The logic of Andalusada and playability

Yes, yes, I've neglected this for the last two weeks. I'm lazy, and I've had a full week of excuses. Now, where was I? Ah yes. Writing about how Andalusada's been shaped by being inextricably tied up with GURPS.

Most alternate history writing makes a point of prizing plausibility. Andalusada does too, or tries to; it's why I went from this thread to this scrapbook-blog, which gets more attention than this. But because it was first GURPS, and only secondly a serious alt-history, Andalusada has another value that many TLs don't: playability.

The logic of Andalusada and GURPS

On Monday, I started writing about the reasoning that guides and shapes the formation of the Andalusada universe. Last night, the first identifiable force in Andalusada was sloth. Tonight, it's something that I've touched on before but never seriously discussed: GURPS.

The logic of Andalusada and sloth

It's been a long time since I did anything that merited the tag "regular writing." The most I can say is that I've reliably posted weeks in review for Andalusada consistently - that I've been writing on the Scrapbook rather regularly indeed.

I mentioned that I started a standardization campaign on Friday. It's sent me looking back over dozens of former pages, editing them to fit my new standard policies - and rereading them, because I usually haven't thought about any of them except to look them up for links. And it's left me wincing a lot, because of how awful my writing can get over there. And how inconsistent.

There's one thing about it that's managed to routinely get my attention, though: the times when I stop to explain why I wrote Andalusada the way I did on that point. Those side notes are fascinating to me. And since this is (alas) a vanity blog, and Andalusada is what I'm thinking about at present - and since a lot of those notes are going to get obliterated in the great reformatting to come - I'm going to start discussing the overarching forces that have shaped my work as a Demiurge.

The first of these forces, and it's a shameful one to admit, is sloth.

Instead of a regular sonnet, 7/31/2012

I really do adore the way you write.

Your style is *graceful* - short and poised and true.
And so I bought a card the other night
And, having bought it, tried with all my might
To write a card as gracefully as you,
To imitate your voice, to forge your hand.

I botched a dozen drafts in ballpoint blue
And butchered several more before I knew
That all the words whose power I command
Had simply proved inadequate for this,
Could *not* achieve that grace that I demand.
No words sufficed.

Beloved, understand
That in the end I gave the card a kiss,
Addressed it to the woman that I love,
And mailed it to the woman that I miss.

Andalusada regular blogging

It's no secret that I write more on the Andalusada Scrapbook than I do here. (In three months, its hit count is rapidly closing with this one's in its entire existence.) Andalusada is my folly and my vanity; I can write whatever I want there, whenever I want there, however I want there, confident that pretty much nobody's going to actually read it.

It's why so much of it's so utterly irrelevant: because on a lot of days what I think is interesting to write about is stuff like, say, hats, or liturgical minutiae, or why Polish-Ruthenian zubrowka isn't considered vodka - and not bigger stuff, like, say, the existence of Poland-Ruthenia. I know a lot of broad strokes already, and it's more interesting for me to fill in the small details rather than the big ones even though the big ones would make the entire thing more accessible and complete.

So last week, somewhat grudgingly, I sat down to start writing what would eventually become my introduction of the Takasagonese people. And something occurred to me.

In praise of light pollution: a Spenserian sonnet

I stalked the lamplit streets the other night
Alone in silence, searching all around
For somewhere blessed with perfect-balanced light
To safely rest on clean unbroken ground
(Ideally free from automotive sound
Disrupting my most pure experience);
And there I lay my body back and drowned
My mind and soul with all-consuming sense;
And idly pondered, in that immanence
What message there could possibly have been
To see that sky; and wondered what expense
We paid to blot out all the stars therein,
That I might see as never seen before
A universe of blue and nothing more.

On caretaking and self-neglect

It seldom fails to awe or to impress
How frighteningly easy it can be
When called upon, in direst distress,
To be on hand for anyone but me;
Heroic, really - deftly plucking specks
From eyes (by now I've learned to do it blind),
Or rescuing the others from their wrecks
While leaving mine for  last (since who would mind?)
Though all may be of need, I still believe
That all else equal, they should need it more;
That I may strive, their burdens to relieve,
And my afflictions casually ignore.
For theirs I have no right to hesitate;
For mine, no wish to face them -
Mine can wait.

On regular writing

"What do you mean by 'regulate'?" Therapist asked. That was, at least, where I left off these thoughts.

Let's start off with the big issue: framing my life and work in terms of "discipline" and "goals" feels futile, because I have neither.

"Goals" imply achievable things; "setting goals" involves dreaming about what could be, looking at what was plausible, and planning how to achieve them, and doing them. For the longest time nothing was plausible; I had vague wouldn't-it-be-nice ideas, but no way to get there from here, even if I was the sort of person who could - and I'm still not. Building worlds without me was as much as I could manage. My goal was "the status quo," because hope was always and consistently the first step on the road to disappointment.

Regulation, presence, and Thomas Merton

A few weeks ago, I discovered Thomas Merton. I picked up Contemplation in a World of Action from the library; I actually bought No Man is an Island a few days ago, because it was ridiculously cheap. It's like legible outsider art, reading him discussing problems that I will never have the leisure to have.

A few weeks ago, I also decided to commit to regular writing, which (reading back) I realized that I'd never actually defined. This is not the post for that definition (defined here), but it's as good a time as any to say why I wanted to write on schedule: most of the "regular writing" that I wanted to do was disciplinary.

I've never tried to write about specific things at specific times. I've done so - when I sit down I can, for instance, write sonnets without much prior thought - but I've never tried to do so. And that's a problem. Because part of the reason I read my favorite blogs is because they are regular writers: able to write something new consistently. (Charles Dickens was able to write serially. Achieving that kind of consistency is a long-term goal of mine.)

Looking back on it, though, I had a problem: I was writing at cross purposes.

Thinking with Therapist (3/x+1)

"What gets in the way of writing like that?" Therapist asked; and so we continued the conversation from earlier.

"Time, mostly," I responded. I think it's less that, though, than timing.

The big glaring issue is accessibility. Samsung is not Blogger-friendly, which means that the two blogs I write on can't be worked on from home - anchoring me to public terminals to keep them updated.

Thinking with Therapist (2/x+1)

"How much would you like to write a day?" Therapist asked.

Ordinarily, this wouldn't be a hugely productive discussion. Anyone can quit smoking every day; I can set goals every day too. Getting them to stick is a bit more challenging. Some people need to sit down and write for, say, an hour each day; I can do that easily. But that day, I actually came up with something:

"At least two hours," I said. "But writing multiple things."

Thinking with Therapist (1/x+1)

Last week, my therapist asked me to think about my long-term goals. To my shame, I didn't until I was on the way in, and confessed as much.

So instead I talked, a bit, about my writing. And that digression yielded some interesting fruit.