I’m
not entirely sure what I was expecting when I signed up to work with
the equestrian crew at a Boyscout camp two summers ago. I had filled my
head with romantic notions of helping young boys overcome their fear of
giant lumbering horses and getting to lead trail rides. I had worked
as a volunteer for two summers, for the most part keeping up with the
paid wranglers. Being on staff just meant I would be on payroll and not
have as much time to see friends in the summer.
I
showed up with a sleeping bag, various “necessities”, and ambition. I
left with the sleeping bag, some trail dust, and a better view about
what was important to me.
First
unnecessary necessity: soap. When you work at a summer camp with
horses that need fed and groomed daily, “dawn to dusk” takes on a much
more visceral meaning. When you wake up at six to feed, turn out the
horses from the last trail ride at nine, and it takes an hour for you to
wind down, energy becomes a valuable resource. I had never realized
how much energy it took to do menial tasks until I found myself trimming
fat at the end of the day. Talking took calories. Standing
took calories. To that end, showering took calories. So when we
headed to the shower house at night, I was faced with a decision: call
Alien (then my boyfriend) with the relatively better reception, or
actually clean my filthy body? More than once I chose the phone call.
Sometimes I would finish the phone call with just enough time to tear
off my clothes and throw my stanky self in the tail end of the hot
water, put on the same dirty clothes, go home and fall asleep. And when
you’re surrounded by pubescent boys all day in the hot sun, ain’t nobody gonna say you smell.
Second
unnecessary necessity: cash. I had brought some pocket change with me
to spend at the trading post whenever I caught a spare break. Spare
breaks never happen at a horse camp. When resting a sore and blistered
foot is seen as lollygagging, the dreams of a frozen trading post
slushie quickly died. So the cash sat in my wallet, silently crying to
be converted into tiny ice crystals and juice. Instead, it (and most of
my paycheck) was converted into gasoline every other weekend in order
to visit Alien.
Third
unnecessary necessity: dignity. As a first year on staff, anything and
everything I did had to be taught to me by someone else. This can get
particularly frustrating when the Boss (who runs things on paper),
Slender (who knows how to run things in actuality) and Alpha (who ran
everything in her mind)
all ask you to perform the same task differently. I quickly learned to
apologize for my every shortcoming, and watch my back before scrubbing
the horse tank. Because if you used THAT broom when Alpha was watching?
Well, there went ten minutes of your life. Besides performing every
task incorrectly, there was the matter that you were forced to live in
close quarters (and I do mean close)
with the same people for three months out of the year. Dignity becomes
an unknown entity as your campmates watch your silly habits.
And
finally, an unexpected necessity: Friendship. Without Slender and Red,
I wouldn’t have lasted a week out at that camp. Slender acted as my
protective big brother, making sure the scouts didn’t steamroll me
during merit badge classes, and showing me the ropes of wranglerhood.
Red’s bright spirit kept me going through the storms, both literal and
emotional, that camp inevitably brings. They both made sure I drank
water and find times to give me a break during the hottest part of the
day. We traded trail ride shifts when one of us was tired, usually with
Slender picking up the slack for both of us. We spent our evenings
sharing stories, from the day, from previous camps, and from life in
general. Through the shared trials and tribulations, I forged a strong
friendship with the pair.
That
summer taught me more about “honest work” than I could have ever asked
for. I know what it’s like now, when the only option is to keep going.
I know what it’s like to be so bone tired that walking and eating
become reflexes instead of activities. I’ve learned what joy there is
in teaching (and learning from) young children, and in working with
horses. It wasn’t always magical, and for what it paid, I can never go
back. But that doesn’t mean I’m sorry to have experienced it, and I
will continue to urge my colleagues to take similar challenges. It’s
amazing to see what happens when you’re pushed to your limits. It’s
rarely painless, but it’s always informative.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
The Importance of Place
Alien
has this nasty habit of playing his games at full volume. And even if
he has headphones on, the excitement of League of Legends often pushes
him to speak over the perceived volume of his surroundings. I groaned.
I was hoping to stay in my pajamas all day, but I had ten more pages to
write (and edit?) before five, and I had slept in til eleven.
Grudgingly, I threw on some real clothes, grabbed Pikachu and my
favorite hoodie, cranked the old Mark VII to life, and headed for my
local Scooters.
I’ve been in and out of coffee shops for the past couple of weeks to write papers. There are several here in my city that serve my purposes, but I find myself drawn constantly to the Scooters. It’s a bit odd, when I think about it really. The Coffee House and The Mill and Crescent Moon are all beautiful places, filled with local charm and fellow students. So why the Scooters? Why do I vote with my time and money for this chain instead of the places so belovedly labeled as “local”?
Part of it has to do with the drinks. The Scooter’s flagship store was walking distance from my high school, and it was there that I first learned to suck down caffeinated bean juice. Since the first ever Scooters was in my hometown, I always felt a small piece of pride for choosing them over Starbucks (who to this day I claim makes drinks that are too harsh, too sugary, and over all sub par to my beloved chain). In a sense, every Scooter’s feels like a piece of home to me. A place where I’m safe, and connected to community.
Places have always had a special significance to me. When I dream, I remember settings better than I do characters or plots. When I was given a choice to do my grading conference in my teacher’s office or at a local coffee shop, I sighed with relief and signed up for the coffee shop immediately. I knew that in a relaxed atmosphere, with a random collection of fellow caffeine addicts, that I wouldn’t feel so pressured to perform. There was just something about a professor’s office. No matter how many trinkets and pictures of grandchildren they have, the oppressing, judging weight of their bookshelves, filled with knowledge I didn’t have always feels imposing. I feel like a baby kitten newly adopted, brought home with the promise of a loving family, only to discover the crazy old tomcat they also own. No matter how welcome they claim I am, I know that I’m on their turf.
Visiting places from my childhood have a stronger sense of nostalgia than objects, scents, or sounds from those times. Going back to my elementary school to perform as a show choir in high school was a charming moment for me. It was more than just giving back to my old teachers and inspiring the young dreamers: it was the trading of space. Instead of sitting in the audience, I was performing on those squeaky cork and metal risers. There was a beauty to that role reversal that I’ve never quite been able to explain, but I certainly think the space played an important role.
My mother would probably laugh if she knew how important my room was to me growing up. It always looked like a wreck. There were brief pauses for the carpet to breathe (once at the beginning of school, once at spring cleaning), but otherwise the only way to move was by following the trails that led to the closet, the dresser, and my bed. But my room, every one I’ve had, has been an important place for me. It’s a place that I can quietly be me, without having to speak or prove myself to anyone. A place where I can ignore the world, and meditate on my own writing, reading, and faith.
Perhaps that is why moving into the dorms was so strange to me. As much as I loved Captain Planet (soul roomies for life yo), living with her meant that “my” space became “our” space. I was forced to find other places in which I could find quiet time for my soul. I felt a certain pride in discovering writing in coffee shops. I had never been able to think or act privately in a public place. And yet now, as I sing along with the Christmas music to the annoyance of my fellow patrons, I know that I have honed that skill to perfection.
So Alien, I hope that you are enjoying your game of League of Legends, shouting at your brother and best friend over Ventrillo to stop feeding towers and not calling MIA. In the meantime, I’ll suck down my favorite flavored bean juice, and relish my ability to be at peace with myself in the noise of the anonymity.
I’ve been in and out of coffee shops for the past couple of weeks to write papers. There are several here in my city that serve my purposes, but I find myself drawn constantly to the Scooters. It’s a bit odd, when I think about it really. The Coffee House and The Mill and Crescent Moon are all beautiful places, filled with local charm and fellow students. So why the Scooters? Why do I vote with my time and money for this chain instead of the places so belovedly labeled as “local”?
Part of it has to do with the drinks. The Scooter’s flagship store was walking distance from my high school, and it was there that I first learned to suck down caffeinated bean juice. Since the first ever Scooters was in my hometown, I always felt a small piece of pride for choosing them over Starbucks (who to this day I claim makes drinks that are too harsh, too sugary, and over all sub par to my beloved chain). In a sense, every Scooter’s feels like a piece of home to me. A place where I’m safe, and connected to community.
Places have always had a special significance to me. When I dream, I remember settings better than I do characters or plots. When I was given a choice to do my grading conference in my teacher’s office or at a local coffee shop, I sighed with relief and signed up for the coffee shop immediately. I knew that in a relaxed atmosphere, with a random collection of fellow caffeine addicts, that I wouldn’t feel so pressured to perform. There was just something about a professor’s office. No matter how many trinkets and pictures of grandchildren they have, the oppressing, judging weight of their bookshelves, filled with knowledge I didn’t have always feels imposing. I feel like a baby kitten newly adopted, brought home with the promise of a loving family, only to discover the crazy old tomcat they also own. No matter how welcome they claim I am, I know that I’m on their turf.
Visiting places from my childhood have a stronger sense of nostalgia than objects, scents, or sounds from those times. Going back to my elementary school to perform as a show choir in high school was a charming moment for me. It was more than just giving back to my old teachers and inspiring the young dreamers: it was the trading of space. Instead of sitting in the audience, I was performing on those squeaky cork and metal risers. There was a beauty to that role reversal that I’ve never quite been able to explain, but I certainly think the space played an important role.
My mother would probably laugh if she knew how important my room was to me growing up. It always looked like a wreck. There were brief pauses for the carpet to breathe (once at the beginning of school, once at spring cleaning), but otherwise the only way to move was by following the trails that led to the closet, the dresser, and my bed. But my room, every one I’ve had, has been an important place for me. It’s a place that I can quietly be me, without having to speak or prove myself to anyone. A place where I can ignore the world, and meditate on my own writing, reading, and faith.
Perhaps that is why moving into the dorms was so strange to me. As much as I loved Captain Planet (soul roomies for life yo), living with her meant that “my” space became “our” space. I was forced to find other places in which I could find quiet time for my soul. I felt a certain pride in discovering writing in coffee shops. I had never been able to think or act privately in a public place. And yet now, as I sing along with the Christmas music to the annoyance of my fellow patrons, I know that I have honed that skill to perfection.
So Alien, I hope that you are enjoying your game of League of Legends, shouting at your brother and best friend over Ventrillo to stop feeding towers and not calling MIA. In the meantime, I’ll suck down my favorite flavored bean juice, and relish my ability to be at peace with myself in the noise of the anonymity.
Learn the New, Respect the Old
At
thanksgiving this year, somewhere between turkey and pie, I had a
chance to listen to the stories of my elders. My Granny had been newly
introduced to someone’s great uncle, and the two of them began sharing
stories about what it was like to grow up in the fifties. I had already
heard Granny’s stories about how she would sew everything her family
wore, but the gentleman she was speaking to proved to have a wealth of
new stories. He told us about the cave they used as a cellar half a
mile away from home, and how they stored watermelons in oatmeal to keep
them fresh as the day they were picked all winter long.
I listened with rapture as the two of them spoke. No doubt some of the others were bored out of their minds, licking their already clean plates and starting hunting parties in search of dessert. Some of them grumbled about the “back in the day” discussion. Some of them ignored it entirely. But I remained at the table to listen to these two old people talk, learning tidbits of wisdom from their previous years.
Ninety percent of what I leaned will never be useful. I can hardly fit a watermelon in my fridge, let alone store a barrel of oats to pack it in. But these pieces of knowledge, if not shared with a younger generation, will die out. Perhaps later a scientist will discover the chemical compound Rolledoatium and write vast scientific essays about its uses in preserving fruits with high water content. Perhaps they won't. And it would certainly be easier to remember these facts than attempt to discover them all on our own.
There’s an amazing danger of losing these old anecdotes and knowledge to the void of death if we refuse to record them. Gone are the days of Bible times when a priest could recite the Old Testament by memory. But I don’t speak with anguish of “times gone by”: our generation has never developed that recall because we have technology to remember things for us. We don’t remember things because, in reality, we don’t have to anymore. We don’t have to know Jimmy McFlaren’s phone number to contact him, because that information is cradled safely within the millions of megabytes we hold in our pocket. But to a computer, there is only one difference between a phone number, a Facebook status, or a piece of wisdom from a great uncle: a human decided that this was a piece of information worth saving or sharing.
My thanksgiving education wasn’t over yet, though. I was stunned to discover how many members of my supposedly tech savvy family still lived at pre-Windows 7 levels. “XP is running just fine for me, and it has for four or five years now,” said my uncle. “Until I have a program that just refuses to work for me, I don’t see a point in updating.” Somehow, I had assumed that my extended family operated on the same level of technology that I did. Realizing they didn’t further drove the previous point home: if we, the computer literate, do not or will not record the stories of the past in the channels of technology we possess, these stories will be lost to the void. In that sense, it is our duty to seek out the tales and wisdom of those less able than ourselves in order to preserve that knowledge for the future.
I listened with rapture as the two of them spoke. No doubt some of the others were bored out of their minds, licking their already clean plates and starting hunting parties in search of dessert. Some of them grumbled about the “back in the day” discussion. Some of them ignored it entirely. But I remained at the table to listen to these two old people talk, learning tidbits of wisdom from their previous years.
Ninety percent of what I leaned will never be useful. I can hardly fit a watermelon in my fridge, let alone store a barrel of oats to pack it in. But these pieces of knowledge, if not shared with a younger generation, will die out. Perhaps later a scientist will discover the chemical compound Rolledoatium and write vast scientific essays about its uses in preserving fruits with high water content. Perhaps they won't. And it would certainly be easier to remember these facts than attempt to discover them all on our own.
There’s an amazing danger of losing these old anecdotes and knowledge to the void of death if we refuse to record them. Gone are the days of Bible times when a priest could recite the Old Testament by memory. But I don’t speak with anguish of “times gone by”: our generation has never developed that recall because we have technology to remember things for us. We don’t remember things because, in reality, we don’t have to anymore. We don’t have to know Jimmy McFlaren’s phone number to contact him, because that information is cradled safely within the millions of megabytes we hold in our pocket. But to a computer, there is only one difference between a phone number, a Facebook status, or a piece of wisdom from a great uncle: a human decided that this was a piece of information worth saving or sharing.
My thanksgiving education wasn’t over yet, though. I was stunned to discover how many members of my supposedly tech savvy family still lived at pre-Windows 7 levels. “XP is running just fine for me, and it has for four or five years now,” said my uncle. “Until I have a program that just refuses to work for me, I don’t see a point in updating.” Somehow, I had assumed that my extended family operated on the same level of technology that I did. Realizing they didn’t further drove the previous point home: if we, the computer literate, do not or will not record the stories of the past in the channels of technology we possess, these stories will be lost to the void. In that sense, it is our duty to seek out the tales and wisdom of those less able than ourselves in order to preserve that knowledge for the future.
The Power of Words: Religious
“Are you religious?”
I crossed my arms against the cold and frowned in thought. I had stepped outside the party to continue my conversation with a small group of smokers. We had been discussing the writing of one of my classmates. He had crafted a series of poems describing the trials and love life from high school on to present day. Smiling sadly in remembrance, as I recalled what my own high school was like. “If you believed everything you heard through the grapevine, you would think I had lost my virginity in high school. Twice. When in fact,” I bragged, "I remained a virgin until my wedding night.”
The two smokers I was talking with commended me on this, which I found both encouraging and amusing. It’s good to know that abstinence is respected later in life, even as it was socially frowned upon as a teenager. My amusement came from an assumption of their religious beliefs. Chances were at least one of them wasn’t a Christian, and I was somewhat surprised to hear that non-religious people were in some sort of agreement with the sanctity of marriage. My comment had, unwittingly, steered the conversation in another direction.
I don’t know how to respond to “are you religious”. I am a child of God, repented of my sins, and placed my faith in Him to grant me everlasting life. In that sense, as a practitioner of religion, I am “religious”. But to wholeheartedly claim the title without explanation can be dangerous. Hundreds upon thousands of people have committed heinous crimes in the name of the christian Lord. Those who led the crusades and the Spanish Inquisition likely thought of themselves as highly religious people. To accept the label “religious” would subconsciously put me among their ranks. Terrible things happen in the world of organized religion because, no matter what your ranking in the church, humans are fallible.
Greg Stier has perhaps my favorite response to the question. I heard it first when he was speaking at a Dare to Share event in Lincoln, with a stadium packed full of other Christian youth. He told a story of a time when he was doing street evangelism with his youth group at a local mall, and was approached by a scary looking man. Having seen what Greg and his group was doing, he looked Greg up and down and stared him in the eye. “You religious?” Greg shook his head. “No man, I hate religious people.” Surprised to find themselves in agreement, they continued bashing the religious. They both hated how religious people think they’re better than everyone else, and judge people before they know them instead of accepting people for who they are.
Looking back, I realized that the colloquial use of “religious” doesn’t match up with the definition those inside the faith understand it to be. To the secular masses, “religious” does not mean of or pertaining to religion: it means that you see yourself as holier that your fellow man. As a Christian, I’ll be the first to tell you: the vast majority of us hate “religious” people. They feel that being a child of God somehow grants them a special status here on earth, and think that they should be respected at all times and in all places because of it. But that isn’t the teaching of God. In Matthew 23:12, Jesus said, “Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.” (English Standard Version). A true Christian, and someone I would consider religious, would instead live by the words that the apostle Paul says in his letter to the Galatians, where he writes, “the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law.” (Galatians 5:22-23, ESV).
It pains me to see and know what things have been and are currently being done in the name of my Lord. It hurts me whenever I hear stories about “Christians” trying to publicly shame people for their sexual orientation, or picketing the funeral of a soldier (Insider Tip: NO Christian acknowledges the Westboro Baptists as a “church”). Of course, to the media, bad news is good news, so these are the stories that non-Christians both hear and remember. But knowing of these atrocities, from the attacks on those unlike them to the haughty looks they give passerby, strengthens my resolve to do good in Christ’s name. It’s a lifetime of work, but, in my eyes, there is no greater thing I could do with my time.
So when you hear the word “religious”, I encourage you to stop and think. Is the speaker referring to something that pertains to religion, or are they attempting (consciously or unconsciously) to tear down the good name of Christ through the embarrassing acts of his followers?
I crossed my arms against the cold and frowned in thought. I had stepped outside the party to continue my conversation with a small group of smokers. We had been discussing the writing of one of my classmates. He had crafted a series of poems describing the trials and love life from high school on to present day. Smiling sadly in remembrance, as I recalled what my own high school was like. “If you believed everything you heard through the grapevine, you would think I had lost my virginity in high school. Twice. When in fact,” I bragged, "I remained a virgin until my wedding night.”
The two smokers I was talking with commended me on this, which I found both encouraging and amusing. It’s good to know that abstinence is respected later in life, even as it was socially frowned upon as a teenager. My amusement came from an assumption of their religious beliefs. Chances were at least one of them wasn’t a Christian, and I was somewhat surprised to hear that non-religious people were in some sort of agreement with the sanctity of marriage. My comment had, unwittingly, steered the conversation in another direction.
I don’t know how to respond to “are you religious”. I am a child of God, repented of my sins, and placed my faith in Him to grant me everlasting life. In that sense, as a practitioner of religion, I am “religious”. But to wholeheartedly claim the title without explanation can be dangerous. Hundreds upon thousands of people have committed heinous crimes in the name of the christian Lord. Those who led the crusades and the Spanish Inquisition likely thought of themselves as highly religious people. To accept the label “religious” would subconsciously put me among their ranks. Terrible things happen in the world of organized religion because, no matter what your ranking in the church, humans are fallible.
Greg Stier has perhaps my favorite response to the question. I heard it first when he was speaking at a Dare to Share event in Lincoln, with a stadium packed full of other Christian youth. He told a story of a time when he was doing street evangelism with his youth group at a local mall, and was approached by a scary looking man. Having seen what Greg and his group was doing, he looked Greg up and down and stared him in the eye. “You religious?” Greg shook his head. “No man, I hate religious people.” Surprised to find themselves in agreement, they continued bashing the religious. They both hated how religious people think they’re better than everyone else, and judge people before they know them instead of accepting people for who they are.
Looking back, I realized that the colloquial use of “religious” doesn’t match up with the definition those inside the faith understand it to be. To the secular masses, “religious” does not mean of or pertaining to religion: it means that you see yourself as holier that your fellow man. As a Christian, I’ll be the first to tell you: the vast majority of us hate “religious” people. They feel that being a child of God somehow grants them a special status here on earth, and think that they should be respected at all times and in all places because of it. But that isn’t the teaching of God. In Matthew 23:12, Jesus said, “Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.” (English Standard Version). A true Christian, and someone I would consider religious, would instead live by the words that the apostle Paul says in his letter to the Galatians, where he writes, “the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law.” (Galatians 5:22-23, ESV).
It pains me to see and know what things have been and are currently being done in the name of my Lord. It hurts me whenever I hear stories about “Christians” trying to publicly shame people for their sexual orientation, or picketing the funeral of a soldier (Insider Tip: NO Christian acknowledges the Westboro Baptists as a “church”). Of course, to the media, bad news is good news, so these are the stories that non-Christians both hear and remember. But knowing of these atrocities, from the attacks on those unlike them to the haughty looks they give passerby, strengthens my resolve to do good in Christ’s name. It’s a lifetime of work, but, in my eyes, there is no greater thing I could do with my time.
So when you hear the word “religious”, I encourage you to stop and think. Is the speaker referring to something that pertains to religion, or are they attempting (consciously or unconsciously) to tear down the good name of Christ through the embarrassing acts of his followers?
Monday, December 10, 2012
The Gamification of Crafting
The Extra
Creditz episode on “Gamification” that I watched a while back was both enlightening and inspiring. For those of you that don't have the time to watch the video because you hate fun, the idea is that almost any task can be combined with game elements, such
as a level system, in order to make the task more palatable, or easier
to understand. This made me wonder: could I gamify my crafting skills?
What level crocheter would I be? What constitutes experience points in
such a system?
To start off, I had to look into level progression. AAA titles are mathematically crafted to make achieving each level exciting, without becoming tedious. Put simply, the first level should be much easier to achieve than the last level. I attempted to create my own level system (based off a website I can no longer find) by looking at the numbers and parsing out a pattern that would fit in my head. The system I came up with was this (WARNING: MATH ZONE. PROCEED WITH CAUTION): maximum experience to next level was equal to the current level, plus four, plus previous required experience (xp to level = (n+4)+sum of previous equation, where n=level achieved). The results were as follows:
Level XP req. to level Total Experience
1 5 5
2 11 16
3 17 33
4 24 57
5 32 89
As I played with it, I realized my level progression was very steep. Level 2-3 and 3-4 felt more like jumps within Dungeons and Dragons than World of Warcraft. This meant that each individual level meant more to the player/crafter, but it also meant there were a wider range of achieved experience within each player/crafter level.
Instead of continuing with this model, I decided to shamelessly rip off World of Warcraft’s leveling model. To do this, I took the charts from this site, spliced them into an Excel spreadsheet, and whipped my calculator monkeys into full speed (i.e. told the program to divide each max xp number by 100). These results were much more palatable.
Level XP req. to level Total Experience
1 0 4
2 5 9
3 5 14
4 7 21
5 7 28
This progression had a gentler learning curve (more rewarding for new player/crafters) and more meaningful levels since the experience gaps were much smaller. Looking further into the data, there are strange jumps in the level progression at levels 60, 70, 80, 85, and 90. These numbers aren’t random: dedicated WoW players will recognize them as the level caps for each of the expansion packs. I decided not to worry about this jump until I myself achieve level 59, and work out the math at that time. (END OF MATH ZONE. DRIVE SAFELY, HAVE A NICE DAY.)
The next step (and possibly the most challenging) was determining how many experience points should be granted upon finishing a given product. In the end, I decided that a washcloth (specifically, a crocheted washcloth made of half-double crochet stitches) should count for a single experience point. Using the Crafting level progression, this meant that creating four washcloths would make you a Level Two Hookmaster. Using the (sloppily approximated) combination of skill and time required to make such a product, I assigned experience points to other crafts I have created. The following is a compilation of these rough experience point assessments.
Hookmastery
(“Real World” crafting term - Crochet)
Washcloth - 1 xp
Towel - 2 xp
2 squid tentacles (2 round granny stripe, 45 long) - 1 xp
2 Granny squares (3 rounds) - 1 xp
Granny square (5 rounds) -1 xp
Granny square (7 rounds) - 2 xp
Aniball Plushie - 3 xp
Plushie (small) - 5 xp
Hat (beanie) - 3 xp
Needle Knotting
(“Real World” crafting term - Knitting)
Pot Holder - 1 xp
Washcloth - 1 xp
Scarf - 2 xp
Threadmasonry
(“Real World” crafting term - Sewing)
Quilt (simple) - 17 xp
Snuggie - 3 xp
Ren garb (simple) - 5 xp
Fleece hat (simple) - 2 xp
Fleece hat (complex) - 4 xp
The results? I’m a Level 4 Needle Knotter, Level 10 Threadmason, and Level 17 Hookmaster. I’m generally not one for number crunching, but the implications of this was WAY too fun to ignore. What level would my friends and family members be? How many experience points will I gain by completing my next project? Suddenly, my holiday craft list becomes a competitive challenge instead of a chore. Currently, I’m only facing myself. But that doesn’t mean I can’t win.
If you have a skill you would like me to gamify, or have a craft project to add to the ones I have listed, say so in the comments and I’ll add them to the list. As for now, I’m off to gain some sweet, sweet experience. Happy Crafting!
To start off, I had to look into level progression. AAA titles are mathematically crafted to make achieving each level exciting, without becoming tedious. Put simply, the first level should be much easier to achieve than the last level. I attempted to create my own level system (based off a website I can no longer find) by looking at the numbers and parsing out a pattern that would fit in my head. The system I came up with was this (WARNING: MATH ZONE. PROCEED WITH CAUTION): maximum experience to next level was equal to the current level, plus four, plus previous required experience (xp to level = (n+4)+sum of previous equation, where n=level achieved). The results were as follows:
Level XP req. to level Total Experience
1 5 5
2 11 16
3 17 33
4 24 57
5 32 89
As I played with it, I realized my level progression was very steep. Level 2-3 and 3-4 felt more like jumps within Dungeons and Dragons than World of Warcraft. This meant that each individual level meant more to the player/crafter, but it also meant there were a wider range of achieved experience within each player/crafter level.
Instead of continuing with this model, I decided to shamelessly rip off World of Warcraft’s leveling model. To do this, I took the charts from this site, spliced them into an Excel spreadsheet, and whipped my calculator monkeys into full speed (i.e. told the program to divide each max xp number by 100). These results were much more palatable.
Level XP req. to level Total Experience
1 0 4
2 5 9
3 5 14
4 7 21
5 7 28
This progression had a gentler learning curve (more rewarding for new player/crafters) and more meaningful levels since the experience gaps were much smaller. Looking further into the data, there are strange jumps in the level progression at levels 60, 70, 80, 85, and 90. These numbers aren’t random: dedicated WoW players will recognize them as the level caps for each of the expansion packs. I decided not to worry about this jump until I myself achieve level 59, and work out the math at that time. (END OF MATH ZONE. DRIVE SAFELY, HAVE A NICE DAY.)
The next step (and possibly the most challenging) was determining how many experience points should be granted upon finishing a given product. In the end, I decided that a washcloth (specifically, a crocheted washcloth made of half-double crochet stitches) should count for a single experience point. Using the Crafting level progression, this meant that creating four washcloths would make you a Level Two Hookmaster. Using the (sloppily approximated) combination of skill and time required to make such a product, I assigned experience points to other crafts I have created. The following is a compilation of these rough experience point assessments.
Hookmastery
(“Real World” crafting term - Crochet)
Washcloth - 1 xp
Towel - 2 xp
2 squid tentacles (2 round granny stripe, 45 long) - 1 xp
2 Granny squares (3 rounds) - 1 xp
Granny square (5 rounds) -1 xp
Granny square (7 rounds) - 2 xp
Aniball Plushie - 3 xp
Plushie (small) - 5 xp
Hat (beanie) - 3 xp
Needle Knotting
(“Real World” crafting term - Knitting)
Pot Holder - 1 xp
Washcloth - 1 xp
Scarf - 2 xp
Threadmasonry
(“Real World” crafting term - Sewing)
Quilt (simple) - 17 xp
Snuggie - 3 xp
Ren garb (simple) - 5 xp
Fleece hat (simple) - 2 xp
Fleece hat (complex) - 4 xp
The results? I’m a Level 4 Needle Knotter, Level 10 Threadmason, and Level 17 Hookmaster. I’m generally not one for number crunching, but the implications of this was WAY too fun to ignore. What level would my friends and family members be? How many experience points will I gain by completing my next project? Suddenly, my holiday craft list becomes a competitive challenge instead of a chore. Currently, I’m only facing myself. But that doesn’t mean I can’t win.
If you have a skill you would like me to gamify, or have a craft project to add to the ones I have listed, say so in the comments and I’ll add them to the list. As for now, I’m off to gain some sweet, sweet experience. Happy Crafting!
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
T'was Twenty Days before Christmas...
I
eyed the pizza. I could rationalize taking one slice, but I could only
achieve variety with two. So I took one cheese (the favorite) and one
veggie (the healthful choice) before turning to the desserts. I decided
on three snickerdoodle cookies (they were small), and a small mountain
of (predominantly) almond Hershey’s Kisses. And two Crunch bars. They
were fun size, so it was okay. My plate fully loaded, I noticed the
Christmas tunes dimming and a girl began sharing her screenplay with the
group. The audio she had recorded was flaky and soft, so a few of us
volunteered to read. The two people who were thrown into a sex scene
mumbled a bit, and one non-smoking volunteer was confused at how to
pantomime with a cigarette. But despite these foibles, soon we were all
laughing swept up in the spirit of things. I looked around the room,
stuffed to the gills with food my body has forgotten how to process, and
let out a sad sigh. I was going to miss this class.
I wondered for a while how this had happened. Why was it that Blam-o’s class, in which we were urged, verbally and often, to create community, that it took two months to begin cracking some people’s shells? Pearl never asked us to talk in small groups, or share our work with one another. And yet we formed a class group, where we bantered constantly, bragging about each other and generally uniting as authors, seniors, and creative minds. It seems sad in a way that Blam-o worked so hard to achieve what came naturally to Pearl’s class.
It makes me feel weak to admit it, but I enjoyed Pearls’ class because of how encouraging she was. Plenty of authors work through tougher conditions than I encounter, so I have no right to complain about harsh graders. But Pearl’s direct and encouraging words took me to a place beyond “I need to be better” and into the land of “I’m still learning, but I can kick ass”. Where Blam-o pushes, Pearls lifts. And between the two of them, I managed to survive a semester that was both challenging and exhausting.
Kudos to you both, ladies. You’ve left a mark on my education that I’ll never forget.
Now I progress onto the classes I don't enjoy for the rest of the semester. Because of my gross generosity, I wrote them a poem.
T'was twenty days til' Christmas, and all through A. Hall
all the students are drooling, dead eyes fixed on walls.
For this week was Dead Week, when most don't have class
But attendance was called for, so we glumly kiss ass.
Somewhere upstairs, there's pizza. Beyond that, wine and cheese...
But for us, there is nothing save low marks and high fees.
The grad student bores them with grey films of yore
as the class gently snoozes; they've been up since 4:00
As the video clicks off, bags unzip, phones turn on,
and they're off to write papers from dusk until dawn.
So the week shall progress, in it's slow weary way,
As the students all hope it will finish some day.
I wondered for a while how this had happened. Why was it that Blam-o’s class, in which we were urged, verbally and often, to create community, that it took two months to begin cracking some people’s shells? Pearl never asked us to talk in small groups, or share our work with one another. And yet we formed a class group, where we bantered constantly, bragging about each other and generally uniting as authors, seniors, and creative minds. It seems sad in a way that Blam-o worked so hard to achieve what came naturally to Pearl’s class.
It makes me feel weak to admit it, but I enjoyed Pearls’ class because of how encouraging she was. Plenty of authors work through tougher conditions than I encounter, so I have no right to complain about harsh graders. But Pearl’s direct and encouraging words took me to a place beyond “I need to be better” and into the land of “I’m still learning, but I can kick ass”. Where Blam-o pushes, Pearls lifts. And between the two of them, I managed to survive a semester that was both challenging and exhausting.
Kudos to you both, ladies. You’ve left a mark on my education that I’ll never forget.
Now I progress onto the classes I don't enjoy for the rest of the semester. Because of my gross generosity, I wrote them a poem.
T'was twenty days til' Christmas, and all through A. Hall
all the students are drooling, dead eyes fixed on walls.
For this week was Dead Week, when most don't have class
But attendance was called for, so we glumly kiss ass.
Somewhere upstairs, there's pizza. Beyond that, wine and cheese...
But for us, there is nothing save low marks and high fees.
The grad student bores them with grey films of yore
as the class gently snoozes; they've been up since 4:00
As the video clicks off, bags unzip, phones turn on,
and they're off to write papers from dusk until dawn.
So the week shall progress, in it's slow weary way,
As the students all hope it will finish some day.
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