Writing Residencies: Five Weeks on the Side of a Mountain October 30, 2014Posted by Lofty Ambitions in Writing.
Tags: Art & Science, Writing Retreats
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DOUG’S OVERVIEW (PART 1)
Warning—this post uses a bit of profanity. It’s so commonplace in the adult world that most of us take in for granted. That said, Lofty Ambitions has some younger readers. In fact, Anna and I have received email from some parents indicating that they read our blog with their children. We love that part of our audience, and it’s garnered some of our favorite anecdotes over the years.
Just before I went to Dorland Mountain Arts Colony at the end of the summer, I saw the following quote in my Twitter stream:
Novelist’s prime rule: Shitty first drafts. The need for perfection has killed more novels than N.Y. editors.
I’ve left the name of the Twitter user off of the tweet because that person didn’t acknowledge the origin of the quote. It comes from Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.
Besides the beautiful serendipity of being reminded of Bird by Bird in a tweet (rimshot!), Lamott’s book often comes up when writers discussed their favorite books on writing. In fact, I’ve heard more than one writer express that it’s their absolute favorite book on craft. Here’s the full quote, which I find to be very instructive.
Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren’t even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they’re doing it.
Although I had never been completely paralyzed by an abject pursuit of perfection, I have on occasion hindered my own progress through attempts to get everything just right before being able to move on. This quote and the intention behind it had arrived at just the right moment. I adopted it as a mantra for my recent stay at Dorland. I vowed that I would move continuously forward on my novel project and that I would worry about making things better—less shitty—in revision.
Some of this was a practical necessity. My sabbatical (or, in the parlance of the library where I work, a professional development leave) was extensive but not endless. The deadline imposed by the end of my leave was looming six weeks in the future, and if I was going to get a complete draft of my novel, something was going to have to fall by the wayside. The pursuit of perfection—a doomed folly in the first place—seemed a perfectly logical thing to give up.
Anna and I are starting to feel a significant connection to Dorland. Like most of us, I grow attached to places. In a midlife discovery that continues to surprise me, the desert has become an important place for me. Years ago, I took a sunrise horseback ride in the desert near Wickenburg, Arizona. For me, during that first desert foray on the back of the horse, it was the colors and the clarity of the light. I later tried to describe the experience to Anna in a phone call. She laughed at me then. Now, Anna and I have both grown fond of the landscape of New Mexico’s high desert near Los Alamos and Santa Fe as well as at Dorland. It’s quiet, hot, dry, removed somehow from the world with which we’re more familiar. The desert reminds us that only certain types of plants and creatures survive in certain environments.
Our stays at Dorland have often included surprises. During my recent stay, an enormous thunderstorm swept over the Palomar Mountains, and it rained. Hard. The hard rain was followed by an even harder hailstorm. Did I mention that it hit 107 F that day? Two of my lizard friends took shelter on the porch of my cabin during the storm. Growing up in Illinois didn’t prepare me to write those words in a single sentence: desert, hailstorm, lizard.
Even though it happened little more than a year ago, one of our Dorland surprises has made into my family lore. This is, of course, the story of the tarantula who came to dinner. My father particularly likes this story. He’s asked me to retell it each time I’ve seen him over the past year. He likes it best of all when Anna is there to add the part that I’ve been accused of leaving out. It seems that my version doesn’t include a supposed squeal that I purportedly emitted upon seeing the tarantula. I have no memory of this scream. I don’t normally doubt the veracity of my wife’s claims, but hers is the only testimony of this event. When Anna chimes in with her bit, my father chuckles loudly. It’s almost a guffaw. I think he likes it that someone is able to keep my ego in check.
If you can’t already tell, I thoroughly enjoyed my most recent stay at Dorland. With five weeks on the side of Palomar Mountain at my disposal, I even managed to learn a few things about my self and about writing. I’ll cover those things in next week’s post.
JPL Open House 2014 (Part 2) October 22, 2014Posted by Lofty Ambitions in Science, Space Exploration.
Tags: Countdown to The Cold War, JPL, Mars, Physics
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On October 12th, Doug spent the day at the 2014 iteration of the NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory’s (JPL) Open House. You can read the first Lofty installment HERE, but there’s more! It was a day full of space-nerd goodness, and one of the highpoints was Site 18: “Flying Saucers for Mars.”
This particular site was dedicated to a project known to researchers by the acronym LDSD, the Low-Density Supersonic Demonstrators. Low-Density is a descriptor for Mars’s atmosphere, and Supersonic is an indication of the speed range where the balloons and parachutes are useful. To cut to the chase, we’re talking parachutes—parachutes for Mars—and how they work in a low-density atmosphere and at supersonic speeds.
Tommaso Rivellini, one of the EDL (Entry, Descent, and Landing) engineering leads for the Mars Curiosity lander, describes the problem as this in his article “The Challenges of Landing on Mars”:
Upon arrival at Mars, a spacecraft is traveling at velocities of 4 to 7 kilometers per second (km/s). For a lander to deliver its payload to the surface, 100 percent of this kinetic energy must be safely removed. Fortunately, Mars has an atmosphere substantial enough for the combination of a high-drag heat shield and a parachute to remove 99 percent and 0.98 percent respectively of the kinetic energy. Unfortunately, the Martian atmosphere is not substantial enough to bring a lander to a safe touchdown.
Kinetic energy is the energy of motion, and the wispy atmosphere of Mars—roughly 1% as dense as Earth’s atmosphere—is just thick enough for a parachute to do its job. So, unlike with Earthbound parachutes, that job doesn’t include gently lowering the lander to the surface. The atmosphere on Mars simply isn’t dense enough for a parachute to bring the mass of a spacecraft to the surface.
Our current Mars parachute designs date to the era of Viking Martian landers in 1976, and those parachute systems have reached their performance limits with the Mars Science Lander (MSL). More popularly known as Curiosity, the size of the one-ton MSL is often compared to a Mini Cooper automobile.
In order to deliver landers to Mars that are larger than Curiosity, or to land in a mountainous region—Mars has the largest mountain in the solar system in the 69,459 foot tall Olympus Mons and four other mountains which are taller than comparably puny Everest—NASA needs new parachute designs. LDSD steps in.
LDSD is suite of deceleration technologies being investigated by NASA. The project is being lead by principal investigator Dr. Ian Clark. Clark earned his PhD in Aerospace Engineering at Georgia Tech, and he has been awarded the prestigious Presidential Early Career Award for Scientists and Engineers.
The first LDSD testing mechanism that Clark discussed was a rocket sled used to test the SIAD-R (Supersonic Inflatable Aerodynamic Decelerator). This particular device isn’t a parachute. It’s more like an inflatable bladder that encircles the outer edge of a spacecraft’s aeroshell. This device is meant to slow the spacecraft from supersonic speeds (ranging from Mach 2 – 3.5) to subsonic speeds. A look at the videos with this post will give you an idea of the origin of the “flying saucer” part of the “Flying Saucers for Mars” title of this exhibit.
Clark indicated that the rocket sled, which he vividly described as a siege tower, was powered by Cold War-era solid rocket motors that had formerly been used as a part of a missile defense system for Los Angeles. Though he didn’t say it by name, Clark could only be talking about the Project Nike sites that ringed Los Angeles. It’s wonderful to think about these Cold Warriors being used for science as opposed to their original purpose.
The LDSD program also included the testing of a more traditional looking parachute, complete with a billowing canopy and long control lines. In keeping with the rigorous nature of its intended use, the parachute design also required some extreme engineering so that it might be tested in a manner that approximates its use. Because of the low density of the Martian atmosphere, the parachute has to be enormous to generate the necessary amount of drag to slow the spacecraft down. In this case, the parachute that was tested was thirty-four meters (roughly 110 feet) in diameter. A parachute this size is too large for a wind tunnel, and so it has to be tested outside. The parachute test rig resembled a Rube Goldberg device as much as something designed by NASA. For this test, a helicopter carried the parachute canopy aloft. Lines from the canopy (the line was nearly a kilometer in length) were connected via a wench/puller to yet another rocket sled. Once the helicopter released the canopy of the supersonic parachute, the rocket sled was ignited to tug on the parachute to simulate the forces to which it would be subject on Mars. In this test, the peak force generated by the rocket sled and transferred to the parachute was over 90,000 foot pounds. Although the parachute did develop a single tear, the test was deemed a success.
The second flying saucer (the test device really does resemble a saucer) of the LDSD program took part in an extremely ambitious test that was conducted this past summer. An enormous experimental balloon—it has a volume of more than 1million cubic meters and, according to Clark, when fully expanded it’s the size of the Rose Bowl—carried the test device to an altitude of 120,000 feet. Once the balloon reached this height, it released the saucer, and the fun began. A solid rocket motor fired, accelerated the saucer to Mach 4, and propelled it to an altitude of 180,000 feet. It’s necessary to conduct the test at this altitude, because this is the zone where Earth’s atmosphere most resembles that of Mars. At this point, the SIAD device expanded and began slowing the saucer from its top speed of Mach 4. At Mach 2.5, onboard sensors deployed the new supersonic parachute design. In this test, the supersonic parachute failed to fill completely with air, thus pointing out another design flaw. But, this is why testing is done, to find the weaknesses in a design. So it was a successful failure.
The total cost of the LDSD program is about $200M. Considering the price of the Curiosity mission was about $2.5B, this is a small price compared to the cost of real failure.
The Academic Minute: Science Meets Poetry October 20, 2014Posted by Lofty Ambitions in Science, Writing.
Tags: Art & Science, Books, Radioactivity
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On Saturday, Anna was featured on The Academic Minute, an NPR show out of WAMC that airs on stations nationwide, mostly in university towns. Her subject was the intersection of science and poetry. What’s great is that her segment–both audio and transcript–are now in the archives at The Academic Minute, and the page also includes tidbits about some of Anna’s poems that incorporate scientific terminology and concepts.
LISTEN/READ: ANNA ON THE ACADEMIC MINUTE
One of the recurring goals of both artists and scientists is to explain the universe. A poem can offer a particularized truth: a perspective that, because it is embodied in language that engages the intellect, senses, and emotions, offers knowledge of our world. Similarly, both poets and scientists are limited by the constraints of their respective disciplines, but the methodology and priorities of each are quite distinct.
JPL Open House 2014 October 15, 2014Posted by Lofty Ambitions in Space Exploration.
Tags: JPL, Mars
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This past weekend, October 11th and 12th, marked the return of the NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory’s (JPL) annual Open House. The 2013 event was canceled due to the federal government’s budgetary issues. The Lofty Duo has attended JPL’s Open House in previous years, but this year only Doug was able to make the trek up and around Los Angeles to JPL’s home in Pasadena.
JPL’s Open House is an intoxicating mix of Southern California street fair, STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, & Math) carnival, and full-on NerdFest. The Open House regularly draws upwards of 15,000 people on each of its two days. A casual glance around the JPL grounds made it seem as if this year’s event might actually top those numbers. Perhaps it was a bit of pent-up demand deriving from last year’s cancellation and people’s continuing enthusiasm for space exploration.
The Open House is also a large event from a geographical perspective. As the map of JPL’s event shows, there were 22 different sites at the JPL campus to visit, if a person had time. Several years ago, a museum exhibit curator told us that she planned for three kinds of patrons: streakers, strollers, and studiers. Here at Lofty Ambitions, we are definitely studiers. We read every bit of text that accompanies an exhibit, and we have been known to track down docents to get any lingering questions answered. In that context, Doug had to be very strategic in planning his JPL Open House experience.
The attendance figures that point to interest in science in general and space science in particular are heartening. However, large crowds also meant long lines for certain sites. Last time, this waiting led to a tiny bit of disappointment because we couldn’t see as much as we’d expected. Specifically, we were unable to make it into the Space Flight Operations Facility (SFOF). So, this time, the SFOF was his first stop.
Built in 1963, the SFOF is JPL’s mission control center for all of its interplanetary missions. The volunteer who introduced the SFOF pointed out that not only are the missions controlled via the SFOF, but all of the science data that is collected by the interplanetary probes and planetary rovers first passes through the computers of the SFOF.
Included among the missions currently controlled from the SFOF are the two still-active Mars rovers: the Mini Cooper-sized Curiosity and the more diminutive, but remarkably tenacious, Opportunity. As of this writing, Opportunity is on Sol 3813. A Sol is a Martian solar day, and it is roughly 3% longer than an Earth day. Opportunity and Spirit were originally designed for a 90-day mission length, and as the home page for the rovers proudly points out, it also means that Opportunity is 3723 Sols past its warranty. In other words, Opportunity has been operational 40 times longer that was planned.
In JPL’s mission control, the person in charge of a particular mission is known as the Ace. During this year’s Open House, the Aces for both Curiosity and Opportunity were present. The tour of the SFOF also included the room where Curiosity’s landing was controlled. A cardboard cut-out of the now famous “NASA Mohawk Guy,” Bobak Ferdowsi, stood keeping watch in the corner.
After the SFOF, Doug headed to site #17, Mobility and Robotic Technologies. On display in the parking lot of JPL Building 318 were a variety of rover-like vehicles. Two projects that caught Doug’s eye: TRESSA, or Teamed Robots for Exploration and Science on Steep Areas, and BRUIE, or Buoyant Rover for Under-Ice Exploration. Although the lengths that NASA scientists will go to for an acronym is often impressive in and of itself, the technology behind these two projects was more impressive.
TRESSA uses three collaborative robots—two so-called Anchorbots and a Cliffbot—to scale rocky slopes of up to 85 degrees. TRESSA was designed to perform experimental work similar to the Mars Exploration Rovers, Spirit and Opportunity. In the summer of 2006, TRESSA was tested in Norway.
BRUIE is a kind of submersible. It’s controlled like a rover, but it’s designed to crawl along the underside of open water ice. The ultimate hope would be to use a BRUIE-inspired robot to investigate the ocean’s of Jupiter’s moon, Europa.
Doug also had a chance to see a film about the Low-Density Supersonic Demonstrator project, so it was a full day and seems to deserve more than one post.
To read Part 2 about–wait for it–LDSD, click HERE.
Countdown to The Cold War: October 1944 October 8, 2014Posted by Lofty Ambitions in Science.
Tags: Books, Countdown to The Cold War, Nobel Prize, Nuclear Weapons
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In the book, Hanford and the Bomb: An Oral History of World War II, author S. L. Sanger gives perhaps the most straightforward description of Hanford’s role in the Manhattan Project:
In simplest terms, Hanford’s job was to make plutonium inside the nuclear reactors by bombarding uranium fuel with neutrons, and to separate the plutonium from the irradiated uranium. The first step was nuclear; the second was chemical.
The first Hanford nuclear reactor (also known as atomic piles in the 1940s) in which the bombardment process took place was the B Reactor. After a fifteenth-month construction period, scientists and engineers began coaxing the B Reactor into operation in the fall of 1944. The B Reactor initially went critical on September 26, 1944. But getting the B Reactor into operational status was a lengthy, problematic exercise. Many of those problems were diagnosed and solved 70 years ago this month, in October 1944.
When you think of the Hanford reactors, imagine a roughly square box—36 ft. x 28 ft. x 36 ft.—of graphite with horizontal holes that function as tubes running through the box. In order to create a functioning reactor, the horizontal tubes are filled with cans—“slugs” in the nuclear business—of uranium. The nuclear reactor goes critical when enough uranium is placed inside the graphite box. If everything is properly controlled, the reaction is said to be self-sustaining.
The Hanford reactors were designed with 2,004 horizontal tubes. There were also a number of tubes for control rods, also mounted horizontally, that cut across the 2,004 tubes designed to contain uranium. The control rods, as the name implies, were used to control the level of neutron production within the pile and, therefore, the power production of the reactor. There were a few tubes drilled vertically through the reactor as well. These tubes could be used to shut down the reactor in an emergency. That way, in the event of the failure of the control rods, a last-ditch system consisting of a boron solution could be dumped over the pile from five 105-gallon tanks positioned on top of the reactor.
The amount of material and effort that went into the construction of the reactors is staggering. In his book The History and the Science of the Manhattan Project, physicist Bruce Cameron Reed has the following to say:
The piles themselves were welded to be gas-tight, and contained 2.5 million cubic feet of masonite; 4,415 t of steel plate; 1,093 t of cast iron; 2,200 t of graphite; 221,000 feet of copper tubing; 176,700 feet of plastic tubing; and some 86,000 feet of aluminum tubing.
As he had with the first atomic pile—CP-1—famously built under the stands of the University of Chicago’s former football field, Enrico Fermi loaded the first uranium slugs into the B Reactor at Hanford. This action, informally known as “the blessing of the pope,” took place on September 13, 1944. Loading of uranium continued until various measures of criticality took place on September 15-18.
In late September, power levels in the B reactor began to fluctuate because of the creation of the fission product xenon-135. The xenon-135 was capturing neutrons at a greater rate than had been predicted, and the resulting effect played havoc with the reactor’s ability to sustain a nuclear reaction. The solution turned out to be to add more uranium into more of the reactor’s tubes. The effect was discovered at many power levels. As a result, for much of October the engineers and scientists continued to add more uranium slugs to the reactor.
About the construction of Hanford as a whole, Reed says, “The total volume of land excavated at Hanford was equivalent to about 10% of that of the Panama Canal.” Though Hanford is almost entirely decommissioned now, the volume of radioactive waste that remains there makes it the most contaminated nuclear site in the United States.
Writing Residencies: Dorland and Balancing Projects October 1, 2014Posted by Lofty Ambitions in Writing.
Tags: Writing Retreats
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ANNA’S UPDATE (See the previous update from Anna HERE.) First, an aside. Please take this post as a reminder to back up your hard drive! Because I was aware of writing new pieces every weekend, I became more cognizant of backing up my hard drive each week. According to one data storage company, more than one-quarter of people report never backing up their data, fewer than that report backing up at least weekly, those over 55 are more likely than the 18-44 crowd to back up data frequently, and men back up frequently at a higher rate than women. If you’ve added stuff you can’t afford to lose, make sure it’s saved in a second place—external hard drive, cloud, emailed to yourself, copied on a usb stick, something.
I often have differently sized writing projects at different stages of development. Setting several things in motion, knowing that not all things will pan out, has risks and sometimes makes my progress look slow for a while. Still, I’ve heard other writers talk about the need to juggle projects in order to increase chances of success, and it’s the tack I tend to take.
Usually, I jot a writing project on my list of things to do and, if it has a deadline, jot it on my calendar in a couple of places as well (when it’s due but also a reminder of when to really get working on it seriously). I fit such a writing project into my job obligations and make steady progress. Or, sometimes, I don’t fit it in, maybe I can’t meet that soft but important starting date, or maybe I make tough decisions about how to spend my time, and I let it drop off my list.
Before this month going back and forth between Dorland Mountain Arts Colony and home, I’ve never as consciously thought about and planned ahead how to use my day-to-day-to-day schedule to make steady progress on specific writing projects. The compartmentalization of this month (which I wrote about in a previous post) has given me a way to schedule writing projects more consciously and steadily. When I’m not at Dorland, I don’t work on these writing projects at all, other than to print a draft or pack a book that might be a good reference point. Another long weekend of writing is ahead, and I plan for that time.
What’s great about my current writing schedule is that I’m able to work on the big project—a book I’m writing with a colleague in another field—over the whole month, bits and pieces at a time. Because I rewrote that manuscript on the whole over the summer and most chapters also had edits on hard copy before this Dorland back-and-forth began, I can keep dropping in and out of the revising process without losing momentum. This steady, unpressured pace will get me to the soft deadline I have with my co-author in another week. (We’ll have more work to do, but we’ll be working with something complete.)
In addition to making progress on the big project, my goal for each long weekend at Dorland is to finish the small project I’d started the previous weekend and to start another small project. (I don’t finish even tiny projects in one weekend because I need time and perspective between drafting and revising.) Each small project is something very specific that I can draft one weekend and revise the next, maybe a short essay or a couple of poems. These do not emerge out of a general impulse that I must write. Each emerges from not only an idea but also an assignment of sorts, a particular journal’s submissions guidelines, for instance.
Writing residencies are great for large projects, and that’s how I’ve treated residencies before and how Doug is treating his residency now—with a book project as the priority, a big risk in some ways. (We always also keep up with this blog.) This time, by figuring out how to balance projects according to my compartmentalized schedule, I leave Dorland each weekend with something complete—an essay, a couple of poems. Once thus far, I submitted a two-weekend finished piece as soon as I made my way through traffic back home to wifi. Journalists work on tight deadlines, and maybe that’s more realistic than I’d led myself to believe all these years.
Also, while I’m at home, I have the in-progress essay or poem in the back of mind, as I teach, wander among meetings, catch up with laundry, and back up my hard drive. In a way, that’s the sort of approach Ernest Hemingway took, ending his day of writing before he’d exhausted the idea or scene at hand, knowing exactly what he’d be jumping back into in the morning. As I make the drive back to Dorland for each long weekend, I know what’s waiting for me there: a specific writing task and, of course, Doug. On those drives, I’m often smiling both coming and going and thinking, How amazing is that!
Countdown to the Cold War: September 1944 September 24, 2014Posted by Lofty Ambitions in Science.
Tags: Books, Cancer, Countdown to The Cold War, Nuclear Weapons, Physics, Radioactivity, WWII
In the last couple of posts, we’ve begun our Countdown to the Cold War by talking about the reorganized at Los Alamos in the fall of 1944 to develop a method known as implosion. You can read the last post in the series by clicking HERE.
The next step on the Manhattan Project’s Countdown to the Cold War occurred on September 22, 1944, and was known as the RaLa experiment. Very early in the implosion research program, it became obvious that being able to systematically verify the success or failure of implosion would be a crucial measure for success. But very few experimental measures of implosion existed at the time.
In particular, for a successful atomic weapon, it was imperative that the scientists be able to engineer a symmetric implosion. Early attempts at creating implosion revealed a wide range of asymmetric behaviors that scattered material unevenly. In order to measure the symmetry of implosion, it became necessary to observe implosion events with instruments. One technique that was developed for observing implosion was known as RaLa.
RaLa is a shorthand for the active ingredient in a RaLa test: radiolanthanum. Radiolanthanum (La-140) is a manmade radioactive isotope of lanthanum. According to Critical Assembly (by Hoddesson, et al), Robert Serber first outlined what would become the RaLa method on November 1, 1943. Serber was arguably Robert Oppenheimer’s right-hand man at Los Alamos and someone familiar to folks there for the Los Alamos Primer, the introductory lectures that kicked off the Manhattan Project’s bomb design effort.
The RaLa method depended upon the use of gamma radiation given off by the radiolanthanum isotope. Gamma radiation—or just gamma rays—are a very energetic type of electromagnetic radiation. The EPA.gov website devoted to radiation protection has this to say about gamma rays:
Gamma photons have about 10,000 times as much energy as the photons in the visible range of the electromagnetic spectrum. Gamma photons have no mass and no electrical charge. The are pure electromagnetic energy.
Highly energetic gamma rays travel at the speed of light and easily pass through most materials. It is this set of properties that made them useful in characterizing the implosion necessary for setting off an atomic bomb.
Serber hypothesized that by placing an amount of radiolanthanum in the center of the metal sphere to be compressed by implosion, the strength of the gamma rays emitted during that implosion would vary in such a way that the scientists could use instruments to understand how symmetrical the implosion was. Serber knew that, as an implosion event progressed in a metallic core (uranium or plutonium for the atom bomb), there would be significant changes in the density of the material being compressed. These changes in density would retard the gamma rays in predictable ways. In addition, because the gamma rays would radiate out from the center of the sphere, the scientists would be able to collect information about the implosion in three physical dimensions.
Given that the radiolanthanum material would be at the center of an explosion, there would of course be radioactive debris and dispersal of that debris. Gamma radiation is ionizing—releases electrons—and therefore has biological implications, meaning that it affects human bodies. And because gamma rays penetrate materials, they can be very dangerous. In this way, the RaLa experiments constitute the world’s first production of radioactive fallout, a waft of the Cold War to come. In order to minimize human exposure to the radiation that would be released, the RaLa experiments were held offsite in Bayo Canyon, located about two miles east of Los Alamos—a sort of lab away from lab. Checking the wind direction or measuring fallout, however, weren’t much a priority for these early radioactive test explosions.
Writing Residencies: Dorland & Compartmentalization September 17, 2014Posted by Lofty Ambitions in Collaboration, Writing.
Tags: Books, Writing Retreats
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Two weeks ago, we wrote about going “Back to Dorland” and how we are doing things differently this time.
As a writer, I’ve had a love–hate relationship with compartmentalization. It’s taken me years to successfully combat notions that I should get other tasks—seemingly quick or urgent tasks—out of the way before sitting down to write. I like crossing items of my list of things to do. It makes me feel efficient. It’s been tough to do writing first on a given day or in a given week. It doesn’t help that writing is more difficult to complete in a way that’s crossed of the official list. But when writing is not done first, it’s less likely to get done that day or that week.
Though I’m not a morning person, not writing first thing risks not writing when I have the most energy, am most clear headed, and am least distractible. The One Thing by Gary Keller makes some hard-to-swallow leaps in its argument for radical reprioritizing and rescheduling but makes a good point that, as we work through decisions and focus on multiple tasks during a given day, our willpower gets used up. “So, if you want to get the most out of your day, do your most important work—your ONE thing—early, before your willpower is drawn down.”
An even more dangerous version of that get-other-stuff-done-first approach is the deceptive notion that, if only I could get all other tasks accomplished, I would have long stretches of time to write without any distraction. As melodious as that kind of thinking sounds and as much as my list of things whistles that tune of one more thing and one more thing, it’s impossible in real life to get everything else accomplished first.
If I am to write, other tasks—whether completed or pending, whether trivial or pressing—must be set aside. Writing residencies encourage a person to do that in a big way, for weeks at a time. But unlike Doug, I’m not at Dorland for a month straight. I’m on a writing residency for a few days at a time, then back in the semester for a few days, then back to Dorland, and so on.
When I’m at home, I’m completely focused on teaching, meetings, getting up to speed in my new role in the Office of Undergraduate Research, working on curriculum revision, socializing with colleagues, and such. If it’s a teaching day, that’s the priority—prepping and being fully engaged in class. I might go to a meeting before class, but only if I’m ready for class. On Wednesdays, I do one meeting, then the next, with other tasks (like lunch! and email or spontaneous conversation) in between as time allows. It’s intense but not frantic because it’s all scheduled. Because my schedule is tight, unimportant tasks fall away. I’m still being efficient (slashing through my list of things to do), but I’m being more effective as well (taking more control of what’s on the list in the first place).
This jam-packed, time-blocked schedule has taught me something about email and requests from colleagues that The One Thing mentions: “Most often, these requests are more about an immediate need to hand a task off than about a need for it to be done immediately […].” In other words, I can, more often than I’d previously realized, acknowledge a task without immediately doing that task. And I can respond in ways that assure but also delay or delegate so that everyone feels less urgency. And perhaps for the first time, I see that more tasks than I’d expected aren’t important enough or relevant enough for me to do. When that happens, I feel surprisingly okay saying, No.
When I’m there immersed in the semester, I don’t think much about writing (except as something that I’m going back to in a few days). Work-work is switched on, and that overrides everything. It’s intense—the original Latin suggests, holding tightly in my grasp—in a way that fuels itself. Thus far, I’m incredibly productive at work-work. And then I drag my suitcase to the car and turn that mode off.
When I’m at Dorland, I’m completely focused on writing. Sure, we take a break to see a movie on Friday night, to sit on the porch each morning after breakfast, to walk the hill to clear our heads and tend to the exercise of our physical bodies (even when it’s 109 degrees, as it was this past weekend). I also make sure I know exactly what I must do to prepare for Tuesday’s class and allot time for that, even if it’s the end of my Dorland time—students can’t be set aside. Such breaks in activity, however, don’t undermine or compete with my focus on writing.
Writing—the creative work—is the priority for every day at Dorland. I’m relaxed and open to ideas. Time there feels large and flexible, curving to my wants. I sleep well and without an alarm. I write for hours at a stretch. I read a little, with writing in mind.
This past weekend, I reread Leo Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilyich (translated by husband-and-wife collaborators! Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky). So, in those moments when I worry that I’m living a crazy month or shirking the expected routine, I recall Ivan Ilyich’s despair in the weeks before he dies:
“Maybe I did not live as I should have?” would suddenly come into his head. “But how not, if I did everything one ought to do?” he would say to himself and at once drive this sole solution to the whole riddle of life and death away from him as something completely impossible.
That first weekend after the semester started, I got nervous about work-work—about not doing what I ought—so I checked email while at Dorland. That was a mistake. I couldn’t not respond. Worse, I logged in again later, checking for responses to my responses. Email wasn’t merely a distraction. The One Thing states, “For time blocks to actually block time, they must be protected. […] So it’s your job to protect your time blocks from all those who don’t know what matters most to you, and from yourself when you forget.” Email and all the tasks it suggested inserted itself in my mindset and threatened my focus on writing. I need to keep the partitions up. As Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said, “Things which matter most must never be at the mercy of things which matter least.” At Dorland, writing matters most.
My life is compartmentalized this month, and I like it. This drastic partitioning of work-work and writing may be unsustainable for the long haul. (I may need, at the very least, a full day off from both modes soon.) The geographical switch—one mode at home, a different mode at Dorland—certainly helps reinforce the partitioning and keep me going. Compartmentalization as I’ve never known it before seems good for my writing right now.
Countdown to The Cold War: August 1944 (3) September 10, 2014Posted by Lofty Ambitions in Science.
Tags: Books, Countdown to The Cold War, Nuclear Weapons, Radioactivity, WWII
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In our post two weeks ago, we mentioned implosion as an assembly method for a critical mass. The critical mass is the amount of fissile material—in the form of uranium or plutonium—necessary to set-up the uncontrolled fission chain reaction that’s at the heart of a nuclear weapon. Implosion was one of three original assembly methods evaluated during the Manhattan Project: autocatalysis, the gun method, and implosion. The scientists at Los Alamos, however, had no experience using explosives to systematically create the symmetric, spherical blast wave necessary to compress solid materials for implosion. Indeed, in one of the official histories of the Manhattan Project, David Hawkins says the following:
[T]he behavior of solid matter under the thermodynamical conditions created by an implosion went far beyond current laboratory experience. As even its name implies, the implosion seemed “against nature.”
Physicist Seth Neddermeyer was an early advocate of the implosion method, and he began a serious investigation of the process in 1943. By mid-1944, because of plutonium’s propensity for spontaneous fission, it became clearer that, if there was to be an atomic bomb that used plutonium, then implosion was the only viable assembly method. The progress that Neddermeyer’s team had made on the implosion problem was deemed to be inadequate, though, and Neddermeyer was replaced. The realization that implosion was an extremely complicated problem set off a reorganization of Los Alamos that saw the creation of entirely new research groups, promotion or hiring of scientists to lead those groups, and realignment within existing research groups.
What’s remarkable about the Los Alamos reorganization is the breadth of the changes and the speed with which they were executed in the fall of 1944. A letter in mid-June, a series of meetings in July, and final approval on July 20th, 1944—1, 2, 3, go. The changes required by the reorganization were considered to be in effect on August 14th, 1944. The gun design was considered to be making acceptable progress under the leadership of Navy Captain William “Deak” Parsons. Parsons had been in charge of the Ordnance Division, and perhaps the biggest change that underwent was becoming the O Division. The two most important of the newly created divisions were X Division and G Division. X Division—X for Explosives—was headed by Harvard physical chemist George Kistiakowsky. Kisti’s group was responsible for every engineering and development aspect of creating the explosive system used to render the implosion. G Division—G for Gadget—was led by Robert Bacher and became responsible for all of the aspects of the bomb that had to do with its nuclear core, the so-called plutonium pit. In addition, because of G Division’s responsibility for the pit, they were also charged with developing various experimental methodologies for evaluating the effectiveness of the implosion—in particular, measure for validating the compression of solid materials. Importantly, the series of organizational changes that enhanced the overall understanding of the implosion-based atomic bomb. So, existing divisions such as R Division (Research, the Experimental Physics Division prior to the reorganization) and T Division (Theory) adjusted as the focus on implosion took hold across the laboratory at Los Alamos.
The Manhattan Project’s leadership, spurred on by J. Robert Oppenheimer, saw a problem and worked effectively to address that problem. This speedy, drastic effort that reorganized the Manhattan Project reminds us of an engineering analogy that used to come up in computer systems development: replacing a car’s engine as you’re going down the highway at 70 mile per hour. Just over two months time elapsed from the proposed changes to their implementation, with research continuing all the while. The development of the implosion device, the Gadget, was the primary focus of the laboratory from this reorganization in August 1944 until the Trinity test of the first atomic weapon on July 16, 1945. The Countdown to the Cold War was well underway 70 years ago today.
Writing Residencies: Back to Dorland September 3, 2014Posted by Lofty Ambitions in Collaboration, Writing.
Tags: Writing Retreats
While we understand the importance of a daily writing habit, we cannot deny the intense productivity that writing residencies have fostered for us in the last few years. We have written before about Dorland Mountain Arts Colony HERE (including links to other posts) and HERE and about Ragdale HERE. Earlier this summer, we wrote about our self-designed writing retreat in Santa Fe HERE and HERE.
We are, once again, back at Dorland, only we’re doing the same thing differently this time, together and separately. Doug has a professional development leave—a sabbatical—from his work as a librarian. Months ago, as soon as his leave was approved, Doug contacted Dorland to apply for a September writing residency so that he could work on his novel. The Chief and the Gadget. We fought traffic on Labor Day weekend to find ourselves back on that mountainside, the dry, peaceful air welcoming us.
We stocked up on groceries right away, made the bed, unpacked some of our clothes and books, and watched the sunset. The cabin is small but not tiny. One large room houses writing space, a piano, and the kitchen (as well as a fireplace that we won’t need this time), and the bedroom and bathroom are toward the back. Two tables serve as our desks, nothing fancy. The view through the window from one desk is spectacular.
We wrote most of Sunday, taking breaks to peer at the mountains from the porch and to brainstorm through ideas with each other. The temperature outside neared 100 degrees, but the window air conditioning unit kept the whole cabin comfortable. When the sun sets, the air cools quickly, and nighttime temperatures run in the 60s. The environment relaxes and focuses us every day. Our day-to-day lives, including the usual hum of sounds, and the rest of the world feel far removed. All that’s here, really, is time, space, and our ideas and words.
But Anna is not on sabbatical and had to turn around to head home on Monday to dive into a busy fall semester of teaching, coordinating the Tabula Poetica reading series, and learning the ropes in her new position as Co-Director of the Office of Undergraduate Research. She can’t spend the entire month away from home completely focused on her writing projects, one of which is relatively new and big. This writing residency is Doug’s time.
Anna can, however, spend weekends at Dorland, timing her drive to miss the heaviest traffic. We are grateful that Dorland welcomed our plan for Doug to have the residency full time and Anna to stay for a few days each week. Anna has already started compartmentalizing her September schedule so that, when she’s on campus for several days, she can be all in there with those tasks, and when she’s at Dorland for a weekend, she can be all in there with her writing projects.
In theory, this schedule sounds great, not only because it focuses on one thing at a time but also because it offers long stretches of writing time. Will it work in practice? Can such a schedule work for one individual when other people—students, colleagues, friends—are not living by the same schedule, in which each day of the week has been demarcated by location and task? And if it does work, is it possible to compartmentalize in similar ways—Tuesday is a teaching day, Wednesday is a meeting day, Friday is a writing day—without the structure of a writing residency? Or is it better—less stressful, more productive, more sustainable—to cultivate a daily writing habit of shorter stretches?
Of course, Doug’s plan—a month devoted almost exclusively to writing—sounds to us like the best way for a writer to spend a given month. But not all writers have that opportunity. And he, too, will return to his day-to-day job in a few weeks. These questions about how to schedule writing—how not to let writing get squeezed out of one’s schedule—matter a great deal to any writer.
Every writer must figure out how to manage the stuff of life—family, a job, bills, laundry, email, world news, all of it. There exists no set formula for the writing life that we can all adopt successfully. In fact, looking back on our posts about writing, we have no one answer even for ourselves. We’ve alternated our own approaches over the last several years. We’ve returned to Dorland because we had such a great experience here before, but it’s different this time as we embark on it separately and together.