Last week I stated that one of my goals this year was to learn...and learn more. Well, this week I am off to the 23rd annual Surrey International Writers' Conference. I'll tell you all about it when I get back. In the meantime, consider me:
Sunday 18 October 2015
Saturday 10 October 2015
My life is better with every year of living it. —Rachel Maddow
I turned another year wiser on Monday. Not a raucous momentous occasion,
but a wonderful day nonetheless. As I get older, I cannot help but reflect upon
what has come before and what lies ahead. Rather than ramble contemplatively ad
nauseam, I thought I’d give it in a nutshell. Well, a bullet list—which is the
written version of a nutshell.
- Just when I thought I knew where I was going, I didn’t.
- It’s fun not to know where you’re going.
- A clean and tidy house isn’t really that important.
- People are kind and generous.
- Good friends are irreplaceable.
- New friends are a treasure found.
- I can write anywhere.
- I can dream anywhere.
- True joy lives in the simple moments.
What I hope I do in the year to come:
- Embrace new adventures.
- Live healthily—we now live in a climate where we have no excuse not to be active.
- Write…and then write some more.
- Read…and then read some more.
- Learn…and, you guessed it, learn some more.
- Find an agent.
- Slow down and enjoy every minute with DH and the fur babies.
Saturday 19 September 2015
Laughter is an instant vacation. —Milton Berle
Writing takes effort. It’s pleasurable but hard work. No different than any other job I’ve ever
undertaken, I need a consistent schedule. It is the only way I can get words on
the page. I like to write when I feel fresh, when my mind is free from any
weight the day might add. For that reason, mornings are sacred in our house. DH
understands and leaves me alone, snugged in my corner of the couch. Even the
girls accept it, routinely curling up beside me in quiet support.
Yes, it is protected time. Until it is not. I will allow one
thing to disrupt it. Friends. I value our friends, appreciate the effort they
make to come see us and truly enjoy their company. We have a flurry of visitors
over the next week or so, beginning this afternoon and I can hardly wait. I
fretted for a moment about interrupted writing routines, but moved past that quickly since I know that I will
adjust and write late at night or in the wee hours of the morning. I don’t
sleep many hours, so it’s an easy shift to make.
However, having said that, something’s gotta give. And, it
will be this blog. So, dear readers, I will be turning over my blogging shingle
to the closed side. Or perhaps it should
say On Vacation. Laughter, food, wine
and good friends. Yes, vacation. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks to tell you
all about it. J
Sunday 13 September 2015
Listen with the intent to understand, not the intent to reply. —Stephen Covey
I was going to write about querying this week. I have merely dabbled in it and am now ready to go full tilt. But, as I diligently research
agents, a voice whispers and demands to be heard. Her name is Lizzy. She is
16 years old and she is in pain.
Lizzy is a cutter. She does not want attention. She just
wants to curl up under a sprawling tree and melt into the earth. She thinks,
she worries, she feels—and, oh my, she hurts. Lizzy knows all of the things
that cause her agony. She can list them as clearly and perfunctorily as her first
grade spelling tests. But her thoughts are not as numbing as those lists.
They’re painful. And, the only thing that eases them is a razor.
I will query Raven’s Path and Love Denied. I
will also continue to write historicals. They are too much a part of me to set
aside for any length of time. But, I feel that I must listen to Lizzy too. She
is speaking to me in snippets and is anxious to share her story.
Jo dangled her new
bracelet in front of Lizzy’s nose. Not that she’d know it was new if Jo hadn’t
shoved every purchase of silver and cheap tawdry designer rip off in front of
her nose since last semester. “Look, this is just like Angelina Jolie’s when
she was with that ugly older guy. See the skeleton in the middle? She was so
cool then.”
Lizzy gave her a quick
applaud with an “Oh!” but really she was sick of it. She could clearly see the
strips of purple, of yellow, of healed brown. Jo pretended she was hiding the
cuts, but really she was dressing them up, wrapping them in glamour and yelling
“Look at me!” She got pulled out regularly by school guidance for “the talk.”
She’d return all coy and humble but she was preening at the attention. A
peacock amongst swallows.
Jo cut for show. She
cut for attention. Maybe she felt some pain. Who knew? But, she screamed for
someone to feel sorry for her. Well, Lizzy knew cutting and she didn’t feel
anything for the scars on Jo’s arms. She didn’t feel anything for Jo. As a
matter of fact she didn’t give a shit about World History either.
She pushed from the
desk and stood, gathering her papers and shoving them into her bag. Mr. Hobard
stopped talking and stared at her, the hand that had been swirling through the
air frozen, the whiteboard marker clenched between fingers suspended midair. His eyes
bulged like that guy in that stupid movie her mom watched over and over, alone,
laughing too loud and too much. They popped right out of
his head.
“Lizzy, what’s up?
You’re giving Hobard a heart attack.”
Lizzy could care less
if Hobard keeled over in front of the whole class. She needed to get out.
Needed to grab some air. Needed to leave the fake pain and go prick her own.
Sunday 6 September 2015
A garden requires patient labor and attention. Plants do not grow merely to satisfy ambitions or to fulfill good intentions. They thrive because someone expended effort on them. --Liberty Hyde Bailey
I am back in the groove. Once again, I am consistently putting aside a few hours each
morning for writing, or something related to writing. I have pulled out
different pieces and reread them, pondering their strengths and needs and what
I should do next. I have two complete novels and three novellas, as well as a
sequel, a young adult and a woman’s fiction in the works. These last two are
the pieces I play with to hone my craft. It feels good to revisit all of these and
ponder revision and creation.
Today we ventured into our backyard. It very much
resembles a rich forest in the middle of a dust bowl. We have not touched it
despite its neglected state. British Columbia has been in drought conditions
for months and we did not want to traumatize the vegetation with our amateurish
strokes. The rain fell freely this past week and the leaves perked up. We felt
confident that it was a fine time to connect directly to this new land of ours.
We started hesitantly. Some plants looked quite nice and
merely needed a clip or two. Some looked a little on the dry side and need more
time to absorb the water before we decide how best to come at them. But,
there were a few that were clearly out of control. They were difficult to prune
as their branches were entwined intricately and to cut one did not necessarily
release it. You had to trace back through the weave and snip multiple places
before it was truly clear cut.
I could not help but think about how much an arborist’s task
is like that of an author. I have pored through my writing this week. I did a
quick edit on Raven’s Path and Love Denied and am pleased that there was little
trimming to be done. The sequel to Raven’s
Path is suffering fatigue and needs to sit awhile and gather strength until I
decide how best to approach it. The novellas need a good pruning, they are
interlaced and must be approached with an eye to maintaining the integrity of
all three—a terrific task for a rainy day.
I imagine the arborist who faces an empty lot is excited to
be able to envision, design and create. That is how I feel as I look at my YA
and WF. Their seeds have germinated and it is time to decide where they go. I
am optimistic that the landscape of my life will be richer for their creation.
Regardless of whether they become breath-taking arboretums, or rugged reminders
of hard work, I know I will enjoy them. The words will be the soil that sifts
through my fingers, their story the fruit of love’s labour.
Sunday 30 August 2015
Let the wine of friendship never run dry —Les Miserables
I have talked about the bounty of the land. These
past few weeks I have also been privy to a different kind of boon: the joy of
people, of friendship offered and gladly accepted.
Neighbours have introduced themselves, welcomed us to the
community, shared the spoils of their gardens and invited us to their homes. I
had great fun meeting one of my online writing peeps for the first
time. She dropped by and I now have a face to go with a name, and am thrilled to
discover that we have an affinity beyond the Internet environment.
New faces, new stories and people who have never heard our
tales...terrific! Yet, there is nothing like a good friend, someone you have
known through the years, someone who knows
you—the good, the bad and the ugly. We are fortunate that we have several of
those on the island. In fact, I believe, we followed their crumb trail here.
This weekend the house resounded with shared stories and
inside jokes, and it shook with raucous laughter. We sat quietly and talked
about our lives, we baked together, broke bread while growing louder as the night
grew dark and we truly laughed until we cried.
The comfortable familiarity, and the depth of understanding
we find with one another, makes me realize how true the adage is: It takes a long time
to grow an old friend. Maybe some day these new folks will fit the bill too. In
the meantime, we are so lucky to have such dear friends close and to have their
visits to treasure.
Sunday 23 August 2015
Chasing My Tail
Moving across the country is not just an adventure, it’s
hard work. The trek alone is exhausting but it is alleviated by the thrill of
newness and the stunning vistas, not to mention the excitement of anticipation.
Looking for a house was a little daunting, yet it turned into a bit of “Wham!
Bam! Thank you Ma’am!” Inappropriate, I know, but that was how it went down.
Arrived on Monday, looked at houses on Tuesday, owned one on Wednesday and
moved in two weeks later—no furniture, mind you, but moved in nonetheless.
The house needed extensive cleaning and we rolled up our
sleeves, grabbed the Vim and went to it. Some wall patching and painting
ensued. Without all of our things, we had to borrow from a friend and purchase
many practical day-to-day things. We had also sold some furniture
before leaving, so our labour was interspersed with shopping forays: browsing, choosing, and making arrangements for delivery.
Work-filled days that included assembling many purchases (I
can hardly wait until we have to assemble the elliptical!) were interrupted by
a parade of tradesmen—hot water tank and central vacuum installation, septic pumping, cable,
dishwasher repair, pesticide follow-up spray (Surprise!) and a plethora of
delivery men. More often than not, all did not run smoothly. The bed company
had arranged for the new bed to arrive two days after our contents. Perfect,
since we needed to paint the bedroom and scrape the bathroom free of evidence
of the previous inhabitants. Unfortunately, the mattress hadn’t arrived so they
postponed delivery until the Sunday. Then the footboard was MIA and, while they
delivered the rest, they could not put it together properly. Nice guys, but in
a hurry they tore off the decorative post on the baseboard and ripped a strip
off of the baseboard. So, more repairs to make and some more waiting on the
finished bedroom. Now, these things happen to everyone regardless of where they
live. It’s just that when you move, you squeeze an abundance of these
incidents into a short frame of time.
I already wrote about being hit by a drunken driver. The
fall out of that continues as we have yet to get the vehicle in for repair. Our
Ontario license/plates renewal came in and DH diligently phoned them to let
them know we have left the province. Well, not so easy. Letters need to be
written and signed and sent off. We still need to face my health card renewal
gap where it runs out before our BC coverage kicks in. Fingers crossed for good
health.
Then there is the day to day learning that comes with living
in a new province. We bought a lottery ticket and were charged $3.50 for the
privilege. What? Curb side pickup is a challenge. Every Monday you can put out
organics but garbage is only collected every other week. Not coordinated with
garbage, recycling happens every other Tuesday. Okay, put that in the calendar
and we’re good to go. But wait. You can only put paper, cardboard and
non-drinking plastic and cans. Anything you drink must be brought back to the
store or to a local recycling depot. And glass? Well, apparently that is a
specialty item handled by few. Again, you must carefully collect it and return
it to a depot, unbroken. Broken, I suppose, it is yours for life.
All of this to say that I have spent my days endlessly
spinning. And, I have had just about enough of it. The house is clean.
Eventually, everything will find a home in a corner or on the wall and we will
persevere and come to know the ins and outs of our new home and community. I’m
ready to move on.
Time to stop chasing my tail and start chasing my tale.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
A huge part of publishing a book is promotion. If researching a story is a rabbit hole, creating promo material is a black hole. There is an...
-
A huge part of publishing a book is promotion. If researching a story is a rabbit hole, creating promo material is a black hole. There is an...