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Oct. 11th, 2010 09:46 pmToday was all about eyes and oranges. My eyes were checked (they feel very well-checked right now) and I bought some really lovely oranges.
This is the time of year I want to get to the markets and get a huge bag of navels: they're large and sweet and simply perfect. They're not easy to carry, though, so without a car I just buy a few to take the edge off the desire.
I also marinated another couple of bowls of mushrooms, since I'm still in the mood for them and the supermarket that had the gorgeous oranges also had baby mushrooms at $2 for a big bag.
I did other stuff. I'm sure I did other stuff. Worktypestuff. I have about an hour of emails to send later, to catch up with things that got forgotten under the influence of the virus, but I can't do that until I catch up on the work I know I didn't do today (as opposed to the work I think I might have done). I have a big, big stack of notes to be sorted for computerisation and writing up tomorrow. The fact that those notes are sitting on a desk, looming ominously (it's a very big pile and they were either going to loom ominously or teeter and they made a personal choice to loom ominously) means I haven't done them yet.
I had a big insight this morning. I've had this insight before, but I forgot I'd had it. This is the kind of day it is.
The history people associate with historians (which is not necessarily the history of historians at all) is not at all the history novelists need. That's old hat. I didn't realise (or re-realise), though, until considering Michael Crichton's bibliography, how much falling into a into a common belief of what history is/was/should be can lead novelists astray. Crichton, for instance, has more about the politics of England than about the social hierarchy and interactions for his actual setting. By 'more' I mean...well, that the lack of the second amused me. The focus of his worldbuilding was awry, which is why his history doesn't convince me despite a ton of research demonstrated in his bibliography (which contained some of my favourite books, BTW).
I was going to test that thesis today and tomorrow by re-reading the book closely. But I can't. No time until later in the week. Watch me weep and wail and gnash my teeth. Or smile in relief. Either or both are possible.
The more I progress in my life the more I realise that it's never the quantity or even the quality of research (though both are laudable) but the focus and how well the research has been thought out that counts. Should I research this? No, I shall sort my notes and diminish the amount of loomingness in my existence. I shall also drink spice tea. I'm multiskilled.
This is the time of year I want to get to the markets and get a huge bag of navels: they're large and sweet and simply perfect. They're not easy to carry, though, so without a car I just buy a few to take the edge off the desire.
I also marinated another couple of bowls of mushrooms, since I'm still in the mood for them and the supermarket that had the gorgeous oranges also had baby mushrooms at $2 for a big bag.
I did other stuff. I'm sure I did other stuff. Worktypestuff. I have about an hour of emails to send later, to catch up with things that got forgotten under the influence of the virus, but I can't do that until I catch up on the work I know I didn't do today (as opposed to the work I think I might have done). I have a big, big stack of notes to be sorted for computerisation and writing up tomorrow. The fact that those notes are sitting on a desk, looming ominously (it's a very big pile and they were either going to loom ominously or teeter and they made a personal choice to loom ominously) means I haven't done them yet.
I had a big insight this morning. I've had this insight before, but I forgot I'd had it. This is the kind of day it is.
The history people associate with historians (which is not necessarily the history of historians at all) is not at all the history novelists need. That's old hat. I didn't realise (or re-realise), though, until considering Michael Crichton's bibliography, how much falling into a into a common belief of what history is/was/should be can lead novelists astray. Crichton, for instance, has more about the politics of England than about the social hierarchy and interactions for his actual setting. By 'more' I mean...well, that the lack of the second amused me. The focus of his worldbuilding was awry, which is why his history doesn't convince me despite a ton of research demonstrated in his bibliography (which contained some of my favourite books, BTW).
I was going to test that thesis today and tomorrow by re-reading the book closely. But I can't. No time until later in the week. Watch me weep and wail and gnash my teeth. Or smile in relief. Either or both are possible.
The more I progress in my life the more I realise that it's never the quantity or even the quality of research (though both are laudable) but the focus and how well the research has been thought out that counts. Should I research this? No, I shall sort my notes and diminish the amount of loomingness in my existence. I shall also drink spice tea. I'm multiskilled.