Wednesday, November 30, 2011

How Vain Are Writers?

     What is it in us writers that make us do it? That’s easy. I write because I like to write; it’s a hobby. I genuinely want to know what will happen to the characters I create. But why do we share what we write? Why bother putting it out there? Is it just vanity or is there something else there?

     I think that no matter what, writers are vain. How else can you explain the idea that whatever it is you write should be read by millions of people? The idea that what you have to say is valuable enough that people should pay to hear it is vain.

     But is it vanity alone? I think that there is also a little bit of insecurity in the mix as well. At least for me. At this stage I’m still incredibly unsure of my ability. There are the rare days when I feel really good and I think “Yea, I’m doin it!” and others when I feel like shit and think “What am I even doing?”. Most of the time though, I’m oscillating between the two extremes. So yes, part of what I want is to be reassured of how freaking awesome I am.Pathetic, I know.

     That being said, I don’t just do it for the kudos. While those are great, in the end, I share because I really do like my stories and I think that they are worth reading…although I haven´t quite reached the million mark yet.

     So what is it? Vanity? Self delusion? Neediness? Does it really matter?    

Monday, November 28, 2011

The Arts in School

     Does anyone else think that schools are grossly unfair for the creative individual? Schools focus mostly on three forms of intelligence; logical, linguistic and bodily, which are, undoubtedly important. But what about other intelligences? What about music, or art or writing?
     I remember in school my classmates would always complain about having to write one poem or short story a year... A YEAR!
 “It’s not fair, some people just can’t write a poem,” they would say. And while the assumption that some people just can’t write is very true, the part about it being unfair is not. Some people just can’t write a good essay either. Why is it so bad to give credit to the creative kid?
     What about music? I don’t know about you, but in my music class, we would stand around a piano, singing old folk songs from ancient duotangs. It was brutal. I won’t even get started about art.
     Things get better once you get to highschool, you have more options and better resources but by then people aren’t interested. Why should they be? They’ve seen for years that the arts aren’t important or valued and so they don’t care.  

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Bedside Manner


     “Oh, Ronny, I’m so sorry,” cried Jackie, throwing her arms around Ron’s neck. “If there is anything I can do.” She had just arrived with a basket full of muffins and a tin-box of cookies.
     “Thanks, Jacklyn. It means a lot that your here,” Ron replied, giving her a weak pat on the back.
     “How could I not be? Me and Rebecca were so close.”
     “I know...I” His head fell into his hands. She wondered if he was going to start crying. “I just can’t help...”
     “Oh no, Ronny, don’t do that!” He looked up at her, confused. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened, no one could have seen it coming. I’m her best friend and I didn’t realize...oh Ronny! We have to support each other, help each other through this. She would have wanted that.”
     He nodded and replaced his head in his hands. He hadn’t left his wife’s side for days except to use the toilet and grab a cigarette. He held out hope that she was still in there, waiting. He talked her as long as possible without crying.
     Jackie moved around the side of the bed and sat down on the edge, between Rebecca and Ron. She took Rebecca’s hand in hers and stroked it gently.
     “I just can’t stand to see her like this.” She threw herself across Rebecca’s torso, shaking through her sobs. Ron went to her and pulled her up again by her shoulders.
     “We have to try and keep it together. Like you said, she wouldn’t want-“. He stopped when she put her head against his chest and pulled him close. He reached a hand up, about to stroke her head but stopped himself.
     “I...I’m gonna go for a smoke. You stay here, I like for her to have company. You can talk to her. I don’t know if she can hear...but I like to try.”
     “Of course, go ahead. Take a muffin,” she called as he walked out the door. She turned back to Rebecca and took her hand again.
     “Oh, Rebecca, how could you?” she said as she wiped the tears from her eyes.
     ‘You had so much going for you: the perfect husband, a beautiful home, great job. You had a life that any woman would want. Who wouldn’t be a little jealous? But it wasn’t enough, was it?” The tears had stopped.  
     ‘How could you think that killing yourself would fix anything?”
     ‘I guess you didn’t stop to think what you were doing, who was going to get hurt. You always were selfish.’ Her lips curled into a sneer as she spoke. Her grip on Rebecca’s hand was tightening like a vice.
     “Don’t you think of anyone but yourself?” She tossed Rebecca’s hand aside like a sticky candy wrapper.
     “And what will poor, lonely Ronny do without you?’ She leaned over Rebecca.
‘I suppose,” she whispered into her ear, “I’ll just have to be there for him in any way I can. In whatever...capacity. After all, what are friends for?’
She sat up again, eyes shining. A smile spread slowly across her face. “I got my hair done today. At Micheal’s. Isn’t that where you used to go?” She flipped her hair. “I’ve gone blonde, it looks great! I wish I could say the same for yours, sweetie. Your roots are starting to show.” She giggled to herself. “I think Ronny likes it. Mine I mean. He did always prefer blondes.”
     ‘This could be our second chance. In time, we can look at this, unfortunate matter, as a blessing in disguise. The dark cloud to our silver lining. Wouldn’t that be great? You wouldn’t have to feel guilty anymore for what you did.’
     ‘You can be in peace,’
     ‘Oh, I wonder what this plug does?”

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Wasp's Nest

     “God, that´s big.” Davey said, so much in awe that he actually spoke plainly the words he was thinking.
     “What’d I tell you about using the Lord’s name in vain, boy?” Jack said. “Anyway, it’s not that big.” 
     The wasp’s nest hung from the tall, rusted clothes line that sat, forgotten behind the old shed. The two men stood in the crowding darkness, a can gripped tightly in each gloved hand. The tranquility surrounding the hive belied the thriving life within it.     
     “I haven’t seen a bigger one.”
     “Yea well, I guess there’s a lot you don´t see with your nose crammed in them books.”
     “Those books.”
     “We´ll have to move quickly or we´ll lose the little light we got left.” They started towards the nest.
     Davey stopped and turned, “Maybe we should go at it from opposite sides. So they don’t all exit the other side and attack us.”
     “Nah” Jack replied, throwing his toothpick to the ground. “Go over there a bit, we can have a go at it from an angle.”
     “Isn’t that essentially what I said?”
     “Quit stalling, ga head.” Davey mumbled an angry retort that he hoped was loud enough. They inched their way toward the nest, listening, as the active hum grew louder. Jack threw up a hand telling Davey to stop. He chastised himself for responding so quickly.
     “One…” Jack mouthed, making little sound. “two… three…GO” They lunged forward, cans aimed at the nest, fingers pressing hard upon the valve, dusting the nest with poisoned mist. The sound of fury rose over that of the cans as wasps emerged from their home under siege. Most fell from the air only centimetres from the nest wall. The spraying became more erratic as wasps started coming from wider angles. The men’s arms flailed back and forth in a dance without rhythm. Jack felt a soft tickle on the back of his neck and a quick, stinging pain. Davey was stung on his forearm twice before shouting the retreat.
     “Jack, we can´t- we gotta go!” He turned and ran for the house. Jack also gave up the fight and followed a few steps behind. He reached the house first, threw open the screen door and pushed Davey inside. A wasp had followed them into the house. It buzzed around Jack’s head. He narrowly missed another stinging when Davey swatted it away and sprayed it. They panted heavily, trying to catch their breath. Jack because he was a life-long smoker and Dave because he rarely found time apart from studying to exercise. Jack straightened himself and sprayed the wasps, poised to attack, on the screen.
     “Did they get ya?” Jack asked, holding a hand over his neck.
     “Yea, coupla times”. Davey reached his arms out showing his war wounds proudly.
     “Told ya ta wear a sweater.” He responded, grabbing sting cream from the cabinet. “Here use this.”
     “I knew we should have gone at opposite sides. I told you.”
     “And we woulda sprayed eachother as much as the wasps. This stuff ain´t exactly oganic”
     “Organic, it’s organic.”
     “It ain’t good for you anway.”
     “I don’t like this stuff, where´s the other one. The one mom used to buy.”
     “I think there’s some in Kelly’s old room.” Jack said, looking away from him. He opened the fridge and grabbed a beer while Davey left the room.
     A few minutes later, Davey stormed back through the kitchen door. Jack sat with a beer in his hand and another, sitting across the table. He walked past the unopened beer.
     “Jack, what’s going on in Kelly’s room?”
     “We painted it.”
     “And the bed… and her desk?”
     “There’s a family in town that don’t have much. Thought their little girl could get more use out of it. Why don’t you sit down, Davey?”
     “Christ, how many times do I have to tell you. Don’t call me Davey.”
     “David then.  We´re turning it into an office. Somewhere I can keep my files and where your mom can…relax.”
     “And when Kelly comes home?”
     Jack looked up at him. “She ain’t coming back David. She don’t wanna be here.”
     “So you´re just gonna erase her? Like she was never here.”
     “It ain’t healthy, having all her stuff sitting there like she just left for a pack o' smokes. You just came home yesterday, you dunno what it was like. Your mom spendin all her time in there, talking about her constantly. You know she used to sleep in there some nights? ”
     David hadn’t known. But he was damned if he was going to let Jack see that. 
     “You think I made her have a goddam nervous breakdown?”
     “You think I wanted her to leave?” Jack shouted, finally losing his temper and stood so they were face to face.
     “Didn’t you? Admit it. She was never good enough, was she? Neither of us were.”
     “It’s not my fault she left.”
With that David lost what little control he had and swung his fist at Jack. It landed on his jaw with a dull thud. Jack sent a right hook into David’s cheek bone followed by a swift punch to his stomach. David doubled over and fell to the floor, gasping for breath. Jack dropped his hands, disappointed. He should know better by now.
     “Come on. You´re ok.” He said, kneeling down. David sat up, coughing and Jack helped him into his chair. From the freezer, he grabbed a small bag of peas that he tossed to David. “Put that on your face.”
     “Yea, I know.” He spat as Jack sat down.
     “Probably shouldn’t tell your mom ‘bout this.”
     “Yea, ok. How’s she doing?”
     “She’s gone out to buy hamburger. Making meatloaf for dinner. Your favourite. That’s more than she done for awhile.”
     “Good, I- That´s good.” Leaning back in his chair, he pressed the frozen peas to his face.
      “That wasn’t true you know; what you said.”
     “Ok,” he responded, tossing the bag of peas on to the table. He cracked open the beer and took a drink. “That’s good. Where’d you get it?”
     “Dougie, he finally started his brewery.”
     “Right. Jamie said he’d take me down there, show me around sometime.”
     “Oh yea? Didn’t wanna go with me last year. Said it was stupid.”
     “I don’t remember that.”
     “Yea well...don’t  matter. We oughtta go out and check on that nest.”

      The ground was littered with squirming bodies. The nest looked abandoned. There was no visible or audible activity around it. They stood beside eachother, considering the nest.
     “Let’s spray the shit out of it again and be done with it.”
     “Sounds good to me, son.” 

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

¿¿Biggest Surprise So Far??

I would have to say that, since starting to write seriously, my biggest surprise has come in the form of the content I write. I used to write a lot of literary, general fiction stuff but not so much this time around. I never would have guessed it but I love writing horror. 

I've been a super chicken-shit ever since I can remember. Seriously, I was like 10 when I stopped sleeping with the light on and waking my sister in the middle of the night by dropping textbooks on her from the top bunk.  

I blame my over active imagination. I remember, once, being absolutely convinced that the floor was going to swallow me whole because I had just watched an episode of "The Outer Limits" in which a house eats people. I swore I could even feel the floor moving, priming itself for it's next meal (and first since technically we hadn't lost anyone yet to our hungry house).

Later, when I eventually learned that hearing a scary story does not in turn, make you the next victim, I started reading horror books. And I loved them!! Maybe because I knew I could just put them in the freezer if they ever got too scary. My favourites are "The Shining" and "The Haunting of Hill House", incase you're ever in the mood for a good fright. 

I still wasn't down with movies though. Even now, I don't think I've ever watched a scary movie by myself. I never watched them, period, until a few years ago when I moved in with my husband (then boyfriend, as it goes nowadays). Feeling braver curled up next to him, I found that I actually enjoyed terrifying flicks. Unfortunately, I think my husband hates them now. I know he doesn't relish me screaming in his ear (I wish I was exaggerating), kicking him in the head (I no longer rest my feet on the back of the couch) or flinging hot soup at him. 

Even though I liked scary movies, I didn't expect to write horror. It had just never crossed my mind. But as I came up with different story ideas or concepts, my mind would always go to the same place: Wouldn't it be cool if there was a ghost? Soooo simple...sigh

It was surprisingly easy once I got started though. Maybe it's because I spent so many years being terrified of things that go bump in the night (or really anything that made any kind of sound in the night), but I think I have a real knack for giving goosebumps. 

If nothing else, I know I can scare the shit out of myself on a daily-basis. 

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Do I know how to screw the figurative pooch or what?

Oh-my-crap! Oh, just....fucksticks!!!

Ok, breathing, calming...why don't I start at the beginning, hmm?

I spent all day working up the nerve to submit a story of mine to a magazine I'd spent days considering...oh and it took me months to get to the point where I could even entertain the idea of submitting.

I then took a good 2 hours to write a short but sweet cover letter (after referencing countless other websites and forums on proper etiquette) and reread it about a dozen times to make sure spelling and punctuation were up to snuff.

Then, I sent it.

And do you wanna know what I realized mere seconds after hitting the send button?? I DIDN'T ATTACH THE FUDGING STORY- THAT'S WHAT I DID!!!! GAHHHH

Ok, breathing...calming....

So then, I had the pleasure of re-drafting my glorious cover letter to include a very pathetic and shameful apology and resent it. Which begs the question, what are the chances of them assuming I'm an idiot and discarding my story altogether?

Did a tumbleweed just roll through my livingroom?

I need a cookie

Friday, November 18, 2011

Let Go of the Reins

What inspires your stories? What inspires your poems, your pictures, your life?

For me, the thing that inspires me most in my writing is my characters. Once I start writing them, I want to know what's going to happen, where the story is going to go. Every once in awhile I'll be doing something, watching a movie or taking a walk, and I'll get a good idea for a story. I ruminate on what I'd like to see happen, or what should happen based on this and that but when I actually sit down to write it, it just doesn't pan out the same. It doesn't have the same flow that my other stories do. It's more controlled, restrained.

My favourite stories (to write at least) all started with something simple, like a little girl walking through a field, or a group of friends sitting around a table, and just grew from there. I remember my highschool english teacher saying that a story has a life of it's own, you never know where it will take you.

I'm learning that when you try to rein in a story, it rebels. Oh sure, you can eventually break it and make it your pretty pony but it will be the worse for it.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

A Gypsy

     I saw her standing a block ahead. The old woman offered sprigs of rosemary to anyone who passed close enough to her. She turned this way and that, appealing to the people passing by. Her dark hair was plaited into a loose braid and she wore long, black layers of loose fabric. Like always. I knew from experience that polite refusal was met with more aggressive tactics.  You had to be firm with gypsies.
     A year earlier, I would have felt bad for her; standing in the street, being ignored and avoided. I didn’t know then what she was doing. If anyone was naive enough to take one, she would demand payment. They wouldn’t be able to give it back and they wouldn’t be able to just walk away. At least that’s what I was told.
     I veered to the left as I got closer to her. not wanting to deal with it. She saw me, I was walking alone. She steered herself towards me. I turned the other way, unconcerned with social graces. She pivoted and once again primed herself to intercept me.
     “Coge; para ti guapa, por...” Her hand reached out to me, sprig clasped underneath her thumb. I turned my shoulder to her and continued. I arrived to the grocery store and walked in.
    
     Not long after, I was walking back, grocery bags pulling my shoulders and digging into my hands. I hated the weekly drudge along the twisted sidewalk. I surveyed the road as I approached the crosswalk. A car sped down the road towards the same intersection. It was a brown scrap-heap that clanked and coughed black smoke as it broke hard. The driver was a young man with dishevelled hair and a worn appearance. The passenger was the old gypsy woman I had seen earlier. She sat clasping a large bag of grocery in her lap. The man turned back in his seat and the car jerked backwards and turned into an empty parking space. I looked at the ground as I crossed the road.
     “Grandma, you know Carolina hates cauliflower. You’ll never get her to eat it.” He said, mumbling so much it was difficult for me to translate.
     “She will eventually. The child needs to eat good food. You let her eat like a bird and only garbage. She’ll like the way I cook it.”
     “Have it your way.” I snuck a quick look out of the corner of my eye. He smiled as he unburdened her arms of their bags.
     They turned and went their own way and on we drudged.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Why I Write

What makes us want to write? What makes us become writers? Everyone has a different reason or story; some more dramatic than others. Mine isn’t dramatic but it was meaningful, at least for me.
The first thing that ever inspired me to write was my Grade 11 English teacher.  She told us to write a poem and we had to use a bunch of random words somewhere.  When she handed them back to us, she smiled at me and said “Neat.”
                That was all it took. Honest to god, one word of encouragement. Unfortunately, I hadn’t gotten a lot of it in the past, something that was as much my fault as any teacher’s; I was a crap student.
                At the end of the year, we had to do a creative writing portfolio and when I got it back she had left a note saying “You have a gifted hand. Keep writing.” I still have it.
                So that was my original motivation, getting praise. Isn’t that always the way? Luckily, the same teacher had set up a Creative Writing class at my school that I took and enjoyed immensely. After highschool, I wrote off and on but never with any strict regularity.
Then, a year ago, I got a new book for my birthday.  It was called “Shadow of the Wind” by Carlos Ruiz Zafon and it was just gorgeous. Every page was like a small chocolate truffle. It’s the only book that made me feel jealous of other people who were just starting it. You can only read a story for the first time once.  A book like that gives you a new appreciation and respect for the craft. I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to write.
Lastly, and I shouldn’t call this inspiration because it’s not but rather encouragement.  It was called “Guilty Pleasures” by Laurell K Hamilton. I’m generally not one for vampire romance novels but these books were so popular I thought, there must be something to it, right? And no, there isn’t. It was, by far, the worst thing I’ve ever read. If these books are well-liked it’s because people are, essentially, horny bastards.  I thought, if I can’t write something better than this drivel, I don’t deserve to succeed.
So, here I am, having a go at this business of story-telling.  

Monday, November 14, 2011

Adventures in Baking

As I´ve already said, I like to bake. Like, a lot.  This natural love of baked goods intensified 10-fold when I moved to Sweden for a year in university. For those of you who don’t know, those Swedes also enjoy foods of the baked variety and I went ape-shit for it all.
     Anyway, while there I got in the habit of baking cakes for people’s birthday parties. I would get a yummy looking recipe from the internet and set about collecting all the necessities. There were often times, a few ingredients that I couldn’t get my hands on for one reason or another but I had always made due. Things started off small; substituting vanilla powder for vanilla extract for example; nothing, right? Then things got more complicated; yogurt instead of sour cream, this Swedish vanilla sauce instead of pudding…you get the idea.  Sometimes it got a little sketchy but it always worked out so I started to get a little over-confident. And then came Mat’s birthday.
     It was my friend Mathieu’s birthday and I promised him a special cake (no, not ‘special’-special). I should state now that he was an avid handball player (a piece of information that will prove useful later).I decided on a banana, nut cake with coconut cream cheese icing. It was an ambitious choice even for me but I was blinded by hubris.
 I went out and got all the stuff I would need and set to it. I mixed and beat until the batter was perfect. Or seemingly perfect, it’s so hard to tell with liquid cake…it all looks the same. I admit, in hindsight, that I had gotten a little bit creative with it. But it didn’t look ‘creative’ so, I put it to bake in the oven and went about cleaning.
     Fast forward about 30 minutes when I peek in to glimpse my masterpiece. Except it wasn’t looking too masterpiecy. It was still flat (except for a little hill in the centre). I might have thought it was raw if not for the fact that it was hard and dense.  I don’t know what exactly had gone wrong but it had. In a big way!
I took it out and poked it…often. It was solid enough that I could turn it out, upside down onto the counter. I poked it a few more times, which accomplished little other than rocking it.  It was obvious that the bottom was still fairly raw so like any good-baker, I put it back into the pan, upside down, and baked it longer.  
It took another hour to cook it through so I had just enough time before the party to let it cool and ice it. By this time I was feeling super shitty with my incredibly dense, rubbery cake and I was starting to worry about all the people that were going to be witnesses to my extreme failure. So I went to talk to Mat.
I knocked on his door and told him what I had tried to do and that I was ashamed of my pathetic little excuse for a cake and couldn’t we just eat it tomorrow when it’s just us and our friends, instead. He said not to worry, that it was the thought that counted more than anything and he was sure everyone was going to love the cake. I think the bastard just wanted his damn birthday cake.
     So fast forward again; we are downstairs, party is in full swing, and I go around telling everyone that I’m going to pop upstairs, grab the cake and they all have to be ready to sing Happy Birthday. Pop upstairs I do, and whilst I am lovingly placing the candles on the cake, another friend of ours pokes his head into the kitchen to inform me (with glee I might add) that Mat’s best friend Johan had gone to a bakery and bought him a handball cake. That’s right, he bought him a beautiful, professionally made cake in the shape of a handball.  Even more deflated; I finished placing the candles. I was walking gingerly down stairs when I heard the sound of singing; ‘Happy Birthday’ singing. That’s weird, I thought, they’re a little early. I rush down the steps so that I would make it down before the end of the song. When I reached the landing, I saw, to my horror, Johan making his way across the room to Mat, handball cake outstretched in front. Fucksticks!
     The song ended, Johan presented the stupid cake and everyone was clapping. Then, slowly, everyone at the party turns to look at me; the girl at the back holding the sad-looking cake and the crowd parts like the fucking Red Sea. Before me is a gauntlet of people leading straight to Mat. Everyone is looking at me like they don’t quite know what to do. I can honestly say it was the most awkward moment of my life.
And so what does one do in a situation like this? Scurry away, throw a shit-fit, blush meekly?
“Happy birthday…” I began. As quiet as I was, the sound echoed through the room as no one else spoke or even moved. “…to you...”.  
To my great relief, everyone started laughing and singing along with me (phew) and I moved through the gauntlet and presented Mat with my cake (not sparing Johan a few glares along the way). In the end, the cake was actually not bad. At least that’s what they told me, I was too busy stuffing my face with a slice-o-handball to bother with my crap-cake. 

Friday, November 11, 2011

Still kickin.....

So I´m not dead and I haven’t given up on writing or writing a blog for that matter. I’ve actually been pretty focused on writing. I get it, I need practice. But I have to say I’m starting at a good place; I’m not a bad writer and I have good, original ideas for stories. Is this ego or honesty? I think it’s honesty, as I’m not particularly egotistical. Then again, if I were, would I know it?
I found a great website (and some not so great websites) that have been really helpful so far. I’m going to forego talking about the bad ones, since they were free and I didn’t actually lose anything by joining. So here is the best little website I have found so far:

Critique Circle
     Once I started writing I realized that I needed advice and suggestions as to how to improve. I’m currently living in Spain so joining a local critique group would be difficult if not impossible.  After a quick google-search of critiquing websites, I found “Critique Circle”.
     So the dealio with this site is that you register and critique stories from your fellow writers. For each critique you give, you get a certain number of points, depending on the length of the story and then length of the critique you give. You then use those points to “buy” a slot in the following week’s story queues. Once your story is added to the queue, it is available for critiquing. The critiques are first reviewed by the administrators so that mean or excessively harsh critiques aren’t sent through. Honest, even brutally honest, critiques are fine but never to the point of abusive.
     This website is exactly what I was looking for. The general feel of it (so far at least) is that it’s very supportive and encouraging while honest and helpful. For the most part, the people who are actively critiquing and submitting stories take writing fairly seriously as opposed to a hobby. It’s great to get an unbiased, objective opinion about my work. In other words,  not from my husband or sister.
     The only downside to critiquing (in general, not just the website) is that it can at times be discouraging. Times like that, you really have to focus. Or meditate. Or medicate.
     There are also the people that don’t really want to get criticism. I suppose they join just to hear how good their story is. After a few critiques, from yourself or others, you learn how to weed-out the advice you’re given. If have to have a really good sense of your own writing to come out of a critique unscathed, I think. I’m not quite there yet but I´m working on it.
     Do you have any other sweet finds in regards to writer’s websites? Feel free to share in the comments!