Revision

It seems as though whenever I go back and look at something I've written I can find at least a little something to change. Our moods shift day to day, or maybe even hour to hour, and we will have a different view of our work based on these moods. It's always helpful when writing to go out and do something and then come back and take a look at what you've written. You may feel that something doesn't sound right or maybe you'll even have a good idea of something to ad. Your audience's perception on your work will not be consistent so it is helpful to revise with a different mindset, to see it on a new angle. I will leave you with some quotes from writers on revising.

Blogging on the Bloggy Blog Blog

I enjoyed doing this. I have never blogged before, but I will from now on. It is a good place to post your work for others to read. You have the freedom to write whatever you like, and it was a good chance to learn a different style of writing. It is god practice to write something small in a way that captures the idea of what you want to say. I didn't know that a small blog post is better than a long one because people tend to not read long things online. I'm going to definitely blog more in the future, and use this to find other blogs I like.

POV

There is an awesome book by Kurt Vonnegut called Slaughterhouse-Five. I know I have mentioned this book before, but I mention it again not just because it's one of the best books ever written, but also because I recently read it. The First chapter is a bit about the author's life and how he came to write the book. However, it is most certainly not the introduction. He purposely put it as the first chapter because it is part of the book. And then throughout the novel he places himself in it as a character. He references chapter one often while he himself is interacting with the main character. It is a pretty sweet to do this. It's a story about Vonnegut writing a story about a character he created who he talks to. It's a pretty funky point of view. This belongs in the "other" category. Apparently this is "post-modernism" which is a hard thing to define. So anyway, READ IT!!!!!

The Pink Institution

The           Pink           Institution           by           Selah           Saterstrom          is           a           strange

book                      it                      combines                             poetry                                            and    

regular                    fiction                                   a                                     weird                             way    
to                                                                         do                                                                    things.

fyi: before this posted it looked a lot more like the structure does in the book. It would have made me look a lot more clever had it worked the way I wanted.



     I honestly didn't like those parts of the "novel", but then again, I might not have gotten it. So, I found a brief review/analysis that helped me out a bit. But, I won't even get into that. I will, however, speak about what I liked about the book.
     I am a huge fan of messed-up, disturbing things and weird sexual things as well. This book is jam-packed full of this. It's a ghost story/southern tale mixed with child molestation and drunkards. I will cite one of my favorite passages from the book which is from "Childhood Objects" which also happens to be my favorite section of the book:

Children's Room

Willie lay in bed. Through darkness he made out a figure
standing in the doorway. Willie realized it was Death.
Death entered the room in long, swooping strides. He
walked past Willie's bed and entered the adjoining
children's room. Willie followed. Death picked up a child
at which point Willie began to assault Death. The two
entered a wrestling match. Willie won with child in arms
and Death defeated, got up to leave, but he brought his
mouth close and said, "You'll see me again." Death looked
like the popular renderings.

The last line is what does it for me: Death looked like the popular renderings. lol.

5 Authors that you NEED to read ASAP!!!!!

So I figured I would just give a short list of 5 of my favorite writers in no particular order, a brief description and suggested readings. READ THEM ASAP!!!!!

Neil Gaiman - Not only did this British bloke write Sandman, one of the few graphic novels to make The New York Times Best Seller List, but he also released an excellent collection of short stories titled: Smoke and Mirrors. He is, at times, listed under the label: Sci-Fi/Fantasy, but don't let this deter you. Labels sometimes place an unfair...well, label on things.

Chuck Palahniuk (Paula-nick) - This dude was in another blog of mine, and yes he is the author of Fight Club, but, in my opinion, this is not his best. He has gotten some criticism over his first few books, due to the fact that the narrators are simular, cynical anti-hero types, but they're all good so it doesn't bother me. Some of his later books are great, like Rant (one of the greatest novels of all time) and Pygmy are pretty sweet. He has a kind of sick sense of humor, and a whole variety of strange characters, and they all culminate into amazingness.

Hubert Selby Jr. - Another dude in my blog who was the guy behind the book behind the movie, Requiem for a Dream, which stays pretty faithful. But the real whopper of a novel is Last Exit to Brooklyn. Hardcore crazy!!!!

Kurt Vonnegut - This man should need no introduction. Slaughterhouse Five and Breakfast of Champions. Some pretty sweet postmodernism going on here, crazy, outside of the box stuff.

Hermann Hesse - Some pretty good, philosophical stuff going on here. We got the mind-blower Demian, and the story of a real jerk called: Narcissus and Goldmund. Great stuff, you possibly read in high school.

Literary Website

     So, I have been searching the Internet for hours trying to find the perfect literary blog/website to write about and came across a vast ocean of results. A few of the ones I found were pay sites. They seemed to look the most "official" and boasted about the number of writers published in The New Yorker, or famous writers, editors and agents featured on their site, but I don't think that many of us want to (or can) pay the $40+ to subscribe. So then, I decided to find the next best thing, and in my searching I found that many of these blogs/sites were centered around women writers. Of course there's nothing wrong with this, it's just that I am not a woman and therefore wanted to find a site that was centered around someone who's not a woman either.
     Alright, so now I was looking for something simpler, something that could just help out new writers with some basic tips. I was sure to find a good man site somewhere, right? But alas, I was forced to resign my quest for a masculine, testosterone driven blog when I found the estrogen fueled Grammar Girl. Grammar Girl is featured on quickanddirtytips.com, which, as the title suggests, has brief and uncleanly tips for not only writing, but many other topics. However, for our purposes, we will only focus on the writing aspects and this girl of grammar.
     There are a bunch of cool things here on this site. I found a link to The World's Best Grammar Checker where you can copy and paste something you've written to find any errors, along with articles on common mistakes such as: who versus whom and I.e. versus E.g.. There are also plenty of articles to help you with word choices and spellings, such as Preventive versus Preventative.
      Quick and Dirty also offers writing tips, such as How to Beat Writer's Block and Other Creative Hurdles and Should You Use Words or Numbers for Dates? I also found an interesting article titled: How Literature Changes Your Brain for the Better. So yes, I would say that this is a pretty good website and would be a nice way to dip your feet in the pool before jumping right in. Alright, until the next Bloggy Blog, PEACE!

Susan Minot's Lust

I just finished reading Susan Minot's Lust. It's a beautiful story. It captures the feelings of a fragile young girl through her sexual explorations. It strikes me as a type of confession. Not a confession of a sin, but a confession of a secret, the type of confession you would find in a teenage girl's diary. On another level it's a list of boys, and these boys are defined by the sexual encounters she shares with them. I really love this character. I love her innocence, fragility and sadness. Though her confessions are those of a deviant, her intentions are not. She is merely looking for love and meaning, but just happens to be looking in the wrong spots. She is an excellent character and it is so easy for the reader to understand her pain and empathize with her. We feel sorry for her and hope she finds happiness. We know who she is by her thoughts and actions, yet the story doesn't need to spell it out for us. We can clearly see her young mind struggling with the complex relationships adults face. Susan Minot definitely created a strong character.

Chuck Palahniuk writing tips

One of my favorite authors is Chuck Palahniuk. He is the freakin man and I'm sure you have heard of Fight Club, his most famous novel. Although I love all his work, the one that I recommend is Rant. Anyway, he used to post a lot of advice and work-shopping ideas on his website. I believe they have been moved to LitReactor, but I was able to find one by searching google. He has posted 13 writing tips that seem to be very insightful. After reading this, I can see that even a published author, even one of my favorite ones, can have a hard time writing. This is a very encouraging concept because we tend to think of our idols as more than human and somehow untouchable. After reading this I was like, "Oh yeah that sounds like a good idea!" and "Wait just a minute! You're telling me that Chuck Palahniuk had a hard time ending Fight Club???" I always like reading stuff like this from my favorite authors, because it seems to give me more drive to write which can sometimes be very tough.
Sometimes I find myself not wanting to include something in my stories or poems that might give something away about myself that I am not comfortable with anyone knowing. Conversely, I am sometimes afraid of writing something that is truly fiction but might raise people's eyebrows or cause them to believe that there is something wrong with me. Maybe they might think that if I write something too taboo, or too disturbing that it is a reflection of myself and there must be something wrong with me. In either case, whether it be true or fiction I find that if I want to put it down on paper, then it should be put down on paper. You have to be honest in your writing because otherwise it shines through and the reader can smell your B.S., it's the same way in life. You have to put yourself on the line. In Invisible Monsters there is an appropriate quote: "The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open."

Story Beginnings

     I just finished reading A Temporary Matter and though I am not a huge fan of the story a can appreciate the irony of the title and the opening paragraph. My interpretation of the title does not only apply to that the "temporary matter" of the electricity being out for an hour each day, but to the confessions they share during this time, the happiness of Shoba's pregnancy, their happiness as a couple and their marriage as a whole. I thought that the ending was a bit ambiguous as it is not entirely clear what the implications of their crying at the table means. Perhaps now they will try to rebuild their relationship based on the knowledge they now know? If so I suppose that would indicate yet another "temporary matter". Anyway, with this being said, let's talk about story beginnings.
     After Googling "different types of story beginnings" the first result that comes up is The 7 Types of Short Story Opening, and How to Decide Which is Right for Your Story. This seems to come from a Sci-Fi website, but I think it can be applicable to any type of fiction writing (plus the pictures of old Sci-Fi magazines are awesome). Going by the different types on this page I would say that I like using "The Quotation" a lot, and you will see that in my first story. I am a fan of opening the story in the middle of something, throwing the reader right into the action. However, writing this way can be difficult because you have to make sure that you can keep it interesting until you can illustrate exactly what is going on. I am not one to start out with a setting. That is not to say that I think that it is the wrong way to start a story, just that it can get boring and lose the reader's attention and I haven't found the right way to pull it off yet.
     Coincidentally, in my Sci-Fi and Fantasy Literature class, we are reading a book that has a really great opening. Old Man's War by John Scalzi opens like this,
"I did two things on my seventy-fifth birthday. I visited my wife's grave. Then I joined the army."
As a class we all agreed that this was a pretty sweet opening. It's a real "What the *@$#!" moment where you want to know what the hell is going on, and what the book is about. Anyhoo, I think that's all I have to say for story beginnings.

The Black Box

I have copied and pasted a short story that I wrote a couple years ago and recently revised. It's not too long and feel free to critique.

James Garlock

The Box

Every August, from age five to fifteen, I went to the carnival in the next town over. My parents had taken me there as a child until I was thirteen years old, at which point I entered Junior High, and there was no way in hell that I would be seen with my parents there. Before that age, the carnival meant something different. It was bright, and colorful with delicious food. I always came home with an inflatable Spiderman on a stick or a plastic sword with a neon colored handle and sheath, wrapped around a belt loop. During that time, the summers were longer. The carnival acted as a marker. The last night spent at the carnival was the summer’s peak. It brought out a bittersweet emotion in me. It was sad that the summer was now coming to an end, but the new school year brought a sense of excitement, and a new start.

            By the time I was fifteen it had become something different. It still held the wonder it had before, but it was more of nostalgia. That’s not to say it was lost, it just had a new look. Now, it meant something a little darker, and a little sleeker. I went there with my friends now, not my parents, and there were girls there, hot girls, everywhere. Now, there was exciting, rebellious stuff to do. Stuff your parents told you not to do. I was in a different place, and fun had a whole new meaning.

            I came with my friend Vitaliy. He was named after his grandfather, and the name either still is or was at one point common in Russia. He was the kind of kid that could do things your average kid couldn’t. Things seemed to come easy to him. He never studied for anything, yet he got good grades. He mastered anything he picked up be it baseball or guitar. Everyone loved him, especially the girls. All the parents loved him. He was really an all around great guy. I, on the other hand, was awkward and lacked confidence. I had a difficult time talking to girls, and I seemed to fail at a great many things. But, be that as it may, I don’t think my teenage years would have been quite as fun as they were without Vitaliy.

            We didn’t have our licenses yet, so we still rode our bikes. That was our transportation to the carnival that year, two slender wheels between geometrically twisted metal. The sound of pinwheels and wind hitting your ears. Vitaliy did not want to pay the $8 dollars to get in. He wanted to ride behind it into the woods, park the bikes, and sneak in through a trail in the back that the employees used. I didn’t share his sense of adventure, and I didn’t mind paying the money to get in. I also wasn’t too thrilled with leaving my bike alone like that, but there was no point arguing with the kid. He always won somehow or another. So, that’s what we did, and found that we needed to climb a six foot, rusting, chain link fence to get in. Vitaliy, of course scaled it and jumped over as smooth as a cat. Then it was my turn. I busted my ass on the dirt, compromising the stealth we wished to achieve. But in the end no one caught us.

            The time we spent was great. Vitaliy had brought a flask filled with the most disgusting cheap vodka I have ever tasted. It was delicious at the time, but nowadays the smell of such a cheap excuse for liquor turns my stomach. I have no idea where he got it and when I asked him he just said, “Don’t worry about it.” That was him in a nutshell, no worries. We played the game where you have to throw the rings around bottle necks, and the one where you have to spray water through a clown’s mouth to pop a balloon, both times winning nothing. Vitaliy played the game of chance, which consisted of putting quarters down on a table which had boxes with a number inside each one. The guy behind the table, who resembled a gypsy, would spin a huge wheel, and if the spinner landed on the number you got a quarter on, you would win a prize. He won a huge stuffed elephant, and of course, gave it to a blonde before getting her number.

            He wanted to go on some ride called the Paratrooper, I remember the name because of the horrible experience I had with it. It was a huge metal circle that tilted diagonally, laughing in the face of my sense of gravity. The person riding would sit in a seat attached to a wire and the wheel would spin you on a slant, high above the ground. Now, I have always been reluctant to go on rides such as these. The only one I have managed to muster the guts to go on is the Gravitron. The Gravitron is the one that looks like a spaceship. You sit inside and lean up against a side without a strap and it spins around so fast that gravity is the only thing that holds you in place. I could handle that because when you were inside it did not appear as though you were spinning because it moved so quickly.

            He was able to convince me to go on, and with a stomach full of two pretzels, a corndog, cotton candy, two funnel cakes, Pepsi, and that cheap vodka I was fastened on the Paratrooper. Suffice to say, it was awful. I got off the ride and found my way behind some stand where no one could see me, and heaved up all the once delicious treats I had previously devoured while Vitaliy stood behind me laughing. It was then that I decided I could never be an astronaut or join the Air Force. He, on the other hand, was perfectly fine, and I had to decline to go on anymore rides with him, even the Gravitron. He went on a few more rides himself while I sat down on the nearest bench, unable to watch him or anything else for that matter. Even the inside of my eyelids were hard to look at. Each time he would tell me what an awesome time he had, and that I should go on the next one, and each time I told him to go fuck himself. Eventually, I felt better and we decided that it was time to go. Vitaliy suggested that we meet up with some friends of his, and I agreed, as my stomach was back to its normal self. We went out the normal exit and circled around to find our bikes.

           

Through the trees a distance back, we could see a campfire blazing. The air smelled of fire and something else which I could not quite identify. Vitality wanted to go investigate and I agreed. I suppose the vodka had drowned a lot of my nerves and I somehow thought that it was a great idea. We walked through the woods until we eventually found a path. Then, we followed the path until we found the campfire, which had a circle of brown skinned, gypsy looking, people around it. I realized that they were the people running the rides, and the games. Upon further surveillance I saw that there were tents, trailers, and pick-up trucks situated around the area. I looked back at the people and no one seemed to be paying any mind to us. Some of them were smoking cigarettes and potent smelling weed, others were talking in a language I could not understand, and some were just staring into the hypnotic blaze of the fire.

            Vitaliy nudged me and pointed to the few men who were passing around a joint. I looked over at him and nodded my head. I had already noticed. “How much money you got on you?” he asked me. I took out my aging, peeling black leather wallet and found that I had seven dollars crinkled up inside. I told him and he said that he had eleven. “Excuse me, boss.” He said to the man who was closest to us. The man was wearing brown mud covered boots, ripped blue jeans, and a black T-shirt with a graphic that was concealed by white paint drops and bleach stains. The brown skin on his face resembled the branch of a tree, and he had long black hair with grey streaks in it that went down past his shoulder. All of a sudden the atmosphere changed. There was a warmth now that was not from the fire. There was a presence among us that was not quite eerie but not entirely calming either. The entire campfire scene visually embodied this feeling too; nothing remained constant in the shadows left by the fire. Everything seemed to shift around. I couldn’t get a good look at any of the people there. My nervousness returned to me then, and the hairs on my body prickled up. The man did not answer Vitaliy, and the only sounds heard were the crackling of the fire, and the crickets chirping.

            “We’ve got about twenty dollars here.” Vitaliy said to the man breaking the silence, “Do you think we could get some of the stuff your buddies are smoking over there?” The man still said nothing and seemed to not hear us, and neither did any of the other people there. We stared at him and I could tell that Vitaliy seemed to be nervous too now, and that was not comforting. After a moment Vitaliy finally said, “Okay, I guess we’ll get going then.” But then the man looked up first at him and then at me. I don’t know how it was for Vitaliy, but the look the man gave me seemed to last an eternity. I couldn’t face whatever it was I saw in his eyes it for very long and turned my gaze to the ground. The man got up and went over to a tent.

“What do you think?” I said to Vitaliy.

“I have no clue.” He replied.

“You think we should get going? Do you think he even heard us?”

“I think he heard us.”

            He was right, the man returned with a black box about the size of a shoebox that appeared to be made of wood. He came up very close to us and then held out the box motioning for us to take a look. We both slowly leaned in and took a look inside.  

            The box appeared to be empty, and then all of a sudden I could not see the bottom. The next thing I knew, I was falling, falling deep inside the blackness of the box. It was a frightening sensation, much worse than that stupid Paratrooper. I had no idea of what to make of anything, or whether I was upside down, or sideways, or what. Then images appeared before me, and I could not just see them, I could feel them. They touched my soul, an unexplainable sensation that I have never felt before or after. What I saw were dark terrible things. Nothing that I saw was concrete enough to be remembered, though. Everything made sense at the time, but like a dream, when it was over I could only catch a glimpse or an idea of what I saw. I saw death, suffering, fear, hate, and pain. I saw all of my own fears, insecurities and sins right in front of me pulling at my heart. I felt as though I was about to lose my mind, that I would never be able to come back from this. I think I can safely say that I know what a disturbed schizophrenic feels like. Then, just as I was about to fall off the deep end of sanity into some great abyss, the scenery changed. I stopped falling, and began to float in place. I was filled with love, the love of everyone, everywhere. The love of past, present and future. I saw all that is good and all that is of worth- real worth not material worth. I saw the meaning of life. I watched my life pass from start to finish, birth to death and knew what my purpose on this earth was. I saw bright beautiful colors, colors that can not normally be seen by the human eye. I felt complete, and old beyond my years, as if I had lived through all time. I seemed to be in this place forever and a fraction of a second at the same time. The concept of time was irrelevant here, and had no place.  

           

Then, I woke up, lying on the grass. I got up quickly and saw my bike on the ground in front of me. The sun was just now coming up, and I could hear the songs of birds. I heard Vitaliy groan next to me and I looked over at him. He too had been asleep and when he opened his eyes, he turned to meet my gaze, and I could see in his eyes that he had experienced the exact same thing.

            We rode home in silence, never once saying anything to each other. I felt as though my brain had grown in size and I had acquired a wealth of knowledge that there was no way to access. I tried my best to hold on to the memories of the black box. Though I couldn’t remember any specific detail, I knew that this was an experience that was important, that had changed me. I didn’t want to lose those feelings; I wanted to be able to remind myself of the box everyday. I felt that if I lost grip on this experience, I would lose grip on the most sacred and meaningful event of my life. However, life goes on. I went through many more books, teachers, tests, jobs, girls, women, friends, carnivals, and everything else, all the while the box became pushed deeper back into my head. I could have gone back to the carnival, and tried to find those people, but there was no point. I would never see them or the box again.

Hubert Selby Jr. and Punctuation

     Hubert Selby Jr. is a great writer. I have only read two books by him, but that was enough for me to deem him one of my favorite writers. He grew up in Brooklyn, dropped out of high school at 15 (which might have something to do with his utter disregard for grammar), joined the Merchant Marines, was diagnosed with tuberculosis, and struggled with a heroin addiction for most of his life.
     The first excerpt I will put here is from his first novel, Last Exit to Brooklyn, which was first published in 1964.

MARY STARED AT JOEYS HEAD WHEN VINNIE TOOK THE BOYS HAT OFF. SEE, NOW HE LOOKS LIKE A BOY. NOT LIKE SOME GODDAMN SISSY. MARY LOOKED AT JOEYS HEAD. YOU SONOFA-BITCH. LOOK WHAT YADID. WHATTA YAMEAN WHAT I DID. I DIDNT DO NOTHIN. I TOOKIM FOR A HAIRCUT. WHATSZAMATTA, YOU DONT LIKE THE HAIRCUT? YA SONOFABITCH, YA CUT ALL HIS HAIR OFF. ALL THE NICE CURLS HE HAD, YA CUTEM ALL OFF. HE LOOKS LIKE HES GOTTA BALDY. AW SHUT YAMOUT. YEAH? HE AINT GONNA TAKE NO MORE HAIRCUTS, joey went to his room. YA STAY AWAY FROM ME YA SONOFABITCH. YA TINK SO, EH? I/LL BREAK YA FUCKIN LEGS. GO AHEAD. GO AHEAD. I/LL KILLYA. MEEE, SHES REALLY ASKIN FORIT. YEAH? YOULL SEE. YOULL SEE. JUST TRY. I/LL CUTCH YAFUCKIN COCK OFF. WHOSE COCK YOULL CUT OFF, EH? WHOSE? YA CRAZY FUCK I/LL BREAK YA FUCKIN LEGS. VINNIE SHOOK HIS HAND IN MARYS FACE THEN TURNED AWAY AND SLAPPED HIS FOREHEAD, MARONE AME, WHATTA IDIOT, AND WENT OUT TO THE KITCHEN AND HEATED THE COFFEE. MARY WENT INTO THE KIDS ROOM AND PICKED JOEY UP, HOLDING HIM AT ARMS LENGTH FROM HER AND A LITTLE OVER HER HEAD, TURNING HIM TO LOOK AT ONE SIDE THEN THE OTHER.


     Now I don't think there's any need to delve into the use of capital letters here other than to mention that they are used only when an adult is speaking, or rather yelling. The periods are seemingly used randomly and there is no existence of a quotation mark or apostrophe. However, I seem to remember the reason for the latter in a documentary I saw a couple years ago. Selby said that at the time, on a manual typewriter, in order to use an apostrophe one had to shift and then type the key for "8". This disrupted the flow of his writing so he substituted it with the forward slash. Also in this documentary, he mentions how he uses words as if they were music, creating a certain rhythm. Here is a different interview where he says something similar: http://youtu.be/tMWBuaDvDNo?t=7m24s

     I have been looking for about an hour now on YouTube and Google for a clip or excerpt where he explains the punctuation, but I can't seem to find anything. I guess you will have to take my word for it unless you watch the documentary itself which is titled: It/ll Be Better Tomorrow.


     Alright, let's talk about Requiem for a Dream which was originally published in 1976. This was the first novel I ever read by Selby. I sought it out at the town library after falling in love with the film. It is a much more difficult read (believe it or not), at least at first. Since there are no quotation marks or line breaks everything seems to run together. I will admit that I had trouble at first, but eventually I got the hang of it. I grew to really love the punctuation (or lack of it) along with many other aspects of the book. Let's take a look at an excerpt from the opening scene of the novel.

Harry locked his mother in the closet. Harold. Please. Not again the TV. Okay, okay, Harry opened the door, then stop playin games with my head. He started walking across the room toward the television set. And dont bug me. He yanked the plug out of the socket and disconnected the rabbit ears. Sara went back into the closet and closed the door. Harry stared at the closet for a moment. So okay, stay. He started to push the set, on its stand, when it stopped with a jerk, the set almost falling. What the hells goin on here? He looked down and saw a bicycle chain going from a steel eye on the side of the set to the radiator. He stared at the closet. Whatta ya tryin to do, eh? Whats with this chain? You tryin to get me to break my own mothers set? or break the radiator?—she sat mutely on the closet floor—an maybe blow up the whole house? You tryin to make me a killer? Your own son? your own flesh and blood? WHATTA YA DOIN TA ME???? Harry was standing in front of the closet. YOUR OWN SON!!!! A thin key slowly peeked out from under the closet door. Harry worked it out with his fingernail then yanked it up. Why do you always gotta play games with my head for krists sake, always laying some heavy guilt shit on me? Dont you have any consideration for my feelings? Why do you haveta make my life so difficult? Why do—Harold, I wouldnt. The chain isnt for you. The robbers. Then why didnt you tell me? The set almost fell. I coulda had a heart attack. Sara was shaking her head in the darkness. 

      So, as you can see, it's difficult to discern who is speaking. However, I think just like in Last Exit to Brooklyn, it adds a certain speed to everything. I suppose this is the rhythm or "music" Selby was speaking of. This was the first thing I could think of when we were assigned this blog, and I'm sure you can see why.