Monthly Archives: March 2015
I’ve never had a big budget for podcasting. When I first sat down to record Hapax, I was halfway through my undergrad. And now…I’m halfway through grad school. So funds have been an ongoing issue.
Luckily, there are ways to work around impecuniousness. The impoverished podcaster has a variety of free things of which to take advantage: sound editing programs, sound effects, royalty-free music. An imagination and willingness to do weird things to make your own sound effects. Honestly, the biggest investment I’ve made has been on microphones and headphones.
And I’d been managing pretty well…until it became clear that I was lacking an essential piece of equipment.
A pop filter.
A pop filter sits in front of the mic to prevent plosives. Plosives are fun—hard, explosive consonants like p, d, b, k. When the breath hits the mic funny, it creates a pop of air. My plosives are becoming more noticeable, and the more I podcast, the less tolerance I have for them.
So, a pop filter. Research for this post indicates that they’re actually pretty reasonably priced. I have a Blue Yeti, which needs a special kind…which Amazon is currently listing for $22.84. But it looks fiddly. Besides, I need two: one for each mic, and then that gets pricier.
(My other mic is a Blue Nessie…it’s a charming wee thing, but its “built-in pop filter” doesn’t exactly get the job done.)
I’d seen tutorials for constructing one’s own pop filter. Unfortunately, they’re meant for mics with proper booms. My Yeti sits just in front of me. Some slight alterations were in order.
And so, I present: The Beer Bottle Pop Filter
- 6-inch embroidery hoop: $2.80
- Pantyhose (queen size): $1.99
- Metal rod: $0.00 (scavenged from back room) (A piece of dowel rod would probably work just as well)
- 2 clothes pins: $0.00 (scavenged from back room)
- Duct tape: $1.29
- Piece of cardboard: $0.00 (ripped from a shoe box)
- Beer bottle: $0.00 (okay, okay, originally something like $4.25, but you can find a beer bottle lying around, right?)
Total cost: $6.08
Not too shabby.
With a pair of sharp scissors, cut the legs off the pantyhose. I try to go as low as possible – there was no way that was going to sound good, was there?
Remove the small screw from your embroidery hoop and separate the inner and outer rings. Place your legless pantyhose overtop the inner ring, and put the outer ring on top, surrounding it. Make sure that there are no holes or gaps!
Stretch the fabric as tight as you can. Then stretch it tighter. When the fabric is taut, cut the excess. It’s okay if it looks a little raggedy; I prefer to err on the side of caution. If you don’t have enough fabric to cover the hoops’ frame, you’re screwed.
Cut your cardboard into a thin strip—mine’s maybe 1.5 cm wide by 8 cm long. Punch a small hole close to the tip.
Run the embroidery hoop screw through the hole, and then tighten to close the hoops.
Secure the cardboard to the rod with duct tape. At the screw, secure the cardboard—which probably looks like it’s about to tear—with more duct tape. Duct tape wherever it looks like you need it.
Attach a clothespin on either side of the screw. This will help the screen (formerly an embroidery hoop) stay upright. Then more duct tape.
Place the metal rod in the bottle. And then? MOAR DUCT TAPE.
My bottle is pretty sturdy, but if yours is tippy, you can try putting sand in the bottom to weight it down.
Set in front of microphone. Get recording! 🙂
What I’m Listening to This Week
It’s not all classical music and Irish pub songs over here. Coming off March Break, thinking about the year ahead, and all the changes in store…I’ve needed something a little more driving.
Because my musical taste is nothing if not eclectic, I nurture a soft spot for Queen. And these days, I do feel like I’m rushing headlong towards something—so what else would I listen to?
Once upon a time, about a million years ago, I worked at summer camp.
Okay, it wasn’t a million years ago. I was 16. So, this awkward, nervous teenager shows up to shepherd kiddies, keep a semblance of order, and entertain/educate. All while attending to the the bathroom breaks, hurt feelings, lost water bottles, tears, and Popsicles that inevitably come with summer camp.
One morning, we were packing up the kids so we could trek to Swim. Naturally, one kid threw his backpack down and wailed. I froze—what did I say to a screaming four-year-old? What did I do with the other kids, who were now gawping? What if we were late for Swim?
My co-counsellor that week was one of the veterans. She was twenty-one. (At sixteen, the counsellors in their early twenties seemed the epitome of venerable coolness. My super grown-up supervisor was probably no older than I am now.) Anyway, my co-counsellor knelt down and talked to the kid, using a mix of humour and firmness, motioning the other kids along.
And I watched.
I really, really watched. I watched how she approached the kid, how she crouched down, what she said, what tone she used, when she pushed, when she pulled back.
Then I started watching the other counsellors. Why did kids respond to them? How did they handle screaming kids, arguments, chaos? Why were their activities successful? What did the kids latch onto and adore?
Watching wasn’t enough. So, I started mimicking.
A phrase here. An inflection there. Counting to three, time-out, praise—a cornucopia of solutions and tricks. Sometimes, they worked. Sometimes they didn’t. A funny thing happened, though. The more I mimicked, the more these disparate elements merged together with my personality, my style.
At the time, I thought of it as synthesis. I’d taken all these bits and pieces that belonged to other people, and they’d transformed and recombined into something that was me.
By the time I left camp four years later, I’d learned how to counsellor—and I’d learned to do it as Yodel. Yodel didn’t suffer fools gladly, but she worked around them with a smile. She kept up to date on kid pop culture. She was irreverent and goofy, happy to get soaked in water fights and tell the same stories ad nauseam. But—when her voice dropped and flattened, game time was over.
When I showed up at Black Creek, I knew that this was my process. Locate, dissect, imitate, synthesize. I very consciously watched the other interpreters—far more consciously than I ever did at camp. Then I picked apart their interpretation, their tours. Not in a mean way, in a scientific way. What were they doing? Why did it work? How did it work?
And now we’re four years on again, and I’ve learned how Katie interprets. She’s never quite been able to eradicate that innocence and unabashed enthusiasm. Nor does she particularly want to. Sass doesn’t suit her, but the occasional dry comment does. (Writing in third person weirds her out, she just learned.)
Anyway, this applies to writing. This location-dissection-imitation-synthesis model is how I learn. At Stonecoast, this is precisely why we do annotations. We read other authors and say, “Okay. What are they doing here? How are they doing it? Why does it work?”
I’ve found a few writerly models. For the last year, I’ve been dissecting and thinking. I’m still dissecting and thinking. But I’ve also started imitating. The stories I’ve been writing have bits of this author here, traces of that one there…but there’s a sense too, that the elements are shifting as I write them.
We’re not quite at synthesis yet. I suspect it’s because I’m still not entirely sure how I write as myself. At least, not all the time. But isn’t it funny, that in this process, you find yourself by studying others? The way to look inwards is to gaze outwards.
So, I’ve been consciously studying for a year. My model seems to take about four. Where will I be in three years, then?
I don’t know. But I’m excited to find out.
What I’m Listening To This Week
An old favourite: Eleanor Daley’s setting of Ubi Caritas. The text of Ubi Caritas is really old—somewhere between the fourth and tenth centuries. So I appreciate the Gregorian feeling Daley gives it as the piece opens, only to surge into this very modern-feeling, very joyful outpouring about two minutes in—the altos slide like ribbons under the sopranos. It all resolves in the end, even when the Gregorian tune comes back, resolutely driving under the top line. I like that: the old and new treatment together.
But of course, my favourite part of Ubi Caritas is the rather-loose-but-very-pretty translation of the hymn itself.
Ubi caritas et amor,
Deus ibi est,
Congregavit nos in unum Christi amor
Exsultemus et in ipso jucundemur..
Where there is love,
God is there.
Love has brought us here.
Let us rejoice and be glad…
For the last few days, I’ve been sitting down at the keyboard, putting on music (mostly medieval and/or Christmas music—trust me on this one) and puttering around. I’ve been asking myself a lot of questions about Heartstealer, delving into the history and backstory that’s hinted at in the novel, but never fully explained. Peering at the bits of worldbuilding I’ve already written, turning those fragments over in my head to see how they fit into a greater narrative. Every so often, characters’ thoughts emerge, like this snippet from Mairi’s brother Iain…
“Mairi had a knack for the trouble. Not a man would deny that. But as Mum did be telling me long-suffering Da, Mairi was a good girl. Sure, she’d roll her eyes once and have the lads smitten for always, but that was as far as it went: smiles, giggles, eye-rolling. With every man, there came the point where she backed away like a trapped fox, her smile turning hard and her eyes turning frightened.
The lads never saw it. I did. And then, inexplicably, the rift would grow between her and him, until for some reason he never chanced to see her as much as before.
Until Arthur, I don’t think she kissed a man.”
Iain’s not a major character. I don’t intend for him to be a POV character. And yet—it’s another side, another bit of practice and insight to throw on the pile.
This noodling around, this personal Q+A, this introspection and scraps of scenes that will likely never go further—it’s always been integral to my novel-writing process. It’s only recently that I’ve figured out what I’m doing.
I’m sketching. Just like painters making studies before embarking on large projects, I’m sorting things out, drawing broad strokes with eraser and pencil before bringing out the paints. It’s an exciting time, full of possibility and potential. Of course, it’s also a little frustrating, because I haven’t had a novel for a long, long time, and I miss the feeling of being in the middle of one. But I’m not ready quite yet. If I started now, I’d just get paint all over the place.
Hopefully by the time the season opens at Black Creek, I’ll be sizing up my canvas. 😉
What I’m Listening to This Week
Some people eat food seasonally. I listen to music seasonally. Mid-March is filled with solemn, melancholic music.
So it’s weird for me to put the Christmas music back on. It’s important for this story, though. The Boar’s Head Carol is a fairly obscure medieval carol, referring to the custom of serving an entire boar’s head during Yuletide festivities. It’s been sung at Oxford for 500 years, complete with a procession featuring the boar’s head.
Most importantly for this part of the writing process, this carol puts me back to a very specific time and place: Black Creek, just before Christmas, which is where I need to be for this novel. Because I listened to this song obsessively last December, listening to it now brings back the smell of oranges and cloves, sharp winter winds and smoky hearths; the feel of wool against my skin; the suspended, muted grey afternoons.
That’s our landscape this time around.
I’ve been sequestered for the past week with ~15 other writers, in a cabin perched in high in the mountains. And it has been amazing. I could talk about the monastery-like atmosphere, everyone moving silently through the cabin, everyone writing alone and together. I could talk about the comradery, the kinship and connection I feel with these very special people. I could talk about the insanely diverse group of talent and the countless conversations we had about art, craft, life, and how you would hide the body.
I could talk about all of that, and I will, but I need to process it a little more. So, last time, I mentioned that I abandoned a story because it wasn’t really my story. It didn’t feel like a story that I would write.
While on the retreat, I wrote several stories with which I’m quite pleased, because they do feel like my stories. There’s a certain short-story voice that I’m starting to associate with getting closer to writing my stories. In my own head, I call it the “cut-glass voice.” Again, I think I hit this voice in my story “P.G. Holyfield’s Travelling Magnificent Spectacular.”
There’s something else, though. And it involves me putting “What I’m Listening to This Week” right here.
I’ve been listening to Rupert Lang’s “Kontakion.” Not to get all maudlin, but I want this music played at my funeral. This piece touches something very deep in me. Take a listen.
You may or may not have listened all the way through. For me, this piece is smiling through the tears, shining through the darkness. There is a line at 3:25 in particular that makes me say, “Yes. Yes, this.”
All of us go down to the dust,
Yet even at the grave, we make our song:
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
And here—my God, my God, those rolling, magnificent, soaring alleluias. It gives a sense of something…well, something more, something hopeful and wonderful and awesome, something that takes a lot of courage to get to, because you have to get to it through darkness. That is precisely why it’s so powerful. Slightly more modern, but no less valid, is another line from Doctor Who: “Pain is easy to portray. But to use your passion and pain to portray the ecstasy and joy and magnificence of our world…”
This is what I want my stories to do. I want them to go out singing.