Until today I never knew she existed. Stumbled upon her after googling “just get me out of here” in a moment of deepest despair. Google returned a YouTube hit for “Get Me Out Of Here/Just For Now” by Imogen Heap.
Holy shit — did Tori Amos have a love child with Sarah McLachlan?
I just blew more than an hour listening to a whole bunch of tracks from her latest album. And watching a few of her VBlogs. There’ll be three CD’s going on my Christmas list el pronto…
Joe Artist: I have this great idea for a book. I think you’d like it.
John Q. Public: Really? Why don’t you write it down?
Joe Artist: I can’t. I have a family to support, bills to pay, and my old age to save for. I already have a full-time job that takes up almost all of my time. It would take a year or more of dedicated work to write a book. If I had to juggle that and my day job, well, it would take forever.
John Q. Public: Gee, that’s too bad, because I think you’d be a really good writer.
JA: I’ve saved some money, so I suppose I could quit my job and work exclusively on the book, but even if it turns out really great, (which I’m sure it would), there’s no future in it.
JQP: Why do you say that?
JA: Because once I manage to sell a few copies, there’s nothing to stop people from making their own copies and either selling them cheaper than mine or giving them away for free. I’d never make enough money to live with dignity.
JQP: I see. Well, I think we need more good books (and art and music and theater for that matter). I think that would be good for everyone.
JA: Yeah, it probably would be…
JQP: I have an idea. Why don’t we give you the exclusive right to make copies of your book, and make it illegal for anyone else to. That way you can sell your book when and where you want to and negotiate the best price you can.
JA: That sounds pretty good. What’s the catch?
JQP: Well, we’re going to have to enforce this, which will take time and effort, and the whole point of the exercise is to make more cool stuff available to more people, so we don’t want you to limit the supply of your work indefinitely – we want to eventually distribute it to as many people as possible so the entire population can benefit.
JA: Well, OK. I can see your point.
JQP: So we’re thinking that you get a monopoly for, say, 14 years, then after that anyone can make as many copies as they want with or without your permission.
JA: Well, that sounds like a fair trade, except 14 years might not be long enough to recoup expenses. Sometimes it can take years to get a manuscript to print, and everyone but me would have an incentive to stall and delay until my monopoly had expired. I think I’d like it to be long enough that people wouldn’t be tempted to do that.
JQP: You’ve got a point. What if we double it to 28 years. Would that be OK?
JA: Yeah. That would be just fine.
Author’s note:
Personally, I believe I have a natural right to control works of my own creativity. In other words, I believe I should have copyright in perpetuity on anything I create. I’m also a realist, and recognize that enforcing that right is only possible with the cooperation of the state, but the state has no reason to enforce perpetual copyright because such enforcement would not be of any measurable benefit to the public. I also recognize that the wide dissemination of creative works is a net benefit to the general public, and the best way to maximize that dispersal is to give them away for free. I, however, refuse to create anything if I know I’m not going to be adequately compensated for it. In short, the public wants me to make shiny stuff, ’cause they think it’s cool, but I won’t make any shiny stuff (especially the really cool stuff that takes a lot of time and effort) unless I get paid for it. It’s a Mexican standoff.
One of the ways to resolve a standoff is diplomacy resulting in compromise, which is basically what happened in England in 1709. The compromise, stripped of its posturing, legalese, and related claptrap, boils down to this:
If I create something, and someone copies my creation without my permission, the state will punish them for me. This arrangement will only last for a limited time, however, after which anyone can freely copy my creation as much as they want.
It’s a quid-pro-quo arrangement. I relinquish perpetual ownership of my work and in return get the opportunity to profit from my creative efforts and “live with dignity”, the public agrees to tolerate a certain amount of monopolistic behavior and in return is assured an increased supply of free shiny cool stuff.
I’m OK with this. 28 years of monopoly control of my creative work, guaranteed and enforced by the state at no extra cost to me, sounds like a good thing. However, how we managed to get from there to our current Life+70 years still boggles my mind. A copyright that can last anywhere from 70 to 140 years is so close to being “effectively perpetual” as makes no never-mind. Currently, something created during my lifetime won’t enter the public domain until my great-grandchildren are adults. The likelihood of reduced innovation and creativity caused by such long monopolies runs directly counter to the original intent of copyright legislation. This shows that copyright holders have overreached themselves and the compromise is no longer equitable. We’re welshing on our collective bargain.
I’m a writer and I’d be the first to support a return to shorter copyright terms of 42 or even 28 years, which would see entry of works into the public domain within the same generation as they were created. I’m well aware that even a 14 year copyright term won’t satisfy all the pirate asshats out there who want free-shiny *now*, but that’s a different kettle of fish, which I’ll fry another day.
Lets embark on a little thought experiment.
Let’s pretend, purely for the sake of argument, that copyright terms are limited to 14 years, a la the Statute of Anne. Let’s also assume that I write a number of bestselling books and become extremely wealthy. Thirdly, lets imagine that I decide for some reason (Alzheimer’s, religious conversion, pure perversity, whatever…) that the first book I wrote no longer deserves to exist, that I hate it and want to eradicate it from the face of the planet. I’m wealthy, and persistent, so I embark on a quest to locate, buy back, and then destroy every copy that was ever printed. I hire an army of assistants who search used bookstores the world over. I contact owners of copies and persuade them to sell. I am relentless. Perhaps I bankrupt myself in the process, but whether I do or not is irrelevant to the argument. What matters is that, before my copyright expires, I manage to legally obtain and destroy every last copy of that book.
I’ll tell you what doesn’t happen on the day the copyright on that book finally expires. No one knocks on my door; no federal agents, no local constabulary, no barristers, no lawyers. Nobody tries to arrest me, or detain me, or fine me for violating the public’s right to have my book released into the public domain.
Why?
Because that right doesn’t exist and has never existed.
There is a subtle and important distinction I’m trying to illustrate here. Copyright law gives me the right to withhold my work from the public domain for the term of the copyright. Once a work exists in the public domain, you have the right to copy that work with impunity, but nobody has the right to demand that a created work be placed in the public domain. Nowhere in the world does there exist a statute recognizing the rights of the public to force works to be released into the public domain. If I write something and sell copies of it, and those copies still exist upon expiry of my copyright, then other people are allowed to make copies of those copies. That’s all.
“So what,” you say. “You’re splitting hairs. How is this relevant?”
Before I explain, let’s try a second thought experiment.
Let’s pretend I’ve written a vastly popular book. It sells hundreds of millions of copies and is insanely popular. (Think of J.K. Rowling here). The public clamors for a sequel. I write one, but instead of publishing it, I take the only copy and lock it away in a safe in my home. Please remember, that sequel is protected by copyright from the moment of its creation. I don’t need to fill out any forms. I don’t have to register with any copyright office. Specifically, I am not required to deposit a copy of my work with anyone, anywhere, to validate my copyright.
The public can be certain beyond any reasonable doubt that the sequel exists, (heck, I could even distribute a few excerpts), and many would likely feel sure that, should they somehow obtain a copy to read, they would enjoy the story. Nevertheless, that manuscript stays locked away. I continue to write other bestsellers, the public continues to enjoy my other works, and knowledge that I possess an unpublished sequel never leaves the public mind.
As before, I’ll tell you what doesn’t happen on the day the copyright on that hidden manuscript finally expires. No one visits my house to demand the safe be opened; no federal agents, no local police, no lawyers. No one tries to arrest or detain me for violating the public’s right to make copies of my book.
Why?
Because, even though the copyright on that work has expired, and anyone with access to the original is now permitted to make copies of it, they don’t have a right to demand to make copies of it. As access to the only existing copy can only be had by breaking and entering my home, which is illegal, I still get to choose who sees my work. The point being illustrated here is that no one has a right to force me to show them my work, even if it is no longer protected under copyright. People do not have an unalienable right to make copies of any work no longer protected by copyright, they simply have the right not to be prosecuted for duplicating public domain works already legally in their possession.
“So what,” you say again, “does this have to do with anything?”
It has to do with attitude, and the overweening sense of entitlement exhibited by so many of today’s denizens of the Internet.
I read a lot of message boards and discussion groups on the Internet where arguments regarding the current state of copyright legislation rage unabated. Over and over again I see variations of the complaint that “copyright holders are depriving the public domain of content that is rightfully theirs”. I hear suggestions that copyright terms should be truncated to ridiculously short durations — 5 years, 3 years, even 1 year, so that works can more quickly move into the public domain, where they belong. There exists this insidious assumption among the general public that the moment any creative work comes into existence it actually belongs to the public and is simply “on loan to the creator” for the duration of its copyright. This is false: the right not to be prosecuted for copying a creative work is not the same as the right to experience that same work. The former is recognized; the latter is not. Even if you believe that an artistic work is truly great and is a benefit to society, you still don’t have the right to demand to experience it.
I am inundated by claims that the public has a right to experience the works of creators and other artists, that the public has a right to obtain those works for free (even though they may have made no contribution whatsoever to the original creation of those works), and that prevention of this via copyright law is an infringement of their rights.
Well, you know what?
You don’t have a right to be entertained.
You don’t have a right to see my stuff.
You certainly don’t have a right to be entertained by my stuff for free.
Now get off my lawn…
Having trouble sleeping — more accurately, having trouble feeling rested. Zero energy. Unfinished stuff at work piling up like crazy. Difficulty concentrating.
As if that weren’t enough, I *bit* myself on Sunday. Now there’s a chunk of flesh missing from the inside of my right cheek and it hurts like an S.O.B.
This doesn’t help either.
Can I please get off the treadmill now?
I’m writing again, after a dry spell of over a hundred days. No, I don’t mean blogging. Blogging may be many things to me, but I don’t consider it “writing”. I mean my actual writing — creative works I hope to publish someday.
Maeve is now at 28,0000 words. Not bad for a 10,000 word short story. Ah, well… only 1 major and 4 minor scenes left to go now. Another 8,000 to 10,000 words, max. How much you choose to trust that estimate is entirely your own decision. This time last year I was confidently telling people that the *whole* *thing* was only going to be as big as the amount of work I have left to do now. I wouldn’t be surprised if some wag starts a betting pool regarding whether I’ll top 50k before the end.
I’ve been working hard on it, adding about 1,000 to 2,000 words every night for the last number of days. I’ll definitely have something to show at the next reading night.
Which brings up a point. I produce an average of 200 words per hour. Yep. 200. I didn’t miss a zero there. This means I have to work 5 to 6 hours a day if I want to clock over the 1k mark. This is an incredibly slow rate of production compared to *other* *people* I know.
But that is just the way I am — Mr. One Paragraph Per Hour.
There is an entire school of thought out there that says “just get the words down and edit it later”. I call this the “we’ll fix it in post” mentality. It obviously works for other people, but in my case it is pure, corn-fed grade A bullshit. Even when I participated (successfully) in NaNoWriMo, I had to slog along for 6 hours every day to achieve the required average of 1667 words that would net me my 50k by month-end. I’m a very deliberate writer.
Some people write like they’re playing Jenga — just stack it up any old way. I can’t do that. It’s more like Tetris for me. Every sentence must interlock with the one before and be the right shape for the one that follows or the whole thing doesn’t work. I can’t simply skip an awkward phrase or substitute a lame metaphor. Instead, I’ll sit there for minutes at a time searching for the right word, the correct turn of phrase that will move the scene forward. If someone were to film me in my office, they’d witness about 20% typing and 80% staring off into space.
Rather like many cubicle workers, I imagine.
My only consolation in this (and it is a big one) is that most of the people who’ve read the first drafts of my work tell me that they are impressed by the quality of the writing. Which makes me think I’m doing something right.
So I’ll keep slogging away, and with luck this “little” story will be finished soon. Maybe before I hit the 50k mark.
It has been 125 days since my last post. So sue me. Should any of my millions of sycophants take issue with my posting frequency (or lack thereof), all I can say is: If the scraps of my life on display here aren’t enough for you, I suggest you go get one of your own.
How’ve I been? Just fine. Simply dandy.
November: Father-in-law has stroke that puts him in hospital for two weeks.
December: Same father-in-law, recovering from stroke, occupies my spare bedroom until three days before Christmas.
January: Co-worker gets H1N1 flu and is off work for two weeks. I work like an S.O.B. trying to keep up.
January: Wife has mis-carriage. ’nuff said there.
February: Life’s shitty. Let’s run away to Cuba for a week of sun and sand. Cuba experiences all-time bad weather. Out of 7 days: 2 days sun, 3 days rain, 2 days overcast & windy. Snorkeling and boat tours canceled due to 20+ knot winds.
March: Co-worker (the same one) suffers from immune system collapse. Will be off work for god-only-knows how long this time. Me left doing the S.O.B. overtime shtick again.
As usual, the only bright point in all of this is Mrs. Angry. Marrying her was the best thing I ever did and is probably the best thing I ever will do. How can you top perfect?
Haaseltons just lost a customer forever. I will never again set foot inside that place for the rest of my days, which is saying something, as I’ve been a loyal customer for over a decade. I’m aware the place had been getting dingy in recent years, and they’d instituted a strange, petrol-station-like policy of making you request a bathroom key on a stick before using the loo, but the place had nostalgia for me, and I really like their chai lattes.
That Asian guy, who I can only assume is either the manager or the owner, pissed me off big-time today.
I was attending the weekly NaNoWriMo write-in and went to Natas by mistake: the write-in was being held at Haaseltons. I didn’t realize I was in the wrong place until after I’d ordered something to eat, sat down and checked the NaNo site on my cell phone. So I gulped my chai and asked for my cake to go and then dodged up to Haaseltons. I was promptly informed by the owner that I was not welcome to eat my Natas dessert in his establishment. I told him I understood, but that I’d gone to the wrong place by mistake, blah, blah, and that if I could (please and thank you) eat my one little piece of cake I’d be in Haaseltons for at least the next two hours during which not only would I be buying multiple drinks and another dessert, about a half dozen of my acquaintances would be showing up to do the same.
Dude didn’t believe me — all but called me a liar by saying that he’d heard my “story” many times before (from students, I can only assume). He said absolutely no way would he let me eat any food I didn’t buy there. How he intended to stop me, I’m not sure, but I didn’t feel like pressing the point in the face of his obvious hostility. In summary — I was told to get out. Now, I’m a 40-year-old employed professional and bear as much resemblance to a cash-strapped student as Tipper Gore does to Summer Glau. Hell, I could afford to buy everyone in the joint a free coffee (at Natas) out of petty cash — which I was momentarily tempted to do in an extreme act of comeuppance, but I didn’t because when I’m that mad my oratory skills abandon me and I clam up.
(Note: For me to regain my eloquence you have to push me beyond mad and into homicidal, at which point you will find me belting out scathing iambic pentameter whilst simultaneously bludgeoning the object of my wrath to death with the nearest handy blunt instrument.)
Anyway, I don’t like being called a liar, not one little bit, and especially not by some self-righteous fucktard who’s at least my age and should know better than to break the Prime Directive of the service industry — namely, that the customer is always right.
So now I’m pissed and will *never* set foot in Haaseltons again.
Ever.
So fuck Haaseltons. I’ll be spending my money at Natas and Dreams of Beans from now on, where the floors are cleaner, the bathroom isn’t locked, where there’s nice art on the walls, and where the staff know when to shut the fuck up and be polite.
I had a problem.
The tale I was working on for Scary Stories night was getting too long. Sadly, many of my stories suffer from this kind of creeping featuritis. I get a good, simple idea, start working on it, and then somewhere along the way I realize my treatment of it is going to consume far more space that I originally expected. A few examples: “Maeve” – originally projected to be ~8000 words, now at ~15000 and climbing; probably at least another 10k still to go. “Camera Obscura”, my first scary story, originally intended to be ~3500 words, now sitting at ~4000 words with at least that much left to go.
Usually I’m not too unhappy about this, as I think the longer treatments benefit the tale, but this time I have a problem. Scary stories night is a “once-round-the-campfire” kind of thing, so the stories have to be short or people will fall asleep in their Hallowe’en nog before you finish. Not to mention that there is a limited amount of time in the evening and everyone who brings a story needs to be allowed their 15 minutes of fame. You see my problem, yes?
Enter “Double Vision”. I had a great little idea for another scary story (while in the shower, if you must know), and wonder of wonders, the whole thing is only ~2500 words from start to finish. Yay! So, that is the story I’ll be reading for Hallowe’en. I’ll post the first half of Camera Obscura on wordmasons for those who weren’t at the last reading night, and hopefully have the rest of it done for the November reading night. Where it concerns reading nights, having become so used to feeling like a man constantly late for an appointment, this new sensation of being done early is strange, yet pleasant.
Quite addictive, in fact.
It’s a quarter to pi, and the streetlights are out; glowing dreams and burning desires are the only light. Follow me, through the crack in the floorboards, behind the walls, into that land beyond the back of the cupboard. We’ll slide down midnight ways, into deep hidden realms, diamond dust prints through the mushroom forest to the shore of a sundered sea. Take my hand and we’ll dance up a ship of crystal and chimes, adamant sails to caress the night and draw us onward, onward, to forgotten empires, ghostly shoals, and the burgeoning, beckoning endless surf.
Then up, up, up the winding stair, now stone, now wood, now sparkling air, treading the path of a hundred billion souls who never were. A sacred sign beneath your feet, a lighted way in darkness deep, and fearsome death to left and right. Fear not. Hold tight. A synergy of power preserves, protects, propels, and soon all is light, and stardust, moondust, the dust of dreams and the cold pressed oil of wonders beyond our ken. A hundred singing towers upon the blue sands of distant everlen, a shivering symphony of alien tones, isolate one, then another, yet more, until the song is yours, and the door to the next mystery opens, beckons, a bright and shining gate, and we’re through, red giant eyes and comet tail hair and hand in hand and a kiss longer than the milky way and deeper than the sky.
Then down, down, through moon rings and sun beams and clouds, a rain of laughter, tears, iridescent motes of finely cut longings and the essence of desire, a powdered mortar of a million timeless moments, drifting, drifting, drifting, to this tiny space, this sliver of time, and the pi is only apple now, and the streetlights are back.
Yes, I’m still alive. No, I’m not posting anything today. I’ve been busy with work, home and writing. I hope to have two short stories finished by 30th October, a novelette finished by 30th November, and another short story finished before Christmas. I’ll post here when I have the time, energy and inclination.