Reading the First Draft of Your Book
The editing process, in a nutshell.
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@cellaphobic
Reading the First Draft of Your Book
The editing process, in a nutshell.
Pretty good posture
This is an exact, to scale drawing of how I look when I'm writing.
Why are you?
Because of reasons.
Depression
Depression:
Depression (with a cat):
The Truth
By now many of you have already read my 'A Visit from Dr. House' post; my entertaining and poorly drawn depiction of my latest doctors appointment.
The truth is much less funny, has fewer guest stars, and wasn't nearly as entertaining or colorful. Be warned. This post wont contain comics or jokes, it's just the truth of what happened, as best I can remember it.
For those who want it, here it is.
The Truth
Those who know me in real life know that months before my first doctors appointment, I suspected it was Lupus. The symptoms fit, the duration of the problems ruled out almost every shorter-lived disease, and auto-immune doesn't just run in my family it fucking gallops. Statistically, it was the most likely. And boy do I love my statistics.
I spent months waiting for my health insurance to kick in at my new job, convinced that the moment I saw the doctor all my fears would be vindicated.
Which is why, weeks after my first appointment with an Internist, I was on the phone with her nurse trying to get the results of my auto-immune panel.
For those with no experience calling a doctors office to get test results I can only say I envy your naivety. It was a horrific experience of being told my tests were back, oh no wait they weren't just quite yet, oh no wait they are, OH JUST KIDDING, actually a nurse will have to talk to you she'll call you in an hour/a day/a week/please stop calling our office we'll let you know the results when we have a chance.
Finally, finally,the angry and underpaid nurse called me back to tell me the fantastic news: All normal.
I pressed for an actual ANA, the number that could determine if it really was Lupus.
She replied "6 out of 14"
There was a palpable pause when, forgetting that people would prefer that young girls pretend to be brain dead, I blurted out "That's not how antibody tests are measured."
"Excuse me?"
"Antibody tests. They're measured as dilutions. 6 out of 14 doesn't make any sense"
"Are you a nurse?"
"No"
"Look, I'm just reading off the lab report, ok? You'll get a copy in the mail in the next few days, and you can call the doctor".
And then she hung up.
And the next day my test results arrived.
On top of a list of various white counts, red counts, and purple counts, was a column marked "ANA". Next to it was a box that read simply 'COMMENT'
I scoured the paper. All my other results were reported, all within normal range. Why was the ANA missing? Is it possible the ANA screen wasn't finished? Where the hell had the '6 out of 14' the nurse had supposedly read come from?
I was confused, and I was furious.
But a small note on the bottom of the page from my doctor assured me my tests were all negative, and that I should call to get a referral to a rheumatologist as she could find no physical cause of my symptoms.
Three weeks later I was sitting in the office of my new rheumatologist.
I'll admit, I felt horrid. I felt like a hypochondriac. After all, the pain wasn't even that bad. Neither was the fatigue. I had no chest pains, no blood in my urine, nothing that I considered 'worthy' enough to warrant so many doctors visit. I didn't even have joint swelling; the only non-subjective outward sign that could prove 'Ah ha! I'm not lying! I'm not crazy! It's not all in my head!' (in a cruel twist of irony the swelling would start just a month after my rheumatologyappointment, an event nearly lost on me as I have no body awareness whatsoever. Honest to god. It took more than two years for my to notice that, oh gosh my joints hurt and golly jee wiz I bet that's probably not normal.)
I felt like a fraud sitting there.
I felt even worse when the doctor was delayed from seeing me... because a patient required hospitalization. Here I was, with a list of vague symptoms and general malaise, while he rushed to fill out an intake form and arrange a vehicle for a patient whose kidneys were failing.
He came into the exam room 20 minutes late, apologizing profusely
I work for a doctor, I know these things happen, and it's no ones fault. I assured him it was fine, and prepared for the inevitable judgement that would come when I tried to explain why I was there.
...but it never came... He was kind, and gentle. He felt my joints and listened to me patiently.
When I was finished, he walked me through the x-ray my internist had ordered, pointing out that I had "great joints"
I rubbed my hands together. My 'great joints' hurt like hell, but the guilty feeling in the pit of my stomach was worse.
He closed the x-rays and pulled up my lab results
I engaged in a staring contest with my feet. I was embarrassed to be here, wasting his time.
He chatted calmly while he read over my results... and then suddenly stopped chatting.
He leaned in over the screen, sighed lightly, and turned to face me, his face serious.
"Well" he said "It's too early for a diagnosis, I'll tell you that. This doesn't mean 100% that you have it. I want to run some more tests to confirm..."
He reached into a drawer and pulled out and handed me a packet entitled "Systemic Lupus Erythematosus"
I read the title.
And again.
And a final time before it sank in what he was telling me.
I struggled to find any words to object. Finally I barked "But... but, my ANA was negative. I don't understand, it can't be Lupus. The odds are astronomical*"
The doctor looked at me in surprise. "Negative? No... Who told you that? You came back positive at the 1:160 level..."
I was stunned. I could only open and close my mouth like a fish, eyes wide and surprised. I have no idea why my results were never reported to me, why I got the 'all tests were normal' green light when, clearly, that wasn't the case.
I'll admit that I zoned out as he outlined the next tests he'd run. He wanted to rule out celiac disease as a possible differential diagnosis, there was always the possibility I was severely vitamin D deficient (my blood results did actually reveal a slight vitamin D deficiency, otherwise known as I-live-in-Seattle-itis). 5% of the general population tests positive for an ANA without any illness, so there was always the possibility that I had something else and just happened to be among that 5%.
He mentioned some over the counter anti-inflammatories for me to try, in place of the acetaminophen I had been taking, and told me we could start a course of plaquenil at my next appointment.
He was kind, he was sympathetic, and I was silent the entire time.
I'd like to say I made a few jokes. I'd like to say that I kept my chin up, that I remained calm and collected and dignified.
I didn't.
I thanked him for his time, and left.
I then walked back to my office and proceeded to freak the fuck out.
Luckily, our office was closed for the day (my boss, the good doctor, was out of town) and no one but the Fed Ex delivery man was witness to my 'crying in a ball under the desk' break down.
So there it is. The real story of what happened, with no Dr. House, no bad stick figures, and no (well... very few) jokes.
The real truth of my real doctors visit.
*97% of individuals with lupus have a positive ANA (antinuclear antibody test). Those who test negative almost exclusively are on medications which interfere with the tests results. Having SLE with no positive ANA is a statistical anomaly.
A Visit From Dr. House
A few weeks ago I found myself sitting impatiently in a doctors office, waiting to find out what the hell is wrong with me (answer: psychologically? Probably a lot, since I spend an unusually large amount of time drawing stick figures for people on the internet whom I've never met. HI INTERNET PEOPLE).
You see, I've been having some unexplained joint pain and muscle weakness, and all sorts of other symptoms I'm convinced prove I have cancer, and will likely be dropping dead in the next few seconds.
Thankfully, my doctors have been kind enough to listen to my complaints, run the tests, and calmly tell me that no, it's not cancer, I'm not about to die, and would I please put my pants back on, they never needed me to take them off for this exam, for gods sake.
Which brings us here: to my latest appointment. And since fantasy is oh-so much better than reality, I present to you the Dramatic Retelling of my Actual Doctors Appointment.
Enjoy.
After the nurse brought me into the exam room, I spent a while contemplating the various types of cancer I probably didn't have, while waiting for my new doctor to arrive.
A few moments later the door creaked open...
To make up for the unfunny nature of today's post, here's my depiction of the first aquatic dinosaur:
(Serious note: I feel obligated to share that though my ANA was positive, it does not necessarily mean that I have Systemic Lupus Erythematosus (SLE). I'm going back to see my rheumatologist next month to review more blood work, have more tests taken, and discuss treatment options. If it turns out that it is actually SLE, I will personally demand that Dr. House send me a t-shirt that says "Oh wait, it totally was lupus this one time", and I will wear it proudly ever day, except on laundry day).
Ophthalmia Nodosa
For reasons I can't fully extrapolate on, today I had the surprising task of researching a condition called Ophthalmia Nodosa.
Which should be called 'Hairy Spider Eye'.
The great god of knowledge, Wikipedia, defines Ophthalmia Nodosa as "a cutaneous condition characterized by inflammation of the eye due to lodging of (for example) caterpillar hairs in the conjunctiva, cornea, or iris"
After 'caterpillar hairs' the next most common cause of Ophthalmia Nodosa is tarantula hairs.
Go ahead and read that sentence again, just to make sure that you read that right.
Tarantula hairs.
Imagine you're a tarantula.
You're being cool, big and hairy, and enjoying life, when suddenly some giant animal reaches down, grabs you, and scares the poison right out of you.
What do you do?
Since you're a tarantula, you could activate your urticating hairs that cover your back. These hairs, covered in microscopic spines, will then detach into the skin and (hopefully) mucous membranes and open cavities of your enemy, causing them extreme amounts of pain.
Why would something as scary as you, Mr. Tarantula, need another defense mechanism?
Because you're a mother fucking badass, that's why.
Badassery aside, it can be an extremely painful and very damaging problem when these hairs get into the eye. Because of their barbs they can 'latch' and stick in place, stopping the normal mechanisms by which the eye removes debris, and moving further and further into the eye itself (flinching yet? If not, you may have reached tarantula levels of bad ass).
It's not pretty, is my point.
So, after googling and compiling and gathering together what case studies I could, I had a pretty significant amount of information on the treatment and prognosis of giant spider induced Ophthalmia Nodosa to present to my boss.
Because I refuse to ever grow up, the bundle of documents given to my boss included the following note:
'A superficial review of Ophthalmia Nodosa case studies reveals it is a rare condition, best treated by removal of hairs, when possible. Such hairs not removed should be left. Though surgical removal of such hairs is mentioned, no case studies of this method were found. Laser was not recommended.
Recommended treatment of secondary symptoms includes steroids and anti-inflammatories"
...followed by the following comic:
I was thanked for my thorough research, and obvious 'accurate and creative portrayal of the species involved'.
Now, before I conclude this post, I want to take a moment to offer my sincere sorrows to anyone who has suffered from Hairy Spider Eye, and also to my boss who drew the short straw this year and will be on call at our hospital for the 4th of July, the single worst day to be an eye doctor in the United States.
He will be spending all weekend running to and from the hospital ER, doing emergency surgery on people who were blown up by their patriotism.
you. are. HILARIOUS!!!can't wait to read more of your posts :D
Aw, thank you! =D
In return, I drew you a picture of a panda with a degree in Microbiology.
Cella Takes the GRE
As some of you may have noticed, I haven't been updating...
... at all.
No Professor Linux, no GRE vocab posts, no cartoons about yoga, no posts about socially awkward dinosaurs.
There is a very simple reason for my absence:
*drum roll*
I was taking the GRE.
That's right: after months and months of study and stress and several emotional breakdowns, last Saturday I sat down to take the test that will determine my ENTIRE FUTURE*
So, here it is... my dramatic retelling of the Day I took the GRE.
Part One: Waiting
The first thing I noticed, when I crept into the tiny testing center, shaking with nerves and a total sugar high, was that everyone else in the room was crazy.
Not just a little crazy. These were sleep deprived, knowledge crammed crazies, all about three minutes and one cup of coffee from a total nervous breakdown.
The guy next to me was chewing his finger nails like they were made of truffle-coated lobster, and the woman next to him was unconsciously shredding the magazine she had clasped in her hands, while she stared unblinkingly at the wall.
It was by far the most stressful room I have ever been in.
I had brought a book to read, to pass the time, but couldn't concentrate on the words over the sound of nervous nail-biting guy chewing his fingers off.
So I did what I always do when I'm nervous.
I decided to out crazy them all.
After a few minutes, nail biting guy got up and moved to a different seat.
Part Two: The Essays
After sitting with my book on my head for roughly twenty minutes, smiling politely while everyone tried not to stare, my name was called and I was taken into the testing area, where I was given two pencils (which I got to keep because I accidentally chewed the CRAP out of them), a packet of scratch paper, and led to a small cubical with a computer.
For those of you unfamiliar with the GRE, the first section is comprised of two essay questions.
I was prepared for their worst.
I kick ass at essays.
I even threw in some Latin - because I'm crazy like that.
After I finished, I was given a 10 minute break, where I stuffed my face with granola bars and chugged a bottle of water.
Because, for my program, no one cares about the essays...
They only care about the Verbal and the Quantitative sections.
Part Three: The Verbal Section
After I finished my third granola bar, I went back in my cube determined to be the best damn graduate school candidate ever.
I even put on my Serious Face.
I steeled myself. I WAS READY.
MONTHS OF STUDY CAME DOWN TO THIS ONE MOMENT.
Question ONE
Pick the word which is the most nearly opposite in meaning:
Quizametton:
Fantastical
Arrogant
Inventive
Yousuckatlife
Question TWO
Fluctoamasous
Totally made up
Who are you kidding?
WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE?!
Balloon
Question SEVENTEEN
PEANUT is to STEGOSAURUS as...
JELLY is to BREAD
YOU are to CINNAMON
RECTANGLES are to ICECUBES
GEORGE WASHINGTON is to A BAG OF GRAPES
Question TWENTY
Jbdj jkhhbud foudna cbuegagjd __________ adbuagdla apple ajdhfbguyega?
And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse...
Part Four: Quantitative (AKA, MATH)
By the time I got to the math section, my confidence was so shot I was pretty much in tears.
I didn't know how to solve for x, I wasn't even sure I could still read English.
Part Five: The Breakdown
By the time I got through the 28 math questions, I was a nervous wreck.
I could see my dreams of grad school going up in flames before my very eyes.
And all I could do was sit there, shaking, realizing that I wasn't special. I wasn't that smart.
I was just another girl, having a mental breakdown in a cubical.
Part Six: Your Score
Now, the computerized GRE has an option to void your score without viewing it. You can erase that you were ever there, walk away, and try again next time.
I almost clicked it.
I was so sure I'd scored just enough to prove to all my potential grad schools that I was roughly as smart as a brain dead monkey.
But instead of canceling my scores, I swallowed my sobs, and pressed 'SUBMIT'.
VERBAL: 680
QUANTITATIVE: 700
And that's how I conquered the GRE.
*This is a total lie. Just like in High School when they told us that the SAT would determine our future. Lie, lie, lies, by lying liars.
Conversations With Kallista
Marcella and Kallista do Yoga
Random Comic Night
Sock Hands
I have a pile of comics/blog posts to finish
I have a stack of GRE practice exams to do
I have an article to write
I have a statement if purpose to outline
But I can't do any of this...
Because I have socks on my hands.
You see, sometimes I stress-scratch.
Sometimes I stress-scratch so much I accidentally hurt myself.
So, sometimes, I have to wear socks.
On my hands.
Surprisingly, my sock-hand treatment works wonders.
Where medication and lotions have failed, sock-hands prevail.
The only downside is, every now and then, I realize something.
I'm 23.
I sleep with a stuffed penguin.
My belly is full of nachos and Chocolate-Chip Cookie dough ice cream.
I love My Little Pony.
And I have socks on my hands.
And then I need a hug...
Epic Mustache Comic
A nonsensical comic.
Inspired by Joshua's mustache.
Enjoy.
Linux the Penguin Teaches You: Angles
Why hello again!
It is I, professor Linux the Penguin.
Now, before you start yammering at me about how long it has been since our last class, let me cut you off by explaining that I've been on vacation.
What was that? You always thought I was a male penguin?
Well, you were right!
The bikini just makes me feel pretty.
Now then, nontraditional gender roles in penguin culture aside, let us start our lesson!
Today, we'll be learning about angles.
As always, because I know you are all too dumb to find your way out of a paper bag...
... we will start with the easy part, and pray that you're little brains can keep up.
ON TO THE ANGLES!
This is an acute angle.
How can you tell that it is an acute angle?
And, also, an acute angle measures less than 90 degrees.
Moving on...
This is an obtuse angle.
an obtuse angle will always measure more than 90 degrees.
A right angle will always measure exactly 90 degrees.
(this makes every other angle a wrong angle).
This is a straight line. It has an angle equal to 180 degrees:
And this is a gay line:
...
What?
Did you expect some kind of gay joke there?
Like... the line would look different because of it's sexual orientation?!?!
I WONT STAY HERE AND TEACH ANGLES TO A BUNCH OF GAY LINE BASHERS!
Because a straight line will always equal 180 degrees, the sum of any angles bisecting that line will always total 180 degrees.
Ergo...
... a + b must equal 180, regardless of what a or b equal individually.
Such angles are called 'supplementary', and the GRE just loves to test this concept.
Continuing that same logic, any angles which bisect a right angle must total 90 degrees.
Such angles are called 'complementary'.
And, finally, we have vertical angles.
Pay close attention to these angles. No matter how you redraw the lines above a will always equal c, and b will always equal d.
Angles which are vertical are always equal to their counterpart.
Well, I think that's all your tiny little brains can absorb for the day!
Next time we'll tackle Geometry: math's insane cousin.
Angry Bangs (not the sexual kind)
I've had an angry weekend. The kind of weekend where I just want to start punching people and not stop until I've visited everyone in the US.
I'm riled up and punchy and that means one thing:
It's bad decision time.
As if by the hand of god, the newest copy of Cosmo* was waiting on my doorstep yesterday morning.
This was the cover:
That is Hayley Williams, the lead singer of Paramore, looking so good I don't know whether I want to kill her or fuck her. I'd probably compromise, and have sex with her, and then just not call her after (take that Hayley Williams).
Here's my problem. I have a thing for redheads. And by 'thing' I mean I want to look like every single one of them, and be a vixen and a fox and all the other animal words they use to describe how sexy redheads are.
So, of course, being angry and crazy and now faced with a gorgeous redhead I emulate, I made a stupid decision.
I decided I wanted to get bangs.
Let me backtrack a little...
On the list of things I hate, 'getting my hair cut' ranks somewhere between 'being set on fire' and 'movies with Will Ferrell'.
I hate having my hair cut, because frankly I hate my hair.
My hair is just curly enough that you can't do anything with it, and thick enough that birds routinely next in it.
And long ago the right half seceded from the left, and decided that it will make it's own decisions about when to curl and when to be flat and when to stick out and when to just randomly catch on fire**.
And even if my hair were perfect, I would still hate having my hair cut, because it's a horrible experience that I'm convinced no one likes but everyone just pretends to like to fuck with me. Like driving. Or any sort of vinaigrette.
Why hair cuts are the worst thing ever:
I can't make small talk.
At all.
The mirrors make me look like a monster.
My head always starts to itch
The second she makes the first cut, my head suddenly feels like the worlds supply of lice have descended to make my life a living hell.
What makes it worse is the hair dresser has no idea, and seems to put her hands and clips anywhere that isn't the itchy spot. Or they'll lightly brush it, not satisfying the itch at all, but somehow making it worse, more aggravating, more irritating, more everything that isn't satisfying.
It's like fooling around with someone who has no idea what they're doing. It's frustrating, and non climatic, and you can't wait until they finish so you can do the job right.
I don't know where to put my elbows This is a common problem with me. No matter where I am, I'm in someones way. This is somehow highlighted when I'm sitting in the hair dressers chair, and she needs to be wherever my elbows happen to be.
I end up sitting with my elbows tucked in and my hands folded on my lap like I'm some sort of pious saint, and not an awkward sinner with no idea where my hands can go while retaining some semblance of social competence.
I have every hair cut I've ever had This last one was no exception.
So now, because of one bad decision, I have to spend the next few months looking like I lost a fight with a weed-wacker, until my hair grows out.
I leave you today with two peices of wisdom:
1. Hair cuts are never enjoyable.
2. Bangs are always always a bad idea.
*Shut up. JUST SHUT YOUR FACE. I know it's a stupid magazine, I know it makes all women everywhere look insane. I just like it ok? The pictures are... all glossy and pretty and they make me feel warm and fuzzy, like rubbing a kitten over your face.
** Not so random. I've set my hair on fire twice this year - both times bending over candles. More embarrassing? One of those times I was attempting to smell said candle.
Why I'm too Lazy to be Perfect
Every few weeks I wake up, roll out of bed, take a good long look at myself, and decide one of three things:
I need to eat healthier
I need to take better care of my looks
I need to study more*
I then embark on what can only be described as a frantic and obsessive journey toward self-improvement that inevitably ends in disaster and heart break.
Let's look at each frantic effort one at a time:
Eating Healthier:
This health conscious decision is always preluded by a binge on cookie dough or Rocky Road ice cream, or just when I decide that I need sugar so much I'm going to eat it with a spoon from a giant bag .... the next day I'm overwhelmed with guilt and stomach pains, and vow to change my diet forever.
And so it begins.
I will forgo all marshmallow and chocolate based foods.
I will replace 'sugar' in my food pyramid with 'vegetables', whatever the hell those are.
I will drink juice, not sugar.
I will stop eating my Jimmy John sandwiches for lunch, even though they smell so good and it's right downstairs.
I will be the model of health.
And, goddammit, I do all of those things.
For weeks.
And that's when the problem starts...
After weeks and weeks of vegetables and fruits, and raw food and organic food, and meals that take hours to make, I realize something.
Vegetables don't taste nearly as good as desserts.
And they don't make me feel any better.
And, also, I'm lazy. Really lazy.
After three weeks, this inevitably ends with me giving up and eating raw cookie dough, while I watch TV.
Looking Better:
The prelude to this is normally a pimple large enough to grow it's own pimple.
Or I don't shave for a few weeks, and suddenly realize I could be mistaken for a grizzly bear and shot if I venture outside in shorts.
Or I see a girl on the bus who could kick my ass just by looking at me, and I'm suddenly aware that I'm a blob of what-was-once-muscle, but is now just blobiness, who gets winded watching others go up stairs.
It's time for change.
I will work out harder than a character in an 80s movie montage.
I start doing kick boxing every day.
I lift weights (though the weights I lift are three lbs, and I lift bagels that size to my mouth on a daily basis, so, whatever, no big deal).
Because kickboxing isn't enough, I also go through ridiculous, female-y beauty treatments.
I put masks on my face that I'm 99% sure are just mud and food coloring. They have ingredients like 'cucumber' and 'guava' and 'peach' and other things I should be eating, not putting on my face, but for some reason still do.
And I wash my face every night with more cucumber-peach-guava oil-free fifteen fucking dollar a bottle face wash. And I follow this with toner, which I honest to god don't understand at all (Does it tone my face? Like a face work out?). Then I put on moisturizer, which seems to defeat the whole purpose of the oil free face wash, but whatever, someone told me to do it.
Eventually, my daily face washes become less 'daily' and more of a 'every-other-day' occurrence.
Followed by a 'every-other-few-days' occurrence.
Followed by a 'once a week' occurrence.
Followed by me totally forgetting to do it at all.
This same gradual reduction happens with my exercise regime - I go from kickboxing once a day, to once every few days. Then I tone it down altogether with a less... vigorous workout.
It doesn't take long before yoga becomes a short walk on the treadmill....
...which becomes a short walk to the fridge....
... which inevitably ends with me giving up and eating raw cookie dough, while I watch TV....
Studying More
This has always been the most common obsession of mine. Everyone who knows me knows I'd rather be smart than pretty or healthy.
So every few weeks I become fixated on learning something, or conquering something, or some sort of genetic experiment, and I decide I need to learn everything in the world.
I always start off so well.
A few days later, brain fatigued, I start to run out of steam...
A few days after that I remember that I am, in fact, a five year old stuck in a twenty three year old's body, and that my book can double as a hat.
At this point I get bored, and wander off in pursuit of a different form of knowledge.
This inevitably ends with me eating raw cookie dough, while I watch TV.
*At the moment, 'study more' means 'study more for the GRE'. But, since this happens every few weeks since about the time I could walk, 'study more' has at one point included (but has not been limited to) the following:
Learning to write with only my left hand
Learning French/Italian/Khmer/every other language every spoken
Learning everything about sleep disorders
Learning everything about the blood brain barrier
Learning how to bring up said knowledge in conversation without looking like a tool
Relearning how to bring up said knowledge in conversation without looking like a tool
Learning how to knit
Trying to learn how to knit something other than a giant scarf
Reading every great work of literature ever written
Trying to genetically splice a bunny/kitten hybrid
Linux the Penguin Teaches You: Fractions
Welcome, students.
Once again, I am Professor Linux, and this is 'GRE Math for the CellaPhobic'.
If you are looking for 'Architecture 101', you're in the wrong building.
Today we will be talking about fractions.
And pies.
But not the delicious type of pie.
No.
This type of pie.
You didn't honestly think that this post would include apple pies, or pumpkin pie, or something like that did you?
I mean... can you imagine me cooking a fucking pie?
I can't roll out dough, or mix things, I have flippers.
So there will be no pie in this lecture.
(No cake either)
But there will be plenty of fractions.
(and close ups of my face)
Enough of these silly close ups!
... ok, one more...
But enough of that, now!
Let's get to work on fractions.
Adding and subtracting fractions
In order to add or subtract a fraction, the two fractions must share a common denominator.
Because we both know you're an idiot
...I'm sure you need reminding about what is the numerator and what is the denominator.
Now that you've had that little refresher course, let's get back to it.
Once again you can only add fractions that have a common denominator.
This is because the denominator will not change during the equation. The only numbers we will actually be adding are the numerators.
For those of you who love formulas, here's the formula for adding and subtracting fractions.
a/m + b/m = a+b/m
So: 3/7+2/7 = 5/7
BUT we CANNOT add 3/5 + 2/10
...at least, not without changing the fractions so they share a common denominator.
Thankfully 3/5 and 2/10 have a very easy common multiple of 10. So, we change 3/5 to 6/10 (remember - whenever you change the denominator, you have to change the numerator by the same amount).
So 3/5 becomes 6/10.
6/10 + 2/10 = 8/10
At this point you should ALWAYS check the answers given on the GRE. Sometimes the answer is simplified, sometimes it is not. Why do extra work if you don't have to?
If you do not see 8/10, simplify that shit.
8/10 = 4/5
Subtracting fractions follows the same rules: as long as there is a common denominator, go for it.
a/m - b/m = a-b/m
If there isn't a common denominator, make one.
(with paper and scissors, you can make anything)
Multiplying and dividing fractions Unlike addition and subtraction, when you multiply or divide a fraction you do change the denominator.
Which means a common denominator is not necessary
Again for you formula junkies, here's the formula for multiplying fractions:
a/m x b/n = ab/mn
Take for example
7/11 x 4/6 = 28/66
28/66
= 14/33
Now, dividing fractions is just as simple as multiplying them...
...Because its the exact same as multiplying them.
FORMULA TIME
a/m ÷ b/n= a x n /m x b
You see, when you're given a problem like:
3/7 ÷ 4/10, all you need to do is invert the second fraction and multiply instead. So:
3/7 ÷ 4/10 becomes 3/7 x 10/4
3/7 x 10/4 = 30/28
= 1 2/28
= 1 1/14
Comparing Fractions
Though the GRE is unlikely to ask you a question as simple as 1/4 + 3/8, the Quantitative Comparision section commonly asks you to compare two fractions.
Comparing two fractions is easy... if they have the same denominator.
We can easily look at 3/8 and say it's smaller than 5/8.
Lets bring out our pies again.
This is 3/8:
And this is 5/8:
It's pretty easy to tell which is bigger.
Comparing two fractions is ALSO easy if they have the same numerator.
If the numerators are the same, the frraction with the smaller denomiator will always be larger.
So 4/5 > 4/7
For fractions without common denominators, you have several options.
1. Draw your pies
This is a terrible option during a test.
You can just start drawing pies willy nilly while you're being timed.
2. Change the denominator
This can be a great solution if there is an easy-to-find common denominator.
Consider the following problem:
Column A Column B
120/250 763/1000
That's an easy one.
250 can easily be converted to 1000 by multiplying the entire equation by four.
So 120/250 becomes 480/1000
Obviously 763 is larger than 480, so column B is larger than column A.
3. Cross multiplication
THIS is the trick to use on the GRE
You see in any fraction, if the numerator of the first fraction times the denominator of the second fraction is greater than the denominator of the first fraction times the numerator of the second fration, than the first fraction is larger than the second.
Wait... you need that said in a less confusing way?
Ok, lets try this.
Say we have a fraction a/b and we want to know if it is larger than fraction c/d.
Well, all we need to do is mutiply a and d, and compare that to b times c.
if ad > than bc, then the fraction a/b is greater than the fraction c/d
Ergo, if ad < bc, then the fraction c/d is greater than the fraction a/b
Lets use real numbers as an example, shall we?
Lets compare 5/7 to 9/11
Using the formual (ad and bc) we get 5(11) and 7(9)
55 < 63
Thus, 5/7 < 9/11
Easy, right?
Finally...
Complex Fractions
B ecause the GRE never wants to make anything easy for you, they might give you a fraction within a fraction.
There are two ways to handle this sort of problem:
1. Find the least common multiple of all the denominators in the problem
Lets take (7/9 - 1/6) ÷ (1/3 + 1/2)
With a little math (ok... a lot of math) we can work out that the least common multiple for 9, 6, 3, 2 is 18.
So, we multiply the entire equation by 18.
That gives us [(18/1 x 7/9) - (18/1 x 1/6)] ÷ [(18/1 x 1/3) + (18/1 x 1/2)]
Which we can simplify to [(2/1 x 7/1) - (3/1 x 1/1)] ÷ [(6/1 x 1/1) + (9/1 x 1/1)]
Which we can THEN simplify to 2(7) - 3(1) ÷ 6(1) + 9(1)
(14 - 3) / (6 + 9)
11 / 15
Done!
2. Treat each fraction as it's own problem, and solve them separately:
Lets use an example, shall we?
(7/9 - 1/6) / (1/3 + 1/2)
If we seperate this into two different equations we get 7/9 - 1/6 and 1/3 + 1/2
7/9 - 1/6 becomes 14/18 - 3/18 = 11/18
1/3 + 1/2 becomes 2/6 + 3/6 = 5/6
(11/18) ÷ (5/6) = 11/18 x 6/5
= 11/3 x 1/5
= 11/15
Class dismissed.
Movie Day Interruptions
Today was supposed to be a movie day at my work; a day of happiness and relaxation, and rainbows and sunshine (actually, not a lot of sunshine. But an abundance of fluorescent lighting).
('Movie day' roughly translates to 'day when no one else will be at the office, so I get paid to watch movies/tv shows/videos of cats jumping into boxes all day'.)
Pretty much the only thing I have to do on Movie Days is answer the phone. And 90% of those conversations involve me informing the caller that the office is closed.
As you can imagine, I love my movie days.
And, today, I was prepared. I brought five GRE math prep books, determined to help out my good friend Professor Linux the Penguin by writing a blog post about fractions (Professor Linux pays me in pudding for this work, and the pay is good).
And I brought a terabyte hard drive filled to overflowing with movies and tv shows.
This was going to be the best, most productive Movie Day in the history of Movie Days.
I was going to study the hell out of that math.
I was going to make that math my bitch.
By the time I arrived at work, I was convinced that I'd be a math savant by the time lunch rolled around.
Determined, exuberant with confidence, I attacked my prep books like a badger attacking a filet mignon*.
Nothing was going to stop me.
I was on my way to an 800 on the quantitative section.
You know, screw that. I was on my way to a one thousand on the quantitative. I was going to rock that test so hard I'd score one hundred and twenty five percent**.
But that's when it happened.
My frequent readers know that, lately, I've been having some strange health problems. The most annoying of which is moderate to severe joint pain.
Which, like an equation involving radicals (god I hate radicals), appears at the worst possible time.
' Whatever', I thought, 'It's just a little pain, no big deal. I can work through this. No biggie'
It took fifteen minutes for the pain to go from a 2 on the pain skill to a 6.
RING
I managed to get through one measly prep book, in between bouts of watching House and curling into a ball of melodrama under my desk.
'Joint pain' now joins the long list of things I'm convinced are conspiring to make me fail the GRE, at number 8 (just behind 'Radicals' and 'the monster under my bed that feeds on my nightmares and somehow in my sleep eats all the math knowledge I've accumulated during the day'
*Badgers are well known for their sophisticated culinary tastes
** 800/800 = 100%, ergo 1000/800 = 125%. -Professor Linux