mozaikmage: (Default)

Like Real People Do by xiaq/E. L. Massey was a pretty good fanfiction for the very good webcomic Check Please! By Ngozi Ukazu (who btw has a new book coming out and it’s gonna be so good), that then filed off the serial numbers and got republished as an original novel by a real, small press, with an editor and everything.

Except for some reason the only changes made to the version that was published as a fic on AO3 were the character names (for the characters originally in Check Please!) and some biographical details of not!Jack and not!Bitty. Jack Zimmermann became James Petrov (JAMES?! JAMES?!?!? We’ll get to that later), Kent Parson became Alex Price, Eric Bittle became Cody Griggs, etc, etc. Vegas was changed to Houston and Samwell, in a decision that feels like a personal attack against Me Specifically, was changed to Princeton. 

It doesn’t really work.

As I said on social media, in a fanfic, you can just cut to the fun stuff without having to bother with any setup because the setup was already done for you in the source material of whatever you’re fanfictioning. You don’t need to describe Samwell in a Check Please! Fic because the reader already read the webcomic, they know what the campus and the Haus look like. In your original novel you do need to describe Princeton (and the unimaginatively renamed “house”) at least a little bit because your original novel readers will not have that context. 

I was surprised when the airport was only a 20 minute drive but I guess they flew in to Trenton? Not gonna fact check if they have Houston to Trenton flights but I’m pretty sure Frontier does not do first class. I was also surprised that when visiting a town, or even like, the American north for the first time, the viewpoint character (as far as there is a viewpoint anyway, we get very very little introspection on either Eli or Alex’s parts) does not have any inclination to describe it. Or the “house.” I was expecting to see at least one line about the ivy covered buildings on campus, or at least a namedrop of the main fucking street, but nope. Which grocery store did they even go to was it the fancy Italian place or McCaffrey's or what. They get “Boba Teas at the coffee shop on campus” which is not a fucking thing you have to go to one of 5+ bubble tea shops directly across the street from Princeton Campus if you want a boba tea, because Princeton is a specific, distinctive, REAL PLACE THAT EXISTS AND YOU DIDN’T CARE ABOUT IT!!! 

Ok Princeton Local sidebar over back to business.

Eli and Alex both feel like side characters in their own story–  because they're barely changed versions of an OC and a minor antagonist in a fanfiction of something else.  

It’s fine that we don't get a lot of interiority from Eli or Kent Parson in the fanfic because the reader just wants to see their blorbo Kent get with the perfect boy for him. In an original novel, the barrier to caring about Eli and Alex is higher. It feels odd how peripheral Eli's skating career or college friends are to the story, while Alex's hockey stuff is at the forefront, but it makes total sense in a Check Please fanfic because no one comes to a fanfic for the OCs, they're here for the characters they already know and like from something else.

I feel like to make this story work as a novel, it needed a lot more editing than it got. I read the fic version before it was taken down, and every single scene and line of dialogue was basically unchanged from what I remember reading on AO3. Even the parts that pissed me off. Actually those parts got worse. 

Enter James.

French Canadian hockey dad haver Jack Laurent Zimmermann became Russian-American hockey family scion James Petrov (now with two older brothers, Eric and Mark, which are actually ok names for second gen Russian Americans to have). JAMES!!! 

Most immigrants I know at least tend to name their kids things that are easy to pronounce in both their native language and English, which is why almost every Russian American boy I've ever met was named Anthony,  Alexander,  Daniel or Ben. (Which makes it extra funny that the American character is named Alex in his story lol). Or something Jewish because Russian Jews. No Russian parents would ever name their kid James, because there is no J sound in Russian and you want grandma (and in this case probably the Russian sports press too) to be able to say your baby's name properly.

I was willing to let this slide under the assumption that James is a second generation immigrant without strong ties to his country of origin, but then he's described as switching to Russian when he's angry,  having a slight Russian accent (because Jack Zimmermann has a French Canadian accent) and as wanting to play for Russia in the Olympics (very weird, if you know you're queer already, and it's some year between 2014-2022, and your parents probably left Russia for a reason!) So like. Why tf would his parents give him an English-English name.

Additional Russian nitpicks I remember from the fic version that are still in the book version: no one makes their own pelmeni for fun unless they're masochists because the grocery store version is literally fine and diy pelmeni is a lot of work for not enough reward, the Russian word for recipe is pronounced “recept” so idk why someone would substitute it for “cooking plays” in a conversation, blini are usually eaten with savory toppings or with jam, not “strawberries and a pale pink sauce”... I don't understand why like. If you're getting tradpubbed. You wouldn't do your due diligence on this part at least. Find a Russian and ask a few questions. Blah

The other book I read that was filed off fanfic did a lot of edits, preserving the best jokes but also merging, removing and changing the genders and nationalities of characters, restructuring scenes and plot points, and adding new things entirely (and toning down the romance by a lot because this was a Russian slashfic and the censorship hammer came down hard). It was a very good fic and a very strong original book! 

I wish the author of Like Real People Do was willing to be edited more.


mozaikmage: (Default)
I was fully intending to post about this weeks ago and didn't get around to it because... I don't know. Typing is hard and I don't think this is the kind of content anyone follows me for. I end up putting a lot of my music thoughts on here because my media reviews I can get published somewhere but I'm not trained to talk about music in any capacity so I feel less confident pitching it around. But I do like music and think about it and experience it a lot. Weird music most of my friends don't care about. Anyway.

So, a few weeks ago, I went to-- wait no let's back up a bit more.

A few weeks before a few weeks ago, my mom picked me up from my last day at work on our way to the Alexei Ivaschenko concert in Philly and asked me if I wanted to see BG in concert in June.

"Of course, it's BG," I said immediately. "The father of Russian Rock music and all that." BG, of course, meaning Boris Grebenshchikov, Russian rock legend, the only founding member of Aquarium still in Aquarium at the ripe old age of 69 (nice.)

Then I said, "wait, I don't actually know any of his songs. Besides the drinking song, even though I don't really drink. I mean I'll still go but."

"I'm not really familiar with his music either," my mom said. "We can think about it."

So we get to the Jewish cultural center hosting the Ivaschenko concert and as we were milling around before the start we run into our neighbors across the street, who immediately ask us if we're going to the BG concert.

"Well now I guess we have to," my mom said.

(Sidenote: the Ivaschenko concert was very fun, very chill, Ivaschenko took requests if you passed him a note on stage and he played a deep cut I requested because no one ever asks him for it and said nice things about my sketchbook doodles of him afterwards and I was extremely pleased).

We got tickets as close to where our neighbors were sitting and made plans to carpool with my mom's friend who is also named Masha but is a married woman a year older than my own mother with four children. But when we tried listening to some BG/Aquarium to prepare, my mother and I were equally unimpressed. We both prefer fun, upbeat, exciting music to mopey ballads, and BG's best of lists on YouTube autoplay seemed to lean more to the mopey side.

"Well, maybe he'll play the fun stuff at the concert," I said hopefully.

The concert gets rescheduled to an hour later than it was originally supposed to be. We show up fifteen minutes past that time because parking in Manhattan is a hellscape and find our seats-- my mom's friend Masha is a few rows below, our neighbors directly diagonal to us, and right next to us by complete coincidence is my ex-stepdad's third cousin and her friends, who stand up to let us through and recognize my mother in shock.

That's the thing about this concert, the thing I wanted to write about almost as much as the music-- fucking everyone is here.

Every Russian in the Northeast between the ages of 30 and 50. My mom's friends from when we lived in North Jersey, people who haven't seen me since I was five. My mom's theater groupmates and people we hang out with at слёты, the music festival things we do. During the intermission, my mom runs into Psoy Korolenko while getting a beer from concessions. My mom's friend who lives in Boston had come down from Boston for this. Of course she did, it's BG.

The concert starts half an hour after the rescheduled later time. BG is in the center of the stage in front of a large hanging portrait of the goddess Saraswati (he's Buddhist), dressed like the late Sir Terry Pratchett (GNU) in a wide-brimmed black hat, sunglasses, long gray beard, leather jacket. He's sitting on a stool holding an acoustic guitar. His band, including his son on the drums, an Irish tin whistle player and a keyboardist who doubles as an accordionist depending on the song, surrounds him. There are also some potted plants for some reason. The lights dim so the portrait is the only thing clearly visible. And then the music starts.

It slaps. No other word for it. The very same songs that sounded dull and mopey in my mom's car are all encompassing in the concert hall, each beat hammering into my bones, reverberating through my very soul. The fun songs give the tin whistle and accordion lengthy solos to show off. The serious songs sink into me like stones.

BG doesn't really do any MCing, just going from song to song with no chatter in between. He says "thank you for coming" before he starts and "thank you for coming back" after the intermission and "thanks" before the encore, but he keeps it simple. He plays for three hours and does five songs for the encore, including the drinking song I knew (which is a cover of an English drinking song apparently, but so catchy and fun. Digging into his youtube music profile I also found a Russian cover of What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor, which is very wild to me). He doesn't stand up except to stretch, doesn't dance (he's 69, after all. Nice.) I try to take notes on what the fun songs he plays are, but when I look them up later they seem faded, lacking the vibrancy they had in person.

We walk back to the overpriced garage we'd left my mom's car in with another guy from our town my mom ran into coincidentally at the concert who'd also parked in a different garage on that street, discussing the concert, BG, the upcoming festival BG was going to perform at (a festival that happened last weekend as of me writing this, and my mom went and said it was cool even though the acoustics were worse than in the concert hall).

My mom sighed and said, "I wish he'd played Masala Dosa. My friend said he played Masala Dosa at his LA show. Why didn't we get that one?"

Anyway, it was wild.

On memory

Jul. 3rd, 2021 11:30 pm
mozaikmage: (Default)
There's a bit in The Mysterious Benedict Society (the first book) by Trenton Lee Stewart that's stuck in my head since I read it. The villains are disseminating evil messages through television and radio waves by having kids read lists of words and then broadcasting those lists at a subsonic frequency, or something like that, it's been a while. But to transmit large amounts of information through his evil machine, the bad guy figures out a way to "package" whole lectures the best students memorized by having them say key phrases. And the bit that stuck for me was this excerpt (paraphrased):

"Watch what happens in your mind when I say the following phrase: poison apples, poison worms."

The boys blinked, startled, for in a single moment an entire class period of Jillson droning on and on about bad government blossomed in their heads.
 
 
And at least for me, a lot of information ends up packaged into single phrases unintentionally. Like, if someone says "draw a circle and that's the Earth" everything I've ever learned about Hetalia against my will floats right up to the top of my brain. If someone says "let me tell you about Homestuck" I have a whole peer-reviewed lecture ready to go. A lot of my memories are tied to key phrases, and I don't even realize they are until they're called to the forefront again.

Some memories I don't know I have at all. 

A few weeks ago, I was at this Russian-American music festival thing with my family. I feel like I don't know a lot of the Bard Music Standards, mostly because I hate camping and have aggressively avoided these festivals since I was old enough to stay home alone while my mom and grandparents went off into the woods for a weekend. I also avoided the "sitting around the dinner table singing songs with a guitar until 2 am" parts of my family dinner parties (as best as I could, although my childhood bedroom was directly above the kitchen so I could still hear them through the floor.) I actually made a comic about all this so if you're not up to date with this part of the Masha Lore here's the link.

So anyway. I was at this festival, and I was walking back from the bathrooms to the campsite my family was staying at (the furthest from said bathrooms, annoyingly enough) and I passed a group of strangers playing guitar and singing As People Do At These Things. And I can't remember what song they were singing anymore, I can't remember the lines, but I remember that as I was hearing them, I realized I knew the line that came next, and I sang along absentmindedly as I continued along my path.

This song I didn't know I knew was absorbed entirely without conscious effort through years spent on the periphery of relatives and family friends singing around me, my grandma singing me to sleep when I was a baby, my mom humming in the kitchen when she cooks. And the memory of this song, formed gradually over time like a sedimentary rock, was pulled up out of the water for exactly as long as it was called for, before bobbing back down below the surface.

I don't know what I don't know, but when it comes to things like Russian bard music that's been in my life for as long as I've been alive, I don't even know what I do know. On the drive back from the festival, my mom started singing a song I later learned after googling lines from it was called "the Motorway Song" by Juliy Kim, and I knew, like, a solid 60% of the verses and the whole chorus. I can't remember where I learned it. I think my grandma sang it to me when I was little. I'm pretty sure my mom did too. When I looked it up later I learned we all remembered the onomatopeia at the end of the song differently from how the original singer did it. 

This happens a lot, me looking up a song and discovering the original sounds totally different from what I've heard in the background radiation of my life. The nature of bard music is that a lot of it is passed on orally by being performed at these festivals or small domestic concerts, and is riffed and remixed and twisted by dozens of people that come in contact with it. At the festival my mom got into an argument with someone over how the melody for something was supposed to go (they were both wrong, if the youtube video my mom found was accurate.) But also just, memory is fallible and my mom is super tone deaf. The original records and cassettes my family collected this type of music on all stayed behind in Russia when we came to the US, so the way they remember the songs is the way the songs are, for them. 

I don't really have any conclusion or anything, which is why this is a blog post on the site I have exactly 3 readers and not something in a place where people actually look. I was just thinking some thoughts.

As a treat, here is the Motorway Song in English (but not singable because I have my limits at 12:13 a.m)

So what if mom leaves us without lunch!
So what if a new movie comes out on the screen!
So what if a torpedo, so what if a dynamo- which dynamo? It doesn't matter at all!

Chorus: Fly away, fly away, on your journey- it's okay if there's a cliff on the way.
An automobile has a motor and wings- fly! Bee-bee-bee-bee-bee-bee-bee-bee-bee-bee-bee-bee

4 ditches, 33 potholes, 48 thousand run-over dogs.
We need to go right, but we're flying straight, and we're flying straight, and there's a (google translate says) gully!

Chorus.

If you're cheerful, and if you're not cheerful,
if you're sadly staring out the window.
If you can't sit still, you only need one thing:

Chorus.

 

 

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