Up To No Good

When you spend approximately 7 hours on hold to a company in the space of a couple of days, you get to know their hold recordings pretty well. You also start going a little crazy and vowing never to use their service again (or writing humorous songs about your experience), but that’s by the by.
I can tell you that if you are flying from Toronto Pearson with Air Canada, you can check in at the airport UP TO 45 minutes before the flight or online UP TO 24 hours before the flight. So far, so easy. But here’s the problem: those two uses of UP TO don’t mean the same thing. They don’t even mean similar things; they mean the complete opposite.
Online check in opens 24 hours before the flight’s scheduled departure time. In-person check in closes 45 minutes before scheduled departure time. Are you with me? Let’s have an example.

Flight AC848 departs YYZ 20:20 on 30 Jan.
If I want to check in online, I can do that anything UP TO 24 hours in advance, ie any time between 20:20 on 29 Jan, and whenever it closes (this isn’t specified in the hold recording).
If I want to check in in person at the airport, I can do that anytime UP TO 45 minutes before, so I need to arrive by 19:35 on 30 Jan.

So what does UP TO mean and how can these both be right?
UP TO means less than or equal to. With times, that means less than or equal to the amount of time stated. Online check-in is available LESS THAN OR EQUAL TO 24 hours before take-off.
But with times it can be used to mean before the time of day stated. In-person check-in is available BEFORE [the time of day designated as] 45 minutes before take-off.
Confused? I certainly am. In the law, we strive and strive to make contracts only interpretable one way, as writers we should do the same. So next time you use UP TO, especially referring to times, think if there is another possible meaning and if you could make yourself better understood by phrasing things differently.

Friday Fiction – What Doesn’t Kill You…

Another great FF photo to inspire us this week, this time from Fictioneers Regular, Claire Fuller. I would love to hear what you think, but I’m unlikely to get much reading time over the next few weeks, so feel free to skip it if you think that’s unfair.

What Doesn’t Kill You…

Alfie could build anything out here. “Anything except a good marriage,” his wife, Betty, said. They were together 54 years, though, so he got something right. 54 years without an accident: not on the unguarded saw bench, not with the safety-less nail gun, nor the open wiring above the sink.

I once asked Betty if she worried about it. “Safest place he ever goes,” she replied. “No smoking in a workshop.”

She caught on early to what Alfie called the “Cancer Craze” about smoking. Alfie said coughing was just a reminder of mortality. He was right, but so was she.

Service Interruption

Posts might be a bit erratic / non-existent over the next couple of weeks as Sebastian and I are going Grandparent-visiting and leaving the house in the capable hands of my husband, the cats and a bunch of painters.

In case I don’t get chance to post any Friday Fiction / InMon stories, I’ve set up some links back to my favourites from history. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do and I’ll see you soon!

InMon – The Doctor Is Sick

I hesitate to post this story for two reasons. One, it opens up a discussion about Dr Who, which I don’t follow and don’t want to follow; two, the post contains swearing, for which I can only apologise and blame the character.
However, when this week’s InMon prompts came into my inbox, I was caught by the phrase “The Doctor is Sick,” and this story wouldn’t go away until I wrote it. So here you are, please enjoy. And please don’t ask me anything about the Dr – Janice is much more up on these things than I am!

The Doctor Is Sick

“It’s Liz now,” her niece, Bella, had declared over the phone this morning. “Bella is a baby name.”

Janice hadn’t argued. She’d always dreamed of being the Cool Aunt: someone her niece and nephews would look forward to spending time with and be able to confide in when they couldn’t talk to their parents. So if Bella wanted to be called Liz, Liz it would be.

She carefully pulled the gift tag off the biggest parcel under her tree and wrote a new one. “Merry Christmas, Liz. Hope these are as sick as the new ones. Love, Auntie Jan x”

Sick, apparently, was a good thing and Janice was rather pleased with her gift. Last time she’d been over there, Bella had been glued to the television and the latest episode of Dr Who, so Janice had dug in the attic, pulled out all her VHS tapes of old episodes and had them put onto DVDs. Then she’d spent hours on the computer, making covers that were exactly like the old ones, but fit into the new sleeves. It had taken her hours, but this was finally a way they could reconnect, so she wanted to exploit it.

* * *

Janice left the other adults in the kitchen and wandered back to the living room. There was wrapping paper strewn everywhere. The boys were fighting with their foam swords and she realised she should have moved a few more ornaments, but resisted the temptation to grab them now lest it make her nephews self-conscious about their game.

Liz was curled up in the armchair tapping on her phone. She looked up at Janice.

“Thank you for my present,” she said, the lack of emotion clear in the spaces between the words. She was saying it because she’d been taught to.

Janice was confused. “I used to watch Doctor Who a lot, I thought you might enjoy a bit of the back-story.”

“They’re all on Netflix,” Liz muttered and looked back to her phone.

“Oh,” said Janice. “But there’s nothing like having your own copies.”

“No. Thank you.” Again, the tone was wooden, and Liz didn’t look up.

“I imagine Slyvester McCoy is a bit different from David Tennant. Not as good-looking, for a start.”

Liz seemed to realise she wasn’t going to get out of this conversation. She put her phone to one side. “He was the Tenth Doctor,” Liz said. “Do you actually know anything about it?”

Janice saw the opening, but not the trap within. “I know Daleks can’t climb stairs.”

“Jesus! Stop trying so hard to be my friend!” Liz stood up, grabbed her phone and flounced into the kitchen. “Daleks can fucking fly!” she yelled over her shoulder.

Friday Fiction – Another World

If you’ve ever travelled alone, you might know what I mean when I call it the most affirming thing I’ve ever done. Some of my happiest memories are of traveling with Jon (and now Sebastian), but there is something special about not knowing anyone when you arrive in a new place.
Back in 2006, I spent 10 days trekking in the rainforests of Brazil and in 2012, I went to Nepal and Tibet for three weeks. In comparison with the gap year experiences of many, they were small and unadventurous trips, but I learnt more about myself in those weeks than I think I ever have in the safety of home and company.
When I saw Bjorn’s photo for the Friday Fictioneers, it reminded me of one of the farms we stayed at in Brazil. Far from anywhere, our hosts heated their water by running pipes past the fire, so showers were an exercise in scalding and freezing by turns. There was no electricity, so we ate by candle and torchlight, having arrived at dusk, then we went outside and sat around talking into the night. This is the story of that night.

Another World
Our hosts knew better than to stay up past sunset, and retired as soon as we were fed, but we were used to bulbs and switches; night was a novelty. Bottoms accustomed to furniture settled onto the ground and eyes that had never known darkness marveled at the stars. Friendships, days old but forged by miles, glowed in the chill air.
A week later, we would walk through the markets of Copacabana and play tourists on the Sugar Loaf cable cars, but Brazil for me will always be Don McLean and a starry night in a farm with no name.

One of the safer-looking bridges we crossed!

 

Someone Else’s Thoughts on Other People’s Words

Friend and fellow-blogger Happy Creations posted this commentary recently on writers who use other people’s words in their work.  I’d love it if you read her post and shared your thoughts – here or on her post.

I haven’t read the book she refers to, but her post got me thinking about how I use other people’s writing and how I feel when I read it. My initial reaction is to agree with Happy Creations – our words should generally be our own.

There’s a character issue: one might have a character who is just the kind of person who tends to steal the language of others (For example, a young lover might decide to win over his beloved by stealing Romeo’s best lines). I think that might make an interesting element to a story, especially when those lines are placed into an alien setting, such as the modern world, and when the recipient’s reactions are perhaps different from Juliet’s.

But for me, references are best at that level. If I wrote the hypothetical Romeo book above, I’d enjoy putting oblique references to other aspects of Romeo and Juliet; using the themes of Juliet’s responses, but to completely different ends. If I read it, I’d probably enjoy going back to Shakespeare’s text and trying to find these little Easter Eggs.

It’s the same when I read (or watch a movie of) a modern-day version of or story-inspired-by a classic, I enjoy it in its own right, but I also like to spot the more subtle hints of similarity. Ultimately, though, I think these homages rarely live up to the original. Even Bridget Jones’ Diary is unlikely to have quite the lasting impact of Pride and Prejudice.

Which is That?

This is a confusion I tripped over a lot in the past. I think I’ve got it now, but let me know if you disagree.
“Which” and “That” are used in a number of contexts, but the one I’m talking about is sentences like This is the house [which/that] Jack built.
Sometimes, you can get away without using either word. This is the house Jack built isn’t wrong and saves you the bother of choosing between which and that. Also, if you’re talking about people, you should always use who (or whom). I saw a bumper sticker the other day – “Trucks for people that work hard”. This is either a very clever play on words (the trucks work hard) or it’s just plain wrong (if the people work hard, it should say who).
But, back to the question of which or that. Microsoft Word has opinions – it gets upset if one types which without a comma in front. But adding a comma isn’t actually the whole answer.
WHICH is for subclauses. It should be preceded by a comma, but only because the whole sub-clause needs commas to bracket it off. A sub-clause is a part of the sentence that can be removed and the sentence would still make sense. For example, “The fork, which had previously been on the floor, was now on his plate.” If you take out the subclause, there’s still a sentence there: “The fork was now on his plate.”
THAT is for all other times. No need for commas, this is part of the main statement and can’t be removed. “On his plate was the fork that had previously been on the floor.”

So, this is the house that Jack built.

Friday Fiction – A Rare Kindness

For the last few weeks, my Friday Fiction entries have been a bit of fun – a nod to our beautiful hostess, Rochelle, and an admission from the heart of a struggling procrastinator. But this week, I wanted to go back to real story-writing. Then I saw the prompt from Erin Leary and it made me think of a couple of things. Initially, it reminded me of the third FF photo I ever responded to, but then it made me feel much bleaker and darker, helped no doubt by the fact I’m currently reading Cornell Woolrich’s ‘Four Novella’s of Fear’ and getting back in touch with my dark side.

It was the dark side that won out, and I’d love to hear her well (or not) this story works for you.

A Rare Kindness

The weather is so rarely kind. But when I passed the spot next morning, I was pleasantly surprised. The rain in the night had fallen on saturated ground, there and upstream, and the field beside the road was now just more river. No evidence of my labours remained.

Tomorrow, perhaps, or next week, or next month, when the waters recede, her grave might be visible. The water might even reopen it and free her body the way I freed her soul. But for now, my crime escapes detection. And tomorrow I will be far enough away to do the same.

Out of Equilibrium

The other night, we watched Christian Bale in Equilibrium, a 2002 movie about a futuristic world where human emotion is banned in an attempt to keep the peace. ***Warning, this post contains substantial spoilers (for Equilibrium, also for Fahrenheit 451 and 1984)***

If this were a film review blog, I’d tell you that this film has some fantastic cinematography. There’s a great scene towards the beginning where Bale shoots a load of guys in the dark, lit only by the machine gun bursts.

But this is a writing blog, so let’s focus on more relevant aspects. The characters are 2 dimensional, the story is a blatant take -ff of Fahrenheit 451 / 1984 etc, and the casting is terrible (for the record, whenever Sean Bean dies early on, the casting is terrible. Sean can’t get enough screen time in my book). Ok, that last one belongs to a film review. The ending has the potential to be a saving grace; it made sense and was reasonably well thought-out. Except the bit about the kids. I’ll explain that later.

Here are my two big lessons from Equilibrium:

1) Get your promo material right. According to IMDB.com, the taglines for this film were:

In a future where freedom is outlawed outlaws will become heroes.      

This appears on the cover of the DVD box. It’s ridiculous, because the main character isn’t an outlaw. At least not until the final few moments. Until then, he’s the main guy for the secret police, and about as “inlaw” as you can get. Also, in most people’s heads “outlaw” equates to “hero” anyway, because it makes us think of Robin Hood. Or at least Clint Eastwood. Finally, freedom isn’t really what’s outlawed.

Two men.  One battle.  No compromise.      

Not sure where this appeared, but it reflects the box which shows Bale and Taye Diggs next to each other in a Matrix-style stance. Well lovely. Except that this isn’t a film about two men. It’s a film about one man (Bale) and the various challenges he meets including, but probably not principally, Diggs’ character.

The only thing more powerful than the system, is the man that will overthrow it.

This is where I’m going to get all grammar-police on you and say they meant “the man WHO will overthrow it”. Apart from that, though, way to give away the ending of the film in your tagline. Until about 30 minutes before the end, it’s not even his goal to overthrow the system. After that, it’s not clear (except that this is Hollywood and couldn’t possibly end as unsatisfactorily as Fahrenheit 451 or 1984) until pretty much the very end, that he’s going to succeed.

2) Audiences like to love / hate Characters

The premise of Equilibrium is that emotions have been drugged out of the populace. But the question behind it is, without emotion, are we truly human? Fascinating question, difficult premise for a novel. Because without emotion, it’s very hard to build characters, at least ones we could give two hoots about. Bale’s character is in theory off the drugs and therefore has emotions for much of the novel, but he has to hide them from everyone, so we don’t see them much. And even when we do, either he’s a shoddy actor or the script / director didn’t give him much, because apart from a crying scene and a dodgy bit with a puppy, I didn’t get much to care about throughout. At the very end, he watches the bombs going off in the city where he lives. The city where his kids live. Does he get in a flap about whether his kids are OK? Nope, he’s just pleased about the bombs. There’s also a whole bunch of dodgy love nonsense, with his wife (whom he only knew when he didn’t have emotions) and some woman he’s only met twice. Honestly, no.

Like I say, it’s an interesting premise and I’d like to say it made me think about what it is to be human, but mostly, the film just made me wonder how as writers, we can portray emotion-less characters without losing our readers’ emotions too – and normal characters without retreating to ‘don’t kill the puppy’ clichés. Oh, and wondering why directors so often insist on killing Sean Bean off early…

 

InMon – Hatching

A long story for this week’s InMon entry, but I included two of the prompts (unattended children / midwife), so perhaps you’ll forgive me. One of my aims for this year is to vary the length of my writing more, so this sneaks in around 1000 words. If that’s too long for you, I understand. I’ll try to go shorter next time to mix it up!

Hatching

“How long have they been there?” The nurse held piece of yellow paper in front of her mouth, but Joey could still hear what she said.
“Three hours,” the other nurse replied. This one wore a paler blue. Joey wondered if that made her the boss of the other one, or the opposite way around. “They’re very well-behaved though, barely a peep out of them.”
He was being well-behaved, Joey decided. He and Kirsty had been deposited in the waiting room by their father after he picked them up from school early. He hadn’t seen Mummy since this morning, but she was here too. In that room across the corridor. Kirsty said it was because the baby was eating its way out of her tummy, like when a baby chick pecks open the egg and hatches. She said Joey had done the same thing when he was born and Mum was OK after that, so she would be OK again.
But Joey didn’t like to think about the baby eating Mummy’s tummy. It made him feel sick. And that was why he was being good, really, because if he stood up or moved, he thought he might be sick all over the clean carpet.
“How’s she doing?” The pale blue nurse looked straight at him, but she was too far away to be talking to him.
He couldn’t see the dark blue nurse’s face because of the paper, but it didn’t sound like she was smiling when she spoke. “Epidural’s in, but I don’t think baby wants to come out.”
Epidural sounded bad. And it was in. Joey tried to picture the baby pecking Mummy’s tummy. What would be in? Surely out would be better than in.
“Shall I see if they’ve got any biscuits?” Kirsty’s voice roused him from his thoughts. She’d been sitting next to him, swinging her legs and reading out loud all the posters on the wall. “Breast is best,” she said as she stood up, then she giggled. “We’re not allowed to say Breast at school, because it’s rude. I’m going to write that in my news book on Monday. I’m going to write ‘We went to the hospital and had a baby brother and breast is best!”
“Yes please,” said Joey, ignoring all the stuff about breasts and news books and baby brothers.
“What?”
“Yes please, I’d like a biscuit.”
“Oh.” Kirsty turned away and ran over to the nurse’s station. He heard her asking about biscuits and then the pale nurse took her hand and led her away. He wondered if he should follow, but the dark nurse was coming towards him now, so he sat up straight and tried to look well-behaved.
“Hello, Joseph. My name is Britney. I’m your Mummy’s midwife.”
“Mummy hasn’t got a wife,” Joey said. “Mostly only Daddys have wives, except Ian Pilbury’s Mummys. They are wifes and he hasn’t got a Daddy except in Hawaii.”
“Right,” said the dark nurse. “Well, I’m a special kind of nurse and I’m going to help your Mummy have your baby brother or sister.”
“What happens to the baby’s beak?”
The dark nurse looked a bit confused, but before she could answer, an alarm went off on her belt and then the whole room seemed to be shouting “Code Pink!” and the dark nurse, who wasn’t Mummy’s wife, stood up really quickly.
“I’m going to have to go, Joseph. Can you sit there nicely until your sister gets back?”
Joey nodded, but the dark nurse ran towards the same room they had Mummy in, and he suddenly needed more than anything to know that Mummy was OK. He followed the nurse and slipped through the door behind a man in a white coat.
The room was small and bright and there were loads of people all gathered around a really tall, thin bed. Everyone seemed to be busy, but nobody was saying very much. He couldn’t see Mummy, but Daddy was standing by the top of the bed, and the pale blue nurse was there already. Worst though, he could hear Mummy. She was puffing and panting like she’d just run in a race, only really loud and occasionally she shouted out, like she was angry.
Joey stood close to the door and wished he hadn’t come. But now he was there, he couldn’t leave. “Mummy?”
No one heard him. They were all busy with Mummy and the baby chick that didn’t want to come out.
“Mummy?” he called louder, but Mummy’s breathing was getting louder and now one of the doctors was barking orders at the baby chick, like “push” and “breathe” and “easy now”.
Joey suddenly felt a hand grab his hood and pull him backwards. He stumbled for balance and looked at his attacker. Kirsty was there in front of him, blocking the doorway.
“We shouldn’t be here,” she said. She looked kind of whiter than normal, and her eyes were red. “Come and have your biscuit.” She took his hand and led him back to the chairs.
There was a plate of biscuits and two plastic cups full of juice waiting on the little table, next to the toys that belonged to the hospital.
“What’s happening?” he asked, when they were sitting down again.
“Mummy’s having the baby. We just have to wait here a bit longer.” Kirsty pulled a police car out of the toy box. “Why don’t we play with this?”
“Is she going to be OK?”
Kirsty looked over at the door to Mummy’s room. They couldn’t hear her now, or see the nurses and doctors crowded around her. “Yes, it won’t be much longer now. Come on, Joe, you be the police car and I’ll be the burglar trying to steal something.”
Joey did his best to play, but Kirsty kept looking at Mummy’s door and he kept thinking about the doctor shouting. They had nearly used up all the toys in the box when Kirsty stopped playing at all and smiled. Joey turned round and saw Daddy coming towards them with a blanket in his arms.
“Kirsty, Joey, meet your baby brother, Issac,” he said smiling. “Then we can go in and see Mummy.”
He crouched down so that Joey could see the baby’s face. It was red and scrunchy and really really small, but it still looked like a person.
“Where’s the beak?” Joey asked.