Writing Pie

Writing Technology

2012-01-20T08:27:00.001-08:00

I was reading my homework for the English class I am taking and I came across a whole section on fonts and font sizes when considering design. This got me thinking about my grandfather and how technology has impacted and changed writing.

When I was at the tail end of my childhood and the beginning of my teens my mother decided to write a book, not just any book, a book about my grandfather. My grandfather spent hours narrating his life story onto reel-to-reel for my mother to use as a resource when writing a novel about his boyhood. The book she finally self-published in 2010, Barefoot Through the Stubble, is the historically accurate account of my grandfather's years growing up on the Canadian Prairie in Saskatchewan in the early 1900's.

Growing up I was lucky enough to live one mile away from my Grandparents and so I developed a close relationship with them which, when we moved to the Yukon in 1991, took the form of written letters. My grandmother was usually the one to write and I can still see her distinctive long loopy script in my mind, but my grandfather, ever one for using technology sent type written ones.

In the late '90's my grandfather began the computer age. Someone gave him an older computer for writing and he spent many hours learning how to use it and problem solving small glitches. A person who loved gadgets and fiddling with things to make them better I think it really enriched his life and I know it enriched mine as it enabled me to receiving type written letters from him way past the time I would have had he continued to use the conventional typewriter due to his deteriorating eyesight. One of the advantages which made this possible was the ability to change the font size on the screen. A feature, I'm sure all of us who will be growing old in the age of email (or whatever comes next), our families, friends and grandchildren, will all enjoy as we continue to shorten distances and continue to make and maintain connections through writing.

Story Ponderings

2011-08-26T12:03:00.000-07:00

In real life one can find oneself thinking about someone for no apparent reason. Imagine if this person lived in a different province and then... days after you were wondering about them you run into them in a small community town an hour from your house, as happened to me recently. Is there really such a thing as fate or coincidence? One could argue that it's a question of energy and if two people think of each other it makes the chances of meeting greater... that the energy we put out affects what happens around us. One could also argue that everything is random and can be explained mathematically and can be calculated using probability.

For myself, I am always awed when things like this happen and have to wonder why it is if things coincide like this in a short story or novel, it seems contrived? Why must we surround pleasantly surprising turns of events with foreshadowing to make this phenomenon acceptable to the reader so they do not perceive it as the unique unexpected gift and totally wonderful occurrence it can be, but rather see it as the only logical solution or unfolding of events in the story arc.

Future Story Images

2011-08-08T09:05:00.000-07:00

I have a very vivid imagination and recently wound up doing a nightmarish 6 hour highway trip in 9 hours, at night.

At first the fading light was only annoying, it cut down my vision and made me feel half blind, but as the night got darker the landscape changed, taking on sinister appearance; trees turned to dark shadows and bits of fog appeared on the road making navigation hard.

On the top of a clear hill I looked out on the lake of fog I would have to drive through with dread. Slowing to 60 km/h I changed my headlights to low beam so less light would be reflected back from the humid air and allow me to see a little further and clearer as I crept up the highway. The softly light gave the illusion of traveling in a dream reality which was hard to shake. It was only my consciousness tying me to this earth as I moved my small bubble of light through the dark scape surrounding me, making the dreamy illusion even harder to shake as I clung to consciousness awareness and the belief that real world I longed for would emerge again.

At times I could have sworn the road was no longer the highway I remembered. Instead it was easy to imagine I'd been magically transported through hidden doorways in the fog and darkness to a road in another dimension and would be transfered back to reality on a later section of the highway provided I didn't stop. Which of course I did, as one doesn't make a 6 hour drive without going pee.

I chose my stops carefully. I never stopped in the foggy unlit valleys. There were places I knew I could stop safely and places I couldn't. I can't tell you how I knew this, I just did. It was a feeling, a pressure of caution, a warning passed from outside into my conscious brain which I have learnt to pay attention to. When I finally pulled over for a nap it was on a hill where I was on higher ground and in an area I recognized and was comfortable with.

As I neared the 2/3 mark, the sun was rising and I could see the trees clearly in the areas which were not smothered in with fog. I looked up from the thinner fog I was driving through and saw a picture which could have been from a fantasy movie. A sharp hilltop swathed in fog was guarded by the black shapes of 4 tall dark trees in the foreground, sentinels standing tall, looming from fog wrapped feet.

As I made the last 2 hours of the drive the sun shone brightly and the few lingering fingers of the mist which crept across my path and around the edges of the road were quickly fading; a nightmare receding into the fogs of my subconscious. And I couldn't help think of the rich descriptive images I have gained and wonder what stories they are going to crop up in.

Pondering on Fireweed

2011-08-01T13:52:00.000-07:00

Taken at Dredge #4, Dawson City, Yukon. July 2009.

I always find it amazing to discover how a specific detail of a story writing has made it's way into my work from my subconscious and what the connections are, however loose, to my own life. A year ago in June one of the words I suggested was "Fireweed." Then, last summer I when began exploring linocuts for blocks printing. One of the first cuts I designed was Fireweed. I was very happy with the simplicity and detail I had put into the image, but lacked the drive to actually do much with it until last week, when I again had the print making materials out for the kids to use and I decided, 'what the heck, I'll have some fun too' and pulled out my fireweed cut.

Having made 9 different and unique prints on paper I was then left with the dilemma of wondering what to do with them. It was this pondering which got me thinking about Fireweed. I remembered as a child spending hours playing in the field of fireweed which grew on the embankment next to the garden and watching the bumblebees harvest pollen. And I began to wonder just why Fireweed still continues to fascinate me and what it's significance is in my life is now that it has turned up, not only in my writing, but my drawing and other creative expression too. In doing this I recalled the post On the Road to Somewhere where I discussed story beginning I wrote last June using the word "Fireweed," which appears below.

On the Road to Somewhere

The purple-pink carpet stretches on both sides of the road as far as I could see, broken by blackened stumps, sentinels lifting their heads above the thronging flowers, bowing in the wind. Bumble-bees hovered from bunch to bunch gathering nectar. The raging fire, bearer of this beauty, but a memory soon forgotten.

My worldly possessions filling the trunk of my little Epson Ford, I drove. If you had to chose what to take. If you could take only what would fit into the car; what would you chose? My typewriter, a suitcase and paper for words yet to come.

Back home Tom was heading in the other direction. I could imagine the women on his smooth talking arm, twirling their skirts, smiling with their flippant blonde locks streaming in the wind I’d left behind.

I let the pictures fly, one by one, out the open window, memories blowing in the breeze marking the trail of where I’ve been, the stereo playing in the background. So, what; fine me for littering. I looked ahead at the open highway, roads to somewhere - unwritten.

After reading this I realized that the fireweed in the piece appears after a moment of irrevocable change in the main characters life, a climax in a story, and is very fitting. Springing from the ground after a forest fire, fireweed displays it's beauty and reclaims the earth with new life and I think for me it is a symbol of rebirth and hope, that no matter what the changes are and how many, to borrow phrase form L.M. Montgomery, "bends in the road," there is always some new beauty, some hope. And, in my case, I have Fireweed.

One of the 9 prints.
In this one I highlighted the design in
silver ink after the print dried.

Character Awakenings

2011-07-25T19:27:00.000-07:00

Right now I'm doing a rewrite of a piece called "Simon," it's original working title was "Story of a Dead Man," and for a short while lived with the title "Memory files."

And in one of the scenes I was working on recently I was not satisfied with the dialogue. The second main character, Mindy, was profusely apologizing for her actions and when I compared that to an earlier scene where her character came through strongly I knew there was something wrong. She was coming across as weak and helpless which she is not. I pondered why and how I could strengthen the piece and suddenly realized that she was not sorry at all... she was pissed off. Wow, what an awakening!

And now, just as I thought I was on a roll and this would be the last draft, I have to change the whole scene and, in retrospect need to look at some of the past scenes and figure out if I got her mood right in them or if they too need to be changed.

However, I'm not too upset about it as it's moments like these where the character wakes up that provide the joy in my story composition.

Coffee Contemplations

2011-07-20T09:39:00.000-07:00

Coffee seems to be one of the stimulants most writer's have in common. On a recent trip to a cute little coffee shop about 20 minutes out of town I took a photo of their selection.

When I came across it this morning I began contemplating characters and coffee. As I am currently still in the middle of revising the story about Simon, I find myself wondering what kind of coffee he actually likes to drink - if any.

I'm not sure why this is important to know, but I somehow feel that his taste in coffee is pivotal to this final revision... like I'm going to add something which will just pop the story from the mediocre to the masterpiece with whatever detail it is I'm going to add. I think it has something to do connection and grounding, everyone who drinks coffee understands the importance of a good cup and how it makes them feel.

What kind of coffee does your character like?

Chagrined

2011-07-12T18:33:00.000-07:00

I had to look up the meaning of this word after using it, and was chagrined to see it fit. My days have been so busy with summer and work I totally forgot to update the Word of the Day for, not just one week (as I first thought), but two weeks! Yikes!

However, it has been updated now and the word this week is Red Kayak. Last week, after finishing my 10 hour + work day I proceeded to take an Intro to Whitewater Kayaking course. 6:30 each evening found me making my way down to wherever we were meeting, stuffing myself into a wet suit and buckling into the required helmet and lifejacket, grabbing my paddle and cramming myself into the red kayak I was using.

It was something I always wanted to do and it's something I'm at least not a total idiot about either. Having a healthy dislike of flipping over I work very hard to make sure I stay upright. I still do not know how to roll, but really liked what the instructor said when he said, "If you are in a situation where you have to roll you've already made a mistake." Kayaking isn't about rolling it's about riding the water and I totally love the feel of the water under the kayak. I'm not so thrilled with going through large whitewater, with that I seem to have a love hate relationship; Deep down I totally and absolutely love it while consciously I find it hard work and am so concerned with staying upright I find it hard to enjoy the way I want to. Hopefully that will go with practice.

And so my red kayak and I enjoyed 3 evenings of adventure and I the only time I flipped and swam on the river was when I stupidly grabbed the sweeper instead of continuing to try and paddle around it. All in all it was a good run, although tiring and I look forward to doing more in the future while finding a way to turn this last adventure into a story.

I hope you all have as much fun navigating through storyland on this weeks word as I did in kayaking with it.

Six Word Stories

2011-06-20T09:35:00.000-07:00

In my grand scheme to drop my truck at the shop at 8 a.m. one morning and walk to Icicle Sport to pick up a new rim for my son’s bike, his had the misfortune of being “bike racked” at school, I neglected to realize Icicle didn’t open until 10.

Thankfully, Midnight Sun Coffee Roaster, which operates out of the back of the bike shop, was open at 8:30. so, I wandered in, bought a muffin, ordered a coffee and sat down on the bar counter to peruse the supply of reading materials in their little shelf.

For anyone who's never been to Midnight Sun, the books available are very eclectic ranging from short stories, short novels, stuff about coffee, recipe books, etc. and all have interesting titles. This morning, wanting something light my eye happened upon “Six Word Memoirs.”

The idea of a six word story intrigued me. Having attempted my had at writing a 30 word story in December I was curious as to how a story could be told in 6 words.

In the hour and a half it took for the bike shop to slowly awaken, I read most of the book. Some of the stories were ingenious and heart wrenching and many reminded me of Haiku's. They all started with one idea and ended with a slight twist or unexpected change in direction.

As I headed off with my new rim to check bus schedules, I contemplated how I might later tell my morning experiences in a 6 word memoir.

Drove downtown, got rim, rode home.

Went to bike shop for coffee.

Coffee in hand, I drank stories.

If you were to tell a story in 6 words I wonder what it would be....

A word in Telepathy

2011-05-04T09:00:00.000-07:00

I am slowly returning to the land of the living and have been meaning to begin writing posts for awhile. Indeed I started several, but did not get the time required to sit down and finish them as there was so much I wanted to put into them it was very daunting.

When Heathbird suggested telepathy I grinned :) "Of course she was thinking that. I should have known." Indeed her suggestion was no surprise in the light of a recent conversation we'd had. Thank you, Heathbird. It was just the word I needed to jump start me into posting :)

The subject of telepathy has intrigued me for sometime and indeed I have had experiences which I can only describe as being like telepathy in many ways. These experiences found their way into the first novel I began in 2005 (I think) and is a fantasy piece. Back in 2005 I had begun reading Robert Jordan's "Wheel of Time" series and was delighted at the cleverness with which he wove the modern world into the history behind the current world in which his story was taking place and the way he wove in belief systems and enough "real" and plausible experiences that it became alive in a way no fantasy world had ever lived in my mind before. He was genius in this way.

The Novel I began at that time is set in "The Dominion of the Four Winds." The dominion is made up of four countries under one rule.

In the book there are 3 main characters. They are triplets, sisters who were separated at birth for reasons of necessity. None of the girls knows of the existence of her siblings and each, due to circumstances beyond their control, go on a search of for their roots. During their search they begin having odd experiences. They begin passing feelings from one to another in a similar way as I envision telepathy to work. They also occasionally see out of the eyes of one of the other girls in cases where the absent sister is experiencing a traumatic event. At the end of the book two of the sisters find their family and each other. Everyone is concerned about whether the third is alive and because they have, by then, figured out the connection between them the girls are able to not only tell their clan that she is alive, but also where she is.

The book is the second in a series and needs some major rewrites as it is missing some very important character arcs and is thus still a project under construction, but one I hope to eventually finish along with it's counterparts.

I hope those of you who decided to use the Word of the Day as inspiration had as much fun with the word Telepathy as I did.

The Challenge of a Fairytale

2011-01-29T16:51:00.000-08:00

Somewhere in the mists of the chill Yukon winter there is a way over the crusted snow, through the airs crisp veil of frozen watervapour and past the sundogs, to a place where tales originate. A place where anything can be.

A story is made in the telling. One can have the most interesting story premise, but it's the telling which draws the listener, holding their mind captive to the end.

As a writer, I'm held prisoner solely by the limits I place upon my imagination. And I have to recognise that often these restraints are subconscious; sometimes letting ones imagination run wild is scary, one never knows what things will be unearthed along the way, and I am learning to realize when this happens, slowly pull off the brakes and prepare for the rewards and challenges of the trail ahead. This takes courage; the courage to explore and rise to the challenge; to dare to write deeply, dedicatedly and fearlessly in a way which resonates with the unspoken inner being of humaness we all possess somewhere within our souls. It is something which has to be done consciously, faced and overcome with each story I now encounter.

I have hit this point earlier with the fairytale than with previous stories. It took weeks to figure out the plot. But, once I let go of the limits I'd placed on my imagination, the symbolizm and fantasy elements literally popped out and into place with the clarity of a landscape revealed as a veil of icefog dissapates beneath the suns hot rays on a cold day. And I now must walk across this landscape and spin it's story with the language necessary to do it justice.

But, despite having this road map, I found myself pausing. "You don't really have to write it all," my brain said, "It's a two part story. You don't need to actually tell the whole fairytale because the reader is only going to see glimpses of it through the eyes of the main character as she remembers it and applies it's lessons to her life."

I liked this idea. I savoured it's flavour in my mind imagining a canvas. The fairytale is the lightly outlined background (peach in my mind) the rest of the story painted over top. After all, the completed work will really consist of a more modern story told over top of the fairytale; in the writing of the top layer I could simply colour the parts of the fairytale that are meant to show through. Why trudge through the land of the unknown when one can follow the path of lesser resistance and still have the same affect; after all, I know the fairytale now; I understand how it applies and which pieces I need to tell in detail.

Then, I remembered the journey I've just made into the sparking land of magic and mystery which this fairy tale encompasses and how much I've learned in the process. I've learned that although simple in language, with archetyped characters and a style which tells more than it shows, fairytales are packed with symbolism and broad, deeply coloured layers as equally meanful as the the layers in more modern "show don't tell" tales. Don't be fooled however, into thinking fairytales tell everything. In a fairytale it's still what's "not said" which carries the deep river of meaning; a resonating symbolism revealing humanity and life knowledge in a form broad and deep enough even the youngest listener understands it and can apply it to his or her current life experience.

And this was the point at which I had my epiphany. If I chose not to actually write the whole tale in vibrantly coloured detail, I would deprive myself of an opportunity to experience, grow, and learn some very valuable things in story telling, composition and word choice, the things which come from trying something totally new combined with the skills one currently has, as well as the possibility of learning something more of myself. I would be, to use a cliché,"chickening out."

And so I've decided. I'm going to go ahead and write this fantastical tale in it's entirety. And I look forward to reaping the rewards of a work well done, treasuring each moment of the journey across this land of fantastical happenings, while I dare to capture each telling detail of beauty and magic necessary to the weaving of this vibrant and totally new traditionally fashioned tale.

About the photos:
1. Whitehorse YT - looking towards the bridge from the Dept. of Ed. parking lot.
2. Whitehorse, YT - looking south from Takhini Arena
3. Shallow Bay, YT - looking toward Lake Laberge (where Robert Service's poem Cremation of Sam Magee took place)
4. A doorway into the side of a church sitting 4 feet from the ground and opening onto a roadway in Toronto, Ontario.

Writing Sundogs

2011-01-16T10:59:00.000-08:00

Sundogs are a phenomenon caused by ice crystals hanging in the air like prisms. When the angle of the sun is just right you can see ice floating like dust motes in light.

The dogs appear as rainbows perpendicular to the sun and come in pairs; one on each side. They usually appear when the temperature drops below - 30˚C and occasionally, when it's even colder, one can see double sundogs; 2 dogs on each side. I have only seen double dogs once.

It's not alway easy to capture the dogs. Although they appear vibrant and alive to the eye, almost dancing. They're often washed out on film, becoming faded ghosts of reality in opaque colours blended into the background.

I managed to capture the following sundog images on January 13th at -34˚C.

I have always been awed by the beauty of sundogs and look forward to cold days when they come out to play. Likewise, I have always wondered if there were any first nations stories about sundogs and if they fulfill a role in their traditional culture.

I ponder how I might describe them in a story in order to get the imagery and detail right; to guide the reader to the perfect place in which they might see them clearly. Even these photos are but a ghost of the vibrant sight. How much harder would it be to portray them on paper?

The top snap was taken by Takhini Arena, Whitehorse YT around 2 p.m. in the afternoon. Notice how low the sun is on the horizon. You can see the dogs to the far right and left sides of the picture. In the bottom pic you can just see the sundog on the left side; a faint rainbow running vertically behind the exhaust of the Canada Games Centre.

Playing Hookey

2011-01-11T12:05:00.000-08:00

Today I'm playing hookey. I slipped out the door, dropped off my fire extinguishers for servicing and, instead of going home to do more paperwork, I snuck into the coffee shop with my laptop.

If the world is my home and my house is my room then the coffee shop is in a large way my living room. It's where my friends and acquaintances gather and where I can relax and create. It's also my social time, the place I go when I want to be around others. In my house I wake up, stretch, get dressed and, when I want company, I go into the kitchen and have coffee before settling down at the kitchen table or in my studio to work.

Settling down at the large shared table in the shop, I prepare to work on something. I've decided I'm not working on the fairy–tale today. This is a stumbling block for me as I had this great idea of "whipping off a rough draft," but reality has proved differently. There will be no whipping off. Instead there will be a slow plod and stop until I figure out what all the story pieces are. I know the story is a parody between a fairy–tale and the real world. I know where the characters start and where they end up, but I don't understand the details. In the fairy–tale the locket is important, symbolic. It has to do with love, but what? How does that play into the story? I know in the real world the character is washing dishes and thinking about the fairy–tale. I know the fairy–tale is going to have a significant impact on her life and will be is symbolic to her. But what exactly is happening in her life and how is that going to work out? I know the endings of both stories will be parallel, and she will have an epiphany about herself, her world and her life. She will emerge a different person than she was at the beginning of the story, but to get all the pieces and put it all together is proving difficult. If I don't work on the fairy–tale then how does this effect my plan? Is the plan still doable?

I step onto my blog and take a look at my blueprint. I'm pleasantly surprised. Things are definitely doable with this well thought out plan. No longer do I have to guess at and try and remember what I was going to do next. The roof will not cave in and I'm will not be buried. I am not doomed to be stuck because this story is taking more time as the next 2 tasks don't depend on it. Instead I'm energized.

I'm suddenly de-stressed about the fairy–tale and excited by the prospect of working on something else for awhile. It's so simple. I just have to look at the feedback from Changing Tides, tweak it, and look up the markets for the art piece and send it both stories out. I can work on the fairy–tale as things come to me and just continue on with the plan. Life is good. Happy Writing!

Photos:
Top: Baked Latté
Center: In Baked
Bottom: The view from the window

A Writing Blueprint

2011-01-01T09:33:00.000-08:00

I have never been a fan of New Years resolutions and last year my solution was to make New Years wishes. In my post, New Beginnings, I referred to Emily Starr, a character in the books Emily of New Moon, Emily Climbs, and Emily's Quest, by L.M. Montgomery. In the Montgomery's books Emily is a writer and she often writes letters from her present self to her future self. I contemplated doing the same with my New Years wishes. My thought was to write a letter to myself containing my hopes for the coming year in and asking questions about where I am now and if the things I've wished have happened. The idea being to open this small time–capsule New Years Eve and consider its contents.

Now, as I sit here, I'm attempting to imagine what I would have said and how I would feel upon reading such a missive from my younger self; I wish I'd actually written the letter. What I did do last March was start a wish book which helped me resolve several things in my life. However, I have no desire to read it.

Looking back I recall the types of things I mentally wished for and see I didn't manage to accomplish everything. Somethings in my life have turned out drastically different than I would have imagined and others have worked out better that I would have thought. But I'm happy with what I've done. I've managed to rearrange my schedule to get more writing time, I've grown as a person, I've found a balance which works for me in my creative work and I've currently have 8 submissions out that I'm waiting to hear back on.

In thinking of this I have looked at the coming year as a whole and decided on what some reasonable expectations would be. Now, everyone knows for a wish to come true one must keep it a secret so these plans are not wishes, nor are they resolutions. Resolutions are like chores one doesn't want to do but knows one should and I have no wish to hang that stone around my neck.

Instead my thoughts for this next year take the form of a writing blueprint; an elaborate plan containing all the specific information needed for the construction and completion of a my desired writing project – down to the margins, formatting and type of font required. The following is my blueprint for the next year. It is a continuation of the work I began in October and, when completed, will provide the foundation necessary to ensure I have a growing number of finished pieces to submit to various markets which will hopefully result in publication.

1) First Draft of new story (A Queer Fairytale)
2) Changing Tides (minor revisions and polish and send out)
3) First Art related article (reproof and send out)
Jan 15th (total = 10)
4) The Wall and Wishes and Dreams (add missing pieces, revise, polish)
5) Memory Files (revisions and polishing)
6) Still, I stand (minor revisions, polish and send out)
Feb 15th (total = 11)
7) Reread The Wall, Wishes and Dreams and Memory Files, put on final polish and send out. Reproof, polish and send out any of the 8 stories currently submitted places, as needed.
(total = 14)
6) Mobri's Dragon (revise)
7) A Queer Fairytale (revise and edit)
8) Write first line story
March 30
9) Continue working on Times Heart and The Trade Off.
10) Revise first line story and finish the "winding stair" story – find a title for it.
11) Polish and send out first line story, Mobri's Dragon and A Queer Fairytale
June 1st (total = 17)
12) SUMMER BREAK – Break from writing and begin 10 hour days at work and play with fabric, inks, drawing and other visual art type projects, hike, kayak and relax and gather ideas.
13) September 01 take a brief breather.
14) Assess goals, decide on where I am and where I want to be and revise blueprint as needed. Continue working on pieces to send out and the novels, Times Heart and The Trade Off.

All stories will be constructed in Times New Roman font. Drafts will be stored in individual files marked with the stories title. All submissions will follow the submission guidelines specific to the place they are being submitted. Numbers for items in circulation will be recorded with date of submission, title of story, place submitted and expected response time. The totals specified in the plan take into account those stories currently in the submission pools (starting status = 8).

Of course, this is just a surface picture of the entire blueprint I'm working from. Like the sketch of a finished house without the nitty gritty plans for each floor. I haven't included blogging, writing excercises, correspondence, research, and the possibility of other new work arising within the course of the year. I have simply worked with the stories currently finished or underway. And the deadlines, as in any project, may be shifted as lifes crises arrise. But, if I follow the plan I should end up with the minimum end result – a growing collection of completed, polished work and increasing options.

And as I ponder resolutions, wishes and plans I'm struck with the realization that they largely reflect the things which are important in some way, changes and progress towards a goal that matters and I wonder if everyone wrote theirs down what they would all look like.

Photos: Above right taken at dusk in Haines Junction 2009 Easter weekend. Above left taken in 2005 at a small forestry day use/ trail head camp just before Stewart BC.

Wonderland

2010-12-22T12:26:00.000-08:00

I haven't had time to write this week and I'm beginning to feel the inner angst that makes my fingers itch and my brain long to be composing and playing with words, sounds. My schedule has been flipped with the absence of school and my only time to write is in the evenings... evenings which have been taken up with other Christmas preparations, meetings and events. When I have a few minutes I'm loathe to begin; by the time I set up and really get into the zone it will be time to come back to the world of the present and resume my tasks. But sometimes it's simply that I'm so tired I'm ready to curl up into the warm cosy covers of my bed and dream.

My dreams in times like these can be a pleasant mix of thought and fantasy. Bits of scenes and people swirling around my conscious mind and gathering into partial sentences and phrases only to dissipate into the next image. I have always fallen asleep to images playing in my head; silent pictures, snapshots, forests, doorways, roads, stormy skies, beautiful sunlit meadows, houses.

This morning, as I sit here one of my dreams drifts pleasantly back to my mind and I relish the soft warm images with contentment. My perceptions seem heightened this morning, or perhaps it's the wreath of sleep still wrapping foggily around my brain. I notice the silence in the dark snow covered street. I love how silent it is in the winter. Sitting up at my computer, the snow outside seems to eat the sound of everything but the muffled tires whose crunch I can barely hear as the the neighbour backs out onto the road. I used to be able to hear the bus long before it came into sight and now I barely hear it as it comes around the corner into view. Winters silent forest is a time of rest for everything and here I am scrambling away with revisions and editing and the creation of new things – a bit of an oxymoron perhaps. But, maybe it's simply that we are meant to rest more in the winter, relax and take a breather from the summer's busy activity. Traditionally one would spend the summer working, planting and gathering in preparation for the winter and I have to wonder with all the modern conveniences if this balance hasn't also been upset.

I look out at my birdhouses in their snowy hats and think of all the people bustling around as they buy Christmas gifts and finish their holiday preparations. My Christmas is plain this year, as always. A few gifts for family and friends. Some baking and a well stocked pantry in preparation for the open house, a new wreath on the door (my one splurge), a tree in my studio, an advent calendar on the mantle and the peaceful white blanketing the streets. Definitely a nice close to the end of a year.

Finding a Natural Rhythm

2010-12-19T22:06:00.000-08:00

Big Sky - October 2010

"Don't quit your day job." This is the advice many authors, and publishers alike, give to writers. And it is a well known fact that writing alone doesn't always pay the bills.

But, here's the dilemma. If one doesn't quit ones day job, how does one have the time or energy to get a collection of work together? If I was a visual artist it would be difficult to become known without having a collection of work, a show, or something more than a few pieces of work to display. This is also applicable to writers. And to get published one must send stuff out; to send stuff out one must have stuff to send out and at the rate I was going it would take another 3 years to get 10 stories together never mind anything else.

For Sale

Of course, writing residencies would be perfect and afford me the time necessary to dedicate to my writing and do this – but many require you to have specific publishing credits in order to qualify and these are the very things I need to build. So, how does one keep the day job and amass work without taking a decade to do it and still write what one wants?

At the end of last summer I was forced to make some decisions about work in order to avoid a second burn out and take care of my health. I chose to cut my work load in half and work a 6 – 7 hour work day instead of 12 (at least when school's in). This has enabled me to spend more time on my writing and I have now come up with a system which works for me.

I divided my days into open hours, business paperwork, writing and market research. I'm open 5 hours a day, I spend an hour or two a week on business paperwork, 5 – 10 hours a week (ideally) on writing and 1 – 2 hours doing market research and the rest gets eaten up with errands, volunteer time and my children.

If I find a place I can send something which I already have finished, I do it that day. If I need to do some minor adjustments to a piece in order to send it out, I do it that week. In this way I have recycled, reworked, or finished many of the projects I was close to having done and polished. To date I have sent out 8 things, 3 of which are new pieces.

I have also learnt that regular writing exercises and word play are hugely beneficial in this process. If I find a magazine looking for a postcard story, I rise to the challenge. These shorts take a week or two to finish and allow me to explore different ways of conveying information; they also force me to focus on specifics such as action as opposed to narration, creating the suspense necessary to grab the readers attention and hold it, and including only the details which are pertinent to the story. This makes them pretty tight and helps my writing improve.

And in alternating between finishing projects, plugging away at longer term projects like my 2 novels, starting new short stories and sending stuff out I finally feel I've found my natural rhythm. And that is personally satisfying and relaxing in many ways.

On the dike in Dawson - facing West. July 2010

Wild Things

2010-12-07T09:56:00.000-08:00

What's the most wild thing you can possibly think of, I'm talking weird and bizarre. Trust me, this is a good exercise. I stumbled upon this quite by accident. Writing professors are forever saying 'put you characters up a tree and then throw rocks at them,' and I think that phrase has been used so much it's become clichéd. This is kind of like the same thing from a different angle.

Take something mundane like a year of the tiger stamp which is currently at Canada Post. It's beautiful in oranges and blacks with a gold foil tiger on it. Beautiful. What if it was enchanted? Or what if the tiger cam to life? How would it come to life? Would there be some kind of ritual or spell? Why would it come to life?

Now you have the makings of a story. One must have characters to make it happen. How are they going to react if it comes to life? Will it be a good thing or a bad thing? How will they defeat it? Maybe the stamp represents some oppressor and the main characters are fighting for their rights. Now you have the beginnings of a possibly political commentary.

Now comes to the fun part, building suspense and putting it all together so that it makes sense. Your plot, characters, and story have just evolved out of a stamp. Cool isn't it? Isn't this something like what nursery rhymes originated as... political commentary children learnt as fun senseless rhymes? That is if my memory serves me correctly.

Story boarding for Revision

2010-11-24T09:35:00.000-08:00

I sat with the story before me. The main character, Sam, clearly in my mind. I needed to revise it, to add in a piece, but was uncertain how to do it. Pregnant, she was pregnant. What did that have to do with the story? I remembered when I first began to write the beginning of this story (in 2009) I discovered Sam was pregnant, but then changed it. After all, how could a pregnant person climb on a climbing wall. I hadn't thought far enough, she could be in her first trimester. So, I decided to it back in. But, I needed to understand what that had to do with the story?

The conference. Sam's at a conference when she meets another woman. That's the catalyst that starts this story off, but what is the conference for? How does it fit into the story? I need to know this too and how it connects with what happens in the story. The main character climbs the wall, she learns something about herself, about trust. I need the pieces to fit together. I know the plot, but I feel the need to visualize it. I need to write it out, write out notes. But not write a plot line. I need to see the three strings which make up the story and then weave them together.

I don't do well with outlines, especially when I'm discovering the story. This story I know. I decide now is the time to write out some of the mechanics. I pick up my pen and begin. Why is she there, what training is she getting? Rip. I stick the paper to the front window. She's pregnant. She's single. How does she feel about this? Fear - fear of being alone, undecided about continuing the relationship with the father. Rip. I stick it up beside the first paper. What does she see in Shay? I make notes and stick it up beside the first two. Next I start on the second row. Conference - FASD. Pregant - Doesn't trust herself. Shay - desperate to connect. Then comes the next row. Conference location - Banff. Pregnant - I list the feelings and barriers this has raised for her. Shay - her safety line (ooh, poor choice) Shay doesn't want to be her safety line. Then comes the last row. Walls. This story is about overcoming walls in more than one way. I list what walls each of the sections is posing.

As stand back and gaze at my stickied window, reading the threads. Things a looking much clearer and I now have some more ideas about how I'm going to proceed with this and put in the missing pieces to the story.

I'm not sure why I haven't used a story board to visually organize my ideas before. This isn't exactly a story board as it doesn't outline the story in sequence, but it is the closest thing I can think of to describe what I have done. Storyboards are generally used to lay out a films or movies in animated segments in order to tell a story. This has been used in film, theatre, comics, screen plays and many other types of digital or multi-media storytelling. I have heard of a few people tacking up cue cards to organize scenes and chapters in novels and I believe I even read an article on it in either the Writer Magazine or The Writer's Journal, but this is the first time I've ever actually attempted to use anything like it myself. It worked wonderfully.

Journey's in Writing

2010-11-21T20:54:00.000-08:00

A good story always takes me on a journey. I become immersed in the character and, if it's a good story, I arrive at the end satisfied. In my fantasy novel, Rightful Heirs, (which is in pieces) each of the main characters goes on a physical journey and the plot largely revolves around this necessity to travel to a specific place and all the things which befall them along the way. In large part they are being chased. However, the part I need to figure out is the character arc. I need to figure out how the journey changes them and why. I haven't figured that out yet and this is precisely why this story currently sits in pieces.

In the book, The Writer's Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers, by Christopher Vogler, the author talks about the arch character types and the journey they go on. I have written about the way he works with plot in an earlier post, Journey's. In this way of plotting there are two important thresholds or climaxes. The first occurs when the main character leaves the "real world" or starting point of the story and becomes committed to the journey. Once the character has entered this domain he/she is tested and changed, finally to return back to the "real world" through the last threshold a having learnt something and become a different person. Of course there are mini thresholds in between. Definitely worth a read.

I, like all my artistic endeavours, have difficulty with the simple. I was the art student who, when we had to make picture using stencils, air brushes and at least 2 colours (so 2 stencils for a picture), decided to do a cat with a food bowl, a bow tie, different colour eyes and... I think I had like 5 stencils. When we did block printing instead of making a simple blocked image I did a squirrel, cutting out the feathered edges and leaving very little of the actual block. Why would my writing be any different? Perhaps this is why I love Christopher Voglers plot model so much. I have been able to adapt it and stretch it and squish many different threads and plots into this model to greater and lesser success.

Of course, there is more to a journey than plot. The character must change or shift in who they are from the beginning to the end of the piece. It is this emotional journey that the reader craves. I want to hold my breath in danger, gasp in surprise and cry at heartbreak. A recent article in The Writer's Guide to Fiction, published by the Writer magazine and titled The Driving Force Behind Plot, by Robert Olen Butler, refers to this as yearning. In the article he talks about how what the character want drives the plot and mentions that this is what can make the difference between a story being just words or pulsing with life. He's totally right. In the article he gives examples of how to convey this yearning through writing.

And so it is these pieces which I need to figure out for each story I write. Sometimes this means writing a whole lot of empty words first, kind of like walking through a forest until I stumble upon the right path. In Times Heart, the YA novel I'm working on amongst other projects, I wrote a scene where Fabula (the main character) goes out in a fog to feed the chickens. The story droned on and on with out much life until I realized that he didn't want to be there. He wanted to find Old Rumier, his mentor, because he was worried about him. So, despite the danger of getting lost in the fog and all the difficulties he might face, he took off to do that and when he did the story came alive.

Tonight, as I sit and ponder which piece to work on and consider their many journeys, I realize some have similar threads. I wonder why we as writers are compelled these journeys which our characters are forced to embark on? And what compels us to write different stories on the same theme? It's almost like we are completing the same journey in many different lives (a sub theme which runs strongly in Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series)? Are they a refection of the journeys we are each embarked upon or a way of expanding our understanding? Is it because we have an inherent need to explore the unknown or the need to pass on our experiences and lessons? Is it to document what people are living and experiencing today or is it larger, a need to evoke a change in thought - to enable others to see the world in a different light? What is it that drives us to write what it is we write?

Hint Fiction

2010-11-15T13:15:00.000-08:00

While searching the web for market to send any of my three postcard stories (aka Flash Fiction), pieces of 250, 500 or 1000 words long, depending on the publication, I came across SmokeLong Quarterly.

This online magazine deals strictly in flash fiction. They have a different editor each week and publish one story a week. But beware, they do screen submissions and repeatedly submitting the same story each week is not allowed.

While I was there I discovered a new genre of story writing, it's called Hint Fiction. Hint Fiction is a story told in 30 words. I found this idea intriguing and was totally stumped at how I would accomplish this task until I woke up at 2 a.m. with the story, which I've since submitted.

For anyone else interested in trying this they are running their Hint Fiction contest during the month of November. You can check it out here.

A bit ridiculous - In my opinion

2010-11-11T17:09:00.000-08:00

I was 7 years old the first time I encountered the terms Male and Female. I'd been sent to the office with some kind of form to be filled out. The secretary, Ms. Tibido, dutifully placed the form in her typewriter, (yes, I said typewriter) and began dictating the form as she typed.

Name: she said my name. Age: 7 Sex: Female.

Sex, I thought, cringing, what was she saying? That was like the forbidden word and all kinds of wrong in my seven your old world. What did you say? I said, moving closer so I could see the form. Yes, it said sex.

Sex: Female, she said.

What do you mean, female? I said. I wasn't sure I wanted to be this term - female.

Well, you are a girl aren't you? I could put down male if you want, she said.

Well, yes, I said, confused.

Yes, what?

I'm a girl, I said, I gripping my dress. At least, I was. What's female mean?

It's just a fancy term for girl, she said. Female for girl and male for boy.

Weird. I said.

What would you like me to put?

Female I guess. I said.

I have since become resigned to the fact that almost every form any government agency has requires the additional information of knowing what genitalia a person possesses. Don't get me wrong, I am a woman and I'm happy to be a woman and have no desire whatsoever to be a man, but is this what makes me who I am? Of course not, I'm much more than the organs I was born with. Nevertheless I was shocked to discover that my Yukon Drivers license neglects to specify this particular piece of information! Normally this wouldn't be such a bad thing. I dislike being place in boxes at the best of times and it's not like someone looking at me doesn't have some assumptions about my gender anyway.

However, it turns out this lack of information could have devastating implications for traveling as I discovered quite by accident through a local news release which was forwarded to me. A woman was stopped from boarding a plane in Vancouver because her photo ID, her Yukon Driver's license, neglected to state her sex and according to airline policy her photo ID must have this piece of information.

Yikes, I thought. Here I've just traveled from the Yukon all the way to Newfoundland (where I attended Piper's Frith - a writing retreat and mentorship program) and back and could have been stopped from boarding any of the planes. Phew, was I lucky the man with the silicone face mask and fake ID (another recent news story) hadn't been discovered earlier and forced the airlines to check their ID's and follow policies more closely. And yet I still have to wonder what it was that prompted a government so fascinated with knowing ones gender to omit this ridiculous piece of information from my ID?

I have been assured though that the "new" Yukon Drivers license, with all the bells and whistles as far as security features, does indeed have ones sexual gender on it. However, this means I have yet another task before I hop the plane to Vancouver next week - to update the drivers license I renewed last month. A feat, ironically, which requires more ID and documents to obtain than a passport (birth certificate, utility bill, health care card, old drivers license, picture ID, etc for a start... hope I don't have to dance too). It's a good thing we are not still awaiting this technology or we would all be SOL when it comes to traveling.

Narration and Third Person POV

2010-11-05T11:48:00.000-07:00

I've always wanted a brother. I suppose my view of what a brother would be like is probably skewed because it's something I never got to experience growing up in a family of three girls. However, I have been blessed with three boys and thus have a very good idea of how they interact with each other.

This is very useful in my current project, Times Heart, which I've begun. Times Heart is a YA novel about the birth of a storyteller. It's coming of age story involving the passing on of an age old art and the responsibility that goes with it. The main characters include Fabula and his two brothers, Sitku and Anik.

This week has been a lot of fun as I have revised the first couple scenes, playing with the point of view and narration. The story is told in third person, but some of it is from Fabula's point of view. The sections in Fabula's POV were very active and pulled the reader closer as opposed to the parts, such as backstory or additional information the reader must know, which are more narrated. In order to make this seamless I've played with active language in the backstory summary. These techniques, if you would, give the story a very different feel, but seem to work.

The closest example I can think of to what I'm trying to accomplish and how the story feels are the movies The Princess Bride or The Polar Bear King. In both these movies there are times when there is an outside narrator, which we accept and it doesn't pull us out of the movie. This story is the similar in design, but of course is told through the narrative window as opposed to a motion picture on a screen.

Of course, this all means that instead of writing some 1600-17000 words a day (the Nanowrimo requirement which enables one to reach 50,000 words by Nov. 30th) I'm averaging 250 - 800 words a day, but what I do have is good. I believe if I can set up a solid foundation in structure and characters the rest of the story will progress much more easily as I get further into the novel.

About the photo's: Top Right - taken at the headwaters of the Takhini River (the lower end of Kusawa Lake). Bottom Left - my eldest son's and their father returning from an afternoon of fishing.

National Novel Writing Month

2010-10-31T11:29:00.000-07:00

As I write, National Novel Writing Month or Nanowrimo has already begun in some parts of the world. During this month (November) writers of all types, ages and sizes, professional, amateur and beginner, will sit down at their computers and try to pound out 50,000 words - aka 1 complete draft of a novel. They will not edit, back track, add in things or strive to produce the perfect piece of writing. Instead, they will strive steadily onward towards their goal leaving spelling mistakes for later and making notes in the margins. They will do this despite work, family and other obligations and will have various strategies to get through the month; some will lock themselves in a room while others plan write-ins with other nanoers, go to coffee shops, sit in hotel rooms or keep notebooks beside them 24/7 to jot down those all important ideas to type up later. And each week, in an attempt to keep the energy flowing, pep talks from various well known authors will arrive by email in an attempt to spur everyone on. These are always a joy to read.

I did nanowrimo in 2008 and met my goal of 50,000 words. That novel, The Trade Off, still sits in my drawer as I wrestle to find the time to revise and edit it. As a completed draft the plot and characters are there, but it's sails are full of drafty holes in need of mending. The novel as a whole needs to be fleshed out, trimmed and polished before it can vibrantly come to life as something I can set on a course to be (hopefully) published. However, The Trade Off would not be the same book if I'd pounded it out in a year or two instead of in a month and that would be sad because then I might not have met Dee.

Dee is my favourite character in that novel and she was a surprise. She's a petite, strawberry blonde with a degree in economics and absolutely no common sense (and I mean none). She comes into the novel on a canoe trip with one of the main characters, Mira. During the trip we find out she's pregnant and asks for Mira's help in providing a place to stay while she sorts out her life. This puts Mira in the predicament; she must decide whether to be truthful or supportive about this. That aside, Dee didn't come to life for me until halfway through the book when Miguel, another main character, meets her at the coffee shop where he works. Miguel's having a rough day, no one else has shown up to work and he's frustratedly trying to be pleasant about it. While he's wiping up tables after the 10 o'clock coffee rush Dee strikes up a conversation with him and offers to help out. At this point Dee literally takes over (and becomes her own character) and Miguel dubs her 'teashine' on account of her hair and the fact that no matter how busy the shop is she can somehow manage to take care of customers, bus tables, organize things AND polish off a pot of tea (when no one is looking). However, despite the need to revise this story I find myself once again entering the Nano site.

This November I'm will work on my Young Adult novel. I think it's the many Words of the Day which are half buried in it's nondescript pile that made me decide now was the time to begin it. Words like Labyrinthine (which refers to it's structure and possibly a piece of the plot), masks and fly (both figuratively and in the form of concrete nouns) and now Osier Alley. I chose to use Osier Alley in the novel as a piece of the setting this morning as a result of what Healthbird has told me about the Basket Willows, how they come to be and what they are used for.

This novel was, in it's birth, going to be a short story for my children. After the first 750 or so words I stopped, unsure where I was going with it or rather where it was going as it had abruptly turned into a very dark piece. And even though I've now learned more about the story and have an idea of what I'm doing with it and where it's going, much of the book still remains a shroud of rags in my head as I await its complete form.

But, this time, as I take up my keys to begin nanowrimo I'm not going to follow the 'no edit' rule. I want my work this month to be a solid, vibrantly coloured, draft firm enough to continue to build upon in the coming months. I have no expectation of 'finishing' the novel during this month, but instead have challenged myself to see how much I can get done. I will keep updating my word count as I go and watch the colour spread across the progress bar as it creeps towards the end and it will be a bonus if I reach the tipping point where my writing picks up so much momentum I can't type fast enough to keep up. In 'The Trade Off', this happened when I hit 40,000 words; it will be interesting to see at what point this phenomenon happens again.

Photos: Top - taken in Baked Café. Left - Main Street, Whitehorse, YT. Bottom - Old dock pilings left from where the steamboats used to dock to collect passengers and wood at the turn of the century. Whitehorse, YT.

Word Ponderings

2010-10-21T15:22:00.000-07:00

I find I am still pondering several of the Word of the Day suggestions and they have become more than just food for thought as I consider possibilities for writing and how I relate to them. Words, like people, can have many facets and with "masks" and "labyrinthine" especially it's hard to decide on which facet I want to focus. Of course, I should probably just sit down and write instead of falling into the trap of over thinking things, but sometimes I find the mountains of possibilities which my pondering produces eventually grow into the many layers that fill my pieces and make the story unique. The only drawback being that it is takes more time to process them them into a piece that conveys the huge picture of everything I want to portray; it is this considering which I have been doing lately.

First there was the word "masks." People can wear masks both in the concrete and figurative sense; we don't always show everything about ourselves to everyone. The characters in my stories wear masks and the story along with the more subtle subtext work together to provide the overall picture. In this case one might say the concrete masks the more abstract subtext which necessary for a more accurate understanding of what's happening and why.

Then there is "labyrinthine." This word speaks to something which is labyrinth or maze like. It is key to the YA novel which I have been working on for years now. This complex piece of work is much like a labyrinth under construction. There are many pieces and subplots (including full length shorts) woven into one overall story which makes it a little like a puzzle. However, I suspect there is an actual labyrinth (and a mask) in there somewhere too - I just won't fully see or understand it and it's significance to the story until I get there in my writing.

And so I consider and weigh each of the aspects of these two words and ideas continue to grow, which is the exciting part of writing. Learning about the characters and their stories, I purposely work with the words, story and materials until the heart of the story becomes clear and the synergy this produces as it all comes together explodes into light and I'm awe inspired with the result.

Note: both of the above photos were taken at Banff Centre for the Arts, Fall 2009.

Do you think this is whimsical?

2010-10-13T11:43:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a girl living at the banks of the river Elbe. Her father´s market garden lay high on the flank of the geest, overlooking the neat little town with its colourful harbour pubs and its church and the shipyard.

At her father´s death-bed the young woman had to promise him to keep the market garden running. And so she did. In summers she grew flowers and in winters she cut fur twigs for the Christmas garlands and sold them at the market place. During the years the hedge of the garden grew higher and new, fashionable houses were being built up the hillside. But the rose beds, the woman had framed by borders of box, still thrived behind her ancient tawny cottage. When she became an old woman and weaker, she couldn´t pay the electricity bill anymore one day, and her power supply was cut. They soon wanted to cut her water supply too, but this turned out to be against the common law and she got her water for free ever since.

This is not a story but what another passerby told me, while showing me the shortest way to the small train station. I only came to this town once or twice a year but from then on always took the path along the old gardening. Sometimes I got glimpses of the tiny old lady herself on these occasions, saw her pruning the beautiful quince tree in the middle of her yard, or patiently clipping the long hedgerow all by hand. Her greeting and smile across the hedge was nearly toothless but of such a radiant serenity and joyfulness that I felt it like a blessing, when it suddenly fell on me, the stranger.

These are all long-gone memories now. The house and garden lay deserted and partly pulled down one day, when I came along again. Only some wild violet petunias still bore witness of the former inhabitant. And when the old woman comes to my mind now, I wonder if she would like me to write a story to her honour, and what it should be like.

The photo has nothing to do with the story. This fancy hut instead catches your eye at a lonely road crossing in the Wendland region of northern Germany. It could be used as a bus station but I´m not sure.

The Art-Writing Connection: Part 1

2010-10-05T13:43:00.000-07:00

I spent this summer immersed in teaching children the process of creating art. I taught them how to observe the things around them and work with different materials and imagination through a series of steps to produce their own unique visual art. The projects has now specific "end" product as the activities were open ended allowing the children to create pieces which were truly theirs, but the process was what took them from beginning to end.

I began drawing around the same time I began writing, around the age of 7, and soon began experimenting with creating things in 3D as well as dabbling in paint. But drawing was always at the centre. In the past few years as I've begun getting back into creative visual pieces (very slowly)I have noticed that the different use of my creativity spills over into my writing and kind of spurs it forward a little. However, it wasn't until I took a workshop with Maria Lousia through the LLAMA Project that I began from her description of process to wonder if artists, like writer's get epiphanies about their work and what that looked like. Click here for the post I wrote about my experience.

This summer, even though I myself created little work as I taught and worked with the children attending my program, Adventures in Art. I began to get a glimpse of this epiphany because I gave leash to myself to explore without bounds what I could do and I'd have to say the most exciting epiphany I got was from a shirt I created for someone else that took on a second and third layer of meaning which related to culture and stories.

This shirt was to be a gift for a baby one of my partner's co-workers had given birth to. He told me he wanted it to be dyed black and orange and to have some kind of print on it - the suggestion was hockey sticks. My response to that was that I would dye the shirt and if I was printing it I wanted a design I was going to use again. So I got out all my dyes, tied it and died it - imagining in my head how the colours may turn out. Then I got out the block cutters and the vinyl printing blocks and draw a design of a young Raven, or it was supposed to be. Then it hit me. Black, orange, Raven, Sun. The shirt, if it turned out would be "How Raven Stole the Sun," which is a very well known aboriginal story told in the Yukon. I was on air. The shirt, like all first attempts needs some work, but the process was a journey I'll never forget.

About the pictures: Top - I began this one almost 3 years ago and am slowly working on it. It hasn't really spoken to me about what it's about yet - I have a few ideas that's all. My mother asked if it was a self portrait and it might be.... Bottom - the experimental shirt. I'm still trying to find a way to make the printing ink adhere better so it's darker and there are many other flaws I'm not happy with, but that's what happens... it's all part of the process :)

The Sound of an Eclair

2010-09-26T09:13:00.000-07:00

While pondering the word Eclair last week, I began reading Ursula LeGuin's book, 'Steering the craft,' which had just arrived. I've wanted to read it ever since Heathbird mentioned it in her post. And it has totally met my expectations. It's written in her unique style and breaks down writing further than any of the creative writing classes I've taken. I think this is because she writes it as a writer.

The book provides explanations and exercises which focus on developing specific aspects with the intent of practicing only that particular skill rather than "creating" something like most other writing exercises I've come across. Like making painter focusing on making as many shades of one specific colour as he can and playing with them to see what effects he can make on the canvas. This is an exercise which helps one to learn how colours feel together and what goes well and how shadows develop depth and change perception without actually creating a "piece of artwork." This skill however, will later be used to strengthen and deepen any piece later developed.

I was surprised to see the focus of the first exercise was on sound, something I already wrote a post about last spring and try and work on in my writing anyway. As I worked through it I suddenly had a flash of insight as to why poetry, even for those of us who aren't as good at it, helps improve my prose. The sounds in poetry go together making the poem easy and enjoyable to listen to, as is good prose. So it logically follows that listening to poetry helps attune ones ear to the way the sounds work together which then spills over into ones prose.

The following is my attempt at the first exercise in LeGuin's book. And although it's not the best thing I've written. I found it interesting to see how my writing changed from the beginning to the end and the crazy direction my thoughts took.

Eclairs

Deep fried dough filled with whipping cream dripping from the side in a solid white froth. Topped in chocolate icing and edged in fluffy white with cherries on top.
Oh to sink my teeth into the cool sweet gooey treat and see the foam slipping back onto the plate in ooey gooey gobs of whipped fancy.
Who can resist a white trimmed mustache made of a whipped creamy fill and chocolate on a deep fried bun. Not I. It's cool squishy sweet coats my tongue and slips wildly down my throat to the nether regions below on a southern expedition where the penguins roll and the snows blow across the great white icy expanse people refer to as the south pole.

Not quite an eclair, but just as pretty.

Ode for a pair of glasses

2010-09-20T20:35:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow a new word hopefully arrives and I have yet to write a post for the old one because apparently getting older means changing eyesight... so, after cutting down on my writing and reading, which was almost as painful as the headaches, I have finally gotten in to see the optometrist. As a result my post will appear in a day or two and my glasses shall hopefully show up in a couple of weeks, in time I hope for my trip to Newfoundland.

Thus I sit and sip my latte, my eyes resting on the mountainous scenery outside, and I work out the last touches of the post in my head. Later, I'll type it according to my recently reduced schedule and imagine all the wonderful things I'll be able to do once my headaches cease and try to envision how much clearer things will appear.

Encounters in Story

2010-09-13T17:29:00.000-07:00

Labour Day weekend I sat down and finally put Changing Tides together, crossing an emotional threshold I didn't know about in the process. Saturday I tripped down to the local coffee shop, opened my laptop and painstakingly began again and again. I stared off into space, watched people come and go, tapped the counter with my fingers, stretched and finished one page of a new beginning that lacked any form of pulse; it stared at me in solid 2 dimensional starkness. Sunday I pondered, paced and thought about what was missing and why I couldn't seem to sink into the story.

I felt blind. I knew the story. I knew the outcome. It wasn't like I was writing something from nothing and yet, I couldn't find my way through the doorway into the story. In fact, I couldn't even find the door and looking through windows at the bits and pieces I needed to incorporate was not helping. I needed the key and I soon became convinced if I could just get the "hook," the right opening sentence, it would draw me into the piece. But what could I possibly say that would do everything I needed to do, I thought while the vastness of the story clogged my mind with events, setting and emotion all vying for a chance to be heard. I got it Sunday night; my first sentence, "picking up the path of my father's life, figuring out why he left and what that had to do with me was like picking up pieces of glass on the shore; each one had it's own story." I was in.

Monday morning I trotted back to the café, settled myself down and typed for 8 hours, went home, printed the draft and couldn't look at it. I felt as raw as a piece of flesh churned through a meat grinder. What had I been thinking? I'd taken a fictitious story set in a place I'd never really been with imagined characters and infused the narrator with emotions that belonged solely in the depth of my soul. The same emotions I'd suffered with and worked through in the darkest part of my life - what was I thinking? How could this possibly turn out any good? I couldn't bear to read it. What if, instead of writing a piece that was pure genius (as I had a good idea in my head of what I wanted and how it could be accomplished) it was instead a pile of pitiful trash?

My intent had been to look it over and make changes the next day... two days later it still sat, face down on the ironing board in the kitchen while I contemplated the Word of the Day, Threshold. I began thinking about all the thresholds I'd past through in the past few months. Every little discovery I'd made and every goal I'd achieved; the ability to integrate setting into plot and emotion, practice setting up and delivering scenes and the ability evoking an emotional response in the reader. I realized I constantly look ahead and challenge myself with new ideas opening doorways of possibility that expand my thinking and the directions my writing can move. And although I always know where I want to go with my writing and what I want to achieve sometimes the way requires experimenting with a roughly drawn blue print based on past experiences and glimpses around corners. It's to be expected then that things may not to turn out precisely as planned on the first run.

Today I was able to pick up the story again and read it with perspective. I can see the weak spots and the flaws and I acknowledge there are some major and minor changes I need to make in order to achieve the finished product I'd envisioned. However, I'm very happy it's no where near garbage. Instead the frame work of my intent is present. A softly outlined ghost, waiting to be shifted slightly, pulled closer to the surface and carefully fleshed out a into what it was born to be.

And so the use of "threshold" in my writing this past week was not something in a story, nor did it wind up as a writing exercise. Instead, it was a reflection on my experience, the relationship I have with my writing and the realization that despite this new threshold I've just crossed there will always be more doorways to traverse and things to learn as I push my writing ability forward, stretching the limits of my word use, composition and broadening the expanse of my end desires.

Photos taken of Dredge No.4 in Dawson City, Yukon. Summer 2008.

A whimsical Setting

2010-09-06T10:37:00.000-07:00

I have always loved the word whimsical although the images it brings up are nothing like the dictionary definition which describes whimsical as a "playfully quaint or fanciful, esp. in an appealing or amusing way; acting or behaving in a capricious manner." However, I think of whimsical I think about soft images and a place where ones thoughts could run in any direction. This is why the setting in Changing Tides has always seemed whimsical to me despite being the backdrop for some pretty major issues Mira, the main character, is dealing with.

The following is my original opening, which I have since altered and added to:

My gaze strayed out across the horizon and the great pulsing force my grandmother referred to as the sea. The waves rolled up the beach as I walked leaving the sand smooth and wet. It clung to my toes in great knobby-growths, thick and sticky, until the next wave washed over my ankles and carried the whole mass out to sea in it's wake. The cool breeze blowing in made my hair stream out behind me in a flickering golden-wave; it sharp fingers ripped through my sweater, flitting over my skin. Turning I could see where the waves washed away my tracks. It was as if I'd never walked there, the beach a soft unbroken expanse and that suited me fine. My grandmother hadn't seemed to care how many hours I spent out here. "Go on," she's day, smiling. "The Sea gets in your blood. It was in your father's blood." She giggled, "It was all I could do to get him to come in for meals."

Note: The photo above was take in Ontario from the shore of Lake Simco at sunset.

Finding The Heartbeat or The Rescue of a Stranded Story

2010-09-01T21:47:00.000-07:00

Saturday morning I sit at the local café reading the newest edition of the Writer. This act is a precursor to beginning work on the story at hand just as this post is a warm up for my other writing. In both cases the story is Changing Tides. I know I have mentioned this story in older posts and it's one which I've been easing myself back into. However, I'm now up against the do or die deadline. This is the story I'm going to work on in Newfoundland when I attend Piper's Frith and I have to put it back together before I go because in it's current million and one, okay I exaggerate, pieces it would never survive the trip in any recognizable state.

I first wrote Changing Tides in the fall of 2005. In 2008 I painstakingly revised it, polishing the flow in an attempt to prepare it for a reading. That's when I realized it was missing... something. It was mostly a very well painted backdrop strung on a beautiful island of prose. Masked somewhere behind the conscious words I'd thoughtfully written was the rest of the story, for which I would need to search my subconscious. So, with a setting rich enough to taste, crafted with gorgeous scenic descriptions (which I loved!) setting both tone and mood with perfect clarity - the story nevertheless lay stranded in limbo, lacking a strong enough plot to carry it off. Until now...

As I read through the 5 new beginnings I've made since then, I make notes and questions to help me bare the meat, to locate the life line - the missing connections to something. To what? As the flesh begins to emerge I'm startled when the missing "details" suddenly show themselves unexpectedly and I begin to see how it fits and why it was so hard to include; how emotionally charged it makes me feel - how deep the connection is - it scares me and excites me at the same time. It's not that I haven't discovered the emotional connection to a story before, but it's never been this strong or quite like this. And I realize this is what Jenny Rough was talking about in her article, "The Essayist finds her stride," in Septembers issues of the Writer, when she describes sculling. She uses her her experience in learning to scull to explain how she uncovers the missing pieces in her writing - the emotional connection, that something that makes the writing work and brings it alive.

The more I continue to delve into the missing pieces of Changing Tides the clearer this reveal becomes and I'm startled to discover the backdrop colours, moods and highlights are all in the right spots to reflect and display them to the best advantage - like a stage set built to order, waiting for the main attraction. An event I now acknowledge I could not have written in 2005 or 2008 because it contains aspects of my life I had not yet allowed myself to see. Things and feelings I was not ready to face at that time. Perhaps one could argue that the piece would not be the same as it is now had I finished it 2 years ago, but I believe differently. I believe it was always meant to be what it is now and I'm awed by the genius way it all fits together.

This revision will still be difficult, but I know from experience it's often the most difficult things which are the most rewarding and I am eager to begin work on it. However, in retrospect I wonder if, just as this unwillingness or inability to reveal certain aspects of myself stopped me from being able to write the crux of this story 2 years ago, perhaps it's the same thing that's also at the root of the writer's block some people experience.

"Stranded"

2010-08-31T13:01:00.000-07:00

Until I find time to use this Word of the Day in any writing, I hope the photo above may act as a little writing prompt...

A Miner's Range

2010-08-23T10:56:00.000-07:00

This weeks word lead me on several journeys. I finally ended up, far from the mountains of ideas where I began, with Luke. Luke's traplines, which he mines seasonally for furs, range throughout the valley below and up the forested mountainside near the village where he lives. He gathers enough pelts and meat each winter to eat and pay for lodging for himself and his crippled son. But this year he's worried. Strange things have been happening, traps have gone missing and he's only managed to trap 2 rabbits in the past few weeks, no where near enough to survive.

Caught in a blinding snowstorm Luke takes solace in the fact that he could find his way to the cabin, half an hour away, blindfolded if he had to. His only worry is what to do if the storm lasts more than a day or two as his food supply is getting low. This turns to astonishment when he is woken half-way through the night by a loud clapping and abruptly the storm is gone, pushed away onto the horizon. The forest all around is briefly lit with a brilliant purple light. As the lights dance there is a crisp crackle in the air, the cabin and forest disappears, and he finds himself standing in the middle of a gravel road surrounded by the barren dirt of a clear-cut stretching out in both directions. Is he dreaming?

Note: This photo is not related to those mountains in the Miner's Range any more than the story I began this week. It is instead a picture I took just out side Haines Junction in Kluane International Park, Easter 2008.

Part 2: The Birth of a Writer

2010-08-21T11:21:00.000-07:00

People who know me are constantly saying they, "don't know how I do it." Some have even asked me how I do it, meaning how do I raise a family, work a day job, be an active part of the community and find the time to write. I've found this a hard question to answer as there's no real "how" to it, and "because I have to" doesn't convey anymore information than replying to the question, "who are you?" with, "I'm me."

I began writing and drawing at a young age. I bore my own children young, birthing my first at 20. There was a period of 10 years where my writing and my children shared scant space. My writing starved, but my children thrived and my creativity found outlet in changing knitting patterns and sewing quilts, adding my own mark to everything I made. This happened for many reasons, not because I was sacrificing myself for my children, but rather I couldn't figure out how writing fit into the mold of who I was supposed to be, what I thought was excepted. I didn't know how to be both and would later find I didn't in fact know myself.

During my abstinence, my writing obstinately tried to break out of the drawer where I'd shoved it; calling to be set free - to breath. And when I could no longer resist, I began the physical act of writing again, embarking on a surprising journey of self-discovery leading to more than a half-starved writer. It was the beginning of an inner awakening, the realization of who I was and it resulted in my becoming the whole person I was born to be in more ways than one. Along with this came the knowledge of how close I'd been to losing myself permanently, my identity and how deeply I'd been buried. One can't discard or reject a part of ones self without consequences and I'd been doing that for years - every time something about who I was didn't fit into the perception of who I should be. We tell our children they can be anything they want - but do we actually mean it. Does society really support it?

I don't regret this time, it simply was. When I think of the path my life might have followed if I'd kept writing when I was first married and had children I know my writing would not me the same as it is now - it would lack the depth and knowledge of my experiences within the drawer. Just as people who bear children when they are older parent differently than those who bore theirs earlier in life, my writing would have developed differently.

Birthing babies, never mind raising them, takes time and is hard on your body. A doctor will tell you it takes about 3 years for your body to recover after having a baby, he doesn't mean from the delivery. My children are 3 years apart, but I could swear my body didn't really recover until my youngest hit 6 or 7. I don't know if there is such a thing as recovery after birthing a story. Unlike being pregnant, writing breeds more writing. I heard an editor once refer to this phenomenon as having a disease, once you caught the writing bug you couldn't stop. I view it as a blessing. When you experience starvation for awhile you don't take it for granted anymore.

No two writers write the same, every artist's work is distinctive to it's creator in some way and yet takes on a life of it's own; two pieces only being alike in the same way all children are children. Each of my children is uniquely individual with their own characteristics, likes, dislikes and temperament. This can also be said for each of my stories. Most develop in the womb of my mind in a similar fashion, but they all differ in essence, design and their needs during their up bringing. Some are easy and others I have a more difficult time with, those ones fight me all the way with temper tantrums and arguments, but they're often worth it; they're the ones that teach me something and help take my writing to the next level.

I've always been delighted by a newborns perfection - one doesn't expect they won't be, but the tiny fingernails, exquisitely formed features, downy hair is all so absolutely without fault or blemish - it's amazing. And I know when a story is done because I get that same feeling. I can examine it, take it apart in every detail, read and reread it and remain almost in a state of disbelief that this piece of work originated in my brain and came from my hands - indeed, that I wrote it.

Some writers wait until their children are grown to take up the pen; for me, waiting almost killed me - I cannot do that again. Instead, I'm among those who manage to find a way to birth and raise stories along with children synchronously. There are many challenges to overcome and many hurdles to vault to accomplish goals and achieve some kind of balance between it all. I don't believe it's easy for any of us. I do it because both make up a large part of who I am and what's important to me; knowing in the end both my stories and my children will step into the world and if I've done a good job they will stand on their own.

Carrying, birthing and raising a story is as much as part of me as carrying my children was when I was expecting. There are sacrifices, decisions and priorities. It's physically and emotionally draining and one learns to live with being tired some days. Insomnia often strikes as the story begins mid-night calisthenics with ideas flowing forward as it stretches and kicks me into getting up and madly writing in my notebook. I know from experience if I don't do this and just enjoy the feeling of all these great thoughts I'll spent the next 3 weeks trying to recall them and they will never be as vivid or as perfect as this moment of clarity, no two moments, sentences or thoughts being alike. And so I write them down and later tweak them, rewriting them and adding to them until they are complete whole beings.

I loved being pregnant. I love my children; to create is to breath and to write is akin to being with child - It's simply part of who I am.

Note: The black and white photo's ones I took of my youngest son playing at the park (summer 2009). The colour photo of me at the bottom was taken by my friend Jerome.

Dream-Homes

2010-08-17T12:24:00.000-07:00

This week my character Simon has to decide where his new living place for the next years shall be. As he has holidays first, he visits old friends in new places and new friends in foreign places. Even the house he once grew up in and which he always loved, suddenly seems smaller and strange to him. Completely different life-styles attract his attention for the first time. He has reached the point where he has grown out of his former homes but hasn´t yet reached a new one. Not even in his imagination. Once it was his dream to live on a house-boat. Could this be the solution?

What would your dream-home be like?

This photo of a tree-house woven from willow twigs like a cozy basket sphere was taken in Küsten, northern Germany, this spring during the Kulturelle Landpartie. Note the window!...

Introducing Kat Mortensen

2010-08-15T23:05:00.000-07:00

In my on-line forays I have recently had the pleasure of meeting Kat Mortensen. Kat is a canadian poet who recently published and released her first collection of poetry, Shadowstalking and when she provided me with the opportunity to interview her on my blog I was delighted.

So, without more ado... here she is!!

1. What inspired you to begin writing and how has your writing evolved?

I’ve always been a writer of sorts. As a kid I used to write little poems and enjoyed putting them in cards for family occasions. I loved when school assignments involved poetry, but I like to write, in general.

It has only been in the last few years that I’ve started looking upon writing as something that defines me. I take it seriously now; I work at it.

The funny thing is, I’ve reached the point where I need to write. If I don’t do it, I feel rather empty and unfulfilled. As soon as I create something, I am energized and invigorated.

My poetic writing has evolved from “found poems” about news items and celebrity to more formal poetry and self-revelatory work. On the other hand, I don’t set particular goals with respect to what I will write at any given time; I like to go with the cerebral flow. I allow my brain to dictate what will be written – the emotion and sense of it is divulged with the writing.

2. As I'm late getting into the loop, can you tell me a bit about this world tour I've been reading about on your blog? Is this something which you are doing to promote your new book Shadowstalking or are there more reasons?

Ah, the world tour! Yes. You are correct in linking this to the promotion of my book, “shadowstalking”. It was dreamed up to add a bit of interest and flair to a “virtual tour” that enables me to share something of myself as creator of the book. I’m happy that you wanted to be a part of it. If you visit the designated shadowstalking blog, you can see all the previous stop-offs that “shadowstalking” has made. It’s gratifying to already have been received both domestically and across the Atlantic. I’m excited to be here with you, Leonie, in the “Great White North” of my home-country, Canada.

3. If you could offer one piece of advice to other writers what would it be?

I have to borrow from Shakespeare for this answer. One of the most famous lines comes from “Hamlet” when Polonius says to his son, Laertes, “To thine own self be true.” This, above all is what I would offer as advice. Stay true to your own personal style and interests. When you are true to yourself, it comes through in your work. When you are false and try to mimic someone else or be someone you are not, the work suffers and your readers will know that you’re just faking it.

Thanks Kat, for the lovely interview and insightful answers.

If you're interested in learning more about Kat or her book Shadowstalking, check out her blogs Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes or Shadowstalking.

Enjoy!

Photo's: Kat Mortensen (top) and Shadowstalking Cover (bottom). Both images were supplied by Kat. Thanks Kat!

Part 1: The Birth of a Story Inception

2010-08-15T10:47:00.000-07:00

Outlines work fine, if you already know the story. Which is precisely why they don't work for me; I approach my writing from the other end, preferring to create the story from the inside out. Writing those initial draft(s) to find out what the story's about is like walking when you're pregnant - it helps with the delivery. This fact I can attest to, having given birth 3 times.

In it's inception the story has the potential to go in any direction it chooses on the unwritten slate of my subconscious womb. Writing out everything initially coming to mind is part of the pairing process. This is where the DNA from my subconscious and the physical production of something concrete begins. The story begins to take form as I learn more about the characters and who they are. Their wants, desires and flaws emerge along with it's heartbeat; the core around which the story revolves, the problem, the stakes and the solution, allow for the pruning of earlier ideas and irrelevant details to begin. And this cell death results in the separation of fingers, toes and the formation of organs into distinct functioning parts.

It's at this point the outline starts to appear along with it's various layers, themes and story threads. Finally giving birth to a healthy piece of writing to be revised and polished - raised if you like.

About the photos: A sail boat in the straight between Vancouver and Vancouver Island taken from the ferry (top). My eldest son watching over the rail (bottom). Pictures taken in 2005.

What is Home?

2010-08-14T22:33:00.000-07:00

They came everyday. It was their hideaway, where they could come whenever they wanted to escape, to relax in the peaceful atmosphere. There was nothing like the soft zing of the line casting out into the pond with that artful plop as it broke the glass surface, nor the accompanying swishes bringing the line home. They never really caught anything much. The fish swam contentedly at the bottom of the pond, their large scaly bodies moving silently back and forth in the cool deep water, just out of reach while the sun beat down from above. It was a serene, almost surreal way to spend the summer and summer was all they had.

This is the beginning paragraph of my Young Adult novel-under-construction. Fabula, Sitku and Anik, the three characters in this story, are brothers. They live in a world where ox drawn carts, stone huts and dirty roads are prevalent and I doubt they'd know what you were talking about if you asked them about toilet paper or even paper at all for it's scarce and hard to come by.

People often think of home as being a secure and loving shelter from the storm of life. A place where everything is always warm and fuzzy. Other's say "home is where the heart is." Home for these boys is a heavy burden encompassing memories of great happiness from a time before their mother became ill and great sorrow as the watch her slowly slip away from them. Every night as they go home, they attempt to keep out of reach of their father's half-drunken temper knowing that it is because of his angst over being helpless to save his wife and treasuring the moments they have with their mother, coaxing her to smile and trying to ignore how hollow her face has become.

Unwritten Stories

2010-08-10T02:30:00.000-07:00

Before I discovered being a writer, there was a time when I occasionally formed stories or snippets of them in my mind only. In some cases I even knew whole paragraphs by heart, after having "edited" them in my head again and again over weeks. The only thing that astonishes me, is why I didn´t realize what I was actually doing, then. But writing was something you did in school to get judged by, somehow. I wasn´t willing to spend my free time on something I would get judged by, in addition. No way. It still needed a writing friend to open the portal to the world of writing for me.

One of my early "unwritten stories" was the beginning of a fantasy saga inspired by the Old Icelandic language. I imagined it with runes, handdrawn maps, an own language, and all... I once learned to read a bit of the true Old Icelandic texts in original; it sounds powerful!

Last fall I thought I might try to "restore" my own unwritten saga fragments on paper finally. It didn´t go especially well then. I´m not quite the same person as with twenty-two anymore either...
It´s actually more an autumn and winter piece but when Léonie suggested the word "Raven" last week, I couldn´t resist the temptation to try once more (and with more success this time) to get back into my withheld story. Because "Raven" is a keyword in the opening scene. And dark tree silhouettes behind a wide, open field covered by fresh snow...

The Call of a Raven

2010-08-09T21:41:00.000-07:00

Birds fascinate me. When I was 5, I patiently snuck up on a small brown songbird, probably a sparrow. I wanted to hold it. I got close enough to run my finger down it's back as it flew off. I don't think I have the patience to do that today. Instead that same trait has manifested itself in my creative process, questing to get things just right even if it means rewriting a piece over and over as I experiment and work towards the perfect combination of elements and structure I’m after.

The other day, while walking, I heard a Raven's gravely voice muttering in a tree somewhere near. It took me about 4 minutes to find him, feather's fluffed, chattering into the branch with a myriad of sounds rather than the regular crawk, crawk they usually make. In fact, one of the neat things about Ravens is that they do have the ability to learn to talk.

The talking raven, Rufus, belongs to a boy named Ben. Ben's searching for his best friend, Wren, whose disappeared under strange circumstances. Awaking in the middle of the night to a noise, he is drawn to the window of his room only to see the bright light a the middle of the meadow wink out. He shivers, fumbling to light the lantern and don his boots. The raven's circling the middle of the meadow distraughtly. Ben runs through knee deep snow torn by the tracks of a caribou herd to where the birds cries pierce the air, arriving at ring devoid of snow and an abrupt ending to the tracks. It's happened again.

The story of Ben and his raven is part of a young adult book which I've not fully written because my ideas are still forming. The book originally began as a short fantasy story I was writing for my children and has since evolved into much more. The story is made up of many distinct pieces and will be told in sections strung together around a staff belonging to a small boy. I have about 3 sections currently done and am still working out the structure.

Note: The photos are of a crow, not a raven, and were both taken in Haines, Alaska - Summer 2007.

The Blue Hour

2010-08-02T11:36:00.000-07:00

I like to give the character through who´s eyes a story is seen one predominant, outstanding sense and filter all narrated information according to this limited perspective. In Lynn Morrow´s case this isn´t really spectacular at first sight because her dominant sense is the eyesight, as for most people. Nevertheless, her narration style sounds rather special. She is a painter of pastells. She loves to spread one layer of dry pigment dust over the other. By this, she tries to make the confusing things in her life more real, more concrete, solid, managable. To let her feelings settle down, and calm, like coloured powders.

So already the novel´s opening scene was about something she was watching through a small attic window and sketching into her notebook at the same time. I very much enjoy every time she chooses a sequence of colour shades and mutters their special names under her breath while working. Each of them seems to swap a certain mood or set of associations across the page. Night blue. Delft blue. Cerulean blue. Phthalo blue. Steel blue. Blue violet. Mauve...

I always find a painter´s view inspiring for writing too. There are for example Monet´s systematic series of sketches he made of haystacks over years. They appear in quite different colour shades and atmosphere (figuratively as well as literally), depending on season and daytime. If you see all those different sketches of the same simple object side by side, you realize how superficial our normal every-day colour perception actually stays. I plan to find me such a plain daily sketch object too. To find, collect, and display all colours that possibly can appear on a haystack´s surface, might be quite a similar project like to explore all the different turnings a story could possibly take. You can isolate the single atomary bits of your outline or first draft, and reorganize them in a more concious way, like the colour dots in a pointilist´s painting. Then step back and look at the story as a whole. And be surprised again...

A special moment to perceive how the things´ colours gradually change surely is the time right after dusk, the "Blue Hour".

I took this picture of cornflowers and sorrel near a village in the Lüneburger Heide on a summer evening right before sunset.

Show Don't Tell

2010-08-01T11:01:00.000-07:00

Blue is one of the few colours I can think of with emotional connotation. Unlike red, which is generally only associated with anger, blue encapsulates a whole host of emotions much easier to show in specific situations than to list. That said, it provides the perfect writing exercise by challenging one to show and not tell what the character feels, advice writing instructors constantly tell their students.

In my story, "Changing Tides," Mira wakes up at her grandmother's. It's her first summer here since her father died. In fact, it's her first summer here ever! In his will her father, who she's only seen once a year since he left when she was in seven, appointed her grandmother as guardian.

The house was sleeping. Twirling her ring in her fingers, she stared vacantly out the kitchen window into the garden at the mottled grey shadows cast in predawn light. The soft haunting roll of the sea floated through the window. It's salty tang bit her nose. Why had her father moved back here? At home the colours would already be dancing in the daylight and the bird would be singing. Here, everything was dull, washed out. You couldn't even tell where the ocean met the horizon, they were one and the same large expanse of - hollow, herself in the middle. Was this how is was going to be now? Passed around between winter and summer with no real place, caught in between?

This photo was taken on a beach in Victoria, B.C. not far from the University.

The Headache of a Synopsis

2010-07-30T16:11:00.000-07:00

Sipping afternoon tea I ponder the current projects I have on the go and the post Cow Girl in New England had on her blog this morning. It was by guest author David Bridger, whose just had his book "Beauty and the Bastard" published. Now, although his book is not something I would be interested in as it's totally not my style, his post was interesting. It was all about writing a synopsis and how he writes it as he goes rather than trying to condense the whole novel into something manageable at the end.

A synopsis is what a writer sends to an editor along with a cover letter and the first 3 chapters of their novel (depending on the publishers submission requirements). It shows the editor what the story arc is, where it's going and how it ends. An important piece all things considered.

I've always found synopsis writing to be an interesting and daunting task. Interesting because everyone has a different idea of how to write one and what the outcome should look like. Daunting because it is pure hell to try and condense a 67,000 word story into 2 pages. Attempting to figure out what details to put in and what to cut, especially when the story has 4 main characters and 3 narrators! AND, of course, it's supposed to be written in the same style as the novel.

Despite those difficulties, I have written a synopsis for my novel and I am fairly happy with it. I wrote it between February and March 2009. Actually, I drafted 3 different synopsis and wound up doing something similar to the process Bridger describes. My first, the long synopsis, was 10 pages single spaced. The second, the short synopsis, was 4 pages. finally paring it to 1.5 pages after that. Of course, each editor's view is subjective so there is still no guarantees and I know I will be rewriting it yet again as I revise my work (or at least tweaking it).

Writers´ Drink?

2010-07-26T07:51:00.000-07:00

Even at first sight, there would have been at least three different places in my current writing projects which could have been moved forward by using the word "coffee". Maybe this is because there seems to be a mysterious connection between coffee and writing itself? I once read black tea was a typical drink for diplomates, whereas the effects of coffee would especially support the work of "literates", writers...

Anyway, coffee as a word finally went into my 2009 NaNoWriMo novel attempt. I had to break it off then after having written three days in a row with 38,5°C because I got the flue early during the month of the timed contest, last November. Just a few weeks ago, I have been starting to work on the novelette again.

About in the middle of the story, there have to be some scenes in a café. A café my heroin, Jen Brandeis, otherwise a shy and withdrawn person, opens on the ground of her new home. The "Mere Cabin Café" is a coffee as well as a tea shop, which starts small with Jen´s homebaked cakes only, but to her own surprise soon becomes popular across the whole Lee Dunes coast region. Living in a colony for exiled convicts, the still very young woman only gave this business a try because she sensed the quiet need of all her scattered, strange, distrustful, or even hostile neighbours to find a place for more carefree encounters and (hopefully) joyful exchange. And the hall of the former hunting lodge Jen is camping in seemed to serve this purpose just right.

The building is burned down lateron during the raid of a roving band. But first came 1001 cups of reviving coffee and almost as many unforgetable conversations.

The photo instead shows a lovingly improvised café at Lübeln Mill during the "Kulturelle Landpartie", an annual arts and crafts festival in the so-called Wendland, a sparsely populated rural area alongside the former "German-German border". Sitting at one of the tables inside this spring again, I enjoyed the full view over the meadow behind. Not only through the windows but also through the gaps between the bricks...

What's in a Name?

2010-07-24T18:48:00.000-07:00

Barely awake, the coffees deep brown flavour hugs my tongue briefly and slides down my throat, reminding me of “Koffee,” Mira’s dog from my novel, “The Trade Off.”

Koffee, has always been Koffee and I've always known that was her name. At 6 weeks old, her silky white coat was decorated in golden brown splashes much the colour of a Latté, the spots starting on her nose, dripping down her back and encompassing her tail; not to mention, she’s since developed a decided preference for the beverage and a tendency to sneak sips when Mira isn’t paying attention.

Finding the right name, like finding the perfect word or term to describe something, doesn’t always happen right away. Sometimes names come more easily, intuitively appearing in the text as I type, while at other times as with Mira (http://leonieklemphers.blogspot.com/2010/06/roots.html) and Tristan, assigning a name results in a mini case of mistaken identity. On both occasions I forced the name, rather than allowing it to come to me in it’s own time, by naming the character before I began writing the story, thinking it was about one character only to find out I “got the name wrong" and discovering the story was about a different character entirely.

So how does one come up with a name? In the case of my postcard story, “Shattered,” about man drowning in his heartbreak after discovering his girlfriend sleeping with his now ex-best friend. I had originally used Simon, a character in my short story “Memory Files,” when I first started writing the piece because I thought a bar would be a good place for a scene in the story. Once I was done I realized that the scene was instead a complete 250 word story about someone else and I needed a name. I began by looking baby names and their meanings, finally coming up with Tristan.

I always know when I’ve discovered the right name because it rolls off my tongue like a savory treat with the perfect blend of sounds to describe an essence of character not found any other way; it perfectly fits the character. It sounds like them. Sometimes finding the right time involves more thought, research or learning more about the character, providing moments of discovery that are both elating and satisfying as I begin my day.

About the photo: Taken late June 2010 at the headwaters of the Takhini River where it flows out of Kusawa Lake. The name, Kusawa means "long windy water." The glacier fed lake is approximately 37 miles long is frequently white-caped by winds.

Perspective

2010-07-23T19:53:00.000-07:00

Sitting behind a row of dyes I see the festival through a hidden window. The town is full of tourists, Yukoners and Dawsonites and I wonder what their vastly differing opinions might be as I explore the town, taking a collection of photographs for a project I’m working on. For myself, I love the architecture, the signs, and the beauty of surroundings haunted by the presence of history.

My impression is only slightly marred by my thoughts on the dredge tailings. The rugged stony piles left by the dredges as they rode up and down the valley in search of gold are tinted with sadness and sparse vegetation, roots isolated from the fertile earth buried meters below the rocky surface. It’s hard to imagine that this valley once fed upwards of 40,000 during it’s peak in 1898 (http://www.comeexplorecanada.com/yukon/dawson_city/).

Gazing through my camera I realize again the limitations of a lens. What is majestic can be reduced to ordinary when framed within a 4x6 frame and yet given the same perspective the mundane can become a beautiful story with the capturing of a moment, a thought or a look. I pause; my finger on the shutter, I consider. If the subject is intriguing to me, would interest others and what it is I’m trying to capture? And I’m struck by how much the same considerations apply to writing. What is the best angle to approach a story? What would interest the reader? Is the point of view that of the character in the story or my own?

A picture is a representation of the world captured, composed and shown purposely through the eye of the photographer, a story is a view of the world written or orated by the creator of the piece and told through the eyes of the narrator. And as writer I have to differentiate between the various viewpoints of my characters and my own perspective, picking the narration which best to displays what it is I want the reader to know.

Pictures:

Top - taken from the inside of the Tie Dye booth at Dawson Music Fest 2010, Dawson City, Yukon

Botton - Taken in the train shelter in Dawson City, Yukon.

Views

2010-07-17T02:51:00.000-07:00

This is about a future scene for one of the projects I share with a friend. I wrote it down like a novel scene for now, to sketch it out. But part of it will have to get letter shape in its final form. So the perspective will have to change later too.

It´s always good to write a chapter from different perspectives first, and choose the most interesting result afterwards. And then, the underlying action for a letter first has to take place, before it can be told in the letter, right?

The setting of my scene -- inspired by this week´s word "views" -- is a set of smaller farm houses, loosely spread about a range of hills overlooking a river and lake, and the higher mountain ridge across. One small farm house especially comes into focus, as it lies there quietly (seemingly) between fields and orchards. A shabby old stake fence marks the borders of the modest property. The spaces between neighbouring houses seem to be wide enough to forget about borders. The garden is partly overgrown by high grasses, their bleached ears quivering and glistening under the wavering summer heat.

Childrens´ shouts interupt the constant chirring of the crickets. Then, the sudden sound of quick footsteps on wooden porch boards. There is a table somewhere in the midst of the garden, unsheltered under a wide sky, with a wooden bench and chairs left standing in random positions, next to luxuriantly rampant flowers and a few vegetable beds. A woman in a plain jumper dress just puts down a jug of juice on the table. Her thick brown plait slips over her shoulder as she bows down.

Out in the fields there is another woman approaching. She, too, in her thirties, carrying a bunch of flowers, or a box of eggs, or maybe a cake in a basket.

An hour or so later, the scene has reached its climax and actual purpose, when the two neighbour women are fully engaged in their conversation. They talk about today´s view and weather over the valley and how it was different from the neighbour´s kitchen window only a few hours ago. Foggy almost and just dawning, with the still long, low sun-rays drawing deep shadows into the mountainside across.

As they chat they are only half aware of the unsaid. How much their general views on life actually differ as well, for example. Or how different their prospects for the future are at that moment. Like dream-walkers they hold on talking, each in silent astonishment about the fact that they nevertheless always enjoy each others presence. And they choose not to touch tender spots today, but keep this perfect morning in mind like an undeserved treasure.

Random Ideas

2010-07-12T08:29:00.000-07:00

Last summer my friend Emilia and I went to Dawson City for the music festival. In my wanderings I was surprised to come across this sign, on a building I can only assume is the festival office, which looked nothing like the logo which had been on all the events advertising or t-shirts. There is something about it's simple honest text which pleased me.

While I was there I was struck by an idea for a photo series. A story in pictures. And so this year as I ready to depart again for the festival to experience the wave of music dancing through the air, composed to bring joy, sadness, and elation and despair to the appreciative audience, I go with a fresh set of film, my camera and a mission.

Encounters

2010-07-11T08:59:00.000-07:00

The word Léonie chose for us this week, "random", fit rather naturally in one of the conversations a certain MC has with his friend from time to time.

The friend asked him if he believed it was all by chance which people we encounter and when. Like the way spruce cones fall and form a random pattern under their tree for example.

My MC hasn´t had much necessity to ponder such questions until now. But he´s accustomed to his best friend´s philosophical bend and sometimes intrigued by his questions. He himself is more sober by nature. At least this is what he thinks. (He hasn´t yet discovered his idealistic, even romantic streak.)

So right now he hasn´t much of an answer for his friend. And yet, his imagination has been stimulated by the image given to him. And as he walks over to the window and leans against the frame to look at the trees outside, he doubts that something as random as the falling of cones can be compared to human relationships. He can´t quite articulate his mingled feelings yet though. Lost in thought, he only mutters that there must be some more options still, something in-between...

But then, doesn´t even a random pattern of cones look like something arranged by an artist somehow? In a harmonical way, almost organical even, like something that makes sense?

How much more (or less?) would this apply to human beings then?

Why?

High Gear

2010-07-03T22:51:00.000-07:00

My creativity peaks and dips, providing a natural balance to my life, and when I'm at my most creative I find strange things happen. I wake up in the middle of the night and begin to write in my head, knowing I have to do something about it; half- asleep, I stumble out with my notebook in hand, curl up in my chair (after kicking the dog out of it - the plus side is it's always warm) and write. I can't think of anything I've done in the wee hours that has been uninspired.

Sometimes I get up multiple times; thinking I'm done, I crawl back into bed and get settled only to have new ideas for wording, sentence structure or story twists, spring to life and demand my attention.

Other weird things happen too, like my present urge to write horrible poetry (I'm really not that good at it), try strange word combinations (like fireweeds red sky - since went does fireweed have sky?) and risky content.

How is it I get these creative urges and deal with the exhaustion of my mid-night rampages? They come through my immersion into writing, the more I write the more creative I get. Sure, somedays I don't feel like writing as much those are the dips, but I do it anyway; I must. I go for a walks. I let my thoughts wander and soon I must write something down, my being demands it with every breath. I sit type, erase, and type anew. I start with the easy stuff, the things I know. It doesn't matter where I start, it comes. Writing begets more writing and after a midnight binge I often awake early feeling refreshed and energized.

And, as I prepare to begin my busy summer schedule on Monday, I know it will be my writing which helps balance and ground me, keeping me from losing myself in the rush of the everyday.

Adieu for now - poetry is calling (weird).

Rising through Time

2010-07-03T01:31:00.000-07:00

Every writer knows, when your not actually writing it doesn't mean your not writing; it simply means your subconscious brain is working on what it is you want to say, putting the puzzle of words and ideas together into some semblance translatable to your conscious brain and the keyboard at hand.

In my case, I know it's time to sit down with pen or keyboard when my brain starts talking to me in phrases which quickly transform into full fledged sentences, begging to be heard. In fact, this phenomenon happens at inconvenient times, like during a meeting or in the middle of the night, with astounding frequency. Sometimes these words can be put on hold and other times I find myself jotting them down on a piece of scrap paper as fast as I can write, as with this weeks word, before they once more disappear into the ether.

When the word “floating” was given to me by Heathbird I was immediately intrigued. This was a powerful word, a word of infinite possibilities and many, many thoughts leapt to immediate consideration all vying for space.

I thought of this picture, of a Golden Eagle taking flight on air and how they soar above the land. I thought of the physical sensation of floating - every molecule of my body disconnected and yet whole at the same time, soft, fuzzy, surreal. I thought of wind and blowing leaves, boating and yes, sex.

I wasn't sure which idea I wanted to follow. Lacking the time to ponder, I allowed them to sit and swirl around in my mind along with the projects I'm working on until tonight; as I lay half-asleep, they solidified into one idea. These lines came so clearly that I had to write them down for further exploration. I believe they are the beginning or the end of a story I’m working on and I am eager to discover where they belong.

"Her presence will always ghost my life, floating just out of sight of my conscious mind. And I will always wonder what would have happened had I chosen to be friends, had I not ran, had I been less shy and more comfortable with myself and how I felt."

I'm saddened for I can see this character is regretful. Will she remember that the future does not have to be dictated by the past as we so often think and be strong enough to rise above it and try and change things in the future?

It is these very questions and feelings which drive me to write more, to explore, to be surprised and to get excited for and with the characters I create as they begin to come alive.

Note: The photo above was taken at the lake right near the start of the Atlin Road. I got within 20 feet of him before he decided to fly on the air with his huge wings and later perch in a willow to watch me.

The Sound of your own Words

2010-07-01T10:44:00.000-07:00

As Ursula K. Le Guin is one of my absolutely favourite authors, I simply had to read her single book about story writing "Steering the Craft" finally too. I´m just starting to do the exercises in it and decided to use this week´s Word of the Day "floating" for the first exercise.

The task there is to write a short piece of narrative, playing with sounds and rhythms freely, without ever letting it become verse though. Afterwards you are expected to read your words aloud because the aim is to make you listen closer to the very sound of your own writing.

"Floating" is one of the English words I love anyway and it served the exercise just perfect.
My first efforts this morning resulted in the spontanous description of an imaginary set of islands floating in a vast ocean without any connection to the seafloor. I wanted to explore this fascinating image before and doing it now with the help of emphasizing sound-effects (like onomatopoeia or alliteration, ...) and certain rhythmic elements was much fun. A feast of words.

This exercise is also a great choice as a warm-up!

"Rubble-Flower"

2010-06-27T09:43:00.000-07:00

Asked about Fireweed, our second Word of the Day, a friend told me how this plant common to most northern parts of the globe, is the first to conquer and recolour even vast stretches of ruined house sites. This is why one of the many names for Epilobium angustifolium is "Trümmerblume".

My friend´s vivid description of such post-war views at first made me envision the possible setting for a short story. Instead this morning there was a haiku:

Fireweed reaching

through windows laid in ruins -

kings-crimson phoenix

On the Road to Somewhere

2010-06-26T20:15:00.000-07:00

Whenever I think of Fireweed I think of the Fox Lake fire. I think of the trip my partner and his friend made to all the Yukon communities looking for clues which would solve a riddle with the potential to lead them to the keys of a brand new Nissan Pathfinder. A lone car traveling through the fire zone while the fire burned on both sides of the road. Not knowing the road had been closed behind them after they'd left Carmacks and ahead of them, on the Whitehorse side. Their only company becoming a cougar with a docked tail walking down the road searching for prey.

Two years later that whole area was a field of Fireweed as far as the eye could see, waving purple, softening the hills; beauty springing from destruction. It was this image which started my short this week leading me to discover a woman who is leaving her past and foraging on in search of herself, escorted by fireweed on both sides. Memories litter the highway behind her, a trail of where she's been; the highway stretches ahead, a road to somewhere, an unwritten future where I hope she finds happiness.

This Photo: Taken on the Atlin Road, heading back to Whitehorse, about 8:00 p.m. one evening in early June.

The Importance of a Reading

2010-06-22T23:26:00.000-07:00

Published writers are often asked to read at events, book launches, and in other public places, attracting large audiences who walk away with opinions and books. April 28th, 2010 was the opening reception and readings for the Yukon Writer's Festival in Whitehorse, YT. The Yukon Writer's Festival was called the Young Authors Conference when I attended high school at F.H. Collins Secondary School. Each year at this time, for one week, a number of authors work with students in the high schools who want to try their hand at writing. The authors mentor the students and teach them different writing techniques.

During the reception, the readings of a number of the authors caught my minds eye, but I resisted the urge to buy books in the moment; savoring the memory for the distant future, 2 months later, when I would walk into the local bookstore, Mac's Fireweed. Recognizing the name in the Canadian authors section, I picked up the book, "February," by Lisa Moore and instantly remembered her reading. I bought the book and with it broke my reading fast. I read most of that book aloud. It made me laugh and cry, forcing me to pause many times in the last two chapters to wipe my eyes. It was beautiful, it was heartbreaking, it was happy/sad in the perfect way. And it is a concrete example of what I have always dreamed of accomplishing in my own writing.

One can learn a lot through hearing ones own words read aloud. A sentence may read fine to the minds eye and be choppy when spoken and I've learned sound is just as important in prose as in poetry. I know some writers read their work aloud in the safe confines of their studio and I have tried that - in truth it makes me feel a bit silly; especially when one of my children walks in and finds me pacing and talking to myself. But, nevertheless I also find it helpful to gauge the reaction of an audience and that, in my opinion, is what makes open mic opportunities so important for emerging writers, singers and storytellers.

A year ago I made Lauren Tuck, who was then organizing the local open mid event Brave New Words, a deal. For four months I would commit to having something to read out. This gave me a deadline and forced me to get up in front of people and read my work aloud. By the time the fourth month came around I was beginning to spend less energy focusing on deciphering the type written words I was attempting to read off my shaking piece of paper and started noticing the audiences attention span.

In honor of the last Brave New Words of the season, last night, I made myself pick something to read. It has been 6 months since I have read at this event, being too busy with my own projects. The piece I chose was a new one which, despite it's rawness from the forge, seems to have something. And I think, with those scant 262 words I've accomplished my first breakthrough into where I want to go with my work and am still, with the help of a friend, figuring out how I did it. The words flow with graceful rhythm and dramatic pauses in sentence structure, but there's glimmer of life, of something more than's "on the page," an emotional reaction transferred from the paper to my eye as I listen.

Although I'm not sure what the audience felt, the applause was great and I was pleased to find an abeyance in my previous nervousness. Instead, I began by telling the story of how the piece came to be and found the necessity of actually reading it's printed form, as opposed to being able to just tell it, an annoying distraction as I excitedly tried to focus on watching the reactions of those spellbound.

Note: The photograph above shows the sidewalk outside Baked Café where Brave New Words is held once a month between September and June.

Also, thanks to Caitlin Smith for organizing Brave New Words this year. I look forward to seeing what happens with this event next fall.

Roots

2010-06-21T08:56:00.000-07:00

It is very satisfying to discover the roots of a story. But, until now this weekend, I never really thought of characters as having roots other than the ones I deemed necessary for the story. I have recently been reading "The Art of War for Writers," by James Scott Bell. It's full of strategies, tactics and exercises. What I like about it is that it's written in short sections which are easy yo fit into my day. It reminds me of things I already know and it gives me ideas on how to structure my writing time and things to try which will improve my skills. The exercises are very much open ended and apply to whatever project I have on hand.

On one section it mentions getting to know your characters by having them tell you about themselves, pg. 116. The first draft of my novel is incredibly rough and as I'm beginning work on it again, I wanted to get to know some of the characters a bit better. In order to do this I asked Lila, one of the main characters, to write me a letter and tell me about herself and her family. Especially as I came across some pointers in "The Art of War for Writers" about inner and outer conflict as well as outer action and inner reaction and I need to know my characters a lot better to make that work to it's fullest.

I discovered that one learns interesting things when actually conversing with ones characters, despite making them up. I was surprised to learn that Lila is the main character, Mira, in another short story I wrote about 5 years ago which is currently sitting in pieces because I have been unable to sew the pieces back together. She told me this was her story. She told me her father left and went back to England when she was 4 and that she only saw him in bits and pieces and never understood it until she was forced to spend a summer with her paternal grandfather after he died, when she was 11. The story, "Changing Tides," is about how she came to understand him and found her roots. She also told me she's pissed off that I put her in a novel with Sauri. I love it when my characters surprise me :)

About the photograph: The roots of this tree grow beside the trail going up Tunnel Mountain in Banff, AB.

Marbles & Memories

2010-06-21T06:14:00.000-07:00

Our very first Word of the Day "Glasmurmel" (as I write in German) now appears in a letter one of my long-term characters is about to write.

What would you think if someone didn´t talk to you more than absolutely necessary but later simply handed you a glass marble as you part? Well, Simon felt spontanously reminded of crazy old days with his little brother Ruben... But when he looks closer at the perfect tiny globe now, the spiralling tongues in its center shimmer in shades of blue and green in the bright sunlight. Just like the sky and waves did on a certain midsummer day, seen from the rocky shore of a certain northern lake. And Simon vaguely suspects that he might hold in hands the gift of a very special friendship. With this in mind, he begins his letter...

Weaving with Words

2010-06-18T07:50:00.000-07:00

The writing process can be described in many ways. In a recent conversation my friend, Erin, described a project she’s working on as being akin to piecing together a quilt. I have similar thoughts about my own process, having referred to it in the past as the making of a tapestry. Quilting, stitching or weaving, for myself, ideas unravel as I apply my fingers to the keyboard, flipping out skeins of text across the screen until I stop, hitting the end.

Then I begin reading the sentences, picking out threads of colour; writing words down, thinking, reworking sentences until I am left with a mess of short sentences and paragraphs to sort through and combine. Which thoughts are best; how can I weave them together to create a complete picture?

Tangents grow and my mind, embroidering a million possibilities, focal points of colour, texture and feeling. If the old man really could encase his memories in glass would he be able to hold onto them. Or would it make them unattainable; something seen but unable to be grasped to recollection?

Which idea will work better? I have to decide, thread it through and smooth out the kinks, trimming ragged edges and adding polish; fine points of colour, detail and sound woven together so invitingly it holds the reader’s eye up right to the last syllable.

Out of Pockets

2010-06-15T22:16:00.000-07:00

"Glass Marble"

My penpal and I were talking about writing and she loved the idea of a having a weekly word and suggested the work "Glass Marble." After a few days of pondering ideas began to emerge and so I took 15 minutes this morning to start free writing about it at Baked and see where it went before I had to leave for Carcross. I surprised myself and have the beginnings of a very moving short short about an old man who used to make glass paperweights with images in them and now has Alzheimer's : )

I took this picture on the afternoon on Thursday, June 10th after coming back from my trip to Atlin, BC. It's taken on the corner of 1st and Main, looking up Main. The tables are sitting outside Baked Café. Looks inviting.

The Art of Revision

2010-06-11T00:17:00.000-07:00

Revising truly is an Art. No two writers are alike. For me, first drafts are the most exciting. I get, get to know the characters and discover what the story is about. Some writers find this part the hardest, relishing something concrete to work with. I relish seeing where the story leads me and get a huge rush when finally making the connection between the story and where it's come from.

As a result I sometimes find the work of revision to be finicky and time consuming. Never the less, I am driven by the challenge of making my writing sing, dance and paint a living picture in the readers mind. One of the things I love about being a writer is that I'm constantly learning. First off, I'm often two quick off the mark and send things out too early, thinking they are finished. Maybe it's my way of letting go of them so that they can grow.

Often my revision process is part of learning about my story and growing in my writing ability. It's uplifting to pick up something I wrote 6 months ago and go, "OMG, I wrote this... I can't believe I thought this was done," and begin making huge changes to the writing and structure of the story.

However, there's a difference between adding layers and refining colour and the final fine tuning of a piece; that point where the story is fine, the writing is good, the editor loves it, but it is too long. After my elated I danced about the room, I realized this meant I needed to revise yet again, but not really revise anything. This time I had to shorten the piece and yet keep the original story. Aaaaahh!!

My plan of attack in a previous post involved an elaborate plan which was way more complicated than it needed to be. What I did was go through the story line by line. I questioned how each sentence contributed to the story; what was its underlying purpose? How did it connect to the rest of the story? This was gave me a clear idea of the key events and specific details which were pertinent to the telling of the story - the bare skeleton. This was important when considering what I could prune. For example, aside from plot, at the end of the story Ben puts the mouse in a birdcage. This make it imperative that I leave in this detail, mentioned earlier in the story when Ben and Flic are cleaning out the closet.

When I looked at the end manuscript, equal part notes and typing. It became apparent there were some sections where the purpose was clear, but the sentences were weak in delivery. I also noted that these sections slowed the story down because the reader had to process more information to understand where the story was going. There were also places where I expressed one idea in 2 different ways with 2 different sentences.

The best sections were effective because they contained only the pertinent information needed to smoothly connected events in the story together and move the reader from one idea to the next with little or no effort.

There were, of course, individual sentences which could be tightened or combined. But the greatest word count reducer was condensing the slower sections and eliminating all repetition - unless it was necessary to the actual plot.

In successfully shortening my word count by the desired amount. I learnt this method of editing should be a part of my revision process; how to focus the details necessary to the telling, polishing the narrative and allowing it to dance unclouded along the plots line from beginning to end holding the audience in spellbound suspense.

The other extremely important and not to be overlooked part of this process was the feedback I received from friends and other writers. This showed me the parts of the story which came across as I'd planned and those which did not and enabled me to add, rearrange, or strengthen the details needed to convey what I'd intended; leaving me with a clear, concise and moving story and a new bar by which to measure every other story I write.

In Memory

2010-05-24T23:30:00.000-07:00

I saw her everyday while we lived in the small cabin on their property at Ness Lake, just north of Prince George BC, and my parents built the new house a mile away.
On the first day of Kindergarten she called me over to the back steps, bringing out a tin of apple juice; the kind that came in a can with a piece of tinfoil sealing the hole on the top. She bent over, handing me the juice, explaining how to open it. It was a special treat "just for school." I can't remember exactly what she said or if it was the fact that she'd thought to buy something for me, or the importance of not telling my sister 'cause "we wouldn't want her to feel left out would we," but I felt grateful and special all at the same time.
She was always doing something and usually it was for someone else. Baking ice cream buckets full of cookies for Uncle Warren and Aunt Diane just before Jayme was born. So "Aunt Diane would have one less thing to worry about after the baby." Deciding to buy each of us grandaughters (there were three of us at that time) a china doll and clothing it, spending months making the wardrobes. Every time we visited she was fashioning a new piece of attire, designing and making all the patterns herself. Those dolls had everything: gloves, slippers, aprons, ball dresses, necklaces, house dresses, even flannel night gowns. You name it, they had it.
It drove her crazy to see holes in our socks; I was constantly sprouting out of mine at the toes, heels or balls of my feet. I remember sitting down in her big arm chair. I was so small the arm rests surrounded me like boat gunnels in a safe harbour. It was a cosy spot to sit, the kitchen board resting across the arms as a table, with paper and pencil to draw. She always darned my socks while my feet stuck out beneath. I love the way the yarn tickled. The quick nip of cold air as she pulled the edges away from my foot, threading the needle through the fabric. I'm probably the only person in my generation who learned how to darn by getting their socks fixed.
Her kitchen had two moods. I'm not sure which was my favourite; the cool peacefulness of the sleepy daylit afternoon or the bustling scene of culinary activity and tasty smells near meal times. Beans with cut up tomatoes and cottage cheese on the side, pineapple cake, shake and bake chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans, biscuits, scones, or egg shaped jello at Easter and of course, date squares. I remember watching her make them and learning they were really called matrimony squares. I've always wondered what they have to do with weddings.
Whenever any of us kids came over the first thing we asked for was a cookie. The familiar square blue tin bordered in red with flowers on the sides and top was always half-filled and waiting. We never knew what prizes would be in that box until she took off the lid, holding it low for us to grab. It was hard to decide; would it be the date filled one or the oatmeal raisin? Maybe the sticky molasses cookie. They were all so good.
I remember the day she let me water the lawn so she could talk to Mom without a constant stream of chatter from "the peanut gallery." The day was hot. Heat waves rose from the hard packed dirt path in front of me and the cool hose felt good against my palms. She spent a good 10 minutes showing me how to angle the hose, moving it back and forth to cover the grass evenly. I diligently concentrated on my job for 2 whole minutes. Then, my sister came by. I turned to tell her what I was doing and sprayed her with water. My grandmother, breaking off her conversation, told me to "watch where I was spraying," and also got sprayed as I turned to see what she wanted. When you're 4 it's really hard holding the hose in one direction and talking too! The watering didn't last long after that. She never got mad though. She explained my sister and I had to take turns and eventually told us to "run along." That was what she always said when she wanted to have some peace, "okay, you run along now." It wasn't a brush off, it was a cue that as much as she was interested in us we had to share her with the adults too.
She kept everything: cards, letters, wrapping paper, fabric, yarn, even bits of ribbon. One day she showed me the bits of fabric she'd gathered over the years. She had lace from my great grandmother's petticoat, napkins from when she grew up and pieces of family wedding dresses. She used them to make special things. I have a doll which used to be my Mom's and Grandma had made it's petticoat out material from my great grandmother's petticoat. I was inspired. At 7, I began, through trial and error, making patterns and sewing outfits for my "my little ponies." I remember taking material and creating a make shift pretend car out of boxes with doors and everything. I even used material scrapes to make a small cushioned area in my room resembling a sofa. I spent a whole afternoon crafting a pair of newspaper shoes for my 3 month old baby sister... and they fit! I even made paper dolls and doll houses. All due to the inspiration I got from watching my grandmother create things out of what I considered scrapes and bits.
Like her, I save letters and cards and other keepsakes from friends and family (a trait which drives my partner crazy). I have a leather photo album her brother, my Uncle Arnold, gave her which she in turn gave me. And the last time I was down to visit, in 2005, she gave me all the letters I'd written her since they'd left the Yukon. It's like having a diary of everything that happened in my family over those years.
Family gatherings were often at my grandparents house. I loved it when she opened up photo album and, after discussing what parts of people us grandchildren resembled, told stories about when she and her siblings were little. They're all locked in my memory and in some way help ground me and explain the fabric that makes up who I am.
I was always a fly by the seat of my pants and let all hell break loose behind me kind of kid. Often leaping before I really thought of what would happen and frequently oblivious to ensuing fallout. She taught me how to explore, redirecting my energy into something constructive and finding things to keep me amused. I remember spending hours playing with the buttons in her button tin, examining everything in the living room with a magnifying glass, sitting on her lap playing with her brown and amber beads while she talked, and pouring over her Ideals Magazines. I still recall what some of the pictures were and wish I could read the stories again as they now escape my memory.
She made me believe there was nothing I couldn't do or try my hand at. One day I asked what would happen if we used 2 eggs in the cake instead of 1. She suggested we try it and see what happened. Grandpa got to give his, non-bias, opinion on the results. His opinion... it was a too moist so, I suppose one egg is better than two in that case... At least where grandpa is concerned.
She recognized and nurtured the inherent abilities I was born with, allowing them to grow and develop, and her belief that I could try and succeed at anything has given me the tenacity to take my skills and work to push past conventional barriers and develop them into something more. To use and take joy in my writing, my creativity, my music, my storytelling, my drawing and art. Also, fostering, through example, the ability to teach and nurture those same things in others.
I don't know how to define a life, but Katherine Preston Jones, my grandmother, who died Easter Monday 2010, taught me how to fly.

Katherine Preston Jones with great grandsons, Brace, Denali and David.
Taken July 2005

Finding Balance

2010-05-01T07:48:00.000-07:00

I read a book once; well, part of a book. It was a book the counsellor I was going to see at the time lent me thinking it would help me sort out how I was feeling and what I could do about it. It didn't because she didn't understand what the issue in part because there were things I hadn't told her, which I was not ready to accept or deal with at the time. She therefore chalked my difficulties up to being creative and although it had nothing to do with what the issue was, I'm not sure she didn't touch on something.

The book, "Singing at the Top of Our Lungs" was about women, creativity and the modern world. I only read the beginning couple chapters, but it's one of those books I plan on buying at some point and actually reading through. The part I read delved into the "roles" and expectations of women in society with regards to their roles in relationships, love, sex, child rearing and society in general. And even though the roles in the book seemed a bit out of date, the psychologically unspoken expectations seemed accurate to me in many regards and I could see how they applied. The roles talked about all the unspoken expectations on women to take care of others, ensuring that everyone is content and has what they need. Therefore, putting the needs of others first, often at the expense of ignoring their own wishes and needs, for the greater good of children, husband and family. I'm not saying this is a bad thing, but throw in the need for creative expression or even the thought of taking care or ones own needs first and without balance it's like trying to doing everything or, as in the books title, "singing at the top of our lungs."

This balance is different for everyone. One of the women in the book achieved a balance and natural rhythm which worked for her by varying what she did during the year. I can't recall exactly how she set things up, but it was something along the lines of developing and framing her photography in the winters and walking, painting and taking pictures in the summers. This was her natural rhythm and allowed her the pace, creative outlet and rest which she needed.

I was intrigued and have since been searching for that rhythm myself. For me, writing and other creative expression has to be part of my life. It's an integral part of who I am. But, I also care about people and am, at heart, an advocate for societal change and equality where women, children and childcare are concerned. It is sometimes hard to find that balance of doing what I need, taking care of the needs of my family, meeting the obligations of work and working for social change. Thus, I'm always trying new approaches, hoping I'll hit on the right combination.

Having a rhythm is not the same as having a schedule and finding it is much like the process I'm going through with my revision of The Closet Guardian." Tightening word count and condensing it without losing the those pieces which are necessary for plot, character and story arch. Having studied how the pieces all work together, their importance to each other and the plot has allowed me to carefully change things without altering the framework and keep its integrity. Figuring out what is working in my life allows me to change things slowly and see if they fit and whether or not they work for me. For example, although my family has regular meals, I only eat when I'm hungry. I am learning to sleep when I'm tired and get up and write when I wake at 5 in the morning and begin composing a blog post or a story in my head. This is possible because I've arranged my work so that things are more flexible. I've also begun taking my dog places with me. That too has worked wonderfully as she and I get more walks together and we both enjoy and need the exercise.

I've also in the past few weeks realized that although my daily schedule might be more flexible, scheduling writing time is a must (even if it's not the same time every day or week) or I get sucked into doing other things, because there is always things to do for work, around the house, yard, or with my family. And the problem with that is if, like the past 8 weeks, I do not get large chunks of time to write, draw or be creative in some way, then I become overwhelmed and feel smothered and stressed. Not a good thing. This also why a writing space, like the café, works better than home as there are no menial distractions and the odd break when someone comes up to talk to me is refreshing and actually helpful.

The Hidden Life of the Story

2010-04-22T23:26:00.000-07:00

The more I look back at my writing the more I am constantly surprised.

If you ever have the opportunity to write a novel in a month I would suggest you at least give it a shot. It is amazing what can happen when one spends every waking hour possible eating, sleeping and breathing in the story. In November 2008 I wrote a novel in one month. It is to date such a raw draft I need to write another couple drafts before it will be what one might consider a normally thought out first draft, never mind a finished polished piece ready for submitting anywhere. However, because I wrote it so furiously and in such an uncensored way in order to get it out, it's raw emotion and chunkily drafted scenes have a flow and unity of plot and character it may not have had otherwise. I also got to experience the rush which happens at about 36000- 40000 words when all of a sudden the book pulls together and the ideas solidify, snowballing breathlessly to the climax and denouement. That truly was awe inspiring.

In that month my creative energy didn't just flow.... it boiled and, aside from the novel, I wrote a poem I'd been trying to write for months. Now anyone who knows me knows poetry is not my forté, but I managed to capture a feeling which had been alluding me in my prose and sprang to life on the paper as I listened to "KIng of Pain," by The Police, over and over again - freezing my thoughts and point of view in that one moment in time. I titled it "Strangers In a Coffee Shop."

Here we sit, the table between us,

Uncomfortable silence, an invisible wall,

Separating us as we look at each other,

There’s nothing more to say,

Or is there….

How, can there be nothing?

When the time that fills the space,

The very air it takes up is fraught,

Our every breath, our every thought,

Ripped with inner tension….

How can one fein to ignore it?

What are these unspoken feelings?

So many words, there’s not

the voice, for which to say

all the things, untold….

Should we have been by birth-right

sisters? Siblings, mistakenly born

into separate families, our lives

like lines written across the page

forever drifting….

Our souls cut from one fabric,

Binding us, inexplicably drawing

us together in some mysterious

and unexplainable way, or is it simply,

Fear…

Fear of the unknown,

Fear of what we both don’t understand,

Thinking we’re unnatural, weird, or somehow

different? Each rejecting ourselves,

Afraid to try….

It’s simply easier to ignore the words

as they hang, left unsaid, within the air

that surrounds our beings and to run,

To hide, and make-believe, there’s nothing there

to say….

And to wonder if, perhaps someday,

When the past has somehow been erased,

These words will cease to come, and should we meet

by chance, we’ll go our separate ways

with grace.

As I read it over today I realize how much it lacks in describing what I'd intended, how much I didn't know, and how I disagree with the conclusion and would wish for something else - something better, more human. And yet, it is but a reflection of one moment in time... a moment from which my perspective has shifted, changed and matured. And I'm undecided on whether I'm going to revise it or not.

It's interesting the things which jump out at me when I look over some of the things I wrote. Sometimes when I think I know what a story is about I will discover, months later, it was about something totally different. I was working on my story Memory Files last week. At one point Simon asks Mindy, "Do you love Frank?" (Frank is Simon's brother). Mindy, Frank's wife, says, "Yes, but I love you too. I love both of you." In that moment I suddenly realized where the story had come from, what it was about and why I wrote it. It was like getting kicked in the head... awe inspiring and painful at the same time.

It is these things, these pieces of genuine emotion, experience and momentary reality which provide the life giving pulse to any story fiction or non-fiction and allow the reader to connect with the character, to laugh, to cry, and to be one on the journey together. And it was my experiences in Banff which solidified for me the ability to take several unrelated moments in my life and blend them into a story with fictional characters and events in such a way that fiction and reality become one and the story takes on a life of it's own.

Contemplations over Coffee

2010-04-05T14:36:00.000-07:00

Coffee pots are indeed enablers for the use of language and the creation of connections between people. It provides opportunities daily for people to meet others. In stores where coffee is purchased, cafés, offices or even individual homes people connect over and through the consumption of this legal drug.

I can't think of a single instance where two people meet over a pot of coffee and don't talk, write, read, surf the internet, or use language in some form. Yeah, I'm just going to pour myself a coffee, stand here, drink it and say absolutely nothing to you... not likely.

Coffee shop regulars say, "Hi." to each other as they wait in line and forge relationships with local baristas, exchanging comments about the weather, fashions, personal information and complaints about the day, often coming to know each other by name. Others meet at tables and exchange life stories over cups of this rich brown liquid.

I walked into the coffee shop today and on one table were 8 napkins featuring calligraphy, square diagrams and doodles, spread out artistically amid two empty cups. Words such as hallway, books, arrows, and lists of items, reminded me of organizing house and spoke eloquently of the conversation which must have taken place. I reached for my pockets and realized I didn't have my phone, camera or any other means than memory to record this fabulous example of art, language and coffee.

In fact, the vast impact of coffee on language and real life connections is greater than the local markets. This is apparent through ventures such as organic fair trade coffee and the resultant sharing of knowledge, lifestyle, culture and the investment in the livelihood of families in different parts of the world, potentially changing our worldview.

Coffee is such part of everyday life, I contemplate how many books are owed to this legal drug keeping us awake through hours of edits. And as I drink my next cupa and prepare to write I wonder where its smooth brown treasure will take me.

Anatomy 101

2010-03-16T13:27:00.000-07:00

Science was one of my favourite subjects. In fact I did very well in it. In chemistry you learn how to put various chemicals together to change their atomic structure resulting in new substances. We made esters one day using this process... Banana, mint, and nail polish. That was interesting. They actually smelt like banana, mint and nail polish even though they weren't. Of course, it's your own opinion if the resulting combination is better than the parts used to make it. I'm not partial to banana's myself and am not about to go around smelling nail polish either.

So, after a weekend of thought I have almost finished making notes all over my story. The one I have to cut and have decided that the word cut essentially means to remove parts... I don't like that word. I have now come up with a new term I'm going to use. No longer am I going to try and cut the story down by 700-800 words, rather I'm going to try and tighten it into 3500-3600 words. And to do this I am developing this elaborate process of study.

My Hypothesis:

If I know what each integral piece is and can visualize it, then I will see where it is tight and where I can tighten and condense it into less space on the page (without changing the font size :P)

My Method:

1) I must finish marking up what each sentence or idea contributes to the story.

2) Tape all 15 pages to the wall so I can see them.

3) Take giant circle drawn for the plot and I am going to take a photocopy of the marked up paper and divide it up into all it's parts: beginning, scenes, transitions, climaxes, end, and so on.

4) Tack the parts onto the circle

5) Make lines linking the various story threads with different coloured pens. Should be quite piece of work when I'm done.

My results:

Hopefully my hypothesis will be correct and I will be able to clearly see all the story threads and pieces and know why they are there. This will enable me to better be able to know what the integral parts are and to make sure I don't miss any by accident. It will also allow me to see what is condensed enough and what areas are drawn out and could be combined into shorter pieces within the story. Once all the excess words are removed I will still have the same story, but it will be stronger and more potent and take up less space on the page. Kind of like making esters, ingredient A + ingredient B = Result ABC

I love it! And yes, I suppose this is rather a wordy post :)

Open Surgery

2010-03-14T09:18:00.000-07:00

So... as a writer if step one is write the story, then rewrite and revise until one's sure it's the best it can be... send it off. Then I've finally come to step two... the editor likes it, it's just too long.

Normal revision requires changing and polishing in order to make a piece just perfect. It requires adding that little bit of detail here and there, filling out the shadows and focusing the spotlight. But cutting 700-800 words out of a 4300 word piece is more like preforming open surgery! (something I've never really done before).

It's true that in some cases less is more. However, the reverse, more is less, isn't necessarily true. One of my recent failings is to try and cram too much into too few words and in those cases a more words is definitely better. I love the way Holly Lisle approaches editing and revising. She looks at her story like a surgeon. First looking at the whole story, learning what is working as it is and why, followed by what isn't working as well. She marks the most important sections (what things absolutely need to be kept) and then the sections which need work, noting what specifically that work is. By the time she gets to the revising she is an expert on the story and how it's innards function in relation to the whole. She explains her process in her course syllabus, which can be found at http://hollylisle.com/. Unfortunately I can't afford the cost of her course at the moment, but I hope to take it in the future.

The thing that's scary about cutting ones baby open is one really has to be careful not to butcher it because no editor is going to want a butchered story. One especially has to be careful if said editor definitely wants one to resend him the revised, shorter story because he likes it. So in my case, minor surgery is more the goal, clean up any little ends, prune away any dead skin, rework the odd sentence, and condense (if possible) with deliberateness and design in order to lower the word count. The baby has to stay whole and functional. Definitely a little daunting.

So here's to being a little nervous and excited at this opportunity to learn how to lower my word count with finesse while keeping the story's integrity intact and maybe improving it in the process. A skill I definitely want (and need) to learn. Wish me luck. I'm sure I'll be writing about this more - after my successful editing job :)

Thoughts for Breakfast

2010-02-04T19:10:00.000-08:00

So, apparently I eat weird things for breakfast. At least, according to my friends who happen to be around mid-morning when I begin to forage in the cupboards pulling out strange things like, left over curry, carrots, fruit, granola bars, figs, egg plant, stir fry or the odd piece of pie.

Hey, who ever said pie wasn't a healthy thing to eat, it has fruit (generally) and grain , albeit loaded with sugar, lard and other calories. My favourite's raisin, or cherry, or apple, or... okay, I guess I don't really have a favourite, it's all good. In my mind food is food and when I'm hungry... probably not a good time for me to go shopping, unless you want me to bring back half the grocery store because everything looks so good I can't make up my mind what I want most.

Speaking of breakfast got me thinking about Jasper Fforde. Ruth McCullough first introduced me to his work during one of Jerome Stueart's creative writing classes. That was a neat class. Half of us students were writing great literary novels (or at least, we hope they will be) and the other half were working on fantasy that was generally pretty out of this world and great to read! The assignment had been to either write 5 blog posts on a book or bring a book in your genre that would appeal to the other half of the class and explain why. Ruth brought in Jasper Fforde's series about Thurday Next.

Thursday Next is a literary detective who's a member of this special group of people that police works of fiction. In about the fourth book, The Well of Lost Plots, when Thursday's pregnant with the child of her dead husband, she goes into hiding in an unpublished book. Her biggest complaint is that people in books never seem to have breakfast. There are tons of teas, dinner parties, lunches and socials, but apparently breakfast is too boring to write about. So, she gets these stock characters, blank characters with little or no personality often used as filler's in crowd scenes, and teaches them how to make breakfast for her. After all, they might as well be useful. This of course is in the residence she is housesitting while the "real" book character she's filling in for is on vacation and when she isn't playing the part the reader reads in the book... like being off set.

In breaking the breakfast rule, this is one book guaranteed to have many breakfast scenes and variety of food to eat. And in my mind, variety is the key to enjoying breakfast. I mean who made up "breakfast" food anyway. Why is it that only eggs, bacon, ham, toast, cereal (cold or hot), bagels, yoghourt, cottage cheese, muffins, biscuits, pancakes or waffles, and fruit salad, are "breakfast" food and everything else is snack or dinner food? That's a lot of grain, dairy, meat and fruit, without being much of a selection of anything. There's what... 4 kinds of bread, 2 of cereal, two kind of meat, and there are only so many ways to do eggs. Then we wonder why it is our arteries are plugged when we eat eggs, ham, and bacon with toast all the time, no thank-you.

Don't get me wrong. Those of you traditional breakfast lovers can have your bacon, eggs, cereal or whatever it is you want. But for me, having to only eat specific things for breakfast would be like only being allowed to write (or read) certain kinds of things one or two ways... where's the interest in that? For me, writing is an adventure to be savoured as I learn about my subject, the characters, or the world I'm creating, no two alike... kind of like breakfast. I wonder what it'll be tomorrow... maybe biscuits with olives, onions, a bit of olive oil, basil, majoram, tarragon (for sweetness) and a dash of pepper... not to forget a pinch of white wine vinegar... mmmm. Last time I made those my kids thought I was crazy. "Are you trying to kill us Mom... olives? In biscuits?" they said. But that was before they tasted them!

Journey's

2010-01-30T11:07:00.000-08:00

My friend once told me the best writing was the stuff one felt uncomfortable reading or showing to others. And it was those pieces which often contained more real experience and the genuine emotions; the very things which would resonate with the reader also made the reading feel more risky. Hence the adage, “write what you know.” These pieces are more than "just stories,” they’re a relaying of experience which the writer feels connected to, they matter, they’re real. And I have come to realize that these pieces are the ones where I've left part of myself and the pieces for which I bear the thinest skin for criticism. And yet, it’s precisely these connections, this genuineness of emotion, which allows the reader to relate to the story.

This in mind, the balance between what to put into a story and what to leave out is always tricky. I recently wrote a story draft in which I fictionalized and wove together two different experiences. The heart of the story was something I really experienced and I had the dilemma of deciding "how much to tell." In the first draft I stuck to what I felt safe with, but it wasn't enough. After reading it, my friend said "I feel like the author knows the key in the relationship difficulties between the characters and is keeping it from me." She said, she found this frustrating as a reader because I wasn't trusting her with the information she needed to fully connect with the character and truly feel what was at stake and sympathize with her journey. This left her feeling gipped. This was important for me to know because I want the reader to understand and fully experience the story and to do this they must be able to fully connect with the main character, whom they will travel the story with. At the same time I realized this also caused me to leave out another key in the story, a part of the "Hero's Journey,’ a moment where the heroine loses something.

I'd have to say the turning point in my storytelling was when I read “The Writer’s Journey,” a book written by Christopher Vogler, from which I learned the importance of the "hero's Journey" model. This knowledge came during my rewrite of "The Closet Guardian," a story of a boy who comes to terms with his fears around his father’s leaving, and irrevocably changed the way I look at story structure.

"The Writer's Journey" talks about "Mythic Structure for Writer's and the focus of the book encompasses the "Hero's Journey.” The Hero’s Journey, is an essentially different and totally organic, way of seeing, using and dissecting a story plot and what each stage accomplishes for the reader. Vogler is very good at relating the concepts with examples from well known stories, myths and films.

I didn't read this book... I absorbed it like a sponge over the course of a month before sitting down to redraft my story.

When I began the draft I didn't eat for 8 hours. My face was sucked into the screen as I typed and edited, scrutinizing each line for feel and flow while I transcribed from two separate and very different versions and added in the third layer of the boys father. When I was finished my brain kept going all night analyzing and cross analyzing each of the story threads. And when I realized I had the first story I'd ever written which it could be picked apart and studied, (as one studies things during English class) for structure and integrity, and hold up no matter which way it was looked at, my soul was flying.

The Hero's Journey is a circle and the most important part is the death. Something has to die and the reader has to get that heart clenching fearful experience of perceiving something they care about has or is about to die. This has to happen in order for them to feel the relief and elation born of returning from that place with a better view, a true shift, the knowledge that they've been through the life changing valley of death along with the character and survived. This moment came in my story "The Closet Guardian" when the boys mouse, symbolic of the memories of his father and his hope of someday seeing him again, is crushed and we think he's dead. And when the boy picks the limp body up in his hands and cries we see the mouse twitch and are suddenly relieved, elated, that he's going to be okay.

It is those moments that the reader wants. They want to laugh, cry, fear and mourning, with the character. And as a writer I need to measure up to that expectation. And so, in my new story I now have to take a bit of courage, step back into the heart of the story, battle my fear, and put in the missing parts, before I can achieve the reward - a story I know will be damn good when I'm done. Knowing that part of me too will be in someways sacrificed; no longer just mine, it will live forever in vulnerability of the page, away from the protection of my heart as I emerge from the story, make my cover letter, and send it out to the world.

Words

2010-01-23T21:20:00.000-08:00

Notes. How can one begin to describe the sound of a tune, the pitch, the tone so clear to our ears? The background chorus of a song. O-ee-o-ee-oo-eee. The feeling of the deep rich notes reverberating up from the diaphram with an emotional power so great it threatens to break through your chest and carry you away. Music that profound expression of emotion beyond words, tears, joy, and depth of being.

Purple. Yellow. When mixed these too colours make a golden brown. The more yellow the golder the brown, the more purple the richer the brown. Add black or white and you get various shades. From these two colours come shades to numerous for words. A painting for a thousand unspoken words, it speaks to our eyes.

Art. Music. Talent. Each set apart by their own limitations. The frame work which informs and defines them as rules define athletic skill. What would be the skill in playing basket ball if there were no rules by which to govern it? The very guidelines of the game allow the player to delight us with his skill in mastering the elements, twisting the variables, bending the game to his advantage stretching the bounds of his skill to make that impossible shot.

Black ink. Pages. Flat. Words. They break from the boundaries of the page to touch our hearts and enlighten our thoughts.

What Makes a Writer

2010-01-23T07:27:00.000-08:00

A recent comment by Jozien, who writes "Keeper of Wild Places," caused me to contemplate this. A creative writing instructor I had once said "readers read and writer's write." I would add that in order to be a writer it is integral that one reads and studies lots of writing in all different genre’s and forms.

Writing is an art. And like any art there are many forms and levels of writing and writers: journalists, columnists, bloggers, non-fiction, creative non-fiction, short fiction, novel, copyrighters, business writers, policy writers, the list could go on.

Not every writer desires to be published, but this doesn't make them less of a writer. What makes someone a writer is much like the question what makes an artist. Is it the painting which makes the painter or the painter who makes the painting? Is it others that deem whether or not someone is an artist or how the artist views themselves. I believe is it’s a bit of both. And I think it depends on the reasons you are a writer how this process of acknowledgement works.

I started writing at the age of 7. Inspired by the "Little House on the Prairie," books. I was amazed by the idea that someone wrote about their life and people wanted to read it. I wish I knew where the two or three draft chapters of my life, lovingly created at that time in a homemade newsprint book, went; lost in some move.

But, it wasn’t until I realized at 33 that writing, at the deepest part of my soul, is an integral part of who I am, something I have to do everyday as much as breathing, that I truly saw myself as a writer. And after that personal epiphany I was surprised to be informed by everyone who knew me, they’d “wondered when I was going to figure that one out.” (Yes, for those who heard my fiction story, The Wall, at Brave New Words this month... that particular part of the story was true).

People write for many reasons including: self-expression, work, enjoyment. For some it’s simply the joy of putting words on paper, creating characters, discovering who those characters are and imagining their lives. For other's it’s a way to work through things, understand and make sense of the world.

Great writers such as Hemmingway, Dickens, Twain, Attwood, aside from achieving the fame and report many of us dream of, have also become masters of their craft like the great painters: Angelo, Di Vinci, Rembrandt.... They have broken through the bounds of convention and created something larger than themselves and their art in how they connect with the reader.

I know I have a long way to go to achieve what I want for myself as a writer. But, I'm constantly pushing my bounds, growing, trying new things, finding out where my limits are as a writer and stretching them. My aim isn't fame, but perhaps it is the stars. My mother was right, for me as a writer, I have something to say to humanity... and I will say it.

Making Writing Time

2010-01-17T07:39:00.000-08:00

As most writers will tell you, being a writer is more about rewriting than writing and I find that the rewriting often takes exponentially longer than the initial writing of the first draft.

In December I spent some 20 hours working on a 2500 word story which I submitted to Free Fall Magazine's annual prose contest. Since submitting it I have, of course, found there is still a minor plot hole. At which point one can only throw up ones hands and say, "Oh well, it's off already," and begin to think about how you're going to fix that little problem for next time.

So how does one make the time to get the massive amount of drafts done having something ready to send out and when do you decide that enough is enough and it's ready to send out?

Workspace, dedication, and a sheer love of what you do. I find it hard to write when there are dishes, laundry and a myriad of other things calling me... and with three kids the household chores, dishes, laundry are never ending (even though they help with it), not to forget those extracurricular activities they all want to take part in. So, I try and keep my workspace somewhat uncluttered and what I refer to as my studio is off limits for the kids to bring stuff into.

Scheduling writing time is also important... for those who have trouble making time for stuff. I also multitask. If I have to take one of the kids somewhere and wait, I take a notebook and draw or write. I'm lucky in some ways... writing is as much a part of my soul as breathing so it something I'm constantly engaged in whenever there is a spare minute during the day either in physically putting words down or working out some difficulty in phrasing or plot as I walk the dog.

The other thing I do is go to Cafe's to write. It gives me the opportunity to observe people, be social if I choose (or at least feel social) and percolates my imagination... I wonder why that person is....

New Beginnings

2010-01-01T08:20:00.000-08:00

The New Year stretches before us and I wonder, like Emily Starr, a character in canadian author L.M. Montgomery's book, Emily of New Moon, what we will accomplish, how we will grow and who we will have become at the end of the journey? Will it be a year fulfilling all of our best hopes and dreams, a year of sorrow and pain leading to new awareness and growth, or a year with a sweet mix of both? One we'll look back on with contentment, knowing it was a year well lived.

What will I write during this year? What lands will I travel too and what characters will I meet? What books will I read? And what will I learn through it all?

Traditionally, on New Years, one makes New Years resolutions. Resolutions we all cynically tease each other about, instilling doubts as to the length of time we will actually maintain them. It seems to be a contest that happens every year where we all take unspoken bets on whose resolution will last the longest. Those who are successful at keeping their resolutions either have extreme willpower or spent hours deliberating and watering down their expectations to something which might be reasonable to accomplish.

This year, I was struck by the idea of not making New Years resolutions, but rather making New Years wishes. I'm not sure that I believe the old adage that if you tell a wish it won't come true. But, I still can't tell you what my wishes are because that's the nature of wishes, they are more personal and more private than resolutions. And in truth, I feel more deeply about the things I wish for than the things I would resolve to do. Even the whole idea of the word resolution sounds like a duty and nobody loves a duty.

People are more likely to do things out of love than duty. So if resolutions are a duty to keep is it any wonder that so many of us fail? Goals, on the other hand are more positive. Goals are things I want to work towards and a well thought out goal is usually achievable. I have many writing goals, the biggest of which are:

1)to get more things published (probably achievable) and
2)to be able to write 8 hours a day (definitely not something happening tomorrow - unless I win the lottery).

However, I would rather make small attainable goals throughout the year. And isn't the idea behind a resolution that it should be big enough you can carry it throughout the year from beginning to end and celebrate it's success before making a new one? A wish may or may not last all year. And if you had many wishes you could assess how many were achieved in the year, how many you are still hoping for, and what ones you have grown mature enough, in retrospect, to see were unrealistic.

A wish is like a hope, it keeps one going, it's more positive and there isn't the same pressure to put out. But, how to keep track? If I were to write my wish down I get the feeling it's very concreteness on the paper would steal it's power. For a wishes hope lies in the very nature of it's elusiveness and uncertainty. So what does a writer do to keep track of wishes?

When I think of keeping track of wishes my thoughts go back to Montgomery’s Emily and something she did to keep track of her dreams. Emily was a writer. And much like writers today she fought for every small victory with blood, sweat and rejection letters. But, as a writer she had a special way of keeping track of her own growth and hopes for the future. As a young woman overcome with dreams, goals and desires, she began writing herself letters to be opened at a later date. These became treasures she would read by herself, at the appointed time, with mixed bitterness and joy as she remembered the person she had been, her innocent longings, her old hopes and her mixed successes. After reading them she would put them aside and write herself another letter, replying to her thoughts and making more wishes for the future.

And so, sometime on this New Years Day, I am going to write myself a letter. I will not exactly write out my wishes, preferring them to keep the power of their ether, but will instead compose a letter exploring the hopes and possibilities of where I might find myself in my unwritten future should my wishes have been granted and comtemplate what wisdom I may have gained in the journey. And when the day comes to open it, I will see how far I've come, how unrealistic some of my expectations were (and hopefully some which were not) and how much I've grown as a writer and a woman.

Happy New Year!

Connections

2009-10-18T07:23:00.000-07:00

For me, my writing is the river in my life and like a river if it's dammed for a time it will eventually break free and flood out in new and exciting ways. There are times when my river of writing is slower, calmer, and weaves it's way through my days in a mellow, soothing way. Sometimes though, it becomes a torrent carrying me to places I thought I wasn't ready to go, opening my eyes to aspects of myself I didn't realize existed and constantly broadening and deepening my perception of the world and people around me. It's in these times of torrent my writing leaps to undiscovered heights, gains strength and breaks free of its previous boundaries in skill, style and workmanship.

I've discovered there's a pattern to the raging rushes of inspiration and activity which disturb my sleep patterns and make my fingers itch to connect with the keys on the computer or draw words across the pages in my notebook. First comes restlessness and indecision, gusts of wind testing the forest of ideas and pondering. Then comes the need for physical activity, an overwhelming urge to get out and run, walk, somehow get away. The itch comes last. Words waiting at the ends of my fingers, the skin on my body alert with desire. I know then is the time to sit down at the computer and let the zone come - everything is forgotten and I become totally immersed in the world of the story - emerging 5 or 6 hours later weak with hunger.

Connections are important too. Rivers connect with the land, hugged between banks of rock and sand, they bring life to the trees around and the fish which reside in it's ecosystem. I've been strongly immersed in writing mode lately and there’s been rash of emails between myself and a few writer friends, seeking and giving feedback, as we each try and perfect what we’re working on. I sometimes look at it this way. People who love to read must read. People who love to write must both read and write and rewrite and rewrite many times.

Reading and writing are both solitary activities and I've found that knowing and talking with other writers and belonging to part of the nurturing community of my writers group has helped my writing and confidence grow exponentially. In the group we talk about writing, give each other feedback, problem solve for ideas when we're stuck on where to send something or how to find a specific piece of information and even, on occasion, just take the time to write in the same room with other people.

Revisions and Feedback

2009-10-10T21:01:00.000-07:00

I recently got back from attending the Banff Centre for the Arts where they have a number of writing programs. The most commonly known ones being 'Writing with Style' and 'Wired Writing.' I attended the 'Writing with Style' program and workshoped my story, originally titled 'Story of a Dead Man', which explores the memories of a man who discovers too late that life is too short to make choices for other people.

The most amazing part of my Banff trip was the realization of how much I pull from my surroundings when I'm writing. There were two aspects of being in Banff which I drew on especially. The first was the train. Every few hours (during the night and day) a train whistle would ghost across the campus - which was wonderful as I love trains. The second thing was the Graveyard. The Graveyard lay just a few minutes walk from my dorm room. I saw it the first day when I went for a walk to check out the land. I love graveyards and I was especially fascinated with the stonework construction of two of the cairns. (which I originally thought were garden sheds..oops!) After two days I got the first sentence of my revision, which now begins in Grey Mountain Cemetery (in the Yukon) and has a train whistle.

More information on the writing programs at the Banff Centre for the Arts can be found at http://www.banffcentre.ca/writing/

Aside from various programs in Art, Writing, Music and other programs the facilities are wonderful including a climbing wall (which is 30' tall and totally cool to play on), a pool, gyms, basketball courts, hiking trails and beautiful mountains. Just don't plan on getting lots of sleep as most of the students in my group (including myself) had difficulty sleeping. However, despite that, it was an experience which I would definitely repeat.

Welcome

2009-10-04T19:10:00.000-07:00

If I've found if a cure for writers block (ps there is no such thing) it's a walk with my dog, a bike ride out in the fresh air, a swim, a run, or just heading out to the coffeeshop to relax and soak up the local colour. The act of letting go of that half written screen of text seems to allow fresh details to break through and a new perspective to emerge.

This is a blog all about the sometimes quirkiness of life as a writer, different aspects of writing and ideas I'm trying out. I will also be discussing things which inspire my writing and help to keep me focused and motivated. Feel free to add ideas or comments to any posts. I look forward reading them.