Wake Up Call!

On the weekend I participated in a workshop on promoting yourself as a writer. It was eye-opening to say the least. Before I went I was under the impression that once you have a publisher willing to publish your novel, the work is out of your hands. The publisher then becomes so invested in making you successful that they will do what it takes to make sure that book sells.

Wrong!

According to Marty Chan, the workshop facilitator, even though on rare occasions you might find someone that will put in the effort, it’s more likely that you won’t. What a crap shoot! No matter how you decide to publish, you will still have to do your own marketing and promotion because you and only you, will be invested enough in the project. And I was hoping to NOT have to do all that work. The publisher is going to invest its time and money in what they KNOW will sell, not with a newbie even though they thought your story was good enough to publish.

And then to add to the reality that I learned this past Saturday, I came across this blog post that only managed to reiterate what I had already learned. To be successful, you have to work hard. And not just at creating the masterpiece. You need to believe in yourself and your abilities enough to sell yourself. You need to put yourself out there, and not necessarily just when you actually have something to brag about.

Facebook, Twitter, blogs, personal websites. You need to create a network that will encourage a publisher to take a chance on you. So it’s not all about the writing. You could have a fabulous story but the publisher won’t take the time to look at you if you have no internet presence. If you don’t already have a following, so to speak.

So let the promotion begin.

Baby steps.

So then you might ask, what’s the benefit to publishing with a publishing company? Why not just self-publish since you still have to do all the work? And the answer is this…established publishing companies have the distributors, they also have an obligation to submit your work to awards, such as the Governor General’s Award or the Scotiabank Giller Prize, just to name a couple. An author cannot submit to these awards directly and self-published books are ineligible.

I still say crap shoot.

But it’s got to be done.

Working in the literary arts industry, I have been approached on several occasions, just in the past week of so, with questions regarding e-books and how, as a writer, to approach this latest technology. But I have to admit, I know little about this, as do many writers.

I was asked to see if I could find someone that knew something, anything, about e-books and how to go about doing it from a self-publishing perspective. But really I am the wrong person to ask about self-publishing because I don’t believe in it. But that’s another blog post.

I am actually torn on e-books. While the advantages seem to far outweigh the disadvantages, I can’t seem to get past the idea of not holding a real book in my hand. To not feel that paper between my fingers or hear the crinkle of the page as you turn it, doesn’t feel the same. It feels wrong on every level. Yet, there are advantages.

1. No more packing around numerous books or documents. If you have a Kobo you can download as many books as you want onto one device. So instead of taking 5 heavy books on that two week vacation to the in-laws, you can put them on the Kobo and it slips neatly into your purse or carry-on or suitcase. You can also put PDF documents on the Kobo and read at your leisure.

2. It’s more environmentally friendly.

3. At first I thought the Kobo would be like reading on a computer screen, but I have heard, because I don’t actually have one, that there is no backlight on the screen of the Kobo, therefore you still require light to read on it. Just like a book.

4. E-books are cheaper than the real thing.

5. If you have a spouse like mine that doesn’t appreciate books for what they are and is always trying to convince you to get rid of that somewhat small library of favourites, you can do just that. (if you can actually bring yourself to empty those shelves). You can stop the constant complaining of how much space it takes up, or that your toddler daughter keeps pulling everything off the shelves. Not an issue.

6. You don’t have to leave the house to get your next great read. Sit in the comfort of your home on a cold Canadian winter day, purchase an e-book online and within minutes you have that next great novel at your fingertips.

7. From a publishing perspective, I suppose you could have your books available to your readers a lot faster than waiting for those 500 copies of your first print run to be complete. Sometimes months from signing the contract. Only one e-book needs to be created and voila, it’s available to millions. And in what? Maybe a week?

At a recent publishing workshop I participated in, the subject of e-books came up and whether or not actual hand-held books would become obsolete. And in the opinion of the facilitator, no, it’s just another option being made available. Like when it was thought TV programs would do away with the need for movies, or the numerous channels now available for viewers would cause many other television stations to crumble. It never happened, it just created more options.

 

Would love to hear from anyone that has more experience with e-books, or just some opinions on the subject.

I was twelve the first time I saw a dead body. My great-grandmother lay in her coffin and we all filtered past to pay our respects to a lovely woman. I remember how peaceful she looked, but still became choked up and had to look away before my pre-teen emotions got away from me.

At that moment I think I realized for the first time just how final death is. I would know longer see her sitting at the kitchen table doing her word searches or playing the hundredth hand of solitaire.

In 2002 my grandfather passed away. I remember the call about him being rushed to the hospital and I wanted to be at his side but then the snow came and there was no way I could get there to say my goodbyes. A couple of days later he was gone. In retrospect I am glad my last memory of him is not of him laying in a hospital bed. He was cremated and I still hold on to my earlier memories.

In 2007 a friend took his own life. There was a viewing before the funeral service but I had no intention of seeing him lying there. However, you had to pass right by the viewing room in order to get to the service. And morbid curiosity got the better of me. I didn’t go in the room, but I did see him lying there, finally at peace.

In all of these cases, someone was there. All of these people had loved ones that they left behind and who knew the instant they were gone. They didn’t die alone, they were missed the second they were gone.

This past Thursday I walk out of my apartment to see an ambulance and two police trucks outside of the apartment building next door. I watched for awhile until one of the paramedics came out. Nothing of interest. Probably a false alarm. The ambulance left but the police remained.

A short time later I had to walk past these vehicles and for the first time noticed another car, hidden behind the third police car. The logo on the side, Office of the Medical Examiner. They don’t come out unless someone is dead, I thought. Again my morbid curiosity took over and thoughts went through my head of who it could be but I don’t know that many people in my apartment complex. I knew there was an elderly lady that lived in that building but I had never spoken to her. Who else could it be? Only the elderly are supposed to die. Right?

A short time later I saw a stretcher on the ground but never did see them remove the body. It was too bloody cold to stay outside for that long. The vehicles left and all was forgotten.

Several hours later I see a fire truck outside our building. I go outside to see what’s going on but there is no action. No fire. I watch for awhile and finally a fireman and our landlady walk out of the next building. I am a little nosy by nature, I have no trouble asking people questions that probably aren’t any of my business. The landlady walks past me and of course I ask her if someone died earlier.

To summarize, this is apparently what happened. 911 was called earlier in the day because of a bad smell in the building. Obviously the police and ambulance arrived first. Discovered a body that, according to my landlady had been dead for a couple of days. I instantly question that, not to her, but internally. How long does it take a dead body to smell? From my experience of watching all the crime and forensic television I do, I am sure it takes longer than 2 days for a dead body to smell up an entire building. It’s been cold out, but certainly it was probably warmer in the apartment. But it would have to be really warm for a body to smell that quickly. My best, uneducated assumption, is that he had to be dead closer to a week.

This could be argued, and that’s fine, because I don’t really know the answer. There are too many variables. The fact of the matter is, a 40 year old, male, dead body lay in his apartment for days. No one missed him until the building started to smell.

Cause of death is unknown. Could have been medical related, could have been drugs, could have been suicide. But no one missed him. He had to be found by emergency personnel.

I did some research on the decomposition of a human body. Did you know it turns green, then purple, then black? The organs are consumed by bacteria until they become liquid. This is what causes the bad odor which no one can actually describe unless you’ve experienced it first hand. The best I could find is it’s a combination of ammonia and garbage. That doesn’t offer much. But it’s bad. I feel for the people in the building, I feel for the young man who was essentially left to rot. How could there not be someone that missed him before it got to that point?

Just makes me appreciate those I have around me, that much more.

I've Been Thinking...

Happy New Year to all my loyal readers...and sorry for the lag in posts.

I've been thinking a lot about what I want to accomplish in 2011. Well it's probably more fantasizing about what I could accomplish. But I guess that's want too, isn't it?

I don't make new year resolutions. They are silly and just people another reason to feel bad about themselves when they have a set back. I have goals. You have to have goals or life can get really boring. I plan to make more deadlines as I actually did pretty well with the self-imposed deadlines of last year.

I plan to write and write and write. And when I think I can't write anymore, I will keep on writing. And with that writing I will have completed projects. Whether they are short stories, or heaven forbid I actually finish my novel. And I plan to get more stuff published this year. Of course, that one is somewhat beyond my control. Once I submit something...it's in some editor's hand.

There are other things that will happen in 2011 that are beyond my control. I will officially be 4 years away from turning 40. In so many ways, that bothers me, but I have 4 years to worry about it and maybe even get used to it. I don't like the idea of getting older. I don't like the idea of death. I know it will happen eventually, but I really don't like it. Yet, I think about it a lot. I am getting to an age that others around me will start dying. And maybe that's what bothers me more than the thought of actually dying. But okay, lets not talk about death.

I will potty train my daughter (alright that is supposed to be in my control but somehow I really don't think anything she does is in my control.) She will start pre-school. (I am counting down.) She will turn 3.

I will have one of my biggest debts paid off.

In so many ways, it's going to be a good year. It has to be. And that is within my control.

I am going to take on more challenging projects and I am going to accomplish those projects. Reaquaint myself with old friends. My kick some of the others in the butt. And maybe, just maybe...I will make some new friends.

And I am going to take a vacation. (a girl can dream can't she?)

All the best to everyone in the coming year and may all your dreams come true and all your goals be attainable.

Now...I have a great new idea for a story so have to go write.

Just Because...

When I need a good laugh, or want to commiserate, or just want to read something interesting, these are the favourites that I turn to. Thought I would just pass this along in case you wanted to check them out and besides, everyone needs a little free publicity sometimes.

The Bloggess : If you want a good laugh, check her out. But beware, if you are easily offended by foul language, or sarcasm, or just don't know how to laugh, stay away.

So F*cking Fabulous I Piss Glitter : If anything can go wrong it will. But the good times are in there too.

Listen to the Voices : More for writers than the average blog reader but a great link for up and coming writers of all stages of mystery writing.

Such is Life : Dan is just a funny guy. And Charlie the Chicken on Saturdays, says it how it is.

To Make A Choice : Selfless acts should not go unnoticed.

Accidental Poet : Just too funny and sweet at the same time to pass up the read.

Elsewhere : Marcello is a great travel writer and has some great stories to tell.

There are so many more that I love so please forgive me if you weren't on this list. This also goes to show that you don't need to get a blog award to send out the good vibes.

Now that I've sent out the love...I'm gonna go write.

The Greatest Gift You Can Give

Whoa!

Two posts in one day. I don't know if you can keep up with this. But, hey, I felt it was important to share some information but I need to provide a little backstory first and explain why this has caught my attention.

Many of you know that I'm working on a novel. Have been for the past year. It's been through some hiccups, but I've managed to overcome the obstacles and am now on a pretty straightforward path to completion. It will still take awhile, but at least it's on track. The theme that seems to have presented itself, made its way up off the page if you will, is that of blood. Blood in terms of life, in terms of ancestry. All elements of blood. Oh and sex. There's gotta be some sex right?

Without giving away too much, one of the characters is in end-stage renal failure. In normal lingo, kidney failure. So of course I have had to research kidney disease, how it happens, treatments, etc. After much research, I was saddened to discover just how many people are suffering from kidney disease and besides liver transplants, kidney transplants are the only transplants that can be given by a live donor.

Most live donations have been done by family members. But there are many cases where a family member may not be an appropriate match and there are not enough non-familial live donors out there. Don't worry, I am not asking you all to give up a kidney because that is a serious decision to be made and it can't be taken lightly. No that's not the point here.

The point is, a friend of mine. Someone that I lost touch with for awhile though I still followed her on Facebook, has actually made the decision to be a live kidney donor. Of course, it's still dependant on whether or not she passes all the tests. But to even consider such a thing, whether or not she is a suitable candidate, is amazing. She hates the word "selfless" but really it is. Nothing will ever top giving the gift of life to someone that you don't know.

So I am pointing you in her direction. Follow Lauren's story from the decision, through the testing and maybe through to the donation. To Make A Choice

You can never have too much support when making a difficult decision. Let's show her just how much we do care about what she's doing.

I feel like I’m on a merry-go-round. An invisible force is pushing and pushing. It’s going so fast and I’m dizzy enough to throw up.

Mini Me is driving me nuts. Those terrible twos really are terrible and she’s right in the middle of them with no sign of slowing down.

Yesterday went a little something like this…

ME: “Please don’t touch Christmas tree.”

HER: Continues to touch the Christmas tree.

ME: “Do you want a time out?”

HER: Shakes her head and moves away from the tree, only to do to the Christmas lights that hang and the wall and plug them in. Unplug them. Plug them in. Unplug them.

ME: “If you touch the lights again you’re going for a time out.”

HER: Smiles and touches the lights again.

ME: Put her in her time out spot. “Two minutes.”

HER: Cries, kicks, screams. But sits there.

ME: Sit and enjoy the two minutes of semi-quiet. Get her from her spot, explain why she’s there. She makes sounds like she’s talking back. We hug and kiss and off we go.

HER: Dumps out her toy box, turns it bottom side up so she can reach items on the top of her dresser.

ME: “Get down from there before you fall.”

HER: Sits on box with open container of bum cream in her lap. Smears it on her face, legs, arms.

ME: Go back to what I was doing. I can’t remember what I was doing.

HER: Pushes toy box into kitchen. Starts pulling stuff off the counter.

ME: “I asked you not to climb on that.”

HER: Smiles, laughs, grabs toy box and begins to run away with it.

ME: What was I doing?

HER: Rustle, rustle, scratch, scratch. Plunk.

ME: “Get out of the garbage can.”

HER: Hides under microwave shelf.

ME: Go back to whatever I was doing. I think it was laundry.

HER: Runs into her bedroom. Tries to climb the bookshelf which thankfully is strapped to the wall. She gets down, and starts to bring all her toys into the living room. Dances around, twirls, laughs, runs and kicks the ball. Pulls on stockings hung from the fireplace.

ME: Wants to laugh, wants to cry. I’m exhausted and I’ve only been up for an hour.

And the day continues mostly like this. More time outs, more blowing on my hot coffee and touching the cup when asked not to. Tipping the cup over so I have to wash the carpet. Climbing onto the kitchen table, pulling stuff out of the garbage can, opening the dishwasher, grabbing dishes and running and hiding with them. Opening the laptop, turning it off, turning it on, pulling shoes out of the closet. Refusing to eat what’s offered, taking off her clothes and diaper. Taking all the clothes out of her dresser, laughing and running away when I try to encourage her to help me clean it up.

Pulls it all out again.

Jumping.

Running.

Cries.

Tantrums.

Time outs.

Running.

Clean up toys.

Dumps toys out again.

Jumping.

Touching. Touching. Touching.

Won’t nap.

Cries.

Screams. Kicks. Bites. Slaps. (This is her, not me. Just to clarify.)

And around and around we go.

White Christmas…Embrace It!

Well it seems that this year we will have a white Christmas whether we want it or not. As the old snow was getting packed down and dirty, someone up above decided it was time for a fresh layer. It’s not really heavy but it is steady…and it’s wet.

I’ve heard there are benefits to snow. I just can’t quite think of them right now. I remember when I was a kid and the snow would fall, it was just a burst of giddiness and excitement. (Is that the same thing? Giddiness and excitement?) If it was a school day, it could mean that I didn’t have to go, like the time when I was six and it snowed nearly three feet overnight. In retrospect it may not have actually been three feet but it was a lot for a small little girl. Came up to my chest. Funny how are perspectives change over time. A house that we lived in that seemed so big at the time, practically a mansion, was really nothing more than a shack.

Snow angels, snowmen, snowball fights. And the sports associated with snow…skating, skiing, snow shoeing, tobogganing and snowmobiling. All great and fun, and you need snow.

But the roads…the slippery miserable roads…the accidents that come in the hundreds as soon as the snow hits. How is that good for anyone? You find yourself in the bitter cold, no vehicle or broke now that you have to pay for repairs…or worse…the loss of someone you love so close to the holidays. Wow…I feel a lot of negativity coming on. Better get off this train before it derails.

The goodness. It has nothing to do with snow. Christmas…we don’t need snow to have Christmas. It comes whether the white stuff falls or not. But…there is something really special about watching the snow fall on Christmas Eve and Day and you’re snuggled up in front of the fire with the people you love.

As much as I dislike the snow for all the reasons associated with driving in it…and the bitter cold that seems to come along with it…I find myself getting a little depressed when it looks like we won’t have a white Christmas. But I don’t have to fear this year….it’s already snowed…and it’s snowing more. It’s unlikely it will disappear before the big day.

Thank goodness….how can Santa land his sleigh if there is no snow?

Making the Best of a Chilly Situation

I am not a penguin. I was not made for these temperatures. It’s cold and I hate it. Give me a nice sunny Hawaiian beach any day. Just not this. Not the wind chills of -40, not the daytime high temperatures of -30. Just give me a nice warm cave so I can sleep until spring.

I’ve heard people say, just imagine a beach somewhere, the soft sand scratching your back or oozing through your toes. The sun beating down, the waves lapping against the shoreline, children laughing as the water splashes against their legs. Sand castles, or sand sculptures decorating the beach.

Can you see it? The warmth of summer combining with the warmth of family to become one gentle heat wave. It washes over your body, like a delicate veil, and you are left feeling…feeling like a hand grazed over you, like you are locked in a forever embrace with the love of your life.

The children play at the water’s edge. They scream and laugh, splash water at each other. One mother shouts, “don’t get so close to the water.” The child ignores her and plunges in deeper, sits in the moist sand just inches below the surface and lets the water wash over his legs, tickle his torso.

The sky is a brilliant blue, blue like denim, and there is not a tear in the thick threads. Just nothing but blue for as far as you can see. Denim blue meets navy blue at the horizon and it’s like you can see forever. To the edge of the earth.

The only breeze comes off the water, barely even disturbs the trees nearby. But you can feel it. Just when you think it might get too hot, there is a cool breath on your face, over the rest of your body and it’s just enough. Just enough to satisfy you, to convince you to stay just a few more minutes.

Watch the boats on the water. They are little dots, bouncing up and down, like when you roll over on a water bed. You can only imagine the soft shush, shush as it bobs up and down, water that laps up the side of the hull. The water cradles the boat like a newborn baby. Hugs it close, with the steady rhythmic beat of the tide.

But then you peer down the beach. A rock bluff appears to emerge from the water and upon on the pointed crags of rock that jut out from its sides, snow. And a thin glistening sheen of ice. On top of the bluff, a snowman appears to be smiling. Dark eyes peer down at the water, an icicle hangs from his carrot nose and a scarf is wrapped around his wide neck, flapping violently in the cold winter wind. His outstretched stick thin arms are raised as if in prayer, red socks hang from the end of the branches and wave like wind socks. Each tube filled with winter air, and you just want to turn away from the cold. With the wind at your back.

Aren’t the Birds Supposed to Fly South for the Winter?

Much to my surprise, even in Canadian climates such as ours, there are birds that don’t make the flight to warmer climates. Instead the endure the painful temperatures that even most of us can’t stand.

Today it’s a balmy –15 and is supposed to be dropping further. I don’t know the wind chill but it has to be somewhere in the –20’s. There is continuous blowing snow that has smoothed out the drifts in our yard.

Only moments ago I stepped outside for a minute and noticed a blue jay up in the tree. He was perched neatly on a branch tucked as close the trunk as possible. While I stood there wondering why he was still here, he plumped up his feathers and made himself into this little white ball, with only a bit of his blue and black cap sticking out. He reminded me of Julianne during her first winter.

We had this cute white snowsuit that we received as a gift. On one of the less chilly days I had taken her outside to experience snow for the first time. As she sat in the snow, (she was barely crawling at that point), she looked like a little marshmallow in the snow, only her pudgy little cheeks exposed. It was one of the cutest images I had ever caught of her and in that moment, she just looked warm. Much like this little bird.

I am not a bird person. It’s rare for me to find anything cute or attractive about a bird unless he is some magnificent rainbow of colours. Face it. Canadian birds are just not that interesting. (Sorry to all the bird lovers out there.) But this bird was beautiful. Like so many others, he made the best of a miserable situation. There was no place for him to find real shelter, so he did what he was instinctively designed to do. My instincts on this kind of day are to stay in doors. Under the covers of a nice warm bed or, if little child does not allow me to do just that, huddled beside the fireplace.

I Want To Be A Bear...

Sub-arctic temperatures have now graced the Calgary region. Not that we should be all that surprised because after all, it is Calgary, but still, after the semblance of summer we received late in the season, this is not a welcome change. We have been spoiled and now like spoiled children we want to fight and kick away this dreadful weather.

I hate the cold.

I would really fare better if I had been a bear. These last few warm months I would have spent gathering and eating all the food I possibly could, then as soon as the good old weather channel announced the accumulative snow coming our way along with cold, cold, cold, I would have got up, stretched and said, "That's my cue..." And off I would go to my warm, fuzzy den not to be seen again until Balzac Billy said it was okay.

But I am not a bear. Nor will I ever be one. Unless I believed in reincarnation but then, that would open up a whole other can of worms.

Speaking of reincarnation. Does anyone REALLY know what happens to us after we die? I've been asking myself this question more and more since the onset of my new found gray hairs that are becoming too numerous to do a damn thing about. Colouring my hair would only hide the inevitable. Pulling them out would probably leave more bald patches than any woman should ever have to live with and face it, just too much darned work. So I have decided to leave them for now. But it does bring up questions of mortality.

I know, I know. I'm still young. Should have at least 40 good years left in me, if all goes well. But I can't get those thoughts of decrepitude out of my mind. Recently, I have watched my grandmother, now 85 years old, having trouble standing without assistance. And when she walks, oh good lord, a snail could outrun her. Is that what I have to look forward to? Because if it is, I don't want it. But my grandmother is okay with the idea of moving on. Says that my grandfather is waiting patiently for her, will be ready for her when she finally decides it's time to let go.

So what happens when the final breath finally leaves your body, all the organs that have kept you going for all these years, finally runs out of energy and decides it's time for them too, to rest.

Atheists believe nothing. That when you die you go into the earth and decompose with the worms. Other religions believe in the concept of heaven and hell, reincarnation, moon phases, earthly elements and so on. All these different beliefs designed to bring peace, faith, love, and happiness. It doesn't matter what you believe. Whatever faith helps get you through the day is great in my opinion. Whatever helps you to prepare for the next phase, thumbs up.

And now I don't know how this post has gotten away from me. From cold and snow to bears and the contemplation of aging and eventual death. It's one of those things that you just know is going to happen and there is absolutely nothing we can do about it. I like to try and think of it as going to sleep and just not being aware of anything around you.

I don't think it's so much the thought of death, it's the thought of dying young. The thought of missing my children grow up and having children of their own. The thought of having to deal with the loss of my own husband. Because I am sure he will go before I will. And I saw the pain that my grandmother suffered when my grandfather passed away.

You know what? This is just too much and too deep for this miserably cold and snowy day. I think I will go grab another cup of coffee and watch Strawberry Shortcake with my daughter.

One of Many Milestones...

She began sleeping through the night at just over a month old. Soon thereafter she was holding her head up and learning to roll over. The combat crawl was her first choice of crawling then eventually crawled like normal babies. Then she stood holding on to the table for support until finally she took her first steps. This was all within the first year of life.

The second year brought such milestones as first words and climbing on anything and everything. Tantrums became a regular part of the day, stubborness, laughing, yelling, putting on her own clothes and of course taking them off.

This past week, she made the transition from crib to bed. This new found freedom has created a need for us to adjust our own schedules. No longer can my hubby go to bed early. He needs to make sure she is asleep before he can go there and I am forced to get up much earlier than I have become accustomed to over the past couple of years but we have made the adjustment because there is no other choice, although somewhat begrudgingly.

And today...

We put the crib away.

I thought I would be more emotional about the change. That it would cause me to sit back and reflect and be sad. And I have reflected. I guess that's what I'm doing now, in fact. But I was not emotional. I am not sad. I am proud. Proud of all the steps she has successfully taken over the past two years and excited (and somewhat terrified) at the thought of what is yet to come.

It doesn't have to be difficult. I've learned to take each day as they come and deal with all the little struggles that come my way.

Also, recently we have learned the value of the "timeout" and that they actually work. If only my parents had known about that method of discipline. I would have avoided many spankings with the leather belt, calloused hand or wooden spoon.

Media says we've become a more violent society but I think in many ways we have actually become a calmer society.

At least as far as parenting goes.

In Remembrance...

Today is Remembrance Day in Canada and for the first time I did not take in any ceremony. Not in person, not televised. Not that I don't remember, because I do. I think about it all the time. Especially in the last year.

I don't know anyone that died in any war. No one in my family ever saw the frontlines. But I have married into a family that saw more of a war than anyone should. Was stuck right in the middle of a conflict, made to suffer like no one ever should. All the Dutch during the Second World War experienced more than they ever should have.

On our last trip to Holland I made it a point to visit a Canadian War Cemetary, and a deportation camp, to get a feel for the land and what it must have been like.

I learned of some experiences of my husband's grandfather during that time that gave me a better understanding of what it must have been like. And since I have been home I have been working diligently to complete a personal essay on just that experience for me. I want to be able to share it with my readers out there in bloggie land, but I can't do that for now due to the debate over it being considered previously published even if it's only posted online. So I must wait because there is another destination in mind for that particular piece.

So I have not forgotten. I have been busy remembering in my own way for the last few months. With each word I type, with all the research I do on that particular piece of writing, I have been faced with the truth ongoing. In many ways I think I will treat today as a day of rest. Although I know perfectly well, I will not forget about it. I will probably even work on that piece of writing today. But for now, I hope everyone else remembers. No matter where you live. No matter how close the truth is to you. Always remember that there have been and probably always will be soldiers that fight unselfishly for something much bigger than any of us.

Don’t Read? Don’t Write

Would you walk into an operating room without having taken any formal training? Or stand in a courtroom defending an innocent man, if you didn’t have any knowledge of law or proper courtroom etiquette? Just as in anything you want to do, you need training. You need to learn what works and what doesn’t work before you can step outside the box and stretch the rules.

A crucial component to becoming a successful writer is to read everything you can get your hands on. Read the types of stories you want to write. Examine the story and figure out what it is you like about it, what makes it work. Are the characters compelling? Does the plot sing? Is the end satisfying or leave you hanging? But there are people that believe they do not need to read, that the words that spill from their fingers or the end of their pen is perfect and publishable the way it is.

Several years ago I had a debate with a co-worker about the need to read in order to become a successful writer. He believed that a writer did not need to read to be able to write while I strongly believe a writer needs to possess a passion for the written word in order to have faith in his craft, a passion that usually stems from childhood. How can you claim to be a good writer if you don’t like to read or don’t have the time to read? If you never sat down and read a book in your life except for the prescribed reading list in that high school English class, how could you even develop a desire to write?

Granted, in theory, you don’t necessarily need to read to have that desire to write but what’s the point? Why would you spend long hours over a keyboard if you don’t appreciate the end result? Why do the research for an article on weapons of mass destruction if you wouldn’t read an article on the topic? Why become a lawyer if you hate lawyers and everything they stand for? Why become a doctor if you can’t stand the sight of blood or you’re germaphobic?

In order to become published and have your readers take you seriously, you need to establish your credibility as a writer. Take classes to perfect the craft. Learn new techniques on how to get your work from the hidden confines of your computer or notebook to a broader audience. There are no real rules on how to attract a publisher but when you’re attempting to break into a market as a new writer, you want to avoid common mistakes. Want to make your writing stand out from the rest. You can’t do this unless you already understand the basics of story arc, character and plot development, dialogue, tenses and especially point of view.

I have been writing for as long as I can remember. Since my father read to me as a child and I developed that love of words, I wanted to be able to string those words together and create stories of my own to entertain and instill emotion. And so I wrote. But I didn’t care if it was actually any good because no one was going to see it anyway.

About eight years ago I was on a roll. I wrote a 10,000 word short story and thought it was brilliant. The words that flowed from my fingers just couldn’t have come out any more perfect. I edited, I packaged it up and sent it off to a contest. I didn’t win. Meanwhile, I decided to bide my time and take some classes for the fun of it. If I learned something along the way, then great, if not, at least I had something to do.

A few years ago I went back to that story and was completely appalled at what I read. I was embarrassed to think that someone had actually read that piece of drivel. Every other paragraph I switched point of view. Tenses were all over the place and I really knew nothing about my characters. The plot was weak and the ending bordered on plain bizarre. Knowing what I know now, the only consolation is that the judges probably didn’t read past the first page so they didn’t see how bad it really was.

At some point a writer needs to trust in the knowledge of those that have been successful, those that know the business. Whether you write short stories, poems, creative non-fiction or have a desire to write a novel, read everything you can get your hands on to learn what works, take classes, join a critique group and then submit, submit and submit some more. You’re certain to be demoralized by rejection but keep going. To get published is as much about luck as it is about talent. Stick to what works until you’re comfortable with overstepping the boundaries.

Learn how to self edit. Use your spell check. Rewrite. Don’t be afraid of losing something in a rewrite. The words that spill onto the page the first time are not the words that the reader will see. The theme, the concept and the characters will be the same in most cases, but the words will become better. The story will become clearer. Stronger. More emotional. Re-read. Edit until that piece is the best that it can possibly be.

Few book publishers will take a second look at your work if you have not already established your credibility as a writer. (You wouldn’t hire a lawyer that didn’t have a good track record or go to a doctor with numerous malpractice suits against him.) And if you are fortunate enough to have written something that resonates with the editors, don’t be surprised when they ask you to rewrite some scenes, maybe even whole chapters. They may find a scene that doesn’t seem to serve a purpose and ask you to delete it.

I’ve heard writers express concerns about their stories not being their stories anymore if they have to rewrite it to please an editor. But you have to believe that the editor knows what they are talking about. And maybe you should re-evaluate why you write. Is it in the hopes of fame and fortune, or for the delight of seeing your name on the front of a book? If it’s the latter, self-publish. If the former, compromise, let go of your ego and do what the editor has asked of you. Believe that they have your best interests in mind, even if they don’t.

And through it all, read. Read everything. And if you don’t read, then don’t write.

Change is Good

We just spent a night in Invermere. My grandma had taken ill and was in the hospital so we made the 3 1/2 hour drive from Calgary to spend some time with her. We got a room with two queen beds and although we took the playpen for Julianne we decided to try and let her sleep in the big bed. And surprisingly enough, she actually fell asleep in it. With a little struggle mind you, but the struggle was less than when we tried to put her in the playpen. She was doing great until around 1am when she rolled out of bed onto the floor.

When we returned home we decided it was time to try and transition her from her crib to the big bed we have had set up for months. Though we gave her the choice of the crib or the big bed and she chose the big bed, the first night she got up again and again. She cried. She resisted. But we knew she could do it so we stayed strong. She ended up falling asleep on my lap and I placed her in the big bed and left her. And she slept all night.

Yesterday, I put her down for a nap in the big bed. She got up a few times but eventually did fall asleep.

Last night, we put her to bed in the big bed. No fuss. She only got up once. Slept straight through until 8 this morning.  I have to say it was much nicer having her in the crib where she couldn’t get out until I was ready to get her out. But I know we have to give her that freedom even if it means I don’t get to sleep like I’m used to.

Before I went to bed last night I checked on her. Stood over her bed watching her sleep and couldn’t believe what I saw. She is no longer a baby. She is growing and changing everyday and I’m really proud of the progress, but at the same time, the realization hit me that soon enough she is not going to need me anymore. First it’s sleeping independently, then  it’s potty training, then it’s pre-school, then kindergarten…

My child is so strong-willed.

But very open to change.

Both good traits that I am certain she got from me.

But a person has to be ready for the change in order to fully embrace the possibilities associated with it. And though she is adapting well, (as she should), I’m not so sure I’m ready for this change.

Are You A Writer?

For years I have had trouble referring to myself as a writer simply because without having something of significance published, I felt like a phoney. Recently however, that began to change. Talk to many people and some believe you're a writer if you write. If you're trying to get published, even if you haven't had anything accepted already, you're a writer because the difficult part really is getting something accepted by a legitimate publication but as long as you're trying, you're a writer.

But with all the convincing that took, I am finding myself a little annoyed with groups that seem to see it differently. Recently, an Alberta Writers Directory has been created. It lists all published writers living in Alberta. The only requirement to be considered a writer, is that you have something of book length published. Novel, collection of short stories, creative non-fiction, poetry collections. But it does not include anyone that has been published in literary journals, magazines or otherwise. So what? They aren't considered a writer. What if you've had numerous short stories published, all you like to do is write short stories, but have no desire to put toghether a collection of stories? You're not a writer?  I agree that you shouldn't be included if you've only had one or two items published but is it really fair to exclude those that don't have book length publications?

And then, I got an invitation to a grand opening event for a new local book store. They are having readings by various local authors throughout the evening. But...the only way to be included in this event is to be reading from, yet again, a book length publication.

Granted, there are events that focus on those writers that don't necessarily have book length manuscripts, that may not have been published as of yet but are trying. But still. It feels a little discouraging. Not saying that those that have worked hard on long manuscripts and been successful shouldn't have some formal recognition. Because of course they deserve it. It's a long process. Often debilitating, driving you to drink on more than one occasion. But when you're struggling to believe in yourself, to believe that you actually deserve the title or distinction but you haven't actually completed it, there are groups telling you that you in fact don't deserve it.

Probably just me taking too much to heart. And I do feel that I am writer even if I don't have as many credits as some of these other writers.

Under-Cooked

How much is too much? How much is too little? Recently I've been working on a non-fiction piece, don't worry I'm still working on the novel too, and I've come to realize there is just not enough of "me" in the piece. It's a personal essay based on my last visit to Holland and I finally worked up a first draft, and then a second, even on to a third. But when I looked back and re-read it something was missing. It didn't have the raw emotion that I thought it needed. So I finally took it to a writer friend that I respect and had her take a look at it.

As it turns out, all the things that I thought it was missing, all things that I thought probably weren't necessary, were reinforced. I don't know why I do that. It's like I know the answer but I need someone to confirm my reservations before I move forward. But there comes the hard part.

How much of yourself do you really want to put into a particular piece of writing? With non-fiction its hard not to because the narrator is usually the writer. But I have the same problems when writing fiction. It falls flat because there isn't enough of me or not enough of a dominant narrator. A narrator that has quirks like everyone does, a narrator that has opinions about certain things even if it's something that's open to debate.
Then I think, maybe I don't know enough about the narrator. Which is fair in fiction. But when you're writing non-fiction, how do you not know enough of the narrator? Aren't you the only person that knows yourself better than anyone else?

It comes down to fear. How much of myself do I want to put out there? How much am I willing to put out there? For it to be good, I guess the answer is simple. Just enough to get your point across. Which brings me back to how much is too much and how much is too little. How do you know when you have just the right amount? Is there suppose to be some fancy trigger or alarm that goes off, like the timer on an oven, letting you know when it's done? Even then sometimes the oven is not right. All ovens are different. Just as all people are different.

I fear I am going in circles. Which leads me to believe, there is no definitive answer. You have to trust your instincts. Something I am pretty bad at doing. I would much rather follow a recipe, have it all spelled out for me. Exact cooking time, exact ingredients. But if the cooking time is wrong...jeez. What if you feel like you've overcooked it, even though to look at it, it still looks not quite finished? So you give it a little more time, and it's still doesn't look done but how could the recipe have been wrong? So you take it out...someone else tries it and says, it could have cooked just a little longer.

Viscious circle. But no one ever said writing was simple. And there is no recipe for success.

Motivation

When I do things I usually do them to excess. Pick up a book and begin to read and before you know it, I've read 4 books in a week. Start to write with the plan to only write a page and I get sucked in to the world that I'm creating, not coming up for air until my fingers are sore or I am just too tired to think or do anymore, then I drag my creatively exhausted butt to bed and oh I sleep. Too well that to get up in the morning at a reasonable time is almost impossible but am forced to because there's a crying toddler in the other room that is stripped down to nothing, diaper on the floor, probably peed in the bed by that time and is tired of sitting in the puddle. I can get carried away in a conversation, emails or texts, Twitter and Facebook, working too hard and too long...but the problem lies in the initial getting going.

Motivation.

And it's not the energy required, at least not physical energy, because really, none of the things mentioned above require much physical exertion except to maybe reach over and grab the computer, or walk to the bedroom to grab that book I've been meaning to read for months.

I'm overwhelmed and it seems that when my brain is finally telling me enough is enough. It just wants to shut down and I have lost the energy to fight it. Too many deadlines approaching, too many people needing my immediate attention that I just can't do it. I've done tiny things, the things that take little thought and little time, because I just want to get it out of the way and get these people to leave me along for awhile. But there are big things coming up and now that I have shut down for a bit too long, I am having a hard time getting myself going again.

I've tried free fall writing to activate the right brain. I've tried looking at the deadlines I have coming up and deciding which I have to work on first and just how long I need to get them done. I've created spreadsheets and documents outlining how I will accomplish all of these tasks, to excess. I have found every other thing possible to do besides write. At least write anything that resembles a finished product.

So now what?

How do you get motivated?

Any tips or tricks?

Novels, Deadlines and other %&*#

Be My NaNoWriMo Buddy

I've heard about it, but never given it much thought. Probably more that I didn't realize you are actually suppose to register for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). It works for me as NaNoWriMo is in November and it just so happens that my self-imposed deadline for finishing the first draft of my novel is the end of November. If you're a writer, need some motivation to finish (or start) that novel then check it out. Might work. Might not. If nothing else. It's fun. Oh and be my writing buddy. My only question now is whether I am going to focus on the novel I'm already working on, or maybe, just for this particular project, I will start something fresh and new that's been floating around in my imagination. Oh so many things to consider. But still a little time to toss it around. I guess I'll just see where I'm at by the end of this month.

As for other deadlines, I can't believe the pressure I put on myself. Several projects in the works and all have deadlines up until the end of the year. I will do it though.

I'm taking a new approach on the novel. After in-depth discussion in my novel class, and careful consideration afterward, I have decided to re-write what I already have from a different point of view. Different character point of view. I think this might work out the best in the long run and have already re-written quite a bit. So I really have my work cut out for me.

So I better get writing.

"The washroom's by the front door. Watch your step."

Recently I was revisiting those locked areas of my memory, you know the place where you tuck away all the embarrassing and humiliating things you do in your life, those memories that you more than likely never want to ever see the light of day again, for the sole purpose of a creative non-fiction project I'm working on. Most of these occurred when I was much younger, like elementary school younger. Anyway, as I was recalling all those horrendous memories, I came to this stunning realization. When you're humilated as a child you really feel like your life is over, but when you do something embarrassing as an adult, you're much more able to deal with it and even laugh it off.

Last weekend I took a fabulous travel writing weekend workshop with Marcello DiCintio at the Alexandra Writers' Centre. I've never considered myself to be a travel writer but I thought this particular course might help me with another project that I've been working on since June and in many ways it could fall into the category of travel writing simply because it has to do with a specific incident that happened when I was in Holland this summer. But mostly I've been envisioning it as a personal essay. That's not what this is all about though. Back to the stupidity that can be Robin on rare occasions.

On the first full day of the weekend we were given an exercise to walk around the community, visit a shop, schmooze with the shop owners or whichever sucker happened to be behind the counter at the time. Typically, the thought of interviewing anyone makes me nauseous and this day was no different, although I had a specific place in mind that would also be beneficial to my project. But, before we had to go do our actual exercise, a bunch of us went for lunch at a nearby pub. I've never been to this particular pub before, so after a very delicious BLT and Spinach Salad, I did what most people do. Especially after a glass of wine. I had to go to the bathroom.

Like I said, I had never been to this place before so I asked someone I was with where the washroom was.
"By the front door. Watch your step." Grabbed my purse and headed toward the front door. I walked to the lobby area and looked around. Right there in front of me was an open door and just inside the door a sink and a mirror. Looked like a bathroom. Above the door was a paper sign. Ladies. With an arrow pointing to the left. Inside the door to the left was another open door and there was a toilet. I was still a little confused but okay, that must be the bathroom.

I walk inside and shut the door but just before the door closed, on the other side of the room behind the other open door I happened to notice a urinal. Funny place for a urinal. So close to the ladies room. Essentially the same room, but still separated. So I'm sitting there and I hear someone outside the door, washing their hands and suddenly it's occuring to me that this could very well NOT be the ladies room. That I was sitting there peeing in the men's little room for when a urinal is just not enough.

Shit. Not literally. Damn. I finished what I was doing and waited until I hoped no one was outside the door. Hoping no one was in the room at all. I opened the door real slow as not to surprise anyone and I really had no intention of seeing any penis on that particular day unless it belonged to my husband. Thankfully, I was alone. Washed my hands and slipped out of the room. Only then did I notice the Mens sign on the open door. Why on earth would they leave the door open anyway?

Also thankfully no one that I was with entered the lobby until I was already standing there. But I do have a big mouth and have learned that it's okay to laugh at yourself and to let others laugh at you too so I told one of my friends. I still had no idea where the ladies bathroom was. We headed toward the front door and as soon as we rounded the corner, voila, right there by the door was the Ladies room.

Clearly marked.

Door closed.

And another sign with an arrow pointing to the tiny step in front of the door...Watch Your Step.