The Write Move

Why Candy Canes?

2010-12-17T09:23:00.000-04:00

I was handing out candy canes to my piano students the other day, and I started to wonder what on earth candy canes actually have to do with Christmas. Then I gave them a little pen that looked like a candy cane, and it had a Christmas tree on it. So of course, then I wondered about the tree thing.

So, since I had SO MUCH time on my hands (bwahahahahaha), I thought I'd give you all the skinny:

YULE LOG
I like this idea, but we don't burn one. And not just because we don't have a fireplace. I think this is more of a British tradition.

First off, one should always sit on the Yule Log (BEFORE it is lit), because that's good luck (I would consider it more stupid than bad luck if the person chose to sit on it after the lighting ...). Second, it doesn't count as a Yule Log unless it's received as a gift, is grown on one's property, or is just kind of scooped up. But it's not allowed to be purchased. The Yule Log was placed on the hearth on Christmas Eve, providing the home with fire: the symbol for home, safety and warmth. It was kept burning for at least twelve hours, but if it went out before then it was bad luck. (I'm wondering where to find a log that will actually last that long. They must have had better trees then). After the 12 Days of Christmas, a piece of the log was saved to rekindle the next year's log.

BELLS
"They" say that for an entire hour before midnight on the very first Christmas Eve, the bells rang to warn the forces of darkness of the imminent birth of the Saviour. At midnight, the bells changed pitch and tone, clanging away in joyful celebration. Question: what if "they" hadn't warned those dark forces?

WREATH
The Wreath is traditionally hung on people's doors during Advent and Christmas. The evergreen boughs are symbolic of everlasting life, the circular shape is a reminder of the crown of thorns placed on Jesus' head before he was crucified.

HOLLY
Holly is an evergreen, so it's a natural tie-in with the eternal life theme. So how come holly over, say, cedar? It's because the red berries represent Christ's blood on the cross, and the trademark prickly leaves are a reminder of the crown of thorns.

POINSETTIA (and yes, that's the proper spelling)
This legend comes from Mexico, and it's awfully sweet. It's like the little drummer boy, but it stars a poor peasant girl this time. She wanted to bring a gift to the Virgin Mary, but alas, had nothing. Fortunately, en route she met an angel who told her to collect weeds. Being a well behaved child, she picked those weeds... and *poof* the weeds became bright scarlet 'flowers'. All together now: awwwwww

CANDLES
I was going to skip over candles, because I figured they were too obvious, but then I read on and it was pretty neat stuff. Eons ago, when people worshiped the sun, people lit bonfires and candles in winter to help the poor, tired sun.

Being a pagan kind of thing, the Church wanted to ban it, but instead they gave it new meaning. Candles symbolise the "divine light" that lit the world when Jesus was born. Later, people put candles in their windows (read: keep fire extinguisher handy) that meant Mary and Joseph were welcome in their home. (Sure. NOW they welcome them.)

In days of old in Ireland, Catholicism was once banned. When a Catholic family set a lit candle in their window, it meant it was safe for the priest to come to their home and celebrate mass.

So really, candles are a silent tribute to people of all faiths. Plus, they cheer up my office. I always write better when candles are lit around me. Truth.

TINSEL

Two more cute legends here ... the first was of a widow who refused to let the spirit of Christmas die with her husband, so she spent hours decorating her tree, then fell asleep. While she was napping, magical spiders wove webs all over the tree and the Christ child, in honour of the woman's unselfish act, turned the webs to silver.

The other one is that little lad Jesus was decorating a tree one day and got a little help from the angels (it's all who you know). When they left, their hair caught in the branches ... *poof* tinsel!

Note: We don't use this stuff anymore because our dog, Murphy, will eat anything. Tinsel is really dangerous for pets ... and babies, I'd imagine.

PRESENTS

The Kings had it easy. All they had to do was carry gold, frankincense and myrrh to the baby. We have to figure out gifts and find parking.

THE COLOURS OF CHRISTMAS

RED

represents fire, blood and charity,and is the colour of "great excitement".

GREEN

nature, youth, the hope of eternal life.

WHITE

light, purity, joy, glory. It also happens to coincide with snowflakes.

GOLD

sunlight, radiance, Christmas stars, halos.

But what about Candy Canes? That's where all this started.

CANDY CANES:
Well, first of all, we're doing it all wrong. We're hanging them upside down (which, I admit, is a lot easier than the other option). It's supposed to be shaped like a "J", for Jesus. On the other hand, it can also be seen as a shepherd's staff, and shepherd's were big news back then. As far as the serious stuff, the stripes represent the stripes Christ received when he was whipped before crucifixion. The hard candy is supposed to represent the rock solid foundation of Christ and his promises.

Huh. Don't you just love trivia? Now you can tell all your friends. You'll be the life of the party when you dish out all this fantastic stuff.

Merry Christmas to you and yours!

"So little done, so much to do."

2010-10-26T16:02:00.000-03:00

The Story of Alexander Graham Bell

(in which I continue to talk about great Scots in our history)

I often lament that life moves too quickly. Email, Facebook, Instant Messaging, Blackberries ... Remember the horrible taste of glue on your tongue after you licked a stamp? No? Well, I do.

With the glue-free internet, everything is instant. Before that it was the fax machine. Before that, Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone. To be honest, when I considered all this fast-forwarding of communications, I started feeling a little guilty. I'm a Graham, so I figured I should own some of the blame. Except I discovered Alexander was not a Graham! At the age of 11, he protested not having a middle name and his father magnanimously granted him the name Graham after a family friend from Newfoundland. So I accept neither blame nor credit.

Alexander was born March 1847, in Edinburgh, Scotland, the second of three sons born to Alexander Melville and Eliza Symonds Bell. He was brilliant, with an interest in everything. His only years in school were between the ages of ten and fourteen. At home he mastered the piano without a lesson, entertained visitors with ventriloquism, and taught himself German, among other things.

The study of sound surrounded Aleck. Both his father and grandfather taught elocution, and his mother lost her hearing when Aleck was twelve. He loved experimenting with acoustics. While other boys might be playing, Aleck and his brother Melly used the voice box of a dead sheep to make a speaking machine that cried, "Mama!"

In 1865, the family moved to London. Tragically, Aleck's brothers succumbed to tuberculosis in turn when they were twenty, prompting the Bells to head to Canada in search of better climate. They travelled through Montreal and Ontario, where Alexander taught himself how to speak Mohawk. Yes, Mohawk. And he dreamed of inventions. He wrote: “It was my custom in the summer time to take a rug, a pillow, and an interesting book to this cozy little nook and dream away the afternoon in luxurious idleness.” I get that.

Two years after arriving in Canada, Aleck moved to Boston to teach, and eventually became a professor at Boston University. He continued with sound experiments, but when his health faltered from sheer exhaustion, he left teaching and concentrated on working with sounds. He kept only two private (deaf) students. One was the lovely, 15 year old Mabel Hubbard, ten years his junior.

The Earliest Telephone

Alexander's heart was set on one particular invention. He was interested in transmitting sound through telegraph wires. Experts agreed he had "the germ of a great invention", but Alexander had no idea how to put it together. Fortunately, in 1874, he met Thomas Watson, an electrical designer and mechanic, who made models of Bell's inventions. They worked with multiple metal reeds, which they tuned, hoping (I think this is right – physics is not my strong suit!) the sound waves would create a current.

On March 10, 1876, Alexander's notebook entry described their first successful experiment. He and Watson were in separate rooms when Bell spoke through the instrument. He wrote: “I then shouted into M [the mouthpiece] the following sentence: 'Mr. Watson--come here--I want to see you.' To my delight he came and declared that he had heard and understood what I said."

Drawings for Bell's patent

A few months later, he applied for the patent. Arguments still rage over whether Bell or Elisha Gray came up with the first telephone - there are even suggestions of bribery in the patent office. I'm not going to debate that, but I will say that because he was awarded the patent, Bell was able to move forward and invent some pretty amazing things.

Alexander and his student, Mabel Hubbard married in 1877. For their honeymoon they travelled through Europe, including a visit to England, where he demonstrated his invention to Queen Victoria. At their wedding, Alexander gave Mabel all but ten shares of his newly formed company. That company was the Bell Telephone Company. Not a bad gift. Not bad at all.

Alexander with his wife Mabel
and their two daughters, Elsie and Marian

The inventions continued. In 1883 Bell developed an early “Iron Lung” after their newborn son died of respiratory failure. He invented a metal detector with which he hunted for a bullet lodged in President Garfield (The bullet eluded them because the President's metal bedsprings interfered with Bell's signal). He invented his own novel approach to x-rays, developed a method of making phonograph records on a wax disc, created a device for locating icebergs at sea, and built a hydrofoil which set a world speed record of over 70 miles per hour.

A later pet project was flight. His experiments with man-carrying kites were a great source of entertainment for the people of Baddeck. One boatman said: “He goes up there on the side of the hill on sunny afternoons and with a lot of thing-ma-jigs fools away the whole blessed day, flying kites, mind you. He sets up a blackboard and puts down figures about these kites and queer machines he keeps bobbing around in the sky. Dozens of them he has. . . . It’s the greatest foolishness I ever did see.”

Helen Keller and Alexander Graham Bell

In 1886, six year old Helen Keller met Alexander and later wrote: “Child as I was, I at once felt the tenderness and sympathy which endeared Dr. Bell to so many hearts, as his wonderful achievements enlist their admiration. He held me on his knee while I examined his watch, and he made it strike for me. He understood my signs, and I knew it and loved him at once. But I did not dream that that interview would be the door through which I should pass from darkness into light, from isolation to friendship, companionship, knowledge, love.” They were friends for over thirty years and she dedicated her autobiography to him.

Two years after that, Alexander and his father-in-law started the National Geographic Society.

"Beinn Bhreagh",
gaelic for 'Beautiful Mountain',
in Baddeck, Cape Breton.

Beinn Bhreagh

Eventually, Alexander and his family chose to build their humble, thirteen bedroom mansion in Baddeck, Cape Breton. He never became a Canadian citizen, but said “I have travelled the globe. I have seen the Canadian and American Rockies, the Andes and the Alps, and the highlands of Scotland. But for simple beauty, Cape Breton outrivals them all.”

Bell wanted, more than anything else, to benefit mankind with his inventions. He was an advocate of human rights, supported the suffragettes, hated racism and any sort of conflict, though he supported the war effort. His dreams, no matter how far fetched, have eventually materialized in some form or another. For example, in 1917 he warned that the unchecked burning of fossil fuels would eventually lead to a “sort of greenhouse effect” and global warming. A forward thinker? I'd say so.

Alexander spent his last night in his mansion at Cape Breton, holding the hand of his longtime “Silent Partner” and wife, Mabel. She whispered, “Don't leave me,” and he traced the deaf symbol for “No” on her palm. Then he died. It was August 2, 1922. He was 75.

Bell's coffin was constructed of pine from near his Cape Breton home and lined by the same red silk fabric used in his kite experiments. During his funeral, the Bell system briefly silenced every telephone in North America. Ironically, that was the most respectful thing they could have done. Alexander spent most of his life inventing the telephone, but he preferred silence. Once he even ripped a phone off his wall.

The Alexander Graham Bell Institute (http://bell.uccb.ns.ca/ ) at the University of Cape Breton encourages the study of his work as well as ongoing research and invention. The A.G.B. National Historic Site in Baddeck (http://www.pc.gc.ca/eng/lhn-nhs/ns/grahambell/index.aspx ) holds many of the great man's experiments, models, and personal notes. The Library of Congress holds over 140,000 items and documents. The internet is full of informative sites, including the Dictionary of Canadian Biography Online, and Wikipedia.

Two feature films were made about his life:

“The Story of Alexander Graham Bell” http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0031981/ and

“The Sound And The Silence” http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0106241/ as well as - I thought this was great -

a cartoon movie from the series called “Animated Hero Classics”:

“Alexander Graham Bell” by Nest Learning Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2BCvXH5M9n0

I suggest, as a salute to Alexander/Aleck/Alec/Mister Bell, we unplug our phones and shut down the email/facebook/blackberry. Just for awhile. Carry a rug, a pillow, and an interesting book to your own cozy little nook and dream away the afternoon in luxurious idleness. Bell said most of his inventions came from daydreaming. Maybe we'll come up with something if we take a little time for quiet.

"We should not keep going forever on the public road,

going only where others have gone.

We should leave the beaten track occasionally

and enter the woods.

Every time you do that,

you will be certain to find something

that you have never seen before."

- Alexander Graham Bell

DIANA GABALDON NEWS FLASH!!

2010-09-04T21:53:00.000-03:00

It's ALMOST HERE! In fact, as of September 21, it will be IN MY HANDS!

Diana Gabaldon and her amazing artist, Hoang Nguyen have created "The Exile", a graphic novel based on the earlier years of James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser and his Claire ... I have only seen bits and pieces over the past while, but am REALLY excited to see the finished work.

I admit, I'm not a graphic novel fan. For the same reason I don't want there to ever be an "Outlander" movie, I am reticent to see some of the images. I have my own ideas of Jamie and Claire and Murdoch and Rupert and all the others, but ...

I am interested in seeing how Diana sees those folks. I think that's fascinating. When people read my books, they can't possibly see the exact characters that I see, but this is an amazing opportunity to delve deeper into the incredible mind of Diana Gabaldon. See what she sees when she's writing their stories.

Diana says: " ...... you'll recognize many of the major events of the story, but there's a completely new storyline woven through and around them. The story is told largely from Murtagh's point of view, and he, of course, saw and knew many things that Claire didn't), script by me, artwork by the amazing Hoang Nguyen."

Oh yeah. I think I'd better go pre-order right now.

Happy New Year!

2010-08-31T20:03:00.000-03:00

January 1? Nope.
September 2nd, 2010.

Yes, the official year starts after all the Christmas wrapping paper is stuffed into the recycle bin, but for me, and, I suspect, for many other moms and dads, the first day of school is the REAL start of the year.

This year in Canada, it's early. Usually they wait until after Labour Day, but something to do with the Canada Games (yes, I know. There was a memo. If I could find the memo I'd read it and explain it here, but I have no idea where anything is.) means they start earlier this year, have shorter Christmas and Easter breaks and a VERY long February holiday (2 weeks). Anyway, that means I have one more day of holidays with my kids before I pack 'em on the bus again.

This is, for me, a day of mixed emotions. Back in June, they ran screaming off the bus, hooting and hollering about Freedom! while I watched mine disappear with the dust of the bus. Gone were my daytime hours of uninterrupted writing time.

I made them cupcakes to celebrate (and also made them really mad because we haven't joined in with the popular "Grading Gift" trend - our kids get no gifts for graduating from elementary grades. We can't figure out why people do that - isn't two months of holidays enough of a present?) and we played loud music and danced around a bit until they tired of that and got sucked, once again, into their Nintendos.

That was when I started getting nervous. Day #1 and Nintendos were already up and running ...

When would "it" start? The dreaded "B" word ... I knew it was coming ... how long did I have...?

I put them in camps to try and keep them from uttering that B word. I cleared out everything I could find at the library to avoid the B word. We had friends over to play, we had sleepovers, we had the hot tub going, the trampoline bouncing, smores on the campfire, bugs, toads and frogs were always entertaining ... and yet the B word loomed.

I think it took two days before it reared its ugly head. Two Days. Mommmmmmmm......

Somehow we survived. I even managed to get a book published, get a fair amount written on the next book, and help edit, publish and promote another half dozen books for my friends on Night Publishing.

Now Back To School looms (ironically just as Hurricane Earl threatens to hit us hard out here on the east coast) and the B word will (I hope) be a thing of the past.

I will get more writing done.
I will get more editing done.
I will get more ME time.

But if I'm honest, I have to admit that I'll miss listening to their conversations, whether they're with me or each other. I'll miss (in a strange way) arguing/debating/discussing ways to alleviate their boredom (among other things). And now that they're going into grades 6 & 7, well, they aren't such little girls anymore.They're like small grownups, and their points of view are much more engrossing (sometimes) than they used to be.

Did I spend enough time with them? Are my hours/days/weeks at the computer too selfish? Or, as they assure me, do they find inspiration from a mom who is motivated to fulfill her passion and chase the Dream?

I re-read a great article today by my personal deity, Diana Gabaldon, regarding time spent writing versus time spent with family. This is my favourite bit, written to help authors find time for their art:
"If you can't manage to do without sleep in any appreciable quantity, you'll have to eliminate some other activity in order to use that time writing. In the interests of Preserving the Sanctity of Family Life, I don't recommend eliminating dinner, bedtime stories, or sex. However, I am unaware of any studies linking frequency of vacuuming to frequency of divorce, and while all things are possible, I don't think your children will come back as adults and sue you because they've suddenly discovered repressed memories of you not cleaning the refrigerator."

So I don't think it's too bad if once in awhile I dropped them off at the lake (with supervision, of course) and then came back here to type. I think it's okay they were on their own once in awhile to figure out creative solutions to the B word. They're growing up, and I guess I am, too.

Tomorrow we stuff the backpacks.
Thursday we meet the bus and I wave goodbye (feeling a twinge of regret, I'm sure), then retreat into my stories.

To all moms and dads and kids ... Happy New Year ... all the best in 2010/2011!

Eat, Pray, Love

2010-08-14T18:58:00.000-03:00

Someone asked me if I'd read this book, and I had to say no. They said they ... didn't get it. So now I'm torn. I have about 47 books I should read. Should I add this one to the stack?

I'm going for the easy route. I'm thinking about heading to the movie. I never actually make it to movies anymore, but this one ... The trailer looks intriguing, sexy and illuminating ...? Is that the word for it? I don't know. I just know it made me feel good.

Maybe this week. Maybe a matinee.

Night Publishing: Hi-Liters are our Friends

2010-08-14T12:46:00.000-03:00

Night Publishing: Hi-Liters are our Friends: "Just found this terrific article about editing by Jim Warner. The blog's no longer alive, but Jim is, and seemed kinda pleased I wanted to r..."

“Oh! You're a writer! How exciting. You know, I've always wanted to write a book.

2010-08-03T09:07:00.001-03:00

...I just haven't had time / didn't have the willpower or concentration / didn't think it'd be any good / wouldn't know what to write” ...

It's funny, the evolution of a writer. I started writing five years ago, and people kind of smiled and said things like “Oh, that's nice.” And when I started asking people if they'd like to read it, they usually would make a kind excuse or suggest they didn't read that genre, whatever it was. I wasn't offended. That's how I would have been.

But there were a few who bravely agreed to read what I'd done, and they were apparently * ahem * impressed. I told them I wanted to get better, so would they please tell me what they didn't like as well as what they liked. They asked me questions about what I'd written, found errors, questioned impossible plotlines ... and I surprised myself by being defensive and somewhat belligerent. This was my baby! How could they possibly find anything wrong with it? I folded my arms over my chest, huffed, and continued along the same line, determined to make it work.

And yet their ability to find fault showed me that they cared enough about the story to make it better. Their first impression every time was, “It was really good.” So eventually I started considering their suggestions (which, of course, I had initially requested) and began to work on them.

My husband was my first supporter, thank goodness. If he hadn't been, I would have felt guilty, spending so much time with this new “hobby”. After all, what did he have to compare to this? Because I love writing. I love when an idea grabs me and pulls me along, tosses me into the fray, grips me hard and makes me cry. I love watching my fingers fly when the characters tell me their stories.

So he started telling people “My wife's a writer. She's written three novels. What? Are they published? No. Not yet. But she wrote them.” And since it was he, not I, who was announcing this, people began to take me more seriously. And that's when I started to hear it:

“Oh! Good for you. I've always wanted to write a book.”

Is it wrong for me to admit that I never wanted to write a book before I did? I had no idea writing would become my passion; I was never one for telling stories. My kids would ask me to tell them a story and I'd race off to the bookshelves to read – I never imagined making anything up from my own imagination. It was stories by other people that inspired me eventually to try my own hand, and I was relieved to find out that I didn't have to tell a story. It told itself.

So if you want to write a book, why don't you?

No time? Five minutes a day. Really. Can you afford five minutes? Because if you start with that, the rest of the time will find you. But try really hard to do it every day or else you could be distracted by things-that-have-to-be-done.

Lack of willpower/concentration? First off, you should know that I, personally, have no willpower whatsoever. I could be entirely full from a ten course meal and still look at that chocolate bar as if it were the last food on earth. Secondly, concentration? Trust me. I can barely remember ... what was it I was saying?

Lack of confidence? Ha! Even the best of writers have that. And who's to know? Maybe you just write something but keep it to yourself. It's still writing. And never, ever throw anything out. Just put it away.

Don't know what to write? Some people say “write what you know”. Others say “know what you write”. I say “write what comes into your head.” Some days I might scribble about what the beach makes me feel. Some days I might vent about my day. Some days I might sink into my story and lose myself in history, adventure and romance. Just let it take you away.

I read an article awhile back in which an author was offended (as were most of the commenters on the site) by people comparing their desire to write with someone whose work was published. Well, I'm offended by the attitude of the article. Writing is writing. Of course the dream is to publish – if only so you can share what you've written with a wider audience.

But if someone tells me they've always wanted to write, my immediate reaction is ... Do it! Would you help me?they ask. Sure! Ask away.

Worth The Wait

2010-07-28T14:28:00.000-03:00

I read a neat blog article somewhere today about ... waiting.

It talked about how a writer spends their days ... waiting. They wait for inspiration, they wait for responses from agencies and publishers, they wait for feedback ... from anyone.

All painfully true.

But it's not just writers. It's people in general. We wait for the bus. We wait for the paycheque (or should), then wait in line to spend it. We wait for the kids to finish swimming lessons. Wait wait wait. Glancing at my watch or calendar, tapping my toes, hurrying so I can wait some more.

But waiting, and thinking about waiting is a waste of time. You can't control time. But ... you can take control of your time.

I figure waiting happens when you let it happen. Over the past year I started taking my writing more seriously. And I decided that waiting wasn't going to happen anymore. Or, if I did have to wait, at least I'd do my best to forget about that 'wasted' time. I filled those hours/days/months with improving my craft. I sliced and diced and polished that poor manuscript until it was shiny and new ... to the point where when I click on some sections, I actually don't remember having written them.

Then I sent it out again. I didn't wait for responses, though. They were usually negative, and usually depressing. So many people moan on and on about how it's impossible to get an agent or publisher. And I was tempted to join in the lament. But what's the point of doing that? I knew the book was ready. If an agent thought so too, then great. If not, well, I'd done my best. I wasn't going to wait around, moping. I started writing a new book and got entirely swallowed up by it. I started editing for people, which also helped my own writing. Every moment I could have spent waiting, worrying and moaning was instead spent ... doing.

And one day, a miracle happened. An agent actually called, wanting to represent me. We worked together and did more scrubbing and polishing, then he took it out to some editors. I could have waited and worried. But I didn't. Sure, it was in my mind all the time (and I mean all the time), but what was the point in fussing? Instead I wrote, I edited, I filled my time.

And it happened. The first desk on which “Under The Same Sky” landed was that of an Executive Editor of Berkley Publishing in NY, a division of Penguin Books. And she loved it. She wanted it immediately. There were negotiations back and forth, and I admit I did buzz around my phone and email an awful lot over those couple of weeks. But I also wrote, edited, and filled my time.

And when that moment came – that moment when I received the call saying I was now a Berkley author – I realized it was a moment for which I had waited my entire life. And I hadn't even known I'd been waiting for it.

Who ever would have thought I'd be a published author? Not me. I toyed with it in my mind, dreamed impossible dreams. Wouldn't that be fun? Imagine if my book were actually considered good enough for that. How did those authors ever get onto those shelves?

Now, guess what? We all have to wait. “Under The Same Sky” will be out in bookstores between Jan-April 2012, and six months later it will be joined by its companion novel, “Sound Of The Heart”.

And ... now I have to admit something. I can't wait!

And the Writers Are .... (drumroll please...)

2010-06-28T09:47:00.000-03:00

Need more from these talented authors? Here are their websites:

1: MALE Tom Kepler

http://www.tomkeplerswritingblog.com/

2: FEMALE Diane Nelson

http://www.idancewithwords.com/

3: FEMALE Jeannine Dudzinski

prefers to stay invisible for now!

4: MALE Gerald Johnston

http://authonomy.com/ViewBook.aspx?bookid=15380

5: MALE Adam Sifre

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ive-Been-Deader/111989752147332

It's All About Sex!

2010-06-22T17:27:00.001-03:00

Welcome to today's blog, entitled “It's All About Sex”. It's good to see everyone ... hey, there's quite a crowd out there! *lightbulb moment* So ... in order to increase my readership, I should use the word 'Sex' in my title? Hmmmm note to self...

Okay! Well, today we delve into the sometimes inflammatory, always fascinating world of sex. So sit back, relax and ... wait. Don't relax quite that much. You didn't think you were just going to sit back and read, did you? Oh, no. Today is an audience participation blog! Yay! Everyone gets to play!

Note: If you're under 18 years old, you shouldn't be reading this.

Why are you looking nervous? All you have to ... Hold on. You didn't think I meant THAT kind of sex talk, did you? No, no, no.

What's actually happening here is based on a conversation in which I participated on NightReading.com a couple of weeks ago. Our fearless leader (and founder of the site) Tim Roux asked if we thought men and women wrote differently. His question had to do more with the act of actual shhh sex, but I'm not going there. Instead, I decided to hold a social experiment.

I emailed five of my author friends (and for those of you who wonder why you weren't asked, it's because I tried to find authors who might not talk to each other and try to figure out what this was all about) and gave them all the same scenario:

A man and a woman who have never met, but fell in love over the internet, are meeting in a hotel room for the first time. I asked each author to write a) the man's POV from the moment she knocks on the door, and b) the woman's POV from that same time. Just action, reaction and dialogue.

So ... YOUR mission, should you choose to accept, is to write (in your Comments) whether you think each piece was written by a male or female author. For example:

Hi Genevieve – what a great idea for a blog! You're brilliant! I think the stories are written by:

Story #1: male

Story #2: female

Story #3: male

Story #4: female

I did NOT write any of these stories, because that would have been cheating. I'll post the answers in the next couple of days and let you know who all these great authors are.

Um... there are no prizes, except you should feel incredibly intuitive if you get them all right.

Thank you to all these brilliant authors for being such good sports and saying yes before I even told you why I'd asked. Here we go ...

Story #1:

MAN
I know this person--love this person, he thought. So why am I so nervous? Yet as he heard the knock upon the hotel door, he felt shaky as he rose to open it. Inanely, the lines of a poem drifted through his mind: "so much depends..." The man shook himself. "...upon a red wheel barrow..."

And then she stood before him, framed by the open door, just like the jpeg she had emailed--neither older nor heavier nor any other nor.

"Come in," he offered after a time of mutual appraisal.

"Let's go to the coffee shop downstairs," she responded.

"Yes, of course, neutral ground for our first real meeting." He could see her shoulders relax with his acceptance.

"And what the internet has joined," she intoned.

"Let no man break asunder," he finished, laughing at their familiar, shared joke.

WOMAN
She stood before the white hotel door and wondered whether it was a barrier or gateway. Steeling her nerves, she raised her fist and knocked. A love tap? she asked herself. It sounded much too hollow for that. Footsteps, the rattling of the knob, and the door opened to reveal a man in his thirties, brown hair and serious eyes.

He took a step back, gesturing. "Come in."

He looks so scared, so vulnerable, she thought, but kept her promise to herself and said, "Let's go to the coffee shop downstairs."

"Yes, of course, neutral ground for our first real meeting," he responded.

Was there relief in his eyes? His eyes, now full of life and not a frozen image on a computer screen. Taking a deep breath, she spoke with mock solemnity. "And what the internet has joined..."

Oh! What a beautiful smile! "Let no man break asunder," he completed, laughing as he eased out the door, as they eased into a familiar pattern of exchange, this time face to face.

Story #2:

MAN:

Tap, tap, tap …

Not bad, not bad at all.

Spinning, he pivots in front of the narrow mirror on the closet door.

Sucks in his gut.

Lots to love there, boyo.

Hesitates.

What if …?

Reaches for the handle, hands sweaty, shoulders back.

Here goes nuthin’.

Depresses handle, steps back, sideways, arm in a sweeping gesture.

A waft of floral, a tease of silk across his knees, a shush of leather on carpet …

He stares.

Fuck me.

He grins.

WOMAN:

Tap, tap, tap …

God damn my mother, she was right, this is a bad idea …

She slides a strand of hair behind an ear.

Lifts and separates, stares down at cleavage.

Oh shit, oh shit, I look like a slut, I should never have worn this, what was I thinking?

Hesitates.

What if he doesn’t like me, the way I look, he said I was beautiful to him but you never know, you can’t tell from a photo, my mom said I look fine but I look like a sack ‘o shit…

Listens – her future and a handle rest on a solitary click.

I should leave.

Door swings open.

Here goes nuthin’.

She sweeps in, the smell of stale cigarettes and panic oppressive. Pivots slowly.

Well, damn …

Blushes.

Story #3:

MAN:

Everything was almost ready. I’d called room service and ordered juice and coffee and I had sodas and beer chilled. I should be covered on all bases, although I really hope she doesn’t go for the beer first thing in the morning. I really wish I had my own place to meet at, but she didn’t suggest an alternative destination. I wonder if she’s met a lot of men in hotels?

I was jittery and kept moving around the room, picking things up and putting them down. She was two minutes late. Oh hell, what if she doesn’t show? But our connection online was so palpable, from bantering IMs during the Grammys to texting in the supermarket. Who takes time to text while they’re shopping if they’re not really interested?

A solid knock on the door jerked me out of my reverie. Oh my God! She’s here!

Trying to be nonchalant, I opened to the door. Oh yeah, she looks just like her picture. I wonder if her tattoo is real? Hopefully I’ll find out soon.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I said. What an inane thing to say. Duh. I gave her a kiss, trying to cover up my discomfort and regain cool points.

She ended the kiss first and gave the cutest giggle. “We could move out of the hallway.”

I held open the door and tried to play host in an attempt to put us both at ease. I watched her walk around the room. Damn, she’s everything I’ve been looking for. It’s too bad I’m moving to New York in two weeks.

WOMAN:

I’d been standing in front of the door to room 316 for at least 30 seconds, but hadn’t worked up the nerve to knock. I feel like a whore, I should have had him meet me at my house. That we would have sex was a foregone conclusion, the past six weeks of online chatting and texting had left almost nothing to the imagination. “But we can do that at my house as easily as here,” I thought.

I had to admit that I was nervous. So many online dates had gone awry, but this guy seemed perfect. But I had never met anyone at a hotel before. There had been two photos of him online, one really hot and one kind of geeky. Which one would he be? There was only one way to find out so I gathered up my courage in a tight ball, reached out, and knocked.

He must have been waiting just inside the door because it opened immediately. A huge grin spread across his face, starting with his mouth and ending at his eyes. A full-fledge, damn I’m glad to see you, grin. I grinned back, he was hot.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, moving in for the first kiss.

I pulled back and laughed, a small little laugh that gave away my nervousness. “We could move out of the hallway.”

He held the door open and I passed through. “Would you like some soda, or juice, or something a little stronger?”

Something was niggling at me, something was wrong here. I listened to him try to put me at ease and realized: I don’t think I can do this. I hate the way he talks.

Story #4

HIM:

Each singular tap on the door sent a thrill sliding through his body. She was here. Almost instantly, he was filled with an indescribable mixture of anticipation and dread. He ducked his head past the open bathroom door. "Coming," he said. Then he checked his teeth in the mirror, undid the top button of his shirt--didn't like it--then did it back up again.

He pulled in a lungful of air and let it out slowly. To the man in the mirror, he said "This is gonna work out fine", but he'd been here, right here, in this same exact scenario too many times before and, for whatever reason, things always fell to shit before the champaigne was half-gone. 'Speaking of,' he thought, and grabbed the champaigne from the ice in the sink along with two plastic tumblers. Bottle in one hand, glasses in the other, he left the bathroom to, hopefully, meet the love of his life.

Two steps past the sprawling king-size bed, he tripped over his overnight bag. The champaigne, still wet from its ice bath, left his hand, describing a lazy arc as it rose and he fell. Before he hit the carpet face-first, he groped for the bottle with his free hand, missed by a foot, then landed on his other arm, crushing the plastic tumblers beneath his body. The bottle struck the floor on its side, exploding on impact. With the added pressure of the less than gentle shake during its flight, the neck and cork of the bottle rocketed across the room, through the glass window to the left of the door, and landed somewhere out in the parking lot.

From the other side of the door came a bird-like squawk, then the hurried scuff of retreating heels.

"Oh no!" He rolled over and pulled himself up, all the while ignoring the blossoming burn coarsing across the right side of his face and both knees. "Please. Don't go. It was just the champaigne," he yelled as he speed-limped to the door and threw it open.

And there she was, standing beside a candy apple red mazda, holding what looked like a space-age dildo. She'd found the neck and cork of the champaigne bottle. Before turning, her eyes lingered on a spiderweb crack in the center of the windshield, then she turned, her mouth slightly open. She took him in, glanced down at the cork missile in her hand, then her eyes settled on his face. The five-second old frown on her face melted away as she took a step toward him.

She rolled her eyes, then smiled. "What did you do, start without me?"

Dumbly, he pointed toward the open door of the hotel room. "I fell."

She stepped around the car and stopped in front of him. "Must have been some fall; your face looks like half-a-pound of chewed steak."

'Strike twelve, dummy. Way to go.' He raised a hand to his face and winced at the contact. "I'll pay for your window."

She shrugged. "Sure, but why don't we go back into the room and get you cleaned up first."

HER:

She raised her hand to knock and noticed the slightly lighter band of skin on her ring-finger. After four months of not wearing her wedding ring, the faded line was still there. Ever since the funeral she'd been slogging through life, going through the motions--never really knowing what a young widow was supposed to do, or how long to wait before moving on. Five years. She'd buried her head in the sand for five years waiting for the pain to lessen, but it never really went away. Each morning that she woke up, thinking 'today's the day; today I move on. He would have wanted that.' But then she'd see a photo, his favourite mug, the half-torn-apart Corvette he'd been working on out in the garage, and she'd feel guilty--like the only way he'd really be gone is if she stopped wearing the ring.

She half turned, took a step toward her car, then stopped. 'No,' she thought. 'This is right--it feels right.' Quickly, before she could talk herself out of it, she balled her fist and rapped on the door. The butterflies she hadn't felt through any of the many e-conversations filled with flirtation and coy comments she'd had with this man suddenly crashed through her, paralyzed her: this was it; she was really doing it.

From within the room came a muffled reply. She closed her eyes, told herself one more time that this was the right thing to do, and waited. After a few seconds, she raised her hand to knock again. As her hand met the door there was a crash from within, followed closely by a grunt. Before she could react there was loud 'pop', then the window to her right smashed. She let out a surprised scream, then darted for her car. As she fumbled for her keys, wild images flashed through her mind: 'Oh my God, someone's shooting at me,' or 'I walked into a drug deal gone bad,' or 'He's a murderer!'

Then she saw the brown neck and cork of a bottle resting against one of her car's winshield wipers. Above it was a large crack. She picked the bottleneck up and turned it in her hand, then raised it to her nose and sniffed it: champaigne. She would have thought it was funny if not for the fact that she carried a five-hundred dollar deductible and the repair of the window would be almost that much anyway. She was still staring at the fissured glass when a panicked voice drifted out through the hole in the hotel room's window, followed by the sound of a door being thrown open.

Five-hundred dollars. 'There goes that trip to Cuba...'

When she turned and saw him all thoughts of the car and Cuba fled before the sight of him. Beneath a half-mask of what looked like a fresh rugburn on the right side of his face, he wore the dopiest, most pathetic expression she'd seen outside a Disney movie. He looked so adorably needy that she just had to smile.

"What did you do, start without me?"

Without turning, he pointed. "I fell," he said.

She didn't know what to say, so she said the first thing that popped into her head: "Must have been some fall; your face looks like half-a-pound of chewed steak." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could call them back--like using a mulligan, as her late husband was fond of saying whenever he was in the dog house with her.

"I'll pay for your window."

'Oh my God, am I that transparent? Can he tell? Better not mention it. He looks sad enough as it is. Besides, it is a little funny.' She decided to play down her anger over the window and try to salvage whatever was left of the night. It took a second to shift into mother-mode, but she did: She shrugged, and said, "Sure, but why don't we go back into the room and get you cleaned up first."

Story #5

HIM

He hears a soft knock on the door and his heart races, just a little. He opens the door. She's shorter than he imagined. She smiles, but he can tell she's nervous. He smiles.

“Hi.”

He leans forward to shake her hand, changes his mind and leans in further for a hug. She turns her face the wrong way and instead of kissing her cheek, they bump noses. Nervous laughter.

“Come in.”

She smiles and nods. But she doesn't move. “I don't know.”

It feels weird. He knows her better than he's known any other woman, in some ways. He's said things to her that he never thought he could say to anyone. They've talked about everything – movies, books, old boyfriends and girlfriends, fucking ... But she's still a stranger.

“Come on.”

He holds her hand and she follows him inside. He has a hard-on, his mouth is dry, and he has to fart. Otherwise, it is just like a fairy tale.

HER

After approaching the door for a third time, she finally knocks.

He only takes a few seconds to open the door. Any longer, and she would have made a bee line for the elevator. Maybe.

The first thing she notices is that he's much taller than she imagined. And he's wearing a lot of cologne. Otherwise, he's just as she imagined.

“Hi.”

She stands in the hallway. This is stupid. We both know why we're here.

She almost jumps back when he leans in for a hug. She quickly turns her head to see if anyone else is in the hall, embarrassed. When she turns back toward him, their noses bump and she almost yelps in surprise.

“Come in.”

When she pictured this, she thought they would be all excitement and passion. But now it just felt awkward.

“I don't know.”

Who meets a man for the first time in a hotel room?? Not me.

He takes her hand. His palms are moist.

“Ok.”

He leads her inside, the first and last place she wants to be right now. The door closes behind her.

In Appreciation of Emily's & Piper's Dad

2010-06-19T17:00:00.000-03:00

Nope, he probably won't get breakfast in bed. He won't get his car washed or the grass cut. He is probably going to have to help with dinner.

But while he may not be showered with gifts, he knows. He knows that our daughters have the best daddy on the planet. He knows - because they tell him so.

He works hard all day, sometimes coming home with just enough time and just enough energy to help put the girls to bed. He takes whatever spare time he has and fixes things, builds things, makes life better for the rest of us.

Dwayne's father wasn't much of a role model when it came to responsible parenting, yet Dwayne has set the bar when it comes to fatherhood. He is understanding but firm, appreciative but realistic. He adores the girls and is proud of everything they do. He has given our daughters (okay, I help when I can), the strength to believe in themselves, to do what is right. Emily is 12 and Piper is three weeks away from being 10. We're moving into a new chapter in our daughters' lives, and his role as father is changing along with it. He'll be awesome in that role, and we all know it.

He's proud of his girls, as am I.

And I'm proud of him.
Happy Father's Day, honey! xoxo

Gaelic In Nova Scotia

2010-06-17T16:42:00.001-03:00

A' Ghàidhlig ann an Albainn Nuaidh

(Gaelic in Nova Scotia)

Dia dhuibh, 's e Sìneag an t-ainm a th'orm. Oh! Sorry about that. Research seems to have taken ahold of my brain. What I meant to say was: Hello, my name is Genevieve.

When I was no' but a wee bairn, barely four years of age, legend has it the Toronto Board of Education sent out a Language Questionnaire. Seems they were adding French to elementary school children's education, and were wondering what other languages people might request. There was Spanish, Mandarin, Italian, German, etc etc. But one was missing, and my Dad found it. Under “Other”, he wrote: Gaelic.

And why not? Between 1770 and 1815, somewhere in the vicinity of 15,000 Highland Scots came to Canada. They settled mostly in PEI, Nova Scotia and Quebec, and almost every one of them was exclusively Gaelic speaking. In the early 19^th century, Gaelic was the third most common European language spoken in Canada*. In 1900, Scottish Gaelic was the dominant language spoken in Eastern Nova Scotia.

My father's suggestion went right up the TBE ladder, all the way to the top rung, where it reached a friend of my father's. She looked at the request, considered it, then realized it was my dad who had sent it in. “Oh!” said she, chuckling. “That's Ted Graham. He's only joking. Never mind that.”

Imagine if she'd been off sick that day and his request had been incorporated into the Toronto Board of Education? Imagine if children around Toronto spoke Gaelic?! History could have been changed in that one instant, I like to think. All because of a Graham.

Instead, Gaelic, our ancestors' proud and ancient tongue, has faded into near oblivion. But like anything else edging close to extinction, there is an underground movement to resurrect the language before it's too late. Help is coming not only from pockets of interested students of the language, but from the wave of popularity presently being experienced by Celtic music and culture.

Scottish Gaelic is a member of the Goidelic branch of Celtic languages, along with Manx and Irish. Apparently, the last person to speak Manx died in 1962. It remains to be seen how long Scottish Gaelic will exist. In 2001 a census was taken in Scotland, and it was determined that there were 58,652 Gaelic speakers in Scotland, which is 1.2% of the country's total population. Around that same time there were approximately 2,000 Gaelic speakers in Cape Breton, or 1.3% of Nova Scotia's population. It's been ten years since that census, and with the resurgence of Gaelic culture, I wonder if that number is increasing. I hope so. I don't speak a word of Gaelic (except for shlàinte ,which is cheers, a word I find very useful when I have beer in hand), but I love listening to it and imagining what it might have been like to have lived in that world.

Then again, if you believe what the Scottish-American Journal mockingly reported in 1868, maybe it wasn't so lovely: "...the preliminary indispensables for acquiring Gaelic are: swallowing a neat assortment of nutmeal-graters, catching a chronic bronchitis, having one nostril hermetically sealed up, and submitting to a dislocation of the jaw." Hmmm.

Nova Scotia is undergoing a “Gaelic language and cultural renewal”. The community estimates there are approximately 2,000 Gaelic speakers in Nova Scotia, while over 227,000 Nova Scotians claim to be descended from Gaelic-speaking settlers. Many Nova Scotians are involved in Gaelic cultural activities, like fiddling and step dancing. We have 28 Gaelic-related societies, organizations and institutions, over 250 adult learners in twelve communities, over 1100 public school students learning Gaelic, and three universities offering Gaelic studies.

In 2006, the province announced the establishment of an Office of Gaelic Affairs http://www.gov.ns.ca/oga/ and linked a $23.5 million economy with Gaelic and Gaelic-related events, business and activities in the province. Chan e rud beag ann a' sin! Oops! There I go again. I meant: That's nothing to sneeze at! A number like that makes people sit up and take notice.

I am somewhat ashamed to admit that, though I have lived in Nova Scotia for two years, I have not yet been to Cape Breton. It's on my to-do list, though. To get there, one drives up “Marine Drive”, or Highway #7, passing road signs like this one - proof of Gaelic existence. Continue along and you will eventually reach the Gaelic College of Celtic Arts and Crafts (http://www.gaeliccollege.edu/ ), where year round Gaelic courses are offered both on campus and online, including a variety of summer courses.

While writing this, I found a lot of websites offering “Gaelic lessons”, and a really good website by the Comhairle na Gàidhlig (The Gaelic Council of Nova Scotia) at www.gaelic.ca, but my favourite discovery was Gaelic radio: http://www.bbc.co.uk/alba/ Have a listen when you get the opportunity. It has stuff for kids as well.

I have lamented the passing of history before. It is exciting to feel the undercurrent of interest in Gaelic, a language that celebrates a rich culture with ancient values based on respect for all. Maybe one day, when my kids' kids start elementary school, they'll come home and offer a brief Saoilibh gu dé dh'ionnsaich sinn 's a' sgoil an diugh, a sheanmhar? Guess what we learned in school today, Grandma?

Wouldn't that be something. Cheers, Dad! And to all you readers: Air ur deagh shlàinte - To your good health!

* whitepinepictures.com

Why be mean?

2010-05-19T20:27:00.000-03:00

I am so naive.

I guess that's what you'd call it, anyway. Naive, unrealistic, idealistic - I don't know. I just don't understand why some people can be so mean.

Meanness can come out of anywhere. Like if someone wants to come into your lane, but you're already halfway across - do you slam on your brakes or keep going? Half the time the guy will pop up in your rearview mirror, gesturing as if you took away his god-given-right to that spot in traffic. Who is the offender there, the one who didn't brake or the one who didn't want to wait? What does it really matter in the long run? That's just an example. It hasn't happened to me in a while, but it has happened - from both sides.

Being mean starts young. We learn from an early age that kids who pick on others can often get away with not getting picked on themselves. Fortunately, there seems to be an influx of "anti-bullying" educational messages lately. Maybe, just maybe, there will be a smaller percentage of meanies in the next generation. Fingers crossed for that.

We age, we go into business. How do we get ahead? Well, there's the painstakingly slow, honest approach that often takes hard work and causes frustration, or there's the secrets-behind-the-hand approach, which often has a much faster result, but a short term benefit.

I recently emailed back and forth with another writer. He asked me a few times to buy his book, but I wasn't in the buying mood (and am currently behind in reading by about 25 books as it is). We emailed back and forth, talking about little things, enjoying each other's conversation. Yesterday he asked again about his book. Had it arrived at my house yet? I emailed him back, saying that I hadn't bought it, and I told him why. But I said it with my usual light tone, and injected a couple of smiley faces for good measure.

I'm not a fighter, even though I did earn my black belt in Karate. Never have been. But having told this man the truth, I was shocked by his reaction. He zapped me with some of the ugliest words ever aimed my way. Why? All I did was not buy his book. If I told him I'd really like him to send me a box of chocolates and he said he wasn't going to, I certainly wouldn't tell him he was "resentful of genius". Good God, man! Get over yourself!

It comes down to choice. And sadly, I think that once a person has started down the trail of meanness, it's hard to climb out of the ruts. If you are mean to someone and they react either by doing what you ask, or by running away, then your bullying can potentially be seen as a successful venture. Try it again with someone else, get the same reaction, and you might feel as if you are getting ahead. You can justify this approach to yourself as it becomes a habit.

But what does that do to your personality? To your head? I think I'd feel sick to my stomach most of the time and popping a lot more migraine pills. I'd be constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering what mean things other people might be saying about me, so I could be mean right back. It's literally a vicious circle.

But good, charitable behaviour can be just as habit-forming. In response to this unexpected attack, I could choose to either snap back, or send a polite note, which is what I did. I could get back at him by telling everyone his name, gossiping about him, but I find that distasteful, and labels me as being the same kind of person as he. I suppose I could have ignored his letter altogether, but that's not me, either.

Why am I writing this then? I don't know. Maybe to suggest that the next time you consider flipping someone the bird in traffic, you realize that the other driver is just as much of a person as you are. That when you bad-mouth someone, you are talking about a person, not just a personality. That bullying happens at any age, and it's wrong at any age. That it's not all about you.

And I guess I'm writing this to vent, because I'm just not used to being abused in any way; verbal or otherwise. I didn't like that one little bit. So there.

So endeth the rant.

New Website <---click on this Headline!

2010-05-12T08:35:00.005-03:00

I would like to invite everyone to come and visit my WEBSITE!

I've posted little bits of my writing so all the millions of agents and publishers that are dying to get a taste of my work will know where to look (HA!).

Let me know what you think.

www.WritingWildly.com

Thanks!
- Genevieve
p.s. Yes, the website is purposefully done in Chocolate Brown. ;)

'Robin Hood' Trailer HD

2010-04-28T08:40:00.003-03:00

Is anyone here even a TINY BIT as excited as I am about this?
Opens in Canada MAY 14. I'm thinking date night ....

Bring out the silver, honey!

2010-04-21T08:53:00.001-03:00

When I was in my early 20's, my grandma Graham finally agreed to move to an old folks' home, or whatever the term is. So she emptied her centuries-old apartment of anything even vaguely interesting. Much anticipated squabbling between family members ensued, and I ended up with some silver. I actually didn't want any silver, but my parents encouraged me to buy it from her. Read that again: BUY silver forks and knives and all that from my Grandma, for $3000 of my own money. Seriously? Oh, yes, Genevieve. It's a great investment.

What did I know about investment? I'd been saving up for a car, but okay. If they said so.

I ended up with two very nice, heavy boxes filled with any kind of silver serving utensil you could ever dream of. I even have an Angel Food Cake slicer. I can't even identify some of them, actually. Sadly, one of my wooden handled salad spoons split, but when I reason that the spoon was probably close to 150 years old, I can't really complain. Dwayne'll glue it. He's good like that.

He's also good at practicality. When we moved out here, many extraneous things got packed into wherever. The two boxes of silver were tucked under the stairs. The other day, he came home and said we should break out the silver and start using it.

"But honey!" said I, aghast. "That's for special occasions!"

"Which are happening ... when?" he asked.

What do you know? The silver fit perfectly into the dishwasher, along with our good (wedding gifts) china. Sadly, we no longer have our crystal wine glasses because they shattered somewhere along the way, but the rest is really quite ... spiffy, if I do say so myself.

Got me to thinking. What else do I pack away for special occasions? Well, I have a number of books that I want to read, when I finally finish whatever I'm reading. I'd like to go to Europe, but there's a practical (financial) reason that hasn't happened. I'd like to stay up late and watch more movies. I'd like to spend a night or two listening to celtic bands in pubs (sorry, Dwayne). I'd love to lose some weight - but let's just ignore that one for now.

Mostly, I'm pretty good about doing exactly what I want. Have I mentioned how spoiled I am? (thank you, honey)

But it also got me thinking about what some of my friends are up to. In particular, I have a friend who packed up her mom and her son, and traveled here from Scotland, to improve (she hoped) their lives. That takes serious nerve. When the government finally allowed her to make an income, she wasn't sure what to do, and settled for the typical working-in-retail route, which most of us have done at one point or another. But while she did that, she'd pop in occasionally and style my family's hair. She loves doing hair. She used to do that in Scotland. Dwayne pointed out that she could be saving gas and energy (her own) if she gave up the day job and opened her own salon.

But how do you do that? How do you step into the unknown and trust that things will work out? How do you reach into that hidden box of valuables and say "Okay. Now it's time to use this"?

She's done it, and is having a wonderful time, albeit a busy one. And I say that's a fantastic reason to use the good china.

What about all those people who hear that I've written a few books and say "Oh, I'd love to write a book." Really? What are you waiting for? Do you think I knew what I was doing when I started? Nope. Not a thing. Do you think I started off writing obsessively? Nope. That's kind of recent. Set up all by yourself and write/type/dictate for ten minutes a day, if that's all you can spare. It'll start to take shape and you'll be amazed. Another reason to use the china.

My daughter made a new friend today. China time!

I think the answer is taking that one gigantic step of faith. It could go well, or it could fail. As long as you're not discussing something life-threatening, I say go for it.

Our world is so full of hopes and dreams that we never get around to living them. Life is quick, and this is the only one we're sure of getting. Have you always wanted to paint but it's an expensive hobby? Check out basic water colours at the loonie store first. Have you always wanted to learn the piano? (oops. that's a plug, because I'm currently looking for students) Do you wonder what that old friend is up to late? Look her up and ask her. Do you wish your bedroom was a different colour? Have you always wondered what that really expensive store was like inside? Just do it. Don't wait.

You spend your life wishing, and before long, life is done. What happens to all those wishes when you're gone? They're gone. They go unfulfilled and dissolve into nothing. How sad!

So break out the good china. Drink an expensive bottle of wine. Try a new food. Get out and taste those dreams. Does someone you've never met look interesting? Go introduce yourself. Maybe, if you're really brave, move to a totally new place, where you know no one and adventure/experiences wait for you to discover them. Why wait?

Hey! I just finished a new blog. Good for me. Time for the china.

Math CAN be fun!

2010-03-23T10:23:00.001-03:00

Yesterday, my daughter bounced off the bus, grinning. She ran to grab the dog and smother him with kisses, then looked up and said,

"Oh, hi, Mom. Guess what? I had the best day. We did math."

What???

My elder daughter has ADD (yes, a label, but one that helped us learn how to understand her better) and has always had a paralyzing fear of math. She used to burst into tears at the word. Anything to do with math was overwhelming. I was never a mathematician by any stretch of the imagination. I never really cared how well she did in it, so long as she was trying. But to see her so torn up was horrible. It started in kindergarten/primary and continues today, now that she is twelve years old. She and I have spent hours together, working out the little figures, fitting them where they should go, with me constantly hoping to see the light of discovery brighten her eyes. And, usually, by the end of our session, she's laughing. I'm exhausted, granted, but she's happy. However, by the time she gets to her class the next day, she has forgotten everything and is miserable again.

She is now in grade 6, with a teacher who isn't quite as sensitive to her fears as I might like. She has often put up her hand with a question, to be answered by "a look". With a classroom of kids and a full curriculum as well, the teacher has no time to slow down and see if she really gets it. As a result, my daughter rarely bothers asking anything anymore.

Fortunately, the teacher is committed to another school event, so has limited time in which to teach the regular class. While this, to me, seems rather irresponsible, it is also fortuitous, because yesterday, the principal stepped in to substitute teach.

"What was different about class today?" I asked my daughter.

"Everything!" she said. "I learned how to do math today!"

Evidently the principal asked the students what they thought of math, and why they thought they weren't learning it (sounds like the other kids weren't doing so great either). They said "we're stupid" or "we have a bad teacher". The principal gently disagreed. She told them "If you don't understand, we'll approach it from another angle, that's all." She slowed the pace, gave them fun little rhymes and images to go alongside the numbers, and my daughter's confidence suddenly shot up. While some people may feel that approach "dumbs down" the math process, I disagree. Any approach that encourages them to enjoy the subject is a good one.

Teachers fight an uphill battle every day. They are dropped into impossible situations with unreasonable expectations. Regardless of who the teacher is, or how much experience they have, there is simply no easy way for one person to teach an average of thirty young minds, while simultaneously trying to control their rapidly growing social skills. (In other words, keep them quiet enough to learn anything - oh, and that's another issue: teachers allowing IPODs, MP3 players, Nintendos, etc in class - don't get me started on that!) In my humble opinion, there should be at least one assistant per classroom. Maybe a teaching student spends a semester helping the needier children, while also discovering if they really have it in them to teach.

The world recognizes that our children are the future of the planet. Good for them. How are the children supposed to run this place if governments will not support teachers? Why is there only one teacher for these large class sizes? Yes, I survived classes of up to 36 kids when I was younger. But we had fewer distractions. We had better discipline. We would never have considered behaving or talking back as many kids do now (geez, I sound old).

Every parent wants to see their children smiling not only when they come home from school, but when they leave in the morning to board the bus. They want them to look forward to school, to making friends and to learning. They don't want their children to feel afraid, stupid, inconsequential or victimized in either the yard or the classroom. They want them strengthened by the experience.

When governments put together budgets, I humbly suggest that Health and Education be number one priorities on every level. Yes, this is a naive, non-realistic view, but in a perfect world, the only military spending would be on arming our children with the intellectual weapons to run this world better than we did. And for that battle, we require better teachers - better captains and generals. And more of them. Sure, we have militia: parents who do what we can, but we don't have the big guns.

Without these weapons, our children stand untrained and unarmed against the future. Equipping them with confidence is my idea of good military spending.

so endeth the rant.

The Future of History

2010-03-10T13:08:00.003-04:00

I was never a history buff. I was the kid in high school who got caught napping instead of listening. “So?” I would ask. “Why does this matter?” Now my tweenage daughters ask the same question and I struggle to explain why.

“Because,” I say. And it's not one of those “Because I said so's”. It's because now I “get it”.

I experienced my first taste of Scottish history a few years ago, when I devoured the “Outlander” series by author extraordinaire Diana Gabaldon. After I finished the books, I became lonely for rolling r's and sword-wielding Highlanders. I wanted more. So I wrote my own book. In order to do that, I had to delve into a different rolling r: rrrrrresearch. Not my strongest asset. But I started digging. I took out every book the library carried on the subject and then, after major physiotherapy on my back, decided to surf the net. I googled historic websites and got in touch with the people who really know their stuff, the re-enactors. These people are often obsessive about their craft, and were the absolute best sources for research. I was lectured ad nauseum about sword lengths and hilts. About garrons vs horses. I was laughed at for my pre-conceived notions. And from those often borderline abusive comments grew my understanding and love of history.

I joined the Calgary Highland Games committee with the purpose of listening to Scottish brogues so I could incorporate them into my book. I listened to the pipes, learned about the dances and tried not to hyperventilate over the Heavy Events athletes. I watched Scottish actors (obsessively, some might say) and wore out my cd player listening to Celtic music. I gleaned information on my ancestral clans of Graham and Ferguson, imagining what life might have been like.

When I moved to Nova Scotia, I kept up the rrrrresearch. I went to the world-renowned Antigonish Highland Games as well as those in Halifax. I dragged my family to Pictou to see the Hector and refused to leave until I'd read every word (which had them rolling their eyes instead of their r's!). I even – yes, it was a huge sacrifice - visited a few pubs so I could listen to celtic music.

I have discovered that Nova Scotia is not as Scottish as I initially thought it would be. Despite the trademark piper who probably earns a small fortune piping at Peggy's Cove, this province is just as modern as any other. Lives carry on, and history is, for the most part, forgotten.

But Haligonians got a shot of good old Scottish pride this summer, when Sir Paul McCartney came to town. Yes, yes. He's English. Just wait. My point is coming. Sir McCartney, in his infinite wisdom, invited our very own 78th Highlanders onstage with him, to pipe Mull of Kintyre. The audience went wild. Thousands jumped to their feet, screaming their version of a clan battle cry when the band stepped onto the stage. The Nova Scotia tartan was their backdrop. I'll bet there were very few dry eyes in the place. You can still see that footage on youtube.com, if you are interested. That moment still gives me chills.

All is not lost for Scottish tradition. Across the world thousands of Scots will celebrate Tartan Day or Tartan Week (Www.TartanWeek.com) next month. It is a celebration of the historic signing of the Declaration of Arbroath, and an event that began here in Nova Scotia in 1987. Last July, almost 50,000 Scots trekked to Edinburgh to celebrate The Gathering. In Hollywood, a major production company has plans for a movie based on the life of Robbie Burns. Scotland is a huge tourist attraction, and celtic music is experiencing an exciting revival. All of this is based on ... you guessed it ... history.

Scottish Highland Games have been a symbol of our heritage for centuries. Cities the world over host their own version almost every year and tourists contribute millions of dollars as a result. But for how long? I've been on two Highland Games committees and both of them cry out with the same entreaty: Bring us new blood! The committees are getting older, they're tired, and they're shrinking. Funds are drying up. And, for the most part, neither the people nor the monies are being replaced by the next generation.

As a result, there will be no Halifax Highland Games this year, and that, in my opinion, is a big shame.

I can hear my daughters from here. “So? Why should I care?”

Because. Because history is an ongoing lesson for the future. We study atrocities in order to help prevent them from happening again. We celebrate discoveries in hopes that more will be made. But what about culture? What does it matter that they used to live in peat cottages? Who cares what the word “plaid” really means? Why are bagpipes so darn loud? And what's with the kilts?

Sometimes it's not so much about answers as it is about passion. When I went to my first Highland Games, I was enthusiastic about the culture, but not overly so. I was there to learn. A friend brought me into the beer tent (talk about culture!) and sat me down so I faced the oncoming wave of tartan when the Massed Bands played. I was overwhelmed by emotion. It was like my heart took over for my brain. I challenge anyone to sit through a performance of Massed Bands and not be affected – by history.

That's my challenge for you, dear readers. Go to a Highland Games this summer. And bring a newbie. Bring someone young who says they really don't care about their Scottish heritage. Now sit them down and watch their expression change when the band starts to play.

History is our heart. It is up to the future to keep history alive. If history dies, so do we all.

I Think I Get What Sally Field Meant

2010-02-12T14:17:00.005-04:00

For the past month, ever since I got back from the Dominican Republic and started to let my tan fade, I have been walking on Cloud 9. While I was away, three literary agents and one publishing company all asked for submissions of my book, Under the Same Sky.

I am well aware that finding an agent is only the first step. Actually, that's not right. The steps begin way before that. After I wrote/re-wrote/edited/deleted, etc etc my novel, I had to create the perfect "query letter" (for those of you who do not have to subject yourselves to this torture, these are the letters that try to sell a book/your talent to agents. They're crazy difficult.). Then I bought books and cruised sites that suggested agents who might be interested in my genre of book. I picked and chose, then sent and sent and sent ... and sent (you get the idea).

Dozens of query letters (feels like way more) have flown from my computer, through cyberspace and plonked themselves onto the screens of overworked literary agents worldwide. As a result, dozens of emails have come back to me with such lovely comments as "Nice idea, but it's not for me."

If I am ever to find an interested agent and happen to catch him/her on a good day, he/she can still say "Ummmm nope. I was wrong. Never mind. Good luck elsewhere" (I had that happen a few months ago). Or he/she can say "I like your stuff, but there's a heck of a lot of work that needs to be done." Or he/she can play possum and never get back to me. Or finally, he/she can say "Yes, I want to represent you. Now begins the tough part of trying to find a publisher."

Today I got a phone call - not a quick email, but an actual PHONE call - from one of the agents who had requested my manuscript. He said ... ready? ... he said he loved my book. He loved my book! A professional literary agent had wonderful things to say about my book!!! Then he started to get into all the edits/changes/ideas that need doing, and you know what? I welcomed every little syllable. After all the discouraging things I'd heard about agents, I was shocked that this man called and offered so much feedback. He chatted for 1/2 an hour straight! He's sending me his ideas via airmail and we're speaking again next week - if we agree on stuff, he wants me to give him "First Refusal" ... meaning he'd be one step closer to representing me as my agent. I am now poised, fingers trembling over the keyboard, waiting to get started on his suggestions.

Now, the writers reading this blog will know that this is in no way a publishing deal. Not even close. Nevertheless, I'm now way beyond Cloud 9. In fact ... I'm walking on sunshine, whoa!!! This man has experience, he works with writers who I feel are way better than I am, he knows what he wants ... and he thinks he just might want my book.

If you need me over the next little while, I'll be sitting here, grinning stupidly at nothing. Just grinning. Maybe giggling a bit, too.

He loved it! He really loved it!

What a great Valentine present.
Life is good. :)

Vacation Lists

2010-01-24T09:16:00.001-04:00

My family and I just returned from a fantastic holiday. As soon as I got home I started looking for my countless lists of Things To Do. Fortunately, they were few, because I was extra efficient before we left. I only forgot a couple of doctors'/orthodontist appointments ...

So instead of lists of Things To Do which inevitably lead to Things to Avoid, I have decided to compile lists of Things on Vacation. WAY more fun.

Top 5 BEST THINGS about the Vacation *:
1) Dreams Punta Cana was a FANTASTIC resort. Great staff who seemed genuinely happy to be there.
2) My husband and I each read 4 books (see list of Good Books)
3) I didn't have ANY medical issues - no headaches, no tummy troubles
4) Met some fantastic new folks - mostly Brits - including one gent who (I think) is the spitting image of Geoffrey Rush. Seriously. And he didn't even know who the actor was!
5) I think I only heard "I'm bored" or "I'm hungry" four times (total) over 2 weeks. That's a huge record.
5a) Discovered Expedia.com. Our only travel agency from now on.

* Without meaning to sound flip about it, the #1A thing has to be that even though we were on the same land mass as Haiti, we didn't feel even one tremor when the quake & aftershocks hit.

5 Good Books To Read on Vacation:
1) New Author Alert! Well, he's new to us: Harlan Coben. Dwayne calls it "kind of guy-lit", but even being a chick, I have to say that I found "Long Lost" not only hilarious, but compelling and fun. And I'm in love with Myron Bolitar now. I seem to have a problem with fictional heroes.
2) Another "New" Author (to us): Jennifer Roberson. I read "Lady of the Forest", even though it (obviously a re-print) had a horribly cheesy cover (omg. I almost ripped the cover off just so no one would see it). I was hesitant - first, because of the cover, second because it was "another" Robin Hood remake. But it was fantastic!! Loved it.
3) "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy. Dwayne read this and is still in a trance from it. I have to admit to being somewhat afraid of it, but he says it will change everything about how I write. Not sure if that's a good or a bad thing, but it sure makes me happy when he enjoys fiction.
4) "Blink" by Malcolm Gladwell - As soft a non-fiction as I could find for Dwayne for our trip. I was hoping to edge him into fiction via this, and it worked (or he just ran out of non-fiction books). I know he enjoyed it because he kept pushing pertinent chapters under my nose, which he rarely does.
5) "Timeline" by Michael Crichton. I hadn't gotten around to reading this before because Crichton has an extremely annoying habit of being way more intelligent than I am - and demonstrating it ad nauseum. But, well, Gerard Butler (hmm ... have I mentioned him on here before? hmm) was in the movie, and I loved the movie. The best thing about this book is that it was entirely different from the movie, but still ended up being a fantastic story. Books are almost always better than movies, we know, but it was fun to have faces to match up to these characters. Like ... well, like Gerry's face.

5 Drinks on Vacation:
1) Dirty Monkey: Baileys, dark rum, something creamy, chocolate syrup ... need I say more?
2) Pina Colada: Rum, Coconut syrup/milk or something + obligatory decorative pineapple & maraschino
3) Banana Mama: Dark Rum, Light Rum, Banana Liquer, something red
4) Tanqueray and Tonic: Dwayne's favourite
5) Baileys: On ice ... on coffee ... on pretty much on anything.

5 Things that Shouldn't be Allowed on Vacation:
1) Speedos or Thongs on anyone in need of a Weight Management Programme and/or anyone eligible for Senior Pricing
2) Topless Women: same rule as above, but really ... at a Family resort, topless women of any age/size? Entirely too tacky (and gross, in my kids' opinion).
3) Parties past 2am - especially outside people's windows. Okay. I sound old. But seriously. All those folks are going to do is waste the following day in hangover hell. If you need to do that, go check out the Adults Only, wild and supposedly crazy Disco.
4) Blackberries.Come on. You're tanning. You're drinking. You're away from work. The rest of us are laughing at you. Really. Put it down, unplug it and ... if you can't leave it at home, only bring it out in the privacy of your own hotel room.
5) Highly Skilled, International Pastry Chefs. This may be debatable, but I feel strongly that the only weight I gain (which was, I admit, substantial) should be from drinking. Desserts like we had? Definitely should be disallowed.

5 Things I Understand, But Don't Enjoy:
1) Selling Photos: Those gorgeous photos of my darling children wrapping boa constrictors around their necks. Of an adorable monkey (who might actually pee on you - saw it happen - beware) on your head. Of squawking parakeets who have trouble balancing on your shoulders. I wish my photos turned out that nicely. I kind of think that an All-Inclusive should include a certain number of those pictures. Just because I suck at taking pictures.
2) "Almost Free Today!" "I make you a deal!" Market vendors. Say no more.
3) "Come on! You gotta play this ring toss! No? You no gonna play? YOU ARE LAZY!": Poolside/Beach Games. Dwayne loves 'em. The girls live for the prize coupons. Me? I'm here to read, fellas. Walk away.
4) Bugs. Just stuck that in there. Actually, our resort had incredible (and very stinky) pesticide routines, and every morning we saw the carcasses of unfortunate beasties littering the stairwells. I think I saw one spider in 2 weeks. Ecologically, I know that's bad. But selfishly? Really enjoyed that.
5) Butt out. Smoking is BAD BAD BAD and while I'm sipping on pure alcohol and eating artery clogging desserts, I shouldn't have to inhale second hand smoke. Especially cigars. ewwwww

I wanted to write a list of Peeves, but that latter list is as close as I can get. But I have ONE VENTING that must be included on this page.

We're not multi-millionaires. As a result, we save for awhile in order to go on vacation, meaning we don't necessarily go every year. When we do, we search for the best Family resort possible. If Dwayne and I someday manage to travel without kids, we will search out the best Adults Only resort. People who do not realize the difference should INFORM themselves about it. Here are a few pointers: Do NOT sit poolside in your much-too-small pink bikini and shoot my husband the Hairy Eyeball every time my kid laughs out loud. Do NOT attempt to scald us with a glare when we burst out into a spontaneous water balloon battle with every other kid on the resort. Do NOT whisper between the two of you about "bad parenting" when we are at a Family Resort and you have no kids with you. I offer no apologies for my daughters. They are NOT subtle, shy or inhibited, but they are friendly, well-mannered and happy. They love to laugh, to play, to meet new people. They are exuberant, energetic kids, with pretty terrific personalities. They didn't even splash you once, and you know it. In case you're reading this, Pink Bikini and Bland-Faced Husband: You might try smiling. You might like it. Fewer wrinkles that way, they say.

And Thus endeth the Vent.

Special Mention: Congratulations to Dwayne (a.k.a. Vanilla Thunder) for winning the Canteloupe Carving Contest.

I finish on a positive note. Apparently I should go away more often. Because while I was gone, three agents expressed interest in "Under the Same Sky". So now, off I go to double check everything before emailing it out to each of them.

Good to be home ... Better to be poolside, but ... all good things, and all that ...

On With The Show

2009-12-22T07:33:00.000-04:00

I'll admit it. I'm spoiled rotten. Well, maybe rotten is a bit extreme, but I am spoiled. My job is to stay home, which means being responsible for all the mandatory feats of boredom and repetition, like groceries, cleaning, feeding people, etc. But because I have the most generous, understanding husband of all time, I also have the freedom to indulge in my passion, which is (in case I need mention it) writing. Truth be told, if I had my druthers, I'd be on this keyboard fulltime. But life steps in and requests attention, and it's time for me to listen up.

I have decided to start teaching piano again. I like teaching. I like seeing the expression of astonished realization when a student figures something out on their own. I like seeing them sit a little taller, wearing an understated grin of achievement when they hear the improvements they've made. I like hearing them (purposefully) alter the piece in their own way, and know that they know that they are creating music. They will go forward in life with what I'm giving them. I still remember lessons I learned from my piano teacher/babysitter when I was 7.

I don't expect my piano students to go to the crazy lengths that I did. I am not encouraging anyone to apply for a Bachelor of Music degree. That was just me, and my all-encompassing love for symphonic music. But without that very first piano teacher, whose gentle approach encouraged me to continue, I might never have experienced the ecstasy of performing in the middle of an orchestra.

Now begins the whining.

If I'm still doing the groceries, ironing, cooking, cleaning, driving, helping with homework, etc and I'm teaching every afternoon after school ... well, when's my writing going to fit in? I know, I know. I'm just like (almost) every other working mom now. I'll have to s-c-h-e-d-u-l-e my time. ugh. Organization was never a strong suit of mine.

I can't quit writing. That's not even a consideration. I'll just have to limit my time - try and get smart about time management skills. (ugh again) The irony is that my story is actually shaping up to be quite a good novel these days, and I feel as if I'm on the cusp of breaking into that near-impossible agent/publisher realm. I have met some incredibly talented writers online. I learn from them every day.

Funny, huh? It's good to remember that not only are we teachers, but we are perpetual students as well.

I'm looking forward to this new chapter.

My little brag note (hey - it's MY blog!) :)

2009-11-24T09:11:00.000-04:00

Ooh. Now THIS is a fun ego-booster!

I have been coasting around writing sites for awhile, hoping to learn, hoping to find those hidden street signs that I keep missing (no wonder I'm always lost!). I was on ReviewFuse.com, which I enjoyed, and which taught me the pros and cons of critiquing, and kept me humbled. Then I went to Scribophile.com, which is a big jump up in the level of writing, and has some really fun (and wonderfully intelligent) people on it. Every time I'm on there I learn, and I figure that's what it's all about.

Just yesterday I went on a site called Authonomy.com and uploaded a few of the chapters of my first novel. This is a very cool site because everyone on there reads, sometimes comments, and basically votes for books that they like. At the end of every month, RandomHouse Publishing pops in and reads the top 5. Since I only joined yesterday, I'm still down in the 1,000's, but am working my way up. It's all based on word-of-mouth (word-of-text) and the ability to track down good readers and persuade them to come and read my stuff.

Well! This morning I went on the site and was greeted by a message from the Top Talent Finder on the site, Jared, who directed me to this link. He started a forum thread telling people all about my book! So exciting. I'm loving this!

It's awfully nice to get validation. For anything you do. When you bumble along, doing what you do, whether it be burning dinner or forgetting the most important things at the grocery story, you need to be told that what you're doing is good. Useful. Enjoyable even. So for anyone out there who is wondering?

I think you're great. :)

The Price of Creativity

2009-10-21T07:49:00.001-03:00

Once Upon A Time there was a woman who discovered that she loved to write stories. It started out with one little story, then expanded so there were about three going on at the same time. It came to the point that the woman was typing for many hours a day, and when she was unable to sit at her keyboard, she became restless and irritable.

(Could also be because then she was forced to concentrate on her actual responsibilities: taking care of the house and everything/everyone in it)

One day, along came her beloved Prince Charming (her husband, in case you were wondering), who asked if he could read one of her stories. (okay, okay. So the woman chased him around day and night, begging "Please, please read one of my stories!")

She was so happy. She gave him more and more to read. When he started asking questions about the story, she got excited, used his questions to improve her story, then started passing out her story to all her patient friends. Her friends obligingly opened the book, and to their surprise, enjoyed the story! They were somewhat surprised, in many cases, and encouraged the woman to write more.

So she did. She devoted hours, days, months, years to her new craft. It was a perfect life, spending her time with characters that she came to know intimately, like friends. She learned all she could about writing, she read, she tried new things - she worked hard.

Along the way, she learned that there are not only magazines who will print stories, but there are actual contests/competitions for writers. These contests sometimes even pay out cash prizes! Well, why not? She reads all the fine print, makes sure her manuscript is printed exactly how the organization wants it, writes up her entry fee cheque and sends it in.

And waits.

And hears nothing. But when she eventually goes on the contest's website, it has a neat little list of the top 3 or 4 stories. None of those stories are hers. Oh well, she thinks, and enters another one.

This goes on for awhile before the light goes on and she realizes that any money she might possibly win at these contests won't make up for the amount she's spent on entering them in the first place!

So with a sigh, she stops entering contests. She keeps on submitting to magazines, but no more Entry Fees - except for the one run by the Writers Federation of Nova Scotia. THAT one is great because for $25 they not only offer prizes, but they offer CRITIQUE OF AN ENTIRE NOVEL (or short story, poem or whatever). INPUT. FEEDBACK. You would think that would be the norm, right? But no. There are so many thousands of writers, just like our hypothetical friend here, that the readers can barely keep up, let alone send back a word or two.

She becomes a huge fan of online critique groups, like www.ReviewFuse.com, because they cost nothing, and they offer so much. In fact, she finds this website so absorbing that she dedicates far too much time to it, and has to step away occasionally, if only to get her head back on straight.

She also becomes an admirer of specific agents like Nathan Bransford http://blog.nathanbransford.com/ whose blog not only gives fantastic writing tips, but has spur-of-the-moment FREE contests which result in more fantastic writing tips, and commiserates with the life of a sensitive writer. She likes Nathan's style so much that she doesn't even mind that he rejected her manuscript. Instead of getting all angry/sensitive/defensive about it, she vows to create a work that he can't resist!

This is just a rant. This is not a complaint, per se, because a complaint suggests there's something that can be done about a problem (that's my definition, anyway). Competitions must have Entry Fees so that they can pay for Prizes and other things. Judges have no time to comment on submitted pieces of genius. And writers ... well, writers go on trying to balance the cheque book, deciding if they can scrape up the postage to send to this or that Literary Agent. (Thank goodness for email - thanks on SO many levels!) And then, from what I've heard, publishing (in most cases - think NOT Nora Roberts/Stephen King/James Patterson) doesn't usually pay well.

Somewhere along the line, the woman went from loving to write... to loving to write and wanting to share it with everyone she can find. She is learning to take money out of the equation and get back to what it's all about. And that's where she'll find her Happily Ever After. The End.

An Echo In The Bone - book review

2009-09-25T17:14:00.000-03:00

Kidding.
I'm not telling you ANYthing.
...except that I'm loving it, as I knew I would.
...and that Jamie and Claire and Roger and Brianna are all in it
...and that once I'm finished reading it, I'm doing it again
...and that my hubby is kind of ticked off because I haven't waited to read it to him
...and that it was worth the wait, and every penny.

Go get yours. If you shop at Chapters it's 30% off now.

LOOK AT THAT COUNTDOWN!!! (right there, silly. On the right of this blog)

2009-09-18T07:49:00.002-03:00

Having trouble typing ... breathe, Genevieve, breathe ... New genius work coming from Diana Gabaldon. If you have NOT read the Outlander series, you are missing a WORLD of greatness.

Dear ReviewFuse.com

2009-09-18T07:32:00.002-03:00

I am writing to thank you for introducing me to the world of critique partners. Now that I've been in the "business" of writing for awhile, I wonder how many thousands of newbie writers started out as I did: writing to their heart's content, then staring at the pages and thinking "Am I crazy? What am I DOING with my time?"

It was with fear and trepidation that I submitted my first short story to you. And a great deal of suspicion. After all, what if my story was the next major work of literary fiction that the world had yet to enjoy? What if someone else thought "hmmm I like that. I think I'll make it mine."

But I was adrift, floating aimlessly over my keyboard, wondering if the hours/days/months/years spent here were really worth the time. So I double checked the spelling and punctuation, read it out loud and tweaked for the thousandth time ... clicked on "Upload Your Work", then, finger trembling, pressed "Extract text from my document."

*poof* There I was. "Published". Okay, not really. But I had taken the first step of leaving myself vulnerable, opening up my baby to criticism. Ready, set, go. Let's see what you have to say, world.

Except ... what? I have to do some work first? Hmm That would suggest that I neglected to read the "How To" section of your site. Not your fault. I'm famous for that. So ... I have to read other people's stories so they'll read mine? That sounds fair.

I click on the first one and am all of a sudden in a world of people like me, people who have taken a deep breath, felt that catch as they pressed "Upload", then dove into the pool of hopeful writers. Before long, I'm addicted to reviewing. I LOVE red ink! Who knew? Now I want to be an Editor! And you, ReviewFuse.com make it so easy - click on the tab, whether it be "Plot", "Dialog", "Setting" or whatever, give my thoughts (for whatever they're worth), mark them on a 1-10 scale, then Upload Review. The more time I seem to spend on a review, the higher the score. Now I want to beat my own score. This is cool!

Then Reviews on my own submission start coming in. They range from a 4 to a 9. How interesting that one person finds one item ridiculous, while another thinks the same item is brilliant. Every word the reviewer has typed has mattered to them, so it matters to me. Even if I don't take every bit of advice, I consider it and let it spark some creative internal arguments.

My writing has improved SO MUCH since I started submitting work on ReviewFuse.com. Now you have this contest, and if I blog about you, I can get Free Premium Access? Sweet. That means I will get more reviews, but won't have to do as many critiques - although I'm free to critique as many as I want.

If I were to suggest something to you, ReviewFuse.com, it would be to:
1) Email your writers occasionally if you haven't heard from us in awhile. Remind us that we've forgotten about you, because alas, I did for a few months. Now I'm back and realizing how much I was missing. You've added more contests, more lessons, more options since I left.

2) Is it possible to keep an Archives section (maybe you do, but I'm missing it - remember, I'm not a big "How To" reader)? I'd love to go back to some of my earlier reviews - the ones I've done and the ones I've received. I'm talking a year or so ago. At the time I didn't realize I could print them off.

3) And maybe ... just maybe ... for those of us who are competitively inclined, you might want to post the top 10 of every category every Friday. Maybe? Yes? No? I'd love to know. I'm getting higher and higher reviews these days and I'd love to know where I rate in the community.

I've invited lots of other writers to join you, and every one of them has thanked me. So now ... with my HUGE following (hahahahaha oh, my sides!), now you will be overwhelmed by new writers and submissions. I will also, because this is the kind of thorough person I am, Twitter this blog, thereby opening up (yet again) to thousands of strangers.

Thank you again for offering this option. Every time I've had a question, you have gotten back to me quickly and with a friendly attitude. You guys are great.

Sincerely,
WritingWildly
(Genevieve) :)

Support your favourite (published!) author! They need you!

2009-09-15T13:17:00.000-03:00

A few years ago, my imagination ignited by Diana Gabaldon's "Outlander" series, I went on a search for another similarly addictive series. There are many who have tried to emulate her style, but she has a gift, as well as an extremely impressive education, and I haven't found any other author who can replace her.

However, my goal was not to replace Diana. It was simply to find another author to entertain me while I waited for Diana's latest installment. My first stop is always the Library website. Libraries these days are as different from the old card-in-the-envelope style libraries as maps are to GPS systems. Look up a book and reserve it, they will email you when it's in. When you're done, the Library will recommend a similar book. So easy it's almost embarrassing not to use it.

That was where I discovered Sara Donati and her "Into The Wilderness" series. Not only did it look good, but Diana Gabaldon had actually been quoted on the cover.

It didn't take me long to fall in love with Sara's characters and stories. I read all five of the books twice, and am ready to start over again, in preparation for her sixth book in the series, called "The Endless Forest", which is coming out January 2010.

So ... I could go back to the library and request it.

But about a month ago, I got a note from another writer, which sent me to Sara's website (that's actually her pen name - her real name is Rosina Lippi). On it Sara/Rosina stated that because of the economic troubles ongoing in the world, she has stopped writing for the foreseeable future, and has returned to traditional employment.

Reality is reality, and I understand the need for actual income. And I understand that books are a luxury - and something that can be borrowed from libraries or friends. While both of those options are still a compliment to the writer, the fact remains that if an author cannot sell a book, she cannot eat.

I have cut back my spending to probably half of what we used to spend. I am, and will continue to be, a big fan of the Library.

But in January I'm going to buy "The Endless Forest". I need Sara/Rosina to get back to unpredictable paycheques so I can escape with her stories!

If you have a favourite author, consider buying one or more of their books if you can. Send them out as gifts, keep them in your bookshelves. Even show up at autograph signings with them, like I will be when Diana Gabaldon shows up in Halifax on Oct 13/09 with "Echo In The Bone". Because if they can't afford to write, what will we read?

GAMER - A Review

2009-09-04T20:53:00.005-03:00

Gratuitous violence: Yes

Gratuitous sex and boobs?: Yes

Moral lesson?: Um, yes

Realistic Hero?: Yes. And a damn fine one to look at.

Good musical score?: I think so, yes. And who could have predicted I'd like Marilyn Manson?

I admit it. I went to GAMER because I'm a die-hard Gerard Butler fan. I wanted to see him flex and sweat and burn through the screen with those smoldering green eyes of his. I wanted to hear his Scottish brogue, too, but unfortunately he was Americano for this movie.

The theme is video games and our 21st century obsession with same. In GAMER, freakazoid overnight multi-billionaire game creator, Ken Castle, puts together two games. These games involve live human beings with computer receptors fed into their brains. The first game is "Society", in which people starved for income are paid to be controlled by those gamers who have bought the right to control them. The second game is "Slayers", in which death row inmates are set up to destroy each other in war games. The inmates are also controlled by gamers.

My pre-teen daughters create online characters daily on Webkinz and Pokemon and who-knows-what-else, mingling with other online characters. Kind of a soft, sweet version of GAMER's "Society" game.

In the other corner, my husband has tried to master "Tour of Duty", blasting WWII enemies, just like GAMER's "Slayers" game, except there's no pulse running through "Tour of Duty"'s graphic warriors. He failed in a serious way. Just can't shoot 'em up fast enough.

In both cases, the games suck the players in and take away any sentience about controlling or destroying another being. On GAMER, both viewers and manipulators see beyond the frequent blood spatters that hit the screen. They hardly notice the beheadings and severed limbs being swept aside by snowplows.

I got to see Gerry flex and sweat and flash those green eyes. But I also got to take home a few things to think about. How far away are we from a GAMER kind of world? When will someone figure out how to manipulate us?

Hey - wait. Isn't that already happening, with a little less gore, fewer bared breasts?

Big Brother's watching. And he wields a pretty big mouse.

True Love

2009-08-24T12:55:00.005-03:00

How do I know my husband loves me?

Oh, there are so many ways. From the unexpected "thinking of you" phone calls, to the nights he says "let's just get pizza", to the ways he can look beyond my waistline, my husband makes me feel very loved.

Not all the time, mind you, but that would be unrealistic. I doubt very much that he feels like I'm gazing at him as if he was Prince Charming 100% of the time.

I have somewhat of an obsessive personality (which explains the shiny yellow stack of empty M&M peanut bags in the recycling bin and the plethora of Scottish Highlander novels that have painted our bookshelves an interesting mix of tartan). For the past few years, one of my foremost fascinations has been for Scottish actor Gerard Butler. I know every stupid bit of trivia about the poor man, I wrote a novel based on how I perceive his character to be in real life, I promote his films because I think the entire world needs to share my obsession, and I'm pretty positive that one day he will arrive in my small town, read my book, look in my eyes and beg me to leave my husband.

And my husband has said that he knows what would happen. That if Gerry were to show up, I'd probably head off to Scotland with him.

When I received a call this morning from hubby, I had a feeling it had something to do with paperwork and answered with a sense of foreboding.

And ... I was right in a way. It was paper.

It was a double pass to go to the premiere of Gerry's latest release, "Gamer". Oh my god. My husband is taking me not only on a rare date, but to a movie I've been boring him about for months, starring the unbelievable hunk god Gerard Butler, with whom he believes I will someday run away.

That's love.

And no, honey. I ain't goin' nowheres without you. Je t'aime. xo

Ohana Mama offers a break from "There's NOTHING TO DO"

2009-08-13T07:31:00.004-03:00

I don't know if I'm a typical mom or just a lazy one when I admit that the phrase "Last Day Of School" struck me with something akin to terror.

What was I going to do with them???

My younger daughter is easy. In fact, the most difficult thing for her is to narrow it down to only a few activities. She would like to do everything. I had to explain that a Drama Camp from 9-4 means no, you cannot take Karate from 4-6, nor can you take Dance from 10-11. Not on the same day, anyway. She bounces from trampoline to fort-building to Nintendo to writing stories to terrorizing the dog to watching movies and reenacting them ... all in a morning.

It is my elder daughter, my sweet, brooding 11 yr old, who cannot seem to find enough to fill her days. In fact, apparently there's nothing to do with those miserable hours, or so she says.

We moved our girls across the country, to a completely different lifestyle, and I admit I worried that they would be unhappy. We not only removed them from their friends, but we also took away malls, Starbucks (ow!), playgrounds, movie theatres ... as well as traffic, noise, pollution and stress. In return, they got nature, the ocean, a bigger house, a dog ... and a tv (in each bedroom!!! What was I thinking??), a Wii, their own computers AND Nintendo DS's.

Yes, we overcompensated. Sometimes those electronic things are truly a blessing. Sometimes I can actually relax and write or do whatever else I need to do instead of inventing some new activity with which to entertain them. At other times, when I cannot summon my daughter from her Pokemon battle long enough to watch a male pheasant in magnificent plumage parade across our front yard, to witness a hummingbird feeding outside our kitchen window, to dip her fingers into the sea, I regret giving her those things.

Yesterday I took her blueberry picking. She was so happy - it was just her and me, and I let her drive our ATV to the perfect spot. But ... wasps and mosquitoes stole her buzz and after gathering 2 lbs of the yummy things we headed back. I went to find her a good book to read (from the vast collection I keep buying for her) and she grabbed an Archic comic instead. *deep sigh*

She's happiest in front of something electronic. So this morning, when I ran across http://theohanamama.com/2009/07/shhhh-ive-gotta-supersecret-giveaway/ and the most excellent mom-blogger, Ohaha Mama suggested I write about the game in my blog, and thereby get entered into a contest for an interesting-looking Tween computer game called SuperSecret.com, I thought ... hmmm. I read about the game, and thought "if you can't beat 'em ..." I'm tired of watching Pokemon and Webkinz. I'm sick of hearing Taylor Swift on youtube (we can't stand Hannah Montana around here). If this Super Secret game is going to challenge my daughter and encourage her to attempt something a little more interesting, I'm all for it.

It wasn't until after I wrote this article that I realized her contest cut-off was July 31. Oh well. It still looks like a good game - I might have to go pay for it! And now I have a new mom-blogger with whom I can commiserate.

Ah. Now I see what everyone's been talking about.

2009-08-11T09:55:00.004-03:00

I read a lot. I love to read. I learn from every book that I read, whether it's good or not-so-much. In addition to the "unknowns", I try to read books that everyone is talking about, just to see what the big deal is. That's what hooked me to the Twilight series, and that's what eventually led me to finally open one of Jodi Picoult's books: the latest, "Handle With Care". I hadn't known what to expect, except I knew "My Sister's Keeper" was the latest tissue-demanding movie in the theatres. I'm not a fan of crying. Especially not in the midst of snuffling strangers.

But I finally braved this potential tear-jerker, and I'm glad I did.

I'm not sure, exactly, how I feel about the book. And I think that's a pretty good testimony to its power.

I was immediately drawn in by the way she has set up her chapters. The story is centred around a little girl named Willow, who was born with a genetic disorder called osteogenesis imperfecta. Her bones lacked, from what I understand, enough collagen to reinforce themselves, and therefore consistently broke. The poor little thing could break a rib by sneezing. When the story begins, it is through the voice of her older sister. Each chapter comes from a different point of view: her sister, mother, father, ob/gyn friend, and eventually herself. And the chapters are created so that each character is opening up and telling their most private thoughts to the little girl.

Controversy is an amazing storyteller in itself. Jodi did an incredible job of leading me along her twisted, yet realistic voyage, following the tortured lives of this family and their friends. As much as I wanted to deny that the emotions, those secrets these people told could ever exist in my own head, well, I couldn't. How would I have dealt with the situation? How would it have affected everyone around me, and how would it have changed me?

When the lives of these people were spiralling out of control, swirling down the proverbial toilet, all I wanted was to flip to the last page. I needed to know the outcome now. I never do that. Because a story, like our lives is about the journey, not the destination. But I was sorely tempted. But I stuck to my guns and did not. I read every paragraph, ingested every word and emotion. I watched the knotted strings of the story unravel and braid themselves into a thing of simple beauty. The ending worked perfectly, and I marveled that it didn't feel the least bit contrived, or convenient for the author, as my endings sometimes seem to be.

I wish I'd stopped a couple of pages before the end, though. When you read this book, you have to read right to the final word, and don't peek. Heartwarming and heartbreaking all at once. Was it jealousy as an author or simple anger at the outcome that made me mutter "Jodi, you bitch!" when I finally shut the book?

I'm not sure I'll read any more of Jodi Picoult's books for awhile. Her story, although my life doesn't include anything even remotely as traumatic as "Handle With Care", got into my gut and twisted. It wasn't a very pleasant feeling, actually. She dug deep (as I'm told she always does) and came up with a story that is insightful, brave, controversial, deeply emotional, but disturbing.

I'm usually an Adventure kind of reader (have I mentioned that Sept 24 is the release date of Diana Gabaldon's latest book, "An Echo In The Bone"? Oh, I have? Sorry.), so I'll be going back in that direction for now. But if I were rating books for themselves, rather than for my preference, "Handle With Care" would be a 5/5.

How Cool is This? Me & Gerry!

2009-08-07T12:39:00.001-03:00

Lesson Learned

2009-08-03T19:02:00.002-03:00

I tend to trust too easily.

I also hate hot cars.

So when I was parked for 5 minutes in the beautiful city of Halifax (albeit in a questionable neighbourhood), visiting my hubby's radio station, I left the car windows open. It was 30 degrees out. I was coming right back out. No big deal, right?

Now I'm down 1 cellphone, 1 IPOD, 1 GPS, 1 Nintendo DSI and about $60 cash from my youngest daughter's little corduroy purse. It's about $1000 worth of stuff, and my insurance deductible is $1000, so we're not going to claim it.

I fully accept all the blame. I feel stupid and irresponsible. Angry, too, but I figure that's understood. All my stuff (and my kids' stuff) is now sold to some pawn broker. I know that. My fault, and I'll never allow it to happen again.

But it makes me wonder about the guy who took it all (and I actually think I saw him standing beside the car just before we arrived). Opportunity stared him in the face: open windows, unlocked doors, electronics in plain view. And in the back seat, a little girl's green purse. We were barely gone 5 minutes. That's a professional, homeless or not. And someone without any scruples, seeing as he had no problem taking my daughter's money from the purse and leaving her little girl toys alone (since presumably they wouldn't sell...).

What does it take to remove morals from an individual's psyche? What desperation has to rule a person so that they can reach into a stranger's life and remove personal items with no hesitation?

When I'm in a grocery store it's hard for me to even shift someone else's cart to the side so that I can get through. I can't interfere with other people's stuff. And yet some people obviously see no moral barriers. Are tied by no invisible bonds of personal boundaries, respect or integrity.

We are supposed to feel for those who have less than we have. We are supposed to be giving and generous and caring and understanding. Well, I give. I donate. I contribute time and money and stuff. I care. But it did me no good this time.

It's only stuff, and no one was hurt. But it saddens me that one small member of humanity has given me reason not to trust.

I'll be able to use this experience, I'm sure. It will teach me to look around more carefully, to watch my stuff and my family members. It will also cause me to hesitate before feeling sorry for someone, or before offering charity.

Maybe I'll be able to use it in my writing. Incorporate cold bloodedness, the lack of caring. Sad, but true. It exists. Lesson learned.

War Is Declared

2009-07-31T07:11:00.005-03:00

This is magnified a lot of times, but here is a picture of a common fruit fly, usually 1/8 of an inch long, tip to tip. Small, harmless little things whose sole purpose (that I can determine) is to eat, lay eggs and die.

Have you ever seen a cluster of them? Egad. They make the surface that they're on ... move. ick ick ick

Now. Here's the thing.

This morning, I went to pour my daily medicinal drink of coffee and baileys (what? It's for the taste, you must understand), and three little black dots fell into my coffee cup. And six crawled up my thumb.

NOT ALLOWED.

I've seen them on fruit, on meat, on deliciously soiled kleenexes. But Baileys? I'm sorry. That is war.

The neck of the bottle was instantly sanitized, as was everything in the vicinity.

I carefully poured a generous ounce into my coffee cup and sighed in relief. No black dots. They had only discovered the outside of the bottle. Phew. Poured in the coffee and voila, all is well.

Not for them, though. The bowl of untainted red wine is out, beckoning. They will tell all their friends and family about the incredible open bar at my place and leave my treasured Baileys for the sweet, fermented red stuff across the room. Then, their tiny minds overcome with ecstasy at the sight of it, they will dive right in ... and drown.

awww.

That's all the sympathy they get.

Don't mess with the Baileys, guys. That's all I'm saying.

I require veterinarian advice - for free

2009-07-29T08:54:00.004-03:00

This is Murphy.

Murphy is a cute, but neurotic little dog.

Murphy had (apparently) a run-in with a black fly about 6 weeks ago. The little demon bit Murphy's sweet, fuzzy little cheek.

I had to take Murphy in for his 1 year old vaccinations and check-up last month. I mentioned a big ol' scab that was on his cheek, so the vet shaved it down. Egad! He had a bacterial infection that had occurred as a result of repeated scratching. Poor little thing! The vet gave him an antibiotic injection and then gave me some pills and cream to give him every day and a Cone of Shame for Murphy to wear. $86 (I think it was) to Vet.

I followed every instruction to the letter and Murphy looked like he was improving. The vet had also said that I should take the Cone off occasionally so that the injury received fresh air. So I did. And Murphy, in a wild celebration of freedom, joyfully scratched the scab off and bled all over the place. I could practically hear him moan with relief.

So ... needless to say, the Cone was put back on. Then, smart wee puppy that he is, Murphy taught himself to curl his toes around the Cone so that he could scratch anyway.

Two weeks after the initial appt I went in again and showed them that nothing was working. They shaved his cheek again, gave him a shot of prednisone, some pills, cream and a bigger Cone of Shame. $60 or so to the vet.

Yesterday I tried putting plain old Polysporin on his cheek, then attached a gauze and four regular "people" bandaids. It looked like it might actually work, for a couple of hours, then he removed them without so much as a "thanks for trying, mom".

I gotta say. I'm not a fan of how my cute doggy looks in the cone. Nor of how he keeps bumping into my legs with that sharp plastic edge. And I'm a little sick of explaining to everyone why he's wearing it.

The vet says when he's all better (ha!) they'll give him his vaccinations. More $. Maybe ... maybe Murphy knows the prize at the end of the rainbow - if he keeps scratching maybe he'll never get his needles. Or maybe it's just really, really itchy. Still.

So ... I'm looking for suggestions ...

Crude Romantic Comedy canÃÂ¢Ãâ¬Ãâ¢t hide its old fashioned appeal: the217.com

2009-07-28T17:11:00.001-03:00

Crude Romantic Comedy canÃÂ¢Ãâ¬Ãâ¢t hide its old fashioned appeal: the217.com

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Nothing Ugly here!

2009-07-08T14:41:00.004-03:00

"The Ugly Truth" is coming out soon ... all you Gerry Butler fanatics (okay, so I'm talking mostly to myself here) will soon be able to settle down in those popcorn scented seats and drool to your heart's content. I already love the first trailer. This one is so, so funny. I've read people's critiques of it and it makes me laugh, because really, who needs to critique one of these? You'll understand once you click on it.

Anyway, my question is ... where does a girl get a pair of those?!?!?!?

Pressure!!!

2009-07-06T16:55:00.003-03:00

I have six sleeps left. SIX SLEEPS! Six sleeps to create and type and edit and type and re-think and fix and create some more ... until my mother-in-law and niece arrive to stay with us for three weeks. My husband is (thank god) taking a couple of weeks off, and we plan to drive all over Nova Scotia to sightsee and eat out (no way I'M cooking every night!).

My mother-in-law is great. She will cook and clean and work hard like farm wives always do. My niece is the same age as my two daughters, so the three pre-teen girls will fight over each other for three long weeks. I am prepared for this and have already posted consequences.

My time at my beloved keyboard will be compromised. I have faced up to that reality. I cannot remain a hermit when I am a hostess. I get that. So now I have six sleeps to type to my heart's content.

Except ... there's nothing there. My head is blank. I've had recent flashes of greatness that came at me fast and furious, and I've typed them all out so that they can eventually fall together naturally, as they always seem to do. But now they have stopped. My brain is a week early. I want to produce something stimulating and satisfying before they get here, for my own good, and my mind has already gone into hostessing mode. It's making me crazy!

I dug back into my latest novel, hoping editing would kickstart my creative engine, but the book is actually pretty good. When my beta reader is back from her vacation I think we'll be almost finished and I'll start submitting queries for it.

I buzz around blogs and sites, looking for inspiration, but all that does is suck me deeper into the abyss of non-writing.

I've gone back to ReviewFuse.com to play with short stories, but I'm just not feeling "it", the euphoria of floating through the words and watching my fingers fly.

What will probably happen, since I'm so magnificent at time management (hahahahaha) is that my brain will shift back into writing mode a week early. Right around the time my husband goes back to work.

Well, I will just have to show our guests what it means to be a writer. Demonstrate the fact that I need hours on my own, sitting in an uninterrupted fog of bliss and frustration.

Actually, that might work well. Maybe my daughters will have figured out how to deal with having one extra girl around by then, and they'll go outside and play nicely (and quietly, and far away). And maybe my mother-in-law will bake and bring me tea to encourage my stories to flow.

There. A plan. I knew I could figure all this out. And now that I can see the rainbow at the end of the visit, I won't worry about the next six sleeps flying by without any written progress. I just have to hope my brain stays on schedule.

Check out my chicas!

2009-06-29T20:57:00.001-03:00

taken in fall 2007

Just a moment.

2009-06-29T09:08:00.003-03:00

I didn't actually expect that the very first agent who ever asked to see the entire manuscript of Under The Same Sky would get back to me with a "Yes". The whole idea sent me over the moon: someone in the literary world actually liked my first five pages and found my premise interesting enough that she wanted to hold onto it for eight weeks.

Okay, if I'm being honest here (and if I'm not honest on my own blog then that's pretty pathetic), there was a tiny part of me that thought it was a possibility that she might say "Yes". I just kept squashing down that little part so that it wouldn't hurt too much when it didn't happen.

So I wasn't surprised to get a rejection email the other day. After all, I've had loads of those. All along the lines of "not for me", which I actually took as encouragement, since they didn't say anything like "terrible storyline", "lame characters", "grammar of a 2 year old", etc. I wasn't surprised, and I wasn't particularly sad about it, either. I'm just getting right back on that ol' horse and kickstarting my quest for the perfect agent. (oh - that's a brutal mixed metaphor.)

I had been flipping on my email for weeks, waiting for that rejection email, looking forward to a little useful input from a real professional. Without that kind of contribution, how am I going to get any better at this craft? I like my stories, my friends like my stories, my friends' friends like my stories, but agents aren't lining up to get their hands on them. So ... fine. Tell me what to do now. What needs more attention?

After eight weeks of sitting on the edge of my seat, she says: "try an agent who represents the type of story you are telling".

But ... I'm confused.

She was the one who requested my manuscript in the first place, so I thought maybe ...

grrrr

I know agents are incredibly busy, flooded with wannabes like me. I get that. Like I said, I didn't really expect an acceptance. But ... at least one constructive comment? Would that have been too much to ask?

Busy or not, people need to remember that they are not an island unto themselves. Whether you see them there or not, there is always someone floating around, waiting for an outcome.

I feel like this agent (who shall remain nameless) picked me up, read me over, then scrunched me up and dropped me on the sidewalk. Didn't even recycle me.

I'm not giving up. It's a good book, even if it's never published. Someone, somewhere will spare a moment and send me a useful sentence. And then I'll take a moment or two and send back a very nice thank you note.

Vote for me - I'm Flashing!!!

2009-06-23T10:07:00.004-03:00

It won't take long because this is a Flash Fiction story, so really fast. And, I think, really fun.

Vote for me! :D (click on the title to this Post to vote)

It's Research. Really.

2009-06-17T08:16:00.011-03:00

I don't know if this is a common technique, but when I'm writing, I have a particular actor in my mind as the main protagonist. The female's features are usually a bit murky (which I like to think means I'm allowed to put myself in there), but the hero is clear as day. I hold unofficial auditions for those roles, which usually involves a lot of long, difficult hours spent watching movies starring gorgeous hunks. I could flip through dozens of photos, but I admit, that's strictly gratuitous. When the right one appears, he just seems to pop out of the screen and declare himself: "Make him ME!" Who am I to question role soulmates?

My children have learned that just because Mommy is staring slack jawed at gorgeous men on her computer (sometimes for extended periods of time - research, you understand), Mommy is not "in love" with them (lust, for sure, but they're too young for that, and besides ... it's important for the readers to feel an attraction for these men. It's my DUTY to my readers.). My husband says he really doesn't care, but I'm sure he rolls his eyes when he sees me assume the youtube-watching position.

YouTube videos are a gift to writers using this technique. I can study the actor's facial expressions, his movements and habits, even the sound of his voice in different situations. And when I'm all done with that, I can relax and enjoy, feeling as if I actually know this man. Um, by "this man", of course I mean my character, not the actor ... because that would sound a little freakishly stalkerish, and I'm forever assuring my husband that I'm NOT a stalker even though I'm a frequent visitor to all the actors' websites ...

The hardest thing about writing for me is finishing the book. When the story is over, I have to close it and move on to the next character. That's all fine, but I really miss the "intimate" connection that I've made to that character. I miss what makes them individual. I miss the fact that when I get something just right, they actually grin at me, sometimes wink if it goes with that character. He and I have a connection. So actually, I love to edit because it means I get to know my friends again.

I guess I'll just have to keep coming up with new roles and holding more auditions. Sigh. Work, work, work.

Here are the lucky winners so far:

NOVEL: "Under The Same Sky":

An 18th Century Scot and a girl with psychic gifts in North Carolina have been communicating through dreams ever since childhood. She has some pretty rough adventures. He flees Scotland, but will he be in time to rescue her and actually meet her in something other than dreams?

ACTOR: Colin Farrell http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0402399/

NOVEL: "Unscripted":

A modern day story about a newly divorced woman who escapes the big city and moves to a tiny town by the sea to focus on herself and her writing. On TV one night she learns that the actor she has used as a model for her novel (sound familiar?) is actually filming 10 minutes from her home. She gives him a copy of her novel, explaining how he fits into it, and, well ... things go from there.

ACTOR: Gerard Butler http://www.gerardbutler.net/

NOVEL: "The Wrong House":

An 18th Century street urchin in Edinburgh becomes an unlikely hero ... can't say much more because the plot's not too deep and I don't want to give it away!

ACTOR: Jared Leto http://jared-leto.org/

Beyond Four Legs

2009-06-09T14:01:00.005-03:00

There are a lot of things in this world that I question. A lot of issues that require answers. Why does mankind fee compelled to kill each other? Why can't we feed the world? Why is it I cannot cook pork chops like everyone else?

But I have different issues this month.

Issues with creatures with more than four legs.

Why? That's my question. Why? Yes, I know. The balance of nature, the food chain, blah blah blah. All very well and good.

Until I am swarmed by tiny, harmless-looking black flies. I'm new to the East Coast. I've never seen these before. They look like cute little miniature houseflies. I bat them away from my face ... and they come back. I swipe them from my hair ... and they burrow inside of it to shelter themselves from the breeze. They are hungry, horrible, hardy, hideous ... did I mention hungry? Wow. Bites like these are amazing, coming from something that tiny. My daughters and I are covered with these agonizing mounds, mostly on our faces and the backs of our necks (apparently I was right - they do prefer to eat out of the wind), but also on my FEET. On my feet?!? I've been wearing shoes and socks every single day. When did they get their bloodsucking, venom shooting hooks into my feet?

Last night I was buzzed by my first mosquito of the season. THOSE I know. THOSE I have hated for my entire existence. Those I have hunted in the blackness of 4am, my swatting hands guided only by their relentless whining. Again, the question ... Why?

We went to the oceanside to visit a friend and were attacked by millions of tiny Mayflies. Now I know those things only live a day or so, with the express purpose of creating more of the same. I'm sure they're delicious to something. But to me? Again. Why?

I hear June Bugs come next. Another new creature for me. Apparently they throw themselves against windows like flying roaches - harmless, but creeeeeeepy. WHY?

Today I spotted a wasp nest above my garage, as high as it could possibly get. It's only about 2 inches in diameter, which to me is plenty huge. I am petrified of those things. I googled how to get rid of them and one guy had written that he wanted more because they were eating all his other bugs. He has no black flies or mosquitos because of his wasps.

I don't know what to do with that. The intelligent part of me says "hmmm", but that's all. No real comment. Just hmmmm. The rest of me runs hysterically through the house, refusing to come out until the first frost.

A blogging friend of mine http://www.itsjessicaslife.com/ said a couple of weeks ago

that she found a tick on her back. There are lice in my daughters' school. My dog has scratched his poor skinny head so much that he has a big ol' scab under his ear. He looks very pathetic. And my problem-solving husband has given in, gone to the store and picked up ridiculous netted hats. And we wear them.

Usually I try to finish off a blog with some kind of conclusion, but I have none today. Why? Because that is entirely the problem. There is no conclusion to this (unless you consider winter). I hate them, I do not understand the reason for them, and that is all.

Free Ad for My Books!

2009-06-09T13:57:00.002-03:00

ATTN All Literary Agents and Publishers!

This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Seriously. Do you have ANY idea the tremendous experience I am offering?

Not one, not two, but THREE novels, all written in my own distinctive, untested style, all written in different genres - one for (almost) everyone ... WHAT A DEAL!

First Agent in gets a copy of one of my short stories as a bonus.

Wow.

You won't see many ads like this one.

Pass the Plot!

2009-06-02T20:44:00.002-03:00

Please come and check out Harlequin's "Pass the Plot 2"!

Joanne Rock is our anchor, writing chapters 1 & 10, and a few of us lucky, random writers have written the inner chapters. I just posted my chapter, which was #5. I hope you'll go read it!

Chapter 6 will be posted Sunday night, chapter 7 the Sunday after that, and so on and so on. Good luck to all the co-authors!

Obsession

2009-06-02T10:59:00.004-03:00

So...I'm not sure this is working out for me.

I love connecting with people who write, learning that I'm not the first person to run around in circles having absolutely no clue how to go about this business, learning new techniques, learning cool new terms, but I'm not sure it's where I should be.

Or maybe it's just that I'm overdoing it, like I do with everything else in my life.

When I read Diana Gabaldon's "Outlander", I was drawn in until I became a part of the story. That's just great writing. I then went about collecting the rest of the series and completely losing myself in each one of them. Then I started picking up extra copies that I found lying around places - just because. I bought all the audio books and listen to them constantly while I race around doing errands. Errands, I might add, that I can't wait to finish so I can get home and obsess about these writing sites again.

Okay. I went nuts over Gabaldon stuff. Sure. People do that.

But it turned out that her books weren't enough. I finished them and was left as nothing more than a blob of unfulfilled reader, waiting pathetically for the next instalment.

So I finally did something about it. I began to write. And what do you know? I lost myself in those stories, too. My first is a gritty adventure story set in ... wait for it ... 18th Century Scotland, just like Gabaldon's. But I didn't copy her stories at all. No. I promise. I wouldn't do that. She's too good for that.

Anyway, what I was going to say was that I started to write, then realized I would need to do research. Guess what happened? I dove headfirst into every single kind of research I could find. I was in books, on the internet, emailing total strangers ... and I decided I needed more. How was I supposed to write the dialogue when I hadn't heard enough of their accent?

So I volunteered for the Calgary Highland Games. I did all their p.r. for 2 years and absolutely loved it. Well, mostly loved that they all spoke in a delicious brogue, said "aye" and occasionally wore kilts.

Two years ago, my brilliant husband who can see into the future (I'm convinced), told me the stock market was going to crash and businesses everywhere were going to suffer like crazy. We had to get out of a big city and simplify our lives. We wanted to stay in Canada. We looked at BC because we had friends out there, but it was the opposite of cheaper. He suggested Saskatchewan, and I (I apologize if you're from Sask) said "Why?" I threw out Nova Scotia. Why? Because that's latin for New Scotland. Their flag is made up of both Scottish flags. Their tourism brochures are covered in kilts and pipes. I didn't really point out those facts to him, but he loved the idea of living on the coast, amongst the lobstermen and fishermen. He is also far too good to me, knew I wanted Nova Scotia, and we moved out here.

Unfortunately, we moved to a place with basically no Scottish influence. I'm dealing with that. I got the house I wanted, anyway.

So what do I do at that point? I volunteer for the Halifax Highland Games. I can't seem to get enough.

Where am I going with all of this? Oh, right. Obsession.

I have joined, as I said last time, Facebook, Twitter, had a passing acquaintance with MySpace, Scotster.com, Flork.com, ReviewFuse.com and dozens of others I can't remember. From Twitter I grew my world to include blogs that sounded interesting and/or funny. I entered contests and submitted to new Agents. Sounds great, huh? Perfect for me.

Except I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't know how to get it all read and written. I don't know how to organize my time so that I don't spend hours and hours ignoring my responsibilities just so I can laugh at the latest on Twitter. It's gotten out of hand. My surfing has even pushed aside my writing so that I have my first ever writer's block (although I hate that term. I prefer to think that my characters are taking a little time off to consider their next move.).

I think I will do like I've done with my M&Ms. I will cut them out one day at a time. I will return to my bare necessities. Simplify. And my writing is one of those necessities. And ... my housework and cooking is another. And ... well, I suppose spending quality time with my rapidly maturing daughters is another. Okay. It's the biggest.

Some people can do it, but I can't. I suppose if I was making money through a blog it might justify itself, but not as it is.

This blogging thing is fun, though. I'll keep it up. Helps me see clearer. Maybe it's a necessity. But the rest aren't. I'll miss them, but it's only fair. I'll visit. Life on Twitter will do fine without me.

How did I get here?

2009-05-28T16:28:00.000-03:00

Wow. Check me out. I'm blogging.

I'm going to try and do this every so often ... but not too often, because I have easily determined that I have a highly addictive personality. That means that without too much effort, I could write blogs non-stop and never actually get anything else done. Not sure that would be very popular with my family.

I discovered Facebook, which led to Twitter, which led to Blogs and Subscriptions to Blogs and #'s and @'s and *whew* so many things that I have absolutely no need for. But it's pretty cool. Actually, I'm learning that all of those things can actually be used for more than just entertainment. This blog, for example. Every Writers' Education site suggests blogs are a fantastic writing tool. I get that. Stream of consciousness and all that - but without too many excessive adjectives or adverbs (did you notice excessive was excessive?).

The Writers' Federation of NS sends out a wonderful monthly e-newsletter called Notes From Ma Fed, and it always includes places looking for submissions, contests, job ops, etc. That was where I first heard of MaternalSpark.com, where I had my first online published story, which was Schoolbus Musings. That was also where I learned of ReviewFuse.com, the fantastic site where writers review each others' stories (for free again). And I won third place in a Short Story contest there with Late Thaw. I've since entered Longing, but it's not getting enough attention. That's my fault. In order for it to get reviewed, I have to review other people's stories, and I've been lazy this month.

Anyway, Heather at MaternalSpark.com referred me to Twitter. So it's all her fault. You can go to her site and tell her I said that.

On Twitter I have hooked myself up to a ton of writers/editors/agencies/movie stars (oops! How did that get in there?) and have already benefitted from that. It was there that I heard of Beth Fleisher at the Barry Goldwater Literary Agency in NY. She was the very first agent to ever say "Yes! May I please see your entire manuscript for Under the Same Sky?" (maybe not quite so polite, but I know that deep down, she meant to be. She's a busy woman, you know) Now she may decide, in all of her literary wisdom, that my scribblings aren't in mode right now, and she may pass. But the thing is, she said "Yes". Someone in the Know, in NYC, said "Yes". That's all that matters. For now.

Anyway, I learned of her on Twitter. So if I DO get lucky enough to earn her trust, I can legitimize all my wasted hours on Twitter.

There are also sites on there telling me how to find agents, impress them, etc , and it's all FREE. So that's cool.

I'm not ready for a website. I don't want to pay anyone to make me one, and I don't have anything impressive to put on it. If I have a website, it's gonna be a doozey. (doozie?) And it will have my book covers (plural!) on the background.

So this will be (when I remember) my blog. My ... journal? We'll see how it goes. And please tell me what you think - including: Why? You could be ironing or something! (which I know you won't say because I promise to do my chores first.)