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.

Word Vomit

I've rarely been asked the question of why I write but in the last week alone that question has been posed twice. And the first thing that popped into my head was simply, what else is there? But when I really took the time to think about it, saying that there was nothing else would be a lie. There's a lot of other things I could be doing instead of writing. Cooking, at one time I considered going to culinary school along with the other millions of things I considered doing in my life. I used to paint and draw but applying a pencil to paper and creating lines in just such a way as to create an image was not as fulfilling to me as applying words onto paper to create images that would evoke a different image for everyone. I could be happy just being a mom but then what would I have to really share with my children if I don't also have something that I'm passionate about?

But why do I write? From the time I could pick up a pencil and actually put letters together to form words, I was writing stories. It's been a part of me my entire life though there were long stints in which the passion was pushed aside. But how can something you're really passionate about ever be gone. Buried under the garbage of life, yes. But it's always there. Fermenting at the bottom, waiting patiently to see the light of day once again. And when all that garbage has been cleaned up and thrown away, oh the stories it has to tell.

Maybe that's part of it. I have something to say and the only way anyone will really listen is if I write it down. A few years ago I went to interview an author that I really admired, who I had learned a lot from. A virgin interviewer combined with my mild social phobia, I had no idea what kind of questions I should ask. Sure I'd prepared a list of questions but the interview went anything but smooth. In fact, by mid way through she was asking me questions about  my life. I shared with her things that had rarely been shared with anyone. But from the stories I told her, one comment stuck out more than anything. "You should really write this stuff down." As far as I was concerned my life was boring. Mattered no more than the grime on the bottom of my shoe. I left her house feeling confused and convinced that was not how an interview was supposed to go. It got written anyway, and much to my surprise, published.

Over the years that one comment always stuck with me. And after a lot of soul searching realized that maybe I did have some stories that needed to be told. Even if they never saw the light of day, there were things I needed to get down. The paper would be my therapist. Words that rose like bile in the back of my throat, soon became...vomit.

Word vomit.

Like when I was in 6th grade and almost puked on the girl sitting in front of me. Words spilled out onto the page in a mess of thoughts and ideas.

And so that is why I write. There's nothing else i would rather be doing. It's cathartic and fulfilling. And now that the vomit is all cleaned up and I have recovered, I have stories to tell.

Why do you write?

Where Does the Time Go?

I have to write at night when the house is quiet. Everyone else snug in their bed but me, awake and somewhat alert, sitting in front of the computer. It's usually around 9pm when I finally get myself into that right brain frame of mind and even if I'm not quite there yet, I start to write. Some days, I tell myself I have to get to bed at a reasonable time so I can be bright-eyed the following morning but more often than not, I don't.

I start to write, get so wrapped up in what I'm doing, that everything around me fades away and I am left fully submerged in the world that I am creating. Where does the time go?

Last night I really had no intention of writing even though I have multiple deadlines looming. But I sat down and started working on a completely different project. One that's been in the back of my mind for the last year but I just hadn't started. The idea was simply to get a rough outline down so that when I went back to it, I wouldn't have forgotten what I wanted to write. But as I created scene after scene, before I knew it I had almost 2500 words written and it was 1am.

I knew I had to go to bed but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I wanted to keep going. Fortunately the rational side of me won out, so I puttered off to bed but I laid in bed thinking about what I had been working on. Working and re-working in my head to the point that I almost got up again but thankfully sleep did finally come.

This is fairly normal when I'm in the groove but there are days when it takes all of my energy to even get a paragraph written. That's been me the last couple of weeks so last night I see as a kind of release and hopefully now I can keep going. Get something actually finished. Meet my self-imposed deadlines. Because before I know it, the month will have flown by.

"Real" Swiss Chocolate at Your Fingertips

In the Globe and Mail yesterday I came across an article announcing a new website for Chocoholics. Emulated after the style of Facebook, chocolate lovers can sign up for this community and receive coupons, earn points and actually have REAL Swiss Chocolate delivered to your door.
http://www.myswisschocolate.ch/

I admit, I was curious. Who wouldn't be? It's chocolate.

The thought of that rich, creamy substance melting over my tongue, coating my mouth in a heavenly film and then...well just the idea of chocolate. All you want, at anytime. Mmmmm.

So the website is all in Swiss (is that actually the language they speak there? Not sure.) Regardless, it's in yet another language that I don't understand, but thanks to technology just click translate and voila, it's readable. Well, semi-readable. Those things never translate properly but it tries.

And what did I find? Well, it didn't seem to be all it was cracked up to be. A website for a small company near Zurich that sells chocolate. Okay. Perfect. We're on the right track. On this page there is a link to join up to My Swiss Chocolate Club. It really reminded me of signing up to be a preferred customer at your favourite clothing store. I didn't actually sign up, though was tempted, for research purposes only. Something about the fact that the website is in another language and poorly translated. Why sign up for something that even when translated, you may miss something of importance?  And they are trying to market to chocolate lovers around the world.

Anyway, it might be more clear if I actually looked at it. But I won't. So I am just telling you about it and you can check it out for yourself if you want.

Admittedly, it is an interesting concept. Something to entice addicts, yet again.

But not THIS chocoholic.

A Whole Lotta Stuff...

Another rainy, indoor kinda day. I'm up early cause it's Sunday and I am always up early on Sunday whether I like it or not. One of these days maybe my husband will go and get his drivers license so I can actually sleep in. But, after three years that is seeming less and less likely. Like me winning the lottery or something. You can't win if you don't buy tickets, you can't get a drivers license unless you actually study for the learners test and actually get off butt and go to the registry. I honestly don't know how people can go through life without taking advantage of the privilage of driving a car. It was all I could think about when I was turning 16. To be 43 (on Monday) and not be able to drive is completely beyond my comprehension. But it's different in Europe. The things we find necessary are just not, over there. But, okay, whatever. I'm over it. In all honesty I don't really mind getting up to do that. It's only once a week plus when I stay up after dropping him off I feel like I get something accomplished during the day.

Onto other news. I have officially written over 30, 000 words of my novel. Over 100 pages. So approximately a third of the way there. Funny how we (or maybe just I) feel like I have to write 300 pages before I will deem it a complete novel, when in fact, it only needs to be as long as it needs to be. So if it's only 280 pages, who I am to say it's not done? And if it's 400 pages, it's not overdone. It's just as long as it needs to be. But a first draft is never the final draft and by the time I'm finished there could be more, or there could be less. No matter which way it goes, I am on the right track and that's all that matters. I have surpassed the pre-lost flash drive state so that's an accomplishment. Though I can't stop thinking I would be THAT much further had I not lost the flash drive. Had I actually been diligent and backed up in more than one place, this would totally not be an issue. But...I can't go back. What's done is done. And I think it's better this time around. Maybe if I hadn't lost it, I wouldn't be any further ahead. Maybe I would have stalled and had no idea where to go next. My characters hanging in a fictional limbo, waiting for my next direction, but never getting what they seek. Still plan on having this thing done by sometime in November. The rest, I will just play by ear.

Father-in-law arrived from Holland yesterday. Nice to see family, even if I understand little of what he says. But I am learning more so it doesn't feel as hard as it used to.

And what shall we do with our rainy day? Not a clue. That's the joy of rainy days. You can really do whatever you want. Stay in and nobody will think you're being lazy, go out and people will think you're brave. But for now, I am waiting for the little one to wake up and enjoying the quiet time all at once. Gonna try and get some writing done today since I haven't done much in the last couple. Time to catch up if I'm gonna be done by my self-provided deadline.

Cheers,
Robin

Too Many Chefs...

Know that saying, too many chefs spoil the broth? Or too many cooks or whatever the saying is. Well it's true on so many levels. There are definitely advantages to having a good support system while you're working on a project. But when you've invested so much time and energy in something and then the support you get back is only trying to make it their way...You get the picture.

I love my novel class. The others in the group are very strong writers and on most occasions offer incredibly valid feedback. What's working, what's not. But on occasion you get one or two that do not look at the big picture. Nitpicking over grammatical errors, things that don't seem logical to them because they wouldn't do it and apparently don't swing in circles with people that would. But what's good for one person, is not always good for another.

Take for example, in my novel, the opening chapter in fact, my main character comes home at 5am, she has not gone to bed (to sleep at least) and when she returns home finds her brother in her house. She confronts her brother and cracks open a bottle of wine. 5am, wine. Okay, not the norm per se, but what's to say that that particular character does not drink in the morning? There are other circumstances that lead her to be this way. Emotional and stressful issues. To me, not a far stretch. To most of the other group, reasonable too. But to one particular participant, this act bothered them, because they wouldn't do it so apparently no one did it.

In some of my younger days, I would go out to night clubs, would come home at obscene hours of the morning and often would continue to drink. Okay so I was young and thought I was having fun, and I most certainly wouldn't do that now. Hell, I don't think I even remember what the inside of a night club looks like. But now, yes, I would come home and go to sleep. But that does not mean someone else wouldn't.

How is that kind of feedback even constructive?

In other areas it's apparent that my main character is struggling with a situation she doesn't know how to deal with. In a flashback we see her as a pretty strong and somewhat aggressive person. But later, she is more withdrawn. That is what multi-layered refers to. So the question arises on how could she be one way and then another way later? D'uh. Wake up people. Even in everyday life, if you're a strong, out-going person, there are often circumstances that will cause you to withdraw. Maybe only temporarily until you find your footing but it would still happen. You won't know it until it happens and it will be out of character, but not unbelievable because you're living it. I know I touched on this before. And maybe I am completely off base but I don't feel that I am.

But then there is the structural feedback I have been getting. I have been struggling with the format, the points of view between chapters and who is an important character and who isn't. The feedback I got, made me realize that of course, my antagonist has to be an important part of the story but there is so much backstory that needs to come out about the antagonist but I couldn't find the right vehicle to do so. I tried something that I thought worked, I rethought it, changed it and then finally stumbled on something that did seem to be working. The back story is great story but as it turns out, the delivery vehicle may still not be working the way I thought. The feedback has been helpful but frustrating at the same time. Just when you think you have it figured out, you don't.

Regardless, I have made a commitment to not think about it for the time being. To just keep writing because otherwise I will stall. Then when the first draft is complete, I can start fresh.

Without all the extra spice and taste-testing.

And It Just Keeps Getting Better...

Wish I knew where my head was at lately. Don't know if it's old age already beginning to creep in and show its ugly head (grey hairs are beginning to grow rampant) or the older I get the dumber I get. You may recall my fiasco back in July that led to my losing my flash drive and everything I had written in the past 10 years. Whatever fairy walked off with that little contraption has also confiscated my cell phone.

The day went something like this: Wake up too early for any normal human being, rush off to a meeting, come home completely overtired, go grocery shopping, come home and discover cell phone missing. Had it in the store I know that much. So...drive all the way back to the store, ask if anyone has turned it in and of course they haven't but am told to try back tomorrow. Retrace my steps throughout the store, ultimately finding nothing. Drive home. Phone and have the account suspended and arrange for potentially getting a new one.

Want to sleep.

Don't sleep.

Have a wonderful wine and cheese party to go to and even though I know I really should take a nap or something, I don't. Go out for a few hours. Have a few glasses of wine and some lovely cheeses. That should be a reasonably good way to the end the evening, but it gets better.

Come home, check email (since now that I don't have my cell phone actually have to go through all the junk mail) and decide I am pretty tired so should go to bed.

As I am heading off to bed, I happen to realize that my ankle is kind of sore. I have no recollection of actually hurting it. (Honestly I did not have very much to drink.) Didn't twist it. Didn't trip. Didn't kick anyone. But I'm tired t I crawl into bed and all is good.

Wake up this morning. My ankle is KILLING me. I want to cry everytime I move it even slightly. Try to get up, practically fall because I can't put any pressure on it. But I do manage to get dressed and drive hubby to work. By the time I get home, it hurts but at least I can walk on it not too bad. Feels almost like a tendon seized or something. I know I need to go to the doctor but the prospect of taking toddler into someplace where I know she will just run and run and I totally cannot chase her is not appealing.

Finally I play in my head who would be the least annoyed by me waking them up on a Sunday morning at 8am. It actually comes down to who is more likely to answer the phone. I call my bestest friend and she groggily agrees to come down and help me out.

So I sit in Urgent Care for way too long only to find that the doctor also has no clue what caused it. Thinks it's some kind of soft tissue damage but from what neither of us have a clue. It's not broken although it is a little bruised. There is only one thing the doctor and I can agree on. It fricking hurts. The Advil I had taken earlier has already worn off and it's throbbing. So he gives me some advice and somewhat reluctantly gives me a few Tylenol 3's and I hobble back to my car.

Go back to the store to see if my phone turned up and of course nothing. Buy some Extra Strength Tylenol to go with my Advil because I prefer not to take Tylenol 3 if I don't have to and the doc recommended a combination of Ibuprofen and Tylenol before the T3's.

It is now almost 9 in the evening. My ankle isn't too bad. Thanks to an ice pack and the Tylenol 3 that has finally kicked in.

So, So Quiet

It's so quiet in the house tonight. Okay, so it's actually morning already but hey, that's what happens when you stay up late writing. If I was, in fact, writing.
But it's so quiet. Television is off, the only sound the soft hum of the computer fan, and the consistent tapping of my fingers on the keyboard. It has an almost musical feel to it. Tap, tap, ta tap, tap, tap. One careful letter after another. And all I'm doing is writing this post.
The fireplace is glowing, yes I said fireplace. The glorious high temp today, wait for it...8 degrees celcius. 8! Are you kidding me? It's only the beginning of September. The sun should be blazing down in all it's glory, frying eggs on sidewalks, turning skin a bright rosy red. The smell of sunscreen should fill the air, everywhere. Shirtless men, oh yes, shirtless men. Except for the man that lives across the hall. I swear he's a neanderthal and only comes out of his cave to wash his clothes...no matter the temperature he appears in the hallway shirtless, every bit of his massive belly spilling out over the top of his pants. Man boobs. Gawd. Don't get me started on man boobs. But this guy, oh yeah, he is...let's say...less than desirable. Long greasy hair, doesn't shave for weeks on end. And...get this...he's lived in this building longer than me and never once...and I mean NEVER, has he opened the curtains in his basement apartment. Maybe he's a vampire. But are vampires supposed to be hot. Alluring. The object of our desires? I just can't imagine what his place smells like. No air, no light, just the accumulation of years of body odor and sweat, soaked into the carpets.

Okay, let's get off this topic. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it. I seem to have strayed from my nice calm, gentle, post. The kind of post that's supposed to make you feel so relaxed, like wrapping yourself up in a nice cozy blanket.

It's late. Funny where the mind goes when there are no technological distractions.

I Think I Missed Summer...

Between sudden ghastly downpours and roaring thunder, this entire summer has pretty much been non-existent. August is usually a warm month here in Calgary. The one month where we get to enjoy what resembles summer but this year, has not been the case. Long weeks of rain, below average temperature, with a few scattered hat days. I miss the heat. There was only one day this year that we actually hit a temperature of over 30 degrees and that was only a week or so ago. The rest has been rainy, cloudy, thundery. Just plain miserable.

One thing I always loved about Calgary, regardless of the tendancy for temperatures to drop to unnatural temperatures well below zero, is the wide open skies, brilliant and blue. Summer is supposed to be filled with these but now I find myself feeling claustrophobic, like the clouds are going to consume me. Where are my sunny skies? The feeling of freedom. It looks as though I have to wait until winter. For -25 and lower before the skies will open up.

Is there a place in the world where the temperature is a steady 20-25 degrees? Because I really want to go there and live for the rest of my life.

On the bright side, when the weather is miserable, I have an excuse to stay inside and write.

Oh and to the latest follower that left me...I will miss you. So long. Adios. Au Revoir.

Here's to another rainy day!

When I close my eyes I can see the finished product. My first complete novel in all it's glory. And I am motivated. For now anyway. My goal is to have it finished before the end of my novel class. Actually, I plan to have it finished by the end of November so that I can rest over Christmas and then look at it again with fresh eyes, in the New Year. Make all the changes that I think it needs and then send it off to...no not a publisher...my first reader. A good writer friend of mine in Toronto has agreed to read the draft and offer all his words of wisdom. There will probably be many readers before I finally feel it's ready to start sending out. But how many should there be?

It was recommended that a few people read the novel before I deem it done. These people should be writers and should not be family or close friends that aren't writers themselves. I have a few ideas of people I would like to have the honour of reading it and offering their feedback. Two of them are male. I think it's important to have someone of the opposite sex read the draft even though I think the book would be more appropriately marketed toward women. It's still important to get their feedback. They can probably offer something that women wouldn't. And I don't want to limit my potential readers.

So after I get feedback from said men, I do hope to pass a newly revised draft onto a few female writer friends for their input. And then...after probably several more changes until I feel it's ready, I can start sending it out to potential publishers.

I don't think I'm deluded. I realize there is still a long way to go. Probably a year, maybe more if I lose my focus by not being around my great support group. (My novel class.) But I have to face the fact that soon I will be on my own. That's what it's really all about isn't it? There won't always be classes to keep me going. I have to do it on my own. Just like everyone else. That alone is daunting. No one to bounce ideas off of that already know about the project. Reduced to bouncing ideas off a wall and more than likely not getting the feedback I desire.

But...that is still a ways down the road. No need to worry about it now.

In the meantime, I keep on writing.

Did manage to get a little further on the short story I'm working on too. And there are a couple of other projects that I need to get working on. Deadlines fast approaching and have barely started.

I should probably be working on only one thing at a time but it's not possible. If writers ever hope to see even a little return on all the hard work, gotta keep the ideas fresh and write whatever comes to mind.

Ok...time to stop stalling and go write a little more.

What's the Norm?

Recently, I came up with a great opening paragraph for a short story I have been working on. Last night, I was thinking about that paragraph and how it would relate in my novel. Both for character development and for curiosity in the reader.

But here lies my problem...I want to use both, though slightly changed and used in a different context, for the novel and the short story.

Maybe some other writers can shed some light on this for me.

On one hand, it's not plagiarism because it's my piece. But at the same time it seems lazy. And then there's the fact that as I was working on the short story, I could totally see it as a novel length piece at some point. And it would be totally retarded to use a similar opening for three different projects, two of which would be novels. There's a perfect example of unoriginality. Someone would notice.

But between short story and novel, would anyone really notice? And there's no guarantee that either would ever be published. On the flip side, what if they are both published. Is the short story far enough away from the novel that no one would notice. Or maybe they wouldn't make the connection.

I suppose I could change it more so it wasn't as recognizable.

What would you do?

Hmmm...What More Do You Want?

Apparently when you don't blog consistently or you don't have anything interesting to say when you do, your followers leave, without even so much as a farewell, see ya later, it was nice while it lasted. Oh well. I know there are still other loyal followers out there that aren't actually registered, and to them I say thanks. And of course to all of you that are still following, have been for a long time, thank you, thank you, thank you. I know I have been going through some lags in posts and sometimes those posts are less than I would like them to be, but thanks for hanging in there.

I vow to be more creative from here on in. To try and post every day or at the very least, every other day. Truth be told though, I am deep into my novel these days, and as any writer can attest to, when you're submersed in the fictional world you are trying to create; laughing, crying and struggling along with your characters, sometimes it's hard to come up for air. And it's liberating to be thinking about nothing else but your current project. That shows that you are invested. Deeply engrossed in the task at hand and even more so, determined.

That's where I find myself these days. Determined.

You may recall a couple of months ago I thought all was lost. All the hard work and words I had invested, stored on a little piece of plastic, vanished. But I have seen the end and with that came the unwavering will to get there. For the last few weeks I have written and re-written much of what I managed to salvage. Some of it better than before, a lot of it not so much. But the point is, that I have written and continue to write. I have almost got myself back to where I was, carefully mulling through chapter after chapter, adding here, deleting there. I even created a list of all the scenes that I know still have to come. So I have a guide and generally know where I'm going. Just have to get there.

I have rethought structure, tried out a few different scenarios, and think I might have something that will work. But most of all, this direction that has suddenly become clearer than the sunniest, smog free day Calgary could ever hope to have, has me motivated beyond belief.

In my class last week we revisited our goals for the end of the course. Even through my little hiccup I realized I am determined to complete the first draft by the end of the class. But in order to do that, I must write. One word after another, some exquisite, some just completely lame. I am finally allowing myself to write crap. Because after all, that's usually what a first draft is. Just get it all on the page. Better to have too much than too little. In the second draft stage, it will be easier to take out the unnecessary than to add more, though I am sure I will be doing much of that too.

So, if I become distant, bear with me, because one thing always remains true; I will eventually return.

But for now...

I am writing a novel.

It started our bumpy but by late morning it was better. I thought children were naturally supposed to be happy on their birthdays. But I suppose that only starts to happen when they are actually aware of the significance of the day.

After a little frustration, I did manage to capture her perfect second birthday picture. Happy cheerful, even if only for a short time. As I write she is getting annoyed or should I say annoying.

In other news, I managed to write over 2000 words on a new story. Funny though, after giving it some thought, the whole thing is going to change. Everything except for the title. That is where the inspiration came from so that must remain the same.

So Itchy!

You ever have an itch that no matter how much you scratch it, it just won’t go away? You dig and dig until the skin is red and raw, maybe even draw blood, but no matter what, that itch remains, as strong as ever.

You try to concentrate on something else, but it’s always there. Nagging at you. Begging to be addressed. Like the little kid at the back of the class, arm raised and waving wildly, “Pick me, pick me.” But he answered all the other questions and now it’s time to give someone else a chance, but he is so persistent and can’t be ignored.

Itches are like cup sizes. From training bra to H or J or however high they go. You might have a desire to go get an ice cream cone or have a strong craving for chocolate that can’t be ignored. Maybe you have been borderline celibate for weeks, months, or heaven forbid you’re practically a born-again virgin, that you need to find some relief. Don’t think it matters much HOW you do it. Just as long as you do.

Maybe you have always wanted to travel to a particular place but haven’t had the chance to do it. But the thought is always there, that someday you’ll travel around the world, or hell, maybe only a province over. Whatever the desire, the need, just do it. But what if you travel to the next town, never having been out of your own little bubble, and discover the thrill is just so amazing, a natural high that now can never be ignored? Next you want to travel to another country, maybe even another continent. Heck, pretty soon you’re gonna want to go to the moon, or Mars.

For me, it’s writing. No matter how long I step away from the words, I always end up coming back to it. Not that I am trying to avoid it or anything, it’s just that thing in the back of your mind that when you’re doing something else, you always think you should be writing. I used to go years without writing a single short story, heck I would barely scribble out a sentence. But it itched and itched, and well, before I knew, it I was getting back to writing a novel.

I guess the point is, if there is something that you really want to do, that is gnawing at you and you just can’t shake it, then do something about it. If you want to travel, do it. If you want to go get an ice cream, do it. If you want to run a marathon or train for the IronMan, then do it.

That itch is not going to go away if you don’t scratch it just a little bit. And who knows. Maybe you don’t want it to.

Sex and a Birthday Party

No, the two do not go together. It would make for a blog post that should probably be R rated at least. You know those options that you can add a warning on your blog that it could contain...ummmm...less than desirable content, so beware? Well this post is neither. It's merely me wanting to write about two topics and, well, I thought that title would be kinda catchy.

I suck at titles. (but that will be for a different blog post)

My little girl is turning two in just under two weeks. It's amazing to me to think that it was only two years ago that I was waddling around with this great big lump sticking out of my abdomen. And believe, being a plus size female, it was a BIG lump. And then when she was born she was a tiny little 6lb baby. And now at almost 2 she is just around the 27lb mark. Oh the memories.

But yeah, her birthday is coming up and I haven't the faintest idea on what to do for a two year old that essentially has no friends, per se. The bulk of the guests will be friends of family of ours. Grown ups! (And I use that in the loosest of terms)

So I want to plan a party for a toddler but the guests are adults. There is a slight possibility that there will be another infant at the party which will make it a little better but this one is only 3 months old. Not really much you need to please that one.

I can't wait until she goes to preschool and makes a few more friends. Then we get to the REAL birthday parties. The ones that will have me pulling my hair out and as soon as it's over I will collapse in the corner with a bottle of wine still in the brown paper bag. If I make it to the end of the party. But those are things I can't worry about right now. For now I have to focus on my little two year old.

Oh and did I mention I finally managed to put pigtails in her hair. I was so pleased. Believe me, it was not simply because her hair was kinda short. I've tried before, and knew I would be able to do it, if only she would sit still long enough and let me touch her hair. Yesterday we had success.

Now the next challenge is to get rid of that stinking soother. I heard someone mention the other day that their child at almost 4 still had a soother and the way they got her to give it up was by convincing her that if they planted them in the backyard they would grow lollipops.
I think it's cute, my husband thinks it's a great big lie and we shouldn't start doing that to her. After all there are enough lies we are going to tell her over the next few years. Santa Claus. Easter Bunny. Tooth Fairy. But really, what could a little lollipop fib do to her that would be negative?


Now for the sex part that I know you have all been patiently waiting for. Well it's not that interesting of a story except that I wrote my sex scene for my novel class but it's actually a sex scene. It is. And it isn't. It's not a sex scene in the nice sense. It's of the negative variety. Of the class that is frowned upon and people go to jail for. It was actually quite difficult to write. I suppose I should be thankful for that. If it was easy, well, what would that say about me? And it is an important aspect to the story as a whole but at the same time, it will probably not even end up in the novel. At least not to the degree that it has been written at this point. Hopefully, it's real enough.

And that's all I have to say about that. I should probably go do some more writing. The house is quieting down, I just have to pop the toddler into bed and then I can have some time to myself. Oh the gloriousness that is 8:00.

Cheers.

Why Do I Bother?

Why did we buy all these toys for our child? Or why didn’t  we just donate all the toy gifts so that other less fortunate children could have something of their own? Because apparently, garbage is the toy of choice these days.  Julianne will go into the garbage and pull out anything that makes noise to some degree or if it’s not something directly from the trash can it’s empty beer or pop boxes. Her father does nothing to stop it while I cringe and cry inside. Sure the boxes aren’t that big of a deal and the garbage isn’t the really messy garbage or the rotted garbage. It usually consists of containers or jars or paper. But to me, the point is that it is meant to be garbage, or recycled and it becomes a toy. Paper is the worst. Newspaper, sticky paper any kind of paper really. When she gets it into her hot little hands, that one full piece soon becomes a million little pieces and then get scattered all over the house and of course, if I am not around, they are left scattered all over the house. I can handle scattered toys but scattered paper just drives me crazy. I see it, I promptly clean it up, I try to tell the hubby it is ridiculous to let her play with paper and anything meant for the trash, but yet he lets it happen. Sure it makes her happy, keeps her quiet, but seriously, is that the message we want to leave our children? It’s ok to go dumpster diving and sift through garbage to find that next treasured item. Yes I have this dream for my daughter to be one of those ladies that either push a grocery cart, stopping to search through garbage cans for bottles and clothes. I want her to drive a nice car but go jumping in dumpsters for other people’s junk.

I know it’s probably not as big a deal as I make it out to be, but it really drives me nuts when the stuff that I put in the trash for a particular reason, suddenly reappears in the middle of the living room floor. Or worse, in Julianne’s toy box. Garbage is meant for the garbage and when it is put there, that is where it should remain. For good. The garbage can is NOT a toy box. Today it’s the empty blueberry container, all plastic and crinkly, tomorrow it’s…oh I don’t even want to venture a guess as to what it will be tomorrow.

Today I think I am finally going to sift through all the child’s toys and clear out what she doesn’t play with anymore. Maybe put it away for baby #2, whenever he/she happens to come along. If ever.

Cheers!

A Few More Ramblings

Isn’t it funny? When you hear the word “ramblings” you think of people venting their frustrations about silly things going on in the community or the world. Well at least I do. But when I ramble it really is about nothing short of babbling. I used to be told I was a babbler. I would apparently talk about useless things and to some, I guess it seemed more like I only wanted to hear the sound of  my own voice. But I don’t think I do that. But maybe I do. Just not around people I meet for the first time. Around those people, I tend to try and pick and choose my words carefully. No one wants to sound like a retard in front of a stranger. Funny isn’t it. We will say just about anything, no matter how inane, around those that we love or know extremely well. And even when they give you that little sideways glance that says, “I can’t believe that just came out of your mouth,” you take is nothing less than love and adoration. Because no matter what you say, they aren’t going to go anywhere. Or so you would hope.

 

I totally have no idea where I am going with this. It just kinda came out. And now that it’s on the page I don’t feel like deleting it. Maybe it has a little bit to do with character. Character development in a story, I mean. When you’re trying to search for that other side of a person, how they are around people that they trust and how they are around strangers. We can be so contradictory in nature, and those little quirks are what make us who we are. But you do that in a novel or story and readers or peers start to question if that character would really behave that way. But why wouldn’t they? They’re human. Why can’t they react to one situation in one way but when faced with a similar situation but around different people, they react completely another way? Do your friends come up to you and question your character when you act differently to similar situations? I don’t think so.

And there I go again. More rambling. But I do think I make a valid point. Why do we have to defend our characters in the eyes of someone else? Why can’t they just believe that it is the way it is?  Don’t get me wrong, I do understand that some writers tend to go over the top and their characters maybe contradict themselves too much that you start to think, huh? But there are just some situations that you shouldn’t have to defend. For example, when I am around people that I don’t know very well I tend to not say much. It could be perceived as being shy, or rude or indifferent, or whatever. But on the other hand, when I am around people that I am comfortable with, I am a completely different person. I babble, I ramble, I say stupid things, and even occasionally say something funny. But the point is, I talk. I don’t just stand there. But I am the same person either way. I am me and no one questions that. No one says, what the hell, she wouldn’t be that way in that situation. Cause whose to say I wouldn’t. They know, they saw me, and that’s that.

 

Well whatever. I think I am going to go write now. Maybe I will come up with some great character development today that I didn’t think about. Oh and I still have to work on that sex scene.

Sitting in a chilly basement, the only sounds are the hum of the furnace and the occasional rattle of the old boiler. Actually that's more of an earthquake than anything else, but it's only  occasionally so I guess it's not as bad as it may seem.  All I can think about is how badly I want to go to sleep right at this very moment. My eyelids are starting to become heavy and you know that odd glazed, fuzzy feeling you get when you're really tired? Well that's where I'm at.  There is a nice couch that I could sink into and for sure be asleep in a matter of minutes, but, and this is a big but, I don't actually want to risk falling asleep here because what if I wake up in the middle of the night in this cold basement and there is no one around? Oy, I sound like a little kid afraid of the dark. But really, I don't want to fall asleep here. It's a basement. And who wants to sleep in a basement? No matter how old or tired you are? Well I suppose a homeless person would give his last bottle of vodka for a roof over his head, but...or maybe he wouldn't give up his booze. It's hard to say.

So what am I really doing here? Actually I am working and trying to get used to this new keyboard on this new Netbook I just got and let me tell you, this is not easy. The keys are smaller than I'm used to and the screen, well the screen isn't really all that bad. But the keys are actually starting to drive me a little crazy. Woo. You didn't see it but I just wrote a whole sentence without screwing up and having to backspace a million times. I know with time I will get used to this little thing but right now, it's new and it's different.

What I really should be doing right now is writing. But you are, you say? Yeah, that's true but after the loss of my manuscript I really should be doing that writing. I actually have to write a sex scene for my next class. Just one little scene. Because every good novel has some kind of sex scene doesn't it? Ok, I know there are some good ones out there that don't have any of that awkwardness but this one is actually necessary for my novel and although it is a sex scene, it's not a really nice sex scene but nevertheless, it has to be there so I get to write it. That particular scene is actually something that was already written in my draft that got lost in the streets somewhere. It was good then and I don't relish the idea of having to rewrite it but rewrite I must and so rewrite I will. But not today.

Well, as ramblings go, I guess this is a good one. It's much ado about nothing. Absolutely nothing. But I do get to say that I wrote something today.

Enjoy the chaos that is my mind.

Layers and Layers of...Over-Indulgence

I want to write. I don't want to write. I'm tired but I don't want to sleep. I'm hungry, oh and I actually want to eat, but will probably just drink instead. But then if I drink, I might actually write. It's such a vicious circle and it all leads back to one place. Write. And then when I am done writing, write some more. Or maybe sleep.

I have actually begun to rewrite my novel. I have included a lot of the pieces that I already had but have been painstakingly trying to recreate each chapter. One after another. Know what's been kind of interesting? The voice. The voice that is coming off the page has changed. It's like my main character has finally got something to say. She has mannerisms and subtleties that are far more involved than I am, and they are just screaming at me from the page. The words spill from my fingertips and I have no idea where they are coming from. It's not me. When I write the first drafts are always much more filled with description. Like an ice cream overload with tons of whipped cream and sprinkles. At some point, as delectable as it looks, it can become to much. (did I really have to explain that or would you have gotten the metaphor?) Oy. That's is my point. That's usually my problem. Too much of something and the reader goes, "Yeah, d'uh. I could have figured that out on my own." But this new draft is different. It's stock full of, wait for it...brace yourself...EMOTION and THOUGHTS! Who would have thought that my character actually had thoughts of her own? That she actually feels something in the messed up predicament that she THINKS she's in. And it's not all negative as in the pieces that I lost. It's not all oh, woe is me!

Things are not always as they seem. I guess that's kind of a theme in my novel too. When your life feels crappy and you're at the end of your ropes, there is always someone out there that has it much worse. And the reasons you think that people have for doing something, is not always as cut and dried. Afterall we are multi-layered people in real life.

I guess what is shocking me the most is that she is becoming a real person. With all those layers, those flaws, those misconceptions that we hold so dear and watch out anyone that tries to construe it as anything different.

All I can say is that maybe having lost a lot of the work that I already put in, isn't going to be such a bad thing afterall. Or maybe, instead of overindulging in the richness of that ice cream sundae, now I will weigh myself down with cheesecake.

But if it's cherry or strawberry, I might get away with it. :)

This Too Shall Pass

I've been a little non-existant these days. And for that I apologize. Life has been a bit of a whirlwind, full of happiness and frustration all at the same time. I guess in some ways I have lost a little bit of a desire to write. But don't worry. It's coming back.

It all started a couple of weeks ago. In my preparation to return my leased car and take the plunge into the world of purchasing a vehicle that has already depreciated in value, I lost something that was my life. My whole world saved on a little piece of plastic, vanished in an instant of confusion and hair-pulling frustration.

The day itself is not worth re-enacting but let's just say, nothing, and I mean nothing, went the way it should have the day that I was returning my car. Extra driving, carelessness, tiredness and shear frustration and anxiety caused that little contraption called a flash drive to fall from my pocket and be lost forever. I am still holding out hope that it's in the house somewhere. Hidden so well that I will never find it until the day we decide to move.

All of the writing I have ever done over the past 10 years, gone. Just like that. For most of you this would probably be no big deal because normal people would have had everything backed up somewhere else. So really it is my own fault that it wasn't backed up. But there is a reasoning behind that as well. In five years I have never lost that stick. Yes, it's been misplaced but it has always been recovered.  And I kept telling myself I needed to back it up but I just never got around to it. Again, totally  my fault. A few months ago my laptop contracted a virus so I had my reservations about having any of my writing or anything else of importance on the computer itself. My other flash drive was full of pictures that luckily was saved from when the computer got sick and of course I hadn't tranferred those to a CD yet so there was no room to back up the writing on that drive and I really didn't want it on my computer. Even though now, it really wouldn't have hurt to just to put in on the computer.

Invoices for the last couple of years are gone. And...probably the most painful, all of my novel that I have been so painstakingly working on for the last 7 months. I wanted to cry but I also knew it was my own fault for not being more diligent and proactive and I kept holding on to the hope that it would turn up. I tried to laugh at myself but it didn't make me feel any better.

On the positive side, I have been taking a novel class since January and everything that I had submitted over the past few months, thankfully was still saved onto some of my classmates computers. So I have gotten bits and pieces back. But a lot of it is bits and pieces that I have changed again and again over the past months. So not much is as it was. Meaning of course that I have the dreadful task ahead of me of re-creating everything. Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe it's the opportunity I needed to really get the novel the way it was supposed to be, but when I think about how much I have to re-write, I really just want to curl up in the closet and beat my head against the wall. Maybe add a few drinks to that too and I can slobber along with it. After all, isn't that writer do?

All I can really say is that once I get past this frustration and stop kicking myself for being so stupid and do re-write everything, it will be incredibly satisfying for that book to get published. Just knowing all that I had to go through to get it to that point. Might even be a good opening at my book launch.

On the most positive note of all, I am really enjoying the brand new Jeep Patriot. Depreciation and all.

Now I must write.

Procrastination...or

Through viewing blogs and the like, I came across this website, Wordle. I don't think there's really a point to any of it except for yet another way to waste time and it doesn't even waste a lot of that but in some ways, it's almost the ideal tool for writers.

I simply put in the link to my blog to see what it would come up with. But you can put in any words you want. What's interesting about this, is that it takes separate words that stand out from your input and randomizes them. Now if you're stuck and can't seem to find something to write, you can look at all these lovely jumbled words and just pick one. Maybe one that stands out above the rest. And start to free fall write. Who knows what may come out of it?

Otherwise, it's just another way to procrastinate. Use it to your benefit or not at all.

All The Things I Love

Happiness is often hard to find. We trudge through the every day, doing the things we must, whether or not we really like to do them or not, because simply, we have to. We have to work in order to make money and survive and more often than not, we do not really love what we do, but we do it. We buy groceries and pay bills in order to eat and keep a roof over our heads, because we must. Unless you are the type of person that loves the outdoors so much that you choose to live there permanently, but I think those people are few and far between. We drive through rush hour traffic because we have to, unless you’re fortunate enough to live in a small rural town or village that almost no one has ever heard of.
We watch as our family and friends take ill, try to help where we can because these are people that we love, but with that kind of commitment comes stress and sadness. Maybe they aren’t ill, but every family comes with their own set of problems and being the loyal friend or brother or sister, we give all the support we can muster even if a little bit of your soul takes flight for better destinations.  In short, we do what we are obligated to do, even if it does not make us happy.
Often I have seen people that just don’t know how to be happy. See the negative in every situation because that’s what allows them to cope. But there is so much beauty in the world. Beauty that we tend to overlook, the stuff that brings a smile to your face and a little blush to your heart.
I thought that I would share some of the things that I love in my life in hopes of bringing a little happiness to someone else. Or just to show that I am not all business and boredom.
1) That light that fills a child’s eyes when they see or get something that they didn’t expect. Not long ago we were wandering through Superstore, on our usual route from the front door to the baby section to the toy section and eventually arriving at the groceries cause that’s what we were there for in the first place. On this particular occasion we were in the toy section. Hubby and daughter were a little ahead of me when I stopped to look at a sand bucket and shovel for daughter. They were on sale and they were big, just what she needed. I called hubby back and when he turned the grocery cart around to see what I was doing, the daughter’s eyes got so big when she saw what was in my hands. I had never seen her react this way to anything and it just brought me such joy to think that something so simple and inexpensive could bring her so much joy.
2) My husband. I could not ask for a better man to spend my life with. Dedicated to me and his little girl, his top priority is to make us happy. I often try to get him to go out on his own, have a little alone time, but he refuses, always saying he’s a ‘family man’ now. And he shows it each and every day.
3) Watching a child grow and learn. Everyday my child learns something new. From being an infant that could barely m0ve, to the first smile, to the first time she rolled over then began to combat crawl across the floor and eventually walk. Although there are many times I wish she was still not able to roll over. But now it’s the words she’s learning. Each and everyday she still discovers something new.
4) The smell after a rain. There is something special in the air after a rain. Whether it’s a delicate drizzle or a downpour, once it stops, the air smells new. The world cleansed, even if just for a moment.
5) The smell of freshly cut grass. This brings me back to my childhood. Trailing my dad as he cuts the lawn, tiny blades being cut off and flung away.
6) Sharing in the excitement of a friend or family member when something goes the way they wanted it to. There is nothing better than getting a phone call to share some exciting news. To laugh with that person and be as giddy as they are.
7) Watching my husband do housework. Yes. This really does bring me great pleasure. Whether he is working in the yard, vacuuming or carrying a basket of laundry to the washing machine. I get the warm fuzzies.
8) Spring. When everything is coming up fresh and new. The first signs that winter is almost over makes me very happy. Of course, in Calgary, the winters tend to be long and drawn out. Even if the calendar says it’s spring, the frigid temperatures remain for a while longer. But when the grass finally starts to turn to green, flowers begin to bloom, and the trees grow vibrant, the spirits rise. And remain high until of course winter comes again. And it always does.
9) Along with spring comes colour. Vibrant natural colour. The bright hues of purple, pink, green, red and blue replace the drab browns of dead grass and gravel on the road. Not just flowers, but butterflies and birds of all different shades. I love colours.
10) I love odd numbers. Not sure what’s up with that. Even numbers make me feel unbalanced. But give me an odd number and I am happy. I can have one of something, but I can’t have two because if I have two then I have to have three. There are of course exceptions to this rule. If we owned two cars I would not need to have three. Not cost effective and the third one would just be sitting around collecting dust.
And the list could go on. Forever I think and this would be the longest blog post in the history of blog posts.
What makes you happy? What things do you love?

Character Flaws

I was browsing some interesting new writer’s blogs and one I came across had an interesting bit posted on their sidebar. Plot Whisperer had a tweet posted regarding character flaws and if you can’t find one then she suggests that you use one of your own.

I was challenged recently to make my main character in my novel weirder. Assuming this means to give her more realistic character traits. And with this I struggle. I know pretty much everything about her but yet to come up with a little tick that she might have, maybe she’s a little OCD, it just doesn’t fit for me. I have been thinking about all the weird things I do, all the weird things my friends or family do. But I just can’t pinpoint one single thing and I don’t want to overdo it by making her too weird.

In essence, she’s a normal girl. Maybe I should say, average girl. But we all have little things that make us unique. For example, I can’t stand the crinkly sound a plastic bag makes when you touch it. It’s like running nails down a chalkboard. But I don’t think that’s going to fit into my story at all. There would be no reason to introduce that type of information. She can’t stand really outgoing people and that does come out. Not that she is really that introverted but they just annoy her. She can’t sit in a chair unless it’s facing a wall. But it’s not enough.

And then, how do I make her a character that the reader is going to empathize with? One person I talked to mentioned that he did not particularly like this character. He couldn’t understand why she was cold and seemingly heartless. But that information comes out. Other people have felt sorry for her. Female readers. Is that the difference between male and female readers? Will one be more sympathetic and should we actually try to make the character a person that any sex can relate to?

Any suggestions??

Story Creation

What works for one person may not work for another. There are so many different ways to generate new story ideas. It made me wonder if one way was better than another, or maybe it doesn’t really matter. As a dear friend and colleague always says, “whatever gets you to the page”.

For me, there is no one way that I come up with new story ideas. Sometimes I see a character in a particular situation, sometimes one sentence rolls through my head and I can’t get it out of my mind. Even sometimes, I see something that is so strange that it makes me go hmmm. The problem with these scenarios is that it often takes me a long time to build a story around it. 

1. What if… Playing the what if…game can be a great way to generate a new story. Maybe you see a headline in the newspaper or an entire article on a prostitute that apparently committed suicide by jumping from a sixth floor balcony of a seedy hotel in downtown Calgary. But what if…that person was actually pushed. What if…she wasn’t a prostitute? Then you ask, what was she doing there and who could have pushed her.

2. Floating Sentence…You’re just beginning to fall asleep one night and suddenly out of nowhere, the oddest sentence drifts through your mind. One that initially makes no sense but you just can’t get it out of your mind. Something like, licking frosting from between your toes. Now why on earth would someone be licking frosting from between their toes. Is it even physically possible? Maybe it’s a metaphor for something.

3. Character Situation…You see a woman laying in bed, staring at a crack in the ceiling. What is she doing there? What’s around her? Is there someone else in the room? Did someone just leave? What is she thinking?

4. Snippet of dialogue…Maybe you’re sitting in a coffee shop and you happen to overhear a snippet of conversation. Or maybe you’re eavesdropping as many writers do for just this purpose. “Dude, what were you thinking?” “I knew she had a disease but I did it anyway.”

5. Free Fall Writing…you have nothing better to do so you sit down to write. You write the first thing that comes into your head and just keep writing. Or maybe you were given a writing prompt and then let words spill onto the page. It may be drivel, it may seem like nothing at first, but maybe, just maybe, there is something in there you can work with.

6. Title…Do you come up with the title of your novel, story or poem first and then build around that?

7. End First…Do you see the end scene first then build your story to reach that end?

8. Theme…Maybe you start with an overall theme and build your story around that.

There really are endless ways to generate new ideas. How do you come  up with an idea for a story?

Guide to Growing the Green Stuff

No I don’t mean money. And no I don’t mean that other green plant that so many seem to adore. Quite simply, I mean grass. Yes. Plain old ordinary grass. The stuff that lawns are made of. The stuff where kids frolic in the summer. The stuff…well you get the point. Green grass.

Just over a week ago we set out on a mission to grow grass. To create what might resemble a little bit of a yard outside our patio and under a great big pine tree. We thought it would be a difficult task. That the grass would need a little bit of coaxing and if all else failed, a whole lot of Miracle Gro. Much to our pleasant surprise, that has not be the case at all.

First you should know, we live in an apartment that is managed by a management company. We have a landlord. What made up our yard previously could only be described as complete laziness. The entire area beneath the tree was covered in this black paper and that in turn was covered in mulch. The reasoning behind it that previous tenants didn’t care for it and too many weeds were growing that they finally just covered it up.

I have been in this apartment complex for 6 years but in a different apartment. One on the third floor that the idea of a yard really made no difference. Last year we moved to a bottom floor unit because of the ever-growing and ever-moving toddler. Also the fact that there are no elevators in our building and carrying groceries up the stairs was a complete pain in the butt. Well this year we extended our lease because the management company reduced our rent. At the thought of staying her another year we had to make the area around our unit more child friendly. The mulch would dig into feet and there was just no place to really enjoy anything. So we went to the landlord and asked if we could tear up the black paper and get rid of the mulch and try to plant grass. The result? Well who is going to turn down free maintenance to make the yards look better?

Here’s how it went…

1. Trim the branches around the base of the tree to allow as much natural air, sun and water to reach. We trimmed  about 6 feet from the ground.

2. Tear up the black paper and get rid of the mulch.

3. Wet the dry ground A LOT.

4. Till up the dirt. Use a shovel or pitchfork and get down as deep as possible then smooth it all out and add more water. You want the water to actually be absorbed into the ground.

5. Spread some grass seed evenly over the tilled area. Water, water, water.

6. Add some new soil. The stuff we got was Black Earth and I think there was a little fertilizer in it too. Add more grass seed. Water, water, water.

7. Pray a little. We really thought it was going to be much more difficult to get the grass growing if it was even going to happen at all. Very little sun reaches the area under the tree. And even if it rains, not much water gets there unless it’s manually added. 

The bag said we wouldn’t see anything for at least a couple of weeks. We watered daily and it even rained a little in between.

And what do you know? Yesterday (6 days after we spread the first seeds) we saw little green shoots coming up through the soil. Amazed and thrilled that it was actually working, we gave the ground a good watering. The temperature has been in the high 20’s to low 30’s most of the week. Yesterday 32. Hubby watered and raked and even added a little more seed yesterday. This morning…holy moly. Those little sprouts were busy last night. We didn’t have to get down on the ground and search for the sprouts. They are everywhere. Tiny and still spread out, but they are there.

You might be thinking so what. But for anyone knows me, plants do not fair well under my direction. But hubby on the other hand, does have a green thumb. I really had doubts that it would work. Thought if we saw anything at all it wasn’t going to be until next year sometime. (Shows what I know about growing grass).

I can’t take much the credit. It really was all Mr. Green Thumb.

But I did do most of the praying.

Update

When morning came upon Calgary and the birds began to wake, as I was slipping into the fog of sleep...a new title for my novel came to me.

Thanks for listening.

Untitled.

It’s late. Or early. Depends on how you look at it. I can’t sleep cause it’s hotter than the Sahara Desert, but moist. I could feel the sweat drip between my shoulder blades and because it felt just slightly like a beetle or some other multi-legged critter that totally does not belong in a bed, I was up. Grabbed a glass of iced tea and decided to sit down and surf. But there really isn’t much action going on this time of night. Just like late night TV.
But this is not the only reason I can’t sleep. You ever get so obsessed with what you happen to be writing at the time that your character’s world essentially starts to become your world? You stay up late trying to solve their problems, or create them depending on what stage you’re at. You run through necessary scenes that need to get written, you play dialogue over in your head, even editing unnecessary words as you go, trying to imagine the exact actions of your characters while they are speaking. Their facial expressions, their hand and body movements. The ever changing format of the piece at hand (in this case a novel). Which chapter should go there, and oh I think this one will work better there. You move everything around, plan out strategies. And before you know it, just like when you get completely engrossed in the scene you’re writing, over an hour has passed, maybe even two.
And so this is what is keeping me up on this insanely muggy night. On top of that I am wracking my brain to come up with a better title. Something that suits the subject matter and is original. I have a working title that would have worked three drafts ago but so much has changed since then that it’s totally not going to work anymore. So now it just remains my working title. It’s probably too early to really focus so much effort on such an important aspect of the whole process but I totally fear that I will get to the end and still won’t have that magical heading. That title that will set it apart from all the rest.
I have a theme. And a tentative possible title, but I am pretty sure it’s been used before. But the title works on so many levels it’s scary. Yet I don’t want to go there cause as I said it’s been used on several occasions I’m sure. So I sift through all the little pockets of my brain where I tend to store completely useless information in hopes that I can pull something from  there, dust off the cobwebs, tweak it a little and have the best title ever. But it’s not working. Either there are way too many cobwebs that I will need a hatchet to break through or maybe, just maybe, there isn’t as much junk there as I originally thought.
To be creative, I think I need a metaphor for what I am trying to say. I even tried brainstorming. You know how they show you to do it in school? The main topic in the middle of the page, circled, with a million different branches going this way and that. A cobweb on a page. Often this technique works for me. Random thoughts fall to the page and before you know it, the answer is right in front of me. Or even free fall writing some thoughts on a page. That’s worked in the past for other areas such as character and plot development but as of yet, it’s not working on the title issue. Heck, I don’t know what I am expecting. Most of the time it takes me forever to even come up with a semi-decent title for a blog post. But at least with a blog post, if I can’t think of one, I just don’t use one. Can’t do that with a novel. Apparently publishers don’t like it when you send them something called Untitled. What’s up with that anyway? What if you wrote a story and the only title that worked was Untitled? Would they discard it or read it? Would they assume that by Untitled you meant that there was no title? That you were just to damn lazy to come up with a unique and introspective name for your piece? Or would they actually think, hey, maybe that is what it’s supposed to be called and therefore, I should read it? It’s just one of those things in life that make you go, hmmm.
But as I ponder that, I am still no closer to a title and it’s still too hot to sleep.
Hmmm…

On Dreams

I’ve heard a few people say they don’t dream or they don’t remember their dreams when they do. I find it hard to believe that a person simply doesn’t dream and I also find it difficult to believe that a person would not remember at least one dream in their lifetime. But I am no professional on the dreaming mind so who am I to say that it isn’t possible. All I have to go by is my own dreams. I know there are times that I can’t remember a single thing once I wake up, but more often than not that dream is just beyond the border of my mind. I imagine it as similar to a cosmic explosion. While we’re sleeping every part is intact but if we wake suddenly the dream bursts into millions of little fragments. You try desperately to put the pieces back together but there are always parts that will  be lost in outer space. But if you wake slowly, the dream doesn’t fragment. Instead your unconscious mind begins to mesh with your consciousness and you remember what good or bad dream you might have been having. This is not the case all of the time. We can have nightmares that wake us so dramatically  yet every image is as clear and vivid as if you were still living it.

When I was five or six, I had this dream that to this day is still as clear as if I just had it yesterday or so vivid that I could have lived it. Like those memories permanently etched into your brain, creating the stuff that autobiographies and memoirs are made of.

So this dream I had as a kid is not a recurring dream because I have never had it again since that day, but I do remember most pieces of it. I am sure the 30 years since may have marred a little of the memory but the essence is there. My mom and I were shopping at the thrift store. I didn’t want to be in there so kept hiding under the clothes racks. In the basement of this store they kept all the books. Now that was my favourite place to go when we were there. I tried to go down the stairs but something kept pulling me back. An unseen force seemed to be calling to me to go outside. While mom was busy perusing the newest arrivals I slipped out the front door and proceeded to walk down the street. At the edge of the building was a vacant lot of overgrown weeds. When I peered into the lot, there was a baby brontosaurus. I continued down the street past another row of buildings to another vacant lot. In this lot there was another brontosaurus. This one bigger than the last but not by much. I peered back the way I had come and the baby was peeking out around the corner watching me. He looked sad. Like he had lost something very dear to him. The second dinosaur also looked sad but there was something mysterious in those eyes. As if she knew something but it was something she did not quite understand. I walked past but never took my eye off of the middle sized beast. She watched me disappear behind another row of buildings. I felt myself being pulled back. To see the other two again. To help maybe, or perhaps just curious, but my feet kept me moving forward. When I glanced back, both of dinosaurs were watching me, only now the baby had joined the second. I rounded the corner of the next set of buildings and froze. Before me was the largest brontosaurus I had ever seen. And this one looked angry. I backed up slowly as the dinosaur came closer. The largest was following me and when I backed up past the smaller two, they also began following me. I looked over my shoulder looking for help but there was no one. The street was completely deserted except for cars parked at an angle. The door of the thrift store suddenly appeared and through the glass I could still see my mom looking at the clothes. I slipped in the door and went to the basement and hid among the stacks of books behind a large bookshelf. I sat and waited. Wondering if anyone would come for me. Near the basement ceiling was a narrow window. Outside the window I could see the pacing feet of the giant beasts. Back and forth, back and forth.

The building began to shake. Sections of the ceiling fell to the floor in front of me. I hugged my knees to my chest and waited, expecting to be lifted out of my hiding place. The floor shook, the stairs began to crumble and the sky opened up.

And then I woke up.

I have thought about this dream so many times over the years. Always remembering but never understanding. Is it true that every dream is our subconscious trying to tell us something. If I read it now I can pull a lot of metaphors from my life to date, but what did this mean to a little girl who had barely experienced anything in life? Was it a premonition and that’s why it means something now? Or maybe as I wrote I reinvented parts that weren’t there initially to make it mean something.

But again that is the subconscious working its magic.

All The Things I Should Be Doing Right Now!

1. Writing. Yes, first and foremost I should be writing.  Now you might say, “But Robin, you’re writing your blog post.” So yes I am writing but that is not the writing I am referring to. Recently I finished an outline for my novel and after some careful consideration, so much has changed that I have to go back and start rewriting some of what I already have. So, I should be doing that instead of writing about why I should be doing it.

2. Working. I am fortunate to be able to do a lot of my work from home. And this is the non-writing related work I am talking about. The stuff that helps pay the bills. There is so much to do and deadlines are fast approaching.

3. Cleaning the living room. Now that the child has gone to bed I should clean up her daily mess. I tried doing it earlier in the day but after only a few hours toys were scattered everywhere, again. But that will only take a couple of minutes so I can do it when I am finished here.

4. Working on some short stories. Actually I have a non-fiction piece that is almost ready to submit somewhere and the place I have in mind needs to have it by July 15. Time is running out. Sometimes I really wonder why I do that to myself. Avoidance. Fear of rejection? How can I fear rejection when I have so many of them already. They are starting to pile up. But on the upside, I have been submitting. That is progress.

And that is all that I should be doing right now but instead I am blogging. Comedy channel is playing in the background and all I can think is they must be amateurs because they really aren’t very funny. Quite similar to me when you think about it. They are amateurs, struggling in their field, doing what it takes to finally make it big. Like actors and musicians. Comedians and writers. Some will never make it, but at least they try. They don’t give up on their dreams.

So I better get writing. But after I clean the living room. :)

Ummm...Oops

As an afterthought to the blog entry I just posted...the first line really doesn't make a lot of sense. But maybe that does make sense since it is about rambling.  But for all those people out there, just as confused as I am at the moment, the original title of that last post was My Love Affair With Dean...but once I got near the end it started to veer off course, I changed the title not realizing that now the first couple of lines really don't make sense. Oy. It's just been one of those days.

When Some Things Just Don’t Make Sense…I Ramble.

No, mom, I am not having an affair with a man named Dean. At least not in the sense that crosses most people’s minds. Sheesh. Get your mind out of the gutter, please.  The Dean I so lovingly refer to is my favourite author to ever write a book. The one and only Dean Koontz. Now I read a lot of books. But even if I set sail across the ocean with a boy and some zoo animals, or travel to Japan to be a fly on the wall witnessing the life of a geisha, I always come back to my Dean. And he’s always waiting for me, ever so patiently, tucked into his assigned spot on my bookshelf. He really is better than a dog.
Though certainly not categorized as literary fiction, and sometimes has a nose turned up at him, there is something special in these books that keeps me coming back time and again. The imagination that it takes to dream up the ideas that he does, the deeply layered characters that fill his novels. I only wish I could be half the writer he is. Well maybe it’s more like I wish I could have half the success he has had. Because seriously, I don’t want to write like him. All writers are different, unless they are plagiarizing and that’s not my gig. I want to write like me, but be almost as successful as him.
Maybe I should just focus on getting to the end of the first draft and think about the rest later. But, oh, I seem to be straying from the topic at hand. I love Dean, but Dean loves his wife and dog. That does seem to be a problem doesn’t it? But I do love my husband and daughter and cat, so maybe we’re even. I know I can never have him and he can never have me, though I am sure if we met it would be like in the movies, love at first sight.
Oh wait, it’s not my love so much of him as it is the books, and now I fear this blog is going in a weird circle and making absolutely no sense so I will begin to ramble and you might get weird words like Odd Thomas was the Soul Survivor when The Husband caught him reaching for One Door Away From Heaven on The Darkest Evening of the Year.
Ok, I think I better stop here and just let it be. It’s evident that I cannot truly put into words just how I feel about the books that Dean Koontz writes but I think I have made it apparent that I like them.
I hope.

Blood Like Honey

It’s evening and I want to sit outside because it’s still pretty warm here in Calgary. The house is muggy even though there is a fan whirring softly in the corner and the patio door is wide open. But there is no breeze. And I really want to sit outside.

But the second I step out the door it’s like my body emits this radiance that no one else can see and then the mosquitoes attack, just like in the 1963 movie The Birds. They are everywhere. Swarming and hovering, waiting to feast on the sweet red nectar that courses through my veins. To fill their little bellies to the point of near explosion. With their hunger sated, and the welts starting to raise on my delicate skin, the itch sets in. I try to ignore it and sometimes successfully, but when there are so many in one spot, it’s really hard to forget about.

I scratch my skin until it bleeds, just inviting a new wave of little beasts. I slap at the newcomers, fighting them off with all the energy I can muster until finally I have to flee, from these tiny little bugs, back to the mugginess of the living room.

Why Didn't Anyone Warn Me?

Research? What the hell? It's fiction, it can be made up, you don't need to do research. Yeah, right.

Ok, well it's not like I was completely oblivious to the fact that I need to do research on my novel but I wasn't really prepared for just how much research it appears I have to do. And to really get it right, I have to get as in-depth and personal as possible. Did I mention how much I hate research? It was not my strong suit in school. In fact, I think I bluffed my way through most of those classes. It appeared to work then because I still got good marks, but somehow I don't think I'm going to get away with it this time.

Since the majority of my research is medical related, I thought that it would be enough to just read about the particular diseases online. But I am quickly realizing, that's not going to be enough. The only way to get up close and personal is going to take me actually trying to get in touch with people that actually have the particular diseases I am researching.

In some ways it's exciting, because I realize that if I am researching, I am doing something productive towards the overall outcome of the book, even if it's not actual writing.

And then there is stuff that I have to get historically accurate. That is going to call for a trip down to the Calgary Public Library or the Glenbow Museum to view archives of local history. Mostly maps. So maybe it won't be that bad. I can read a map.

But it doesn't stop there. It's endless.

I guess the only comforting thought is that I will be learning something new. Always good to keep the mind working, especially when you're a writer and known to go crazy, just a little bit.

When She Sits Quietly

She screams. She hits. She throws her sippy cup across the room. All in an attempt to gain your attention. You talk to her in the gentlest of ways to make her understand that you’ll only be a moment. Just need time to check emails and other important messages. There is a moment of calm as you sit in front of the computer and wait for the screen to brighten. She crawls up on a chair eager to see what you’re doing. To be a part of this adult world that she does not understand but because it takes up so much of your time, she wants to be there too.

For awhile it seems that all will go off as planned. You will get through the few emails, maybe even have a chance to write a few words. To add some great words of wisdom to your blog. Do a few tasks required for your job and then you’ll have some time to play with the little one so eagerly awaiting your attention.

Facebook calls out to you. Maybe a little Twitter. The screen suddenly goes dark. Apparently you’ve been sidetracked and are taking far longer than acceptable by the little toddler for now she is on the table and has hit the power button. You feel the heat rise into your cheeks. There is no reason to be angry because she is only doing what children do, but yet the frustration is building. You pull her from the table, wait for the computer to wake again and try another time.

Now she is crying and throwing a tantrum. You stand and make her a piece of toast and grab her a cup of milk. For a little while she is distracted by the need for fuel. Little do you know, that this fuel will only succeed in giving her an extra burst of energy.

Determined to write just a little bit this morning, you start working on a blog post. Little peanut butter covered fingers reach into your peripheral vision and snag the mouse from the table. With it goes important papers and books you have been reviewing to help you on your writing journey. Everything falls to the floor. A brief glance down reveals there is nothing that she can really hurt so you retrieve the mouse, wipe off the peanut butter smears and continue to write. You’re so close to finishing you can almost taste it. Oh wait. That’s peanut butter that’s been transferred from the mouse to your hands.

You write and write. So deeply engrossed in the words that are flowing from your fingers that you don’t realize that she has suddenly become very quiet. Blind to the fact that in your writing frenzy she is no longer bothering you. A welcomed break to get some work done.

Words become sentences and turn into paragraphs. Before you know it, the post is complete. Thankfully spell check has been enabled as you work so there isn’t a lot of need to go back and review for obvious spelling errors. Out of habit though, you skim. A little extra attention, just in case. You are about to publish your post to the internet and it dawns on you. She is very quiet.

You peek into to the living room where you are sure she has just been quietly watching TV.  Your mouth drops. No words escape which is probably good because there would be nothing appropriate that would spill from your lips. You gather yourself, go to the kitchen for a damp cloth and return to begin wiping pen scribbles from her hands, arms, legs and face.

And crayon drawings from the wall.

What Makes You Think You Can Do This?

So you want to write a novel. A rather ambitious endeavour if there ever was one. And what makes you think yours would be any better than all the millions upon trillions of books already out there? Surely you don’t expect to be in the same league as Margaret Atwood or J.K Rowling. What would you write about that would be interesting enough to get published and even if some editor thought there was potential, why would anyone read it?

I don’t actually hear these words on a regular basis because I tend to surround myself with like-minded people that are all struggling to do the same thing. That support is invaluable because they get it. Family and friends however, although they may try to appear supportive and interested in what you’re doing, allow something in their tone of voice or facial expressions to escape that seeps into the subconscious and eagerly plants that little seed of doubt that all writers already possess. Maybe it’s a smug, slightly condescending tilt of the head when they are telling someone else right in front of you that you’re an aspiring writer. What the hell is an aspiring writer? Isn’t a writer a writer as long as they write? The addition of the word aspiring to me conjures a mental picture of someone that is trying to write but the only measure to success is seeing your name in lights. Or on the front of a book. And I’ve seen my name on the front of a book, and I’ve been published. Am I still an aspiring writer? Are you damned to be called an aspiring writer until you finally make millions from the sales of your books, or at least a comfortable living? The word bothers me. As if the people that utter it, don’t really believe it’s possible. On the other hand, it could just be the negativity taking over and my perception of their intentions is a little skewed.

A common mantra that I have heard continuously over the years is” fake it until you make it”. Or something along the lines of if you envision it happening, it will happen. I spend a lot of time imagining finally getting that letter from a magazine that my story has been accepted for publication.  Don’t get me wrong, I have gotten acceptance letters, but they have always been for articles or book reviews. What I want is for it to be for a short story or a creative non-fiction piece or…a novel. And after the first one, they just start flowing in. It is probably a little delusional, a little misguided because even some of the more successful writers that I know, still get rejections from time to time. It’s all part of the process. Getting rejections in itself can be a good thing. Lately I have found myself feeling proud that I have gotten a rejection, because it means that I have actually been submitting stuff. I’ve actually been writing. Therefore, I think I am writer.

How do you define being a writer?