I suppose that's why the adjective is "tough." And a master of tough love--and, really, Christian loving in general--is indubitably my older brother.
Like any good brother who works at a gym, he pointed out to me that I am woefully out of shape. "I am not!" I protested. "I'm skinny! I...move around a lot!" But lifting household groceries does not really mean that I am in shape, and he pointed that out to me. "I don't intend to lift anything heavier," I said. That did not fly.
Having guilted me into realizing that I am a lazy, obese schlub on the inside, however model-esque my exterior may be, he moved to step 2 of tough love: addressing the problem. I now have a gym membership. I haven't used it yet; I only just got it. But come Monday, I expect I shall be melting into a little puddle of sweat and whine at his feet, while he bellows at me, in his finest imitation of a drill sergeant, "ON YOUR FEET AND LIFT THOSE WEIGHTS, YOU WHINGING* LITTLE BRAT!" *whinging: British: to complain fretfully, to whine. Courtesy of Merriam-Webster.com
Well, that's still to come. But he gave me a foretaste today, by telling me that most people cannot hold the "plank position", the "up" point of pushups, for two minutes. I gave it a shot. The first time, I lasted for about fifty-four seconds before plopping into a sore, sorry bundle. The second time, I managed to hold for an entire minute. After I had done that, he cheerfully informed me that I had better not do any more, because I'll be sore tomorrow!
What? Holding still for two minutes (less six seconds) and I'll be sore? What sort of fiendish trick is this?! Tough love, he tells me cheerfully. And then, to drive home how out of shape I am, he then proceeded to hold the plank position for three minutes and one second.
Well. The showoff. But I'll show him! Monday, I shall go to the gym and work out! Ha! That'll show him, all right!
...right up until I collapse whimpering.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
I'm going to tell you about a story, Void.
About the evolution of a story. It started when I was sixteen. I had been reading about the Roman emperors: Octavian, Caesar Augustus, and all the fellows who followed. And I came across an unusual name: Flavian. The Flavian emperors, who ruled Rome for a time. For a while, I stared unseeingly at my history book and revolved the name around in my head. Flavia...like the lady in The Prisoner of Zenda. It continued revolving, and then formed into Favian. Simple enough, just take out the el, not a bad name. But it was a little more than a name. It was a seed.
Over the next several days, I evolved more names and a story, which turned into the tale of Favian Windlow, a half-elf who learns he is the heir to a duchy in the Faery Realm.
It was dreadful. In a whole lot of ways.
I had two villains. One was a psychopathic megalomaniac and one was a shambling lout whose chief distinction was his deep and sadistic hatred of Favian, his cousin. I had a comic relief duo, I had stuffy older elves, I had a dashing captain of the guards. And, of course, I had a beautiful lady love, with whom both Favian and the shambling lout fell in love. I wrote a good sixty pages and went nowhere. And I plagiarized about half the names from Tolkien, with the innocent assumption that he wouldn't care, since he is dead.
Well. It petered out, as I said. And for a year, perhaps two, it sat there: a behemoth gathering figurative dust.
I think it was two years later when my late epic began nudging me in the back of my mind. Favian Windlow. Really not such a bad name. And the core idea: a half-breed faery struggling to fit into an upper-class society, woo a lady, battle his uncle? Not bad at all! I listened dutifully and decided to try to resuscitate the story.
I changed some stuff; Favian turned from a pitiful orphan being raised by his hateful uncle to a young man in the army. The plucky comic relief stayed, in a sort-of subdued way. (They were kind of necessary to the story.) The dashing captain stayed, and acquired a sidekick. The stuffy older elf became somewhat cooler. And the villains evolved into interesting people.
The psychopath, Favian's uncle, remained his uncle, but he turned into an elf with a genius for administration, who tries to take over the throne with the belief that he would be a better ruler than his brother--a coup more in the interests of the people than of the love of power. The hulking cousin quit being a cousin and became the uncle's loyal companion and the captain's nemesis. And then I hit a new problem. I fell in love with my villains.
So now my story of Favian Windlow has become the story of Valtimer, devoted servant and surrogate son to Felsar Windlow, the exiled duke. Maybe there's still hope for Favian's tale: the half-breed trying to fit into a strange society. But probably not as long as Valtimer is around.
And the dragon. Valtimer has a dragon.
Over the next several days, I evolved more names and a story, which turned into the tale of Favian Windlow, a half-elf who learns he is the heir to a duchy in the Faery Realm.
It was dreadful. In a whole lot of ways.
I had two villains. One was a psychopathic megalomaniac and one was a shambling lout whose chief distinction was his deep and sadistic hatred of Favian, his cousin. I had a comic relief duo, I had stuffy older elves, I had a dashing captain of the guards. And, of course, I had a beautiful lady love, with whom both Favian and the shambling lout fell in love. I wrote a good sixty pages and went nowhere. And I plagiarized about half the names from Tolkien, with the innocent assumption that he wouldn't care, since he is dead.
Well. It petered out, as I said. And for a year, perhaps two, it sat there: a behemoth gathering figurative dust.
I think it was two years later when my late epic began nudging me in the back of my mind. Favian Windlow. Really not such a bad name. And the core idea: a half-breed faery struggling to fit into an upper-class society, woo a lady, battle his uncle? Not bad at all! I listened dutifully and decided to try to resuscitate the story.
I changed some stuff; Favian turned from a pitiful orphan being raised by his hateful uncle to a young man in the army. The plucky comic relief stayed, in a sort-of subdued way. (They were kind of necessary to the story.) The dashing captain stayed, and acquired a sidekick. The stuffy older elf became somewhat cooler. And the villains evolved into interesting people.
The psychopath, Favian's uncle, remained his uncle, but he turned into an elf with a genius for administration, who tries to take over the throne with the belief that he would be a better ruler than his brother--a coup more in the interests of the people than of the love of power. The hulking cousin quit being a cousin and became the uncle's loyal companion and the captain's nemesis. And then I hit a new problem. I fell in love with my villains.
So now my story of Favian Windlow has become the story of Valtimer, devoted servant and surrogate son to Felsar Windlow, the exiled duke. Maybe there's still hope for Favian's tale: the half-breed trying to fit into a strange society. But probably not as long as Valtimer is around.
And the dragon. Valtimer has a dragon.
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