He Pulls Out an Update Even Though He's Sick.
What a guy, right?
Well, honestly, the trick to it all is to make sure that you get an early start so that way you can get stuff done despite working at a slower pace- because right now my head is swimming and my ability to concentrate is kinda shot. Definitely not fun to try and put together something comprehendable when your head thuds and your nose runs like a faucet. Despite that, I decided I had to put something out because I missed the update last week (on account of my new neice coming in the world ;) ) and hd to make up for it.
Speaking of babies, give Syncopy a shoutout for his newest edition to the family. Seems like everyone is having babies- glad I'm not one of them (though, if I had managed it, it would be a miracle that flies in the face of science and it would probably get me rich).
On with the blog!
Well, honestly, the trick to it all is to make sure that you get an early start so that way you can get stuff done despite working at a slower pace- because right now my head is swimming and my ability to concentrate is kinda shot. Definitely not fun to try and put together something comprehendable when your head thuds and your nose runs like a faucet. Despite that, I decided I had to put something out because I missed the update last week (on account of my new neice coming in the world ;) ) and hd to make up for it.
Speaking of babies, give Syncopy a shoutout for his newest edition to the family. Seems like everyone is having babies- glad I'm not one of them (though, if I had managed it, it would be a miracle that flies in the face of science and it would probably get me rich).
On with the blog!
What's Happening Valucre?
Goblin Games- Hey look, a lottery! Anybody here enjoy gambling? Looks like we have a new system going into place where you can drop some VB and see if you are the lucky one who can win back your bet and a good sized chunk of everyone else's. The rules of the game are simple- purchase you some tickets at 5vb apiece and give three numbers (from 1-6) for each ticket- so ticket #1 might have 6,4,3 and the next 6,5,6. If one of those come up when the house tosses the dice at the end of the week, you win 80% of the pot. If nobody wins, the pot carries over into the next week and the winnings get bigger. Pretty easy, right? Well, go here for other tidbits or to ask questions.
Nich'e Event: Pacemaker- Got a new event for you guys, this one taking place in Nich'e. There is a tradesman looking to ship goods through Nich'e that may, or may not, be entirely legal. While the goods are questionable and this task a bit risky, the rewards are good and the guy is awfully convincing. Those who do the best job protecting him get the booty. Sound interesting? Ship yourself over here.
Terrenus Quest: Hills of the Lost Hearts- This quest will take you to an archelogical site where it has been discovered that the Witch King once visited this place. You are tasked with finding out when, why, and what he might have level behind. Beware though- this is a level 3 quest, and those level 3 quests carry risk. Good for the thrill seekers, but the meek might want to stay home. Are you up for it?
Guild Halls for Rent- Looking for some primo space? Well, you might be able to find it in one of the Guild Halls of Isélyr, where you can rent you some space and build up your faction. Looking to build a group with some level of legitimacy in the realestate you claim to control, but don't have the money for sub-board? Well, this might be a good place to start.
Valucre 'VB' Points Changes- If you missed the thread, you can find it here. For a quick and dirty rundown, keep reading. The points are back and tallied up for your posts and the donations made. The new system is to give points for 1 per post, 1 per new topic, and 1 per reply in a topic you started, versus the old 4/4/1 model. This means that your points are about quartered, and a such, earnings for VB from donations will be quartered as well. To keep the prices in check (prevent depression), the costs of all market items and other things will be reduced as well. There will be a renewed focus on points coming from Quests and Lore Writing. Staff positions will be switching over to a new compensation model not using VB, as it has been found historically that less than half the staff are worth the VB in the long run (many are barely active and then quit). Those who have been on staff will be caught up on back pay and them given a final payment before going to the new system. If you got questions, go to that thread I linked up above.
Jordancon Coverage 2014- You know what comes in two weeks? If you said April 9th, you are technically correct, smartass. What truly matters is that it will be the kick off the 'Unnofficial Valucre Con' Jordan Con kickoff! I will be bringing you a special edition blog update that night (from the airport and the plane ride, will contain normal update format) with a continued set of special updates (will not be of the normal format) on Thursday night, Friday Night, Saturday Night, Sunday Night, and Monday Night, assuming I remain functional enough to do so- I'm gonna do the best I can. But guys, I gotta know- asside from some recaps and pictures, WHAT DO YOU WANT ON IT? Do you want me to get interviews from people? Do you want me to see if I can get some folks to do some guest writing? Get in that blog thread and let me know!
Featured Read of the Month- I normally stick to things that have more relevant activity, but I had to make an exception here. How this slipped beneath my radar before is beyond me, but it would be an injustice not to recognize this thread (my suspicion is that its post count crept up and took a while to hit that threshold I look for). Anyway, when the opening post is the most liked post on all of Valucre (at a whopping 24 likes) and the thread itself averages 5.3 likes per post (17 posts, 90 likes)- this really says something for the work that went into this thing. Yes, there are a total of 10 participants- but 24 likes suggests at least 25 people have looked at the first posted and given it a like. Taking further into account the thread holds a 4 star rating at four votes (most threads never get more than one anyway)- it definitely underservadly missed coverage. Let's rectify that and give some props.
Congratulations to Idica Apostate [Thread Author], Blood Soaked Earth, Vasanti, Refrigerator, Aleksei, Garion, Bradapalooza, King, Thaiis, and Alexei on being the featured thread of the month.
Fete Ghede - Pale Libations
Unfairly, this summary will be a bit short as there is so much going on in this thread and I can’t keep my thoughts running straight (sinus issues really mess with me).
The thread starts out with a focus on a jaded investigator looking into yet another scene that depicts itself as a graphic suicide, but circumstances and frequency whisper contradictions revealing the lies. The officer is one you can get behind quickly, the burnt out sort you feel for because his job has just taken a lot of him in such a short time. A new officer brings him a sample of some new miracle drug said to heal the sick and revitalize the mind- snake oil at its finest, only the dramatic irony here is any understanding of the event this thread is connected with tells you this drug is anything but good news. Bad times for the officer indeed. On the side, hints of the Witch King’s return is given, along with the reappearance of Terrenus’ most wanted villain, a man in connection with many dire catastrophes. His presence alone gives tidings of ill events to come, with much in store for the city of Veelos.
At the guild, the newly risen leader of the Black Rabbits dabbles in his drugs and works at getting to the bottom of this new product’s origin, hoping to find a way to turn all production over to their site, severing their ties with the supplier. The lab worker can’t figure it out yet, so the guildleader decides to see what he can dredge up at the coming meeting. In the meantime, his right hand woman, a rather nasty type with an artistic penchant for violence, is sent for to attend the meeting. This, while at some distant graveyard, plots are brewing and the living gathers amongst the dead, preparing for a night unlike anything ever seen…
You should definitely go read.
Other Highlights?
Role-Play Archives- Want to use something akin to the Wayback Machine? Want to check out some old role-plays that have moved on to the elephant graveyard of Valucre? You really ought to go down to the bottom of the RP boards (Below Alternative) and check out the RP archives- there are some old gems in there.
Did You Know- About the Daily Weekly? If not, you really should. It's an area headed up by Offtopic and it is really starting to blossom with him at the helm. Their formatted in a bit of a strange way and definitely filled with some subliminal propaganda, but they are really well put together and extremely entertaining. Better yet- anyone can write stuff up to go in there, so go check it out.
Closing Thoughts?
I feel a bit bad, because I feel like I am going to end up ‘phoning this one in’ so to speak, given that I’m not doing so well today. It isn’t being tired for once, but a full blown head-cold that is making it really hard for me to concentrate. I have attempted to will myself into writing some closing thoughts here for the better part of the shift, but I have not gotten anywhere with it. Fortunately, I did up the majority of the blog yesterday, cutting down on the work I have for today. Glad I did, because this one is going nowhere fast.
Actually, scratch that. Even as I write this I realize my ability to formulate coherent thoughts just isn’t here today. Instead, I will lean on the works of someone else, and let our closing thoughts be presented by an old great. Perhaps I will follow it up next week with my own interpretation of the subject, but for now, I give you George Orwell’s “Why I Write.”
"From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write books.
I was the middle child of three, but there was a gap of five years on either side, and I barely saw my father before I was eight. For this and other reasons I was somewhat lonely, and I soon developed disagreeable mannerisms which made me unpopular throughout my schooldays. I had the lonely child's habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons, and I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life. Nevertheless the volume of serious — i.e. seriously intended — writing which I produced all through my childhood and boyhood would not amount to half a dozen pages. I wrote my first poem at the age of four or five, my mother taking it down to dictation. I cannot remember anything about it except that it was about a tiger and the tiger had ‘chair-like teeth’ — a good enough phrase, but I fancy the poem was a plagiarism of Blake's ‘Tiger, Tiger’. At eleven, when the war or 1914-18 broke out, I wrote a patriotic poem which was printed in the local newspaper, as was another, two years later, on the death of Kitchener. From time to time, when I was a bit older, I wrote bad and usually unfinished ‘nature poems’ in the Georgian style. I also attempted a short story which was a ghastly failure. That was the total of the would-be serious work that I actually set down on paper during all those years.
However, throughout this time I did in a sense engage in literary activities. To begin with there was the made-to-order stuff which I produced quickly, easily and without much pleasure to myself. Apart from school work, I wrote vers d'occasion, semi-comic poems which I could turn out at what now seems to me astonishing speed — at fourteen I wrote a whole rhyming play, in imitation of Aristophanes, in about a week — and helped to edit a school magazines, both printed and in manuscript. These magazines were the most pitiful burlesque stuff that you could imagine, and I took far less trouble with them than I now would with the cheapest journalism. But side by side with all this, for fifteen years or more, I was carrying out a literary exercise of a quite different kind: this was the making up of a continuous ‘story’ about myself, a sort of diary existing only in the mind. I believe this is a common habit of children and adolescents. As a very small child I used to imagine that I was, say, Robin Hood, and picture myself as the hero of thrilling adventures, but quite soon my ‘story’ ceased to be narcissistic in a crude way and became more and more a mere description of what I was doing and the things I saw. For minutes at a time this kind of thing would be running through my head: ‘He pushed the door open and entered the room. A yellow beam of sunlight, filtering through the muslin curtains, slanted on to the table, where a match-box, half-open, lay beside the inkpot. With his right hand in his pocket he moved across to the window. Down in the street a tortoiseshell cat was chasing a dead leaf’, etc. etc. This habit continued until I was about twenty-five, right through my non-literary years. Although I had to search, and did search, for the right words, I seemed to be making this descriptive effort almost against my will, under a kind of compulsion from outside. The ‘story’ must, I suppose, have reflected the styles of the various writers I admired at different ages, but so far as I remember it always had the same meticulous descriptive quality.
When I was about sixteen I suddenly discovered the joy of mere words, i.e. the sounds and associations of words. The lines from Paradise Lost —
So hee with difficulty and labour hard
Moved on: with difficulty and labour hee.
which do not now seem to me so very wonderful, sent shivers down my backbone; and the spelling ‘hee’ for ‘he’ was an added pleasure. As for the need to describe things, I knew all about it already. So it is clear what kind of books I wanted to write, in so far as I could be said to want to write books at that time. I wanted to write enormous naturalistic novels with unhappy endings, full of detailed descriptions and arresting similes, and also full of purple passages in which words were used partly for the sake of their own sound. And in fact my first completed novel, Burmese Days, which I wrote when I was thirty but projected much earlier, is rather that kind of book.
I give all this background information because I do not think one can assess a writer's motives without knowing something of his early development. His subject matter will be determined by the age he lives in — at least this is true in tumultuous, revolutionary ages like our own — but before he ever begins to write he will have acquired an emotional attitude from which he will never completely escape. It is his job, no doubt, to discipline his temperament and avoid getting stuck at some immature stage, in some perverse mood; but if he escapes from his early influences altogether, he will have killed his impulse to write. Putting aside the need to earn a living, I think there are four great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the atmosphere in which he is living. They are:
(i) Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen — in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all — and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.
(ii) Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic considerations.
(iii) Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.
(iv) Political purpose. — Using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.
It can be seen how these various impulses must war against one another, and how they must fluctuate from person to person and from time to time. By nature — taking your ‘nature’ to be the state you have attained when you are first adult — I am a person in whom the first three motives would outweigh the fourth. In a peaceful age I might have written ornate or merely descriptive books, and might have remained almost unaware of my political loyalties. As it is I have been forced into becoming a sort of pamphleteer. First I spent five years in an unsuitable profession (the Indian Imperial Police, in Burma), and then I underwent poverty and the sense of failure. This increased my natural hatred of authority and made me for the first time fully aware of the existence of the working classes, and the job in Burma had given me some understanding of the nature of imperialism: but these experiences were not enough to give me an accurate political orientation. Then came Hitler, the Spanish Civil War, etc. By the end of 1935 I had still failed to reach a firm decision. I remember a little poem that I wrote at that date, expressing my dilemma:
A happy vicar I might have been
Two hundred years ago
To preach upon eternal doom
And watch my walnuts grow;
But born, alas, in an evil time,
I missed that pleasant haven,
For the hair has grown on my upper lip
And the clergy are all clean-shaven.
And later still the times were good,
We were so easy to please,
We rocked our troubled thoughts to sleep
On the bosoms of the trees.
All ignorant we dared to own
The joys we now dissemble;
The greenfinch on the apple bough
Could make my enemies tremble.
But girl's bellies and apricots,
Roach in a shaded stream,
Horses, ducks in flight at dawn,
All these are a dream.
It is forbidden to dream again;
We maim our joys or hide them:
Horses are made of chromium steel
And little fat men shall ride them.
I am the worm who never turned,
The eunuch without a harem;
Between the priest and the commissar
I walk like Eugene Aram;
And the commissar is telling my fortune
While the radio plays,
But the priest has promised an Austin Seven,
For Duggie always pays.
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And woke to find it true;
I wasn't born for an age like this;
Was Smith? Was Jones? Were you?
The Spanish war and other events in 1936-37 turned the scale and thereafter I knew where I stood. Every line of serious work that I have written since 1936 has been written, directly or indirectly, against totalitarianism and for democratic socialism, as I understand it. It seems to me nonsense, in a period like our own, to think that one can avoid writing of such subjects. Everyone writes of them in one guise or another. It is simply a question of which side one takes and what approach one follows. And the more one is conscious of one's political bias, the more chance one has of acting politically without sacrificing one's aesthetic and intellectual integrity.
What I have most wanted to do throughout the past ten years is to make political writing into an art. My starting point is always a feeling of partisanship, a sense of injustice. When I sit down to write a book, I do not say to myself, ‘I am going to produce a work of art’. I write it because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial concern is to get a hearing. But I could not do the work of writing a book, or even a long magazine article, if it were not also an aesthetic experience. Anyone who cares to examine my work will see that even when it is downright propaganda it contains much that a full-time politician would consider irrelevant. I am not able, and do not want, completely to abandon the world view that I acquired in childhood. So long as I remain alive and well I shall continue to feel strongly about prose style, to love the surface of the earth, and to take a pleasure in solid objects and scraps of useless information. It is no use trying to suppress that side of myself. The job is to reconcile my ingrained likes and dislikes with the essentially public, non-individual activities that this age forces on all of us.
It is not easy. It raises problems of construction and of language, and it raises in a new way the problem of truthfulness. Let me give just one example of the cruder kind of difficulty that arises. My book about the Spanish civil war, Homage to Catalonia, is of course a frankly political book, but in the main it is written with a certain detachment and regard for form. I did try very hard in it to tell the whole truth without violating my literary instincts. But among other things it contains a long chapter, full of newspaper quotations and the like, defending the Trotskyists who were accused of plotting with Franco. Clearly such a chapter, which after a year or two would lose its interest for any ordinary reader, must ruin the book. A critic whom I respect read me a lecture about it. ‘Why did you put in all that stuff?’ he said. ‘You've turned what might have been a good book into journalism.’ What he said was true, but I could not have done otherwise. I happened to know, what very few people in England had been allowed to know, that innocent men were being falsely accused. If I had not been angry about that I should never have written the book.
In one form or another this problem comes up again. The problem of language is subtler and would take too long to discuss. I will only say that of late years I have tried to write less picturesquely and more exactly. In any case I find that by the time you have perfected any style of writing, you have always outgrown it. Animal Farm was the first book in which I tried, with full consciousness of what I was doing, to fuse political purpose and artistic purpose into one whole. I have not written a novel for seven years, but I hope to write another fairly soon. It is bound to be a failure, every book is a failure, but I do know with some clarity what kind of book I want to write.
Looking back through the last page or two, I see that I have made it appear as though my motives in writing were wholly public-spirited. I don't want to leave that as the final impression. All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally."
1946
THE END
- Acies
"We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect." ~ Anaïs Nin