When I get paid, I pay bills (selectively). If there is a piece of clothing I have to replace, I replace it (usually). But my favorite payday purchases are lipstick, perfume, and books– not neccessarily in that order. This payday, I got (along with Jo Nesbø’s Redbreast and The Devil’s Star, which haven’t arrived yet) Plotto.
This sort of extreme cataloguing is fascinating to me, whether or not it works. The point is, it worked for Cook so well that he decided to put it into book form. Now that is dedication. And of course, since a saggy-bottomed plot is my usual downfall, the idea of mapping something out so completely is intriguing. My own brain seems incapable. I can recognize tropes a mile away and find so much food for thought in archetypes– yet cooking up my own plot from beginning to end is tantamount to doing taxes. Or trigonometry. So yes, I snapped this baby up faster than you could say, “Blistering plotholes, Batman!” Actually, nobody should ever say that, I’m quite sure.
I’ve worked my way through the laborious intro and the rather archaic writing advice– which in its own way was interesting. My own grandfather was definitely not a writer– he spoke three languages, and only wrote in one, and even that was confined to letters overseas. But reading the introduction to Plotto was like listening to a grandfatherly figure giving writing advice– encouraging and harsh, all at the same time. He was probably a stubborn fellow, and as I read, I found myself wondering if he had fought in the Great War. He died in 1933, conveniently long ago for copyright reasons, I’m guessing, and the plot machinery reflects that earlier Golden Age of pulp.
We’ll see what happens. So far, using it is like crossing a logic puzzle with a law book. I’m a fan of the former and used to file pages into the latter, so that’s not the criticism it might sound like at first.
There has not been any cookie baking, since The Squeasel and I have both been (and continue to be) under the weather. Nothing major, but pesky enough to suck all my energy away, and also pesky enough to make The Squeasel messily sick enough to stay home all week but still frisky enough to want to play!-play!-play! You can tell I’m still wonky because I wrote the word “enough” about 1,000,000 times in that previous sentence. I might have a slight fever, so let’s blame my wretched syntax and limited word choice on that.