I have no idea what this means, but it was hanging on a door at school.
31 July 2009
30 July 2009
Berries
My six-year-old and I have now picked almost every wild raspberry in the backyard within reach (and many that were not). Wild Raspberry Ice Cream has been promised in time for his birthday, which is the day after tomorrow.
29 July 2009
Talkative
My six-year-old has been home from school for a few days, with a familiar strep infection. (He was fine the day after he was diagnosed, but we needed to make sure he wasn't contagious.)
I'll bet most kids get kind of quiet when they're sick. Not my son. For some reason, he gets even more talkative than usual.
I'll bet most kids get kind of quiet when they're sick. Not my son. For some reason, he gets even more talkative than usual.
26 July 2009
Editor
There are certain advantages to working with a small (very small) publishing company. I have a great deal of autonomy, for example, which I'm usually quick to take advantage of. But so do many of the authors I work with. In fact, most of the projects tend to be author-driven, and this can become a source of difficulty.
Lots of people seem to think they have a book in them. What they need, however, is an Editor.
I occasionally work on books by and about celebrities you've forgotten (or have probably never heard of). Many of these are autobiographical, some are better written than others, but many of them are long — they often go on for hundreds of pages, past the end of career and visibility, into retirement and stories of family and friends. Detail that is, I've no doubt, important to the person writing it, though not necessarily of interest to the person reading. (I recently finished a book by a not-particularly-well-known actor that ran to 400 pages, only a third of those about his career in Hollywood.)
And then there are the authors who want their book to be the last word on the chosen subject. I was working on one of those last week, an exhaustive book on a long-running TV show. The series ran for 251 episodes over the course of eleven years, and that alone would make just about any book a labor-intensive project — but in the absence of any guidance, the authors seem to have given in to their enthusiasm.
This book is packed with incredible, almost unbelievable amounts of detail. It could be a truly useful and valuable resource, if only so many of those details weren't so much minutiae. There are entire sections, close to a hundred pages in total, of not much more than lists of the passing references in each episode that describe the various characters' personal histories, with observations on when something contradicts something someone else said somewhere else. That's interesting, I suppose (or at least, it could be) but these lists read like notes that were hastily scribbled while watching a DVD.
I admire the hard work that goes into an endeavor like this, I really do, but what this project needed was for someone to sift through everything and make the difficult decisions about what was truly necessary, and how and where it might best be used. (It fell to me to offer my own suggestions.) For want of that, this will likely end up as an 800-page book that purports to be thorough, but is leaden with fluff.
There are also, however, books that are so thoroughly and meticulously researched, so densely packed with detail that you wonder how it all fit into 500-odd pages — This is one of them, and this is another. (I put both of those books together, though I had nothing to do with the covers.) Those projects were a pleasure to work on, even under difficult circumstances (both had to be put together rather quickly) because so much forethought had already been put into them.
I think I become more involved in the books I work on than many designers — correcting errors, offering suggestions, often acting as a de facto Editor. It usually means more work for me, but it's much more interesting this way.
Lots of people seem to think they have a book in them. What they need, however, is an Editor.
I occasionally work on books by and about celebrities you've forgotten (or have probably never heard of). Many of these are autobiographical, some are better written than others, but many of them are long — they often go on for hundreds of pages, past the end of career and visibility, into retirement and stories of family and friends. Detail that is, I've no doubt, important to the person writing it, though not necessarily of interest to the person reading. (I recently finished a book by a not-particularly-well-known actor that ran to 400 pages, only a third of those about his career in Hollywood.)
And then there are the authors who want their book to be the last word on the chosen subject. I was working on one of those last week, an exhaustive book on a long-running TV show. The series ran for 251 episodes over the course of eleven years, and that alone would make just about any book a labor-intensive project — but in the absence of any guidance, the authors seem to have given in to their enthusiasm.
This book is packed with incredible, almost unbelievable amounts of detail. It could be a truly useful and valuable resource, if only so many of those details weren't so much minutiae. There are entire sections, close to a hundred pages in total, of not much more than lists of the passing references in each episode that describe the various characters' personal histories, with observations on when something contradicts something someone else said somewhere else. That's interesting, I suppose (or at least, it could be) but these lists read like notes that were hastily scribbled while watching a DVD.
I admire the hard work that goes into an endeavor like this, I really do, but what this project needed was for someone to sift through everything and make the difficult decisions about what was truly necessary, and how and where it might best be used. (It fell to me to offer my own suggestions.) For want of that, this will likely end up as an 800-page book that purports to be thorough, but is leaden with fluff.
There are also, however, books that are so thoroughly and meticulously researched, so densely packed with detail that you wonder how it all fit into 500-odd pages — This is one of them, and this is another. (I put both of those books together, though I had nothing to do with the covers.) Those projects were a pleasure to work on, even under difficult circumstances (both had to be put together rather quickly) because so much forethought had already been put into them.
I think I become more involved in the books I work on than many designers — correcting errors, offering suggestions, often acting as a de facto Editor. It usually means more work for me, but it's much more interesting this way.
18 July 2009
Walter Cronkite
His final broadcast as anchor for the CBS Evening News happened to fall on my birthday. I went out to dinner with my family, of course, but I brought along a portable radio and earphones so I could listen to his farewell. (The local CBS affiliate was Channel 6, and the audio could be heard at the lower end of the FM dial.)
That's what I'll always remember when I think of Walter Cronkite.
That's what I'll always remember when I think of Walter Cronkite.
17 July 2009
The Washing Machine of Tomorrow
Our new Washing Machine was just delivered. Out with the old model, which had served faithfully for almost ten years (the past six of those with a child in the house). It broke down almost three months ago, Sears attempted to repair it about two months ago (but didn't), and the problem was finally (properly) diagnosed about a month ago. To repair it, we would have spent more than half of what a new model would cost. (That, and it would have continued our frustrating relationship with Sears Appliance Repair service.) So this was an easy decision to make.(As an aside: don't ever call Sears for appliance repair service. Or at least, don't say I didn't tell you so. We had to wait weeks for a diagnosis and attempted repair, they tried several times to reschedule without notifying us in advance, and they completely misdiagnosed the problem. And when all was said and done, we had to pester them to get an acknowledgment that the original misdiagnosis had been in error, and obtain a refund.)
In the meanwhile, we've been doing laundry at the Laundromat. I don't much mind, and there's one nearby that I like to use, because it's usually empty and quiet (though I just start a load and go off to run errands, anyway).
This one has nifty whiz-bang light-up buttons and an LCD display, and it plays a little tune when you turn it on and off. (No, really.) In fact, the button you press to start the wash cycle is modeled after the familiar "play" button from a cassette deck or VCR — I know, I'm dating myself — or DVD player. (My six-year-old will love this.)
In the end, it was the mechanical timer mechanism that failed the old model, after so many twists and turns. Ten years seems a good, solid run for a heavily-used appliance, don't you think?
Now I wonder how much longer the Dryer is going to last...
After The Rain
The day is getting closer. It can't come soon enough — it's becoming more and more difficult to persuade my six-year-old not to eat the wild raspberries as they turn up, to wait just a few more days for them to appear, everywhere.
15 July 2009
Search me!
I'm not sure why, but the "search" function on this page seems to be hit-and-miss these days. I'll try to fix that soon.
14 July 2009
Summer School
Summer school started this week. (It actually started last week, but my son was away.) We were offered the opportunity for my son to attend by the School District, even though he'd been moved out of a smaller special education class toward the end of the school year. I was eager to take them up on it — I thought somehow it might help prepare him for next year.
I've no idea what might have given me that impression (or what I was thinking). His summer class is, essentially, the environment he left behind, months ago. (In fact, many of the same students are there.) The classwork is far, far behind what he had been doing in his mainstream class. He's doesn't seem frustrated by it, not really (not yet), but I think he is a bit bothered that he isn't learning anything new and novel.
And I'm beginning to wonder if it's become a challenge for him to deal with his former classmates. As he spent more time with his larger mainstream class through the school year, that class became his peer group. Socialization with other children was always one of his weak points (part of his Autism), but he's shown great improvement from moving into an environment where he has more typical kids to interact with (and learn behavioral cues from). Now he's back among the problem behaviors of his former classmates, and I think he's finding that to be difficult at times.
Thankfully, his teacher for the Summer was his teacher for Kindergarten (and for last Summer, as well), and knows him well. And we know her well enough to ask how he's getting along, and if she feels this is best for him.
I've already promised him we won't do this again next year, that I'll try to find something better.
I've no idea what might have given me that impression (or what I was thinking). His summer class is, essentially, the environment he left behind, months ago. (In fact, many of the same students are there.) The classwork is far, far behind what he had been doing in his mainstream class. He's doesn't seem frustrated by it, not really (not yet), but I think he is a bit bothered that he isn't learning anything new and novel.
And I'm beginning to wonder if it's become a challenge for him to deal with his former classmates. As he spent more time with his larger mainstream class through the school year, that class became his peer group. Socialization with other children was always one of his weak points (part of his Autism), but he's shown great improvement from moving into an environment where he has more typical kids to interact with (and learn behavioral cues from). Now he's back among the problem behaviors of his former classmates, and I think he's finding that to be difficult at times.
Thankfully, his teacher for the Summer was his teacher for Kindergarten (and for last Summer, as well), and knows him well. And we know her well enough to ask how he's getting along, and if she feels this is best for him.
I've already promised him we won't do this again next year, that I'll try to find something better.
Almost Raspberries
They're almost here. They're just starting to appear, one by one, here and there. (I noticed the first one this morning.) The backyard (and then my kitchen!) will soon be full of wild raspberries.
12 July 2009
Out Of Balance
Do you ever wonder about that narrow line that divides charming eccentricity and more hazardous, even self-destructive behavior? Where does one end and the other begin?
I knew someone like this, once. She was bewildering to me, a mystery, but I adored the way her mind worked. Like no one else I had ever met, she was susceptible to impulse, to fun. (Once, we snuck into the abandoned house next door, for no better reason than to see what was there. She took an old spool of copper colored thread. I'll bet she still has it, somewhere.) She was passionate and creative, even silly. When she wasn't hiding herself completely away from the world at large, she often imagined it for herself with the eyes of a child.
But all that changed, almost in an instant. She took a step too far, and as if in an instant what once might have seemed charming and eccentric became anxious and disturbing.
I almost never lose my temper, but what she had done was so awful, so unforgivable that I felt foolishly compelled to confront her with the truth. She listened patiently to my anger and bitterness, and quietly slipped away from reality, out of consciousness. One moment I was speaking to her, at the kitchen table, the next, she was — somewhere else? Staring off into nothing.
This was terrifying. I can remember trying to bring her out of it, holding her hand, speaking to her softly, gently, trying desperately to apologize for the spiteful, hurtful things I had said. The warmth of my hand against her cheek brought no response. Minutes passed as hours before a tear began to fall, and she slowly, hesitantly, returned to life.
She referred to this incident as "dissociation." Her conscious mind, overwhelmed with emotions and sensations that had become too difficult to process, sought means of escape, somewhere to hide. It was familiar to her, but I had never seen her like this. This was unlike anything I had ever seen before.
I was aware that she had been prescribed medication and received therapy, ages ago, even been briefly institutionalized. (She had spoken in an evasive way of disturbing incidents from her childhood.) But with distance, the pieces of the puzzle, the reason for all that I knew and loved and hated and never understood about her, they all fit together. I came to understand that "reality," for her, was often a relative term, and that her mind was never entirely in balance — too much of the time, precarious harmony was maintained by many of those same medications (but without the least medical guidance). This is who she is, and for all the brilliant light she could radiate, there was this part of her that was darker than night. She was afraid to know and to let this part of herself be known, out of fear that the truth would frighten away anyone close enough to discover it. In that, I suppose, she was right.
Everything she had meant to me was left behind that night, wherever it was that she went.
It was difficult for me to reconcile these different aspects of her personality, to try to make some sense of the idea that the reasons for the behavior that drove me away might be the very key to the aspects of her I loved best. I gave up trying. (For some questions, there may never be an answer.) I feel ashamed to have been so judgmental when perhaps I might have been more understanding, We were very much alike, driven by many of the same needs and hopes and fears that had once brought us together, and (occasionally) I can't help but wonder about my own state of mind.
I knew someone like this, once. She was bewildering to me, a mystery, but I adored the way her mind worked. Like no one else I had ever met, she was susceptible to impulse, to fun. (Once, we snuck into the abandoned house next door, for no better reason than to see what was there. She took an old spool of copper colored thread. I'll bet she still has it, somewhere.) She was passionate and creative, even silly. When she wasn't hiding herself completely away from the world at large, she often imagined it for herself with the eyes of a child.
But all that changed, almost in an instant. She took a step too far, and as if in an instant what once might have seemed charming and eccentric became anxious and disturbing.
I almost never lose my temper, but what she had done was so awful, so unforgivable that I felt foolishly compelled to confront her with the truth. She listened patiently to my anger and bitterness, and quietly slipped away from reality, out of consciousness. One moment I was speaking to her, at the kitchen table, the next, she was — somewhere else? Staring off into nothing.
This was terrifying. I can remember trying to bring her out of it, holding her hand, speaking to her softly, gently, trying desperately to apologize for the spiteful, hurtful things I had said. The warmth of my hand against her cheek brought no response. Minutes passed as hours before a tear began to fall, and she slowly, hesitantly, returned to life.
She referred to this incident as "dissociation." Her conscious mind, overwhelmed with emotions and sensations that had become too difficult to process, sought means of escape, somewhere to hide. It was familiar to her, but I had never seen her like this. This was unlike anything I had ever seen before.
I was aware that she had been prescribed medication and received therapy, ages ago, even been briefly institutionalized. (She had spoken in an evasive way of disturbing incidents from her childhood.) But with distance, the pieces of the puzzle, the reason for all that I knew and loved and hated and never understood about her, they all fit together. I came to understand that "reality," for her, was often a relative term, and that her mind was never entirely in balance — too much of the time, precarious harmony was maintained by many of those same medications (but without the least medical guidance). This is who she is, and for all the brilliant light she could radiate, there was this part of her that was darker than night. She was afraid to know and to let this part of herself be known, out of fear that the truth would frighten away anyone close enough to discover it. In that, I suppose, she was right.
Everything she had meant to me was left behind that night, wherever it was that she went.
It was difficult for me to reconcile these different aspects of her personality, to try to make some sense of the idea that the reasons for the behavior that drove me away might be the very key to the aspects of her I loved best. I gave up trying. (For some questions, there may never be an answer.) I feel ashamed to have been so judgmental when perhaps I might have been more understanding, We were very much alike, driven by many of the same needs and hopes and fears that had once brought us together, and (occasionally) I can't help but wonder about my own state of mind.
11 July 2009
Family
It's that time of the year again, when the new families of adorable, roly-poly baby raccoons begin to make semi-regular visits to the backyard. This Mother seems more careful and attentive than most, hovering more, chirping at her children to keep them from wandering too far in exploration.
08 July 2009
TCM
July will be a terrific month on Turner Classic Movies...
You know, I don't think I've seen the 1939 adaptation of Of Mice and Men (with Burgess Meredith) since I was in High School —which, come to think of it, was perhaps 25 years ago. (I must admit, it is distinctly unsettling to me that I can refer to events in my adult lifetime as having taken place that long ago.) I've spent too many years exposed to parodies of the characters in that book that I doubt I'll be able to contain my snickering — but I'm looking forward to this all the same (on July 23).
In celebration of the 40th Anniversary of the Apollo Moon Landing, there's an evening of themed films (on July 20), including Destination Moon (1950) and The Right Stuff (1983). I've always been kinda curious about The Right Stuff, though I don't always have patience for drama when I'd prefer a documentary. Fortunately, there's also a documentary: For All Mankind (1989).
There's an evening of Jean Seberg films in the next day or so (on July 11). I did two books about her last year, but I've never seen any of her work.
I've never ever seen any of the Ma and Pa Kettle films. This shameful gap in my pop cultural experience will finally be addressed (on July 17)!
And I'll get to see MGM's remake of Waterloo Bridge, which I expect will be every bit as dull and boring as I've read, particularly when compared to the original (July 22).
And there's an entire evening of Pre-Code Hollywood Musicals (on July 29). You know how much I love that stuff!
This, you see, is why I pay whatever ridiculous amount of money I pay each month for Cable TV service. And this is why I couldn't get by without a DVR.
You know, I don't think I've seen the 1939 adaptation of Of Mice and Men (with Burgess Meredith) since I was in High School —which, come to think of it, was perhaps 25 years ago. (I must admit, it is distinctly unsettling to me that I can refer to events in my adult lifetime as having taken place that long ago.) I've spent too many years exposed to parodies of the characters in that book that I doubt I'll be able to contain my snickering — but I'm looking forward to this all the same (on July 23).
In celebration of the 40th Anniversary of the Apollo Moon Landing, there's an evening of themed films (on July 20), including Destination Moon (1950) and The Right Stuff (1983). I've always been kinda curious about The Right Stuff, though I don't always have patience for drama when I'd prefer a documentary. Fortunately, there's also a documentary: For All Mankind (1989).
There's an evening of Jean Seberg films in the next day or so (on July 11). I did two books about her last year, but I've never seen any of her work.
I've never ever seen any of the Ma and Pa Kettle films. This shameful gap in my pop cultural experience will finally be addressed (on July 17)!
And I'll get to see MGM's remake of Waterloo Bridge, which I expect will be every bit as dull and boring as I've read, particularly when compared to the original (July 22).
And there's an entire evening of Pre-Code Hollywood Musicals (on July 29). You know how much I love that stuff!
This, you see, is why I pay whatever ridiculous amount of money I pay each month for Cable TV service. And this is why I couldn't get by without a DVR.
07 July 2009
Circadian
It's Monday, isn't it? (I suppose, at this hour, it's already Tuesday.) The family is away for the week, the house is peaceful and quiet, and I've done not much more than work. Alone and undisturbed, I lose count of the hours. Afternoon passes into evening, indistinguishable from midnight and beyond.
As quickly as I become accustomed to this new rhythm, it will be over.
As quickly as I become accustomed to this new rhythm, it will be over.
04 July 2009
Private
Hidden away in my office, hidden behind — well, I'd rather not tell you just where, but hidden away in my office is a battered manila envelope, with papers, and a few other odds and ends. They're private papers — I'm an intensely private person, and this I wouldn't share with anyone, not even those closest to me.
I should throw it away. I've already thrown a few of the papers away — but for some reason, I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of the rest.
I should throw it away. I've already thrown a few of the papers away — but for some reason, I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of the rest.
03 July 2009
Complaint Dept.
I do a great deal of freelance design work for a publisher that does a great deal of business with a vendor that provides print-on-demand services. That's essentially a digital printing process, not all that different from, say, printing pages on a laser printer. The resulting quality tends to be hit-and-miss (photos and illustrations suffer the most), but I try to work within those limitations.
The covers, though, are virtually indistinguishable from a book printed by traditional methods — colors are sharp and vibrant, the card stock substantial and glossy.
I received a box of comps (or complimentary copies) of the books I had worked on today, my first opportunity to see the work I'd done on these particular projects in print. I was disappointed to discover that the print vendor is now trimming the books about a sixteenth of an inch less wide than they're supposed to be. That, and they seem to be using a slightly lighter weight of paper, which causes the spine of the cover to wrap around the front cover just a bit. What this all means is that the front covers are, when all is said and done, almost an eighth of an inch more narrow than I had expected.
The print vendor provides template files for the covers (set up to automate the process, for them, as much as possible), which I'm obligated to follow. But they haven't updated the template to reflect the changes in the way they're printing and trimming these books.
An eighth of an inch might not sound like much (and I suppose it isn't), but when I design a cover, I tend to be very particular and precise about where and how I place everything. It's frustrating to have put so much work into a project, only to be disappointed by the results. Even if most people wouldn't notice, I know I will.
The covers, though, are virtually indistinguishable from a book printed by traditional methods — colors are sharp and vibrant, the card stock substantial and glossy.
I received a box of comps (or complimentary copies) of the books I had worked on today, my first opportunity to see the work I'd done on these particular projects in print. I was disappointed to discover that the print vendor is now trimming the books about a sixteenth of an inch less wide than they're supposed to be. That, and they seem to be using a slightly lighter weight of paper, which causes the spine of the cover to wrap around the front cover just a bit. What this all means is that the front covers are, when all is said and done, almost an eighth of an inch more narrow than I had expected.
The print vendor provides template files for the covers (set up to automate the process, for them, as much as possible), which I'm obligated to follow. But they haven't updated the template to reflect the changes in the way they're printing and trimming these books.
An eighth of an inch might not sound like much (and I suppose it isn't), but when I design a cover, I tend to be very particular and precise about where and how I place everything. It's frustrating to have put so much work into a project, only to be disappointed by the results. Even if most people wouldn't notice, I know I will.