Monday, December 2, 2013

Digging A Hole

And I'm back from the Upper Peninsula. Banged out the story yesterday in between various preparations for this week's festivities. Assuming you could call having a couple of wisdom teeth out a festivity, unless you take a strict Viking interpretation of the affair. Blood? Check. Altered states? Check. Screaming? Hope not. It's a party!

Half my head should recover quickly, the other half, where my tooth has burrowed so far into my skull and sinus cavity it will most likely require a team of cartographers, spelunkers and symplectic geometrists to figure out how to get it out...probably not so much. The good doctor has explained his angle of attack. I have problems visualizing his solution due to my mortal limitations and stubborn insistence on adhering to the boring and usual three dimensions.

The story? Right, the story.

This was another random story seed, this time from this site. I selected the full five challenge objectives, since that's the sort of adrenaline-crazed daredevil that I am.

"A character will prepare for a birthday. During the story, a character drinks something that disagrees with them. The story must have a miner in it. The story must involve some horseshoes at the end. The story takes place a century into the future."

It was one of those situations where it gave you a lot and too little to work with. I wound up picking the "miner" aspect and running with it. Since it took place a century in the future, I decided to lampshade technology.

I've always been a little intrigued about situations where advancing technology allows constant connection, but not necessarily in a helpful way.

The default assumption of advancing technology, I think, at least by designers and power users, is that connection is going to be ubiquitous. The logical extension is that you're going to be online all the time, even during the most private and incongruous moments.

In a world where you're constantly participating in networks and conversations, it must be odd to find yourself in a position like the two main characters where you are always in shouting distance of help, but not necessarily in a position to be helped. Not sure I conveyed this quite enough in the rough draft, but it's there in the story. I decided to play it up a bit for the inherent gallows humor.

And I'm out until Thursday. I'll probably be capable of coherent posting by then, but if it's anything like the last dental procedure I had of this sort, the pounding headache will most likely make the post and--by extension--this week's story, rather cranky and disjointed. Which is to say, like most of the rest of my output.

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