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.