centre of the universe - the dreaming

It came to pass that a Sodom of Shepherds were elbowing each other in a tiny barn. Joseph was passing out cigars; Mary was glaring.
"Dude! What're you going to name him?"
"We were thinking maybe Derek," Joseph says, puffing away.
"We are NOT naming Him Derek", Mary spits.
"Derek is a great name!" Joseph replies.
"Yeah, Dude, that's *my* name!"
"We are NOT naming the Messiah Derek," Mary says through gritted teeth.


"How about Gerald?" someone says. A lamb bleats plaintively.
"Right," Mary smooths her skirt. "Thank you all for coming. We have a name chosen. You will learn it in" she appears to check the time, "five days. Go Away." She folds her arms over her chest and watches them self-consciously file out. She sighs heavily. "Thank God that's over," she mutters.
"Shalom," rumbles a deep voice in the dark doorway "We are here"

"Joey, as God is my witness..."
"Whoa, Mare, I totally don't even know these dudes."
"Then who?"
"Zoroastrian Magi, milady," the deep voice replies.
"Who, with the what now?" Joseph stutters.
"Magi, sirrah," a second voice answers. "Followers of Zarathustra. We have come to see the Anointed One."
"Goyim?" Mary asks.
"Hardly," a third voice answers. The shadows begin to move.

"Shalom," Mary says. The rustle of robes betrays the Magi's movements. Shadows unfurl into brilliant satin colours: purples, reds, blues, and layers of cotton in shades of sand and sky.
"His birth was foretold", the first Magus' voice deep as night.
"By Messengers from...", the second's voice is like pebbles dropping into water. "Heaven." The third Magus finishes.
"WHERE are you dudes from?" Joseph asks.

Mary sighs deeply and rolls her eyes. "I hope you don't mind...er...sirs?...but you see, I've only just recently given birth, and..."
"Ah," the first Magus gasps, drawing back slightly.
"You are..." the second continues.
"Unclean," says the third.
"NO," Mary insists. "I'm TIRED. Could you come back tomorrow?" The Magi bow deeply and seem to simply disappear from the barn.

"With all these visitors, SOMEBODY might have offered us a place to stay that doesn't have...poop...on the floor." Mary says, yawning.
"Wait," Joseph says. He cradles his wife, who cradles the Son of God, and spreads his robe on the straw behind her.
"Thank you," Mary says, eyes glistening.
Joseph sighs. "I just wish...the kid LOOKED like me, you know?"
"He'll be a carpenter, just like you," she replies, smiling.
"Yeah," Joseph whispers in her ear as she closes her eyes. "A solid education in nails and wood is a fine way to make a living."
For reasons she would not understand for 33 years, Mary shivers at Joseph's words.

Mary's been able to bathe in the trough, and now that her bleeding has stopped, she wants a proper bath. Joseph asks at the Inn. "He, uh, said you could go and bathe there."
"What is it?" Mary asks.
"You'll see," Joseph says. Mary tucks Baby God into her sling and tentatively approaches the Inn. She frowns when she spies a newly-painted sign dangling above the door: הבית של מלך היהודים

After the washing-up, Mary returns to the barn, where she finds Joseph inhaling smoke from a hose attached to a fancy pot. Sitting opposite him, on three low milking stools, are the Magi in their jewelled satin robes. One wears a rolled turban, one wears a veil over his face, and one wears a sort of crown. The fancy pot makes a bubbling sound every time they inhale. Each of the Magi rises to bow at her entrance.

"Greetings, Most Holy Mother," says the one with the deep voice.
"Blessings upon thee," says the second Magus.
"Shalom," says the third. Mary bows her head in return.
"We have been to see the King," the first Magus says sadly.
"There is news," the second shakes his head.
"Terrible news," the third finishes as he coils the hose over the fancy pot.

Labels: Christmas, stories, true story

Just about [dinner time on the 24th], [Mary's] contractions would have started in ernest. "Joey," she might have said, "I have to get off this blody donkey."


They sugar-coat it in the Gospels, but Mary was actually pretty testy. There wasn't any "and it came time for Mary to be delivered"; it was all "get me the eff of this effing donkey before I stab you in the eye with my cloak pin!" and Joseph was all, "But Maaaary...they said they have no vacancies." And Mary was all, "...I swear to God, Joey, if you don't get me down off this beast, YOU can bear His firstborn."

...and so then Mary says, "HHHHNNNNNGGGGNNNNN". And Joseph wrings his hands a bunch. Because no matter what you might have read, women do have pain during childbirth (thanks for THAT one, Eve). And then Mary's all, "I can't do this anymore." And Joseph is all, "Oooh! I remember this from our prenatal class!" And Mary's all, "Screw you, Joe." And Joseph is all, "I wish."

After all the pushing and the gushing, Joseph ties the kid up in strips he tore off his dress. Mary says, "Give. Me. That.", and she yanks Baby God away and leans back in the straw with him. "So, um, that was pretty cool, hey?" Joseph says, glancing at the door. "What?" Mary asks, nearly asleep. "Well, it's just that......I invited some of the guys over..." The bible doesn't tell you about The Look she shot at him then.

"You twat," Mary growled under her breath. "First you drag me halfway across the Delta because YOUR FATHER happens to be of the CLAN OF DAVID and you have to pay TAXES here, when I'm pregnant an in labour, and now...and NOW..." her voice has risen to a screech, "you want me to ENTERTAIN YOUR BUDDIES!!??"

"Wull," Joseph says, glancing at the door. 

"IN A BARN!!??" she shouts.

"Look," Joseph clenches his teeth and growls back. "I agreed to marry you when nothing bigger than a blood clot had travelled through your...well. I agreed to marry you. Then some guy on fire descends out of the sky and tells me you're knocked up with the Messiah, and I'm supposed to be all, 'oooh, Huzzah!', which is FINE, but when I invite a few of the guys over afterward, the least you can do is try to understand."

"FINE." Mary glares at him.

"Fine." Joseph glares back. 

"Dudes?" someone asks from outside the barn. "Is this a bad time? We saw this big, flashing light, and we were all, like, freaked out, man..."

Mary sighs. "Let the idiots in," she says. "Some day, I'm sure the baby will bless them for being idiots."


Later, when the little kid with the drum finally quit playing, Mary just wanted to sleep, what with the childbirthing and the shepherds, and she was all, "Joey, how much longer are they going to stay? I'm exhausted." And Joseph was all, "I think that drummer kid is just about done. One of the shepherds is giving him some lamb chops to shut him up." And this is how Christmas Day *really* ended.

Labels: Christmas, religion, true story

There are times when, according to some folks, Yours Truly is fairly laid back about many things. In most things, I usually try to not let things stress me out. I've heard a rumour that many people feel stress and panic and fear and anger and misery and all sorts of things at this time of year. I guess that makes sense. There is a certain push to celebrate one of the biggest gift-giving/family seasons of all year, and if you're not celebrating, you're a big poop. That's what they say, you see.

After I turned about 16 (and therefore was a horrible gorgon for the following 5 -7 years), I wasn't much in favour of Christmas, and it was one of the things that stressed me out rather a lot. With the exception of getting to spend time with my young cousins and my uncles and aunts, there wasn't much I liked about it. I wasn't religious...I didn't believe in God, in fact.  I didn't much like not going to school, we were always away from my friends, and my parents usually were only together for a day, and it seemed like they regretted even that time together. And then there's other baggage.

We often travelled at Christmas. When I was 17, we went on the family vacation on which National Lampoon based one of its more famous movies about traveling with your family.

These were no innocent days of tender falling snow and lights merrily twinkling away among hoar-frost dappled trees. At our Christmases, Santa only came to the house after all the liquor was gone. But that was *normal*, you see. That's the way it had always been. It didn't seem bad or wrong until the year when I was 17.

But there was always something decidedly lovely about Christmas, even when I was a gorgon and my mother and I couldn't be in the same room without screaming at each other. And, as these things go, I knew it instinctively when I was Very Young, and then promptly forgot about it until the second and subsequent Christmases after Mum died. There is the sense of being together; we were *always* together on Christmas, with the exception of one year in 32, I spent every Christmas with my family.

I would come home, and the dusty artificial tree that was stored in the rafters above the garage would be decorated and twinkling. Gifts were always placed underneath, and I knew there would be closets filled with other gifts that would not come out until the last person in the house had gone to bed. I get to be romantic about it now because there is distance between being a gorgon and being a mother myself; between now and then. Distance between me and Mum.  There is an insurmountable, vast distance between Mum and I, and it is a distance that is largest at this time of year.

Once, when I was 11, I came home after school absolutely livid. I'd got into a fight at school and beaten the tar out of a kid who laughed at my best friend Sarah and I when we were talking about Santa. The kid had ridiculed us for 'still believing in Santa'. "What are you, BABIES?" he'd cried. And then he burst into tears because I punched him in the throat.

I needed my mother to validate, if not what I'd done, then WHY I'd done it. "He's wrong, isn't he, Mum?" I said, sobbing. "There IS SO TOO a real Santa. Isn't there?"

My mother, who was tiny, gathered me up on to her lap (which was pretty near the same size as my own lap), and she said, "Do you believe in the wind?"

"What?" I snurgled.

"Do you believe in the wind?" she asked again.

"I'm talking about SANTA!" I wailed.

"I know. We'll get there."

"Of COURSE I believe in the wind."

"Why?" She asked.

"That's a stupid question," I answered. Lippy even then, you see.

"Well, can you SEE the wind?" She asked.

"Well, no...but you can see what it does to trees and stuff."

She nodded. "And can you TOUCH the wind?"

"No, but you can feel it," I said.

"Well, she said, Santa's the same way."

I didn't follow. "I don't follow," I said.

"Do you believe in love?" She asked me.

"Of course I do!"

"Can you SEE love?"

"Well," I pondered, "No, but you can see the effect it has on people."

"Can you TOUCH love?" She asked. Even then, sometimes I had to be led to conclusions.

"No, but you can feel it," I said.

"Well, Santa is made from the expressions of love that we give to one another. Santa is real as long as you believe in love."

Which is very tender and sweet and utterly blasphemous if you're relgious, but from that day to this, there has never been any question in my mind at all about whether or not Santa exists. God is a different story, but I've always understood the way *SANTA* works. Mysteriously, there were *always* gifts under our tree, gifts for every person there on Christmas morning, even people who were unexpected guests, from Santa. Strangely, Santa's handwriting used to be an awful lot like my mother's, but that seems to have changed somewhat in the last six years.

I have never felt so alone as I did the time I realised, after Mum died, that there would be no gifts from Santa in my stocking that year. Not an orange, not a lump of coal...nothing. I knew there were gifts from Santa for everyone else, but that my Santa gifts were much more ephemeral. More important. Longer lasting. Requiring no batteries. Much, MUCH more difficult to hold.

Inasmuch as one's attitude toward secular Christmas changes when one has children (you could hate Christmas all you like, but once you've seen how excited your kids get when there's a tree, and lights, and candy canes, and wrapped presents (even if they're just presents you plucked out of the toy box from last year because they've forgotten about them), it's really tough to hate the season when you're part of the joy it brings), I think it's really been in the last six years I've truly understood why Mum's favourite season was this one.

You can't replace people, and you shouldn't try. So there are things I don't do (the stupid Crackers and hats, for one), and there are things I do that Mum never did (church). But, and forgive me for the way in which this is phrased...

Jesus Christ, I miss you, Mum.

Labels: Christmas, Mum

Mister Sexy said he would NOT wear tight-fitting shirts and talk in an Irish accent if I didn't read John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany . It's a decision I do not regret. And for more reasons than seeing Mister Sexy in a tight-fitting shirt and trilling out a lovely brogue. Well, maybe 'trilling' is not the appropriate word.

(Incidentally, as I write this, the cat is *extremely* farty, and is sitting in front of the register, so if I lose consciousness from time to time, please be patient with me. Whoof.)

So I liked this book. But there's a problem. Sometimes, I don't know if you've noticed this yet, but sometimes, after reading or seeing or experiencing something that makes me think about it a lot, I begin to emulate certain aspects of the thing. F'rinstance, I'm particularly prone to picking up accents. I think that sometimes, when I read something, I pick up phrases or styles, although it's difficult to tell. As my International Literary Boyfriend Neil Gaiman (whom I, sadly, did *not* get to meet yesterday) said,

It's one of the scariest things, for a writer, about writing short fiction -- the worry that a story shape isn't yours, but is something you read a long time ago, and forgot.

*swoon*
Isn't he AMAZING!?
 **SIGH**

What?
Oh, sorry. Right. Owen Meany.

What John Irving's done with this book is, in my opinion, Very Difficult. He has created an utterly memorable character. He's good at that (remember The World According to Garp?). Once you've met Owen Meany, you will never, EVER forget him. It's pretty amazing, I think, the way Irving is able to create an aural experiece using only print and clever prose. Like Garp, Owen Meany has some fairly staunchly-held beliefs, and he is precocious and has, as Joyce would say, the "strength of conviction". (Yes. I know Jame Joyce doesn't hold copyright over that particular phrase; it was in The Dubliners, though, I first encountered it. Or maybe it was Finnegan's Wake.)  Unlike Garp, Owen Meany is, I think, less a product of his upbringing. Owen seems much more actualised early on in his life than Garp ever did, and this makes sense when you understand some of the fundamental differences between the two characters (primarily, Faith and religion).

The similarities between the two novels are striking - fatherless children, for example (a topic close to the author's own heart, as he never knew his own father). Both Garp and John Wheelwright (the narrator of A Prayer for Owen Meany) never knew their fathers; in both instances it is a mystery. In both books, discovering the nature of their own conception is a major driving force for two of the main characters.

Both novels have strong feminist characters who deal with social justice issues - John Wheelwright's cousin Hester is a feminist "out of necessity", the narrator implies (if not outright says), owing to having been treated quite differently from her two brothers. She becomes a folk singer, Vietnam war protester, and, ultimately, pop/punk culture icon. In The World According to Garp, TS Garp's mother, a nurse, is a strong feminist character who goes so far as to open her home to women in need - a shelter/retreat. More striking about Garp's mother Jenny is that she *vehemently* opposes sharing her life with a man as her husband; with the exception of Garp's conception (and I'll not ruin the surprise by talking about it here; if you haven't read the book, you should do so), she presents a cold, asexual image. This is unlike John Wheelwright's mother, who is always taken to be a sexual, sensual woman; the same is true of Hester, with whom John has his first few sexual experiences (and about whom he fantasises for most of his adult life).

Owen Meany is obsessed with his own death. So is Garp. Albeit with different motivations, of course...which is to say, one of the primary *differences* between the two books is also the main reason these two characters are so different in their approach to the obsession each one has about death. Garp is a writer (so is Owen Meany) whose novels tend to feature, like Shakespeare, the death of EVERYONE INVOLVED. Owen Meany is only concerned with his *own* death. Owen has a vision, when he is very young, that convinces him he knows when he will die. Garp is more keenly interested in fantasising several ways in which those around him might die.

I have a friend who often says of my writing, "yes, but what do these characters DO? What HAPPENS?" This is a funny thing about Irving - not much really happens. I mean, stuff happens, but reading it is like hearing the stories told around the back yard while drinking beer, or around the fireplace channel while sipping rum 'n' nog - both novels are anecdotal. The "plot" as it were, takes place in the characters ...well... living. The action is in the development of each segment of each story - what happens to Owen Meany when the boys go swimming at the mine? What happens to Garp when he and his neighbour disrobe in the back yard?

This same friend is a HUGE fan of Hemingway (not that my friend is a Size Large Literature Lover, but he *is* quite fond of Hemingway), and understands about 'nothing happening' in short fiction; he often talks about the story where the entire timeline is played out, more or less, in a hotel room in Spain, and most of the action involves a man and a woman having a subtle argument. It is about what is left *unsaid* that makes that story so good, my friend says. At least, I think he says that. I might be making it up.

ANYWAY, my whole point is this: one of the striking things about Owen Meany is the particular way in which he speaks, which Irving represents in part by only presenting Owen Meany's speech in ALL CAPS. And I noticed my own self doing this on a far more regular basis over the last couple of weeks.

Also, I'll never forget Owen Meany, weird, kind of creepy little bugger that he was. Thanks for insisting I read the book, Mister Sexy. I did enjoy it.

Labels: Books, everyone is the same, weird

Is that it looks absolutely nothing like it looked when The Captain and I were there earlier. For instance, there is no third floor with dormer windows. There is no Spare Oom off my grandmother's bedroom. The house is, though, Full Of Crap; so much so that one cannot maneuver onself around except in narrow pathways. Would that it were like that erstwhile house in my dream, though. What a glorious adventure it would be to have a house with secret rooms!

I could do without the spiders, though. Especially the ones that stole my glasses.

What do dreams of dust and spiders mean?

Labels: dreams, The Captain

The Captain was convinced last night that he was going to DIE because he contracted a terrible chest cold/flu on his Away Trip for hockey. He was flipping out, panicking, hyperventilating, and screaming about how he was going to DIE! So we called the Health Line (do you use the Health Line? It's bloody amazing, and a really good investment of tax dollars - nine times out of ten, they advise you to stay home because you're just being an overly paranoid person and/or you're too sick to be in a hospital, but one time out of ten, they tell you "that kind of pain is definitely NOT NORMAL and you should GET TO AN EMERGENCY ROOM as soon as possible".)

Seriously. If you're wondering if you need to go to the emergency room, or if you should be seeing a doctor about something, call the Health Line. You'll talk to a nurse, and I think it's a really good service. You're probably not the sort of person who "goes doctoring" anyway, but it really is handy when you're on the cusp of panicking about something.

Anyway. The Captain did NOT DIE. He is, however, staying home today with his Da so that he can (The Captain) recover for our trip to meet my International Literary Boyfriend, Mr. Neil Gaimantomorrow.

*Terribly* good in fact. I have been SO good, that I believe I ought to receive a grain-burning stove. And a million dollars' worth of renovations to my home. And a current pool. And time - time to traipse up to Hometown North and pick up my dining table, buffet, vanity, and bureau drawers. Time when it isn't a million below so that the wood won't crack. Time to actually *clean* the house rather than hide the mess. (Although, on the character sheet of "cenobyte", mess-hiding is one of the higher-ranking skills in which I have points. I shall post that character sheet some day for you.)

I would like someone to cook for my family, not because I don't like to cook, but because if someone else does it for me, I'll eat the vegetables. I eat salad if it's done by someone else. I love salad!

I would also like some dust repellant. bleah.

Then, if there's enough wishes left to go around, and in that vein of time/home renovations, I would like someone to help me redo my kitchen. And by 'redo', I mean paint. And where can one find tin ceilings these days?

Oh, and the obligatory love and respect for all the peoples of the world, a lot of hand-holding and humming indistinct tunes in the semi-darkness of a bonfire.

On a completely unrelated note, I was at a wedding last night. I couldn't tell you who the couple were, but there were an awful lot of people at the wedding that I knew, which is always nice. It was held in Saskatoon at the Bessborough hotel, where, in the ballroom, they have these enormous water canons that shoot water fifty feet into the air and can be programmed to match the music in the room. There are lights sunk into the floor as well, surrounding the water canons, which make a glorious show during the reception.

A fellow I went to school with was there - he's now a policeman, and we talked about all kinds of things. And when we retired to our respective rooms, we discovered our rooms were adjoining, by a single door in the back of the closet, which locked on each side. I won't mention what sorts of things this door led to, because that would involve my not having woken up.

Labels: Christmas, dreams, Wishes

I'm, uh, real sorry.

I have no idea how this happened, or how it got this bad so fast.

All I know is that if they handed out prizes for being farty, I'd get first place today.

Labels: TMI

Dear Database:

You and I have had our differences in the past, and I swear to God, I have done everything I can to try and understand you. I know that you had a difficult upbringing, and, like anyone in a relationship, you brought baggage to ours. No one would say we have had an easy relationship, but for the most part, we've worked fairly well together over the last eight years. Sure, there have been arguments, and we're both guilty of losing our tempers, but we had some good times, too, didn't we? Remember that form that worked out on first try? Ha. Yeah, that was a good one.

Lately, though, I've noticed we seem to be growing apart. Eight years is an awfully long time for any relationship, and I know I'm not the first, or the only one, you've been with. We didn't establish this as a dedicated, monogamous relationship, but...well...*I* certainly haven't used any other databases since I met you. I've dabbled here and there, but. Well. No hard feelings. I guess I just thought things would be different. I don't know why; probably, that's unreasonable of me.

Do you remember when we first met, and you were having so many problems? Who was the one who went to counselling? Who took all those classes to try to "understand" you better? It was me. ME, database. You did nothing. You just sat there, binging and flinging out error messages...I should have known then that you'd be criticising everything I tried, no matter how logical the arguments; no matter how correct the parameters. But I thought it would be different. I thought I could change you. I thought....damn it, I thought you would give me *some* leeway. I thought you might meet me halfway, allow me some aggregate function in your life.

I see now that's not going to happen. I see now that our relationship will always be one of strained expressions. It didn't seem like a lot to ask, just to get you to do some simple calculations a couple of times a year. Is that too much? When we first met, you told me, "it's what I do". Is it, Database? Is it what you do? Even now? After ten, twelve years?

 I'm writing this letter to tell you that we're done. No more hand-holding, no more delicate coddling. Our relationship, which has, of late, been strained at best, is going to be only work-related from now on. No late night trysts and union queries. No weekend control manipulation. From now on, it's strictly business. If I need a number, you're going to give it to me, and that will be the end of our communications. I'm not going to bother commenting in your code anymore. I'm not going to struggle with compilation. I'm not going to comb all night through your lookup fields.

The more things change, Database, the more they stay the same with you. I'm moving on. I saw a nice SQL sitting over in the corner; provided it has a usable interface...well...like we said in the beginning - we never agreed to be monogamous. So you just go ahead with that smug look on your screen. I know a guy, Database. You're not indispensable, you know that? You're not irreplaceable. I need more, Database, and you're not the one who can give it to me.

So this is goodbye. Sure, there are going to be loose ends and unfinished business; we've been together for eight years, after all. I get the toaster oven, though.

Yours,
cenobyte

Labels: letters

I know. It's hard to believe that right-wingers could be involved in something as clearly steeped in socialism as conspiracy theories, but there is evidence that this is precisely what could be happening. While those on the right of the political/philosophical spectrum seem to take great glee in dismissing everything a left-wing-nut might say as "madness" and "fear-mongering", I noticed something today. I was driving to work, and there was a discussion on the radio about the climate change conferences taking place in Copenhagen. The discussion began with a guest on the program claiming that Canada is entering in to these conferences with a Black Spot on our reputation. We are considered to be, as it were, stodgy climate-change deniers with our heads fully planted in the [oil] sands. This guest indicated that there is at least one group of environmentalists at Copenhagen who are pushing for Canada to sign a treaty that would bind us to reducing our emissions to 40% below 1990 standards.

I'm not going to comment much on that, because I'm pretty sure it's not going to be taken seriously by anybody, either in the 'for' column or in the 'agin' column. But here is what I do want to say:

This is the running theory coming out of the right, near as I can tell:
There is no such thing as "Global Warming". Even though "scientists" have declared this decade the warmest on record since records began being ...erm... recorded in the 1850s, there is no such thing as Global Warming. It is natural for the earth's atmosphere to warm up and to cool down, and there is no solid evidence that supports the claim that anthropomorphic climate change is a real issue (climate change caused by people, what). There is, however, evidence that scientists colluded to keep certain information out of the hands of the drooling masses. This evidence is called "climategate" and it is proof that left-thinking scientists worked together to create of their scientific studies a kind of propaganda.

Not only that, but all these environmental groups are working together to undermine the GLOBAL ECONOMY and, in fact, Copenhagen isn't *actually* a series of conferences having to do with climate change at all, but is in fact a secret socialist agenda to DESTROY WESTERN CAPITALIST ECONOMIES and pull the fleece over the eyes of the common man when what they're really up to is GLOBAL REDISTRIBUTION OF WEALTH. Environmentalists and scientists and socialists all working together are spreading the lie that humans have any effect whatsoever on the health of the planet and the atmosphere. In fact, if it weren't for one or two rational voices here and there from the right wing, all you idiots out there would just blindly believe whatever they tell you because you can't be bothered to think for yourselves. You want sound bites and science-*sounding* information, but you wouldn't be able to understand the REAL issues and evidence, so it's just being kept from you by a conspiracy of former communists who worked in Russia and East Germany.

When the Berlin Wall came down, those people - those Russians and communist Germans - were out of their jobs, which were to quietly but steadfastly destroy the capitalist economy of the west and to institute a socialist [note: this is the conspiracy, here - we all know that socialism and communism are not the same thing at all] agenda world-wide. When they lost their jobs, they attached themselves to environmentalist organisations because this was an easy stopping place for them to blend their anti-freedom ideas of wealth redistribution with well-distributed vocal protesters around the world.

So, in essence, climate change is a myth created by former cold-war communist anti-capitalist bureaucrats working with socialist dissenters who are using the environment as a front for their continued efforts to break the world's economy.

Sounds like a conspiracy theory to me.

Labels: conspiracy theories, Politics

Dear Mister Crabbyapples:

I heartily suspect that the only thing you *really* wanted to hear from me was: I personally price these books the way I do because even though I've never met you, I don't like you, and I don't want you owning or reading my books. Also, I don't believe in libraries. But I didn't say that. Mostly because it isn't at all true.

So. Since we didn't see eye-to-eye on ...well... anything (do they not believe in *bathing* on your planet?), here is a math lesson about books for you.

Excluding things like specialty publishing and some specific genre publishing, the standard contract a publisher makes with a writer is for the writer to receive around 10% on each book sold. Some publishers also provide a stipend/advance up front and a percentage (royalty) for any books sold *after* that amount has been reached (so you might be offered $1500 up front and 10% - 15% on any books sold after you're paid out that first amount, which is also based on that ten to fifteen percent). So, for a book that costs, say, $10, the writer (who has put in weeks or years of unpaid labour to write the thing) gets a buck.

The publisher pays editors (copy editors, manuscript editors, proofreaders, production editors, etc.) to ...well...EDIT the book. Manuscript editors generally are paid more than copy editors (if you'd like to know what those editors do, check out the Editors Association of Canada website), and while there is no *standard* rate, many editors do their work on a freelance basis at an hourly rate. Some publishers are fortunate enough to have in-house editors, who receive a salary. But let's just say that most publishers in Canada do not have dedicated in-house editors, so they contract out the jobs, from rates ranging from $10/hour to $80/hour. Some editors read at 50 pages an hour. But reading isn't the same as editing, so let's just say an *average* editor spends 12 - 20 hours on a manuscript. The publisher might pay anywhere from $120 to $1600 on editorial contracts. While it's difficult to assign a percentage from retail price for editorial work, let's just round it off at 5%. Just for shits and giggles.

Next, you have designers. What do designers do?

Do you know how long it takes for a reader - a customer, client, patron, what-have-you to pick up a book off the shelf and decide to buy it? Probably less than a second. Designers make the book covers appealing. You could have the greatest novel EVER WRITTEN in your hands, but if the cover of the book looks like someone stuck a gelatin salad between their butt cheeks and shimmied after eating burritos all weekend, you're probably not going to get those sales. Designers *also* make sure the *inside* of the book is a) readable (typesetters choose the font face, kerning, leading, etc. ...the typographic decisions), b) attractive (designers choose whether to put any kind of graphics on the pages...many non-fiction books have internal design elements like photographs, headings, call-out boxes, etc.), c) attractive (are you going to use page headers? Will the page headers have chapter titles, or will it be the book's title?). There are all KINDS of other decisions they make, which I have no idea about (because I am not a book designer) that publishers pay for. There is no going standard for designers, either, but in general, you get what you pay for with graphic designers. So let's say there's another 2% - 5% of the retail price of the book paid to designers.

Already we're up to as much as 20% of the retail price of the book going to pre-production.

Now, let's talk about printers.

Printing isn't cheap. Canadian publishers are insisting, in higher and higher numbers, on recycled, post-consumer, non-ancient-forest paper. Many printers don't carry this stock on the floor (although that's changing because publishers are demanding a 'greener' product), and these papers are often more expensive than the 100% tree papers that are readily available. A two-hundred page book isn't just a bunch of things laid out on a sheet of 8.5 x 11 paper and stapled together. There are many different kinds of bindings, too (saddle stitch, perfect bind, coil bind, sewn bind, etc.). So the printer has to take the electronic files from the publishers, lay it out on large sheets of paper, run the copy, bind it, trim it, and attach a cover. $20,000 is an EXTREMELY low rate for a print job of 2,000 copies. But. Let's just say you don't have a one-colour interior (black, or whatever) book with no photographs or charts or anything - it's a book, say, of fiction, and you don't need all that fancy stuff. But you'll be paying more for the cover, of course, which is printed on different stock, with different treatments (matte, gloss, foil), each of which cost different amounts. IF you have a print run of 2,000 and your print job costs you $20,000, you'll have to price your book at $10/copy *just to recoup your printing costs*. And that won't pay the writer or the editors or the designers. So let's say you bump up the price by 20% to cover those costs.

Now, you have 2,000 copies of a book in your warehouse (you're lucky enough to have a warehouse that costs you NOTHING!? Excellent!), each of which is priced at $12, so that you can afford the printer, editor(s), designer(s), and writer, assuming you sell every single book in the warehouse. Whew.

Wait. In order to *sell* those books, they have to *go* somewhere. This isn't any feel-good "if you build it, they will come" pipe dream. You have to get those books into bookstores, stat! Thank God there are distributors who do this for publishers!

Ohhh, wait. If you want to hire a distributor for your book, they want you to pay them a fee to represent your book. 14% of sales isn't unreasonable. 10% is better for you, but the distributor is going to get antsy, especially if you don't have a fine and distinguished reputation of selling thousands of books each year - millions of dollars of books each year. 7% would be FABULOUS. Um. But the distributor you're talking about won't represent you because your annual sales are, let's be frank, kind of sad. Anything under a couple of million dollars a year, and you're out of luck. Oh, and there ARE NO pan-Canadian distributors dedicated to prairie publishers. Lucky if you're in Central Canada, though. Or BC. Let's just say, though, that you've lucked out. You've found a distributor willing to take a risk on you, and they're asking for 12% of sales. So that means this book you've just priced at $12 to recoup your print and pre-production costs is now actually losing you money, because you have to pay the distributor $2.40 for every book you sell through them.

Where do they distribute the books, anyway?

Right. Bookstores. Libraries. Schools.

Well, how do bookstores make their money? They don't just buy books from publishers and sell them at retail cost. That would be ludicrous! Independent retailers ask publishers for a 40% discount on the retail price of the book. Your $12 book is now returning you $7.20, if you decided not to go with a distributor. If you *did* decide to go with a distributor, you could be making as little as $5.70 per book. Some bookstores and retailers ask for up to a 60% discount on retail price (particularly large chain stores. If you sell your books through WalMart or Costco or Indigo, for instance, and it's *very* difficult sometimes to negotiate those deals without having a distributor; large chains don't want to deal with individual suppliers).

Your poor Great Canadian Novel is now bringing in just under $5/copy. If you sell all 2,000 books, you'll "make" just under $10,000 on that title. Which is probably far less than what you paid to have it printed.

Oh, and you had to pay for the printing up front, of course. But, you know, at least you have *some* kind of income...

...provided the merchants pay you on time. Or at all. And provided they don't return 90% of the books they ordered. Because, you see, retailers don't *buy* your books. They take your books on consignment. Some smaller independents might buy a few copies outright, but selling five copies of your $12 book to a local bookstore for a 40% discount isn't going to pay your bills. And those big chains, they might order four hundred books, but if you want to negotiate a 'non-returnable' clause, you're going to be giving them those big, deep discounts. And then they'll be selling your books for three dollars each up the street from the independent retailer (who you want to support!) who is selling them for the suggested retail price. It's like going to the barber and saying : "I'm going to give you twenty bucks to cut my hair, but I'm not going to look at the cut you give me for three months, so I really hope you do a good job."

But there's always schools and libraries, right? They only request a small discount - 20% - 40%! Again, if your educational distributor (who is a different person from your retail distributor) has managed to sell your books into a school or library system, you could make quite a few sales there. And it is very difficult to make it in that market.

And, you're never guaranteed to sell 2,000 copies (which is a 'bestseller' in Canada).

So you're asking, "why the hell would you be a publisher then? If you're LOSING MONEY on every book you print, how can you stay in business?"

Well. This is where philosophy comes in. And some more math. We'll deal with the math first.

What would happen if you'd priced that book at $29.95 instead of $12 when you sent it to the printer (who printed the price on the back of the book)? Then, you'd be making *almost* $12 on each book sold, even with a 60% discount. And that $12 you'd take in would cover your costs. But it wouldn't make you a profit. If you priced that book at $32, you'd be making almost a whole dollar on each book sold.

Now. The philosophy.

Are books important?

Labels: Books

This really bunches my garters. It's a story about how Roman Polanski, Hollywood director and socialite, is being confined to...oh hell. I'll just quote the first sentence.

Film director Roman Polanski will be confined to his chalet in the Alpine village of Gstaad until the Swiss decide if he will be extradited to the United States for a 32-year-old sex case.

 What pisses me off isn't the palatial treatment an accused man is being "confined" to (I'd punch a nun if it meant I'd get to hang out in Gstaad for a couple of weeks. Even a Swiss nun). I want you to read that sentence really closely and see if you can catch what it is that's making me angry. Go ahead, I'll wait.

"...for a 32-year-old sex case."

Roman Polanski is not charged with sex. If sex were against the law, I'd *really* be in trouble. And so would you. Hell, we'd all resort to the bumbling antics of fourteen-year-old band students in the "instrument" room. But Roman Polanski is not charged with sex. Do you know what he is charged with?

RAPE.

When Polanski was 44 years old, he *sexually assaulted* a thirteen-year-old girl. THIRTEEN. He was convicted of "unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor" which means, say it with me, statutory rape. Do you know why there are statutory rape laws? Because generally, most thinking people understand that a THIRTEEN YEAR OLD is not in full control of their senses. Thirteen year olds still light their farts (okay, that might be a bad example in this crew...). Thirteen year olds like movies about sparkly vampires, regardless of the quality of writing, plot, or narrative. Thirteen year olds are *children*. Sure, thirteen year olds have working plumbing and dangly bits, but just because you CAN do something really doesn't mean you SHOULD.

Do you remember 13?

Your clothes didn't fit right, and you were tired and cranky most of the time, and you turned into the world's biggest bitch/dink when people treated you like anything other than the Queen/King of Sheba. Your parents knew NOTHING. They were lame, and their only job on the earth was to make your life miserable. Your parents, by insisting you eat dinner *at the table* rather than *in your room* (which smelled of goats and old cheeseburgers) were forcing you to live a miserable, tortured existence because they were NOT treating you like an adult. Your favourite thing to do on Saturdays was to watch Saturday morning cartoons, but only the ones that started after 11am. You had posters of metal bands or girl bands on your walls, right beside the posters of your favourite cartoons.

Face it. CHILDREN at thirteen, given the freedom and care to develop "normally" are caught on the cusp of something they have no idea about. They resent responsibility yet they crave freedom. Their brains are still developing, for God's sake. Their emotions are screwed up. They are beginning to mourn their childhood, and they are beginning to mourn their adulthood, and they're in a kind of sociological dormancy, like when trees lose their leaves in the fall. No child, at thirteen, should be faced with the decision of whether to sleep with a man more than THREE TIMES their age. How could you make an informed decision at that point?

And that's assuming the girl *did* make an informed decision, and that Roman Polanski honoured her decision...that is to say, that's assuming she didn't say "No". But even if she *didn't* say "No". Even if she trotted toward him in Barbie underpants and a Playtex training bra, begging him to "make her a woman", he was FORTY FOUR years old. He was an adult. THE adult. What possible enjoyment could he have been looking for in a CHILD, other than a tight snatch (and pardon my rudeness)?

What, the acne? The acne really turned the guy on? Maybe it was the way she said, "but Moooo-oooom". Or maybe it was the attitude. Perhaps she slammed her bedroom door and threw the stuffed animals on her Wonder Woman comforter at the wall in a particularly alluring manner. Or maybe he did it because he could. Because he could control her. Because he had power over her. Because he dominated her.

Roman Polanski was not charged with sex. He was charged with ASSAULT. He raped a thirteen year old girl, and then he RAN AWAY. He went to a country where he KNEW they couldn't "get him" (he stayed in countries that did not have extradition agreements with the US), even though he'd been arrested, tried, and sentenced (guilty). Sex is not a crime. Rape is.

Labels: Bad Mojo, piss in your eye

Doesn't really have the same ring, does it?

Captain Dan and I are off to Saskatoon, whence Yours Truly will be Unavailable for Most Things, as she will be either Working At The Booth or Gaming At The BarryCon.

Yours Truly stayed up Far Too Late last night making Props and Costumes for the Game on Saturday. She will post pictures toute suite.

Also, it has been noted that Yours Truly would be Very Happy if by some stroke of genius or luck she received a Dressmaker's Dummy.

That is all.

NyQuil sends dreams to me of
l'histoire: my first love
broke my heart. He has it still.

Well, not the WHOLE thing.

Just that little flittery bit that I probably wasn't using anyway.

True story.

That is all.

Labels: dreams, sicky mcsickerton