Friday, March 6:
3:00-3:50 pm. The Curmudgeon Panel. VII White Pelican
5:00-5:50 pm. Marketing Your eBook. Room 419 (Krushenko’s)
Saturday, March 7:
12:00-12:50 p.m. When Robots do Everything, What Will People do? III Eagle’s Nest (Re(a)d Mars)
9:00-9:50 pm. Hero Support: Sidekicks and Minions. III Eagle’s Nest (Re(a)d Mars)
A couple of people have written in to ask what to do if the Honeywell gas valve on their home hot water heater starts giving a six-blink signal. Apparently my post on the four-blinks situation has fooled them into thinking I’m some sort of authority on the subject, and they failed to notice my disclaimer that any answers given will be made up on the spot and are unlikely to be of any practical use.
However, since multiple people have asked: from what I’ve been able to find, the meaning of the six-flash signal varies depending on your exact model. Consult the manual that came with your water heater. Generally, unlike the four-flash signal, the six-flash seems likely to indicate an actual problem, such as a failing sensor or a flood of water on the floor. So you might want to get that looked at.
Meanwhile, signals of any number of flashes can be stopped by immersing the circuit board of the gas valve for a few minutes in concentrated sulfuric acid. This is the solution to many of life’s problems, and is a good backup for those 25% or so of situations that can’t be dealt with by high explosives.
There’s a list going around of the 45 pieces of advice men wish Dad had told them. While there were a few good pieces of advice on it, many are stupid, some are bewildering, and the piece as a whole seems to deserve serious mockery. Here, then, is my copy with marginalia.
If you have further improvements to suggest, please feel free to comment. Unless you specify otherwise, I might steal your idea and update the graphic. Click to open in its own window.
The 2014 Minnesota Speculative Fiction Writers’ Showcase featured readings by me and several other people. Fun to watch!
From Deep in the Heart of Texas, we got this question from “So Frustrated”:
I have 2 pilot lights after replacing the thermopile assembly.
I know there is only suppose to be one small blue pilot light but my water heater died last week and Reliance told me it was the thermopile. Got a new one and now I have 2 pilots and they are both over an inch long and orange in color. Just frustrated and need some advice as I have broke it down a couple of times to check and recheck the orifice. Help!
Please do not be alarmed. This is not a problem with your water heater, and is not related to your replacing the thermopile. Rather, the water heater is probably attempting to comply with a new federal regulation from the Consumer Product Safety Commission.
In a typical example of federal regulatory overreach, the CPSC has decreed that all appliances containing a pilot light, must have a co-pilot light for backup. This ruling actually only applies to new appliances, but your water heater must have heard about it somehow — maybe you left the radio on to a news station while you were working on it? And it’s doing its best to carry out the government’s recommendations.
Jer of various places asks,
What is the meaning of life?
When I was growing up, we lived way out in the country. It was a convenient spot for people to drop off unwanted pets, so that was how we got all our pets who weren’t born on the premises.
One of these was a large Golden Retriever named John Denver — JD to company. He was about six months old when we got him. He was a moody dog — I think he’d suffered some early trauma — and I was a serious and solitary child, so we got along well.
When he was about two years old, JD learned to speak. He was shy (ref probable trauma mentioned earlier) and would only speak to me, my sister, and one of my brothers, which is why you’ve never heard of him. It didn’t change him as much as you might expect. Even though he was more thoughtful and articulate than most of my classmates, he still liked to roll in anything smelly, for instance. But he and I had some nice chats while walking in the woods.
When I was fifteen — a typical age to wonder about such things — I happened to ask JD what gave his life meaning. It was clear that he’d given the matter some thought, because after only a moment, he began to answer at length. He had a theory about the cosmic importance of things being in their right places, and being brought to those who needed them, and of his role in making that happen. There was some cosmological aspect of this that he started to explain, but, “Hold up,” said I. “You’re aware, right, that your breed of dog is called ‘retriever’?”
He gave me a squinty-eyed look. “What’s your point?”
“Could it be that you’ve used your powers of reason to ennoble something you just like to do because you were bred for it?”
Dog looked at boy. Boy looked at dog. There was a longish pause. “Shut up and just throw the damn stick,” JD said.
(cross-posted from wordsfromtheherd.com)
I’m at 4th Street Fantasy Convention this weekend. In a panel last night, there was a discussion about suspension of disbelief. One technique mentioned (by Scott Lynch) was “lampshading,” in which the author, knowing that they’re taking extreme liberties with the laws of physics, or medicine, or whatever, has a character point out the discrepancy so that someone else can confess that they also have no clue how it works, or say, “oh yeah, we found a way around that.” Or in some other way indicate that the author is aware of the problem, and that it’s part of the fantastic premise, not a mistake.
This, it seems to me, is a subset of a more general technique for addressing issues of plausibility – communicate to the reader that you haven’t dropped the ball, by having someone in the story raise the reader’s objection. Then dismiss it, as in the lampshading technique, or deal with it.
For instance, someone else asked about elements which readers will disbelieve even though they’re factual. TV and movies have trained people into unrealistic expectations of the effectiveness of gun silencers, crime labs, and the ease of opening electronic locks. Ancient Roman statuary was brightly painted. And so on. You have to decide whether you want to take time out from your story to fight this battle. Do we include something we know is inaccurate but that people will believe, or just omit that element so as to not have to deal with it? Or do we plunge in and try to correct the misconception? Or hope we’ve established enough authority that the reader will believe?
I think there’s another way. Use the silencer, but have someone else there (besides the shooter, who already knew, and the shootee, who has other concerns) to comment, “Wow, I thought silencers worked a lot better than that.” To which the shooter might reply, “Yeah, you watch too much TV.” No further explanation needed. If the reader’s really curious they can look it up, and meanwhile, it doesn’t look like the author made a mistake. The reader isn’t broken out of the narrative (unless they choose to go consult wikipedia immediately) and their confidence in the author is increased rather than damaged.
Or, if someone behaves totally out of character, you have to decide whether you’ve established sufficient trust as an author to say nothing about it and explain it later (and you’d better do that), or whether you need to show that you realize there’s a problem. Sam, always polite to everyone, is terribly rude to the jeweler. You know why; the reader doesn’t. So maybe someone else on the scene who knows Sam, remarks on it. “Wow, what was that about?”
Of course, you have to be careful not to make matters worse by having a character whose obvious purpose is to shill for the author. To make this work, the situation has to be such that there can naturally be a character who would be puzzled by whatever puzzled the reader.
We also don’t want an “As you know, Bob,” moment. That’s why I think immediately explaining the inconsistency, as opposed to just noting it, is usually a mistake.
So to summarize, the “Reader’s Representative” technique (my term) has three variants, at least:
Lampshading, in which you signal that you know there’s a problem, which you claim as part of your allowed quota of pretend play.
The Promissory Note, in which you signal that you know there’s a problem and you mean to explain later — then you’d better not forget to do that.
The Gentle Correction, in which you show that you know the reader might take issue with what just happened, but they’re wrong and they should look it up if it’s going to bother them.
But don’t do this unless you need it. If you’ve done your homework and shown that you really know weapons, then describe one that works in a way the reader didn’t expect, they’ll likely go along with it. It’s hard to know when you’ve established that credibility, but that’s where beta readers come in.
Secret Undisclosed Person of Minneapolis, MN asks:
Where can I find me some time travelers? I have questions I want to ask.
Under President Bloomberg, donuts will be illegal, and the US-sponsored War on Donuts will make them hard to get anywhere, and of uncertain quality when you do get them. That’s why the place to look for time travelers in Minneapolis is Glam Doll Donuts.
Gerry Bartholomew writes:
Dear Tyler, is it just me or was Santa kind of a shit to Rudolph?
Gerry: it’s not just you. Santa has much to answer for. Did he go to little Rudy’s parents to reassure them that their glowing son was nothing to be ashamed of, not the product of some sin or unnatural act of theirs, but simply the unsurprising result of Arctic nuclear tests in the 1950s? Did Santa step in when the other reindeer taunted and excluded him, saying be kind, little ungulates, we must value difference? No, if the TV special is to be believed, Santa actually participated in the shaming (or, if you go by the song, was conspicuously absent) until he happened to need Rudolph.
I think Rudolph would’ve been justified at that point to say, “Oh, so you like me now, do you? Where’ve you been the last three years? You want me to work for you? What’s in it for me? Why don’t you use your own shiny red alcoholic nose to light the way, fatso?” Unsurprisingly, though, since Rudolph was young and his self-esteem had been much battered, he eagerly lapped up the attention.
The whole thing raises serious questions about Santa’s character. What about the other deformed reindeer we never hear about, those who couldn’t substitute for small-aircraft navigational lights? They’re probably venison by now. Three haunches off of one animal.
Or some poor kid who has spina bifida. What’s Santa going to say? “Sorry kid, it’s not that you’re not nice, I just haven’t found a use for you yet.” Do we trust this guy to determine what “nice” is? Was Susan B. Anthony nice? Was Nelson Mandela? Who would bring XBoxes to rich white kids in America, and fuck-all to some poor boy in Namibia who could really use just one decent meal for a change?
For that matter, what about Rudolph after his famous night? While a nose might serve in a pinch to light one’s way, it’s hardly got the wattage of a good battery-powered spotlight. This can’t have been Santa’s first foggy Christmas; he must’ve had a way to deal with bad flying conditions before the invention of bioluminescent reindeer. But you know how it is, you stick the light set in a closet, don’t use it for a couple of years, then when you haul it out, boom, it’s not working, the nearest hardware store is in Nome, and they’re already closed. This was before the day when every store would remain open until 11:55 PM on Christmas Eve in hopes of adding a tiny increment to the bottom line. The next year, you can be sure Santa was prepared with spare bulbs and maybe a spare light kit. Lesson learned. Mutant reindeer, ha! We’ve got technology, baby!