Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Beyond Limbo ... Life
When I first started this blog I was adrift, living without purpose or direction. I was quite literally living in limbo. A lot has changed since then. I moved to Sackville. I moved back to Miramichi. We launched a print edition of Bread 'n Molasses. My nieces were diagnosed with diabetes. My baby brother moved out of my parents house, got a permanent job and engaged to the girl I would have handpicked for him if I had been able to handpick. I started dating again. I fell in love. I got my heart broke. I settled all my unresolved Toronto issues finally after almost 20 years. I became actively involved in the New Brunswick community of writers. I started drinking wine ...
Thursday, November 06, 2008
If ...
If I were doing Nanowrimo ... which I am TOTALLY not :) but IF I were ... I would be at 21,037 words. If, you know. That's kind of exciting. I'm living this story right now, writing in my sleep even. This is good. Good things will happen this way. Every day I call my mom and ask her if she remembers the time ... and then she'll say yes and we'll talk about it and then I remind her again that even though some situations resemble my real life, the mother character in my story is in no way shape or form based on her ... she says she knows. Soon, I'll have to start calling Dad every day to tell him the same thing. Though the last time I dissed a father character in one of my stories and Dad thought it was based on him, he was flattered rather than hurt. So, one never knows how it'll go.
One thing is for sure, I've definitely started letting go of what really happened and jumped off into the pool of what never happened but wouldn't it make a good story if it did.
Mood: creative, wired
Drinking: water
Listening To: typing
Hair: spiked
One thing is for sure, I've definitely started letting go of what really happened and jumped off into the pool of what never happened but wouldn't it make a good story if it did.
Mood: creative, wired
Drinking: water
Listening To: typing
Hair: spiked
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Katt Lives!
A couple of weeks ago I started meeting with a couple of writing friends to workshop. We've been meeting once a week, and so far we've met twice with a third meeting set for this week. It's doing wonders for me and my writing. When the idea first came up I didn't know what I would focus on, I just knew that I needed to be working on something and left to my own devices without any pressure to produce for a group, I may very well toil away the rest of my days writing only articles and editorials for BnM.
The first get together with the girls was upon me and I hadn't written shit. So I went into my files and pulled something to take to them. Because of all my hard drive failures in the past a lot of what I've written doesn't exist on this computer, unless it had an incarnation on this blog. Two chapters from Katt's Lives originated on here. So I started by taking them to the group. Two chapters were all I had written, though I have an outline of sorts. If all goes as planned, it looks like a 12 chapter book. Two meetings down and I'm out of old material. Time to push forward. So last week I started writing. I started with the first chapter, the beginning, and by the time the meeting rolled around I had three pages to bring to the table. About 1500 words. Not much, but brand spanking new baby! This is a step for me.
Three pages was enough to awaken the story in my brain. I'm eating and sleeping with Katt now. I'm writing consciously, unconsciously, 24/7. Yesterday I took to the keyboard again. Chapter one grew to 4500 words and I didn't want to stop then but it was so late I knew I needed sleep and I promised myself I'd get back to it today. I dreamed with Katt all night. I don't have all the answers for her. Things can go a variety of ways. I usually write from personal experience. Personal experience is the jumping off point, but then creativity takes over and anything can happen. It's up to me to figure it out and sometimes it's more difficult to leave my experience behind and unearth Katt's experience. But I'm loving the process! I haven't been this fired up since I can't remember when. It's been years.
November is National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo) and I didn't sign up or anything, but maybe, just maybe, I'm doing it anyway.
Mood: excited
Drinking: coffee, black
Listening To: running on empty, jackson browne
Hair: sassy
The first get together with the girls was upon me and I hadn't written shit. So I went into my files and pulled something to take to them. Because of all my hard drive failures in the past a lot of what I've written doesn't exist on this computer, unless it had an incarnation on this blog. Two chapters from Katt's Lives originated on here. So I started by taking them to the group. Two chapters were all I had written, though I have an outline of sorts. If all goes as planned, it looks like a 12 chapter book. Two meetings down and I'm out of old material. Time to push forward. So last week I started writing. I started with the first chapter, the beginning, and by the time the meeting rolled around I had three pages to bring to the table. About 1500 words. Not much, but brand spanking new baby! This is a step for me.
Three pages was enough to awaken the story in my brain. I'm eating and sleeping with Katt now. I'm writing consciously, unconsciously, 24/7. Yesterday I took to the keyboard again. Chapter one grew to 4500 words and I didn't want to stop then but it was so late I knew I needed sleep and I promised myself I'd get back to it today. I dreamed with Katt all night. I don't have all the answers for her. Things can go a variety of ways. I usually write from personal experience. Personal experience is the jumping off point, but then creativity takes over and anything can happen. It's up to me to figure it out and sometimes it's more difficult to leave my experience behind and unearth Katt's experience. But I'm loving the process! I haven't been this fired up since I can't remember when. It's been years.
November is National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo) and I didn't sign up or anything, but maybe, just maybe, I'm doing it anyway.
Mood: excited
Drinking: coffee, black
Listening To: running on empty, jackson browne
Hair: sassy
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Don't Want to be Haunted by the Ghost
In the dream I'm in an airport waiting to depart. Not sure where I'm going but I have a sneaky suspicion it has something to do with the loonie-sized bony bump on my thigh. It is like the one I have at the base of my middle finger on my left hand, only much larger and not at a joint. In the dream, my thighs are much smaller like in the days of boys and bars. All I have is a small carry-on and a jean jacket. I'm wearing a pale blue checkered shirt, the one I used to have with the silver threading, and those short black lace-up boots with the 1-inch heel that I used to wear all the time. My hair is longish and light brown. I'm an odd caricature of myself from different times in my life.
I'm flipping through a magazine, not really reading, when I notice the guy. He's middle-aged, pot-bellied and balding. His sweat stained tank top doesn't quite reach the elastic waistband of the jogging pants hanging low off his hips. There are curly black hairs around his belly button. He looks a little crazy, and is definitely agitated as he tries to stuff his suitcase into a locker. It won't fit. He starts swearing, jamming the suitcase harder. When he notices security officers approaching him, he starts yelling stuff like, "It's not fair! You shouldn't say it's going to fit if it's not going to fit! I'm a person too you know! I have rights!" And then he throws the suitcase and bolts, running right toward me where I'm sitting calming watching the scene. The security officers run after him, bellowing for back-up into their shoulder radios.
I don't mean for it to happen, but when he runs through the aisle where I'm sitting he trips over my boots and falls face first onto the floor right at my feet. Security are on him before he knows what hit him. As they're handcuffing him and pulling him up, he looks at me and I lean in and shrug. "Sorry," I say. "I have big feet." He nods and in a completely normal pleasant voice says, "oh, don't worry about it, I understand. I've got big feet too." And he holds up a foot for me to see. His feet are indeed pretty large for a man of his height.
Just then my flight is called for boarding. I shoulder my carry-on and get in line, but as the line winds its way through a hall I see that I'm not getting on a plane after all, but rather some kind of a fancy train. The extra-wide cars are made entirely of glass and inside instead of aisles and seats there are large ballrooms with round tables set in cream coloured linens and full-dinner service. Waiters in black tuxedos and white gloves rush around with silver trays in the air getting things ready for dinner. Passengers are being asked to board at the very back of the train. A uniformed conductor takes my ticket and helps me step across the gap.
Inside I find myself in a huge lounge. It's like something out of the Roaring 20s, like a scene from Titanic (before it sunk). Chandeliers, thick tapestries, leather and mahogany furniture, a grand piano in one corner, jazz music ... all the men wear tuxedos and chew on cigars while the women glitter in shimmery gowns and take slow long drags off cigarettes held in long holders. I'm shocked and amazed and feeling a little like Dorothy ... We're not in Kansas anymore ...
I climb into a high bar chair and order a glass of wine from the dapper little bartender. As I turn to set my bag on the chair beside me I notice a woman sitting there. It's my friend Judy and she looks stunning in bright red flapper attire. I'm surprised to see her but she's been waiting for me. We've been invited to this dinner. It's important. I don't know anything about this, but I go along. I am feeling pretty hungry. My wine arrives and we're chatting and I'm starting to feel really good about this place, no matter if it's not where I expected I would be. And then a man brushes against me as he steps up to the bar.
He wears a brown wool suit and his hands turn a Bowler hat round and round by its brim. He's a sharp contrast to all the gloves, tails and top hats. He and I stick out in this crowd. Two of these things are not like the others. He turns sideways leaning on his elbow against the bar to survey the room while he waits for his rum drink. And then I see his face. He's a little older than I remember, wrinkles around his eyes, less hair. He recognizes me at the same time and his hands stop fidgeting with his hat. We don't say anything, just stare at each other. For the longest time. It's like we've ceased to be in the room with everyone else, we're on another plane. And then he smiles. "I should've called," he says. And I smile. "Yeah, that would've been nice." We stand there grinning at each other like maniacs. "But you're here now," I say. He laughs, shrugs, rolls his eyes. "Yeah," he says. His eyes are so blue. Were they always this blue? "I'm here now," he says. "You look good, Kel." And he opens his arms and I bury myself in his chest as I hold on for dear life and the tears start to flow.
When I wake up it's 7:30 on a Saturday and I'm singing Foo Fighters in my head:
Mood: dream-like
Drinking: hot chocolate
Listening To: Haunted, The Pogues with Sinead O'Connor
Hair: in a messy pixie
I'm flipping through a magazine, not really reading, when I notice the guy. He's middle-aged, pot-bellied and balding. His sweat stained tank top doesn't quite reach the elastic waistband of the jogging pants hanging low off his hips. There are curly black hairs around his belly button. He looks a little crazy, and is definitely agitated as he tries to stuff his suitcase into a locker. It won't fit. He starts swearing, jamming the suitcase harder. When he notices security officers approaching him, he starts yelling stuff like, "It's not fair! You shouldn't say it's going to fit if it's not going to fit! I'm a person too you know! I have rights!" And then he throws the suitcase and bolts, running right toward me where I'm sitting calming watching the scene. The security officers run after him, bellowing for back-up into their shoulder radios.
I don't mean for it to happen, but when he runs through the aisle where I'm sitting he trips over my boots and falls face first onto the floor right at my feet. Security are on him before he knows what hit him. As they're handcuffing him and pulling him up, he looks at me and I lean in and shrug. "Sorry," I say. "I have big feet." He nods and in a completely normal pleasant voice says, "oh, don't worry about it, I understand. I've got big feet too." And he holds up a foot for me to see. His feet are indeed pretty large for a man of his height.
Just then my flight is called for boarding. I shoulder my carry-on and get in line, but as the line winds its way through a hall I see that I'm not getting on a plane after all, but rather some kind of a fancy train. The extra-wide cars are made entirely of glass and inside instead of aisles and seats there are large ballrooms with round tables set in cream coloured linens and full-dinner service. Waiters in black tuxedos and white gloves rush around with silver trays in the air getting things ready for dinner. Passengers are being asked to board at the very back of the train. A uniformed conductor takes my ticket and helps me step across the gap.
Inside I find myself in a huge lounge. It's like something out of the Roaring 20s, like a scene from Titanic (before it sunk). Chandeliers, thick tapestries, leather and mahogany furniture, a grand piano in one corner, jazz music ... all the men wear tuxedos and chew on cigars while the women glitter in shimmery gowns and take slow long drags off cigarettes held in long holders. I'm shocked and amazed and feeling a little like Dorothy ... We're not in Kansas anymore ...
I climb into a high bar chair and order a glass of wine from the dapper little bartender. As I turn to set my bag on the chair beside me I notice a woman sitting there. It's my friend Judy and she looks stunning in bright red flapper attire. I'm surprised to see her but she's been waiting for me. We've been invited to this dinner. It's important. I don't know anything about this, but I go along. I am feeling pretty hungry. My wine arrives and we're chatting and I'm starting to feel really good about this place, no matter if it's not where I expected I would be. And then a man brushes against me as he steps up to the bar.
He wears a brown wool suit and his hands turn a Bowler hat round and round by its brim. He's a sharp contrast to all the gloves, tails and top hats. He and I stick out in this crowd. Two of these things are not like the others. He turns sideways leaning on his elbow against the bar to survey the room while he waits for his rum drink. And then I see his face. He's a little older than I remember, wrinkles around his eyes, less hair. He recognizes me at the same time and his hands stop fidgeting with his hat. We don't say anything, just stare at each other. For the longest time. It's like we've ceased to be in the room with everyone else, we're on another plane. And then he smiles. "I should've called," he says. And I smile. "Yeah, that would've been nice." We stand there grinning at each other like maniacs. "But you're here now," I say. He laughs, shrugs, rolls his eyes. "Yeah," he says. His eyes are so blue. Were they always this blue? "I'm here now," he says. "You look good, Kel." And he opens his arms and I bury myself in his chest as I hold on for dear life and the tears start to flow.
When I wake up it's 7:30 on a Saturday and I'm singing Foo Fighters in my head:
I
I'm a one way motorway
I'm the one that drives away
then follows you back home
I
I'm a street light shining
I'm a wild light blinding bright
burning off alone
it's times like these you learn to live again
it's times like these you give and give again
it's times like these you learn to love again
it's times like these time and time again
Mood: dream-like
Drinking: hot chocolate
Listening To: Haunted, The Pogues with Sinead O'Connor
Hair: in a messy pixie
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
These Dreams
In the dream I'm going to Toronto with Stacy. This, in and of itself, isn't anything unusual. But in the dream we're driving to Toronto in a 15 passenger van with Stacy's cousin, Claude, and a group we met in the basement of a church in White Rapids.
Yes, they are a church group!
Our Mighty friend, Terry, has somehow conscripted us into this church touring company. We will re-enact the scene when God created the world. We will sing hymns off-key in time with a tambourine. We will spread The Word and save souls.
I have no idea how this happened. Terry is apologetic, but he promised that we'd go, so go we must. Claude is appropriately agitated and bitchy. I mean who is Terry to force this lifestyle upon him. But Stacy and I are freakishly calm in the face of this excursion. She seems to even enjoy the singing and has started picking up the tambourine when nobody is looking. Plus she has been cast as the sun in the creation play, which is a major role. I'm not quite as excited as she appears to be, but I'm open and optimistic. "You've never done this before!" I think. "This will be an adventure!"
There is only one niggling snag with the trip. We will be gone during production of the next issue of BnM. Cindy is mortified. She'll have to do EVERYTHING herself, from cover to cover, write, edit, design ... We have confidence in her ability, but she's pissed. How is she going to make a magazine all by herself and look after her kids, clean her house, cook, etc. etc.?! "You can do it!" we yell as we press our noses against the windows of the van and wave good bye.
When we arrive the next snag becomes apparent. Because we're not at work, we won't be getting paid. Because we're only on loan to the church group, they are not going to pay our way. They kick us out of their cushy boarding house and leave us to fend for ourselves. Stacy and Claude quickly steal the 15-passenger van and drive off eastward bound. "See you suckers!" Claude yells out the open window.
I'm left standing in a rain soaked dark alley. I'm not really sure where I am. I think the west end. I have no money and no idea what to do. My cell phone rings and it's Terry. I tell him about Stacy and Claude's defection. I tell him about the church group kicking me out. "No problem!" he says. "All you need is a little bit of cash and they'll let you back in. Didn't you used to do temp work when you lived there before?"
Aha! I snap my fingers as the way becomes clear. I will hit up the temp agencies. I will get some odd jobs. I will make a little money and then the church group will let me stay with them. It'll all work out. I am saved.
Mood: delirious
Drinking: coffee, black, maxwell house, rich roast
Listening To: buddy upstairs moving furniture around
Hair: still short
Yes, they are a church group!
Our Mighty friend, Terry, has somehow conscripted us into this church touring company. We will re-enact the scene when God created the world. We will sing hymns off-key in time with a tambourine. We will spread The Word and save souls.
I have no idea how this happened. Terry is apologetic, but he promised that we'd go, so go we must. Claude is appropriately agitated and bitchy. I mean who is Terry to force this lifestyle upon him. But Stacy and I are freakishly calm in the face of this excursion. She seems to even enjoy the singing and has started picking up the tambourine when nobody is looking. Plus she has been cast as the sun in the creation play, which is a major role. I'm not quite as excited as she appears to be, but I'm open and optimistic. "You've never done this before!" I think. "This will be an adventure!"
There is only one niggling snag with the trip. We will be gone during production of the next issue of BnM. Cindy is mortified. She'll have to do EVERYTHING herself, from cover to cover, write, edit, design ... We have confidence in her ability, but she's pissed. How is she going to make a magazine all by herself and look after her kids, clean her house, cook, etc. etc.?! "You can do it!" we yell as we press our noses against the windows of the van and wave good bye.
When we arrive the next snag becomes apparent. Because we're not at work, we won't be getting paid. Because we're only on loan to the church group, they are not going to pay our way. They kick us out of their cushy boarding house and leave us to fend for ourselves. Stacy and Claude quickly steal the 15-passenger van and drive off eastward bound. "See you suckers!" Claude yells out the open window.
I'm left standing in a rain soaked dark alley. I'm not really sure where I am. I think the west end. I have no money and no idea what to do. My cell phone rings and it's Terry. I tell him about Stacy and Claude's defection. I tell him about the church group kicking me out. "No problem!" he says. "All you need is a little bit of cash and they'll let you back in. Didn't you used to do temp work when you lived there before?"
Aha! I snap my fingers as the way becomes clear. I will hit up the temp agencies. I will get some odd jobs. I will make a little money and then the church group will let me stay with them. It'll all work out. I am saved.
Mood: delirious
Drinking: coffee, black, maxwell house, rich roast
Listening To: buddy upstairs moving furniture around
Hair: still short
Monday, October 20, 2008
Criminal Intent
For those readers who have been pining for stories of boys and bars, you're about to get lucky! I am writing again for a small workshop group. Need to produce new material every week. So I'm taking up some of the old causes. Casting the net to see what comes to surface. Hoping to find some tidbits in this lazy brain of mine. This is my first attempt ... maybe part of the Katt's Lives series, if you recall that from years ago.
*****
A guy I used to know made the paper. He's a thief. He's going back to prison. He's going to do some serious time. Years. Nobody will see him for a very long time. I only ever saw him twice and that was over 10 years ago.
We met at the after hours club. The club with no "official" law. I had never laid eyes on the man before nor heard his name mentioned. Maybe because he'd been away in jail. Maybe because he didn't grow up in my neighborhood and we went to different schools. No matter.
What mattered was that he pulled into the parking lot in his souped up 70s Chevy and I noticed. I didn't yet know he was a thief, but he was built like one, slight and wiry. You could imagine him slithering into hard to get places, slipping out, blending in, disappearing with ease. He was about my age, a little bit younger, with a great sense of humor. His tongue twisted gracefully around multiple syllables and I was impressed by his grasp of the English language. The boy was slick. I'll give him that.
He noticed me right away. I liked his direct approach. If he had a game, his game was that he had no game. He walked right up to me, told me I was beautiful and he wanted to be with me for the rest of his life ... or at least until morning. I liked his persistence. He stayed right by me, no matter how much I ignored him, no matter how much I protested, no matter what I said to drive him away. "Aww, you pretend you're all mean and hating on me, sweetheart," he'd say. "But I know you don't mean it. Deep down in there somewhere is a heart that's beating for mine." And he'd wink and laugh and drop a loonie in the jukebox.
Maybe because he had been in and out of jail, in and out of foster homes, on and off the streets, there was an urgency about him. There was time for setting up a mark in the pool hustle. There was time for casing the joint. But there was no time to fool around with games in matters of the heart. He took one look at me and decided he wanted me to be his woman, and then he never faltered from his mission to make it so.
He had a vivid imagination. Within an hour of meeting him he was designing my dream home, planning the wedding and naming our babies. I suppose it was a testament to his conning abilities and delightful personality that I stayed long into the night, sipping beer, playing pool and embellishing upon these plans. It was all in good fun, and I'd never met anyone like him before. But when the time came to go home, I went my way and he went his.
The next day he called me. He wanted to go on a proper date. Pick me up. Dinner. A movie. Flowers. Candy. Anything I wanted. As lavish or as simple as I desired. He just wanted to be with me, wanted me to be happy. "I don't know," I hedged. "Maybe someday, sometime ..." I was not playing hard to get. The fluttering in my stomach scared me ... plus, I had baggage, unresolved issues with a Mister On Again/ Off Again. Mr OA/OA didn't like me seeing other people, even when we were Off Again. He could be counted on to cause a scene, to make life difficult. Somebody could get hurt. Somebody could get beat up.
True to form OA/OA got wind of the new boy and showed up at my house worried for my safety. "I know this boy," he said. "Known him for a long time. He comes from a bad family. He is nothing but a low-down thief. He's been in and out of jail. You don't want to get mixed up with the likes of him."
I sighed. "But you've been in and out of jail and I've been mixed up with you for years," I said.
"Yeah, but I ain't no thief! They're the lowest of the low! And I don't want you around him."
The argument seemed to be "better the criminal I knew than the one I didn't" and strangely there did seem to be some logic to that.
Later at the club, when the old Chevy pulled in I decided Mr. OA/OA probably knew more about this guy than I did and I should trust his judgment on the matter. "I can't go out with you," I said to the boy.
He didn't want to hear that. He had plans. I told him I had found out about his troubling past. He told me he'd never do another dishonest thing in his life. With me by his side he could turn his life around and make something of himself. He seemed so sincere.
I pulled out my secret weapon and dropped OA/OA's name, which was usually enough to make even the biggest and strongest of the tough guys turn tail and run. Nobody with any sense wanted to get into a racket with OA/OA over me. But he didn't care. He knew OA/OA, had partied with him, had hung out with him, knew his capabilities, but it didn't matter.
"I've been through hell and more," he said. "I'm not afraid of him." And he meant it, his blue eyes filled with steely determination. He took my hands and looked into my eyes, "But seriously, I just want a chance to show you, just one date is all I'm asking for. And if afterward you decide I'm not for you, I'll go away and leave you alone forever."
He wasn't afraid of nothing or nobody . . . but I was. I was afraid of what OA/OA would do to him. I was afraid of what might happen to me. But most of all I was terrified of the way my heart pounded in my chest when he held my hands. "No," I said. "No. I think you should go now and leave me alone forever."
And he did.
His big eyes glossed over with a film of hurt. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed his rejection and he drove off.
I never saw him again.
A few months later I heard he was caught stealing some petty stuff from a business in town. He got sent away for a few months over that. Then he dropped off my radar. "Better the devil I know" became my motto and it was back on again with OA/OA.
Sometimes I wonder what if I'd taken a chance on the wiry little con man. Would he have changed his ways? Or was he already too damaged when we met, is that the only life he could ever know? Sometimes I wonder, and then I see the court clippings and am thankful not to see my name in there as an accessory to the crime.
Mood: creative
Drinking: nothing
Listening To: people in the hall
Hair: still short, still dark
*****
A guy I used to know made the paper. He's a thief. He's going back to prison. He's going to do some serious time. Years. Nobody will see him for a very long time. I only ever saw him twice and that was over 10 years ago.
We met at the after hours club. The club with no "official" law. I had never laid eyes on the man before nor heard his name mentioned. Maybe because he'd been away in jail. Maybe because he didn't grow up in my neighborhood and we went to different schools. No matter.
What mattered was that he pulled into the parking lot in his souped up 70s Chevy and I noticed. I didn't yet know he was a thief, but he was built like one, slight and wiry. You could imagine him slithering into hard to get places, slipping out, blending in, disappearing with ease. He was about my age, a little bit younger, with a great sense of humor. His tongue twisted gracefully around multiple syllables and I was impressed by his grasp of the English language. The boy was slick. I'll give him that.
He noticed me right away. I liked his direct approach. If he had a game, his game was that he had no game. He walked right up to me, told me I was beautiful and he wanted to be with me for the rest of his life ... or at least until morning. I liked his persistence. He stayed right by me, no matter how much I ignored him, no matter how much I protested, no matter what I said to drive him away. "Aww, you pretend you're all mean and hating on me, sweetheart," he'd say. "But I know you don't mean it. Deep down in there somewhere is a heart that's beating for mine." And he'd wink and laugh and drop a loonie in the jukebox.
Maybe because he had been in and out of jail, in and out of foster homes, on and off the streets, there was an urgency about him. There was time for setting up a mark in the pool hustle. There was time for casing the joint. But there was no time to fool around with games in matters of the heart. He took one look at me and decided he wanted me to be his woman, and then he never faltered from his mission to make it so.
He had a vivid imagination. Within an hour of meeting him he was designing my dream home, planning the wedding and naming our babies. I suppose it was a testament to his conning abilities and delightful personality that I stayed long into the night, sipping beer, playing pool and embellishing upon these plans. It was all in good fun, and I'd never met anyone like him before. But when the time came to go home, I went my way and he went his.
The next day he called me. He wanted to go on a proper date. Pick me up. Dinner. A movie. Flowers. Candy. Anything I wanted. As lavish or as simple as I desired. He just wanted to be with me, wanted me to be happy. "I don't know," I hedged. "Maybe someday, sometime ..." I was not playing hard to get. The fluttering in my stomach scared me ... plus, I had baggage, unresolved issues with a Mister On Again/ Off Again. Mr OA/OA didn't like me seeing other people, even when we were Off Again. He could be counted on to cause a scene, to make life difficult. Somebody could get hurt. Somebody could get beat up.
True to form OA/OA got wind of the new boy and showed up at my house worried for my safety. "I know this boy," he said. "Known him for a long time. He comes from a bad family. He is nothing but a low-down thief. He's been in and out of jail. You don't want to get mixed up with the likes of him."
I sighed. "But you've been in and out of jail and I've been mixed up with you for years," I said.
"Yeah, but I ain't no thief! They're the lowest of the low! And I don't want you around him."
The argument seemed to be "better the criminal I knew than the one I didn't" and strangely there did seem to be some logic to that.
Later at the club, when the old Chevy pulled in I decided Mr. OA/OA probably knew more about this guy than I did and I should trust his judgment on the matter. "I can't go out with you," I said to the boy.
He didn't want to hear that. He had plans. I told him I had found out about his troubling past. He told me he'd never do another dishonest thing in his life. With me by his side he could turn his life around and make something of himself. He seemed so sincere.
I pulled out my secret weapon and dropped OA/OA's name, which was usually enough to make even the biggest and strongest of the tough guys turn tail and run. Nobody with any sense wanted to get into a racket with OA/OA over me. But he didn't care. He knew OA/OA, had partied with him, had hung out with him, knew his capabilities, but it didn't matter.
"I've been through hell and more," he said. "I'm not afraid of him." And he meant it, his blue eyes filled with steely determination. He took my hands and looked into my eyes, "But seriously, I just want a chance to show you, just one date is all I'm asking for. And if afterward you decide I'm not for you, I'll go away and leave you alone forever."
He wasn't afraid of nothing or nobody . . . but I was. I was afraid of what OA/OA would do to him. I was afraid of what might happen to me. But most of all I was terrified of the way my heart pounded in my chest when he held my hands. "No," I said. "No. I think you should go now and leave me alone forever."
And he did.
His big eyes glossed over with a film of hurt. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed his rejection and he drove off.
I never saw him again.
A few months later I heard he was caught stealing some petty stuff from a business in town. He got sent away for a few months over that. Then he dropped off my radar. "Better the devil I know" became my motto and it was back on again with OA/OA.
Sometimes I wonder what if I'd taken a chance on the wiry little con man. Would he have changed his ways? Or was he already too damaged when we met, is that the only life he could ever know? Sometimes I wonder, and then I see the court clippings and am thankful not to see my name in there as an accessory to the crime.
Mood: creative
Drinking: nothing
Listening To: people in the hall
Hair: still short, still dark
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Nanowrimo Time
There are some who say writing a novel takes awesome talent, strong language skills, academic training, and years of dedication. Not true. All it really takes is a deadline – a very, very tight deadline – and a whole lot of coffee.
Welcome to National Novel Writing Month: a nonprofit literary crusade that encourages aspiring novelists all over the world to write a 50,000-word novel in a month. At midnight on Nov. 1, more than 100,000 writers from over 80 countries – poised over laptops and pads of paper, fingers itching and minds racing with plots and characters – will begin a furious adventure in fiction. By 11:59 PM on Nov.
30, tens of thousands of them will be novelists.
2008 is the ten-year anniversary of NaNoWriMo, founded in 1999 by freelance writer Chris Baty. In its first year, NaNoWriMo had just 21 participants. In 2007, over 100,000 people took part in the free challenge, making it the largest writing contest in the world. And while the event stresses fun and creative exploration over publication, 24 NaNoWriMo novelists have had their NaNo-novels published, including
Sarah Gruen, whose New York Times #1 Best Seller, Water for Elephants began as a NaNoWriMo
novel.
Around 18% of NaNoWriMo participants "win" every year by writing 50,000 words and validating their novels on the organization's website before midnight on Nov 30. Winners receive no prizes, and no one at NaNoWriMo ever reads the manuscripts submitted.
So if not for fame or fortune, why do people do it?
"The 50,000-word challenge has a wonderful way of opening up your imagination and unleashing creative potential like nothing else," says NaNoWriMo Director (and nine-time NaNoWriMo winner) Chris Baty. "When you write for quantity instead of quality, you end up getting both. Also, it's a great excuse for not doing any dishes for a month."
There will be a "Meet and Greet" Event held 2:00 pm Sunday, October 26 at Chapters (Regent Mall), 1381 Regent Street, Fredericton, NB, E3C 1A2. Come and find out what the buzz is all about.
If you would like more information about National Novel Writing Month, or would like to talk to participants from NaNoWriMo chapters in your area, please visit our website at www.NaNoWriMo.org, or contact Fredericton Municipal Liaison Susan Douglas (506-451-2955) OR press@nanowrimo.org.
Every year I think I should do this, and every year I don't ... I should totally do this though! I just don't know how they do this and do anything else, like work, eat, exercise, etc. etc. etc. Maybe giving up tv shows for a month would be enough?
Mood: curious
Drinking: tea
Listening To: doors slamming
Hair: unknown
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Writer in Me
I think I should write a book about dating in the 21st century. Seriously. I KNOW it would be funny! Oh, and educational. For sure! It could start with, "A magician, a prison guard and a backslid Christian walk into a bar ..."
But seriously. I am putting together a manuscript. I really am. An honest to goodness for real manuscript. I know, it's about time, right? Still, there's a huge part of me that doesn't believe anyone is interested in anything I've got to say. I know there are people who look to me and think I know a thing or two about this writing stuff ... damn! Have I ever pulled the wool over their eyes! :)
Mood: procrastinating, but trying to get back on track and write something
Drinking: water, but thinking maybe tea or hot chocolate is in order
Listening To: train whistling past enroute to Bathurst, Campbellton, Quebec City and Montreal by tomorrow morning
Hair: ponied up and clean
But seriously. I am putting together a manuscript. I really am. An honest to goodness for real manuscript. I know, it's about time, right? Still, there's a huge part of me that doesn't believe anyone is interested in anything I've got to say. I know there are people who look to me and think I know a thing or two about this writing stuff ... damn! Have I ever pulled the wool over their eyes! :)
Mood: procrastinating, but trying to get back on track and write something
Drinking: water, but thinking maybe tea or hot chocolate is in order
Listening To: train whistling past enroute to Bathurst, Campbellton, Quebec City and Montreal by tomorrow morning
Hair: ponied up and clean
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Here Comes Your Man
Listening to The Pixies. What a gorgeous morning! I need to find my way back to early mornings somehow this week. To do that I need to get to sleep before or shortly after midnight, and stop this 4 and 5am crap. I mean I'm in the bed, don't get me wrong, any time after 10 I get the yawns and head off to the sheets, I just can't shut off the old brain once I'm there. And when I do finally drift I'm still dreaming in play, which kinda sucks because it's over and done with.
I didn't go to the office yesterday after all, wasn't needed, but maybe today, haven't heard yet. I know they're doing the mailing labels because I got a couple of calls looking for a couple of missing addresses and other contact info for subscriptions, contributors, and the mailing. I need to update the website pronto with a new online edition and get the email version sent out asap. First though I must write the 250 words for the WFNB newsletter that I am nearly a week past due on. Maybe even too late all together. I'll knock something together quickly as soon as I post this. I've also got the galleys of a book to proof. Very nearly forgot about that all together, but noticed the pdf on my desktop and added it to the to do. I've also got a chapter from a friend that I promised crit on about three weeks ago now. So I added that to my list so I won't forget.
Tonight there is a Words on Water with the Breach House Gang coming up from Moncton. Most of these people are good friends of mine, so I'm hoping I can attend and don't get bogged down in BnM print production. Fingers crossed. But I'd better get to something soon then, huh?
Mood: fabulous
Drinking: coffee, black
Listening To: It's Your Life, Loverboy OMG! I totally forgot about this song! This is a version I haven't heard before tho ...
Hair: still blonde, not so dumb
I didn't go to the office yesterday after all, wasn't needed, but maybe today, haven't heard yet. I know they're doing the mailing labels because I got a couple of calls looking for a couple of missing addresses and other contact info for subscriptions, contributors, and the mailing. I need to update the website pronto with a new online edition and get the email version sent out asap. First though I must write the 250 words for the WFNB newsletter that I am nearly a week past due on. Maybe even too late all together. I'll knock something together quickly as soon as I post this. I've also got the galleys of a book to proof. Very nearly forgot about that all together, but noticed the pdf on my desktop and added it to the to do. I've also got a chapter from a friend that I promised crit on about three weeks ago now. So I added that to my list so I won't forget.
Tonight there is a Words on Water with the Breach House Gang coming up from Moncton. Most of these people are good friends of mine, so I'm hoping I can attend and don't get bogged down in BnM print production. Fingers crossed. But I'd better get to something soon then, huh?
Mood: fabulous
Drinking: coffee, black
Listening To: It's Your Life, Loverboy OMG! I totally forgot about this song! This is a version I haven't heard before tho ...
Hair: still blonde, not so dumb
Monday, May 05, 2008
My Generation
I have to go up home to stay the night two nights this week :-( Last night I slept in the spare room because I was too lazy to make up my bed after I washed all my bedding. Strange new perspective sleeping in there.
I think I'm going to slow down on the blogging this week, use the time for other writing. Lets see how that works.
Mood: tired
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: don't walk away eileen, sam roberts
Hair: pouffy
I think I'm going to slow down on the blogging this week, use the time for other writing. Lets see how that works.
Mood: tired
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: don't walk away eileen, sam roberts
Hair: pouffy
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Den of Thieves
I've spent most of the weekend at the French Fort Cove Eco-Centre working the Mighty/BnM booth at the first annual Tourism Expo.
It's no secret I don't like going to these trade shows. We've done the Lifestyles Show a couple of years at the Civic Centre, and we've gone to Moncton for the Kiwanis Lifestyle Show a couple of years. It's always exhausting. My feet hurt. My legs get wrecked. I feel like my time there was wasted. It's just never been good. So I wasn't looking forward to this tourism one either. But it's my job, there's no getting out of it.
We had a steady trickle of interested people all weekend, with a pretty big crowd around lunchtime on Saturday. With Metepenagiag on one side of me and the Folk Song Festival on the other, with live music and poetry readings and traditional dancing happening just over my head, with people popping by to ask me questions about the Mighty Miramichi and all the goings on in the county because of course I would know, I felt like finally we had found a trade show where BnM and myself belonged. My feet didn't hurt. My legs didn't get wrecked. I wasn't overly exhausted. And I didn't feel like I wasted my time. So that was good!
After the show closed I went straight home to get ready for my first play practice. I was a little worried because we were supposed to be off script and I might have known a third of my lines, maybe half. Lucky for me a whole lot of the cast couldn't make the rehearsal so we just did a table reading. It was fun. I forgot how much fun a play could be. Oh-oh. We've only done one little reading and all ready I might be hooked . . . I went to sleep with visions of Duff and Merrin dancing in my head. I wake with an urge to pound out some dialogue.
This weekend I had many interesting conversations about various arts projects on the Miramichi. We're experiencing a Renaissance. There is a lot going on and a lot more coming up.
Mood: creative
Drinking: coffee, instant! what is the world coming to?
Listening To: the scientist, coldplay
Hair: getting long and shaggy
It's no secret I don't like going to these trade shows. We've done the Lifestyles Show a couple of years at the Civic Centre, and we've gone to Moncton for the Kiwanis Lifestyle Show a couple of years. It's always exhausting. My feet hurt. My legs get wrecked. I feel like my time there was wasted. It's just never been good. So I wasn't looking forward to this tourism one either. But it's my job, there's no getting out of it.
We had a steady trickle of interested people all weekend, with a pretty big crowd around lunchtime on Saturday. With Metepenagiag on one side of me and the Folk Song Festival on the other, with live music and poetry readings and traditional dancing happening just over my head, with people popping by to ask me questions about the Mighty Miramichi and all the goings on in the county because of course I would know, I felt like finally we had found a trade show where BnM and myself belonged. My feet didn't hurt. My legs didn't get wrecked. I wasn't overly exhausted. And I didn't feel like I wasted my time. So that was good!
After the show closed I went straight home to get ready for my first play practice. I was a little worried because we were supposed to be off script and I might have known a third of my lines, maybe half. Lucky for me a whole lot of the cast couldn't make the rehearsal so we just did a table reading. It was fun. I forgot how much fun a play could be. Oh-oh. We've only done one little reading and all ready I might be hooked . . . I went to sleep with visions of Duff and Merrin dancing in my head. I wake with an urge to pound out some dialogue.
This weekend I had many interesting conversations about various arts projects on the Miramichi. We're experiencing a Renaissance. There is a lot going on and a lot more coming up.
Mood: creative
Drinking: coffee, instant! what is the world coming to?
Listening To: the scientist, coldplay
Hair: getting long and shaggy
Monday, April 21, 2008
Changes
If I could turn and meet myself as
I was then,
gaze into that solemn face, those
unblinking eyes,
I suppose I'd laugh until I cried,
then laugh again.
-- from The Kookaburra's Song
Let the laughter begin!
I actually got an email from Coach Steele this morning asking me to let him know how I was doing. He has a sixth sense or something. His timing is always impeccable and the fact that he even bothers to personally contact people on the Tools to Life site really blows my mind. I replied that I am well. And I am.
Okay, so I had an "unusual" weekend at best, but now it's Monday and time to get back to business. I've decided to attend Frye Festival and I will embark for Moncton Thursday morning, armed with a laptop and ready to post from the Festival. The days and nights will be long. I will be exhausted. But it should be a great time. I'm really excited about it. My mind will explode with all the new ideas! And I think I'm going to run into some wonderful old friends, which will be great.
So much work to get out of the way in preparation of leaving though, not to mention all the household stuff that's been on the backburner this past week.
Having hot chocolate this morning before I go out to do the run-around downtown. Banking, shopping, all that good stuff.
The ice is breaking up pretty quick now, moving on the tides. The ducks are here! Hundreds of them! Summer is coming! And summer is good. I do love my river. It gives me a sense of place and comfort in being in that place. The river is home and I'm on it.
I weighed myself this morning and was pretty shocked to find myself over 20 pounds lighter than the last time I weighed in. Holy frig! So either the wellness has been working or . . . I dunno, a couple of days of eating light or nothing at all is not enough to drop 20 freaking pounds. That was pretty surprising. Of course, I've got lots of pounds on me, so 20 is not a big deal in the grand scheme of things.
Oh well, banking is not going to do itself. I must boot!
Mood: energized & excited
Drinking: hot chocolate
Listening To: dangerous, roxette
Hair: i am the big blonde once again
I was then,
gaze into that solemn face, those
unblinking eyes,
I suppose I'd laugh until I cried,
then laugh again.
-- from The Kookaburra's Song
Let the laughter begin!
I actually got an email from Coach Steele this morning asking me to let him know how I was doing. He has a sixth sense or something. His timing is always impeccable and the fact that he even bothers to personally contact people on the Tools to Life site really blows my mind. I replied that I am well. And I am.
Okay, so I had an "unusual" weekend at best, but now it's Monday and time to get back to business. I've decided to attend Frye Festival and I will embark for Moncton Thursday morning, armed with a laptop and ready to post from the Festival. The days and nights will be long. I will be exhausted. But it should be a great time. I'm really excited about it. My mind will explode with all the new ideas! And I think I'm going to run into some wonderful old friends, which will be great.
So much work to get out of the way in preparation of leaving though, not to mention all the household stuff that's been on the backburner this past week.
Having hot chocolate this morning before I go out to do the run-around downtown. Banking, shopping, all that good stuff.
The ice is breaking up pretty quick now, moving on the tides. The ducks are here! Hundreds of them! Summer is coming! And summer is good. I do love my river. It gives me a sense of place and comfort in being in that place. The river is home and I'm on it.
I weighed myself this morning and was pretty shocked to find myself over 20 pounds lighter than the last time I weighed in. Holy frig! So either the wellness has been working or . . . I dunno, a couple of days of eating light or nothing at all is not enough to drop 20 freaking pounds. That was pretty surprising. Of course, I've got lots of pounds on me, so 20 is not a big deal in the grand scheme of things.
Oh well, banking is not going to do itself. I must boot!
Mood: energized & excited
Drinking: hot chocolate
Listening To: dangerous, roxette
Hair: i am the big blonde once again
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Take My Breath Away
I am too busy for blogging. I hate when that happens. It's the municipal election. It's BnM. It's spring cleaning. It's income tax preparation. It's life in general and trying to get out of the house for daily walking.
Yesterday my copies of The Sharp Review with my story in it arrived in the mail. Exciting! My name is spelled right and everything. I only have a few copies to give away, so maybe you'll get one . . . but most likely you won't. C'est la vie! I'll let you look at mine.
Mood: rushed
Drinking: black coffee
Listening To: magic power, triumph
Hair: desperately needing something
Yesterday my copies of The Sharp Review with my story in it arrived in the mail. Exciting! My name is spelled right and everything. I only have a few copies to give away, so maybe you'll get one . . . but most likely you won't. C'est la vie! I'll let you look at mine.
Mood: rushed
Drinking: black coffee
Listening To: magic power, triumph
Hair: desperately needing something
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
The Pretender
My blog reached a milestone the other day . . . 1,000 posts. Wow! Maybe I am prolific :-)
So yesterday kinda turned into a bust day of recharging, spent mostly in my inbox just dealing. Did not get a lot done on my list . . . actually, didn't even make the list.
Today I woke feeling more refreshed and rested, ready to get some stuff done. My alarm sounded at 6:30. Local radio. The voice of a girl I used to work with. And in my dreaming state I found myself back at the station flipping switches and pushing buttons, sweeping music up slowly under my voice. I could feel the ache in my back from that horrible rickety chair. I could maybe do radio again and actually enjoy it, if I had a good crew to work with.
Sunday morning at the Rodd I read part of one of my stories. Historically, I haven't had much luck with voice control while reading my fiction. I can speak in public. I can emcee. I can perform in plays and read the news and voice-over ads. I can overcome the nerves most of the time . . . but there's something about my fiction, it's just too raw, too personal, too close to me, and I have trouble pulling off my big strong voice, finding the deep tones in the pit of my stomach. And those are the tones you need if you want a room to listen to what you've got to say, you can't be high and squeaky.
Sunday morning I read part of my story. The lines came from a personal experience, although in the fiction there are different circumstances and the lines aren't delivered with purposeful malice. The personal experience that was inspiration for that part was so much worse than the fictional experience. And yet, the fictional experience is still pretty bad. So basically I picked the most personally emotional part of the story for me and that's what I read. And for one of the first times ever I had my voice, deep tones, controlled speed and pitch. There is hope for me yet.
I look at Elaine's painting and I think Madness & Magic. That was the working title for my collection of short stories back in the day . . . hmm, yes, I do have a collection of short stories. I entered into the Richards Prize many, many years ago, when I first became involved in the WFNB. I got judges comments saying it didn't work, some stories were strong, some weren't. Later I found out only the best ones had been passed onto the judge, only a few of the most promising had received comments. At the time that wasn't enough to squash the sting of the comments themselves. I hadn't workshopped anything anywhere yet. So I put the idea of a collection out of my head, the stories weren't good enough, they didn't gel together. Bygones. I've learned a lot in the last 10 years or so . . . maybe the time has come to revisit a collection.
Mood: pondering
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: sick side, nathan wiley
Hair: needing some tlc in a the worst freaking way
So yesterday kinda turned into a bust day of recharging, spent mostly in my inbox just dealing. Did not get a lot done on my list . . . actually, didn't even make the list.
Today I woke feeling more refreshed and rested, ready to get some stuff done. My alarm sounded at 6:30. Local radio. The voice of a girl I used to work with. And in my dreaming state I found myself back at the station flipping switches and pushing buttons, sweeping music up slowly under my voice. I could feel the ache in my back from that horrible rickety chair. I could maybe do radio again and actually enjoy it, if I had a good crew to work with.
Sunday morning at the Rodd I read part of one of my stories. Historically, I haven't had much luck with voice control while reading my fiction. I can speak in public. I can emcee. I can perform in plays and read the news and voice-over ads. I can overcome the nerves most of the time . . . but there's something about my fiction, it's just too raw, too personal, too close to me, and I have trouble pulling off my big strong voice, finding the deep tones in the pit of my stomach. And those are the tones you need if you want a room to listen to what you've got to say, you can't be high and squeaky.
Sunday morning I read part of my story. The lines came from a personal experience, although in the fiction there are different circumstances and the lines aren't delivered with purposeful malice. The personal experience that was inspiration for that part was so much worse than the fictional experience. And yet, the fictional experience is still pretty bad. So basically I picked the most personally emotional part of the story for me and that's what I read. And for one of the first times ever I had my voice, deep tones, controlled speed and pitch. There is hope for me yet.
I look at Elaine's painting and I think Madness & Magic. That was the working title for my collection of short stories back in the day . . . hmm, yes, I do have a collection of short stories. I entered into the Richards Prize many, many years ago, when I first became involved in the WFNB. I got judges comments saying it didn't work, some stories were strong, some weren't. Later I found out only the best ones had been passed onto the judge, only a few of the most promising had received comments. At the time that wasn't enough to squash the sting of the comments themselves. I hadn't workshopped anything anywhere yet. So I put the idea of a collection out of my head, the stories weren't good enough, they didn't gel together. Bygones. I've learned a lot in the last 10 years or so . . . maybe the time has come to revisit a collection.
Mood: pondering
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: sick side, nathan wiley
Hair: needing some tlc in a the worst freaking way
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Give A Little Bit
And my crazy weekend ends. Just in the nick. Capt'n, she canna take much more! Hold her together, Scotty!
The weekend was fabulous. From beginning to end. Just totally fabulous.
Thursday night was amazing. It could not have gone any better. I could not get over how many people came out to support it. Wow! The readers were terrific. The Heritage Players were awesome. I just couldn't be more pleased with the end result.
Friday night, of course was less nerve-wracking for me because all I had to do was show up and have fun. Great readings! We closed O'Donaghue's after the book launches.
The workshops were all really good on Saturday. The banquet was absolutely amazing! Such good food! And the cheesecake! Oh boy!
And again so much support for the readings this morning! What a great turn-out! So many people writing! It's exciting!
Some of my favourite memories from the weekend:
That moment when Sherry sat down after doing her first intro on Thursday night and I knew for sure that the evening was going to work.
Driving with my favourite ladies on Friday showing them MY Miramichi.
At the bus stop when suddenly Gerry was also there.
Being mentioned in conjunction with S.
The surprise of a poem for me.
1973 and 1979 at O'Donaghue's Friday night.
"Seeing comes before words. The child looks and recognizes."
"Isn't that our aim? To write like old men and women?"
"The facts aren't good enough."
"Fiction is taking liberties with the truth. Fiction is the truth that bothers us late into the night. Fiction is truer than the truth."
"Write about what you know you don't know."
"It's much easier to consider eternity than the present moment. The truth is in the eternal, but we're going to write about it in this present moment that we can't grasp."
"The writer has a moral onus to write the truth, but the story itself is never moral."
Hearing David Adams Richards read from "Lost Highway."
Welling up with tears as one of the young winners of the Sheree Fitch prize read a poem about girls doing anything to conform, about becoming the bad girl, realizing being bad is not good, the difficult lesson that reversing to a good girl is not nearly as easy.
Salad greens, strawberry vinaigrette, pickles, potato salad, penne salad, coleslaw, rice, carrots, potato wedges, roast turkey, cranberry chutney, hip of beef, chocolate cheesecake with strawberries, new york cherry cheesecake, cheesecake, cheesecake, cheesecake, cheesecake . . .
Ed & Elaine!
Getting a hug and kiss on the cheek from David Adams Richards when I finally got to meet him.
Loosening the frame from the bubblewrap to reveal the painting I've loved forever, and realizing I love it even more than I knew.
Finally getting to see my sweetie in person for a few minutes this morning before the final event.
Feeling the audience connection after reading an excerpt from Three Thirty Three.
Watching writers, who didn't know they were writers, realize they are writers, and the satisfaction of knowing that in some small way I've helped them reach this level of consciousness by helping to plan the event, by being there to witness the transformation.
And all those other little moments that I haven't found the words to illustrate.
Mood: exhausted
Drinking: nothing
Listening To: don't look back, boston
Hair: messy
The weekend was fabulous. From beginning to end. Just totally fabulous.
Thursday night was amazing. It could not have gone any better. I could not get over how many people came out to support it. Wow! The readers were terrific. The Heritage Players were awesome. I just couldn't be more pleased with the end result.
Friday night, of course was less nerve-wracking for me because all I had to do was show up and have fun. Great readings! We closed O'Donaghue's after the book launches.
The workshops were all really good on Saturday. The banquet was absolutely amazing! Such good food! And the cheesecake! Oh boy!
And again so much support for the readings this morning! What a great turn-out! So many people writing! It's exciting!
Some of my favourite memories from the weekend:
That moment when Sherry sat down after doing her first intro on Thursday night and I knew for sure that the evening was going to work.
Driving with my favourite ladies on Friday showing them MY Miramichi.
At the bus stop when suddenly Gerry was also there.
Being mentioned in conjunction with S.
The surprise of a poem for me.
1973 and 1979 at O'Donaghue's Friday night.
"Seeing comes before words. The child looks and recognizes."
"Isn't that our aim? To write like old men and women?"
"The facts aren't good enough."
"Fiction is taking liberties with the truth. Fiction is the truth that bothers us late into the night. Fiction is truer than the truth."
"Write about what you know you don't know."
"It's much easier to consider eternity than the present moment. The truth is in the eternal, but we're going to write about it in this present moment that we can't grasp."
"The writer has a moral onus to write the truth, but the story itself is never moral."
Hearing David Adams Richards read from "Lost Highway."
Welling up with tears as one of the young winners of the Sheree Fitch prize read a poem about girls doing anything to conform, about becoming the bad girl, realizing being bad is not good, the difficult lesson that reversing to a good girl is not nearly as easy.
Salad greens, strawberry vinaigrette, pickles, potato salad, penne salad, coleslaw, rice, carrots, potato wedges, roast turkey, cranberry chutney, hip of beef, chocolate cheesecake with strawberries, new york cherry cheesecake, cheesecake, cheesecake, cheesecake, cheesecake . . .
Ed & Elaine!
Getting a hug and kiss on the cheek from David Adams Richards when I finally got to meet him.
Loosening the frame from the bubblewrap to reveal the painting I've loved forever, and realizing I love it even more than I knew.
Finally getting to see my sweetie in person for a few minutes this morning before the final event.
Feeling the audience connection after reading an excerpt from Three Thirty Three.
Watching writers, who didn't know they were writers, realize they are writers, and the satisfaction of knowing that in some small way I've helped them reach this level of consciousness by helping to plan the event, by being there to witness the transformation.
And all those other little moments that I haven't found the words to illustrate.
Mood: exhausted
Drinking: nothing
Listening To: don't look back, boston
Hair: messy
Friday, March 28, 2008
My, My, My, M-M-My . . .
Oooh my little pretty one, pretty one . . . always takes me back to the scene in the corner store, loading up daddy's credit card with a junk food fix, winona singing, dancing with janeane . . . fun stuff, sometimes i miss being young, naive and irresponsible . . . most times i'm so very thankful to have gotten through to the other side without losing a limb, my life, my mind entirely.
Ethan Hawke's character in Reality Bites is named Troy. I have a theory about Troys. I mean look at that movie, look at how hideous that character behaves. Yes, he's full of his own demons and we're supposed to understand this is why he has such a potential for hurtfulness, but then in the end he comes round and they all live happily ever after. Blah, blah, blah . . . But I mean honestly, yeah, Troy and Lelaina probably had a good run, but if there was a sequel would they still be together or even friends? I doubt it. And I bet it ended explosively, in a totally hurtful if-it's-got-to-end-let's-make-sure-it's-good-and-dead series of events, mostly instigated by Troy. Lelaina could probably walk away more civilly. Troy would never allow that.
So I have this theory about Troys and that is that they just aren't nice people. Maybe there's something about the name that turns them this way, I don't know. But have you ever known a Troy who was a great guy? I mean a really great guy, one of those nice guys who finish last type of great guy? I never have, my range of personal knowledge of Troys goes from the extremely violent beating the crap out of his wife kind of guy to the kind of guy who kicks dogs for sport, with very little in between. Look at the show Nip/Tuck, there's Dr. Christian Troy, yes, it's a surname but even still, how hideous can that character be? The sadistic way he manipulates women, the hurtful way he has treated other people.
Even if I meet the nicest Troy ever to walk the face of the earth tomorrow and we become fast friends, I'll think he's just a fluke. The exception, rather than the rule.
When I was naming my new villainous leading man character for this story I'm working on, I thought about it very carefully. He's the worst character out of a string of really bad characters, worse even than that fucker, Tom, in Three Thirty Three. He is the mother of everything hideous. He invented manipulation. He is the father of sadism . . . and his name is Troy.
Mood: off-centre
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: gypsy, fleetwood mac
Hair: something happening soon
Ethan Hawke's character in Reality Bites is named Troy. I have a theory about Troys. I mean look at that movie, look at how hideous that character behaves. Yes, he's full of his own demons and we're supposed to understand this is why he has such a potential for hurtfulness, but then in the end he comes round and they all live happily ever after. Blah, blah, blah . . . But I mean honestly, yeah, Troy and Lelaina probably had a good run, but if there was a sequel would they still be together or even friends? I doubt it. And I bet it ended explosively, in a totally hurtful if-it's-got-to-end-let's-make-sure-it's-good-and-dead series of events, mostly instigated by Troy. Lelaina could probably walk away more civilly. Troy would never allow that.
So I have this theory about Troys and that is that they just aren't nice people. Maybe there's something about the name that turns them this way, I don't know. But have you ever known a Troy who was a great guy? I mean a really great guy, one of those nice guys who finish last type of great guy? I never have, my range of personal knowledge of Troys goes from the extremely violent beating the crap out of his wife kind of guy to the kind of guy who kicks dogs for sport, with very little in between. Look at the show Nip/Tuck, there's Dr. Christian Troy, yes, it's a surname but even still, how hideous can that character be? The sadistic way he manipulates women, the hurtful way he has treated other people.
Even if I meet the nicest Troy ever to walk the face of the earth tomorrow and we become fast friends, I'll think he's just a fluke. The exception, rather than the rule.
When I was naming my new villainous leading man character for this story I'm working on, I thought about it very carefully. He's the worst character out of a string of really bad characters, worse even than that fucker, Tom, in Three Thirty Three. He is the mother of everything hideous. He invented manipulation. He is the father of sadism . . . and his name is Troy.
Mood: off-centre
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: gypsy, fleetwood mac
Hair: something happening soon
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Luck of the Irish
When you're standing at the bus stop outside the Irving Mainway on St. Patrick's Day with your flaming red hair and bright blue eyes glaring in the sunshine, knowing you should have worn make-up to cover your blooming freckles, and a con who has just been released from prison and is now being recalled to meet with a parole officer because he may or may not have violated this parole for reasons unknown to you, and the con has determined that you need to hear his sermon no matter where you go to stand and wait for the Acadian Line that seems to be late, and his message is an increasingly agitated rant about the bitches that women be yet slightly better than the damn Irish . . .
When this happens, you might wish for a moment that maybe your great great great great so-and-so hadn't fled the famine, because then you wouldn't be at this bus stop being so obviously a woman and even more blatantly Irish on St. Patrick's Day with a crazy sometime-ex-con spitting in your face, you'd be in a pub like a normal person. And for one stressful moment as this giant criminal looms over you and steps a bit close pinning you to the wall, you might even wish that you had nothing whatsoever to do with the Irish, wouldn't it be nice to have Lebanese ancestry for a change? But other than during that longish half hour waiting on that very slow bus from Halifax there's never been another time when you didn't love all things Irish.
This is a true story of course, happened a couple of years ago at the Sackville bus stop where there was never any shortage of recently released cons travelling. At the time it was a stressful situation. Now, it's just a funny story, the luck of my Irish to be looking like that and to run into this particular man on St. Paddy's no less. But yesterday I had a different kind of Irish luck. Recently I submitted some stories. Fiction. Yes, I know! I NEVER do that! But on a whim last month I answered a call and sent some work off to something called The Sharp Review, published by the National University of Ireland at Galway's Society of Writers. I sent one piece that I thought was the better piece and then as an afterthought and throwing caution to the wind I sent "Three Thirty Three" (now in the first person) thinking "They'll likely read this and write back asking me to never submit another word."
So imagine my surprise when I received an email from a lovely chap named Liam informing me that my story "Three Thirty Three" has been accepted for publication and they welcome more of my submissions. I am being published! Ok, you're sitting there wondering what the big deal is because I'm clearly being published quite regularly in Bread 'n Molasses, and I've got a string of newspaper and magazine credits dating back into the early 90s that clearly show I can get published . . . BUT this is my first piece of short fiction to be published. This is my first time appearing in a literary periodical published by a university. And damn! This is the first time I'm being published in Ireland! I feel like I've finally done something. I feel like hey, maybe I don't have to write cheesy non-fiction for the rest of my days, maybe I can do fiction. Maybe. I feel possibility. There seems to be an awful lot of new stuff going on in my life lately. It's exciting!
Included in the note was an invitation to attend the official launch at a little pub on campus. How I wish! But the timing is impossible . . . yes, like that's the ONLY barrier. But contributors are invited to come and read at the launch, the editors would buy me a pint . . . and how much fun would that be? Ireland is where that writers retreat/workshop happens that I've had my eye on for a couple of years now. This isn't my year to attend, it's just impossible financially. But sometime. It's a goal.
So yeah, I'm being published . . . in Ireland . . . and I'm very happy. Today is a good day.
Mood: excited
Drinking: king cole tea, black
Listening To: the tv in the apartment below me
Hair: very fluffy
When this happens, you might wish for a moment that maybe your great great great great so-and-so hadn't fled the famine, because then you wouldn't be at this bus stop being so obviously a woman and even more blatantly Irish on St. Patrick's Day with a crazy sometime-ex-con spitting in your face, you'd be in a pub like a normal person. And for one stressful moment as this giant criminal looms over you and steps a bit close pinning you to the wall, you might even wish that you had nothing whatsoever to do with the Irish, wouldn't it be nice to have Lebanese ancestry for a change? But other than during that longish half hour waiting on that very slow bus from Halifax there's never been another time when you didn't love all things Irish.
This is a true story of course, happened a couple of years ago at the Sackville bus stop where there was never any shortage of recently released cons travelling. At the time it was a stressful situation. Now, it's just a funny story, the luck of my Irish to be looking like that and to run into this particular man on St. Paddy's no less. But yesterday I had a different kind of Irish luck. Recently I submitted some stories. Fiction. Yes, I know! I NEVER do that! But on a whim last month I answered a call and sent some work off to something called The Sharp Review, published by the National University of Ireland at Galway's Society of Writers. I sent one piece that I thought was the better piece and then as an afterthought and throwing caution to the wind I sent "Three Thirty Three" (now in the first person) thinking "They'll likely read this and write back asking me to never submit another word."
So imagine my surprise when I received an email from a lovely chap named Liam informing me that my story "Three Thirty Three" has been accepted for publication and they welcome more of my submissions. I am being published! Ok, you're sitting there wondering what the big deal is because I'm clearly being published quite regularly in Bread 'n Molasses, and I've got a string of newspaper and magazine credits dating back into the early 90s that clearly show I can get published . . . BUT this is my first piece of short fiction to be published. This is my first time appearing in a literary periodical published by a university. And damn! This is the first time I'm being published in Ireland! I feel like I've finally done something. I feel like hey, maybe I don't have to write cheesy non-fiction for the rest of my days, maybe I can do fiction. Maybe. I feel possibility. There seems to be an awful lot of new stuff going on in my life lately. It's exciting!
Included in the note was an invitation to attend the official launch at a little pub on campus. How I wish! But the timing is impossible . . . yes, like that's the ONLY barrier. But contributors are invited to come and read at the launch, the editors would buy me a pint . . . and how much fun would that be? Ireland is where that writers retreat/workshop happens that I've had my eye on for a couple of years now. This isn't my year to attend, it's just impossible financially. But sometime. It's a goal.
So yeah, I'm being published . . . in Ireland . . . and I'm very happy. Today is a good day.
Mood: excited
Drinking: king cole tea, black
Listening To: the tv in the apartment below me
Hair: very fluffy
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Angel of Harlem
A sunny Sunday morning. It is Easter and I'm home alone, no eggs, no chocolate, no roast pork with mashed potatoes, gravy, baked carrots, and certainly no apple crisp or pie of any kind. When you can't trust yourself not to partake, just stay home! No, I'm kidding. I just really had too much to do and going up home for the weekend seems to screw up my schedule. Last time I returned to insanity. This time we're too close to printing, can't take that chance. My grasp on things at the moment is tenuous at best. A weekend away could tip me over the ledge.
I have not been having a very good weekend, wellness-wise. I thought that freaking lasagna was going to be the death of me! It was really good. Too good. All I've wanted to do all weekend long is just curl up like Garfield on my fuzzy blanket with my big plate of lasagna in front of the tv. But today is Sunday! And on Sunday I always pull myself back from the lazy abyss and get back on track.
I did not have the greatest week last week as far as meeting my commitments to my wellness buddy. I only got over 7500 steps, half of the time, four days. On Tuesday I only got 3041 (that was the day I had all the company). Thursday I almost made it at 6711 but I left the final push too late, the clock struck midnight and I turned into a pumpkin. Yesterday, I didn't even try, 2005 steps.
My word count also went down this week. 867 total and I didn't write anything on Tuesday. But I guess any writing is better than no writing at all. So I'll take it. I am not deeply in love with this story I'm writing, yet I can't seem to work on anything else. I would rather just leave all this stuff in the black pit part of my brain where all things too painful to consider go to die, but at least part of me has a different plan I guess. Maybe it's time to just get it all out once and for all. I dunno. I just keep writing. I honestly thought I'd dealt with all of this already, but obviously there's more excavation to be done. So, I write. In small spurts. 100 words at a time. That's all I can do. I don't want to get sucked in. I think it might be too much. We'll see.
Calories were pretty good this week, until the lasagna entered the picture, then things got tricky. Just a little, over my limits by about 100 calories a day, which basically means consuming too much to lose weight, but not enough to gain any. So bygones! I'm not concerned about that. At least I was eating a healthy lasagna I made myself with all natural good ingredients and not sticky buns or potato chips or a Dairy Queen Blizzard or fried chicken or any of that crazy stuff.
I did not eat breakfast everyday. I confess, I postponed breakfast on more than one occasion just so I could suck back more of the lasagna . . . I know, I'm terrible. But hey, the good news is the lasagna is gone, and today I began on the rice cakes with peanut butter again.
This week is our third and final commitment week before we give ourselves a reward. I feel that if I have an awesome week this week, then I can continue onto the reward day guilt-free, having wiped out any of the small indiscretions from this past week. This week everything stays the same except I'm adding more steps and going for the 10,000 everyday. I am hoping for better weather because 10,000 is nearly impossible to get without going out for a stroll. I'm also adding taking vitamins everyday to the regime. Everything else stays the same. I feel good about it.
The following week I might do the brown rice detox again. For spring. I suppose I'd actually have to start this Thursday though, if I wanted to have it completed before AGM weekend . . . hmm, that won't work. Maybe I'll keep my spring detox until after AGM. I might need it more then anyway. Lord knows what all food and drink will enter my system that weekend!
Mood: optimistic, determined
Drinking: coffee, black, perked
Listening To: city of lakes, matt mays
Hair: needing some retouching
I have not been having a very good weekend, wellness-wise. I thought that freaking lasagna was going to be the death of me! It was really good. Too good. All I've wanted to do all weekend long is just curl up like Garfield on my fuzzy blanket with my big plate of lasagna in front of the tv. But today is Sunday! And on Sunday I always pull myself back from the lazy abyss and get back on track.
I did not have the greatest week last week as far as meeting my commitments to my wellness buddy. I only got over 7500 steps, half of the time, four days. On Tuesday I only got 3041 (that was the day I had all the company). Thursday I almost made it at 6711 but I left the final push too late, the clock struck midnight and I turned into a pumpkin. Yesterday, I didn't even try, 2005 steps.
My word count also went down this week. 867 total and I didn't write anything on Tuesday. But I guess any writing is better than no writing at all. So I'll take it. I am not deeply in love with this story I'm writing, yet I can't seem to work on anything else. I would rather just leave all this stuff in the black pit part of my brain where all things too painful to consider go to die, but at least part of me has a different plan I guess. Maybe it's time to just get it all out once and for all. I dunno. I just keep writing. I honestly thought I'd dealt with all of this already, but obviously there's more excavation to be done. So, I write. In small spurts. 100 words at a time. That's all I can do. I don't want to get sucked in. I think it might be too much. We'll see.
Calories were pretty good this week, until the lasagna entered the picture, then things got tricky. Just a little, over my limits by about 100 calories a day, which basically means consuming too much to lose weight, but not enough to gain any. So bygones! I'm not concerned about that. At least I was eating a healthy lasagna I made myself with all natural good ingredients and not sticky buns or potato chips or a Dairy Queen Blizzard or fried chicken or any of that crazy stuff.
I did not eat breakfast everyday. I confess, I postponed breakfast on more than one occasion just so I could suck back more of the lasagna . . . I know, I'm terrible. But hey, the good news is the lasagna is gone, and today I began on the rice cakes with peanut butter again.
This week is our third and final commitment week before we give ourselves a reward. I feel that if I have an awesome week this week, then I can continue onto the reward day guilt-free, having wiped out any of the small indiscretions from this past week. This week everything stays the same except I'm adding more steps and going for the 10,000 everyday. I am hoping for better weather because 10,000 is nearly impossible to get without going out for a stroll. I'm also adding taking vitamins everyday to the regime. Everything else stays the same. I feel good about it.
The following week I might do the brown rice detox again. For spring. I suppose I'd actually have to start this Thursday though, if I wanted to have it completed before AGM weekend . . . hmm, that won't work. Maybe I'll keep my spring detox until after AGM. I might need it more then anyway. Lord knows what all food and drink will enter my system that weekend!
Mood: optimistic, determined
Drinking: coffee, black, perked
Listening To: city of lakes, matt mays
Hair: needing some retouching
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Who Wants to Live Forever
I wrote 1841 words on a new story last week. It probably doesn't seem like a lot, but for me, on a personal story, not related to BnM, this is pretty major. It's all because I took a good friend's advice and committed to writing 10 new words a day on something personal. Just 10. I mean what kind of a wimpy writer am I if I can't jot down 10 new words in the run of a day, right?
But 10 leads to 20 and then 100 and before I know it I've laid down a couple hundred. My best day was the first one, last Sunday, I ran 413. My worst day was the crazy runaround day, Tuesday, when I really really did not want to write anything at all but the idea that I would wimp out on 10 words made it impossible to go to bed without doing them, and I wrote 84.
None of this writing is even close to first draft, it's pre-writing as DB would say. But it's something. And it's a subject I've been all around poking at in the past 8 years or so but never tackled right head on like this before, which is kind of exciting and scary all at the same time. So today is Sunday and Week 2 of my three-week contract with my wellness buddy begins today.
So here is my commitment for this week March 16-22:
I added some steps and more time to exercise, added an extra step to remember to use my netipot because it is doing absolute miracles for my sinuses, but other than that I'm not messing with a good thing. I'm keeping my commitment to just 10 words, because 10 is small enough to get me started, and getting started is the hardest part.
Mood: thrilled
Drinking: coffee, did i accidentally buy decaf?
Listening To: sunset grill, don henley
Hair: thinking about razoring the ends . . . just the ends
But 10 leads to 20 and then 100 and before I know it I've laid down a couple hundred. My best day was the first one, last Sunday, I ran 413. My worst day was the crazy runaround day, Tuesday, when I really really did not want to write anything at all but the idea that I would wimp out on 10 words made it impossible to go to bed without doing them, and I wrote 84.
None of this writing is even close to first draft, it's pre-writing as DB would say. But it's something. And it's a subject I've been all around poking at in the past 8 years or so but never tackled right head on like this before, which is kind of exciting and scary all at the same time. So today is Sunday and Week 2 of my three-week contract with my wellness buddy begins today.
So here is my commitment for this week March 16-22:
- I will eat breakfast everyday.
- I will consume 1200-1550 calories per day. (I’ll track numbers.)
- I will walk at least 7500 steps everyday.
- I will strength exercise for at least 15 minutes on at least 3 different days this week.
- I will write at least 10 words on my play or other personal creative writing everyday.
- I will read at least one page out of a book for pleasure everyday.
- I will use my netipot everyday.
I added some steps and more time to exercise, added an extra step to remember to use my netipot because it is doing absolute miracles for my sinuses, but other than that I'm not messing with a good thing. I'm keeping my commitment to just 10 words, because 10 is small enough to get me started, and getting started is the hardest part.
Mood: thrilled
Drinking: coffee, did i accidentally buy decaf?
Listening To: sunset grill, don henley
Hair: thinking about razoring the ends . . . just the ends
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Falling
I am so sore in through my sides and legs. It's from exercising on Monday. I always get sore the second day after, then I do it again and it goes away. So I guess I need to do some exercise today.
Yesterday was a pretty good day. Just me and another lady at my meeting, but we pushed through. Surprise doorbell ringer around 3:30 brought a huge smile to my face. I got in my steps, stayed within my calorie range, wrote, read, and all is well.
At 4am this morning I had one of those experiences with the man whispering my name against my ear. I jumped nearly clear of the bed. Talk about heart palpitations. This ghost of mine hasn't been around in a good long while. I mean a really long time. I can't say I'm surprised to see (I guess hear would be the better word) him again. The good thing was that after the initial fright which lasted all of about 6 seconds, I just muttered, "go away" and rolled over and went right back to sleep. Completely at ease. He'll have to up the ante if he hopes to faze me.
So I'm working on this new story, I'm hoping to have some parts up to snuff for WFNB reading in a few weeks. I am just so excited about life right now. It's hard to go to the dark side and dig up crap to put into stories. Maybe I should be working on a romantic comedy or something. I don't know. I've got three different things on the go and I waffle, writing wherever the mood strikes. I'm not sure this is a good thing. But maybe this is what I need to do and a front-runner will emerge, then I can commit myself. Maybe? At least I'm writing again. At least words are coming. I'm very thankful.
Lots on the do today! We're approaching BnM deadline. Let the insanity begin!
Mood: a little breathless with excitement
Drinking: coffee, black
Listening To: right here waiting, richard marx
Hair: getting fluffier
Yesterday was a pretty good day. Just me and another lady at my meeting, but we pushed through. Surprise doorbell ringer around 3:30 brought a huge smile to my face. I got in my steps, stayed within my calorie range, wrote, read, and all is well.
At 4am this morning I had one of those experiences with the man whispering my name against my ear. I jumped nearly clear of the bed. Talk about heart palpitations. This ghost of mine hasn't been around in a good long while. I mean a really long time. I can't say I'm surprised to see (I guess hear would be the better word) him again. The good thing was that after the initial fright which lasted all of about 6 seconds, I just muttered, "go away" and rolled over and went right back to sleep. Completely at ease. He'll have to up the ante if he hopes to faze me.
So I'm working on this new story, I'm hoping to have some parts up to snuff for WFNB reading in a few weeks. I am just so excited about life right now. It's hard to go to the dark side and dig up crap to put into stories. Maybe I should be working on a romantic comedy or something. I don't know. I've got three different things on the go and I waffle, writing wherever the mood strikes. I'm not sure this is a good thing. But maybe this is what I need to do and a front-runner will emerge, then I can commit myself. Maybe? At least I'm writing again. At least words are coming. I'm very thankful.
Lots on the do today! We're approaching BnM deadline. Let the insanity begin!
Mood: a little breathless with excitement
Drinking: coffee, black
Listening To: right here waiting, richard marx
Hair: getting fluffier
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)