What's Your Blogging Personality?

Your Blogging Type is Artistic and Passionate

You see your blog as the ultimate personal expression - and work hard to make it great. One moment you may be working on a new dramatic design for your blog... And the next, you're passionately writing about your pet causes. Your blog is very important - and you're careful about who you share it with.

What's Your Blogging Personality?

Taxicab Trilogy

In the City of Fredericton the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups. The passengers who would use a transit system if a reliable one existed and the cabbies who drive them. These are their stories . . .

Where to?

Lady Beaverbrook Residence on campus.

You a student?

No, a writer. I'm taking a workshop.

What do you write, romance novels?

Not so much, no. A little of this and that. Do you know where to drop me?

Hell yeah! Of course. Fifty years of driving, you get to know where to go.

Ok good. Because the guy I had yesterday didn't know and we ended up going all the way up to St Thomas.

You didn't know where to go either?

No, I'm not that familiar with the city.

Would you like to be?

Like to be what?

More familar with the city.

Sure.

I could take you on a tour.

Pardon me?

You could drive around with me, get the tour.

Like right now? In the middle of the night?

Yeah, yeah, sure. I'm on until 8, that's plenty of time to show you around.

Oh no, I don't think so, I've got an early morning.

I'd bring you back.

Good to know, but really no, I've got to go. How much?

Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are?

Only a few thousand times, but hey, it never gets old . . . four dollars right?

I can't convince you?

Sorry, no. Have a good night! Good luck with the next girl.

***

Do you mind if I pick up another girl too before we go back?

Not at all, I'm in no hurry.

Great thanks. Charlie, I'm going for the other one. Where's she supposed to be?

Front door.

Fuck! I hate that door . . . Charlie, she's not fuckin' here.

Give her a minute.

. . .

I'm gone. She's not here. Fuckin' waste of fuckin' time.

You seem a little cranky.

Huh?

I said you seem a little cranky.

Well yeah, you'd be fuckin' cranky too if you were on for 14 hours with a few more to go.

Wow, that's a long shift.

Too fuckin' long. And then I've got to go home to the fuckin' family.

You're married?

No. I take care of my fuckin' parents.

Oh, well that's a nice thing to do for them, to take care of them.

They're old, they've lost all their marbles and they won't fuckin' die. Yeah, it's just fuckin' beautiful.

You've got a really good attitude going on there, very upbeat.

Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I didn't ask for any of this fuckin' shit, it just got saddled onto me because I'm the only child.

It's not going to last forever, then you inherit everything and go on with your life.

Yeah, yeah, sometimes I just get so fuckin' upset because it's too much for one person.

I understand. My mom just went through this and that was with a big family, lots of support. It's not easy. But when it's over and they're gone, it's really over, there's no getting them back. You might want to enjoy the time you've got left a little bit more.

Yeah, I know, I know. Are you always this understanding?

Who the fuck knows?

***

What's wrong with the boy?

Huh?

What's wrong with the boy? Is he gay?

Not that I'm aware of . . .

Then why is he sending you home at 4:30 in the morning?

Ummmm . . . He's just not that into me.

But you're a fine looking young woman.

So I've heard, thanks.

What is he? Blind?

Nope, he's a poet.

Well, I think there's something wrong with him, sending home someone who looks like you do.

Could very well be, I haven't ruled it out . . . but it could be that I'm a raving bitch.

Nah, I don't believe that. You seem very sweet.

I seem very sweet? Or do I LOOK very sweet?

You look very sweet.

Yeah, it's a curse, but I'm trying to live with it.

But seriously, what's wrong with the boy?

Nothing. Everything. How am I supposed to know?

Well you were there, weren't you?

I don't know. Was I?

Tying Loose Ends . . . Or Crazy Marilyn

Need to finish up on the Maritime Writers' Workshop stuff so I can get onto new things. Well let's see. I closed a bar every night I was there, though I'd be hard-pressed to name them . . . the first Sunday was Old Government House, which technically I didn't get to close down but I was the last straggler to the bus and Rhona had to come drag me outta there; Monday was the James Joyce Pub in the Lord Beaverbrook Hotel; Tuesday was Windsor Castle, the grad house; I believe Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday was all The Taproom (guilty parties might want to correct me if I'm wrong); the second Sunday was Boom, which was an excellent cap to the week. Surprised I didn't see Sandy there on the dancefloor. At some point during the week I met Liz, who is a kick-ass good person that I liked from the second I met her. I also got to hang out some with Karen who is also on the WFNB board and met some other writers I enjoyed a lot. Loved her too! I'm excited about this board thing so far, seems like a good bunch of people.

So on Sunday afternoon Joe, Liz and I went to the Odd Sundays reading at Molly's. I mentioned this in an earlier post. After the readings were over, we were just sitting there minding our own business when this rather elderly and undermedicated woman went completely insane. I'm not even kidding. It was a manic episode of some sort, very loud and aggressive. At first when she attacked Joe I thought she must've been kidding, that they knew each other and this was some sort of act they had going on, because it was just so bizarre. She announced herself as a poet, then accused Joe of laughing at her when she read her poetry, said all this stuff about him not publishing her work, challenging him to do it. Then announced she saw a reporter from one of the local papers, who happened to be a relative of Liz's and was not anywhere near the place. Followed by, "Are you taping this? Is this being recorded?" Like holy paranoia! That's when I knew for sure she was nuts. But she didn't stop there, went on to say about how K.C. Irving paid as much taxes as anyone else, earned every dime he had honestly etc. Other than the Jamaican woman I used to see on the subway all the time in Toronto, I've never seen anyone so nuts. I remember she used to run up to men on the subway, get right in their faces and scream the most lewd sexual commentary, accuse them of doing these things to her in one breath saying she wouldn't let them do it again. Then in the next breath begging them to do something even more lewd and crude. Now that was crazy, but this lady was right up there for sure.

Mood: slowly coming around to clarity as the air in Sackville gets into my brain cells. I know you're all so jealous that I'm not sweltering like the rest of you.
Drinking: Water, water and more water as I try to hydrate after a week of hard drinking
Winamp loaded with every mp3 I own (many thousand) turned on random selection spews forth the following: Smashing Pumpkins, 1979 followed by Fleetwood Mac, Leather & Lace; Peaches, Fuck the Pain Away; Rush, Tom Sawyer; The Cranberries, Zombie; Robbie Williams, Feel; Foreigner, I Want to Know What Love Is; Teenage Head, Disgusteen; Pat Benetar, We Belong; REM, Man on the Moon; Cheap Trick, I Want You to Want Me
Hair: freshly laundered and hanging loose

Because I Need to Post Something & I'm Incoherent

From Andrea

Three things you like about yourself:
- impulsiveness
- adaptability/versatility
- my easy going friendly manner

Three physical things you don't like about yourself:
- I try to love myself, flaws and all

Three things that scare you:
- the state of the world
- spiders
- the Bush family

Three of your everyday essentials:
- coffee
- blogging
- wine

Three things you are wearing now:
- navy tee
- black pants
- sandals

Three of your favorite bands or musical artists:
way too tough! I love everything, my faves change on a daily basis depending on the mood
- U2
- Miles Davis
- Stevie Nicks

Three things you want in a relationship:
- open communication
- trust, honesty & respect
- a healthy sex life

Two truths and a lie:
- I was labelled the "smartest" child in first grade by teachers
- I love celery
- I interviewed Frank McKenna

Three things that turn you on:
- the sound of rain drumming on a tin roof
- the taste of fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate or real whipped cream
- crisp fall air rich with the earthy smell of nature's decay

Three of your favorite hobbies:
- writing
- film
- music


Three things you really want to do right now:
- take an energy pill
- or just go to bed
- eat something

Three careers you'd consider:
- theatre
- film
- political activism

Three places you want to go on vacation:
- Florence
- Amsterdam
- Sydney (Australia, not Nova Scotia)

Three things you want to do before you die:
- get a book published
- see a Broadway show
- explore Europe

People you're throwing this meme to:
- Trish, you're up, go for it!

Mood: warped
Drinking: coffee, black
Listening To: Bon Jovi, The Distance
Hair: in piggy tails

Homecomings

I'm back in Sackville. Unproductive bus ride. No sleep yet. Body swollen with humidity. Was buoyant upon arrival, faded fast with some bad news. Fingers crossed, sending all my positive energy to Miramichi today. All my thoughts are with Stacy.

Coming home is good. I love the way I get excited everytime coming into the Tantramar. The place makes me happy. Love the easy way I feel at home here. After a lifetime of being uncomfortable in my own skin, of never feeling like I belonged, of searching for answers -- it's all coming together.

On a positive note I had some good news, ironic perhaps, but good. Got a little face time with the workshop co-ordinator on Sunday. She had meant to tell me earlier in the week, but we never connected. The scholarship I received was the one from Goose Lane . . . the one the committee gives to the writer they believe has submitted the best writing of all the participants. Nice way to end the workshop.

I read the funeral scene from LiL at the Odd Sundays reading yesterday. Kind words from "real" authors, including William Hawkins. Kinda awesome.

More positive news, I'm doing a workshop in Blackville at the Access Centre for sure. Creative Writing. It's on a Thursday night in September. I'll have more details later. Exciting.

Full stories to follow tomorrow.

Mood: bottoming out
Drinking: fountain pop from Wendy's restaurant from 3 hours ago with all the ice melted
Listening To: Bob Dylan, Fourth Time Around; John Mellencamp, Check It Out from The Lonesome Jubilee Tour (I saw him in the Gardens); Barry White, My Everything; Henry Mancini, Baby Elephant Walk; Rick Springfield, I Need You (which is apparently super rare); Stevie Nicks, Edge of Seventeen; John Mellencamp, Rumble Seat; Bon Jovi, Rich Man Living in a Poor Man's House; Def Leppard, Miss You in a Heartbeat (chronologically, not simultaneously)
Hair: Seriously fucked up . . . very mad scientist

Sightings . . .

Rumor has it that Kellie Underhill has been sighted on York Street at all times of the day and night . . . and may or may not have gone into hiding in the Fredericton downtown with or without two futons . . .

More to follow.

Mood: silly
Drinking: Not today
Listening To: pages flipping
Hair: greasy

Tidbits

Today someone asked me how old I am, guessing me at mid to late twenties. Nothing wrong with that! Apparently I have a youthful glow about me when I'm without make-up, functioning on minimal sleep and living on the red wine diet. Good to know! Perhaps I should incorporate some of this into my daily routine when I get home. I'm already wondering how late the bus will get in . . . whether I'll be able to catch the liquor store in Sackville and grab something a little high-end to cap the week and begin the decompression. And do I ever need to decompress! Quickly. I've got to put BnM to bed as soon as I get there, get something off to the girls for the workshop on Thursday or Friday right away, figure out when they're coming, find a room ... and the nightmare of unpacking! A week's worth of laundry. Cleaning. Cob webs from those crazy spiders. Some necessary decorating. Something for S&G's housewarming party next weekend. Travel arrangements to Blackville. Oh dear God! I just remembered I have to call Marilyn to get together for coffee this week. Jehovah! I'm exhausted and the Energizer Bunny all at the same time.

Reading went well, got the nods and murmurs at the end that you do sometimes when people get it and a good round of applause. I read early, third in fact, then tried not to fall asleep over the two hours it took to get through everyone else. Some very entertaining stuff. I do think I might have fared better in Sue's group based on what her participants read. No genre, very abstract stuff. The people who write for kids really seem to have a lot of fun. It's very warm here so I'm lingering in the air conditioned computer room. But I really should go and do some stuff, prepare for cocktail hour.

The next time I blog I'll be in Sackville! Getting there could be a bitch though . . . but still, I'm looking forward to getting back to real life.

P.S. I think I figured out how I can do the story my way, yet not lose all the people who don't think like me in the process! Can't wait to get started.

The Last Day

It's the last day of the workshop and everyone is ready to go home. I don't actually go home until tomorrow and I'm still not sure what to do about tomorrow, whether I should go to the Odd Sundays reading or not. There's this matter of what to do with my luggage after check-out, before the bus ride. I don't think it's like the train station where I can check my luggage early in the day and roam around freely. Have to see.

Had a great time last night -- great food, company and wine. Doesn't get any better than that. I may have been the drunkest ever though because for the life of me I can't remember the taxi ride back. I remember raiding the refrigerator and finding a bunch of leftover pastry that I scarfed down before crashing . . . but nothing on the taxi driver. Maybe he was just an unmemorable sort of character.

This afternoon I'm reading at the participant reading. People seem really nervous about this, but I'm too numbed with exhaustion and dehydration to get nerves. I'm not reading a scene from the book, even though there are some like the funeral scene that are quite powerful. It's just too down. I would've brought some of the funnier scenes from Denise's Point of View or my call centre story if I had planned for the reading part. All I've got with me is a little creative non-fiction essay/commentary thingy. It suits the mood though because all week we've been talking about characters and stories. Maybe I posted it before when I wrote it because it was one of those middle of the night things that usually end up here, but what the hell, here it is --

The train whistles. I've lost track of how many times it passes through town each day. Not the same train of course, but many trains with many cars, much freight, numerous passengers -- where are they going?

Sheltered in my windowless bedroom, eye to the world outside, the whistle calls me, pulls my mind out of the loft, down the stairs, through the front door, across the field, onto the tracks, and into the passenger car. People sleeping. Murmurs from others. The swaying of the car, the whistle, the lull, the hush.

Everyone of these people are a potential story. I have only to reach out, tap one on the shoulder, force him to turn his head, look her in the eyes, and they will tell me their stories. For now they look away. They look at each other. They look out the window. They sleep. And I float through the aisles like the ghost that I am, passing undetected, too weak or afraid to reach out.

It's an oral piece, comes out sounding probably a bit stronger than it really is . . . I hope. People tend to fixate on that second paragraph where the mind is pulled from the loft and enjoy those images, so I'm hoping it'll be okay. But hey, what do I know? I'm too artistic for the MWW right? Someone make me a t-shirt please! I do remember that part of last night, laughing my guts out at the I'm too artistic song.

I asked some people about the official MWW party last night and apparently 80% of the people left by 10 p.m. another 15% by midnight . . . a few lingering until 1 or 2 a.m. I was apparently missed as a few people wondered where I had been. But I'm so glad I didn't go. This evening there's a social hour and banquet and I'm just blah about the whole thing. It feels like one of those terrible tourism functions or something . . . but I'm probably just being melodramatic. Took some more pictures today of the residence, will post all when I return. This might be my last post until I get home . . . but then again . . .

Mood: really starting to get the hang of this closing the bar every night thing which is so much more fun from the patron perspective
Drinking: food and drink are prohibited in the computer lab, as are small children and pets I would presume
Listening To: a get paid to think psa
Hair: glossy

Can I Go Home Yet?

There is a big ass spider living in the un-co-ed washroom. I don't think he was there the first day. Probably hitched a ride over in someone's suitcase just so he could meet me. He's up really high, just hanging around, but very much alive because he likes to flex his legs at me. Leisurely like, just to let me know that he sees me seeing him. I told him I don't mind if he hangs out up there . . . but if he comes down on the floor, into the stall or shower, down the hall or anywhere near my closet . . . he will die. I think we've come to an understanding. I'm NOT bringing him home with me, though I'm sure the place will have a few buddies waiting for me when I get there.

I miss Sackville. Miss my bed. Oh God, I can't wait to get into my own bed with my own pillow! I may stay there a day or so, living off crackers and cheese because I will not have any energy to go buy food, watching fluffy television so I can drift in and out of sleep and it won't matter if I miss the ending or the beginning. I could totally handle a Cornation Street marathon! . . . And no, I'm not even kidding.

So, here I am -- it's Friday! I think my classmates picked up on a change in my posture or something, because a couple of them approached me earlier to tell me how engaged they are with my story and writing style, that I should continue and finish the novel. Hmmm. Maybe they read my blog. One of the guys actually suggested I should write poetry, which is something I've been thinking about but I'm reluctant to do because I don't know anything about it. He suggested I take Ross Leckie's class here at UNB . . . never going to happen, plus I'm not ready to move again yet. He thought that maybe I already was a poet because of how obscure, dense and tight my writing is . . . are these words positive feedback? I think tight is a good thing, but I'm being told I'm too tight and I just don't believe that's even possible. I think it's possible to write the one sentence, phrase or even word that says it all. I keep wondering what's happening in Sue Goyette's group. Are there as many fantasy genre writers in that group?

But I'm done wallowing in this muck. I'm doing what I'm doing and I'll continue to do it. End of story. I don't mean to sound like I'm complaining all the time or that I'm not having a good time or anything like that. I'm having a fantastic time! Closed the Taproom again last night. Didn't get to bed until almost 4 am. I have supper plans today. All is good in the world. I'm having these really interesting little episodes with the cab drivers who bring me back to the residence every night. But I see my time runs short, so I'll tell you about that later.

Mood: Hollow
Drinking: water
Listening To: a lot of whispering
Hair: holding up surprisingly well

On Being Too Artistic . . .

I didn't take that whole being too artistic comment very well yesterday I came to realise last night as I scarfed back a burger and wine. I went to Harry Thurston's reading at the lighthouse but I just couldn't get into it, couldn't focus . . . because I was a little miffed I think. I told Joe that they basically trashed me, told me I wasn't a writer and I should go home. I was being funny, sarcastic . . . but honestly that's kind of how it felt, even though there were good comments and everyone thinks I've got tremendous writing skill and an excellent story to develop. It's hard for that stuff to get in when the very heart of the project is under attack and I'm being encouraged to completely revamp and go more commercial ... now I wonder what sort of comments I would've got in Sue's class ... So, I was a little miffed and really needed a break from the workshop, not to mention some real food. We went to a restaurant where Claude works, excuse me, Jar (when in Rome . . . ) Of course Jar works days and this was evening but the waitress said he was supposed to come back later so we stayed and I got a burger with fries. I was dissecting my burger, ripping it up slowly, studying every morsel when Joe gives me this look like "What the hell?" and nods at my plate. I was quick to say I was "artistically eating." Joe thought it looked more like playing with my food but . . . That's when I started to figure out that I was a bit more upset than I had previously thought. And the more I drank, the more it came out, so that by the time Jar arrived I announced that I was here for a workshop but they were mean to me, hated me in fact, and trying to drive me out. In this melodramatic way I eventually worked through it I think. I feel better today. I'm not changing my story. I'm not writing it chronologically. And I don't care. If it doesn't get published, if nobody ever reads it and understands what's going on, so be it! I'm doing it my way and it's a very well thought out and planned way. Every word has a reason for being there, every piece has a reason to be in the order the way it is . . . if I don't want to describe what characters look like, I'm not going to. And I'm prepared to deal with the obscurity that this will most likely bring to me. It's okay. Too artistic! Imagine that. As if such a thing could even exist.

I had a good time last night. I needed some pepping up and I felt much better at 3 a.m. as I stumbled into the dorm armed with a cd of the episode of Joe's radio show that I was on and a signed copy of one of his art projects, a book with a wonderful concept and some funny poems that make me laugh out loud.

I'm supposed to try and get together later this afternoon with Jar, maybe Joe too and a girl I met last night named Liz. So far I haven't been able to connect with anyone to shore up times, places, anything . . . though I know where they live and could go stalking I suppose . . . (kidding, a running joke from last night for those who were not there).

Mood: determined
Drinking: way too much on this trip
Listening To: damn computer noises
Hair: flattened to my scalp

A Time to Write

So I'm back after my session with Alan on my story. The good news is that I actually have a story people want to know about. I can also write really tightly. And I have a good ability to set the mood of a piece . . . the bad news is that nobody had any idea what was going on . . . I'm too obscure . . . I'm too artsy . . . Maybe I should start writing poetry. Although nobody suggested that, I'm just thinking it seems logical. Anyway, I got some feedback and now I have a kind of plan on how to proceed. Alan thinks I should tell the story chronologically . . . I hear that a lot lately it seems . . . but chronological is just so boring isn't it? . . . Maybe not, maybe it's the logical way. I guess I'll just continue writing my tight little mini-scenes as I've been doing then go back and fill in the details I tend to leave out because they are of no interest to me but will be of interest to readers, then order the pieces chronologically and see what I've got . . . Can I do this in time to enter for the Richards Prize? . . . an excellent question and I'm looking at some really intense hard work if I want to pull it off.

Anyway enough about that I'm sure you all want to know what else I've been up to. Yesterday was Day 2 of the workshop. I apologise because I have for all intents and purposes forgotten that I even own a camera let alone that it is with me at all times in my bag. So, no pics from yesterday at all. Robyn Sarah gave the morning lecture at Memorial Hall on the topic "Poetry's Bottom Line." It was interesting. She talked about oral tradition and the academic elitism of poetry. She thinks it would be a wonderful thing if they brought recitation back into the classroom. That poetry isn't just for poets, academics, and intellectuals. She read some poems written by children in grades 3-5 that was utterly amazing, absolutely unbelievable. She said all children are natural poets, and now I believe her. It was a good session and then we went into our workshop groups for an hour and half. Alan talked a lot about his mentor, Alistair Macleod, and his repetitious way of sharing the fundamentals of good writing. It was an interesting story. Alan said that Alistair always told the story of the cheese sandwich. That your story is competing with a cheese sandwich. Any little thing that pulls the reader out of the story or allows them to get lost and they will put the story down, go into the kitchen, make a cheese sandwich and never pick the story up again. In a sense you're not competing with great books or the leopards that Sue Goyette talked about on Monday, but you're competing with a cheese sandwich -- which is a terrible opponent to be beaten by! I imagine processed cheese food slices, dry, on white bread . . . so difficult to swallow, gummy . . . blech!

The afternoon yesterday was open and I spent most of it here in the computer room, blogging, answering email, etc. I also laid down for awhile and wrote a half page on another new story idea that I have floating around. I showered again while everyone had supper and then headed up to Memorial Hall for Janet McNaughton's reading. She writes for young adults . . . and what great interesting books she does! Frightening stuff, huge messages, fantasy, gender role reversals . . . just jam-packed with things. And very passionate about her genre. She was delightful to listen to and inspiring in her Q&A. After the reading we went to Windsor Castle, the Grad House bar, and again I ended up closing the place down long after all the other workshop participants had left and then ended up talking outside the dorm for another half hour or so before finally heading inside to bed. I've lost weight from this schedule. My clothes fit differently than just last week, which is shocking and kinda wonderful all at the same time, though I'm not so naive as to think it won't all come back as soon as I get home again and back on my normal schedule. They had great red wine at Alden Nowlan's house and it's just so surreal to be there with pictures of him everywhere. I ventured upstairs to the washroom when the one on the ground floor was occupied. I had never been upstairs before. I wanted to look around more but there was a student up there working on a computer and I didn't want to disturb him. In the upstairs co-ed washroom there is a cartoonish pencil drawing of Alden, naked, sitting on the toilet. You can't see anything of consequence though because of the HUGE typewriter on his lap. I got a good laugh out of that. If I end up back there again some night I must remember to take a picture.

Tonight we are heading downtown for a public reading at the Lighthouse Deck by Harry Thurston. Many of the other participants are going on a Riverboat Cruise after the reading. I'm not going though. I don't enjoy boats so much. Not sure where I'll end up or whether I'll just come back early and get some much needed sleep. There is so much to absorb this week already and much more on the way. I'm getting so many good ideas and learning a lot about the art of novel writing. I like my group a lot. I'm enjoying reading their work, a lot of which is fantasy type stuff that I don't normally read, so it's really nice to have that opportunity. There's some sort of QWERTY party happening some night this week . . . not sure when, and Mark Jarman's party still to come. Plus Molly's on Sunday to consider. Still lots happening.

Anyway, I've got to get back. I'll try to write again tomorrow.

Sucking it Up

In a half hour the afternoon session starts and I'm terrified! TERRIFIED! Today we're critting my piece and I fear I've made a mistake bringing this particular piece with me . . . it could go badly.

On another note, I just learned last night that there are participant readings in Memorial Hall on Saturday and everyone is required to read . . . that means me . . . and I am ill-prepared and have nothing with me only the most complicated convuluted section of my novel that exists, which isn't likely to translate well into the oral at this point in time. GOD! What am I doing here?

Gotta run now. Be back later with more details.

Mood: Scared out of my mind
Drinking: water
Listening To: really squeaky chairs
Hair: holding up

Day 1 . . . Because Sunday didn't Count

I came into the computer room to blog and check email because to me it feels as if I've been away FOREVER! Like days have passed since I last blogged. I even dug out my itinerary so I wouldn't get confused as I recounted my adventures . . . and then I noticed that it's only been ONE day, just one. Wow! How will I survive this week? It's like going on one of those crazy all-inclusive Cuba vacations where all you do is drink . . . except here I'm working too. Anyway, on to the update! I know you've been waiting with baited breath.

The showers have curtains yes, not open prison-style . . . but still pretty open. And thankfully not being used for co-ed this week, just female. So far my showering during the supper hour thing has been working out well.

I don't know where the law building is . . . hmmm . . . is this marked on my map? I will have to see if I can find this. I have found Tim Horton's though, which is extremely exciting although it's all the way to hell and back up the hill . . . it's no wonder all these university types here look like they are starving to death . . . us writers literally are starving to death on this cafeteria food plus all the walking up and down hill . . . what a great crash diet just before Stacy's wedding!

Anyway onward . . .

Sunday night after I left the computer lab I went back to the residence and sat in the lounge talking with a lady from Nova Scotia about writing and electronic publishing. Then I went to bed and nearly froze to death because there is some sort of super cool draft in my room . . . I'm the only one complaining about being chilly though, other people are dying from the heat. I slept fitfully, woke WAY early before my alarm, got up and went to the first morning lecture at Memorial Hall. Sue Goyette started things off on an upbeat positive note with a session called "A Creative Writing Vita-Boost." She spoke for about an hour and took questions from the floor but the main point I came away with I guess is that what we're doing is important. Writing matters. The world needs people like us to make art. Writing isn't about publishing -- publishing has nothing to do with writing. Writing is about the art, about creation, about joy and magic . . . she said a lot of great things . . . but I see I've left my notebook in my room so I don't have the benefit of my notes, I'm just going on what I remember. It was a good session.

When it ended I went on a coffee run with a guy from my group to the Tim Horton's at the top of the hill. He knows his way around the university so I was glad to have the company and a guide to the building where our group sessions take place. I'm in Alan Cumyn's fiction group. There are six of us, four girls, two guys and Alan. I workshopped with Alan last fall at the Nowlan Fest and really enjoyed him. He's got a very zen-like personality, very low-key, laid back, soothing almost. He studied under Alistair Macleod at Windsor University, has 7 or 8 published novels under his belt, and has led the fiction group at this workshop before. He's good. He knows what he's talking about and he's got a way about him that is very supportive and nurturing while still being very focused on finding out what isn't working in a piece and improving it. So yesterday morning we had our first session and we did some writing exercises.

Then we broke for lunch . . . sandwiches and vegetable soup . . . then back into our groups for another hour and a half where we workshopped two of the participants pieces. It happened that the men volunteered to go first. One is a Grad student here, the other a CPA from the Fredericton area. One was a short story, the other an excerpt from a fantasy novel in progress. It was a good session. I learned some things that I can now take to my novel. We're focusing a lot on novel writing because most of the members of my group are working on their first one. So this is excellent! Just what I needed.

We broke at 3 p.m. and I went back to my room, laid down, tried to read, tried to nap, couldn't do any of it so I ended up writing two pages on a new story that's been rolling around my head lately. That was exciting! I've got some good ideas coming out of me, stuff burning in my belly. It feels good.

I showered while everyone else was at supper and then I left walking to the James Joyce Pub at the Lord Beaverbrook Hotel. (Was Philip in town yesterday by any chance?) It's a LONG walk really. I went pretty steady and quickly and still it took me a good 25 minutes. Thankfully it was all downhill, but I knew going in that there was no way in hell I was going to walk back up the hill. I got there early enough to get a good seat close to the stage area where Alan was going to give his reading. If you ever get the chance to see him read, take it. He's extremely entertaining. We laughed so hard and had such a good time. He read from three different works starting with a bit from a novel about a soldier in the First World War, then an excerpt from a steamy sex piece in progress and finishing with an excerpt from one of his children's novels. It was a diverse collection and he picked really great parts. The place was packed too, with participants, other local writers, hotel guests, and locals who just go there to drink . . . and everyone was quiet and enjoyed the reading, which says a lot because sometimes these things can go bad pretty quickly in a public place where people aren't necessarily there for the reading. It's a testament to his ability to capture an audience and tell a story.

I sat with some people from my group and some poets, got to know people I didn't know a bit better, caught up on the news with others that I did know. Eventually all the other workshop participants called it a night . . . but not me of course. I ended up closing the place and not getting to bed until almost three. Had a fabulous time though, well worth the inevitable dry mouth this morning. There's nothing like getting pissy faced drunk and talking into the wee hours about writerly things.

I'm looking forward to the reading this evening. It's Janet McNaughton, who writes for children, and it's on campus at Memorial Hall. I suspect the drinks will be happening at Windsor Castle this evening . . . and maybe I'll go . . . it will be cheaper than last night, Alden Nowlan's house, interesting conversation . . . we'll see. Maybe I should take the night off, get some sleep, pace myself . . . afterall there is still Mark Jarman's party (which I've heard through the grapevine are notoriously wild and crazy) to contend with on Friday night and the closing banquet on Saturday evening . . . so the question becomes can I keep this up all week and still have anything left for the weekend? . . . without drugs . . .

There's also the Odd Sundays reading at Molly's on Sunday afternoon . . . open mic . . . the last bus to Sackville leaves at 6 p.m. every day . . . hmmm . . . all good things to think about.

In other news I've taken more photos, figured out how to use the camera finally, and now keep forgetting I have it when interesting things happen . . . I'll try to be more diligent and will have tons of pics to post upon my return I'm sure. I should probably save some room on the disc for the weekend stuff. It's a week about pacing it seems. I'll try to get in again tomorrow to tell you all about today and tonight.

Mood: Tired . . . but happy
Drinking: Nothing
Listening To: Some really heavy breather sitting behind me . . . it's kinda scary
Hair: ponytailed up by day, coming down for the night

Arrived Alive

got up at the crack of dawn this morning to pack (yes, I was supposed to have that done yesterday . . . but . . . ) finish up loose ends and leave for Freddy. Ended up rushing. I packed EVERYTHING! And still this evening I had a hard time finding an outfit to wear to the opening ceremony. Got to the bus station and had to wait almost 25 minutes because the bus was late . . . realised during that time, listening to locals converse with each other, that Sackvillers have an accent much like the twangy accent of people from Doaktown . . . interesting . . . how very Nova Scotia of them!

On the ride to Moncton I worried that the driver was falling asleep. I could see him in the mirror and he really seemed to be dozing off, head nodding on the chest. My concerns were solidified by the fact that the bus seemed to be lilting to the left and the right like a small ship in the water. I didn't bring my sea legs and was rather concerned. When we got on in Sackville a woman asked the driver if her teenage daughter was going to have to change buses in Moncton, he said yes. She then asked in that so friendly Sackville way if he would make sure her daughter got on the right bus. He said no. . . . No if's, and's, but's or apologies, just no. He said he'd announce over the speaker to get on the bus to his right or left and it would be clear. Now I thought this girl had a ticket to Fredericton, like me . . . but she did not get on the bus that I did when we switched in Moncton . . . in fact she didn't get on any bus that I could see . . . just stood there . . . not seeming to know where to go or what to do . . . or else she was just taking a breather and got on her bus when I missed it. So, why didn't I speak to the child? See which bus? Find out for sure? . . . I don't really know. I was just so tired and uncertain myself on my first trip to Freddy by bus that I couldn't take anyone else on, let alone a teenage girl . . . is that terrible? . . . Plus I knew we weren't the only connection to Fredericton that day . . . if she missed the bus, another would be along . . . okay . . . so I should've helped. I know that now. My guilt tells me it's so.

I arrived okay and on time, checked into my dorm (which is not bad) met with my group and instructor, then showered (in a co-ed OPEN facility where I was pretty uncomfortable) and got ready for the opening ceremony tonight at Government House. Always a good time there. Lots of wine and snackables (chocolate covered strawberries that were the bomb!). This time I got a personal intro with the host himself, the Lieutenant-Governor who's name is too complicated for me to remember how to spell right now. But he's a wonderful man, a great artist. There were many readings and much entertainment. Rhona had to tell me to get my ass back on the bus when it was time to leave . . . I was having such a good time. :-)

Tomorrow the workshop begins in earnest and I'm looking forward to it. I've put myself on the line bringing my novel here . . . with grad students and successful authors in my group . . . the whole thing could be potentially devastating . . . potentially life altering . . . potentially fantastic. It's all up in the air right now.

I took a few pics tonight and will post them when I get home or if I find a way to download them off my camera here. I'll try to keep blogging.

Mood: Slightly intoxicated
Drinking: nothing now . . . much wine earlier . . . and NOT the cheap stuff, the government issue
Listening To: keyboards clacking, beeping on screens, printing . . . this is a computer lab
Hair: Stunning if I do say so myself

Ain't That the Truth!

Your Career Type: Artistic

You are expressive, original, and independent. Your talents lie in your artistic abilities: creative writing, drama, crafts, music, or art. You would make an excellent: Actor - Art Teacher - Book Editor Clothes Designer - Comedian - Composer Dancer - DJ - Graphic Designer Illustrator - Musician - Sculptor - Writer The worst career options for your are conventional careers, like bank teller or secretary.

What's Your Ideal Career?

Pee Ess

I smell FANFUCKINTASTIC!! :-)

Eve of Destruction

Spent the day preparing myself . . . laundry, tweezing, waxing, getting a hair cut, dyeing . . . gonna look great! Will that wow them? . . . Not friggin' likely. Hopefully the story will kick in and someone will get what I'm driving at. Still nervous. Still excited. Basically freaked out. Oh well. This is it then.

Mood: Smidgen Giddy
Drinking: Wine . . . The good stuff (Wolfe Blass)
Listening To: The rain on the roof
Hair: Cut, dyed, smoothed . . . it's beautiful!

I Believe When I Fall In Love This Time It Will Be Forever

Have you seen that Moosehead Light commercial where the guy has the cottage that he loans to a friend who needs a place, a girlfriend that he gives to a guy who just broke up, and so on . . . but when it comes to the last beer in the cooler he snags it for himself? Seen that one yet? I have such a huge crush on that guy!! There's just something about him, his facial expressions . . . what a cutie! Don't you think? Anybody else notice him? . . . He reminds me of someone, but I can't put my finger on it.

I just finished watching the movie Joyride on tv, hadn't seen it . . . could've lived without seeing it, but it was okay I guess. It's another exciting Friday night in Sackville. Every weekend someone in the neighborhood either sets off fireworks or fires off shots . . . I like to think it's fireworks . . . but it does sound a lot like gunshot. Makes me a little nervous. A half-dozen shots about a half hour ago. Crazy rednecks! I mean yes, lots of shooting going on around the Miramichi too . . . but I'll take the rednecks I know anyday over the ones I don't.

I still remember the night Teddy was shooting, gonna kill everyone. One of those clear nights where you can hear every sound for miles. They might as well have been right in the yard, the voices were so clear. I could hear him coming out the lane after them boys, shooting, yelling "Come on you cocksuckers!" Bang! "I'm gonna shoot yuz!" Bang! It was the closest I ever came to calling the police but I thought it only make it worse, that someone would get killed for sure if the cops showed up with weapons too. Still with Sherry and Gary living right there I was worried about stray bullets. And they slept through the whole thing! Which is crazy!

Aww, poor Teddy, never stood a chance though. I used to babysit him. They were the worse behaved children in the history of children I bet . . . although some of those kids you see on those nanny tv shows might give them a run for their money. Even then Teddy wasn't above coming at me with the gun or a machete. I remember him having a machete in bed with him that was longer than he was. Sleeping with it like a teddy bear. Little boy with the big man's voice. His older sister would just stand in the middle of the kitchen and screech . . . for hours . . . just screech for no reason. Beejay was my favourite, couldn't talk, always hiding behind my legs, just loved to be hugged and picked up. Craving attention. She pulled at my heartstrings.

Their mother would tell me she was just going to town shopping. I'd go up at 8 or 9 in the morning and never see her again until 3 or 4 the next morning. They'd all land back after a dance or something, have a big party or a fight in the dooryard depending on the mood. I was always nervous when Lyle and Marty would show up plastered . . . showing off . . . just couldn't be up to them. I'd always walk home real quick. Ironic to think of such things now . . . after having been with Marty for years . . . with Teddy, Beejay and their mother gone. Must be two years now for Teddy . . . When they start shooting around here, my first instinct is to listen for that gruff voice but in a blink I remember where I am, that these aren't the boys from the road, and Teddy's gone God love him.

Busy day tomorrow to get ready to leave on Sunday. I went out and bought some supplies to take with me . . . juice boxes, cereal bars, candy . . . In the candy department cheap is not the way to go, very disappointed with my 99 cent bag of toffees . . . I could've splurged another 50 cents or even less and got the real thing . . . oh well, I'm a poor person now, living off cheap candy. I might not be able to blog while I'm away . . . but I'm going to try. If not I'll take notes and come back with lots of stuff I'm sure. New for me, I'll actually have a camera for this trip! That could be interesting. Though I still have not read the instructions and so have not figured out how to get a nice clear and unfuzzy shot . . . maybe I'll take the manual with me.

Mood: Antsy
Drinking: Pop
Listening To: Eyes of a Stranger, The Payolas
Hair: has an appointment to get snipped in the a.m.

Carnage

At least 33 dead in London this morning as a series of four terrorist bombings shook the city.

33 dead and we care. We care big time. Because these are people like you and me. People we can relate to, heading out to work or school or daycare in the morning rush hour. These people die and we stop and take notice, a shudder of relief washes over us as we thank God for our own safety, tears drip down our faces as we grieve for the dead, sympathize with the families left behind.

In the coming days every newspaper, news magazine, television and radio station will analyze this item from every conceivable angle, deliver previously unseen amateur photos and footage taken by tourists, put names and faces and life stories to the lost, dub the whole event with some cute catch-phrase that'll stick throughout history . . .

33 people, maybe a few more . . . and all the eyes of the civilized world turn toward London . . .

. . .

This many children die in Africa every two minutes . . . 40 kids, every 2 minutes . . . and we don't give a flying fuck . . . I'm sick of the media. I'm sick of the naysayers, the pessimists . . . I'm sick of it all.

My Writing Workshop

I've been asked to conduct at least one (maybe more) writing workshop at the Community Access Centre in Blackville this fall. This is something new for me. I gave a workshop to a bunch of kids doing a print magazine at the Fellowship Centre about a dozen years ago . . . I did an exercise once during a presentation at the Mighty Staff Meeting . . . but other than that . . . I've taken a lot of workshops.

If ever I'm going to become sustainable as a writer I'll have to give workshops. That's just the way it goes. Workshops, readings, sales go hand-in-hand. So this is as good a way to practice as any other. It will be a volunteer gig for me, a free workshop for participants. But if I could get my confidence level up in this area then this would be something I'd have that I could market and sell.

So I'm looking at a 2-3 hour gig some evening or on a Saturday (probably on a Saturday given that I'll have to go home to do it, but whatever works). Basically I gave the co-ordinator three different areas that I'm confident I can undertake and asked her to pick the one that would appeal to the most people. These are the choices I gave her:

1. Creative Writing This would suit people who are interested in writing fiction or poetry, whether it's sci-fi, romance, writing for children, rhyming poems or free verse, song lyrics, etc. Anything creative like that. The session would focus on getting started, learning the basics. We'd do some writing exercises to stimulate their creativity. These would be exercises that help generate new ideas for stories, characters, poems, etc. and they'd be able to take this knowledge home and use it too. I'd also touch on things they need to know in order to get published. Tips & tricks. And in keeping with the Access Centre theme we'd take a look at literary ezines, eBooks, and serial publishing online.

2. Non-fiction This would be good for people who want to write but they're more into essays than fiction or poetry. It would also be good for anyone who owns a business because this could be a way for them to generate their own free publicity. In this session I'd talk about how everyone can write articles, especially for online publications like Bread 'n Molasses and other online magazines. Everyone has a speciality. We'd do exercises to determine what their areas of expertise are and then narrow it down to a single topic for an article. I'd teach them how to structure an article, how to write it, and what to do once it's written.

3. Life Writing This is wide open as far as who might find it interesting because life writing is for everyone. So basically this would be good for anyone who has any interest in writing, and publishing as well I guess. Life writing can be journaling or blogging, memoir, etc. We'd look at how everyone has a story. Nobody's stories are the same and no story is ever wrong. How life writing can be therapeutic. We'd do exercises to help them get started, finding their voices, unlocking memories, etc. I could teach them how to set up their own blogs. Discuss turning a blog or journal entry into a personal essay for publication in an ezine. And take a look at when blogs become books or eBooks (and even movies!)

I'm not rooting for any one in particular, I can get equally excited about each topic. I guess I'll have to wait and see which one she thinks will fly. So readers from the Blackville area the big question is . . . would you take any of these workshops with me leading them? They are free afterall. Any of them sound interesting at all? Or are these synopses too vague? Comment people, comment.

Mood: Upbeat
Drinking: Coffee!! Give me Coffee!
Listening To: Bob Seger, Turn the Page
Hair: I'm calling the salon today . . . really I am