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One year on

Like any writer, I’ve got a day-job*. It may not be as a writer, but it pays the bills in the nearly satisfying manner writing usually doesn’t. This weekend concludes a week off that day job to do a bit of parenting, spending money I haven’t got, and a little bit of recreation. It also happens to mark the 1 year anniversary of working the current job.

How was the first year?

Not great. It hasn’t been all bad, of course. I’ve learned a tremendous amount. I’ve got 2 more query languages under my belt, figured out how to use a tool called Eclipse BIRT, and have managed to become moderately proficient in reporting from a Cerner EHR database. Not to mention I picked up Tableau and aggressively honed my Java programming skills.

On Friday. The last Friday of a week of badly needed time off and the 1-year anniversary of my first full day at the current position, I got a call from work. Nobody likes a call on a day off. Especially when that person happens to be standing chest-deep in the broken floor of their father-in-law’s arctic entry way. This particular call wasn’t a pleasant, hey could you tell me where that file is? sort of call. No. This was a “I was just told someone personally complained to the CEO that you haven’t done your job and I want to know why the hell not.” sort of call.

Getting this news on it’s own isn’t really what I’d describe as world-ending. After all, I’m pretty sure folks don’t usually get fired while on vacation, so that’s a start. To rub just a little salt into that wound though, I was angling for a promotion. It was a wee-bit of a long shot, but I’ve got relevant experience and thought I had a solid work-record. After all, I have managed to do a lot over the course of just a hand-full of months with absolutely no knowledge of health-care databases or reporting. At this point, any hope of promotion is dead. What’s more, this calls into question longevity. Careers aren’t built on reports to the head-honcho that you haven’t done enough, and possibly that you haven’t done anything at all.

What’s interesting about this is that I do have a bit of management experience and have been on the other side of the table. The very same side saying, “you’re not really getting your work done here.” With that on my shoulders, the phrase “not a fit” is starting to come to mind.

I’ve only worked a hand-full of jobs. Some of those I’ve felt really out of place, only one made me really unhappy, but I’ve always left on my own terms and I’ve never been what I would call “not a fit.” In my experience with state government, not a fit, is not usually grounds for termination. It’s not at all clear that’s the case here. As the one in the household that serves as primary income earner, which I don’t particularly cherish, I can’t be in a position to be excused – so that sucks too. Aside from that, the truly hard thing to digest as being “not a fit.” is that it doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m not working my ass off or producing. Because I am. It means I’m not getting it and I don’t completely understand what it is I’m not getting. To be clear: I’m doing a bad job and have no idea how to fix the problem.

So, no. This year hasn’t gone well and I don’t see it getting better. My team never really accepted me, save perhaps one person who seems more interested in shoveling off less desirable tasks and making sure that I don’t screw things up too badly. In any case, I’ve given up trying. They don’t like me or my project and I don’t see a way to fix that. I’ve got users who aren’t satisfied and don’t even feel comfortable coming to me about it first. To top it off, my supervisor is in the process of making absolutely sure that blame is laid where it belongs and that I’m spending so much time in meetings to correct the problem, I won’t actually have time to solve it. In short, nobody has my back or seems to have an interest in helping me get to wherever the hell it is I’m supposed to be.

I know my position is funded through the calendar year, and I can probably squeeze into the end of next fiscal year, based solely on staffing levels. With this hanging over my head, though, I don’t see a particular push to ensure my position is funded going forward -something the promotion would have helped. So, the only way forward at this point is to spend a lot more time focused on the company I’m trying to help build up and seeing that into financial stability as quickly as possible, perhaps in the next couple of months. Other than that, my vacation started well. Too bad it couldn’t have stayed that way through the end.

*Day-job is being used in a broad-sense here.

 

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Tangents are not a type of citrus fruit

When I was in high-school I was introduced to tangents. In spite of the fact that tangent sounds vaguely like a small, tart citrus, in school it was used to mean a bit of mathematical wizardry involving one of those sweet graphic calculators. While I have no recollection on how to deal with tangents, I still feel strongly about how edible they sound. Of course, none of this has to do with the sort of tangent I’m thinking of right now. Mostly. 

The more I hear and read about proper plot construction, the more I keep hearing about this plot arc thing. It makes me thing of something  roundish or possibly completely round. This is not, usually, how I think about story telling. I tend to think about a story in terms of straight lines. Action A happens, so that B can happen, which causes C, and so-on. But, since it’s supposed to be an arc, I guess those things happen around a circle, which is illogical, but fine, I suppose.

Today, while my wife was putting together her blog post/newspaper article, she asked me to look it over. It was good. Usually is. This one was no exception, it was a solid piece. Then came the part that nobody likes to face. The bit where she asked, what do you think? So, I told her. Then she asked, Is it funny? That’s the sort of thing that makes my blood run cold.  Because my first thought was no, not really, but why the hell should it be. It’s good by itself. Anyone who’s ever given advice to a writer knows that just saying yes, it’s good, in spite of the fact that it is good, but not quite what the author thinks it is is easy, but stupid. In all cases, it will result in hours of questions like “really?” And “You think so?” With a smattering of “it’s good huh?” And “you think it’s funny?” Even though my wife most obligingly tells me my work is both good and funny, I decided to be honest. I said, “it’s a good and entertaining read, but I wouldn’t describe it as funny.”

“How do I make it funny?” Was her response. How could it not be? It’s the same thing I’d ask.

Naturally, I have absolutely no good response. If I had, I’d be a hell of a lot more successful writer than I am. That said, there is a feature in humorous writing, once pointed out, is obvious. Some humor takes lead up, planning and perfect execution, other humor simply requires profoundly artful understatement, and then there’s the tangent. Not the small tart citrus variety or the mathematical wizardry sort either, though if we’re sticking to the plot arc description, the mathematical tangent is a pretty good way to visualize this one. 

I asked my wife to think about the funniest book she’d read in a long time, which is a fun thing to visualize because watching my wife read something hilarious or just really funny is entertainment itself. I mean, except the parts where she’s laughing hard enough to challenge a blueberry for color. We came up with Terry Pratchett. One of the tricks he employs in his humor is the tangent. It works basically like this. You start your story and sporadically deviate with a vignette that theatrically embellish some tangentially related detail. I’d give an excellent example just now, but I think it would be better to just think about a funny story and go back to that. Look for the tangent. 

To be clear, I have no illusion that pulling off this little trick this makes you a funny writer, it’s a hell of a lot more work than that. but it is a trick that works. Anyhow, that’s what I wanted to share. I think it’s good advice, I mean, if you’re looking for it.

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The Dark Queen of Darkness

I thought I would regale everyone with a witty and on-point review of the new Scrivener iOS app that I would read and also probably my wife and maybe 3 or 4 other insomniacs. With that in mind, I downloaded the app to my iPad and immideatly started poking away. My thoughts? Not important. Frankly, nobody cares but me and the other Scrivener junkies who have been having fantasies of an app like this for years. 

In my haste to run it through it’s paces, I started another project. Yes, stupid, I know. But, this one is fun. It’s supposed to be light hearted and, contrary to what you might think or your wife tells you, is not a romance. In spite of the lead up you are about to get, there is no sex, milky-white skin, lush curving landscapes scented of lavender, or any other description that might be co-opted for use in a randy adult scene. Yet.

Cheers.

—

Her’s was the tallest, blackest, most evil looking, and most importantly, only tower in the land. At least in her land. She’d had it built special. After all, a dark queen couldn’t have a bland old castle of the usual design of a stinking moat round high walls with a few stubby towers. It really had to be something special, something that said dark queen and sorcerous on every stone. Indeed, she’d seen to that as well. Every stone laid had the words property of the dark queen, etched somewhere on its face.

As she did every morning, she stood at the largest window in the highest room atop her tower and surveyed the dark lands stretching off in all directions. It was easy to tell which bits belonged to her. Every corner could be described as foreboding orchards, brittle wheat fields, ancient twisted forests, and the occasional gloomy city. When the country wasn’t covered in heavy roiling clouds, it was being pummeled by any of a variety of different storms.

There was one bit of land visible from the tower that wasn’t hers. It was the bit that had for years resisted every attempt, both forceful and ingenious, to be subsumed into the dark lands. Out at the very of the edge of the horizon it glittered. A land of shining golden sun and rolling green hills, seemingly perfect in every way. It wasn’t a large country. Hers dwarfed and surrounded it, actually. But that country was held, and had been for ages, by Prince Charming.

Her eyes landed on the precious little sliver off in the distance and she gritted her teeth and pulled an ugly face. “Prince Charming,” she scoffed. “If people really knew Pete.”

The truth was, it wasn’t so much that she wanted that land as she wanted to live there. It was something she wanted so badly she was starting to feel desperate for it. That place was vibrant and positively glowed with life. After all, she wouldn’t be young for ever. Well, she could be, it was part of the evil sorcery of being a dark queen, wasn’t it? But all of that was just, well, tedious, and she’d rather like to get on with life. Maybe have a few chickens, learn how to bake, and pop out a few fat babies. Anything had to be more interesting than sulking at the top of a tower, telling off Demons and Gargoyles, intimidating subjects and keeping her lands just at the very edge of horrible without going over the cliff into unlivable. Being the dark queen was a lot of hard, thankless work and all she would ever have to show for it was a murky expanse of land and a lot of really unpleasant subjects.

She leaned against the open window frame and tapped her long fingernails on the stone sill. Between Pete, ye olde Prince Charming, and her own dedicated and very wrong-hearted minions, she couldn’t even escape. Everyone would either be trying to kill her or save her. Of course, there wouldn’t be any telling which was which and she’d end up dead in the process anyhow. 

Finally, Hexe pushed back from the window and spun around. Except for Melbourne, her ever-present Gargoyle, she was alone.

“My, dearest dark queen, ruler of darkness, most lovely of the land—” Melbourne said.

Hexe threw up a hand to silence him. She didn’t look at him. It was beneath a dark queen to look directly at her subjects when they spoke to her, it was only at her own discretion that she should deign to gaze upon anyone, especially when the subject was as hideous as Melbourne.

“Mirror?” Hexe asked.

“What?” A tall floor to ceiling mirror across the room barked in a rasping growl.

“Our dear friend Mr. Melbourne has attempted a compliment. Would you please set him in his place?”

The mirror didn’t hesitate, lighting into the queen’s appearance at once. “The dark queen’s hair is as limp and lifeless as a pot of cooked noodles, her makeup has been applied with far too heavy a hand, possibly with a mason’s trowl, and her clothing is as stiff as a school marm’s.”

Hexe was still not looking at Melbourne, but she was also a sorceress and didn’t need to look. His ugly little flat face carried a slack look of horror which was more than adequately conveyed an unnatural bulge of his already very wide eyes. She let Melbourne stew for a moment.

“I suppose you were going to ask me if I’m ready to meet with my council?” She asked.

“Oh, yes, my most majestic and terrifying dark highness.”

“Tell them I’ll be along presently.”

The heavy footsteps and thudding of a heavy oak door made for a conspicuous auditory trail of his progress that continued on for some time.

“Mirror?” She asked.

“For the sake of all the gods above and below, I am not interested in hosting another pity-party,” the mirror snapped.

Hexe strode up to the mirror to look at herself. Straight Raven hair, pale skin, bright red lips, dark brown eyes, heavily adorned with all manner of makeup, and a very straight and stiff black dress. She looked grim, respectable, and, if she did say so, ever so slightly frightening. “It’s not a pity party, Luc. I just want you to make me look that way again.”

If the mirror had a face, Hexe would have seen it raise an eyebrow. “This is the definition of a pity party, queen. You need to be who you are and focus on your responsibilities. You’re not some foolish farm girl.”

“Just do it,” she said with a sigh of exasperation.

Luc, didn’t shake his non-existent head, though he certainly would have done, right before changing her reflection. Instead of the dark and beautiful queen, Hexe saw a pretty, but thoroughly ordinary farm girl. Her brown hair fell in loose curls to the shoulders of a plain and slightly stained-up dress. There wasn’t any makeup on her round round, happy face, and her body was rather more curvy.

“Did you add more weight this time?” Hexe asked. 

“Just a few pounds. I thought you might like a bit of extra curve just there around the hip.”

Hexe nodded, “I have heard this figure is all the rage.”

“This is an absurd dream,” Luc said. “You’d be bored as hell if you weren’t the dark queen, you know.”

“The heart wants what the heart wants,” she said vaguely.

“I can only make you look this way in the mirror,” Luc said. “You’re still going to look and sound and most probably act like the dark queen of darkness, no matter where you are or what you look like.”

“People change, Luc,” she said, still drawn in by the image and the shifting this way and that to admire her new curves. “I don’t suppose you might see about the bust a little?”

Her bust, as reflected in the mirror, slimmed.

“No, not that way. Bigger.”

Luc’s non-existent eyes rolled, but he obeyed and her chest grew to the size it had been a moment earlier and then grew just a bit larger. It wasn’t a significant change, but Hexe felt it made for an enormous improvement.

“Ah, much better,” she cooed, straightening up and admiring the new prow.

She wished she could keep this figure. It was lovely, and it seemed so unfair that she could only see it reflected back in the mirror. Then the thought crossed her mind, why did she have to? She was the dark queen, a sorcerous. She could do what she pleased. Sure, summoning that sort of magic would take quite a bit out of the land and make the people just a bit poorer and hungrier, but they’d live. They always did. 

Hexe raised her hand in front of her, fingers poised to snap. She didn’t strictly need to do this, but it made the magic feel punchier. One click of the fingers, and a considerable amount of magic, and she would be that image, through and through.

“Oh, no,” Luk said. “Don’t do that.”

Hexe could feel the power swirl with ever greater presence around her. The hair on her arms stood on end. All she had to do was unleash it and she’d take on the new form. Just the thought of it was intoxicating. Sense won out though, she let out a long sigh and lowered her arm. The sheer power filling the room ebbed away.

“I suppose you’re right. Hold that image though. I like it.”

“As you wish,” Luk grumbled.

Hexe sighed, “I suppose I’ve put off the council-thing long enough. Stodgy old bastards.”

“Didn’t you call the meeting?”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.”

“But you will, because that’s who you are.”

She walked over to the door and grabbed the handle. “Enjoying power doesn’t make me feel whole.”

“Yes it does,” Luc called after her.

Hexe slid out of the room, letting the door slam behind her. Much to her displeasure, Melbourne was standing outside.

“My dearest, darkest queen, they are all gathered and waiting.”

“I know, you already said so. Why aren’t you down there keeping them occupied?”

“Because they sent me up to fetch you, your darkest, most fearsome, grace.”

“Let’s get this over with then.”

Hexe wound her way down a dozen flights of stairs followed by the thudding footsteps of Melbourne. When she reached the door to her council chambers, she stopped and waited for Melbourne to open it. He pushed it open and she entered the room, holding her chin up high and keeping her eyes trained forward. Taking no notice of her inferiors was usually not a problem. They were a motley assortment of stinking old men, demons, and mad wild-haired wizards. This time, however, she spotted someone new out of the corner of her eye. He was so out of place she almost turned her head to take a proper look, but she was the dark queen. Turning her head to look at anything in that room wouldn’t do.

When she reached her seat, Hexe had to force herself not to look in the direction of the unexpected attendee. Instead, she put on her best face of disdain, the one with the slight frown and raised eyebrow, that was her favorite. Then, starting at the farthest point from the one she really wanted to look at, she let her eyes slide to each person. The Demon lords were huddled together off to her left looking as polite and deferential as demons could. Then there were the barons and dukes. For the most part, round old men wearing a mix of haughty and cowed expressions. Then, he eyes lighted on the man she had wanted to take a better look at. He was much younger than most with broad shoulders, dark, intense eyes that reminded her of a hawk and a very strong and straight jaw. 

Since he hadn’t ever been there before, she felt she could get away with examining him at length without suspicion. Under her gaze, most men would cower or look away. This man did not. He looked back at her. If it had been any other man in that crowd, she’d have had him tossed into the the dungeon without having another word. That sort of uppity behavior couldn’t be tolerated. This man, though, had the part of her brain usually involved in scheming working overtime on strategies to get him to his feet and turn around, preferably without a shirt. 

“Who are you?” She asked.

“I’m Gregory the son of Duke Winthrop. My father —”

Hexe held up her hand. “You will address me as your grace, her royal highness, her most illustrious queen of darkness, or something equally flattering.”

Gregory nodded. “As I was saying,” he continued without the slightest hint of proper form. “I am the son of Duke Winthrope —”

“You will stand up and address your queen properly,” Hexe said.

Gregory stood up. Hexe felt a little thrill of pleasure run down her spine. Getting him to his feet had been a very good idea, indeed. Now, she needed him to turn around, and then there was the matter of that shirt, though that second bit would be tricky. 

“My father,” Gregory pressed. “Asked me to come in his place at this meeting.”

Hexe eyed him. If he kept on like this, he’d go from being interesting to a better looking version of the boring old farts she already had to deal with. This was not going to do.

“Melbourne,” she said. “This man has twice insulted me by not addressing me properly.”

“Shall I have him locked in the deepest, most horrible dungeon?” The gargoyle asked.

“No. Bring him to the top of the tower. I will deal with him when we are finished here.”

Gregory bowed and turned around to leave the council chambers. Melbourne stumped along behind him. Hexe’s eyes tailed him out, and it was a tail. When the doors shut, her mind went with him and became quite randy in very short order.

Several moments passed before she regrouped to address the remaining attendees. There was some business regarding prince of trolls, though she felt that topic really wasn’t worth the effort anymore.