Road trip: Colorado

I’m beating it out of Washington, D.C., with a new snow storm on my heels. Hope to make it to Denver today… somehow I have to go through Boston. Back later. Everybody under the clouds: stay warm.

Cultural disconnect: Brit-US-Aussie speak

Everybody knows that America and the UK are two countries separated by a common language. Throw in other English-speaking countries — Canada, South Africa, Australia — and English becomes a linguistic stew that everybody thinks they understand, and sometimes don’t.

As an American living in Britain I’m keenly aware of this. Slang and idioms vary from place to place, and can get you in trouble if you’re oblivious. The Husband once told co-workers that he “got pissed” in a meeting. They responded in horror: “You got drunk at work?” He had to clarify: “Pissed off.” Angry, not plastered.

One topic where Brits, Yanks, and Aussies use different terms is education. And most Americans have no idea about this. In the USA, if a parent says, “My kid’s at school,” she could mean kindergarten or an MIT doctoral program. American kids are “students” from the time they sit down at a desk. They graduate from high school at eighteen, go to a college or university for a four-year bachelor’s degree, and, after they graduate, may go on to graduate school.

In the UK and British-influenced school systems, that’s not so. Kids may start school at four and most finish at 16. Nobody “graduates” from high school. They leave. Schools have “school-leavers” dances, but no ceremony. Many kids go on for two more years to get their A-Levels (sort of equivalent to AP courses, for you Ameri-types); to do this they may continue at their high school or go to Sixth Form colleges. When a Brit says he’s at college, that’s what he means. If he’s going on in higher ed, he goes to uni — to university. Bachelors’ degrees are generally three-year programs, and then, perhaps, it’s on to post-grad. Masters, D.Phil, etc. And it’s only when you get to uni that you’re a “student.” And a graduate is somebody who has earned his degree.

If I’m telling everybody in the Commonwealth what they already know, I apologize. But most Americans have no idea that other educational systems even exist. I began to notice this when reading U.S. newspaper and magazine articles about international figures. I realized that the U.S. journalists hear about their subjects’ education and get it all wrong. Namely, repeatedly: the American journos will say that a Brit or Australian is a high-school dropout. They read “left school” and translate it into “dropped out.”

Case in point: Sam Worthington. Britain’s Daily Mail reports straightforwardly that Worthington left school at 17. After that, he went to drama school. But a high-profile U.S. story said Worthington had dropped out at 17. (Sorry I can’t find the link, but I’m airport-blogging and have to shut down in a minute. If I can find it later I’ll update.) This is a case where a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

Of course it’s not only Americans who misconstrue phrases that mean one thing to them and something different to other English-speakers. But it’s the one that happened to annoy me this morning. So consider this post a public service announcement. That’s why I trolled around online looking at photos of Sam Worthington until I found an article that illustrated my point. It’s all for your benefit. Trust me.

Writers in the movies

Kidnapping, murder, crocodiles… Geekweek rounds up its 20 greatest movies about writers.

Misery, The Player, and Adaptation are on their list, as well as mine. And for anybody who still thinks the arts in general, or writing in particular, are all about inspiration, sunshine, and daisies, Geekweek’s top pick is Sunset Boulevard: “Billy Wilder’s masterpiece is a bitter and tragic tale that proves Hollywood is where dreams go to die, literally.”

(Thanks to Dan for the link.)

Road trip: Washington, D.C.

This morning I’m headed to the land of snow and politicians. Back later.

Friday’s dose of Weird

Also known as Chapter 279 in the You Couldn’t Make It Up files. Subtitled: Sadly, This Means I’ll Never Be Able To Use These Stories in My Novels Because They’re Too Freaking Ridiculous.

1. Legal Duel Over Heart-Attack Burger Joints.

WASHINGTON (AFP) – The owner of the “Heart Attack Grill” in Arizona is suing “Heart Stoppers Grill” in Florida, accusing the outlet of plagiarizing his death by burger brainchild, lawyers said Thursday.

“Examples in the suit… were X-rays of human organs hung on the walls and a deal offering free meals to clients weighing in above 160 kilograms (350 pounds).”

At the “Heart Attack Grill”, patrons known as “patients” take “prescriptions” from “nurses” and a tag is put on their wrist showing what food they have ordered so they can be examined by a “doctor” with a stethoscope.

Did somebody say, “Symptom of a sick society?”

2. Russian Ice Dancers berated for Aboriginal costumes.

At the recent Russian and European ice dancing championships, world champions Oksana Domnina and Maxim Shabalin of Russia “performed what they considered an aboriginal tribute… dressed in dark bodysuits with white tribalesque markings, red loin cloths and what appeared to be brown face.” The costumes went down badly with some aboriginal Australians and, the Times notes, “leapfrogged tribute into caricature. The island evoked by the Russians’ routine was not so much Australia as Gilligan’s Island.”

But…

Of course, if propriety and taste were required in ice dancing, it would have been tossed from the Olympics years ago. Under the old six-point scoring system, results were suspected to be decided beforehand, like Soviet elections. And costumes? Please. At the 1992 Winter Games, Maia Usova and Aleksandr Zhulin of Russia won the bronze medal dressed as dinner mints.

Dinner mints. All this, and curling too! I cannot wait to watch the Winter Olympics.

And finally:

3. The Demon Sheep.

This political ad defines the term Awesome — if by “awesome” one means a commercial that makes viewers laugh so hard at its cheesy ineptitude and over-the-top weirdness that they pass out. Carly, Carly, Carly… Ms. Fiorina, I salute you for embracing the surreal with full-on insanity.

Why self-publishing might not be the path to glory

Science fiction author John Scalzi explains why self-publishing might not be the route to writers’ Nirvana that some utopians and naifs think it will be:

“Why In Fact Publishing Will Not Go Away Anytime Soon: A Deeply Slanted Play in Three Acts.”

STRAÜMANN: You again! What took you so long?

SCALZI: Well, I had write the book. Then I had to edit it, copy edit it, do the cover, do the book design, have it printed, act as my own distributor and send out press releases. It cost me thousands of dollars out of my own pocket and the better part of a year. But look! Here’s the book!

STRAÜMANN (pulls out his electronic reader): I’m sorry, I only read on this.

SCALZI sighs, slinks off the stage.

STRAÜMANN (yelling after SCALZI): And where’s the sequel? Why aren’t you writing more?!?

Read the whole thing.

Le Dirty Secrets Club

Le Dirty Secrets Club est publié en France ce mois de février.

Fleuve Noir’s edition of The Dirty Secrets Club will be published in France this February. Next week, to be exact. And doesn’t the cover look sleek and enticing?

Quickdraw… and you’re still dead

Why the good guys always draw faster in gunfights — but not fast enough.

Why do the bad guys always get shot in a gunfight when they’re the ones who reached for their guns first?

The Nobel laureate and quantum physicist Niels Bohr was so intrigued with the puzzle he came up with a theory: the one who draws second moves faster because he reacts without thinking.

Research by psychologists at Birmingham University has shown that Bohr was right, at least up to a point. In mock gunfights, volunteers were 10% faster when they drew second than when they made the first move.

However, that difference only amounts to 21 milliseconds.

“You move faster if you draw second, but you’re still going to die,” Dr Welchman said. “You’ll die satisfied that you were quicker, but that’s not much use to you.”

Writing, stage one: coming up with ideas

The Liar’s Lullaby will be published in June. The manuscript is on its way to the printer. That means I’m done dinking around with it. I’ll get a chance to read the page proofs to check for typos, but at this stage in the process, I’m not going to dig into the text and edit it. Not going to change characters’ names, revise the ending, throw in a new subplot about a high school glee club, etc. If I did, not only would my editors freak out, but I’d have to pay for getting the pages reprinted. And that little kicker is what probably stops obsessive or undisciplined or out-of-control authors from blowing up their novels at the last minute.

And now that Liar’s been put to bed, it’s time to start work on my next novel. Finding inspiration, and a decent story, takes time and effort. Typically, to get in touch with their muse, authors trek across the Sahara, drink heavily, and secretly record their relatives as they argue over Christmas dinner. But after a while that becomes old hat. And that’s not the way I work. Oh, no. I’m much more focused, intellectual, inspired.

So here, in no particular order, is what I do when coming up with ideas.

Walk the dog. Clean my office. Give up on cleaning office. Dig up scraps of paper on which I’ve scribbled plot ideas over the past four years. Scratch head, wonder what “Scary!” “bait – bad guy,” and “Bus plunge!!!” mean, and how they could possibly form the basis of a coherent plot. Eat chocolate. Watch Stormchasers, decide hunting tornados has mythic overtones — idiots chasing twisters across Oklahoma think they’re battling dragons. Order all of Joseph Campbell’s books on mythology. Drink more coffee. Tell kids: “I’m working. You make dinner.” Decide I need a new hairstyle. And so does the dog. He’d make a good punk. Scribble four pages of random notes that contain the words “Jo Beckett,” “Psych!” “Evan… hehehe” and “Don’t forget to pay phone bill.”

Watch entire Season 2 of 30 Rock. Continue to insist to kids that I’m working. List possible characters/sidekicks/villains for new novel. Cross off sparkly vampires, blue aliens. Upload my son’s music collection so I’ll have fresh tunes to write by. Get caught playing solitaire on my phone. Give up my avoidance behavior and finally go to the gym. Think up a great idea, fall off treadmill, find pen and write it on my hand. Hope the ink lasts until I get home.

And, finally, sit my butt down and start writing. Simple.

Next: backlit bacon

British anti-jargon group blasts “ambient” sausage snack.

The Plain English Campaign said it had no idea what the “ambient sausage roll” was, adding the snack on sale at Co-operative stores took the linguistic biscuit.

“The supermarket quickly admitted an ‘administrative error’ which it said was being corrected.”

A reminder why I always back up my work

1. Because I was just plain lucky that the bowl of oatmeal I upended splattered on the carpet and not on my laptop.

2. Because this wasn’t the first food vs. computer confrontation I’ve witnessed. My house was recently the site of the Pepsi keyboard massacre.

3. And because, a few years ago, I had to ask my computer whether it wanted sugar to go with the coffee I’d just served the logic board.

Save your work every ten minutes at a minimum. Back it up on a separate drive at least once a day. Back it up on a server someplace outside your home or workplace when you have an irreplaceable creative effort in progress. If you live in flood, earthquake, or tornado country, back it up in another country or on another continent.

The inevitable reality TV crime headline

“Housewives’ Daughter Found Guilty Of Pulling Out Another Housewife’s Hair Extensions.”

The truth behind Apple’s iPad

Frantic Steve Jobs Stays Up All Night Designing Apple Tablet.

CUPERTINO, CA—Claiming that he completely forgot about the much-hyped electronic device until the last minute, a frantic Steve Jobs reportedly stayed up all night Tuesday in a desperate effort to design Apple’s new tablet computer. “Come on, Steve, just think—think, dammit—you’re running out of time,” the exhausted CEO said as he glued nine separate iPhones to the back of a plastic cafeteria tray.

A tradgey, and comdey, in the mistaking

Misspelled tattoos.