The pad of paper by my bedside is now a bona fide tool for self-analysis.
First, the character sketch. I’m not sure if I dreamed him, but when I woke about 2 am, there was this merry little boy, maybe nine years old, just begging to be put down on paper so that the world wouldn’t lose him forever. Or at least so the author wouldn’t. So I jotted some notes. In fact, while I was jotting, I gradually woke more and more and ended up filling the whole four-by-six page. Rather pedestrian imagery… flashing black eyes, dark dark hair, a little bit too long, unbrushed, stone under his bare feet. But more kept fleshing out. It was an underground scene, rows of cells, prison cells, and the boy was running along and peering into the various cells. No one was paying him any attention at all. In fact, as I wrote, I decided this was important. I made him a little more hyperactive. An attention-seeker. He wouldn’t walk from cell to cell, I decided; he’d bound up and down the stone hallway. He’d stop, he’d hold the bars, he’d try to get the attention of the people within. He’d bounce. He’d say something nonsensical, maybe.
Under those notes, I wrote: “chitter butt”. That seemed fun and funky, a thing a little boy might say, kind of tauntingly even. The rhythm might catch him up in it. Chitter butt chitter butt. Jumping up and down, holding the bars of the cell. Chitter butt!
Okay, I jotted down a few more thoughts. Who knows where this boy might eventually end up. He might end up being a girl. He might just disappear into a dusty shoebox on an index card. But he was a fun little character.
I went back to sleep.
Now the analysis. Here I am at my computer this morning. I keep a list of words next to the keyboard, words I run across while I’m playing Jumbletime (an anagram solving game), new words or tricky ones, words I notice in my studies. Words I see when I watch people play on ISC (the Internet Scrabble Club). This is something I do a lot. Watch folks play scrabble. I try to analyze their plays, guess what they might decide to do, puzzle out their racks. I watch far far more than I play. If either of the people playing is a friend of mine, I have even been known to comment or, god forbid, heckle. On ISC, players can also match wits against computer opponents who range in “ability” from novice to satan. The top ones can be beaten, yes, but they are often frustratingly tough. They always find the best play. So sometimes when I’m watching a buddy play one of these satanic computer players, I refrain from heckling. “Cheater bot,” I say sympathetically. “Cheater bot.”
Er. Let me get this straight. I watch from the outside and I say “cheater bot”?
Are all of my characters… me?
First, the character sketch. I’m not sure if I dreamed him, but when I woke about 2 am, there was this merry little boy, maybe nine years old, just begging to be put down on paper so that the world wouldn’t lose him forever. Or at least so the author wouldn’t. So I jotted some notes. In fact, while I was jotting, I gradually woke more and more and ended up filling the whole four-by-six page. Rather pedestrian imagery… flashing black eyes, dark dark hair, a little bit too long, unbrushed, stone under his bare feet. But more kept fleshing out. It was an underground scene, rows of cells, prison cells, and the boy was running along and peering into the various cells. No one was paying him any attention at all. In fact, as I wrote, I decided this was important. I made him a little more hyperactive. An attention-seeker. He wouldn’t walk from cell to cell, I decided; he’d bound up and down the stone hallway. He’d stop, he’d hold the bars, he’d try to get the attention of the people within. He’d bounce. He’d say something nonsensical, maybe.
Under those notes, I wrote: “chitter butt”. That seemed fun and funky, a thing a little boy might say, kind of tauntingly even. The rhythm might catch him up in it. Chitter butt chitter butt. Jumping up and down, holding the bars of the cell. Chitter butt!
Okay, I jotted down a few more thoughts. Who knows where this boy might eventually end up. He might end up being a girl. He might just disappear into a dusty shoebox on an index card. But he was a fun little character.
I went back to sleep.
Now the analysis. Here I am at my computer this morning. I keep a list of words next to the keyboard, words I run across while I’m playing Jumbletime (an anagram solving game), new words or tricky ones, words I notice in my studies. Words I see when I watch people play on ISC (the Internet Scrabble Club). This is something I do a lot. Watch folks play scrabble. I try to analyze their plays, guess what they might decide to do, puzzle out their racks. I watch far far more than I play. If either of the people playing is a friend of mine, I have even been known to comment or, god forbid, heckle. On ISC, players can also match wits against computer opponents who range in “ability” from novice to satan. The top ones can be beaten, yes, but they are often frustratingly tough. They always find the best play. So sometimes when I’m watching a buddy play one of these satanic computer players, I refrain from heckling. “Cheater bot,” I say sympathetically. “Cheater bot.”
Er. Let me get this straight. I watch from the outside and I say “cheater bot”?
Are all of my characters… me?
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