2012...as it relates to 2013

Here's what I did this year. I...

• returned to Korea
• grew a beard
• learned how to play pinochle
• started playing cards with the fellas on Thursday nights
• rode the mugunghwa (the Korean diesel train)
• successfully completed my first NaNoWriMo
• explored five new cities
• sent socks to the D.P.R.K. via weather balloon
• familiarized myself with the Seoul subway system
• ate Jordanian food
• smoked a real Cuban cigar
• got interviewed by Reuters
• took a night cruise on the Han River
• went to the Seoul Zoo
• survived a typhoon (or two)
• climbed a 2,426-foot mountain
• took an interest in jazz
• filled up my liquor cabinet
• spent three hours at the National Museum of Seoul (and that was just the first floor)
• went bike-riding in the snow
• (finally) located the best hamburger in Seoul

And here's what I'm hoping to accomplish next year:

• become proficient in Korean
• pay off my credit card debts
• get some fiction published, including that NaNoWriMo novel
• lose the gut; improve flexibility and core strength
• ride the saemaeul (the second-fastest class of train in K-Land)
• foment good daily habits, such as stretching, exercising, yoga, writing, reading, and intellectual improvement
• change my Facebook cover photo only once a month
• acquaint myself with basic physics
• read 30 books
• bathe in both the Yellow Sea and the Sea of Japan
• visit the Busan Aquarium
• go to a jimjilbang (a Korean bathhouse)
• ride every line on the Seoul Metro
• look into Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Earl Hines, King Oliver, Sidney Bechet, Fats Waller, Count Basie, Miles Davis, and Thelonius Monk, and thereby augment my jazz collection
• find the best taco in Seoul

There's an item on this list that I haven't mentioned, because it seems apropos to discuss it in greater detail.

I'm going to make this blog more professional.

In 2009, when my English friend (known only as "A") told me to start a blog and use it as a repository for my travel writing endeavors, I didn't quite take his advice to heart. He intended for me to create a sort of electronic portfolio, a reference guide for prospective employers. That was and still is a sound idea. For almost four years now I've been using this blog as a creative outlet, but not as a vehicle to further my writing career.

That changes in 2013. I'm going to specialize. Instead of splattering myself all over the place and writing about booze, flying, literature, writing, and travel, I'll just do travel instead. Maybe the occasional cocktail review, we'll see. I'm mulling over the idea of starting up a secondary and perhaps even a tertiary blog to cover my aviation and literary pursuits, but those are still in the planning stages. Henceforth, however, "the Sententious Vaunter" shall cover travel, and travel only. You may want to sign off now if you ain't interested.

Also, in lieu of the new year and the overhauls intended for this blog, I've set up a new profile picture, one that's actually of me and not my favorite fictional character. So here I am, in all my glory: my favorite lumpy hat, my new and extra-fluffy scarf, my old military-style winter coat, and in my favorite chair. Blog heaven.

A very Happy New Year to you. Stay safe, enjoy your favorite tipple, and ring in 2013 with class.

ain't no shame in YA

I used to have this thing about young adult literature, or YA for short. I thought it was...well, for kids. "Young adults" means kids, right?

As I outgrew book series like Goosebumps and Animorphs and moved on to the heavy hitters like Notes from Underground and Moby-Dick (getting tired of hearing about that one yet?), I instinctively sensed that I was "too old" to venture back down the trail and revisit old classics—or discover new ones.

One of the few exceptions to this rule was the Harry Potter series. I got in on the ground floor, as it were: Sorcerer's Stone came out in the U.S.A. in 1998. It took a year for word to spread to my family that this book was the living shizz. My mother originally picked up for my brother to read, but he wasn't interested. I happened to notice it on the coffee table one day in early 1999, when I was 12 years old, just a year older than Harry. I read it and was enthralled. For about three years afterward, Harry and I were practically the same age: Chamber of Secrets came out in June of 1999 (I was still twelve); Prisoner of Azkaban in September 1999, just before my 13th birthday; and Goblet of Fire appeared in July of 2000, two months before my 14th birthday. After that the age gap began to widen, but for a few short years Harry and I shared some kind of age-related bond. And it was magical, let me tell you. I was totally unashamed to be seen reading Deathly Hallows in 2007 at the age of 20.

But even if I had been, I would have soon been cured, for everywhere I looked I saw people twice my age reading it. The big wake-up call came during a visit to the doctor's office, where a large, curly-haired, middle-aged woman in a shapeless blue dress was sitting in the waiting room, riveted by the same orange volume I myself had just finished reading. Another telegram came in when my mother bought me Stephen King's book On Writing. In its pages I discovered that even my favorite contemporary horror writer loved reading the "Potter" series, and had included some shout-outs to it in his own works.

Despite this, somewhere between my twenty-first birthday and my twenty-sixth, I became leery of young adult literature again. Kid stuff, I couldn't help thinking. Yeah, I'm sure it's got literary merit. I'll bet the plot and pacing are second to none. The writing likely kicks ass.

But something always held me back. I'd see the "YA" label on a book on Amazon or in Barnes & Noble, and I'd click away or put it back on the shelf. This prejudice even extended to fellow human beings: I'd be reading someone's blog and liking it, but then I'd check their biography and see that they were a writer of YA. I'd promptly get turned off and leave. Cripes, you'd think I was insecure about my manhood or something.

Well, I'm here to tell you today about two books that changed my outlook: Mortal Engines by Philip Reeve and Airborn by Kenneth Oppel.

You might remember 'em from my last book-related post. Mortal Engines is the first book of the Predator Cities series (known inexplicably as the Hungry City Chronicles in America). Basically, the world's become a wasteland following some kind of nuclear holocaust, and in the wake of this disaster some enterprising fellow put the city of London on gigantic tank treads and gave it humongous steel jaws and decreed that cities should roam all over the planet's surface eating and assimilating each other for spare parts and fuel. Thus the system of Municipal Darwinism was born. Every city and town and village became a mobile eating-machine and started chasing each other around like Pac-Man.

Tom Natsworthy, a 15-year-old apprentice historian and Londoner, is on punishment duty in the Gut—London's hellish underbelly where her prizes are pulled apart and fed to the boilers. Unexpectedly, though, Tom has gotten to meet his hero, Thaddeus Valentine, a renowned master historian. As the scruffy survivors of London's latest catch are processed, one of them draws a knife and makes an attempt on Valentine's life. Tom prevents the ragged captive from stabbing his hero, and in the ensuing struggle both he and the would-be assassin fall out of London's bowels and into the Out-Country, the ravaged remains of Earth's surface. Tom learns that Valentine's attacker is Hester Shaw, a teenage girl with a horribly scarred face, who blames Valentine for her disfigurement and for murdering her mother. During their ensuing adventures, Tom must adjust to a great many things: the savage lifestyle of the Out-Country, Hester's brutal and standoffish nature, the Anti-Traction League (a terrorist organization dedicated to the destruction of London and every moving city like it), and the unsettling evidence that Thaddeus Valentine may not be such a hero after all.  

Awesome, right?

Airborn follows Matt Cruse, also fifteen and a cabin boy on the grand passenger airship Aurora. During the course of the novel, the Aurora is caught in a storm, boarded by pirates, stranded on an uncharted island, and very nearly destroyed. All this is rather traumatic for poor Matt, who loves the airship more than anything in the world, for his father served (and died) aboard her. Complicating Matt's comfy existence aboard his floating home is Kate de Vries, a wealthy heiress and amateur zoologist who is out to prove that her balloonist grandfather was not crazy when he claimed to have discovered an unknown species of flying creature on his final voyage. She and a reluctant Matt have a series of whirlwind adventures on land and in the air, surviving storms, ducking pirates and meeting the ferocious cloud cats—the "beautiful creatures" that Kate's grandfather spoke of with his dying breath.

Even more awesome, right? 

I don't even care that these are both technically YA works. The writing's good. The characters are vivid. And the imaginations of these two authors are off the flippin' chain. (Reeve, in particular, makes a bunch of obscure pop culture and literary references, most of which I get. It's like I'm receiving a direct geek-to-geek call!) Labels like "young adult" don't matter to me, not now. These are the first works I've really gotten lost in since Harry Potter. It's nice to have rediscovered that feeling. Getting lost in a book is the best thing in the world. You feel like you've taken a running leap off a diving board and submerged yourself wholeheartedly into a vast unexplored ocean, a galaxy of new worlds and new horizons.

The next book in the Mortal Engines quartet is Predator's Gold.

Next up in the Airborn series is Skybreaker.

Gad, don't those titles give you the chills?

Excuse me, I have some new worlds to explore. Turn off the lights when you leave.

writing updates, 12/18/2012

Boy, have I got news for you! I finally submitted another story somewhere!
On December 11, after a long dry spell, I sent a short piece to Daily Science Fiction. They customarily take stories under 1,000 words in length. I figured there was no future for me as a writer if I couldn't write something that brief. So, in the space of roughly 30 minutes, I thought of an idea, slapped it down on paper, edited it, and submitted it.

And then, of course, I realized that I'd made a mistake. Like I always do. I hadn't properly understood DSF's submission guidelines. When they say "plain text only" they're not just talking about omitting all the fancy symbols and stuff. They mean sticking your Word document onto Notepad and thereby converting it to ASCII format. Before you submit it.

Great. Nice going, Postie. Way to break into the world of science fiction, fudging the submission guidelines and all. 

I don't know what to expect. I submitted the story (entitled "The Maze") a week ago. DSF's guidelines said to allow three weeks for a response. I'm not sure whether they'll politely ask me to redo my formatting and resubmit, or tell me to hit the bricks. Either way my heart's in my mouth until I find out. I'm filling the time by kicking myself vigorously.

The second big chunk of news is that my brother (who is a stage actor in Los Angeles) e-mailed me out of the blue to ask me to help him with something. Apparently he's writing a novel, too. I'd hardly spoken to him in two years, so I didn't know what he was up to. But yeah: he's writing. And like me, he's encountering some degree of frustration. He asked me for help in honing his work-in-progress and revising it, which I was glad to do. I was quite flattered, in fact. In return, he's taking a look at some of my stuff! He's already give me loads of assistance with several of my short stories (more about that later). He may even aid me in my larger endeavors, like my NaNoWriMo project and my magnum opus.

This is extremely encouraging, to say the least. I had not been able to find a beta reader who was suitably well versed in literature and dramatic devices to be able to critique my work properly. Most people I gave my stuff to just corrected my grammar, or line-edited, or made a few vague comments about characterization. Not my brother. He's picking me to pieces, but doing so in an encouraging, engaging and lively fashion. This is precisely what I've been needing all this time. We've only been at it a week and I feel like we've accomplished a lifetime's work. It's the best feeling in the world. Thanks, bro. I only hope I've been as much help to you.

So, while I'm excitedly waiting to see what our family think tank churns out, I haven't been idle. I've resolved to get back on track with my writing and actually publish some stuff. I'm going to start writing like I actually mean to be a writer someday, in other words.

Discipline is key. Up to now I've been juggling too much. It's been difficult to strike a balance between work, physical activity, leisure and writing. Focusing too much one one threw the others out of balance. But now I'm going to take aim at one and let the others fall into place. I'll try to submit a short story (no matter how short) at least once every two weeks. I'm going to move forward with revisions on both my NaNoWriMo project and my science fiction novel. (I should really think of codenames for both of these works so I can stop referring to them as "my science fiction novel" and "my NaNoWriMo project.")

Progress will be made. Poor writing shall be made rich. Mistakes, shortcomings and inequities shall be rectified. Flaccid prose shall be made taut and strong and hearty. And in the end...sweet victory. I'll be on my way to fortune and glory (and $32,000 bottles of Scotch) in no time.

Wish me luck...

I finished my first NaNo!

...'nuff said.

But that's not the end of the story (so to speak). My project came out of the oven looking so good that I think I'll try to get 'er published. I'm 20 pages into the first revision, and the prospects are getting rosier all the time.

I'm doing two things with this first rewrite. Well, three. First, I'm converting all of the romanized Korean words to the outdated McCune-Reischauer system. If that sentence made no sense to you, hear me out. At first I was just winging it. The M-R system didn't exist back in the 1860s, and I figured my narrator and protagonist would just make up whatever transliteration looked good. But then I thought I'd better standardize. I don't want to cause my readers undue confusion, or give the critics another reason to howl and dribble. Using this obsolete system does two things. Due to the accent marks and apostrophes and umlauts and stuff, the words look antiquated and alien, which is a rather nice effect for a book about one of the first Western expeditions to the interior of the Korean peninsula. Really heightens the mood, y'know? Moreover, the McCune-Reischauer system was originally created to help foreigners pronounce Korean words. If the book's going to have mass appeal, I can't have my readers chucking it across the room because they can't sound out all the Hangul.

Second, I'm trying to homogenize the tone of the novel. It was written in first-person perspective—the perspective of a 30-year-old Protestant missionary from the Dakota Territory. I'm trying to make sure this book sounds like it was written by a well-educated American man in the 1860s. I've always admired the erudite diction and complex sentence structure I observed in Jules Verne's stories, and I'm trying to emulate it. But I'm not accustomed to it, and regulating it is a constant battle.

Third (and this one's the kicker): I'm revising it for historical accuracy.

Since Miss H was home for two weeks back there in mid-November, she graciously agreed to pick up a book for me. It's called Intrepid Americans, Bold Koreans: Early Korean Trade, Concessions, and Entrepreneurship by Donald Southerton. This slim volume contains a detailed account of the 1866 General Sherman incident (detailed in my previous NaNoWriMo posts), upon which this novel was based. My work is historical fiction, of course, but I'd like for my account to be as realistic as possible, particularly since this is my first stab at mainstream commercial fiction. A fine kettle of fish it'd be if my debut novel got skewered for glaring historical inaccuracies. Even though this is supposedly the crappy novel I promised I'd write, it came out far better than I expected, and have high hopes for it.

Anyway, I've only just begun Chapter 3 of Intrepid Americans, Bold Koreans—the one detailing the General Sherman incident—and already I've made several important corrections to my manuscript as a result. There's been numerous small things, like romanization errors or geographical tweaks. But it looks like there are some big revelations in store, which may lead me to make some major insertions (no dirty jokes, please).

Props to Miss H for picking this up for me. Quite empowering, that woman is. I should tell her that more often.

Anyway, wish me luck in my revision. I aim to get this thing on the fast track to publication the moment I'm satisfied that it's as historically accurate. And once the tone's as homogeneous as it's going to get. When those two conditions are met, it's on its way to the publishers. That's a promise.

Stay tuned...

Yeouido Island in winter

I went for a walk today. Not my usual stroll around Jungang Park, oh no. This time I felt so swept up in the winter chill and the muted sunshine and the wiles of my current conquest (the first book of the Airborn series by Kenneth Oppel) that I just had to go all-out. I rode three subway trains and seventeen stops to Yeouido Island and the Han River Park.

This was swiped from The Trail of the Lion King, another Korean blog. I hope they don't mind.

Beautiful, ain't it? It's spectacular in summer, with its gurgling watercourses, green grass, and hordes of colorfully dressed and attractive citizens strolling up and down the sinuous paths.

But somehow it's most beautiful in winter. The grass is brown and the trees are leafless, but the Han River is its same trusty shade of blue-green, the orange sun hangs low in the southern sky, and the icy pink haze in the air makes everything look softer and more mellow.

It couldn't have been a nicer evening. The sun took ages to set. I sat on a bench, the bitter wind penetrating my hood, collar and scarf. I read until it was too cold to sit still, and then I got up and headed west down the southern bank. Even despite the weather, a plethora of people were still out and about. Tiny children swathed in puffy parkas, shepherded by indulgent mothers; teenage girls and their younger siblings on tandem bicycles; grinning, laughing young men on mountain bikes; and scores of young couples walking arm-in-arm. The watercourses were cold and dry in deference to the weather, but the coffeehouses were in full operation. Dozens of young Koreans sipped mochas and cappuccinos and watched the world go by outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Most astounding, however, were the kites. As I passed under the Mapo Bridge and emerged into the fading sunshine on the other side, I spotted several kites in the distance, on a flat grassy area about the size of a junior-league soccer pitch. There were four kites, each of them sickle-shaped like a B-2 Spirit. They moved with such precise coordination that at first I thought they must all be connected by a running line, and controlled by a single person. I was quite wrong. As I approached nearer, the formation of kites abruptly broke up. They wheeled and dove and mingled and looped like courting birds of prey. I was utterly mesmerized. I could not tear my eyes away from the spectacle, which was as riveting as the most thrilling airshow. I stumbled over uneven paving-stones, unmindful of where I placed my feet. As I finally drew within visual range, I discerned four middle-aged Korean men standing on the grassy sward, each of them with a sophisticated set of rings and control lines in their hands. These they were twisting and hurling about as though they were playing a game of Wii tennis. I wondered how many hours of practice it had taken this four-man team to achieve such a degree of surgical preciseness in their maneuvers. They were so skillful that they could manipulate their foils into perfect nose-up landings.

For some minutes I remained rooted to the spot, watching the aerial display. This area, between the Mapo and Seogang Bridges, must have been popular with kite-flyers, for the turf was cheekily populated with bona fide airport signage, delineating runways and taxiways and turn-outs. Grinning within and without, and thinking that the Owl City tunes playing on my iPod were a perfect complement to this idyllic scene, I strode back to Mapo Bridge and walked out upon it. My purpose in visiting Yeouido Island was twofold. I intended to read a book on a bench overlooking the river, and to locate Bamseom Island. This island, or rather the pair of them, were uninhabited piles of tree-lined sand in the middle of the Han River between Mapo and Yeouido. They played an integral part in my NaNoWriMo project. They were plainly visible from shore, but I got a much better view from the top of the bridge. Not only that, but there was quite clearly a sizable sandbar in the lee of the easternmost island: the very spot where, in my book, the steamship strands herself during the climax of the action. I rejoiced at the natural counterpart to my literary imagining. Grinning like a maniac, making the young Korean couples give me a second nervous glance, I strode back across the bridge and back down to the waiting subway, having accomplished both my objectives.

But there was more. Inadvertently I had accomplished a third objective. Lately I've been feeling dissatisfied with my lot. Even though I'm living in a foreign country, I've been feeling bored and left behind. It seems my friends are all off gallivanting around the world or completing their secondary education and acquiring titles and careers. As usual, I can't help comparing myself to my peers, and inevitably viewing myself in a negative light. This little trip to Han River Park changed all that. As I stood at the rail, hearing the water slop over the jagged rocks below, watching the buses chug back and forth across Mapo Bridge and feeling the icy wind brush my unprotected ears, I realized that I have a lot to be grateful for. I have a good apartment, a steady girl, a couple of completed manuscripts on my hard drive, a stable career, a decent paycheck, a half-full bottle of Cutty Sark...and most importantly, an endlessly intriguing and entertaining bailiwick. I found myself giving thanks that I was an expatriate, and that my country of residence was South Korea. However much I badmouth this place in public and private, I am truly glad to be here in East Asia, and especially the Korean peninsula. The food's great, the people are curious and open, and the scenery might seem bland but hides a million surprises.

Thanksgiving may be over, but hey...it's never too late to be grateful.

'Cause what I've got is just enough.

                                                                                                        courtesy of Wikipedia Commons