Day Job Gone--It's Time to Write!

THE DIRTY DOZEN

2010-08-29T14:31:00.001-07:00

When you attend a conference, you never know what's going to resonate a month later. My initial response to the SCBWI summer conference in L.A. was author envy. Jon Scieszka, Gordon Korman, Marion Dane Bauer,…I'm not worthy! The sentiment lingered and this surprised me. In another life (as a lawyer), I'd lived in Los Angeles and had many star sightings: Bob Newhart in the video store! Rick Springfield ordering a sandwich in front of me! (I'll have what he's having.) Alfre Woodard at the dry cleaners! The moment of glee lasted as long as an Altoid. But I never (seriously) aspired to be an actor or a singer. A successful author? My ultimate dream.

I tried to live in the moment, listening to each esteemed writer and illustrator's keynote, hoping that their talent and good karma would transfer to me. A ridiculous wish considering I was one of 1,100 people in attendance, but there are no Wish Censors. If there were, fountains would have no more than three or four pennies lining their bottoms. On the return flight home, I wasn't sure what I'd gained from the four-day event. I had a vaguely positive feeling, but it couldn't pin it down to inspiration or direction.

Today, as I sat in a café in town, I stared at my laptop and felt I'd hit a snag with my latest project. Then, an L.A. moment flashed to mind. I tried a writing tip offered by Gail Carson Levine (Ella Enchanted). I flipped through my journal and found a notation from her speech. When she feels a part of a manuscript lacks oomph, she brainstorms other plot possibilities. The list must reach a dozen. Don't stop even if you like one of your first seven ideas.

I am outlining a new YA manuscript and, as I reviewed my notes, I struggled with why a character would do something seemingly unexpected. I started listing. The first idea seemed plausible. I could go with it, but I let the list persist. Item two, acceptable, although I was dwelling too much on one of the emerging themes. Too blatant. Item three—meh. I really liked my fourth and fifth ideas. The fifth, in particular, took off. I madly typed notes to expand on this possibility. I was sold on it as a compelling explanation.

Don't stop till you hit a dozen. I felt like I was back in math class, clearly getting a concept yet having to do all the assigned homework questions, ostensibly to solidify my understanding. Bah! Busy work. I'd resented Mr. Houston and Mrs. Hinich then and now I was resenting Gail Carson Levine. I was under no obligation. She wouldn't do a homework check. She didn't threaten detention or black marks in the grade book. I could stop and she'd never know. She wouldn't care if I followed her advice. She didn't know me. She didn't even follow me on Twitter, for Bill Peet's sake.

Ah, but the curse. I was always an obedient student, dammit. I continued with the list. After each new idea, I'd count my ideas as if by chance an extra one or two crept in from nowhere. By the time I had ten ideas, I got up and requested a coffee refill. Ten was terrific. It showed I could consider alternatives. Good enough.

I sat back down and figured a couple more ideas wouldn't hurt. Eleven. Twelve. Whew. Done.

You know what? I have to thank Gail Carson Levine for pushing me. As I review my list, it is clear that not all of the ideas are home runs. There are a few fouls and one or two embarrassing strikes. Still, creating the list helped with more than finding a fitting motive for a character. By exploring many possibilities, I had to consider my main character's relationship with each of the other characters. I deepened my understanding of some of the minor characters and tweaked other aspects of the plot.

Which idea will I go with? It's down to Numbers 5, 8 and 10. Five still feels the strongest, but I need to let the possibilities simmer. The fact that the tenth idea is a contender proves that I didn't fill the list just for the sake of reaching the seemingly random number of twelve. I fully committed to the exercise. And why wouldn't I? I am excited about my manuscript idea. Should I eventually get it published, I'll have to add Gail Carson Levine to the Acknowledgments. Turns out I was doing more than star gazing in L.A. after all!

TECHNO DINO – PART ONE

2010-08-18T10:23:00.001-07:00

Most of us have a decade we relate to more than the others: the hair, the clothes, the music, the movies, even the commercials. Friends would say I'm stuck in the '70s and, although I never want to see platform shoes again or go back to teasing my hair into a strawberry blond afro, I don't fight the label. I'd rather wear bell bottoms than acid-washed or jeans that sag to your knees. I'll gleefully listen to one of the most banned songs of the decade, startle my dogs with my Arnold Horshack laugh and doodle smiley faces while craving a Kojak lollipop.

Somehow I've managed to move forward even if I'm never quite current. I blame technology. I can't keep up. I was so proud of myself when I gave up my landline and relied solely on a cell phone. At the time, I was one of 8% of North Americans to do so. Cutting edge! But then BlackBerrys and iPhones became the rage and I failed to board the trend train. I still don't see the need for 24/7 communication and accessibility. (I regularly turn my cell off and forget to turn it back on. No withdrawal symptoms.) Knowing how much I love music, colleagues bought me an iPod when I left my last job. They thoughtfully preloaded it with "Mandy" and "Shannon" and "Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves". Still, it sits in a drawer somewhere in my home office. My name is Gregory and I am technologically stunted. I don't own a flatscreen and one of my TVs doesn't even have a remote.

Yeah. Stuck in the '70s. (Where are my tube socks?)

I'm not calling for a techno burning. I do see value in some of the latest devices. It just seems we're too gadget driven and some very rich ADD developers and marketers are mocking us saps who buy into the buzz that every new upgrade is a need, not a want. It's like we're going from vinyl to 8-track to cassette to CD to iTunes in the course of four years instead of four decades. Yesterday, I read an article telling me that my four-month-old netbook would soon be obsolete. (Same with Kindles, digital cameras and, gasp, iPads.) Why shell out money for soon-to-be landfill fodder? Why can't we put something on the market and stick with it for 7-10 years? Products that last...am I talking blasphemy? How long has the stapler been in existence?

Help me, Rhoda Morgenstern! Gosh, I miss those lines of beads hanging in the doorway of your apartment. I need to calm myself with a tall glass of Tang—it was good enough for astronauts, it's good enough for me. I need Olivia to restore myself with "Have You Never Been Mellow" and then shake things out with a little "Boogie Oogie Oogie". Ah, good times, J.J., Good Times.

READING ON A DEADLINE

2010-08-11T10:10:00.001-07:00

Four hundred sixty-three pages to go. I'm never going to make it. Why do some authors have to be epic-centric?

Ten months ago, while staying at the family cottage in Ontario, my cousin's wife and I sipped wine and chatted about what makes a good book. I'd said I was drawn to stories in which the writer brought the characters to life in such a way that I felt I knew these people. She recommended a book she'd recently read. Would I want to borrow the book? Sure, why not. A week later she handed me the book. Lift with the knees, not the back. The hardcover came in at more than seven hundred pages. As a person who has always been a slow reader, the rounding rules from math class do not apply. In my mind, the tome (tomb?) was an eight-hundred pager.

I flew back to Vancouver, relieved that Air Canada didn't charge more for the added weight in my suitcase. I set the book on my dresser and proceeded to forget it existed. Entertainment Weekly was a much more consumable read. (Sometimes, after reading, I felt I knew James Cameron and the "Glee" cast, too.)

On impulse, I booked a flight back to the cottage and that book could no longer be ignored. I could not in good conscience borrow a book for almost a year and return it, mumbling, "Sorry, never got around to it." I am a writer. Writers are voracious readers, right?

Then July came and I booked another trip to the cottage. Suddenly the book taunted me every time I walked in my bedroom. Gonna read me? Or are ya just a literary fake?

It was like I was back in college, end of semester, 1,900 pages of text behind in my reading assignments. That's when I'd curse the history prof who had five texts on his course syllabus. Should have dropped it the first week. Would have saved a bundle at the university bookstore and might have gotten more than a few naps in the days leading up to finals. I told myself that 800 is nothing compared to 1,900. Less than half! A snap! But 1,900 came twenty-five years ago when four hours of sleep was the norm and all-nighters were trendy. Cramming made sense. (Being prepared was for Boy Scouts and that was the last thing I wanted to be compared to in university.)

Could I cram again? Was there any point in even doing so? It's leisure reading. Setting daily page quotas seemed to violate the intent.

I didn't for a moment think about surfing online to read a few reviews and finding a Wikipedia entry about the author. Even in a reading crisis, I never cheated. Never looked at Cliff's Notes. I'd do the time. I'd walk around with raccoon eyes, wear them as a badge of honor.

And so I began reading Wally Lamb's The Hour I First Believed. The main character immediately came off as cold and passive-aggressive. That was my out! Sorry. Couldn't get into it. Couldn't relate to the main character. I could go back to reading Julia Roberts' latest interview promoting her new movie. But no. The writing was strong. So what if I didn't like the character? Wasn't that the point of strong storytelling? I could be introduced to new people but never have to sit with them face-to-face.

I read on. Columbine. Ugh. I cannot handle reading about violence. This author had done extensive research about the massacre. If not abandoning the book, I could have skimmed the scores of pages dealing with the shootings. And yet I didn't. This book had been offered for reading, not skimming, scanning, perusing. I worked through the pages, felt like I was there, not that I wanted to be. Effective writing.

And then the book began to unravel. The author included a flashback chapter to his childhood. Interesting backstory, but unnecessary as such a large chunk. If the book weren't so long, I could overlook this, but I cursed the editor. Save a tree for Pete's sake! The novel drifted farther from its core as letters from an ancestor and family history took up more text, offered in the form of a subordinate character's thesis. I grew more annoyed. My editor would have never allowed it. Easily two hundred pages could have been chopped. Still, I read.

One hundred thirty-one more pages. I finished the novel on the plane. I think I felt more relief than satisfaction. The pacing of the book felt off. For the first seven hundred pages, the writer meandered about, freely going off on side paths before finding the main trail again. And yet the final thirty pages felt like a whirlwind wrap-up, quickly updating character stories to bring the story to its conclusion. It felt like the kind of update that flashes on screen at the end of a movie biopic before the end credits roll. Made for a tidy conclusion, but also made the tangents in the story more aggravating. (SPOILER ALERT: I also didn't care for the fact that the meaning of the book's title wasn't revealed until the last page of the book. As I read, I kept stopping and wondering, "Is that 'the hour he first believed'? Did I miss it?!)

So I did it. I surrendered the book yesterday, leaving it with another cousin. I won't even have to have a conversation with the donor about my impressions of the book. I could have gotten away with not reading it. And yet I am pleased to have made it through. To his credit the author created strong, distinct characters and built a story atop a foundation of core themes and values. I am also more cognizant of the importance of ruthless editing whereby no passage gets a free ride no matter how beautifully written.

I'm currently reading two short story collections. They are just the antidote after the marathon read. I find comfort in knowing I can skip a short story if it doesn't pull me in from the outset. And I look forward to getting back on a normal sleep schedule. Here's hoping Rocky the Raccoon goes into a long hibernation.

But then I remind myself I've never read War and Peace. How can I call myself a writer if I haven't read that? And I can only renew library books twice. I see late nights ahead of me…

ON STEPHEN KING’S ON WRITING

2010-08-06T13:29:00.001-07:00

Every now and then, we can expect well intended advice from family members to bring us down rather than lift us up. From strangers, I'd like to think I can tune out the unhelpful pearls of wisdom.

Easy for him/her to say. He/She doesn't even know me.

So when I checked out Stephen King's On Writing (Scribner, 2000) from the library after an acquaintance recommended it, I looked forward to gaining perspective, even inspiration from a successful writer. Any little boost helps. Sadly, Stevie's treatise proved to be a downer.

I have no doubt Stephen King set out to motivate struggling writers, giving us fuel to continue on a lonely path where we often flagellate ourselves with self-doubt. And, yes, I found affirmation in some of what he related. Nothing new, but it felt good to know some of my writing practice resembled that of a ridonculously successful author, one of the few who is a household name. I too set first drafts aside to let them breathe on their own for a period of time before tackling the first round of revisions. As well, I can vouch for the value of keeping a sustained focus on writing, going at it at least six days a week.

I received some friendly reminders. For instance, I need to read more. (Doesn't every writer say this? Where's the "READ MORE" bumper sticker?) Sometimes I have to hear something 1,417 times before it sinks in. I've formally scheduled book reading into my daily routine. (I read plenty, but it's mainly magazines, newspapers and online articles. If I'm writing fiction, I should be reading fiction.) I also gained a new visualization for the writing process: the first draft is pounded out with the door closed (getting my thoughts down), the revisions with the door open (focused on the would-be reader).

But then came the crushing facts, read with astonishment, envy and complete despair. While money does not drive the desire to write, I do dream of being able to earn a living from it. When Stephen King mentioned that his first big publishing contract included a $400,000 advance—in the 1970s!—I had to put the book aside and go for a walk. Sure, he had a stack of rejection letters hanging on a nail by his desk, but he went from being broke to winning the lottery. My advance for my book, published in 2008, was well under 1% of Stevie's payday.

A day later, I opened the book again. I reminded myself I was looking for writing inspiration and financial information was irrelevant. (Not sure why it's even in the book. I get how it came at an opportune time in Mr. King's life, but I don't see how it assists in sharing the lessons he's learned about his craft.) Toward the end of the book, he included a section that led to more despair…and aggravation. He created "Frank", a composite of three writers he knows who haven't hit the big time yet, but are well on their way. Ah, yes. I started to get excited. This will show Stevie's understanding of those of us with Google-free or Google-lite names.

Frank begins to build a track writer as a published writer in small, prestigious journals. But there are bumps and setbacks as well. A sample query letter from Frank is included. Stevie makes clear that Frank has no connections in publishing. He's just another Joe Schmo, like you and me. Frank sent a dozen letters to agents and received expressions of further interest from all but one (who wasn't taking new clients).

I put the book aside and went for another walk. The fact that Frank is an agent magnet is about as relatable as Mr. King's cash advance. According to Stephen King, "if your work is salable, you will have only a moderate amount of trouble finding [an agent]. You'll probably be able to find one even if your work isn't salable, as long as it shows promise."

UGH! Reading about Frank makes it tempting to put my Netbook on Craig's List. I repeatedly told myself that King's perspective, in addition to being unrepresentative of most struggling writers, is dated. The publishing industry has changed drastically in the past decade. Advances are smaller and agents and editors have been pared down. Professional courtesy has been compromised as agents and editors have busier workloads. Most don't even want an SASE. They only reply if there's a shred of interest.

But trying to put King's words into context doesn't erase what I've read. (Isn't it the same when we try to dismiss Aunt Bertha's comment that a new shirt makes us look "chunky"?) Am I delusional? What business do I have even reading a book about writing, much less thinking I can be the next Frank on my way to being the next Stephen?

For me at least, Stephen King's On Writing instills more fear in me than Carrie, Christine and Cujo combined. I'm returning it to the library today. I think it's time to reread Oh, the Places You'll Go! by Dr. Seuss. Maybe in a few days I'll be ready to submit a few more agent queries.

TWENTY TWEETS FROM L.A.

2010-08-05T17:39:00.001-07:00

As if I don't face enough rejection during the submission process, I can't stick to the 140-character limit on Twitter. Nine items below have character violations. Egad! I only sent two tweets during the 2010 SCBWI Summer Conference, but had I been more concise—and had I turned my Netbook on—, here are the messages I would have sent. (Remaining characters are shown in brackets.)

1200 attendees. It's sunny, the palms are beautiful in a wispy sort of way and we're all in a hotel ballroom 2 levels below ground. This must be good. [-11]
Jennifer Hunt, editor Little Brown Books for Young Readers: skip trends, go for universals. (Think Judy Blume, John Hughes movies.) [8]
Jennifer Hunt: Be open-minded as you write. Let character's voice come thru & let go of adult judgments. [35]
Loren Long, author/illustrator (Mr. Peabody's Apples; Otis): With picture books, find the "emotional hit". The book becomes the child's friend. [-3]
Gordon Korman-The ultimate school praise was when the teacher wanted to laminate his story. [49]
LGBTQ Panel re. MG/YA content—Not a crowded field. It will stand out among submissions. [52]
E.B. Lewis, extraordinary illustrator! Bought The Other Side, a story about a black and a white girl divided by a fence. Check out the use of the book spine as a divider as well. [-39]
Josh Adams, agent: Out of 6,000 submissions/yr, happy if find 6 to represent. Yikes! [54]
Josh Adams: Timeless books will always be timely. [90]
Gail Carson Levine, author (Ella Enchanted)-Don't always have to have conflict/tension, but a "growth of experience". [23]
Carolyn Mackler, author (The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things), citing Judy Blume: It's not just the books that are banned. It's the books that will never be written. [-36]
Marion Dane Bauer, author (On My Honor)-It's the preschool picture books that sell. Less than 400 words. Strive for simplicity & compression. [-2]
Jon Scieszka: We don't have enough books that reflect the emotional reality of boys. [55]
Gennifer Choldenko, author (Al Capone Does My Shirts): Take care of your "writer" self. ID what that self needs & figure out how to nurture/honour it. [-11]
Rachel Vail, author (Justin Case: School, Drool and Other Daily Disasters): "Do we ever look at a book the way we do when we're ten years old?" [-4]
Rachel Vail: Recall an adult who listened & took you seriously as a child. We have to listen in that way to our characters. [16]
Paul Fleischman, author (Joyful Noise: Poems for Two Voices): When writing a novel, ride the wave, see where it takes you...but it helps to have a surfboard (i.e., outline, aforethought) underneath you. [-63]
Justin Chanda, publisher: ebooks will help readers access stories in which the cover might make them feel embarrassed (Think adults reading YA, struggling readers...) [-27]
Francesco Sedita, publisher: If you're not making mistakes, you're not taking risks. [55]
Why doesn't Vancouver have a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf (ice blended mocha!)? Maybe if the writing doesn't work out... [26]

Gregory Walters' first middle grade novel, Fouling Out, was published by Orca Book Publishers in 2008. He's a twit when it comes to Twitter, but feel free to follow him.

TAKE TWO

2010-06-26T16:44:00.000-07:00

I began a screenplay in April as part of Script Frenzy, an online writing motivator that challenges participants to crank out a one-hundred page script in a month. As part of my writing, I booked a weekend in Mount Vernon, Washington, the setting for my comedy. But midway through that excursion, doubts crept in. Inspiration ran dry. I tried to tell myself it was merely a consequence of sleep deprivation. (When I booked on the Internet, there had been no mention of my hotel being beside the railroad tracks and the heavy train traffic that chugged by all night long.)

Back home, the project remained stalled. I still liked my characters and the story’s premise, but there was a mismatch. The characters weren’t right for the story. Page forty-eight in, I knew I had to start over. I abandoned the script and pulled out of the virtual writing club. If I’d attempt an overhaul then and there, I would have been unsuccessful. Too much frustration, too disheartened. Instead, I shifted gears and focused on two other projects. With two months’ space from the original aborted mission, I am ready to FADE IN once more, with two new main characters thrust in the predicament that is worth keeping.

Without an artificial deadline, I’ve frontloaded the planning this time. I’ve created detailed character profiles, helping solidify my understanding of their backgrounds and motivations. I’ve also written a detailed outline, offering a breakdown of every scene. No more letting the characters guide me to an unknown destination, as I’ve been so fond of doing with previous writing endeavours. In the past, I rationalized that too much pre-writing would generate a stagnant script. Hogwash. As with any form of writing, the outline is open to revision. The screenplay can take a different turn, perhaps even change course altogether. Still, I have more confidence that the advance prep will lead to a finished script, with the first draft hammered out faster than usual. Thus, with renewed energy and excitement, I begin. Again.

DISCIPLINED? WHO ME?!

2010-06-13T20:26:00.000-07:00

Just returned from my regular Sunday swim. As I’ve been having shoulder problems, I decided to cool down in the hot tub...if that makes any sense. During that time, I chatted with a lifeguard and another pool regular.

“How far do you swim?” the lifeguard asked.

“5K on Sundays. 3K whenever I get myself to the pool on weekdays.” Somehow the conversation shifted to me talking about my writing. Midway through an explanation, the other swimmer interrupted.

“Wow. You’re so disciplined.”

Who me?

I grew up feeling like one of the least disciplined people on the planet. I was always misplacing library books and failing to return them before the due date. My room had shelves and a cupboard, a chest of drawers and a closet, but I preferred a clutter sprawl extending across my desk, spilling onto the floor and oozing under the bed. Efforts to organize my mess were always sidetracked by a fascinating piece of paper or toy that surfaced as I sifted through the first hodgepodge pile. (And, really, any piece of paper magically became fascinating when faced with the daunting task of a major cleanup.)

In high school, I was the one stuck reading Watership Down or Jane Eyre on the final weekend despite having three or four weeks to ”enjoy” the assigned novel. Projects were completed at the last minute. I told myself that I thrived under pressure.

Same experience in university, only the cram sessions became all-nighters as the neglected readings and assignments were exponentially greater. (My pages to read before midterms always exceeded a thousand. For some reason, I wasn’t sensible enough to stop registering for history classes. All that pressure,...a good thing.)

As I started teaching, it seemed to take me twice as long to prepare lessens, five times as long to mark papers. If only I were more organized, more disciplined.

Something clicked while I was working on my master’s. Despite having lived my life as a procrastinator extraordinaire, I started signing up to be first with class presentations, frontloading the work for my courses. I did my readings so far in advance that I’d have to thoroughly review them again before class, which I realized was a great way to solidify my understanding rather than an exercise in redundancy. I performed as well, if not better, and I enjoyed my studies instead of experiencing a radical shift from lackadaisical to frantic each semester. My fingernails survived key deadlines, my facial complexion cleared up and my caffeine intake...well, some things really can’t be changed.

Apparently I’m not an “old dog” just yet. Human beings can evolve and, remarkably, I have grown into being a disciplined individual. This year of writing could have been a loosey-goosey joke. I could have developed an online addiction with Pac-Man and juggled Scrabble games via email with people around the world. I could have reconnected with Oprah and tried to figure out the reason for the existence of “The View”. And I could have made a dent in the shelves of reading material I keep meaning to get to...some day.

I’d agree with the lady at the pool. I am disciplined. Thankfully, I am as fully accountable for my time writing as for my workouts. I’ve logged my writing on a calendar and documented my time spent writing each day. If I let the dogs out or answer the phone, the clock stops. It may seem obvious that breaks are not actual writing time, but without my newfound discipline, I could have easily deceived myself. Rationalization comes easily. I set writing priorities at the beginning of each week and hold myself to six days of writing. Whenever I come up short on a particular day, I fit in more writing on other days to recover the missed writing time.

I’d always thought being disciplined led to being stuffy and rule-oriented. Artists, after all, are supposed to be free and spontaneous, exploring their craft when the mood is right. Yet I’ve become more driven as a writer as a result of my discipline. If anything, there is more flow to my creativity. Yes, being disciplined as a writer can indeed be an asset. Go figure.

NEARING THE END

2010-06-06T10:59:00.000-07:00

Scary to think it is June. My year of writing began eleven months ago and, with an end in sight, I’m feeling on edge. Sure, I need to remind myself that it’s more of a baker’s year: thirteen months (plus a week or two), not the standard twelve. But that still doesn’t leave a lot of time.

I’ve enjoyed the freedom that comes with writing full-time six days a week. I’ve worked on screenplays, teleplays, picture book manuscripts, a short shorts collection, juvenile novels, a young adult novel and two novels for adults. Several items are finished, but I continue to struggle in finding the right people to read them. (My scripts have all been returned unopened.) Many projects have first drafts completed and a few are in various stages of revision, but now I have to prioritize which ones I should strive to fully polish and submit before I head back to my regular job. It’s a tough call. Naturally, some of the projects I am most excited about are farthest from the finish line.

For the past month, I have spent the bulk of my time completing, revising and polishing a juvenile novel manuscript, entitled The Lawn Patrol. The process has been satisfying, but I must admit that the last two weeks, focused on deleting ten percent to bring down the word count, hasn’t been the most creatively stimulating. I intend to complete some finishing touches today and submit the work this week.

It is tempting to celebrate finishing Lawn Patrol by going on a mini vacation—Whistler, maybe Victoria. But that gets complicated. What about the dogs? What about the fact a trip, however small, is not in the budget? After all, I am traveling to L.A. at the end of July for a children’s writers’ conference. Can’t I postpone the extrinsic reward? How about an ice cream cone—double scoop—for the time being?

Yeah, not the same.

The urge is to dive into one of my newer endeavors instead of revising another completed first draft. That’s the artist in me, needing to reignite the spark. The practical, business side, however, nags me to work on the next project that is closest to submission quality. I will probably juggle the two, a suitable compromise.

It would be best if I could block out the fact that I will be starting a new job soon with new staff, new students, new parents, new district personnel, new regulations, new…My stomach goes into knots just typing that. It doesn’t help that I was at the new school one day last week and I have a full day there this week. Makes it harder to protect my writing time as thoughts of the future creep in.

This year has been a luxury. I saved up the money and made it happen. Most people cannot do that. My biggest motivators are the passion and joy that come with writing. A full-time career as a writer remains the dream. I am fortunate—despite that irksome inner voice sometimes saying I am foolish—to still pursue it.

PREVIEWING NEW SHOWS ON ABC

2010-05-21T11:03:00.000-07:00

There’s something odd about ABC’s fall television schedule. At a glance, it seems that very little is new. And, in terms of comedy, that is especially true. One sitcom. That’s it. Finally a show to fill the “Hank” slot used for the 2009-2010 to erode the freshness of ABC’s other comedies.

The new show is called Better Together (Wednesdays, 8:30-9:00), starring that mom from That ’70s Show and two daughters who seem indistinguishable. Lack of distinction is the major problem with the preview I watched. There’s the new beau who is sitcom-cliché dimwitted, the bantering parents and three characters (the sisters and the perennial other boyfriend) who share the straight role. Three normal roles? That kind of blandness leads to stunt guest star appearances in Wacko of the Week parts. There’s nothing wrong with this show. It appears that it would provide harmless background noise while I randomly fill in my Sudoku puzzle (15, 0, 137,…) or roll pennies for my New Laptop Fund. It may even stick around for the season à la Accidentally…On Purpose, but let’s hope ABC has learned from Hank and has a midseason sitcom in development (better than that Romantically Challenged). Of course, I think picking up The New Adventures of Old Christine would make Wednesdays seamlessly funny on ABC. It’s better than Better Together.

There are other new shows on ABC, hour long fare with bland titles like Body of Proof and No Ordinary Family and, yuck, Secret Millionaire.

Detroit 1-8-7 at least has an attention-getting name. Poor Detroit. The city may be The Motor City, the home of Motown and the 11-time Stanley Cup Champion Red Wings, but as the main star of this program, its TV glory comes as the Murder Capital. If I were in the mayor’s office, I would be in a (murderous) rage. Sure, you can have crime shows in Vegas and Miami and no one is going to change their travel itinerary. Not the same for Detroit (if it was on anyone’s travel list in the first place).

I can’t get a read for the show based on the preview. To be sure, the police investigators do not stand out. There are a couple points where a suspect and an officer seem to talk to the camera. Not sure if that’s a regular part of the show, but it would make it stand out from all the other cop dramas. The show’s success will depend on the writing and whether it can hook viewers early on with compelling cases. Its spot in the ABC lineup isn’t going to help. Grittier than Monday night’s Castle, I don’t see Dancing with the Stars fans automatically staying tuned Tuesdays at 10 for a look at the back alleys of Detroit.

The preview for Body of Proof (Fridays, 9-10) has what Detroit 1-8-7 appears to lack: a clear star. Dana Delany hasn’t had a great, chew-the-scenery role since she leapt off the screen as Colleen McMurphy in China Beach. The fact she’s getting this lead role twenty years later shows that others know that Delany can be more than a crazy, underutilized Desperate neighbor. As a coroner who gets involved in solving crime, she is a commanding presence. This is not my kind of show, but I might tune in. Delany is an actress who can convey so much inner turmoil through her eyes and here she plays a hard-nosed surgeon thrust in a career/life change. I’m rooting for her. Jeri Ryan in the supporting cast may also help draw viewers, but Ryan only has one line in the preview. This is deservedly the long overdue Dana Delany Show. Too bad it’s on Fridays. It would fit better in the post DWTS spot on Tuesday nights.

No Ordinary Family (Tuesdays, 8-9) fills the Heroes void, complete with Michael Chiklis going through a series of watch-the-cheerleader-not-die stunts. Been there. Still, the show has a waiting audience (just as Heroes did early on before plot twists lost its viewers). Chiklis looks like a live-action version of the dad in “The Incredibles”, not a draw for me. I won’t be watching, but there are a lot of Lost people looking for a place to go.

Playing against the feel good School Pride on NBC is Secret Millionaire (Fridays, 8-9), a show where rich people experience life on the poorer side of the tracks and give some of their money to those most deserving. Value judgments on people in poverty. Ick. But I’m supposed to feel warm and fuzzy over this “unforgettable” show. It’s very Extreme Makeover and a near clone of whatever that other show was this season—gee, forgettable—about the bosses who pretended to be peons in their own empires. I have a feeling that this show will draw more viewers than School Pride. Both are manipulative entertainment, but if I had to root for one, I’d go with the cheerleaders who need pompoms.

There’s nothing that screams Must-See and several clear passes among ABC’s new slate. If anything, I’m hoping Dana Delany’s Body of Proof finds whatever audience is out there on Fridays. But then again, I’ve seen other ABC shows like Ugly Betty and Men in Trees rot on that cursed evening. I’ve also seen how belated moves to a new night fail to pull in viewers once the opportunity for initial buzz is lost. Here’s to history not repeating itself…and Body of Proof being as good as its promise.

A PEEK AT NBC's NEW SHOWS

2010-05-17T13:39:00.000-07:00

This is a favorite time of year for me. I have always been captivated by TV. As a youngster, I looked forward to the weekly Nielsen ratings; I studied how shows fared from week to week and against competing shows on other networks. For the struggling shows that I cared about, I considered other places on the network schedule where the program might have a better chance. I also brainstormed ways to promote these series and critiqued not only quality of the latest episodes but the effectiveness (and frequency) of the promotional trailers for the next airing.

Mid-May is when I feel a sense of freedom. Shows end their season (or their entire run). I have more time to step away from the television set during the long summer of reruns and substandard fare that the networks dump under the guise of a new “summer season” (as ABC is currently promoting it). This year I watched ten hours of TV per week, not counting the evening news. During summer, I’ll be down to about four. That means more evening beach walks with the dogs and more time to write.

This is also the time when the networks release their fall schedules and air previews for new series. I enjoy looking over how the timeslots are filled, eyeing what each show is up against. And based on what’s available in print and in the form of promos, it’s my chance to speculate before Nielsen provides the cold, hard evidence. I get to think like a television programmer and contemplate what shows have hit potential and which ones will be the first to be unceremoniously axed and quickly forgotten by all but the diehard TV trivia fanatics. (Supertrain, anyone?)

NBC has released its fall lineup and what follows is my take on its new sitcoms, dramedies and reality shows after watching extended previews online.

Ø Outsourced—30-minute sitcom, airing Thursdays at 9:30 after The Office. The main character is a twentysomething white guy looking to climb the corporate ladder. He seems likable in the same vein as John Krasinski on the lead-in show or Ryan Reynolds in “The Proposal”. He works for a company that sells novelty products (e.g., fake vomit; cheese head apparel) by phone and the phone center has been relocated to India. So here we have the makings for funny: guy as fish out of water, thrust in a foreign culture. Unfortunately, the jokes about Sikh turbans and the danger of diarrhea from eating daal are cringe inducing. Watching a chubby Indian become Westernized as he dances and sings to the Pussycat Dolls’ “Don’tcha” should have prompted someone from the network to exclaim, “Don’t!” Even if the writing frees itself from the initially offensive stereotypes and cultural mockery (one character’s name, Manmeet, is fodder for some desperate chuckles), I don’t think America is ready to watch a sitcom set in India on a weekly basis. I wonder if the creators and the network were partly inspired by the success of Little Mosque on the Prairie in Canada. “Slumdog Millionaire” no doubt also played a part in the conversation during the development stage. This is a small step forward in that a network is daring to give a show set in India a prime time spot. Putting the show on after The Office may help but the sitcom is still a huge gamble and, based on the preview, I predict the show will be one of the first to be cancelled.

Ø Love Bites—One-hour dramedy anthology, airing Thursdays at 10:00 after Outsourced. I want to like this show. It has a good pedigree, coming from the producers of “Love Actually” and Bridget Jones’s Diary” and Sex and the City writer Cindy Chupack. I am also excited that it stars Ugly Betty’s Becki Newton. Did I say I want to like this show? Really, I do. The vibe feels buzz worthy, but the material has been done before on shows like, ahem, Sex and the City. There’s the man who competes with a state-of-the-art vibrator. And the two good looking men at the bar aren’t checking out the two hot single women; they’re checking out each other. Add to that a plotline about the faux virgin and it feels like an onslaught of dating mishap retreads. I’m hoping this show finds its legs. It’s not going to have any help coming from its lead-in. Still, the quick demise of Outsourced may not come soon enough to enable this show to generate some heat.

Ø Perfect Couples—30-minute sitcom, saved as a midseason replacement. Hands down, the worst show of the lot. Three couples whom I couldn’t distinguish in the preview. The bromance between two of the male leads was promoted more than any other relationship. The women do not stand out at all. If there is a woman on the writing staff, her voice isn’t coming through. Strange since the show, by its very nature, will attract a larger female demographic. Watching the preview, it felt like the actors were trying too hard and coming off as grating instead of intriguing. This show is destined for a short life.

Ø Friends with Benefits—30-minute sitcom, slated for midseason. This is another show I want to like. The fact it comes from the makers of “(500) Days of Summer”gives me hope. The dating scenarios seem to come from the Seinfeld/Sex in the City vault, especially the goodnight kiss from the Face Licker—perhaps a welcome gesture from Fido, but not from your date. Still, the main couple (er, very friendly friends) come across as likable, and even more appealing is the male buddy who believes there has to be more than just sex. Yes, he’s a slightly altered version of Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s character in “(500) Days”, but it’s the type of male character we rarely see in a TV world of Barneys (How I Met Your Mother) and Charlies (Two and a Half Men). Not sure about the title, as I don’t know how long that initial premise will last. (Reminds me of the misnamed Cougar Town, named to generate initial media attention but failing to fit with any long-term story arc.) Programmers keep trying to come up with the next Friends or the next SITC. Maybe, just maybe, this will be it.

Ø The Paul Reiser Show—Presumably a 30-minute sitcom, slated for midseason.
I suspect Paul Reiser is an acquired taste. Lovable to some; an annoying schmuck to
others. I like Reiser. And I loved Mad about You. (Of course, much of that is attributable to the chemistry between Reiser and the remarkable Helen Hunt. Oh, Helen, where art thou?!) Paul Reiser and this show remind me of Larry David and Curb Your Enthusiasm. For me, that’s a good thing; for others…dunno. It’s the only preview that had a moment where I laughed out loud. I see potential for creating lovably off-center characters around Reiser. Still, it makes me wonder why NBC is holding off until midseason. Feels like the network is saying, “Meh.” Its timeslot will be critical. The show will be older skewing, not necessarily what the network wants as it tries to maximize ad revenue. I think the show will have a small, loyal following. Depending how NBC promotes it, the show could build momentum. I’d like it to stick around awhile, especially to see how the supporting cast develops.

Ø School Pride—One-hour reality show, airing Fridays at 8:00. This is my V8 moment. Bang on forehead,…I could’ve had a reality show! Ten years ago, I remember sitting on the sofa, watching Trading Spaces with a friend. “Why don’t they do this with classrooms?” I grumbled. “There is no money to make over schools. So many classes don’t look inviting. It all depends on how much money individual teachers invest.” Along comes School Pride, a grander show than I’d envisioned—more of an Extreme Makeover: Home Edition knockoff than a younger sibling of Trading Spaces. (Tangent: Is Trading Spaces on anymore?) When the show was announced last week as landing a spot on the fall schedule, I recall one of the first comments on an online message board bemoaning the latest lame reality as Law & Order got axed. Folks, I don’t think reality is going away. And this show is slated for the Friday night wasteland. Not sure what the ratings were for Jamie Oliver’s earnest diet makeover series on ABC, but I think School Pride will fare similarly, perhaps even a little better. (Viewers won’t be as cynical in asserting that a British celebrity-touting chef needs to return to the land of Yorkshire pudding.) There are worse things that could air. (Indeed, see Perfect Couples and Outsourced, supra.)

In all, NBC is particularly focused on playing relationship crises for laughs, with mixed results. Nothing stands out as a bona fide breakout show but there is hope for Reiser, Love Bites and Friends with Benefits. At the very least, it’s a step up from prime time Leno and The Marriage Ref.

Check out the trailers and post your comments below.

STILL STARVING

2010-05-14T20:34:00.000-07:00

The cheque came in the mail a week ago and I still haven’t cashed it. It’s not going to make much of a difference to my bank balance.

Twice a year, I receive a royalty statement for my first published book, Fouling Out. I initially received three equal payments as advances on royalties, coming upon acceptance of the original manuscript, after final edits and on publication. I’ve read that some authors get six-, even seven-figure advances. Sounds like pure fantasy to me. My advance didn’t cover a month’s living expenses.

The latest royalty statement is my fourth. This was the first time it came with a cheque, as the earnings from my teensy percentage on sales finally exceeded the advance. $74.84. Won’t even cover the basic fee for the single-day writers’ conference I attended last weekend.

At that conference, almost every speaker mentioned (often repeatedly) how writers don’t do it to accrue wealth. They don’t even do it to eke out a modest existence. People politely nodded, some smiled and even laughed. Ha ha. How silly to think writers could make a living from their craft. Unless you’re J.K. Rowling or John Grisham or Danielle Steel, you don’t quit your day job.

Writing a novel or a screenplay is a huge undertaking, fuelled by a love of the writing process, subject matter that speaks to us and blind hope that someone with the power to greenlight the project will pull the manuscript out of the slush pile, give it a fair read and convince publishers or producers that the work will generate a profit for them. It has to be the right project at the right time in the right hands. And even when everything falls into place, it remains a speculative venture.

Yes, there is pride in publication. “You’re so lucky,” one conference goer told me, with unabashed envy. It is a good feeling, but it doesn’t do much to cushion the fact I’m cash poor.

It’s a wonky profession. Even magazine writing, which can be a quicker route to a paycheque (or rejection), offers shockingly small financial rewards. As I randomly flip through my copy of The Canadian Writer’s Market, I find magazines offering payment ranging from 1¢ to $1 per word. One cent?! That’s ten bucks for a thousand words! And I just read in The Vancouver Sun today that Canuck hockey player Mason Raymond deserves a bump up to $2.5 million next season, a more than 300% raise from this season’s bargain salary of just $760,000. I’m a huge Canuck fan and I do like Raymond’s speed, but something’s amiss here. Let’s take a literary publication as an example. Surely, a publication that celebrates the written word sets out to value writers and pay them accordingly. But no! A 350-word book review in Quill & Quire pays $90. To earn that, the writer must invest the time to read the book being critiqued, possibly conduct some background research on the book’s author and prior work, draft the review, submit it with a cover letter and go through at least one round of editing with an editor from the magazine. It’s entirely possible that the writer fails to recoup even minimum wage for his efforts.

The Globe and Mail, arguably Canada’s preeminent newspaper, runs an 800-1,000 word essay each day. Anyone can submit a piece for consideration. In the past, the paper paid a $100 honorarium to the writer upon publication. At least a year ago, the Globe did away with any payment. The newspaper gets a free essay to fill precious space on the page. What a coup!

Oh, I know the standard response. We don’t do this for the money. There is no type of work I enjoy more than writing. Yet fulfillment is compromised by the need to pay the hydro bill and cover my dog’s increasing meds. I’ve been otherwise frugal. I’ve rationed the same bottle of wine for two and a half months and I begin most every day with a bowl of generic oatmeal.

Perhaps what I lack in wine I make up for in whine. But I do think of writers as artists and I long for the day when “starving artist” becomes an odd expression that makes as much sense as how most citizens view the expression “honest politician”. I look forward to the day when a writer can expect to be reasonably compensated.

Until then, I shall continue to scrape up two bucks twice a week, cross my fingers and chant one of my grandfather’s goofy expressions (“Seven come eleven, der ma needs a new pair of shoes”) in hopes the same six numbers I’ve played for the past sixteen years will finally lead to a lottery windfall and the financial security to continue writing full-time.

Yes, I’ll be one of those winners who drives the public crazy as I continue to work as a writer. But no need to get too rattled if I should win. Apparently writing is more like volunteer work.

TRIPPED UP

2010-05-11T12:42:00.000-07:00

The following entry was written April 19. With my series of recent technological challenges, I neglected to post it in a timely fashion.

As I began a new comedy screenplay, I decided to set the story in a charming small town in the United States. Mount Vernon, Washington caught my eye on New Year’s Day as I drove to SeaTac airport. To be specific, one building captured my interest from the freeway: a gorgeous brick granary building that had been converted into a bookstore. In fact, I’d forgotten the name of the town and had to Google Washington book establishments. While the store didn’t figure into my story, I had a gut feeling that a town with such a charming structure would be a perfect fit.

I told myself that spending a weekend at a planned setting for my new screenplay would help. I’d have a better visual. I’d be inspired. Gosh, the words would fall onto the page (laptop). In forty-eight hours, I’d have thirty, maybe forty pages—lively, authentic, maybe even magical.

I had such high hopes. When I went through the check at the border, the customs officer said, “Reason for your trip?” and I keenly answered, “A writing retreat.” She looked at me quizzically. A what?! “A personal writing retreat.” I could read her mind. In Mount Vernon?! I hastily added, “And maybe see the tulips.” I didn’t let her doubt deter me. She was probably near the end of a shift. Or, more likely, she was just beginning and needed to endure another eight hours of meeting Canadians bound for casino buffets and factory outlet malls. I was on my way. Cleared at the border, next stop the writing hub of Skagit County!

The only thing that could ruin the scenario was actually going. Yep, complete demolition of a dream. Pages of screenplay written: one. Sure I’ve got notes, some lovely tourist brochures, a few bad pics snapped on my digital. Oh, and of course there are those memories that will last a lifetime. My first Domino’s pizza (cheeseless!) in twenty years. Hanging out in Walmart to get a better feel for the locals. (Bonus: They stock these adorable mini Häagen-Dazs and Ben & Jerry’s ice creams, comparable to the teensy liquor bottles on airplanes. Not that I bought one. Just a little freezer window shopping.)

As for the bookstore in the old brick building, it had gone out of business, a beautiful yet sad empty space. Yet another casualty to big box book businesses and online ordering sites.

Yes, I was disheartened, but that was not excuse for a single page of writing. Was it writer’s block? No. I don’t believe in such a thing. There is always something to write. But I was trying to take in the local atmosphere, looking for the perfect settings. Part of the problem was that my main character lives in a decrepit mobile home in a rural area. He frequents the kind of bars I wouldn’t dare go in. (Just imagine the hush as I asked for a glass of the house white!) I drove down enough country roads to have me humming John Denver songs. (And speaking of the ’70s singer, his look-alike was one of the highlights at the Downtown Mount Vernon Street Fair. I’m guessing the Elvis and Michael Jackson impersonators had bigger gigs in Spokane or Bellingham.)

Despite my field research, I couldn’t find any inspiration as to locations or people. Unfortunately, on this occasion, the expedition was a bust.

For my next writing project—assuming I ever get through the current one—I’m setting the story in Prague. Or Moscow. Or Paris. Or even Tallahassee. (I just like to say the name.) That way, if a research trip is unsuccessful, I’ll at least have something else to take away from the visit.

TWENTY-NINE GEEKS & AN OSCAR NOMINEE

2010-05-09T15:41:00.000-07:00

My senses and my brain are in overdrive. It’s a Bucket List day and I have so much to process. I attended a one-day writing conference in Burnaby, sponsored by the regional branch of SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators). While I’ve eagerly attended author readings, this was my first experience with the focus entirely on the writing. To get the most out of the day, I submitted a chapter of a middle grades manuscript ahead of time and booked two consultation sessions, one with an agent, one with an editor.

I’m sure every such consultation is unique, depending on the two people in the room, the particular day and the beverage at hand. While I tried to anticipate what my meetings would be like, neither was what I’d expected—not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I first met with the agent. With only her purse at her side, she opened with “What have you got for me?” It threw me. What about the manuscript excerpt I’d sent in advance? She calmly explained that many things cross her desk. Bottom line: she hadn’t looked at my work. The session quickly turned from manuscript consultation to pitch session. And I couldn’t be happier!

I’d only thought about my pitch while taking the ferry over this morning. Just in case... And now I had to think on my feet. The booking was ten minutes. It seemed like I’d just sat down when another “pitcher” was clearing her throat to announce it was her turn.

I walked out with a single thought: What just happened? Couldn’t give a play-by-play, but the agent did ask for me to follow her agency’s submission guidelines, including a mention in the first sentence that she had requested my material. A good sign indeed. Of course, as the under-confident writer, I wondered how many other pitchers got the same spiel.

Best not to overanalyze things.

The session with the editor followed. She’d read my chapter, easily recalling character names. While my work wasn’t a fit for her publisher (which specializes in nonfiction), her feedback was helpful and positive. My writing was funny, my main character sardonic. (Is sardonic a good thing? I decided to pull out the dictionary to see if I was missing something—“characterized by bitter or scornful derision”. Yikes.) She gave me a helpful idea of something to add in the first chapter. Moreover, the fifteen-minute talk evolved into a two-way conversation, with a focus on hooking male readers and her endorsement that I was on the right track. By the time we wrapped, she offered to give my project more thought as to what publisher/editor would be interested in seeing the manuscript. This went beyond my expectations . (As an aside, she thought I looked much younger than my chronological age, joking that I must have started teaching when I was twelve. That alone would have made my day!)

At lunch, I failed to network with other writers as recommended in many articles I’d read about attending conferences. I am schmooze-challenged, but I have a legitimate excuse. My session with the editor ended after the conference broke for lunch. Thus, I navigated through the massive Metrotown mall in search of the food court. More overstimulation. So many people! And so diverse! Yes, this was a refreshing change from my life in sleepy Gibsons.

As the first afternoon session began, a person arriving late slipped in and took the empty seat beside me—empty, no doubt, because I hadn’t schmoozed. She was a featured speaker, last on the day’s program. Meg Tilly! Yes, she is a published writer, but in my mind, I still saw her as Chloe in “The Big Chill” and as an Oscar nominee for “Agnes of God”. Of course, having lived five years in L.A., I knew to keep my cool and let her have her space—as much as one can garner when seated next to me.

Her presentation was a perfect end to the day: a high-octane, stream of consciousness talk that was honest, modest and humorous, with a punch of star power that only a celebrity can project without even trying. I’ve added Porcupine to my reading list. Soon Meg Tilly will successfully make the transition from actress to author in my mind. (At least until I watch “The Big Chill” for the fifteenth time.)

All in all, a memorable day. Entertaining. Inspiring. Affirming.

LIFE IMITATING ART

2010-04-15T22:31:00.000-07:00

Just like that, things went from bad to worst.

I’d accomplished very little writing by midday. With my house for sale and a showing scheduled for early afternoon, I spent the morning mopping, scrubbing and fending off dust bunnies. Those pesky things multiply like…well, you know.

I stopped in town to buy some flowers for inside displays and new plants for window boxes. With my house sitting stagnant on the market for several months, I needed to pull out all the stops (and dandelions).

Cleaning is not one of my innate talents. By the time I finished, I was frazzled and frustrated. Who knows what snappy writing nuggets were sucked up with the whir of the vacuum. I loaded the dogs and my backpack in the car and headed to a café in town to finally turn on my laptop and begin writing.

I took one of my characters and plunked her in the midst of a bad karma day. Too much had been going right for her lately. Not a good thing in a fictional world.

When I returned home, I decided to keep the writing momentum going. I pulled my laptop out of my backpack and dropped it. The laptop, not the backpack. Understated thought of the day: That can’t be good. It was a short distance from hand to carpet, but the impact caused my computer to grow wings. The DVD component opened on one side and a heretofore unknown appendage kicked out on the other side.

I’ve shortened the life of many gadgets due to being a klutz. Two cell phones, a hedge trimmer, a record player, VCR and an alarm clock come immediately to mind. I’m told southpaws are clumsy. If you ask me, products should go through a series of Crash Test Lefty trials before going on the market. There’d be a lot less junk in the landfill. But, of course, no one asked me.

I stayed calm. I pushed the parts back in, plugged in the laptop, powered it up and a bunch of gibberish appeared on screen along with the message: Operating system not found. With equal parts denial and optimism, I shut down and started up again. Operating system not found. Operating system not found. After the fifth try, I grabbed the phone book. Computer Repair.

Time was of the essence. I’d booked a couple of days at a hotel in Washington State beginning tomorrow as a research expedition for a new screenplay. All my background work and the first act of the script were on the computer. Had I backed up my work? Of course not. Bought one of those memory stick thingies a year ago, but never figured out what to do with it. Plenty more than a single writing project stored exclusively on my prehistoric laptop.

After several phone calls—numbers no longer in service, a guy who couldn’t possibly look at my computer today—I finally talked to a fellow who matter-of-factly told me my hard drive was likely busted beyond hope. Bottom line: all was lost. Bad karma in real life definitely not a good thing. Was this The Revenge of the Dust Bunnies?

I struggled to remain an optimist. I begged him to take a look. He agreed and told me to meet him at the liquor store in town. (That should have been a red flag, but I was desperate.) Maybe it was a fitting place. People buy booze in times of celebration and in times of woe. Not sure what the occasion would be for me, but I needed something to wash down my chewed up fingernails.

After handing off the laptop and not bothering to ask for so much as a business card, I hit the gym to do something constructive with my nervous energy as I awaited his call. Forty-five minutes later, my cell rang.

“You should buy a lottery ticket,” he said. Did he mean I was lucky or was he saying any future fortune depended on Quick Picks rather than my big writing break? Turns out the bunnies came up short. All was restored.

Whew. Breathe. That bottle of chardonnay is for celebrating after all! And I’d say it’s time for me to finally figure out what to do with the memory stick thingy.

SHH NO MORE

2010-04-13T12:37:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, libraries scared me. Not like monsters or frog costumes with leotards (don’t ask), but it was hard to get that peaceful, easy feeling that older patrons seemed to exude. The stacks of books offered intrigue—what treasures were way up on the top shelf?—but librarians and sour-faced readers presented an ongoing risk of reprimand.

“Shh!” My face flushed red every time. I’d immediately flee the building and bike as fast as I could home. No telling what wrath might follow from a pensive book browser.

Libraries have changed. If you want peace and solitude, you’re better off at a golf course. Or sometimes, it seems, at the Blackfish Pub on a Saturday night, Canuck playoff game in progress.

The librarians have stopped shushing people. It’s been years since I’ve spotted a “QUIET” sign. And the serious, senior bibliophile is now often the most flagrant violator of the Code of Silence.

While writing at a prime window seat at the Gibsons Library yesterday, I got to hear the entire conversation between Gladys and Irene. Irene’s granddaughter had just moved back and was trying to get a teaching job. Isn’t that great?! Marv was suffering a terrible case of shingles. Heavens! And Gladys’ sister had recently snapped the most marvelous photo of a hummingbird in her backyard. No need to view it; the description was vivid. (Embellished, I think. But then, I’m the type who clicks four shots of the headless hummingbird and one extreme close-up of my index finger.)

Today, a woman shared a soup recipe—a hit with hubby last night. No use to me. Beef noodle, and I’m a vegetarian. The person five feet to my right is alone but still causing a ruckus, fighting the three magazines she’s selected, flipping pages with ferocity. Two minutes ago, the woman to my right sprang up, shouted, “When did you get here?!” and ran to hug someone in the book stacks. She’s resumed her seat, but the conversation continues as he searches for a book ten feet away.

I don’t mind the excited outbursts of children in the library. Yesterday, a two-and-a-half-year-old extrovert began her 2038 political campaign, boisterously hollering “HI!” to each person she came across. (I was greeted three times.)

Librarians don’t even bother to talk in hushed tones as they direct a gentleman toward the travel books, all the while staying behind their perch at the front desk. Even the wheels on the reshelving cart squeak loudly. It bothers no one. Well, almost no one.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to return to the days of the dreaded “Shh”. The fact that the library is livelier than a cemetery is a good thing. I would just like to think the exuberant catching-up conversations could be saved for the checkout stand at the grocery store or moved along to the library atrium. Maybe we could find a happy medium noise level somewhere between silent prayer and protest rally at the high school gym.

Just a thought.

Oops. My cell phone is ringing. Lovely jazz instrumental ring tone. I have to get that.

HOLE IN MY BUCKET?

2010-04-09T16:41:00.000-07:00

Midway through this year of writing, it dawned on me that, to experience this sabbatical to the fullest, I needed to be more adventurous. And thus began my Writer’s Bucket List.

It’s not terribly exotic. I’d love to fly off to Italy and write under the Tuscan sun, but my lottery numbers have not received the lovin’ they deserve. (India and Indonesia got scratched for the same reason.) Clearly, I won’t be writing that a bestseller knockoff of this or that.

It’s not a particularly long list either. I’ll leave the Top Tens to Letterman. Why should I draft an extensive agenda and end the year with a paltry ten or twenty percent checked off? As a writer, I have enough opportunities to experience failure; no need to add self-inflicted wounds. Why rue the fact I didn’t submit a vegan-meets-cannibal joke to Reader’s Digest or write an entire novel in twenty-four hours (a draft that would only make sense to the reader (including myself) if similarly wired on eighteen triple-shot espressos)?

My list has three items:

1) Attend a writer’s group to hear constructive criticism about a work in progress (my writing, that is, not me the person).

2) Experience a writers’ conference, including the dreaded hallway mingling and the curiously crunchy banana bread.

3) Pitch a manuscript or screenplay to an editor or agent, remembering to wear a white shirt to (somewhat) conceal out of control pit stains.

What am I missing? Keep in mind the lottery glitch. Also, know that poetry is a No-Go Zone for me. Tried haikus that paid homage to the acting career of Jessica Simpson. Sadly, the source material wasn’t the problem.

A WRITER’S LIQUID DIET: LATTÉS & LEMONADE

2010-04-01T12:21:00.000-07:00

I’m getting used to power outages. As soon as the weather forecaster mentioned wind warnings, I set my flashlight on the nightstand and visualized Plan B, C and D for a productive day of writing.

Sure enough, as I was awakened in the middle of the night to the loud snores of my schnauzer, Hoover, I checked the time on the clock radio. The clock was having a timeout. Fade to black.

Come morning, the house felt colder and the grey skies didn’t bring in enough light to make reading or writing practical. The best-lit room in the house was the bathroom with the skylight, but I couldn’t imagine producing anything clever or insightful while sitting on the toilet. Flush.

I packed up my laptop (with the battery that allows a whopping sixty seconds of writing without an electrical outlet) and the dogs and decided to use the power outage as an excuse to change my writing environment. When life gives you lemons…

It was time for a latté and I opted to drive farther than usual, venturing into the eclectic, granola community known as Roberts Creek. The Gumboot is a café that I stumbled upon during my first visit to the Sunshine Coast a decade ago. With some colorful oil paintings of arbutus trees and other West Coast flora and a steady stream of beatnik coffee drinkers creating a unique ambience, I managed to pound out a solid start to the writing day.

Being only a short walk from the beach, I changed my schedule further and took the dogs down to chase sticks and sea gulls as a cool mist picked up where the latté left off in invigorating me. So rarely do I stop and smell the salt air midmorning when I’ve got a full day slated for writing!

Far from setting me back, the seaside stroll left me feeling fresh and helped set up one of my most productive days of writing in recent memory. Of course, two more café stops didn’t hurt.

Power came on some time after 5 p.m. By then, I’d wound down from the writer’s café circuit, but I had enough caffeine in me to continue writing long into the night.

More wind expected tonight. And I’m actually looking forward to it.

GLITCHING TO WRITE

2010-03-11T17:02:00.000-08:00

Ah, yes. There will be days like this.

For so many reasons, the writing process is filled with ups and downs. Flashes of inspiration followed by bouts of blandness. Crests of confidence flattened by form rejection letters. Moments when my schnauzers pretend to listen as I hash out a plotline, then days of doggy indifference. The highs and lows are inherent in the life of a writer. How many of us have checked bipolar symptoms online—professional hazard or psychological concern?

Yesterday was an amazing day of writing. Everything clicked. In fact, I was riding a three-day streak and feeling mighty fine. It was just the boost I needed after letting the Olympics and the Oscars sidetrack my productivity.

And then technology came along and slimed me. First thing this morning, I turned on my laptop, did what was supposed to be a quick email check and then after reading one email, “Problem Loading Page” flashed atop the screen. Refresh. Same message. Refresh, refresh, refresh. (Hope does spring eternal.)

I restarted the computer. No change. This forced me to dig out the new modem my cable provider sent me months ago. I’d tried to hook it up on a Saturday in December, but when I called the Support number, as instructed, to complete the change the technician half laughed and said there was a problem. Call back in a few days.

The fool! Didn’t he know whom he was talking to? Technology only gets one chance with me. I do have a low threshold for pain, you know. (I’m a redhead and medical research proves I’m not just being a wuss.)

I had no choice but to call the number again. I went through the annoyingly long automated sequence, pressing 3s and 4s only to wait for more options, more numbers to choose. Upon First Contact with a human, I broke out in a sweat. The guy started giving me instructions about cables and routers and electrical outlets over the phone. Another fool! Again, didn’t he know whom he was talking to? He must have been on his coffee (or medicinal marijuana) break because he gave each direction only one time and then contentedly waited in silence, possibly looking at butterfly decals, as I fumbled around with cords and black boxes for minutes on end. I don’t know why I felt I needed to rush. The guy—oh, let’s call him Darryl after my favorite “Newhart” characters—could have held the line all day. He knew a good gig when he had one.

An hour later, I had service restored. Of course, by then, I was too frazzled to sit down and write. I treated myself to a heaping batch of blueberry pancakes and mindless Internet surfing which led to exciting nuggets of information, such as: (1) Betty White is hosting SNL in May; (2) Nikki Yanofsky’s CTV Olympic song “I Believe” is still number one in Canada (and nowhere else); and (3) head shots in hockey, while unanimously deemed penalty/discipline worthy by the NHL’s GMs, will continue without sanction at least for the rest of the season due to several procedural hurdles. (Yes, let’s be fair. I’m sure Marc Savard and the next unsuspecting player who sacrifices his health and career will thank you for it.)

Back on track again, I had a productive afternoon fine tuning a spec script for a television sitcom. It was finally ready to print and I was so excited I cleaned the kitchen as the printer hummed along. (I’m not sure how tomato sauce stains landed atop the refrigerator, but they’re gone now.)

And then another snag. I had purchased a copy of an aired script for the sitcom to ensure my formatting mirrored that of the show’s writers. No way was I going to get tossed in the recycling bin on a technicality! However, when I collected the pages from the printer, all of my customized line spacing and underlining were ignored, deemed incorrect, by the Celtx program’s typesetting mode. I tried again but Celtx had a mind of its own. I searched the forums and FAQs online to no avail. After feeling entirely deflated, I sent off a polite, yet desperate email, setting forth the problems I’d encountered.

The script, as printed, is passable. Yet I know it can look even better so I sit and wait. The package I’d hoped to send off at the post office must wait another day, week, perhaps longer.

I’m glitched out. I look forward to a writing upswing come tomorrow.

DERAILED

2010-03-08T08:41:00.000-08:00

I have prided myself in putting in solid writing days six days a week. Pot of coffee on, an early morning dog walk and then it’s time to write. Midday exercise break, an email check over lunch, more writing. The self-discipline has been surprising but I only need remind myself that this year of writing is both an opportunity and a luxury.

And now, in a moment of truth/guilt, I must ask: Where did my routine go? Three weeks ago, I fell off the writing wagon. The Olympics sucked me in. How could I not stop everything to marvel at k.d. lang’s “Hallelujah”, Alexandre Bilodeau’s gold medal run, the elegance of Virtue & Moir, the grit of Jon Montgomery on the skeleton, the speed and stamina of Charles Hamelin and Clara Hughes and the bring-it-home performances of the men and women in hockey?

As much as I enjoyed the entire two-week run, I was relieved to see it end, knowing that I could awaken Monday morning, coffee on, and pound away on the laptop. And then, half an hour into a solid beginning, the phone rang. I was summoned to the school board office for four days of marking provincial tests for students in grades four and seven, a much needed bank account booster and a wonderful experience to dive back into the minds of children, but another setback in restoring my writing gig.

Oh, I tried. I came home each day and wrote. Just not as much as I’d hoped—and I found myself doing smaller writing tasks instead of killing off a beloved character in my novel. Going back to work, albeit temporarily, reminded me how difficult it is to have the fresh energy and thinking to log in significant writing time. My writing life has been a solitary endeavor and it seems that the added social component in a more customary work environment may have been the biggest factor in my feeling drained as soon as I returned home. It wasn’t just the writing that suffered; I couldn’t drag myself to the gym either. Naps, snacking and mindless television ruled the evenings.

Yesterday’s Oscars provided another excuse to shorten my writing block. In truth, it had been a day of struggle even before the insipid red carpet interviews began. (How aggravating was it to see a host ask a starlet a question and then pull the mic away when she went beyond the two-word response limit? And why did I seem to care about Rachel McAdams’ dress?) Frankly, my 5K Sunday swim was more exhausting than usual, a final Olympic legacy as I passed on the pool last week to catch the gold medal hockey game. (Thank goodness, the end result was the right result!)

And now, it seems that all is clear. No more excuses, no more getting sidetracked. I have the first draft of a manuscript that I expect to finish this week and I’m itching to get moving on several other projects. Absence makes that heart grow fonder? Oh, let’s hope!

HOLD THE GOLD!

2010-02-14T08:53:00.000-08:00

Oh, Canada.

With two golden opportunities coming up short, is there enough Valentine’s chocolate on the shelves to help us cope?

As the Olympics got underway, I kept my television on for most of Saturday. There is pride with these Olympics on Canadian soil and, although I cannot afford to see any of the events live, I feel a greater connection since I was living in Vancouver when we won the bid and I’m still only a ferry ride away. Still, I couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable as I watched the coverage on CTV and Sportsnet. The hunger for gold this time around seems to have cast a shadow over the way the events are reported and the way viewers are being groomed. All of us are supposed to be on a quest for gold. I feel sorry for all Canadian athletes competing before the country gets that golden monkey of its back.

Am I really being too Canadian in thinking that a silver medal is worth celebrating? Should I slap myself for smiling as Canadian mogul competitor and medal contender Kristi Richards flashed a sportsmanlike grin after wiping out during her run and getting up to complete the course as best she could? The new Canadian mentality is supposed to be gold or nothing. Own the podium. Leave the please and thank yous to the beat poet. How dare Charles Hamelin fail to reach the short track final! And how can we embrace Jenn Heil and her “disappointing” silver?

Yes, it’s unfortunate that Canadian athletes have yet to win a gold medal during an Olympics at home. Every host nation wants to sing along to its anthem as the flag is raised during a medal ceremony. (For us, the longing may be heightened since we were stripped of the chance to sing along to Nikki Yanofsky’s version during the Opening Ceremonies. I wonder if shutting us out was a ploy to make us long even more for the podium moment.) But the hunger needn’t make us savages.

My all-time favorite Olympic memory came during the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary when perky Elizabeth Manley won the silver in figure skating and celebrated on the ice donning a cowboy hat as the audience gave her a thunderous ovation. I was living in Dallas at the time and my Canadian pride in sport has never been as great as during that shining silver moment. Would we view it differently today?

Watching Jenn Heil’s mogul run and hearing the crowd cheer created a wonderful Olympic moment. Moments, by nature however, are brief. American Hannah Kearney followed Heil down the course, faster and, yes, better. I’ll admit I briefly hoped for a little judging fudging, but then I came to my senses. Shouldn’t Canada’s longed for home-grown gold be earned outright? I empathized with Jenn Heil after the race as she stood looking stunned at the bottom of the hill while Kearney and ebullient American bronze medalist Shannon Bahrke hugged, hollered and draped American flags around themselves. Get Heil a Canadian flag! Stat! Or at least get her a hug. Initially, I thought the Americans were being obnoxious, but then I checked myself and acknowledged that the two medalists were celebrating as they had every right to. I understand that Heil was disappointed, going in as the favorite, but Kearney skied the run of her life and isn’t that what everyone aspires to during the Olympics?

As an elite athlete, Jenn Heil’s achievements have come in part due to her nature as a fierce competitor. The fact she was determined to win gold is admirable. I can’t fault her for feeling a letdown. What bothered me was CTV’s reaction. The network was more disappointed than the skier. This was supposed to be the Golden Moment, a televised nugget of Canadian history. The interviewer on the hill took on a somber tone while Heil, the shock having sunk in, was poised in thanking her coach/boyfriend and in saying she’d done her best. Subdued anchor Brian Williams took Heil’s perspective that she didn’t lost gold, but in fact won silver as a pep talk for himself.

I do hope the gold comes soon. Then, hockey notwithstanding, Canadians can go back to being the modest folks we are, seeing the glory in silver, bronze and personal bests that nonetheless fail to put our athletes on the podium. A medal haul would be welcome, but let’s remember to be good hosts and enjoy all of the competition.

TORCHING THE TOWN

2010-02-04T17:41:00.000-08:00

There are downsides in being a writer: rejection, isolation, writer’s block, self-doubt, lack of regular pay, a printer that devours ink cartridges. Still, there is so much on the upside that I dream of this becoming my year-round, full-time career. One of the many perks is having a flexible schedule, something that never existed during my years as an educator where bells and timetables ruled.

That flexibility allows me to take in special events when they arise. Today, the Olympic torch came to the Sunshine Coast. How could I not take a break to partake in the festivities?

Before the big event, I relocated my writing venue to the Gibsons Library. I plugged away on my laptop while glimpsing the increasing activity at the park and marina as people of all ages congregated in anticipation of the torch’s arrival. While this was a proudly Canadian event, it seemed to take on an “American Idol” atmosphere. A guy in a moose costume intrigued a standard poodle that kept lunging at the antlered beast. I spotted clowns, one of whom sported a gigantic Nerf camera around his neck. A woman made a dress out of Canada flags. I got to feeling like the silly one, daring to show up in jeans and a plain black jacket.

Everything came together perfectly as the torch made its way through town. It was as quaint and breathtaking a scene as one would find anywhere in Canada. The temperature hit a balmy 10˚C and the sun shone. Boats slumbered in the marina while Keats Island maintained its rustic, forested persona a short water taxi ride away. Beyond it, snow dusted the North Shore Mountains, not enough for the upcoming Olympic events at the Cypress Bowl, but a sight to stop and behold nonetheless.

Indeed, it was a day for stopping and beholding. I got so caught up in the moment that I raced toward home to catch more of the torch relay near the ferry terminal. As a result, I’ll be writing late into the evening, but I am privileged to do so.

BEING RESILIENT

2010-02-01T17:19:00.000-08:00

My first thought for the title of this entry was “Rejection Sucks”, but then I realized, while true, it’s not a helpful sentiment. My second thought was to not write about today’s letter at all. Throw it in the recycling and move on. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that.

After reading the letter, I immediately went back to my laptop to continue with my current writing project, but all the energy that had been there had instantly run dry. As a writer, I have to deal with rejection…and I suppose the sooner, the better.

Back in October, I’d put together a grant application package for a juvenile fiction novel idea. It was my first such application and I found the process a tad uncomfortable. First, I had to stop my current projects and complete the requisite forms and outlines for the jury. Creativity had to wait as I focused on meeting all the technical requirements for the grant. More troubling, however, was the feeling that I was essentially begging for money, not much different from a homeless person holding out an upturned baseball cap.

“Spare some change? Feed the writer.”

But, of course, that’s what writers have to do. We’re not well funded professionals like NHL players or plumbers. We take what we can get.

When I found the letter from the British Columbia Arts Council in my mailbox, I didn’t have a good feeling. I tried to pep myself up, recalling the plot ideas I felt would appeal to young readers and the references to the past that would allow timely connections with current society. Still, the envelope was too light—enough for a single-page rejection, rather than a congratulatory letter with forms attached to sign and other sheets providing reminders of deadlines for lucky grant recipients.

It’s amazing how even a form rejection can sting. “I regret to inform you that the jury did not recommend assistance for your project.” Ouch. Of course, they can’t support everyone, but it’s only natural to take the rejection as a clear sign that your writing isn’t good enough. Your writing idea isn’t original or, frankly, it’s boring.

Yikes. Not helpful thinking. And, thus, the title of this blog entry. I must acknowledge that the begging didn’t work. Now it is time to rebound. I could read up on how J.K. Rowling or some other ridiculously successful author received countless rejections, but I really need to get back to my current work. I’ll have to scrimp even more and continue to buy no-name tomato soup, but my dream to succeed as a writer remains. I hope to one day look back and remember my time as a starving writer with the kind of sweetness and nostalgia that comes when one is far removed from harshness that comes in the midst of the struggle.

I should be so lucky.

THE CHALLENGES OF PLUGGING AWAY

2010-01-18T17:11:00.000-08:00

The workday begins with me sitting on a bench, writing, while sipping a coffee inside a mall in town. Every seat inside the Starbucks is taken. Laptops are open in front of at least half the patrons.

This is what happens when the power goes out.

Although the town powers on, it’s dark in the outlying areas, including at my home. We the power deprived crawl out of the woodwork and head for the town lights. Who are all these people? Other writers? Entrepreneurs? Home business operators? Getting a seat inside Starbucks isn’t crucial. I can’t use my laptop because, although the place is wireless, my ancient device can’t access the service. Add laptop to the wish list should I get an advance on any writing in the near future.

I’m guessing the power died somewhere around two in the morning as rains pummeled my windows and winds huffed and puffed, thrashing the tall pines and threatening to blow the house down. Happens many times each winter. We’ve been spared some this year. Still, the inconvenience of the moment is expected to last the full day, midnight being the time the hydro company estimates for getting power restored.

I move to a small table in the mall. Right beside the Lotto Centre island. Seventies music pipes through the ceiling: “Sad Eyes”, Karen’s haunting voice singing “For All We Know”, Chaka offering a soulful “Sweet Thing”. The classics, as I know them, compete with today’s hip hop, blaring from the Athletes World across the way. (Wish they had an apostrophe in their name. Help us, Lynne Truss!) It’s catchy, but it can’t compete with Chaka.

A steady stream of hopefuls stop by the lottery base to check their tickets. The system is down, the only inconvenience perceptible to townsfolk. They don’t know how lucky they are already.

Without my laptop, it’s paper and pencil today. I used to prefer first drafts scrawled on legal pads and plain notebooks, but I realize I’ve made the full transition to thinking and writing in front of a computer. I have no choice but to fall back on my old ways. I cannot afford for today to be a write-off. I have also loaded plenty of non-electronic writing tasks in my backpack: the latest issue of The Writer—a rare chance to study articles I never seem to get around to reading—, an old screenplay I need to reread to decide if it’s worth revising, a TV script to study for formatting and pacing.

Despite the power outage, I must continue to plug away. The brain power is on its own today.

LETTING GO

2010-01-14T10:44:00.000-08:00

I have no children of my own so I don’t have an authentic sense of what it’s like raising them and hoping that one day they will leave home with the best possible shot at living a happy, successful life. I have dogs, but they never grow up. Lincoln, in particular, doesn’t learn any of life’s lessons because, well, he doesn’t seem to learn. (He is awfully amusing, thank goodness.)

I am not the first to compare writing projects to one’s offspring. Yes, it pales to the constant care involved in parenting, but there is that element of creating something and shaping it to be the best it can be. The milestones and personality get tweaked after regular, often difficult, reflection. And then there comes a point of realization that every opportunity imaginable has been offered to this being and the best thing is to set it out in the world.

I have a habit of sitting on “completed” writing. It’s hard to let go. What if I send it out and it meets rejection? What if I can find an extra spark if I hang on just a little longer? Thankfully, despite my clinging, there comes a point when the manuscript is itching to move out. I can feel it and there is no way I can hold it back any longer.

Yes, it’s ready.

Today I shall send two picture book manuscripts out into the world, Eric’s English Lessons and Alastair on Safari. I am proud of the unique personality of each. Eric is a fearful, serious individual who takes everything literally. God help him. Hopefully, he’ll also come across as a sympathetic, even amusing character who makes us think about the way we say things. Alastair, on the other hand, always was a wild child. He’s a reckless, daring adventurer but also a keen observer. Bursting with imagination, life is his for the taking.

I cannot sit back and fret too much about the fate of these “children”. To be sure, I hope to hear good news with respect to both of them. But I have much more to focus on at home as I continue to raise Broderick, Esmeralda, Julie, Sven, Clint, Dennis and the rest of the brood. Although two are gone, it’s still a full house of rambunctious characters, each vying to have his or her story heard. Of that, I’m truly thankful.

WHAT GOES UP MUST COME DOWN (AND HOPEFULLY UP AGAIN)

2010-01-12T15:20:00.000-08:00

I don’t think I’ve ever compared my writing to an episode of “The Bachelor” before but here goes. As I baked chocolate brownie muffins last night, the pilot bachelor took a group of women on a date to Magic Mountain. (The whole group date thing is icky, but I shall try to stick to the subject.) They had the entire theme park to themselves. I wasn’t watching the screen—one must not waste chocolate on a botched batch!—but I’ll assume they rode the roller coasters. I went to Magic Mountain once when I lived in L.A. and the place is all about the roller coasters. And that’s where I made a connection with my writing.

(Sort of) like that entourage, my writing experiences are very much like riding a roller coaster on my own. Over the last twenty-four hours, I’ve gone from a grim low to an ecstatic high.

The low arose from my searching for publishers and agents on the Internet and in The Canadian Writer’s Market. About four weeks ago, I designated January 13 as Submission Day, with the intention of revising and polishing two of my picture book manuscripts and one teleplay and getting them in the mail. The good news is that I am excited about the projects that I’m preparing to send out. The bad news is that I don’t feel like I have a great sense about where to submit them. Many publishers do not consider picture books. Others do not take unsolicited manuscripts. That requires a search for agents, most of whom are not taking new clients and others who don’t consider authors unless they have been recommended and referred. The doors to the TV script arena seem even more guarded. Hours spent searching and I still didn’t feel I had a plan.

But then things perked up. I went to the gym and returned home to do a final polish on one of the picture books. After some tweaking, I reached a point of being fully satisfied, even energized, about the project. The rise continued when I got a call from a friend who is arranging a dinner later this month with a group of friends that includes someone who co-wrote a feature film now in theaters and generating Oscar buzz. I look forward to the opportunity to chat with him about his experiences.

And this morning I drafted my query letter for my other picture book. The letter has much more zing than prior versions, giving me a better feeling that I am creating the best circumstance I can to get my work noticed. It seems that I have reached the pinnacle of the roller coaster. But then maybe not. Maybe it’s time to build a taller roller coaster.

Riding alone is exciting, but also scary. Still, it beats sitting on a bench, clutching an oversized stuffed purple alligator and a bag of cotton candy while watching others experience the thrills and, yes, the occasional nausea. (One can get nauseous even being a bench warmer. A little cotton candy goes a long way.)

By the way, the chocolate muffins turned out amazing. Perfect with whipped cream. Comfort food to deal with the angst in finding a publisher/agent and a reward for trudging onward!

I'LL TAKE ANOTHER

2009-12-23T16:45:00.000-08:00

Sometimes everything clicks. Yesterday was one of those days. Made a stunning looking veggie lasagna AND a Baileys cheesecake (both tasted pretty good, too!), found new strength at the gym and the writing flowed. Should have bought a lottery ticket while luck was with me.

My novel that has been losing steam got a boost with a new chapter and a plot twist that felt fresh. It has been tempting to toss the work in the growing Abandoned pile, but I’ve slogged on, determined to complete the first draft before going through a slash and burn process during a painful revision stage.

My new approach may be working. I’m limiting myself to an hour or two a day on this project and then switching to another writing task. In theory, the time spent becomes more focused as I don’t let it drag on only to be filled with drivel. On only the third day of Plan B, it worked. Hopefully that creates new momentum.

My new writing project is an original television series pitch, pilot and subsequent script. As I’m polishing three spec scripts for existing TV shows, I’m trying to complete a television writing package with the new series material to show that I can create my own characters, plot points and rhythm. When I get to the point of sending queries and manuscripts out, I’ll be fully stocked with other writing samples if only a prospective producer, showrunner or agent should ask.

Yesterday’s work on some character background development and a rough outline of the pilot episode was going so well I could feel the energy behind the people I was creating. I got so excited I had a step away a couple of times to take in the moment and to retain clarity by calming down.

To end the day, I finally had a chance to skim the morning newspaper and a tiny article popped out, the genesis for a possible future writing project. I read it, clipped it and jotted down some quick notes before filing it away. It’s great to know my Ideas folder continues to gain thickness.

It was a writing heyday, nicely capped by a little R and R, watching the Vancouver Canucks impressively dominate the Nashville Predators.

What a day! Encore, please!

WHAT DO I DO WITH SPEC SCRIPTS?

2009-12-09T19:32:00.000-08:00

The most fun I have writing is drafting spec scripts for existing television series. While I’m not a full-time couch potato, there are always some series that I watch religiously. I get a sense of a show’s timing and the nuances of each character. At that point, writing a teleplay becomes more entertaining than watching an episode.

Twenty years ago, I wrote spec scripts for “Designing Women”, “Mad About You” and “Seinfeld”. I showed some of them to friends and was encouraged when I’d hear them laughing out loud in the other room. (I could never be in the same room as they read. I’d drive myself (and them) mad, scrutinizing every single facial expression. Okay, you say it’s just gas, but do you really mean my writing stinks?) It was a huge step to share the scripts with anyone. But I never took a step that mattered. I never attempted to get them read by anyone in the business.

I’ve now written three spec scripts for current shows: “The Big Bang Theory”, “Being Erica” and “The New Adventures of Old Christine”. I’m proud of each one and I can hear the characters’ voices as I read the lines.

I’m more willing to put my work out there for an agent or a producer to read, but I remain stumped about where to mail the scripts and query letters. I don’t have any links with people in the entertainment industry. And to my knowledge I don’t have a friend whose former next-door neighbor has a third cousin whose boss plays squash with a buddy of the personal assistant of George Clooney. (Sorry, no links even to Kathy Griffin. Or Rob & Amber.)

So I’m at a standstill. Advice anyone?

50K AND COUNTING

2009-11-30T19:11:00.000-08:00

I crossed the finish line yesterday, but the journey continues.

On November 6, I signed up online to participate in National Novel Writing Month. Each participant strives to write a 50,000-word novel, starting from scratch, in November. I’m now at 53,700 words, but my novel has thousands of words to go before the first draft is complete. Still, NaNoWriMo was a good kick in the pants to stay focused on a single project. The focus was on quantity, not quality, but I did continue to revise as I went. I need to spend some time later this week taking a step back and looking at the big picture. Is this novel compelling enough? (Certainly hope the answer is “yes”.) When I’m locked in the day-to-day writing, it is hard to tell.

If nothing else, participating in NaNoWriMo firmed up my writing routine. I also realize that having short-term goals helps so I will continue to set my own. Sometimes the focus will be on word counts, but I need to set some goals about submitting my work as well. I have about ten projects on the go so now is the time to buckle down, sharpen the endings, work through the revisions and put something other than Christmas cards in the mail. (Oh, but I need to work on those, too!)

Reaching for the Bar

2009-11-21T09:06:00.000-08:00

A writing routine is imperative, but every so often you've got to shake things up. That's why I signed up to participate in National Novel Writing Month. Somewhere in the virtual world, I'm part of a massive group of writers striving to write a 50,000-word novel in November. Nothing will happen, in and of itself, it I reach that mark and nothing will happen if I don't. It's an artificial milestone. Still, I update my word count each day and take a gander at the updated bar graph to show my progress. Part of me finds it a hokey gimmick, but the part of me that's trouncing on that half-empty inner voice feels it's a motivator that only comes along once a year. Since I started on November 6th, I was 8,300 words in the hole at the outset, based on the daily goals shown in the bar graph. I like that. It gives me an extra push. I should be finally caught up by Monday as I'm working through the weekend. And I might squeak by the finish line by the 29th.

Participating in NaNoWriMo, I get emails with pep talks and notices about sites in Vancouver where people can congregate for communal writing. (Might try that next year.) Today I came across a suggestion that intrigues me: set a 10K day. As I typically write 2,500-3,000 words on a good day, 10,000 would feel like a marathon. But the 10K running lingo is yet another novelty to add some spark to the routine.

I'll wait until I get through my one-month novel to get it a try. Like I said, those bar graphs are giving me all the kindling I need for now.

POWERING ON

2009-11-13T17:27:00.000-08:00

There are days that challenge us. For me, this is one of them.

I’d stayed up late last night, cramming in a nighttime writing session after having to halt my productive late afternoon write to meet up with some friends I haven’t seen since I began my road trip back in August. Dinner became one of those lovely drawn out occasions, followed by another meeting fifteen minutes down the road at Starbucks. (In some respects, I was relieved to know that the franchise closes at 9 p.m. in sleepy Gibsons, giving me time to head home with enough caffeine-infused energy to finish my day’s quota of writing.) I didn’t start reading the morning paper until after midnight.

I awoke to the blare of a ferry horn, a dog barking and a blast of broad daylight. The sun, which had packed up and gone for a weeklong exclusive European tour, was back. Welcome, for sure, but not as my morning greeting. I usually get up to see the dawn and get cracking with my daily regimen. I glanced at my alarm clock. It was still sleeping, lights out.

Power outage season had arrived! (It’s called winter in the rest of Canada.) Anytime the winds pick up, there’s a risk of losing power in my rural community. The ferry’s cry told me it was already 8:30. I scrambled to get up, walk the dogs, shower and dress, ever hopeful that the power would be restored at any minute.

Nothing doing. The pot of coffee, such an integral part of my start, sat idle. I considered using a pen and my writing journal to begin my work for the day, but I realized I have now switched to using the laptop exclusively—apart from a few urgent brainstorming sessions. And, unfortunately, my laptop battery has the juice to keeps things cranked for a paltry two minutes max when not plugged in (to a working outlet).

I headed into town. The first coffee shop was packed and, worse, the outlets were already taken by other laptop dependent, power outage survivors. I headed for Lower Gibsons, the quainter, quieter part of town, and lucked upon a table with an outlet at my favorite café in that area. The cup of coffee did not fully supplant the pot of coffee (which, rest assured, is a 40/60 blend of caf/decaf), but it activated enough of my brain to begin the day’s writing.

Already off to a late start, I had to interrupt things for a vet appointment and my midday swim workout. I dashed home, relieved to find the power restored. I booted up the laptop and heated up a can of soup for a quick lunch. Just before resuming writing, I opened the refrigerator to grab a drink. The light in the fridge was out. Power outage #2. (I hadn’t noticed the faint whistling of the trees.) I reported the outage to B.C. Hydro and was given an estimated three-hour window for the power to come back on.

So here I am writing away at the library in town. I have been inconvenienced today, but I have trudged on! Sometimes all the real power you need is the power within.

WHAT IF?

2009-11-12T12:03:00.000-08:00

I’m five days into my new novel—six, if you count Saturday, my day off—and I’m finding the journey to be tricky on an emotional level.

I’ve decided to write what I call a What If memoir. The story is grounded in my real life, but picks up at a point where there was a fork in the road and, much to the chagrin of Robert Frost, I took the path more traveled. Yes, Robert, that too has made all the difference.

Twenty years ago, I’d gone to Malibu, California to enter law school. From the outset, I wasn’t certain that becoming an attorney was really my life’s path, but I had a full scholarship and it was in Malibu. Hey, things could be a lot worse for a twenty-four-year-old who still hadn’t a clue about what he wanted to be when he grew up.

Truth is, I did have a clue. I just never dared share it. Silly dreams are cute when you’re seven. I want to be an NHL hockey player. I want to become an Osmond. I want to be an elf. (Two out of three of those were my childhood aspirations. Too embarrassed to confess outright, I’ll just say that I’ve never had an interest in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Or Utah.)

My impractical grownup dream was to become a writer. Specifically, I wanted to write for television and movies. I’d written my first screenplay shortly after undergrad and I studied dialog and plot from television shows the same way I devoured college texts two weeks before finals.

But I wasn’t a Coppola, I didn’t have an uncle who had a friend whose third cousin went to high school with Ron Howard’s dry cleaner and I didn’t have the dashing good looks of Ben Affleck and Matt Damon. I didn’t have an in. I could write the next “Annie Hall” (or the next “Police Academy”) and never get my break.

I was raised to be practical. Abandoning one career (as a teacher) was only acceptable because I was pursuing a more highly esteemed career as a lawyer. (What’s wrong with that statement?!) I think subconsciously I headed for Malibu to pursue my writing dream or, at least for starters, experience a little Hollywood immersion.

My first year of law school was grueling—at least that’s what all of us pampered law students believed and, if everyone said it, it had to be true. Sure, I studied a lot, but some of that time was spent reading my casebooks at the beach. (Never could shake all the sand out of them!) And there was still time for plenty of dinners at trendy restaurants where we shared ample amounts of wine and whine.

I enjoyed studying law. I had a couple study partners who were exceptionally driven to succeed and I don’t think they rubbed off on me; frankly, I was just a like-minded individual. Yet, when the first year of law school concluded and my grades were ridiculously high, I knew I didn’t want to be a lawyer. I knew the best thing for me would be to quit and pursue something that might become a possibility.

I met with an official from the law school and she talked me into staying, promising that I’d have so many other career opportunities once I earned my law degree. I didn’t buy it, but not knowing what to do instead, I stayed on. I did increase my course load so that I graduated a semester early. It was a consolation to myself, the law school fraud.

What if I’d quit? What if I’d pursued writing (and waiting tables or selling knockoff handbags on Venice Beach or whatever was required to pay the rent)?

That’s where my novel begins. What makes it so emotional draining is I have to dwell on that moment in time. And everything before that key moment provides context to everything thereafter so I find myself recalling so many experiences with so many friends that I cannot find on Facebook or through Google search channels. (Trust me, I’ve been trying a lot over the past week!)

I seem to honor these dear people as I write, but any regrets I have are not about my law school decision; rather, they’re focused on losing touch with remarkable people who continue to impact me two decades later.

My nostalgic trip isn’t all heavy. There’s a backdrop of movies, television and songs of the time. As I write, I pop in cassettes by Mariah (back when she just dressed badly, not trashy), Simply Red and Wilson Phillips. I’ve YouTubed Cathy Dennis and Milli Vanilli and Wikipedia-ed “L.A. Law” and “Ghost”. I’ve almost been tempted to run out and rent “Rocky V”. Almost.

Good times. Why does it take hindsight to realize how good?

DOES ANYBODY REALLY KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?

2009-11-09T09:10:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite musical groups is Chicago. Still. I particularly love their heavily orchestrated songs of the ’70s. (But then, my friends would point out I love everything of the ’70s which I contend is not true. Never much liked “Baretta”.)

Back to Chicago. I was listening to a greatest hits compilation the other day while taking a writing break and picking up all the things on the floor that I’d managed to ignore for a week or so. On came “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” and, for the first time, I wondered why a guy who professes to not care about such things happens to be wearing a watch. Just one of those Things that Make You Go Hmmmm…. (which, let me point out, just so happens to be a ’90s expression).

I wish I could be as flippant about time as the singer claims to be. Fact is, time matters. Especially when it comes to my writing. I have the savings to permit one year off my day job—and that’s a stretch. Thus, I have to make the most of it and get as much solid writing done as possible. That’s why I’m keeping to a schedule of writing six days a week. Normally I hate schedules, but I can’t afford to amble through my twelve months like a loopy flower child. (After all, that’s the ’60s, an amazing decade, but come on! One can only retreat so far in one’s imaginary time capsule.)

Six days a week. No time off for holidays. I began by “pushing myself” to aspire to three hours of actual writing time each day. That doesn’t sound like much but, in the beginning, it was hard to achieve. I’m not the kind of writer who can sit and just write for the sake of writing, content in knowing that a good chunk will end up crumpled in a virtual trash can. Sure, I go through significant revisions, but none of this starting over that I hear other writers talking about.

Three hours a day became three and a half after I read an article about Stephen King’s writing habits. If 3.5 works for King, it’ll work for me. After awhile, I came to the harsh, but obvious realization that I am no Stephen King. I upped my time to four hours daily. And it’s working!

While I have to be conscious of time, the luxury I do have is flexibility in my day. If I get distracted or delay my morning start, I don’t need to beat myself up over it. I just have to fit in the time at some point before I turn in for the night. Yes, I’ve had one session that ran past midnight which is technically into a new day, but 230 minutes is not enough.

I realize that my four-hour allotment is the kind of artificiality that Chicago sings about, but one cannot take even the greatest bands too much to heart. I hate to point it out, but this is the group that also released the dreadful “If She Would Have Been Faithful”. But, hey, that was the ’80s when dreadful was in.

ALL ABOARD!

2009-11-06T14:02:00.000-08:00

I just signed up to participate in National Novel Writing Month. The designated month happens to be November and I'm six days behind, but that seems like a typical place to start.

Participants have the calendar month to produce a novel comprised of 50,000 words (175 pages) or more. There are no fees or prizes. The entire emphasis is on quantity, not quality. It's about getting it done, with potential motivation from being a part of an online community endeavoring to do the same thing.

I quickly wrote a 500-word foreword for my novel and my personal account at NaNoWriMo created a bar graph showing my word count and my word goals per day. I'm supposed to be at 10,000 words. At first, I couldn't detect the yellow bar representing my word status. I had to view at 150%. Again, typical.

I am undeterred.

Obviously, this project must mean more than obsessing over word counts. Signing up provides a virtual whip to ensure that I am indeed writing. While that has not been a problem for, I have been bouncing around from project to project. Today I have a new novel idea and it will be my primary focus--at least until the end of November.

Must write more!

HEADLINE NEWS...FROM TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO

2009-11-04T17:37:00.000-08:00

I finished another spec script today, this time for a Canadian television series, "Being Erica". And I have a rough sketch for another script to start tomorrow. All of this in an attempt to get an agent--or someone!--to read my work. I am told that if someone finally reads a script and likes it, that person will want to immediately see something else. Gotta make sure you're not a one-shot wonder. Hence, the portfolio that I'm creating.

As with "Big Bang Theory", writing a script for "Being Erica" was immensely enjoyable and, upon finishing, incredibly satisfying. The whole tone of the writing was different as "Erica" is a drama involving time travel, flashbacks and quirky quotes from a mysterious therapist. I became hooked on the show over the summer, based on a recommendation from my cousin. I caught the first season reruns that followed and I went back and watched some some of the early episodes online to ensure I had a firm grasp of the show's premise and its structure. The "research" was worth it. While writing, I could hear the characters' voices. I also tweaked the plot based on comments and experiences from prior episodes.

For my next script, I'm developing an idea reminiscent of something I wrote years ago. I decided to review that piece of writing, but I could not recall where I'd stored it. I went down to the basement and dug through boxes of things I cannot defend keeping. Then, in an old briefcase, I found not what I was searching for, but something I had to stop and read. It was an article I'd cut out from The Dallas Morning News, the date: March 16, 1988. Title: "Making it as a screenwriter". Twenty-one years ago I dreamed of becoming a writer. The date and title alone reminded me how important this year is for me. So many years of dreaming and so little time to fully focus on writing. I did write--sporadically--and I did finish scripts that I liked, but I dared not show them to anyone.

It takes a risk like this, going without a regular source of income, to force me to be open about my writing and to do whatever is necessary to get it out there. As my bank account dwindles, I couldn't be happier with my decision.

That old script I was searching for? Turned out it wasn't in the basement at all. I found it in the filing cabinet in my office, in the third drawer, the place where I had looked in the first place. Somehow it hid between other files during my first inspection. While I'd set out to find a teleplay, the yellowed newspaper clipping was the true find.

Fortuitous, don't you think?

WRITING WITH A "BANG"

2009-10-28T16:28:00.000-07:00

I'm a pop culture junkie. In particular, I've always loved television. Since I was a child, I've wanted to be involved in the television industry.

Now that I am fully focused on writing, one line of development involves creating a few spec scripts for television shows. Spec scripts are done completely on speculation--hence, the name. There isn't a producer or showrunner asking me to write for a particular series. I'm writing on my own initiative. The idea behind spec writing is that, if it gets in the right hands AND it generates interest, the writer could land an agent or a specific assignment. (Rarely is a spec script purchased and produced.)

Reading about the entertainment biz, I've come across many experts who think writing spec scripts is a waste of time. Others aren't quite so negative, but they're not exactly encouraging either. Still, I know the process is important for me. I can concentrate on dialogue, plots, format and structure while working with established characters.

While at the cottage, I began writing an episode of "The Big Bang Theory". I love the show, the distinct characters and the fast-paced dialogue. What began as a stereotypical, but amusing sitcom about nerds and a hot chick has evolved into often hilarious entertainment, the kind of viewing I welcome on Monday evenings. Since three of the characters are physicists and one was an engineer, there was a fair amount of research required to make the banter between them funny and authentic. I also had to do my homework on "Star Trek", "Battlestar Galactica", iPhone apps, videogames and comic books.

This week I returned to my draft, did a great deal of revising and completed a script for which I feel satisfied. I got goosebumps reading through the scenes because I could hear the actors' voices and see the script being played out. I'll wait a week and then go back to see if another round of revisions is warranted, but the writing feels complete and I'm thrilled with it. The process was a genuine pleasure.

Now I've got to begin a new spec script or return to one of my other writing projects. It feels great to finish something, but there is always more to do!

BACK TO SCHOOL--EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED

2009-10-26T12:46:00.000-07:00

I spent the weekend in a class, sitting beside a bird. Although the bird only made it through the first day, I remained—get ready to groan—unflappable and hung in there for Day Two, a sixteen-year-old boy my new seating partner. More on the bird and the kid later.

I’m skeptical of touring workshops that purport to teach you how to write a novel, how to get your book published or how to succeed as a screenwriter.

And if I’m skeptical of the workshops and the presenters, I’m even more judgmental about the people who attend. These are the wannabes. The ones searching for a magic formula.

Why do I think that? As an educator, I’ve attended plenty of professional development workshops. While a few were complete wastes of time, the majority provided me with insight and strategies that improved, or at least informed, my teaching practice. Other perspectives made me evaluate my own.

However, I’ve got it in my head that writing is an art, a delicate talent that must be developed from within. Nothing wrong with that. My resistance to workshops about writing comes from arrogance. Yikes, I don’t think I’ve ever described any part of myself that way. Meek, humble, sure. Arrogant?! But that’s what it comes down to. It’s a you-can’t-teach-me-anything-because-I’ve-got-it-all-in-me-somewhere (maybe hiding under my pinky fingernail) stance.

Rubbish! Good thing I ignored that kind of thinking and impulsively signed up for a two-day course on the film business. I noticed a full page ad in Script magazine, signed up online and then spent a few days regretting the decision. (It wasn’t all arrogance. With no income at the moment, charging $400 bucks brought on dizziness and nausea—basically, a starving artist’s hangover.) Despite my hang-ups, I’d enrolled and I was too cheap to back out, knowing some guy could enjoy a steak dinner with my hefty cancellation fee while I spiced up my oatmeal. Ooh, nutmeg!

With cautious optimism—funny how I can temporarily quell doubt when I’ve poured money into something—, I spent the weekend immersed in Dov Simens’ 2-Day Film School. I slept on a friend’s (too short) sofa in Vancouver so I could arrive feeling refreshed for both days of the conference. Sleep is a broad term in this context. It was more tossing and turning and listening to snores break the sound barriers from the other room. (I suspect that my friend may be the primary reason there are a dozen coffee shops within a three-block radius of his apartment.)

The workshops ran from 9-6 on Saturday and Sunday. Breaks were few—and short. I’d proactively flung a bottle of Tylenol in my backpack, but didn’t need to dig it out. There was a lot to learn.

Dov Simens is one of those speakers who flaunts his ego. He yells, swears, comes off as an a-hole. He lets us know he’s wildly successful. (“My wife and I are living off the bonds from our bonds.”) Money is sexy. Then he inserts an tender anecdote about loving his wife or asserts that he will give all of the profits from his next mega, sure-fire project to the people of Darfur. Just enough sweet to counter the schmuck. He’s built his persona. Most of the people in the room were captivated. I spent much of the time viewing him as a character study and watching his students’ reactions. That alone justified the course fee.

This is the morning after and I’ve got much to review from my notes. I gained a clearer picture of the film business and screenwriting’s place within it. He gave me another perspective on screenwriting and trying the get your work read. Much of what he said about writing conflicts with much of what I’ve read—everyone seems to have a different take—but that’s a good thing. I now have more to think about.

So,…back to the bird and the boy. What was a bird—a blue-and-yellow macaw, I believe—doing in a crash course on show biz? Trying to get noticed? If so, mission accomplished. Saturday morning, I staked out my spot in the back row with no one sitting on either side of me. By the time the class commenced, the lecture hall filled to near capacity. Still, a space remained on my right. A little extra room to stretch out! Then, at 9:40, a gentleman appeared with an animal crate and, of course, he chose the vacancy beside me. I love animals and the bird looked cute in the cage. However, within five minutes, flapping began, just inches from my head. Yep, Polly was on her perch, on her master’s left shoulder.

To be fair, Polly—not her real name—was well-behaved for the most part. But the flaps, and faint clucking noises did not come with predictability. I found myself tense—remember, lack of sleep may have played a part—and distracted. At the first break, a full three hours in, I moved down a row, spending the rest of the weekend beside Doogie Director.

There were moments that I felt like the lawyer in that new TV sitcom, “Community”, who faces loopy profs and odd classmates when ordered back to community college. That was a good thing, color commentary to keep me alert and inquisitive. And the play-by-play analysis, the substantive part of the course, turned out to be something I’m glad I didn’t turn my nose up to. I’ve still got that credit card charge to fret about, but that’s six weeks away.

RETURNING HOME

2009-10-20T19:42:00.000-07:00

I'm home! I did the 4,500-kilometer trip in three days--a record. The first night took me to the Lake Superior area of Ontario with lots of tiny, dingy motels. I could have stopped at one, but I pulled over at a car lot in Nipigon. (If I'm sleeping in the car, car lots are great because I don't stand out when I'm surrounded by other vehicles.) Well, it was very cold so I got back on the road after two hours and drove through the night, remaining vigilant for moose and other wildlife. (“Moose on the Loose” at “Moose at Night” signs pop up every five minutes on the route and I drove under the speed limit, ready to brake or swerve should a critter appear.)

For the second night, I was in the middle of Saskatchewan and stopped in three towns, looking for a cheap motel. The first town had the most disgusting looking hotel I've ever seen--worse than The Patricia on Hastings in Vancouver’s skid row area, a hotel an L.A. travel agent unwittingly booked me into during my first visit to the city. There was no room at the inn at the next two stops. I parked in an auto body lot, spitting distance from an incredibly active nighttime railroad track, and tossed and turned from 9 p.m. until 5 a.m. when my dog Lincoln decided it was time to throw up. (I learned from the trip to the cottage and got him out of the car on time.) At some point in my "sleep", I mysteriously managed to break a middle toe which swelled up. Plenty awake, I washed my hair using a water bottle and hit the road again.

That's when I realized I had a shot of making it home in a three-day marathon. I was a crazed driver! Construction work in Calgary--at both ends!--and around Banff put me on edge--the dogs might say over the edge--and getting stuck behind camper vehicles for long stretches through the Rockies made matters worse. I had given myself a couple of hours leeway to catch the final ferry home (9:15), but that time seemed to be ticking away.

Thank goodness for the Coquihalla Highway which runs for nearly two hundred kilometers between Kamloops and Hope, B.C.! It is like a raceway. Cars whizzed past me when I was doing 130 (or more). Bring on more of our own Autobahns!

Despite my fretting, I realized I had a (remote) shot of making the 7:25 sailing. Drawing on my newly acquired race driver experience, I zigzagged through traffic as I neared Vancouver and got to the terminal three minutes before the cutoff. What a bonus to arrive home a day early!

I am feeling surprisingly alert today and the dogs are relieved to be home, reacquainting themselves with their favorite lounging spots. My butt feels bruised from such long periods of sitting and I have officially ruled out truck driver as my next career. Now I have nothing left to fall back on if I can’t make it as a writer. I have no choice but to write!

PROBLEM, NOT AN EXCUSE

2009-10-19T10:52:00.000-07:00

I recently wrote about my writing schedule being out of whack due to relatives sharing the cottage space with me. I could have—and five years ago, would have—used that as an excuse to set the writing aside. I am not the only aspiring writer who tends to embrace the excuse.

I would have three novels out this year, but the dogs need lots of walks.

I can never get to my screenplay because there is so much laundry to do. And dusting!

I have the greatest ideas for a series of essays—if only I had there weren’t construction going on next door.

I have eliminated my Number One Excuse, my day job. That also severely cuts the cash flow. Thus, I cannot afford to allow excuses to stifle my writing. Each excuse is a problem that must—must!—be solved. It is the starting point in what separates wishful writers from successful writers.

I am proud to note that I worked through the problem of sharing my living/working space for a few weeks. I found other places to write, going to a few local cafés more regularly, staying longer at the library and working in the cramped back bedroom with the door shut. Not every work setting has to be inspiring. Sometimes all the inspiration must come from within. (Fear of a life of poverty adds some kick as well.)

This is a turning point in my writing. I will face obstacles many times as I continue to pursue writing. I know I can—and will—overcome them.

STUCK IN THE MIDDLE

2009-10-15T13:36:00.001-07:00

With a few stalls along the way, I have spent the past two months steadily plugging away on a novel for adult readers. I’m in the middle of the story and I seem to be stuck. It is not cause for panic or despair yet. Concern? Sure.

I love reading interviews and attending author readings to learn about their writing process. What I have learned is there is not a right way to write—although some authors give me the impression that they are so married to their chosen process that they feel it is only way, not just for themselves but for others.

Maybe it’s because I’m a tangential thinker with adult-onset Attention Deficit Disorder, but I believe the process has to feel organic to the writer and to his or her particular project. Process can change—sometimes must change due to unexpected factors—along the way. Often (note, not always) when I write, the characters come first. Then a problem comes to mind and I jump into writing the first draft. When I try to be more disciplined and outline the story, I often feel the energy drying up. For me, the journey is led by the characters and changes course from my initial, loosely conceived vision.

The genesis of this project came during my four-day drive across the Canadian Prairies and Northern Ontario. I kept my microcassette player on the dashboard and recorded the flurry of ideas as they came. It was an exciting process that fit my circumstance and I couldn’t wait to sort through the ideas once I could sit down at the cottage and open up my laptop. Not all the ideas were great; after all, I forwent hotels and “slept” in the car. Catnapped might be a better term.

For this novel, I even knew the ending and the basic story progression before I began. I thought I was ahead of the game and would skirt any of my typical feelings that the story was dragging in the middling section. Alas. Despite a little more forethought in planning, I am in familiar, unpleasant territory where I am trying to regain story momentum. I think this is the point where some authors abandon a project or shelve it for years.

A SNAG IN THE ROUTINE

2009-10-14T07:26:00.000-07:00

When you’re writing full-time, people tend to think you are always available. Granted, I have more flexibility than most workers, but the work still has to get done. If I don’t write, the opportunities for payment do not come.

I have relatives staying with me for three weeks. Or maybe I’m staying with them. It’s a family cottage—no reservations, no exclusive bookings. That’s the way it should be. However, the whole writing routine is out of whack. I hadn’t realized how critical that first chunk of writing is each morning. I had gotten into a routine of starting a pot of coffee, letting it brew while I walked the dogs and then sitting down at the dining table to begin the day’s work as I periodically glanced at the peaceful river view. While it was an hour of writing at most, it set the tone for the day.

My start is delayed now as breakfast television takes over the main living quarters. I try to write in my tiny bedroom, but looking at wood paneling is not as inspiring as the river, lined with trees in the midst of a color makeover. And “Today” blares through the thin walls. (One of my relatives is hard of hearing.) I have asked myself why background noise at home is distracting while din in a café makes writing feel less solitary and I suspect it comes down to expectations. In a home environment, I expect to have some control over sources of noise; when I venture into a public venue for writing, I know I won’t be alone and the people and bits of their conversation may actually lead to a writing spark.

By the time I have my shower, leave the cottage and drive to a more focused writing site, two hours have ticked by. Often, that is when the writing for the day starts. I never seem to catch up.

One more week to go. In the meantime, I’m trying to shorten the morning delay and fitting in extra writing after 11 p.m. The office, it seems, is never closed.

A HOPEFUL SIGN

2009-10-13T09:13:00.000-07:00

I submitted a cover letter, writing sample and synopsis of my short story collection about two months ago to my publisher of choice. Since I hadn’t heard anything, I assumed a rejection letter would be waiting for me when I retrieved my mail upon returning to British Columbia. Last night, however, I checked my emails and there was one from the editor with whom I worked on my first novel, Fouling Out. She apologized for the delay in contacting me and noted that the publisher has never published a collection of short stories for tweens and teens. (Indeed, it is hard to find any publisher that with that kind of book. The closest I can find is the Chicken Soup for the Soul books that appeal girls. Nothing for boys.) The brief email went on to say that the editor loved the title and would like to read the entire collection.

This news does not guarantee a green light for getting the short stories published, but it is exciting to know that the possibility remains alive for a riskier (read, not market tested) project. As I am flitting about in developing several other works at present, the news provided an instant spark to keep going. Feedback for a writer is infrequent, particularly for someone like me who does not share any work in progress with anyone. Any spark of interest helps reignite the belief that I am on the right track and that a writing career remains a legitimate dream.

ANOTHER LIBRARY, ANOTHER CHANCE TO TWEAK NEW MOTIVATION

2009-10-12T11:58:00.000-07:00

It took an hour to drive to downtown Ottawa before traipsing into the city’s main library branch and settling into a well used study carrel, one that could stand a thorough scrub down. What amazes me about libraries is that, no matter how big and how many seating areas, they always feel near capacity. Libraries welcome everyone and create a wonderful ambiance for building characters for a current or future writing piece.

As I searched for a carrel with an electrical outlet for my laptop, I came across a twentysomething Arab fellow on the stretching on the floor between bookshelves. That was a first! He later walked by, supporting himself with a cane. In the carrel on my left was a teenaged girl frantically scribbling notes in green ink into a spiral notebook. Apparently, my unpacking my writing gear was louder than she could tolerate; she departed within five minutes of my arrival. To my right is an elderly Japanese man who began shuffling through a plastic bag as soon as he sat down. As he set down a flattened cereal box, I thought he was settling in for a peaceful lunch, but he pulled out a dozen tiny sharpened pencils, opened a book about Central America and began copying the text onto a small notepad. There’s a story there.

I am in the middle of a wall-lined row of eighteen carrels. Two-thirds are occupied. It is a fairly accurate slice of the city’s demographics in terms of gender, age, ethnicity and, from initial appearances, income levels. I can’t get this at the cottage or at my rural home in British Columbia. Although all is relatively quiet as I work, I feel fully immersed within society.

ALL PAWS ON DECK (IF ONLY FLEETINGLY)

2009-10-08T12:24:00.000-07:00

If I spent as much time writing as I did seeking the perfect venue for writing, I might have finished Parts II-V of the War and Peace sequel series by now. An exaggeration? Maybe not. I am the guy who drove 4,600 kilometers for a change of scenery.

I have staked out a few areas in the Ottawa Valley that allow me to settle quickly into an hour or two of writing. (The undiagnosed ADHD means that I have to move on to the next site…after a lengthy break.) My most frequent nook is a study carrel in the Arnprior Library. Laptop users vie for one of four key spots and sometimes I arrive too late, having to settle for plugging my laptop in and winding the cord strategically to allow me to sit in a chair between book stacks. It’s all good, except for a few recent visits when the air conditioning continued to blast cool air despite the passing of the recent heat wave. For a town of 7,500, the library was open long hours in the summer. Unfortunately, this week is the start of its regular, reduced hours with the facility not opening until noon.

There’s a quaint coffee and scone shop in the historic downtown section of Arnprior that I’ve recently added to my list. It has exactly what I need: plenty of electrical outlets, strong black coffee and just enough comings and goings to offer a bit of people watching. It is never so crowded that I feel I have to give up my prime table. Bad for business, but good for writing.

Yesterday, I ventured to Renfrew, a larger town of 8,000, to test out its library. The building is old and seating space is limited. I managed to get an hour and a half of work done, typing away in one of four comfy chairs in the Reading Room. I doubt I’ll make a repeat visit as I can imagine times when no space is available.

This morning, as I await the later opening of the Arnprior Library, I’ve taken my laptop outdoors, sitting on the cottage deck. The gentle lapping of the river water provides a calming background acoustic. My dogs, Lincoln and Hoover, dash about on the beach and behind the cottage. As it’s early September, the kids have all gone back to school and most of the cottages are vacant on weekdays so I don’t have to block off all possible exits from the deck in an effort to contain the dogs. They are happy and I am feeling productive. The only thing that could ruin this perfect little writing moment is Hoover reappearing, covered in burs and smelling like he found a dead fish to roll in. It’s happened before and he hasn’t sped across the deck in awhile.

I’m thinking it’s time for an unscheduled writing break.

SELF-DOUBT IS A GOOD THING, RIGHT?

2009-09-16T09:01:00.000-07:00

From August 31, 2009:
As a school principal, this would be my first official day back at work. Or maybe there was a compulsory first aid training course last Friday. In either case, I’m a no-show. This writing gig is for real, the summertime pastime officially evolving into a serious writing stint.

I’ve known that the next two weeks would feel awkward. With students heading back to school and the educational traditions of September featured in television and print news, driving across the country couldn’t completely suppress What I’m Not Doing This Year. It also happens to be the end of the month and the final day of my first block of a tightly set personal budget. As frugal as I’ve been (Mmm, oatmeal!), I think I went over by about fifty bucks. Things will only get tougher with costly winter heating bills to come.

I will experience highs and lows during my sabbatical and I’m hoping this is one of the lows. (I don’t want to go lower!) All my writing is on spec. There is no guarantee that anyone will express the slightest interest in any of it. Periods of self-doubt are inevitable.

Can self-doubt actually be a good thing for a writer? I remember listening to author Mem Fox speak at a regional International Reading Association convention in Calgary five years ago. She said that, for writing to matter, it must come from a place of hope and fear. Basically, hope and fear represent the two ends on the caring spectrum. Both can be channeled to improve one’s craft. If I only experienced hope, I might not have spent the morning closely scrutinizing and reworking a funeral scene I drafted last week. Hope alone can lead to complacency and a lack of sometimes brutal reflection.

I took heart in watching Julie & Julia yesterday. Both characters were hoping to get published as writers and both experienced plenty of fear and self-doubt. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that I don’t want to get stuck on, but it’s a healthy mindset if processed positively.

While teachers and students deal with their back-to-school jitters, I have my own to juggle. Things are the same, but different.

THE NIGHTMARISH EDITOR

2009-09-10T17:16:00.000-07:00

Slow getting going this morning. Had another exhausting sleep. I was madly editing a manuscript in my dreams all night. It was a simple premise that kept repeating itself all night. That manuscript must have been five hundred pages! Apparently I had submitted it to a publisher and then an editor returned it, demanding that I get rid of every the in the work.

With word processing, that should be an easy task. Simply type the in the Find option and then contemplate what kind of change is needed so the sentence doesn’t go Tarzan. (I like to swing on [ ]vine. I feel stronger than all of [ ] monkeys.) Of course, in a dream word processing options don’t come to mind. I had to sift through every page and search line by line to detect each occurrence of the offending word.

This utterly inane dream/nightmare arose from a crossword puzzle I did last week. The clue was “Most commonly occurring English word” and the three-letter answer: t-h-e. Now I have a dilemma: either I give up writing or I give up crosswords. (In reality, I think there is a third option: I say no to a third glass of white wine when dining with my aunt and cousin.)

SEEKING AN EXTENSION

2009-09-09T08:21:00.000-07:00

From August 20, 2009:

Gotta crank it up several notches. I am still not fitting in enough writing time each day—at least, not enough to make this an occupation, rather than a hobby. That’s a tricky transition to make. I’ve had more than ten years of feeling satisfied writing when I can. If I made some progress on a story idea one afternoon, wonderful! However, it almost seemed like a bonus, not so much an expectation.

I’ve been writing about six days a week, but the time each day needs to be extended. I need my productivity to fall somewhere between Stephen King and John Hughes. In a recent column in Entertainment Weekly, King noted that we spends 3.5 hours a day writing. (Emails and such are separate.) In a tribute to John Hughes, a colleague noted that one evening Hughes was ostensibly rewriting three pages of the screenplay for “Some Kind of Wonderful”. Come morning, Hughes had generated fifty pages—not for the movie at hand, but for “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off”.

I would say I’m much more on the King end of the spectrum. Or I should be. Right now, three and a half hours of writing is a grind. Two days ago, I had a solid hour of writing in before 9 a.m. I didn’t get back to my laptop until after 5 p.m. It was hard to account for the eight-hour lapse. Now that kind of break seems absurd.

I still have to get over the myth that my living space—be it the house or the cottage—is not conducive to writing. I accomplish things in small flourishes; now I need to add some discipline and better work habits. Having my own schedule without immediate deadlines is entirely foreign. That said, it is time to get acclimated!

TURNING THE PAGE

2009-09-04T18:01:00.000-07:00

It’s official. I’ve shaken thoughts of school and I’m now consumed with writing. Whereas I’ve so many exhausting nights dreaming about unending school problems, last night was my first toss-and-turn writing crisis. Rather than some other person—a student, a parent, a staff member—with a problem, it was my own voice that tormented me. It seems that a year ago, unbeknownst to my present memory, I’d recorded a detailed chronology of the adult novel I’m currently drafting. Somehow it all turned up on a cassette in my trusty mini recorder.

Now such a discovery might be a godsend in the waking hours—you mean, I’ve worked through the whole plot?!—I was frantically pausing the device and typing the ideas. Every possible detail was on that tape! And the cassette must have had a two, or ten, hour time limit on it.

Sometimes when I waken, I remember all the whacky, illogically thrown together ideas from my dreams. Sadly, this was not such a time. When morning came, all was blank. It feels like my notebook got tossed in the dumpster or my laptop crashed and the last week’s work could not be recovered.

I’m going to check my recorder,…just in case.

THE LENGTHS TO WHICH I’LL GO TO FIND A NEW WRITING SPOT

2009-09-03T07:30:00.000-07:00

From August 11, 2009--Posted belatedly due to lack of Internet access at the cottage

I have successfully completed my four-day, 4,600 kilometer road trip from my home in British Columbia to the family cottage on the Ottawa River in Ontario. There were times during the trip that I questioned the point in making the journey.

One of those key moments had to be at 5 a.m. during the second night’s sleep while in an auto body shop parking lot in Winnipeg. I awakened to the familiar sound of my dog Lincoln gagging. With my legs half stretched out in the trunk of the vehicle, sandwiched between several bags of specialized dog food and loose shoes buffering contact with a suitcase and tennis gear, I could not move fast enough to prevent the inevitable.

I suppose I should be relieved that Lincoln’s vomit was more of a paste than a batter, but the smell—a mix of fermented strawberry and bile-coated doggy dinner negated any sort of consolation. And I’m not going near strawberry jam in the next decade. Lincoln managed to hit my pillow, sleeping bag, a stack of clean clothes, extra bedding, the car seat and the clothes I was wearing. I did my best to remove whatever I could spot with my glove compartment stash of Tim Horton’s napkins and generous dabs of bottled water, but the stench never went away during my final two days of living in the car. Maybe that was part of my motivation to get to the cottage in record time—four days, not five.

I could only listen to my greatest hits collection of Simply Red so many times, no matter how much I enjoyed reconnecting with forgotten gems. And, given that much of the trip traversed vast stretches of farmland and forest, clear radio stations were fleeting. It didn’t help that Christian and country radio—and one odd Spanish station—carried the strongest signals.

I had a lot of time for thinking. The first day across B.C. was void of any writing ideas. I was still getting oriented to travel mode—and stewing over a speeding ticket awarded after passing a truck that I’d been stuck behind for twenty minutes.

Fortunately, much of the first chapter of a children’s novel I’d been thinking about came to me once I settled for the night in the parking lot of a car dealership in Fort Macleod, Alberta. (When sleeping in my car, I try to pick businesses with cars in the lot. That way, my car doesn’t stand out so much—bike hanging off trunk rack notwithstanding—and then I don’t have to worry about a police officer banging on my window in the middle of the night, telling me to move my loitering butt along.)

Without an electrical outlet for my laptop and with my notepads buried in a backpack somehow hidden as a result of an in-transit avalanche that occurred early on due to my faulty packing technique, I grabbed my long unused mini recorder and rambled on with a flood of ideas to begin the novel. And so began a series of dictated writing flourishes during the remainder of the trip. Random travel thoughts are interspersed throughout the tapes: something about faux roadkill (burned out tires); a rant about Thunder Bay’s hidden gas stations; a musing about a small town named Head, Clara and Maria. (Yes, that’s one town name.)

Today I get to listen to the tapes and turn the recordings to written text. No doubt, there will be a fair amount of drivel in my spontaneous notes. I’ll attribute any such passages to road fatigue (and that lingering berry-scented vomit), but I am hoping there will be some keepers in the mix and fodder for further writing.

This is it. It took four days of driving and three nights of sleeping in the car, but I have made it to the cottage, my abode for the next two months. I am hoping the place will inspire a flurry of writing activity. And I’m blocking all thoughts about the return trip. Time to live in the moment!

Letting It Be

2009-07-27T19:50:00.000-07:00

I met a friend in Vancouver for lunch today and figured it would be a productive writing day. I’d have forty minutes each way on the ferry. There are “Business Work Stations” (a row of study carrels) on board to allow me to plug in the laptop and write. The bus trip to downtown would be slightly longer. For that leg, I packed two writing magazines and a book I’m using to research a historical setting for a new novel.

As I readied to leave the house, I had a feeling my plans might not happen. The sun was blazing and I knew I wouldn’t hit a patch of shade on the walk down to the terminal. I also knew the bus wouldn’t be air conditioned. Lugging around my bulky, outdated laptop was the first idea I nixed.

On the ship, I was a sticky mess. I’ve never been a person who does well in heat. (How I lasted eleven years in Texas is beyond me. Of course, the constant gusts from fully cranked A/Cs helped.) I stepped onto a shaded outside deck, begging the sea breeze to cool me. In no time, I was captivated by the views: sparsely-cottaged islands, the odd log drifting in the water, the mountains in the distance with the last tufts of snow now gone. Postcards at every angle. (My neglected camera remained at home on the kitchen counter.) I stood there and took it all in. No writing. The evolving scene reminded my why I moved to the Sunshine Coast and gave up the daily perks of urban life.

When temperatures pass 30˚ Celsius, you’re never cool for long. The queue to board the bus—seven minutes in that relentless sunshine—got me sweaty again. (So glad I tossed an extra shirt in the backpack to change into for lunch!) The crammed bus didn’t help matters. I gave up my seat, in part to be chivalrous—something most of the comfortably seated men knew nothing about or consciously chose to ignore. Admittedly, I also thought standing might feel better than sticking to vinyl seating.

The opportunity to research was lost. I people watched (and people listened) instead. That fellow with the shorts pulled up too high? He gave me a detail for Nester, a character in an upcoming novel.

Even in Horseshoe Bay for 30-40 minutes while waiting for the return ferry, I passed on going to my favorite café to sit down and write. The trend of being in the moment continued. I got my coffee to go and sat in the park by the water, taking in small details of everyday life: the Basenji who beat out the lab to scarf down a dropped fried fish stick from a distracted child, the father who kept tabs on his developmentally delayed teen son with a leash, the woman idly breastfeeding her infant in the most central (and public) spot in the park, the sea gull digging for any remaining flesh in a mussel shell abandoned by a previous diner.

Sometimes plans push me and make me accountable. Other times they represent noble intentions that need to be strayed from, delayed or, as in this case, abandoned altogether. Still, today was a productive day for writing. I just don’t have anything in my notebook or on my laptop to show for it.

And I’m okay with that.

It's Alive!

2009-07-26T09:20:00.000-07:00

I love writing in libraries. For my first novel, I must have written in a half dozen Vancouver libraries, two in Richmond, one in Whistler and one in Arnprior, Ontario. The stacks of published titles inspire me. The diverse patrons fascinate me. There's a story behind why each one is there.

While in Vancouver for the weekend, I camped out in the Oakridge branch, which is part of the popular retail mall. The library itself is only accessible from a separate outside entrance. A shame, really. Two friends I met with for meals reacted with, "There's a library at the mall?!" Of course, the library faithful have no problem finding it.

The branch closes at 9 p.m. on Friday nights and when I left fifteen minutes early--yes, turning off the lights and having a pregnant pause before restoring power gets the point across, albeit with no trace of subtlety--the place was still a flurry of activity with people of all ages.

I returned the next morning three minutes after its 10 a.m. opening and two dozen patrons had already staked out their places.

In the afternoon, I moved to a study carrel in the Quiet Zone, having had my fill before lunch of overhearing animate conversationalists. (Two older gentlemen had perched on stools ostensibly for computer users. They exchanged opinions about Castro, the Middle East and Stephen Harper's chances for reelection. They hadn't moved in the time I quieted my growling stomach. This was their community stoop.)

The young Chinese guy in the carrel beside me spent the next three hours busily studying his laptop screen. Talk about focus! I'm the type of person who needs a stretch break every twenty minutes. (That's when I randomly wander amongst the stacks and dream about that heretofore never contemplated trip to Corsica. The book on sprucing up one's flower boxes seemed a little too relatable--and too much like work.)

My carrel-mate's self-discipline rubbed off a bit. My breaks were at least shorter than usual. I wrote several pages for a new project, revised four short stories and read a couple of chapters from a how-to guide on screenwriting.

Twenty minutes before closing time as I packed up my belongings, I couldn't help but peek over the carrel to see what it was that so thoroughly consumed my neighbor. Turned out it was a videogame. My initial reaction was, He couldn't do that at home? He needed the Quiet Zone for that?!

Why not? Two gentlemen parked in the library to chat about current events, I was there to write, and here was a guy who needed a haven to play a game. Like I said, there's a story behind each library user. Each of us got what we needed.

As I made my way through the library and toward the exit, the place was still hopping with patrons. Thankfully, I am not the only one who appreciates a local library.

Letting Go (or What's Love Boat Got to Do with It?)

2009-07-22T10:24:00.000-07:00

Today is the day I've set for sending out Boys' Shorts, my collection of short stories targeted to teen boy readers. However, I sense myself delaying the final steps. What makes me hold on when I know the time is right to submit the manuscript?

One might think I have a fear of rejection. Knowing that the work is still in my hands keeps publishers from mailing me polite form letters that summarily dismiss the writing. I don't think this is a concern. Sure, rejection hurts, but I can always stock up on Häagen-Dazs to console myself.

Perhaps I am avoiding the grant applications that I need to complete. As long as I am tinkering with Boys' Shorts, the paperwork can wait. I am not a form fan. But then, is anyone?

Maybe I have a problem with letting go. I began this project a year ago. That's a relatively short time for me. (I held onto Fouling Out for eight years.) The short story collection has been exciting to write with so many characters and predicaments that ranged from funny to serious to mundane (yet quirky). I have enjoyed shifting gears so quickly from one story to the next and going back months later, only to be surprised by a particular story's ending.

Perhaps I should see a therapist about this letting go issue. It could be big! Of course, I could not afford the sessions which could continue to months, if not years. What if it all comes down to a repressed childhood incident when I was forced to attend a church games night in lieu of watching a rerun of "The Love Boat"? It's possible. "But Charo's guest starring. She's gonna break Captain Stubing's heart. And Florence Henderson's on, too. Mrs. Brady!" (To underscore how much I am delaying sending off my manuscript, I found a Charo-Florence Henderson clip on YouTube--after I'd paired them in my blog. You can YouTube anything! Take a peek. Perfect your cuchi-cuchi!)

Without the therapist, I will have to work through my letting go problem. I understand the issue on a surface level. Why would I want the fun to stop? I have to trust that I will have at least as much fun on my next writing project.

After the grant applications.

It's been a year since I began the project

The Name Game

2009-07-20T11:01:00.000-07:00

Remember that ultra-catchy ditty, "The Name Game" by Shirley Ellis? Okay, I'll admit I hadn't heard the song until I was an adult and a friend mixed a tape with quirky hits, including that one. Still, it's worth a first listen (or a nostalgic revisit). Check out "The Name Game" on YouTube.

I've got my own name game to play today--and it isn't nearly as fun as the song! My goal is to submit my short story manuscript (technically, some sample chapters) in two days. I am tinkering with a couple of things before my self-imposed deadline. One thing I did this morning was conduct a name search through the forty-two story collection to see if I'd repeated any names. Oh, the results shocked me! I've used thirty-one first names two or even three times for different characters and ten last names.

Some names will remain. Tim and Mary are common enough that I can justify having the name crop up a second time. But how did I use Willis for two different characters?! (I don't even know a Willis. It was a random name that came in the writing moment. Twice apparently.) And Ginny? Nadine! Meredith!

I used the last name Reineke in two stories. Yes, there was a girl in college with that last name. She was an acquaintance at best. I don't think I have some long-repressed crush on her. What gives?! (There will be no Facebook reunion.)

I'm pulling out my phone book and some magazines to go back to my tried and true character naming technique. One random flip and I point my finger: first name. Next flip and point: last name. It shouldn't take too long to rename a slew of characters--unless there is a disproportionate number of Luke Wainwrights living on the Sunshine Coast!

I may even play the Shirley Ellis Name Game to alter one character's moniker. Let's see,...Jimmy Jimmy bo Bimmy Bonana fanna fo Fimmy...

Working on Sunday

2009-07-19T08:49:00.000-07:00

I had a lovely visit with a group of Richmond teachers on Friday and Saturday. When I met the seven women (and one little lady) at the ferry terminal, the first to hug me announced, "Your harem is here!" The conversation, food and drink flowed easily. For some reason, when the last person left yesterday, the writing didn't flow as well. (No, it had nothing to do with "clucking of the hens" as my friend Patti referred to the visit in a follow-up email.)

Whatever the reason, today is a new day and I am eager to write again. Yes, it's Sunday, but that's the thing about an unpaid sabbatical. My food cupboard will not remain miraculously stocked with no-name oatmeal. And watering down the portions will only work for so long. (Oatmeal soup,...mmm, mmm good!)

Back to the writing. I wouldn't want it any other way!

Now What?!

2009-07-16T19:29:00.000-07:00

Fifteen minutes ago I finished my latest manuscript, a collection of forty-two short stories targeted at teen boys. I completed the drafts in March and have spent the time since then revising before I submit the project to publishers. Most of the work has been done over the past two weeks when I didn’t have any distractions from a day job.

I should feel elated. At least relieved. It hasn’t set in yet. There will be a little more tinkering with the order of presenting the short stories and some contemplation as to which ones to submit as samples. Also, I’ve got to refine my cover/query letter. I expect to mail the project by the middle of next week. Once I actually hand it over to the postal worker, I think I will feel that sense of accomplishment.

It’s important to celebrate in some way. Before the rejections come in. (If they do. My first book was accepted by the first publisher. A fluke, I’m told.) No matter how dismissive and formulaic the rejection letter, nothing can take away from the fact I completed a writing project that began a year ago. I enjoyed every part of the writing. The short stories—and let me emphasize short—allowed me to bounce about from idea to idea. The collection began as a constructive diversion from another novel I was working on. That manuscript remains incomplete, something that has sat cold for many months. It’s harder to dive back into a novel than a set of short stories.

When I started out, I planned to write forty. I feared I might run out of ideas after a dozen stories. Fortunately, the synopses were plentiful. Just yesterday, I jotted down ideas for more. Sure, I need someone to accept the original set, but I am getting excited about a sequel. Writing doesn’t stop; it just changes course, if only slightly.

Funemployment, Indeed!

2009-07-12T10:55:00.000-07:00

July 10, 2009

I’m in Vancouver for a couple of days, but the writing continues. In fact, I should be more productive since someone else is caring for the dogs and I have fewer excuses for leaving a library and returning home where I’m typically less productive.

Anyway, I was putting off the beginning of today’s writing by planning to swim laps at a local pool. Unfortunately, due to the ferry timing and traffic, I had to forego that idea since there wasn’t enough time to fit in a decent workout before the pool would be overtaken by floating mats, plastic basketball nets and bendy Sytrofoam sticks—they must have a name, but I’m not in thick with the bendy stick crowd.

I went for a cinnamon bun instead. Yeah, I know, aquatic exercise or decadent pastry, there seems to be something illogical in my choice pairings. One might accuse me of driving awfully slowly to the pool, but I’m sticking to my stance that I really wanted to swim.

While I tore away at my lunch (yes, lunch—cinnamon is one of those good-for-you spices, isn’t it?), I picked up a free local rag, WE, billed as “Vancouver’s urban weekly”. The cover story caught my attention: “Congratulations, you’re fired. It’s time for Funemployment.” Okay, I’ve never been axed, but I still felt I’d be able to connect with the article. In reading, I learned that funemployment was first used about a month ago in San Francisco’s SF Weekly. Everybody wants to coin a new word. (I read in this week that frenemy and vlog just made the cut. I’ll play along and nominate webstereyes, a verb, for the act of trying to create a new word to earn a place in standard dictionaries, as in This lame word is my attempt to webstereyes, my alternative track for getting published. You saw it here first!)

Back to this new SF term. I don’t think it’s catchy enough to catch on just yet. Shorten it to funployment and I think you’ve got a hit. So what does the word mean? For those of you who can’t imagine what an expression derived from fun + employment could pertain to, I’ll quote WE’s reference to the original source. The term refers to “laid-off people…collecting unemployment benefits and using their newfound time to reassess their career goals, and then launch their own creative businesses.” Basically, getting creative in an effort to make ends meet in tough times.

People are daring to explore paths they’d never dared dream to pursue as a career. That’s the part I can relate to. I’m just the crazy one who isn’t collecting EI in the process. No net to catch my fall. Still, I can underscore the fun in my own version of funployment. An acquaintance gently mocked me yesterday for taking three whole days off in transitioning from principal to writer. Well, I couldn’t wait any longer. It seems I waited ten months to get started on this adventure and another week to read a trashy novel or watch Oprah reruns seemed a total waste. (That Serengeti safari got nixed on account of my new frugality.) I’m early into my year of writing, but I’m loving it. When I power down the laptop each evening, I’m excited about resuming the next day.

After a swim workout or cinnamon bun excursion, of course.

DAY 1--Bring on the Rain!

2009-07-06T11:42:00.000-07:00

July 6, 2009

It’s a cloudy morning and the showers have begun. What a perfect day to start my year of writing! (Okay, I’m not the sun worshipper of my youth, but still I have fewer possible distractions. The lawn will not be mowed. The dandelions can thrive another day. The deck shall go unswept. Why is it that these tasks only seem pressing when I’m writing?)

I’m easing into this process. Some would be inclined to dive right in, but I like to dip my toes in to send a message to the rest of the body. Cold, yes. But, ooh, you’ll get used to it! Let’s hope. Last year, my Summer of Writing was a great experiment. I blogged and logged my experiences to hold myself accountable and I managed to write for period of time each day. Thirty minutes was the minimum while three hours represented a flurry of activity.

As I am embarking on a one-year sabbatical from my day job as a school principal and bringing in no money as of the end of this month, this little hobby must transform into a serious trade. Thirty minutes of writing? Bah! That’s a day off. Three hours—gulp, here goes—must be the new minimum. I will have to build up to that in the next week. Five to eight hours will be the goal.

Whereas I’d casually begun my days last summer, I will need to maintain more of a schedule for my writing. No lingering about in the mornings, letting Mr. Sandman influence my foggy brain. I shall shower, dress and walk the dogs to begin the day, then grab a cup—er, pot—of coffee and settle down to create, tinker, edit or connect with a character. I may even outline! That’s a radical thought for someone who likes to see how things flow, but discipline and direction will strengthen my writing. I can remain flexible enough to change paths when the plot or the characters compel an adjustment in the journey, but my endings will be stronger, more fully realized if they are considered from the outset.

For now, I am already behind. I failed to clear my desk this weekend to begin with a clean working area. I could spend the next two hours pondering what to do with each slip of paper, but I am giving myself two minutes to apply that deck sweeping desire to my desk. True, I will have (yet another) pile on the floor, but I can deceive myself into thinking it is an essential piece of “furniture” as my dog Lincoln discovers it and uses it as a new pillow. He’ll be better rested and I’ll be ready to write!

The Beginning

2009-07-06T11:23:00.000-07:00

What have I done?! Sure, it was thrilling when I finally blurted to my boss that I wanted to take a year off work in order to write. Ah, what a dream!

Did I really say it out loud? Did my boss actually accept my leave request? Do I have the money to survive? Yes, yes and, well, let's hope. Perhaps a side query over the next 365 days will be whether a middle-aged man can survive off instant noodles. (True, it works in college, but so do all-nighters and toga getups. Aging can be cruel.)

I have gone from being a highly responsible elementary school principal to an unemployed, fledgling writer. I have been fortunate to have one children's novel in print, Fouling Out (Orca Book Publishers, 2008), but, contrary to what some of my readers believe, not every published author lives a Rowling kind of existence. I've had to let the butler go and--gasp!--refrain from hiring a housekeeper.

I shall blame last summer for my decision to take a sabbatical. I wrote every day and loved the creative process of bouncing from one unfinished writing project to another. When late August came around, I pined for the opportunity to pursue my writing more seriously. And now I've gone and done it. Instead of being a closet writer with big dreams, I am declaring myself a full-time writer to the thousands--er, one or two--who read this blog.

Over the next year, I shall share my journey. For anyone else who dreams of quitting a day job and following a whim to write, learn from my foolishness. Perhaps one of us will succeed!