more than most other folks because we spend half the year buried in snow. In more temperate parts of the world, if the thermometer dips to 68 degrees people start putting on sweaters and shutting their windows.

Not here in Wisconsin. Our winters can easily dip to -40 Fahrenheit (Which, for those of you who are all metric, is the same as -40 Celsius.) So when we get a sunny spring day that hits, say, 55 degrees, we’re all putting on our shorts and playing Frisbee. To us, 55 degrees is like getting a kiss from God…

The main problem with spring in Wisconsin is that Mother Nature is beginning fresh after the hard winter. She’s effectively starting her whole life over again.

That means in April and May Mother Nature is the equivalent of a 14 year old girl. Which is to say she’s insane.

So on May 13th, she can be sunny, happy, and sweet. She can wear a pretty sundress and hug puppies. Then, 12 hours later, she’s weeping inconsolably in her room. By May 15th she’s listening to NIN, wearing black lipstick, and burning herself with cigarettes.

That’s what a Wisconsin spring is like: Sun. Warm breeze. Two inches of snow. Lilacs. Birds singing. Hail. Tornado.

But even in her less extreme mood swings, a Wisconsin spring can be troublesome. Lately I’ve been heading out to my writing space at night, and it’s been chilly, if not chilly and damp. So I put on my coat and hat, walk over there, and write most of the night. Then, if it’s gotten really late, I sleep on the futon mattress I have over there just for that purpose. (Yeah. I know. Pretty glamorous, huh?)

The point is, when I wake up the next day at 1:00 in the afternoon, it’s lovely and sunny. I don’t want to wear my coat home and get sweaty, so I leave it at work and enjoy the weather on my way home.

The first day this happened it wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t have my black leather duster, so I went to the back of the closet and pulled out my old, grey denim duster that I wore for 9 years back in college. It’s tatty, but it’s warm. I also found a weird furry hat that was too small for me, and stuck up about a 8 inches off the top of my head.

So I walk, write, and sleep again. Then when I get up it’s lovely, so I walk home coatless to see Sarah and Oot.

But the third night I was out of options. I don’t own multiple coats. It goes against my whole philosophy. And while Sarah has roughly one Billion hats, they’re all too small for me.

Normally I wouldn’t mind walking a mile or so if it’s just a little chilly. I’m built like a bear, after all. But I was fighting off a bit of a headcold, and I didn’t want it to get worse just a before heading off to so a reading down near Madison.

So, for all these reasons, I ended up walking through downtown Stevens Point at 1:30 in the morning wearing a cloak.

I’d forgotten I owned it. I bought it back when me and my friends used to hit the Ren Fair. Or maybe when we were doing our fantasy LARP. It’s green and black, and in many ways, it was the perfect garment for the job, as it had a hood, too.

But wearing it made me realize two surprising things.

First, the silhouetted figure on the cover of The Wise Man’s Fear is absolutely perfect.

(Click to Embiggen)

I know it’s perfect because when I was walking down the street, the shadow that splayed out in front of me on the sidewalk looked exactly like that. Almost to an uncanny degree.

The second thing that surprised me was how amazingly self-conscious I felt. I don’t like to admit it, but I was really mortified at the thought of anyone seeing me walking around in a cloak.

I think I’m vain. The old denim duster I’d worn the night before was really ragged and awful looking. It’s frayed and torn. Holes in the pockets. The furry hat looked stupid, but not nearly as stupid as the hat that I wear the rest of the time.

So if I’m not vain, why was I so uncomfortable with the thought of someone seeing me in this cloak? It couldn’t be that I was worried I might look stupid. I’m fine with looking stupid. I go out of my way to look stupid sometimes.

I think my worry was that someone would recognize me as, “That Local Fantasy Author,” and then that they’d assume I dressed up in a cloak because I was desperately trying to be… I dunno… extra fantasy author-y. (Which would make me a poser.) Or that I was trying to dress up as Kvothe. (Which is worse.)

All whys aside, I was trying to stay out of sight. But it quickly occurred to me that trying to be inconspicuous while wearing a cloak looks really, really suspicious. And if there’s one thing worse than being identified as “that local fantasy author who dresses up in a cloak.” It would be people thinking of me as, “That local fantasy author who dresses up in a cloak and hides in the bushes outside your house.”

Plus, there are some places you simply can’t hide. I have to cross a couple parking lots to get where I’m going.

So, of course, when I’m crossing one of these parking lots, that’s when the cop car drives by. He’s trolling along Main Street at bar time, looking for drunk college kids. I’m the middle of the empty parking lot, wearing my cloak.

I knew the cop was going to circle back and come talk to me. He would drive up and say, “Um, hello?”

And then I would get my ass in trouble because when I’m put in a situation like that, I just can’t take it seriously. The urge to flap around like Batman would be overwhelming. Or I’d pretend to cast Magic Missile when he talked to me. Or when he asked “Who are you?” I’d say something like, “I am the servant of a secret fire! Wielder of the flame or Anor!” and then get my stupid, sarcastic ass would get tazered and put in jail for the night.

But the thing is, as soon as I saw the cop, I wasn’t nervous any more. If one person sees you doing something kinda weird, it’s really embarrassing. But getting thrown in jail because you wore a cloak and then quoted Gandalf? That’s awesome. That’s a story I’d tell for the rest of my life.

Unfortunately, the cop didn’t circle around. It would have been the perfect ending to this little adventure, but real life rarely gives us that sort of satisfying closure. That’s why we love stories: they give events the pleasing shape the real world so seldom provides.

pat

Labels: day in the life, my dumbness, small adventures
posted by Pat 90 Comments
Published: May 17, 2010

Beta Readers: Part II

First, a few excerpts from the many, many messages I’ve received recently.

  • “Do you need another Beta Reader? I’d be happy to help….”
  • “I read on one of your latest blogs something about beta readers. I had no clue there was such a thing, but now I know about it I want to be one.”
  • “I think beta-reading sounds like the best job in the world–next to testing the softness of puppy-tummy-fur with one’s face all day.”

People have given many credentials and uttered many a plaintive plea. There have even been blatant attempts at bribery. People have offered me cash, computers, and promises of their undying love. About the only thing people didn’t offer is livestock and sexually explicit pictures of themselves.

I should have seen it coming, but honestly, I didn’t.

I know a lot of people would love to help me out by giving a beta read…

Wait, that’s not entirely true, is it?

What I meant to say is that a lot of people would love to read an early copy of the book, and, largely by coincidence, help me out with a beta read.

But I just can’t feel good about it. ** [See edit below.]

  • “I’d like to volunteer.  I know there is probably some precautions you have to take to make sure it’s not leaked, but I’ll do whatever you need, sign a contract, send in a testicle, mail in a kid for collateral, whatever… seriously though I can keep my mouth shut.”

Ultimately, this strikes at the heart of the issue.

Back when I was working on The Name of the Wind, I would give a copy of the book to anyone who even hinted they wanted to read it.

Getting other people’s feedback on the book is a key element of my revision process. You see, I’ve read this book so many times in so many versions, that I need an external view of it. A triangulation point, if you will…

But these days, I can’t just hand it out all higgledy piggledy. Things are more complicated. These days I have to worry about people leaking early, crappy versions of the book onto the net months before the pub date.

I know, deep in my heart of hearts, that most people would never dream of doing such a thing. But all it takes is one jackass….

And yeah, I have a non-disclosure form. Everyone signs it before they get the book. Even Sarah signed it.

It’s a vicious fucking thing that goes something like this:

You, by signing below, agree that you’ll do everything in your power to protect this manuscript and keep its contents secret. If you fail in this, and are a big chatty Cathy about it, I, Patrick Rothfuss, will fuck you up.

I will do this on all possible levels: financially, socially, physically, and spiritually.

If you lend it to your girlfriend who leaves it on the bus and then some jackhole finds it and it ends up on the internet, I will de-corn your cob. Seriously. Your entire cob. Every single kernel of corn. I am not even fucking kidding….

It goes on like that for some time. It is so terrifying that one of my friends said he didn’t feel comfortable leaving the house with his copy of the book.

But really, the non-disclosure form isn’t going to help. If the book gets leaked, I’ll be pissed forever, and suing some daft bastard into the ground won’t fix that.

  • “Do i have to invade a small nation? Do I have to sing show tunes in Times Square? Or is it just one of those “inner sanctum of friends” kind of thing?”

Ultimately, yeah. At this point it is. I have to know you personally, so I can trust you. It’s also important for me to know you because that helps me put your comments in context.

The other problem is that for me to really get the most out of a beta reader, I like to be able to sit down with them over coffee and chat about the book. I like to be able to leaf through the manuscript, ask them questions about their comments, and pick their brains about certain key issues. And seeing how most of you don’t live here in Stevens Point, that’s kinda hard.

So this blog is to say thanks to everyone who offered to help. I’d love to be able to take you up on your offers, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.

More soon,

pat

** Edit – May 18th

When I looked at the comments today, I was surprised to see people offering hugs of consolation, and giving me support, and telling me not to let the messages get me down.

This was kind of a surprise to me, as the messages I got from people asking to be beta readers were, by and large, lovely, considerate, flattering things.

So I re-read the blog and found the problem. It’s the following line:

“But I just can’t feel good about it.”

What we have here is a classic case of unspecific pronoun. It seems like I’m saying that I can’t feel good about all the people asking to read book two. But that’s not the case. I’m cool with that. As I’ve said, it’s really rather flattering, and I wish I could take people up on their offers. Because, as I’ve said, I love feedback.

That sentence should read, “But I just can’t feel good about handing out copies of book two to strangers.”

This, my friends, is why I do a lot of revisions. One misused pronoun and the entire emphasis of a piece of writing gets fucked up.

Just wanted to clarify.

Love,

pat

Labels: book two, the business of writing, the craft of writing
posted by Pat 115 Comments
Published: May 10, 2010

Fanmail Q&A – Beta Readers

Dear Pat,

I read your post about book two, and I just wanted to say thanks for letting us know. It’s nice having a real date.

I noticed that you aren’t posting much on facebook or your blog these days, and I hope it’s not a result of people shitting in your cereal. (metaphorically speaking.) I don’t read any blogs other than yours, and I’d hate for you to quit writing stuff online just because of a few dickheads.

I’m actually writing because I was curious about a term you used in your previous blog. You said that you were wondering about who you could still use as beta readers. I hate to sound ignorant, but what’s a “beta reader”? Is it a different name for a copyeditor?

Hugs and kisses,

Simon

Heya Simon, thanks for being patient. I appreciate it.

I’ve been offline a little more these days partly because I’m focusing on revisions, but also because my main computer is in pieces in my closet right now. These days I’m getting my internet access the way our neolithic ancestors did, by hanging out in coffeeshops, using the public library, and viciously stealing unsecured wifi from my neighbors late at night.

To tell you the truth, I don’t remember when I began using the term beta reader. I might have picked it up from other writers, or I could have started using it on my own. If I had a better internet connection right now, I’d do a little research into it, but I’ve only got 35 minutes before I have to give up this computer (I’m in the library right now.)  

Wherever I found it, I’m pretty sure I’ve been using the term in one way or another for about 6-7 years .

When I say beta reader, I’m talking about someone who reads an early version of my book and gives me feedback on it. Sort of the same way a beta tester gives a software developer feedback on a nearly-finished game.

I also have people I call alpha readers. They read very early, very rough versions of the book and tell me what they think.

I have gamma readers too. They read my solid, almost-finished drafts.

I don’t go any lower than that, simply because I worry that some of my friends would be insulted if I referred to them as Epsilon readers. Plus, every time Kvothe climbs on top of a building, I know I’d have a slew of them writing “Roof! Oh Roof!” in the margins of my manuscript.

Alpha readers are hard to come by, and I only have a handful. These are people who know the book really well. They tend to be old friends who have been reading my stuff for years, if not decades. Many of them have read all three books. Many of them have role-played in my world, back when they lived closer to me and I had the spare time to run games. 

Brett, the guy who draws illustrations for the blog, is one of these. He read an early version of my book back in 1990’s when we were both students at UWSP.

Sarah is also an alpha, and she’s been helping me recruit another future reader:

This is Sarah reading a beta version of The Wise Man’s Fear a couple months back. She reads it out loud to Oot sometimes.

Click to embiggen

Oot:  ”Is that a comma splice Momma?”

Sarah: “They’re all comma splices, sweetie.”

From what I’ve been able to gather, I work differently than a lot of other authors, in that I like to get a lot of feedback on my book while I’m revising. A lot.

Also, generally speaking, I prefer my test readers to be just regular readers, as opposed to other writers. 

Note that this isn’t a hard and fast rule. Brett, for example, is a great writer, and one of my favorite alphas. But generally speaking, I prefer getting feedback from, say, plumbers. Or chemical engineers. Or actors. Or historians.

I have several big reasons for this, but the biggest one is this: after my book is published, the vast majority of people who read it won’t be writers. They’ll be teachers, or fry cooks, or programmers, or soldiers. If I only gathered  feedback from other writers and slowly shaped my book according to what they said, I’d end up with a book designed to please writers. Personally, I find that thought vaguely terrifying.

Anyway, my time’s about up on this computer. Hope this answers your question, Simon.

Hugs and kisses to you too,

pat

Labels: Fanmail Q + A, Oot, the craft of writing
posted by Pat 115 Comments
Published: May 4, 2010

There and Back Again….

So I’m back from Penguicon and the signing off near Detroit.

Both events were a good time. I had the chance to read the Princess Book to a few people, hung out with other author types and talked geeky writing talk. It was fun. I’ve even got a few pictures to share…

I’ll post those things later. Today I’m going to talk about part of the convention that usually gets glossed over: The traveling.

The truth is, traveling is one of the hardest parts of going to conventions. It is for me at least.

Conventions themselves are easy for me. I meet people, sign books, talk on panels, and do readings. It’s exhausting, but it’s not hard. I’m a fairly decent public speaker, and I like meeting fans and other authors. So conventions are a treat for me. They’re a break from my otherwise rather unsocial and solitary life.

But the traveling isn’t fun. It’s expensive, irritating, and time consuming. Worst of all, I seem to get sick every time I go on an extended plane ride.

That’s the main reason that I do so many events here in the midwest. And that’s the reason that I decided to drive to Penguicon.

It takes about 8-9 hours to drive from central Wisconsin to Troy, MI. Still, given check-in times and layovers, that’s only a couple hours longer than a plane. Plus it’s cheaper and I don’t have to worry about people groping through my luggage.

The trip to the convention was relatively uneventful. I made a pitstop in Madison to hang out with some friends I don’t see nearly often enough and helped one of them move some furniture around in his new apartment.

Have I ever mentioned that I used to be a professional mover? It was only a summer job, and I was in better shape back then. But still, it’s nice to keep my hand in, just in case this whole writing thing doesn’t pan out for me in the long run.

It’s on the way back from the convention that things get interesting. After my library reading I hop in my car, enter my home address on my Magellan, and start driving.

I feel I should mention here, in yet another tangent, that I feel morally conflicted about the Magellan. I got it as a Christmas present from my dad, and it’s wonderfully convenient. But at the same time I believe devices like this are actively endumbening the populace. You should be able to read a map, folks. You should know which direction north is.

Did I ever mention I used to be a delivery driver too? I was. I can read a map. What’s more, using a brilliant mixture of zen navigation, Aristotelian logic, and pure rage I can get you your package and/or delicious sandwich relatively close to on-time.

That’s another fallback career for me.

That said, I do use the Magellan when I’m in unfamiliar territory. I don’t have a map of Detroit. It’s quick, easy, and usually accurate.

Note the *usually.*

The Magellan tells me to turn right, then left, then right. I just follow along, as most of my attention is focused on listening to Warren Ellis’ Crooked Little Vein on audiobook.

But something doesn’t feel right. I look at the one of the passing signs and see that I’m heading north. I pull over in a gas station and have a discussion with the machine:

Me: What the fuck, Magellan?

It: Calculating Route.

Me: No. Seriously. What the fuck?

It: Turn right onto North 74.

Me: North isn’t the right way to go.

It: Ding!

Me: I’m going to Stevens Point. In Wisconsin. Through Madison.

It: Calculating route. Stevens Point is 974 miles away.

Me: The fuck it is. Go south.

It: Ding! Turn right onto North 74.

So I throw the thing into the footwell of the car. I throw it hard, too. So it knows who’s in charge. You people might have to deal with that sort of insolent backtalk from your machine overlords, but not me. I work with machines in one way: they do what I say or I fucking destroy them and do it myself. I consider myself a Darwinistic force in machine evolution. I’m encouraging them to evolve along more helpful lines.

The gas station is depressing. The woman behind the counter doesn’t know which road leads back to I 94. She doesn’t think the gas station has any maps to sell. She suggests I get directions from someone who has an iphone. She has one eyebrow. Not kidding.

So I find the maps myself, buy one, and get back into the car. Using the map and eight seconds of rational thought, I find the sensible route home.

After two hours the Magellan’s battery starts to die and it chirps at me pitifully from the passenger-side footwell. I let it starve for another ten minutes then bring it out and we have another conversation.

Me: How far away is Stevens Point?

It: 820 miles?

Me: What’s your name?

It: M-Magellan?

Me: No. Your name is bitch. I’m asking you one more time, how do you get to Stevens Point?

It: You should head south through Chicago on I 94.

Me: That’s right I should.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that an hour later, after paying a toll, my driver side window refuses to roll back up. Machines tend to stick together like that.

So I pull over at another gas station and kick the hell out of the door for a while. I do this partly in case it’s a loose wire or something that can be fixed by kicking, but also as a warning for any other machines nearby that are considering insubordination.

Then I go into the gas station and explain the situation. I don’t want to drive another three hours with damp, 50 degree air blowing into my ear. Cardboard and duct tape isn’t good either, as it would limit my visibility too much. The attendant there is cool, and lets me poke around in back looking for useful supplies until I find a roll of that plastic stuff you use to wrap up pallets.

Did I ever mention I used to work in a warehouse? I did.

I have to say, even though I’ve been out of the game for about two decades, I still have some mad pallet-wrapping skills.

Then I went home.

Everything said, it was still way better than flying.

pat

Labels: being awesome, conventions, day in the life, epiphenomena, tangentality
posted by Pat 94 Comments

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