• download files from the blog
• show differences
• copy changes wholesale from the blog to local, or vice versa
• add new posts

It’s all on Github.

Setting Up

Assuming that your blog is set up at http://www.yourblog.com (you can create an account at wordpress.com to test this out), all you’ll need to do is:

-- make a directory for the blog
mkdir blog
chdir blog

-- download everything
python wp.py --user=yourname --password=yourpass --url=http://www.yourblog.com/xmlrpc.php init
(wait a bit)

-- now set up so we don't have to specify --user, --password, and --url every time (optional)
python wp.py --user=yourname --password=yourpass --url=http://www.yourblog.com/xmlrpc.php defaults
-- you can skip specifying the password, and it'll prompt you when you run it

The files are downloaded in the appropriate YYYY/MM directories, with the draft directory being used for all of your unpublished drafts.

All the drafts are stored in plain text, but you’ll see some lines starting with periods — these are various WordPress variables that are associated with the file. You can change them, as well; for example, to change the title of the post, just change the line that begins with “.title”.

Seeing What’s Different

You can use the status command to see differences between the local file system and your blog.

python wp.py status

Note that only the most recent files are checked. If you want to really check every single file for changes, do:

python wp.py status all

You can also use the –diff command line option to see the differences between local and server:

python wp.py --diff status all

Updating From The Blog

If you’ve made changes through the web interface and you’d like to bring them down, you don’t have to download everything again, but can instead just update.

python wp.py pull

Again, only the most recent changes are brought down. If you want to check every post on the blog, do:

python wp.py pull all

Posting To The Blog

If you’ve made changes to files and you’d like to post them back, do:

python wp.py push

To push everything (and not just the most recent files), do:

python wp.py push all

Note that push only changes those files that exist in both spots. If you’re adding a new post, use the “post” command.

Posting/Editing

If you’d like to add a new post, put it in the drafts folder, and then do:

python wp.py post drafts/filename

Note that add can actually take existing posts, as well — it just forces an update of that one file, rather than running through all changes like push.

Publishing

To publish a file, just change the .post_status field from ‘draft’ to ‘published’. Note that doing this will cause a copy to move from the drafts folder to the appropriate year/month.

Gotchas

There are some gotchas due to the fact that the filename can change on you. There are cases where the filename that will be brought down is different then the one that you send up:

• You post a file without a .title or .wp_slug line
• You post a file with a different file name than the slug that is generated (i.e., “my-first-draft” when the title is actually “my final draft”)

This is the conclusion I’ve come to after looking at my sock drawer, which is entirely inhabited by white socks. I am convinced that I did not buy all those socks. I believe that they mate and reproduce when I go to sleep at night.

Alas, black socks do not mate in captivity, although it is perhaps possible that my black socks are past the mating age: they are old and have many holes. There have been reports of some people being able to get white socks and black socks to mate together to get brown socks, but I don’t believe ‘em.

Nanowrimo

Finished my Nano novel today. I was hovering around 45k words, and just decided, “Hell, I’m so close, may as well finish it off,” so I spent last night and this morning writing like mad.

So, I hit 50k. But the story isn’t done, not by a long shot, so I’ll still work on it until at least the end of the month, and then we’ll see. Some really funny sections in it, but for the most part you can tell that it was written in a month.

… although, to put perspective on it, I read an interesting quote on a blog last night that basically said something to the effect of: Two hours a day to write a novel in a month. Basically, if the average person just gives up TV, they could write twelve novels a year. Which is true, and just makes me think that the difference between genius and mediocrity may be as banal as good time management.

On Friday, I worked on my novel. Ah, my novel.

I think I’ve mention in scathing terms how I feel about doing a romantic comedy. Nonetheless, even though every word is forced out with blood, I’ve managed to keep up fairly well, even hitting 25,000 words on Saturday, exactly to schedule.

But, I’m hitting the same problem this year that I did two years ago: at the beginning of Nano, 50k words seems like so many that everything is very wordy, very loquacious, and there’s the constant worry that the really cool scene that you had in your head is only going to be about 300 words, and therefore needs to be padded out with extraneous characters, violent events, and whatnot.

By midpoint in the novel, though, you’re realizing that 50k words actually isn’t a lot of words, and you’ve got to bring down a plane filled with all these extraneous characters and violent events onto a runway that’s only 25k long, and maybe that’s just not enough. I mean, you can start out with “The tidal wave loomed in the distance,” but then resolving the effects of that tidal wave can take a heck of a lot of words.

But, in the end, I’m not entirely happy with the thing: I had envisioned a sweet, romantically touching comedy, but instead what I’ve got is three or four funny scenes interspersed with filler. And the romance? The romance is dead, or was never there.

Ah, well, I’ll fix it in the rewrite.

I made it there late, and I walk into the back of Coffee Society and the place is absolutely packed with writers, all writing away. There were a few other people that were working intently on their stuff and looking around, wondering what the hell was happening and why all these people with laptops knew each other.

Managed to write like a crazy person while people around me engaged in various conversations. I sat next to Heather, who was engaged in a conversation with an earnest young man who was detailing the relationship that he had with his girlfriend. Everyone kept passing by me, looking down, and saying, “That’s really small,” but fortunately they were talking about my computer. I did not mention to them that it was only a little larger than a Harry Potter book and had way more storage.

The nice thing about doing a romantic comedy (and, there are so few nice things about doing a romantic comedy) is that oftentimes people conversations give me material that I can use in the novel. As an example, one brief snippet of conversation that I had:

Him: My girlfriend and I have issues.
Me: Well, lots of people have issues after a year.
Him: No, these are serious issues.

Really, if you just pay attention, the dialogue is almost written for you.

A young boy was studying Zen and went to his master to ask a question about some aspect of enlightenment. He walked into his master’s meditation room and found it filled with bamboo walls.

“Master, where are you?” asked the young boy.

“I am right here in the room,” said the master.

“Why are you trapped?” asked the boy.

“Why do you say I’m trapped?” responded the master.

“Because you are inside some walls,” answered the boy, perplexed.

“How do you know I am inside the walls?” asked the master. “Maybe you are inside the walls, and I am on the outside, and you are the one that is trapped.”

The boy thought for a second, and then he said, slowly, “But I can go outside and walk as far as the eye can see without touching a wall, whereas you are confined into a small area.”

The master answered, “Maybe that just means that you are trapped with the ocean and the lands and everyone else.”

The master did not speak for the rest of the night, and the boy fell asleep by the walls. He was not enlightened.

The master woke the boy, and handed him a heavy backpack full of food and water, and without saying a word they started to hike. They hiked through dense forest, through the high mountains where the air was so rare that it was difficult to breath, and finally into a hot and forbidding desert which they traversed drearily for two and a half days. Finally, the master made a motion, and they stopped. All around them only sand could be seen. The mountains of two days ago were just a memory, no trace of them on the horizon.

“Now, boy,” said the master, “are we trapped?”

“We are not, master,” answered the boy.

“Are there any walls around us?” asked the master.

“There are not, master,” said the boy.

“But would not someone have to hike through the forest to reach us?” said the master.

“Yes, they would,” said the boy.

“And would they not have to climb the forbidding mountains?” continued the master.

“Yes, they would,” said the boy.

“And would they not have to walk through the desert?” continued the master.

“Yes, they would,” said the boy.

“Is a wall not a barrier?” asked the master.

“A wall is a barrier,” affirmed the boy.

“Then is not all this great space between us a wall?” asked the master. “It is even worse, for a wall might have a door, and they might be able to knock upon the door and have the door opened, but where is the door in all of this great space around us?”

“So, then we are trapped together,” asserted the boy.

“Is that so?” said the master. “Then why did you go behind the sand dune to relieve yourself? Even in the middle of nowhere, with no walls anywhere, you make them. Why?”

The boy was not enlightened.

They hiked back, and the boy settled into a much deserved rest. When he awoke the next day, he found that the stables in which he usually slept had been transformed into a maze; all around him were the delicate bamboo walls.

“Find your way to my voice, boy,” said the master.

So the boy tried going towards the voice, but found himself blocked; and then he put his right hand on the wall next to him and walked, always keeping his hand on the wall, for he had read in one of the ancient tracts that this was a way to navigate out of a maze, but that did not work.

“Find your way to my voice, boy,” said the master.

Finally, the boy accidentally stumbled the rough blanket that he used at night, so he unraveled the thread and trailed it behind him, and by not traversing corridors that had a string he managed to navigate more efficiently, until finally he saw daylight and made his way out the maze.

The master was nowhere to be seen, but there was a note that said, “I am trapped.”

With that, the boy was enlightened.

“So, I’ve slain the monster. Can I please be happy now?”

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

“Why does it have to be so hard? Why did I have to kill this monster, anyways? Couldn’t I have been happy before?”

She took out a flute and started bending it, which made dream-logic at the time. “The goal too easily won is lightly cast away,” she replied.

I rolled my eyes, and replied, “I promise that if I win the lottery I will not throw the winning ticket away.”

She looked at me intently. “Put it this way: before, you wouldn’t have appreciated what you had. Now, when you finally achieve some measure of happiness, you will treasure it.”

She started playing her instrument that was now a trumpet, and I tried to wash my hands and get the blood from under my fingernails, and then I woke up.

Nanowrimo is this insane exercise in self-flagellation whereby thousands of brave souls vow to finish a 50,000 word novel in a mere month. In many ways, it is very liberating… having to write so quickly means that I don’t stress over getting everything perfect. Two years ago I did it, and ended up with a novel that was crap in most places but had some good sections. Side benefit was that I met some really neat people that I would have otherwise have never met.

This year, I plan on doing a romantic comedy; hell, I’ve heard (and experienced) enough funny dating stories, may as well try to weave them together into a novel.

“You wanted to save the world, once,” she said.

“I still want to,” I replied, “but I can’t find my car keys.”

“You might want to hurry up with that,” she said. “You’ll be late.”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t suppose you want to help me look, do you?”

“No,” she replied, “you have to do that yourself. Anyway, I don’t have a car.”

Then I woke up.

The sun rose at that point, driving her away, leaving me to wonder about her words.

Scene III. A fire burns in the middle of the woods. The full moon can be seen in the background. POLONIUS stands by the fire, warming his hands. FEANE enters, dejectedly.

Hark, comrade!

Hark.

Thou seemst sad and weary of life, Feane;
what botherst thou?

Truly, you have espied my mood
as easily as an eagle spots a rat.
Oh! And my mood is a large dark rat
gnawing at my soul.
(sighs)
I speak without iambic pentameter,
I am so divest of good cheer.

Then sit by this roaring fire,
that doest drive away the chill,
and tell me of your problems.
For if I can help, I will.

I pray then, please explain
the meanderings of women. My heart hurts,
and my head is in pain,
and I understand them not.
They change their minds on the slightest whim;
can go from angel to harpy in an instant.
The truth is a wispish cloud to them,
something that binds them only in passing
as fleeting as a fog.
How can a man make sense of this?

Not all women are as fickle as a whim,
though they are rare indeed.
Forsooth, I have had my own encounters
that have befuddled me greatly
until I doubted my own sanity.
But, it does boil down to this:
one goes receive what one demands.
If you accept a woman mecurial,
you will always have a woman mecurial.

I despair, at times.

Truly, as do we all.
I fear that women are not to be understood
by mortal man, and any man that claims he knows
the fairer sex is, by right,
a charlatan, or a fool. It matters not.
The understanding of women, I think,
is as far and unattainable as the moon.

I think thoust are correct.
(thinks)
But…
(thinks)
the moon is very pretty, is it not?

Aye, the moon is pretty, my friend.
(both men stare at the moon)
(end scene)

That was the last the man ever heard from her, despite his pleading, and he did love her, after all. He was telling someone about this, and said, “I wish that I had a chance to do it all over again.” A passing angel heard his wish…

The room was small, the furniture plain. A man and a woman were arguing, and tempers were flying. The man was so angry that he could barely contain himself. He realized he was living this over, but also realized that anyone that would desert him and never speak to him again over one brief statement made in the heat of emotion was not worth his while, so he said, “I never want to see you again.” With that, the woman grew cold and sad, and said in a small voice, “Your wish is granted.” She spun about on her heel and walked out the door without another word.

That was the last the man ever heard from her, despite his pleading, and he did love her, after all. He was telling someone about this, and said, “I wish that I had another chance to do it all over again.” A passing angel heard his wish, and told him, “You should make the most of second chances. You don’t often get them. Sometimes, you don’t get any chances.”

The man was sad for the rest of his life.

Today was: taking the day off work and writing in a white haze, as quickly as I could type, linking the visions I had together with words; and, when the dust had settled (and two coffee shops and two battery charges later), discovering that I had written 12,000 words in one day to finish at 6:30pm at the Borders in Los Gatos, resulting in a novel, in its first and roughest form. It needs to be longer, and needs so much editing it’s painful, but on the whole I’m very glad that I did this.

Today was: being bothered by past ghosts, and following a kindly given yet strict regimen of Joy Division and Smiths in order to try and conquer them.

Today was: bocce ball, and dinner with friends, and going home.

Today is: bed.

Already I’m thinking: what the hell was I thinking?

The idea is simple if mind-numbing in scope. You try to write a novel, along with 5,000 other souls, in one month. That works out to about 1700 words per day. This is… a lot of text, actually. At least four pages of text per day, every day.

As far as I can tell, there are some tricks to make this easier: Don’t worry about a coherent or logical plot. Don’t worry about character consistency. Don’t worry about the quality of the text, or whether it’s understandable. The models for this are more like James Joyce’s Ulysses, or maybe Faulkner. Feel free to switch points of view, jump between different periods of time, even within the same sentence. Heck, even the concept of “sentence” is a limiting concept that can be ignored in pursuit of the word count.

So, I have no plot in mind, no story line, except that I know it needs to be something for which it is relatively easy to add chapters, like Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, and I will undoubtedly be ripping off actual events from my life and disgorging them into the text, which means that I should probably set it in current era.

Should be fun.

The lady that graded the test was this off-putting schoolteacher type with horn-rimmed glasses, but she was actually pretty nice. She gave me the right answers to the questions that I missed, although there was one that I disagreed with:

You are writing a story set in “a day in the life” of an artist that lived in the 1930s (the story is in first person). While never married, he had a platonic relationship for many years with a woman that was 14 years younger. You are unable to find any evidence that there was any physical relationship, but there are a series of letters that indicate a deep and abiding affection between the two. Do you:

1. Don’t bring it up at all, the evidence is not conclusive
2. Mention the letters in the story, with potential quotes from them in the protagonist’s voice (as in, “I thought once again about the letter I had written her so many years ago…”)
3. Extrapolate the emotions and have them expressed in the protagonist’s voice (as in, “I looked at her, and once again was struck by her beauty…”)
4. Create a minor physical action to express emotions (as in, “I adjusted a wayward lock of her hair as I looked into her eyes”)
5. Create a major physical action to express emotion (as in, “We ripped off our clothes in our mad pursuit…”)

It turns out they think the right answer is “3,” but I think that it’s “2″; if you’re going to do 3, you might as well go all the way to 4!