The Writing Walls are Crumbling.

Tags

Biden, bipartisan, debate, discussion, left wing, moving forward, right wing, Trump, walls

I have had a very hard time blogging over the past four years. It wasn’t just Donny and his insane cabal but his many followers. I have unfriended many people during this reign, and I have blocked many of them. And I did try to listen. I tried to understand the divide, not just in America but in Canada and around the world . I have teased and ridiculed not only Donny but these followers. I knew converting the mindless was not possible, but they were never my target. I targeted the middle-of-the road centrists, the non-partisan voters who see truth above party politics. Unfortunately, these people tend to be more laissez-faire and vote less than the indoctrinated [on both sides]. Biden winning the vote feels like a victory but a tainted one. We are not in a good place.

Now that we have a change on the horizon, can I dump the farcical memes and get back to arguing with logic? I hope I can. I hope we all can. I would much rather see far-righters and far-lefties write out what they believe and openly discuss their arguments. I would hope we can all sit down quietly, read others’ stances on issues, and work to some consensus. It is this back and forth playing with ideas that moves us forward. It is how I move my writings forward. I don’t write knock-out stories in one go. It takes many tries of pushing that theme or pushing this character or pushing that conflict. All of my best writing has come from pushing into areas I never ended up in. The same is true, I believe, for moving forward in social and political discourse. Life is story, and those of us who write a lot of story can attest that what we think is best almost always is not.

I could not write much about life these past four years because so many have adopted views of life I do not agree with. And no, it is not just the righties. I am anti-government. When governments in my Canada want to implement new programs, I cringe, because I know my government’s debts will rise with no compensating benefit. Too many pay no service at all to our enormous debts.

What do I want to Write About?

The list is long, and I don’t claim to be qualified to write about much of it. But the following is a quick list.

• Socialism
  • what is it?
  • where should social policies fit in a capitalistic society?
  • what do Liberals really want?
  • what are Conservatives afraid of?
• Competition
  • I am for competition, when it makes sense
  • when does competition not make sense?
  • how do we manage non-competitive units so everyone is happy?
• Executive Accountability
  • this is currently a critical problem in not only America but in Canada and around the world
• Taxation
  • does the low-taxation-of-billionaires model make sense?
  • what is the logical management perspective on achieving good government?
  • of course, taxation of expatriates and management of tax fraud.
• Reading and Writing
  • I work at my writing every day. I have many ideas on making writing more interesting and relevant
  • reading is a forgotten skill. We have millions of experts who do not read anything more than Facebook posts or their favorite news headlines
  • how to correctly punctuate lists 😉
• Racial Injustice
  • unfortunately, the list is endless!
• My many other interests: books, fountain pens, inks, poetry, nutrition, diabetes, and more.

There is so much to write about and such little time to do it. I’ve been sitting on my hands for so long, I don’t really know if I can do this. Is Humpty Trumpty falling off the wall enough to get me back into this? But of course I have to write. The only way we’re going to move forward as a civilization is through discourse and debate. I remember when the Berlin Wall started to come down. It was the day my firstborn entered the world. I was so hopeful. The world really did seem to offer a brighter future. But of course we’ve erected replacement walls, and unfortunately we always will. I think the purpose of my writing and many other blogs has to be the dismantling of walls. These ideological walls need to crumble.

The Ray Bradbury Challenge

 

So we decided to try this challenge. Write a short story a week for 52 weeks.

It’s hard.

It’s very hard.

I don’t know how it can be done.

Sure, I can write a short story in a day, but we all know it won’t be finished. I have written several this year within a week. None of them were complete. Pick them upa  week or two later, a month later, and three months later and you discover how unfinished they are. I honestly don’t know how Ray did it.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say people of Ray’s ilk, writers in the 1920s, 1930s, and up to the 1960s were not inundated by television, computers, smartphones, the internet, and the global village. Their life was books, books, and more books. They read and wrote and read and wrote. Their skills at as writers 18 were light years beyond ours at the same age.

I work at my writing. I claim to understand most grammar. Yet, as I edit a piece for the fiftieth time, I still find issues. If was spelled of and I never saw it. Generalizations. Inconsistencies. Neoplasms. Weak verbs. Echoed starting sentences. Loss of agency. You name it, I do it.

I don’t know if this year’s efforts will yield publication credits, but I sure have grown. Not only am I writing short stories [all the time] but I am reading them too. My current collection is Joyce Carol Oates’ Telling Stories, an anthology for writers. The two biggest activities writers can do to improve their skills is write and read. That’s what 2018 is for me — the year of the short story.

And I have grown. It’s hard to explain how. A sense of agency in a story might be the biggest thing. And I don’t recall anyone or any book ever teaching it. This year I discovered the concept in Alice LaPlante’s The Making of a Story and then later at a writing workshop. Maybe I just missed it before; maybe it has been worded differently; but it’s now something I try to feel in every story I read and write.

The second thing is this nebulous concept of imagery. I have written a story called Grandpa’s Hat. It’s about my grandfather cheating on my grandmother. Complete fiction, no real names. “The end isn’t logical; the middle doesn’t lead up to your ending.” Interesting; because in my mind it did. Oh, those mid-west, small town values I included but barely showed. Oh, those things I see but nobody else did. Oh … I see now. I can’t explain any better than that, but now when I read it I feel the ending and say, “Oh my!”

So I am busy writing. I am getting there. I can feel it. I am writing stories — I wrote a new one this morning — at the rate of about one every ten days. I have returned to 750words.com and find myself writing down a new story idea about once every three days. And I have a collection started. I have a theme and many of my stories are falling in line. Need maybe six more, depending on a decision. This is a collection I never would have dreamed of writing two years ago. Thanks to keeping one’s eyes and min open. Thanks to social media. Thanks to Ray Bradbury.

Going to try to write more blog posts, but it’s hard. I’m scared of what I might write about the political scene.

 

 

 

The SAD month of MAY

April was poetry month, and now May is short story month. That’s a short story a day, every day, for 31 days. I’ve done seven NaNoWriMos and eight NaPoWriMos or equivalents. I don’t want to try to name this month. NaSsWriMo?

I sat at my desk on Monday, May 1, 2017, having written 54 poems and a blog post about it, wondering what to write next. Do I pull out 2012 and commit three or four months to fixing it? Do I continue salvaging parts of 2016 to make a short story collection? Maybe I should pull out 2010 or 2014 and have a second go at those unfinished novels. 2016 called the hardest and I’d all but settled on it. That would mean skimming the 50,000 words looking for nuggets. I have pulled the first three scenes as stories already, but where to next? Always the question.

So I did what any good writer would do: I opened Facebook. Almost immediately I found a post by my friend Andrea about a contest in May to write a short story a day. We talked about this in the past on our Sunday morning write-ins, I’ve participated in 15 other x-a-day events, so I didn’t need to think about the implications very much. I went to the Story-A-Day site, signed up, took the first prompt, and wrote a 1489 word story.

Bang. #1 done. It felt great.

\The story had nothing to do with anything I’ve written before, but it was based on reality. For that reason alone, I will not share it. Especially where fiction is weaved in, and some of that fiction is not nice. Sorry I had to kill you off, X.

May 2’s prompt fit almost perfectly a scene/story for 2016 I had been pondering. I sat and wrote. I took a break at 500 words to think, ponder, and write nasty political tweets — Even though I gave up my U.S. Citizenship, I still fight for Americans living abroad. And I’ve been quite acerbic lately towards the liberal shills out there supporting #FATCA and calling people like me tax cheaters.

I could not fit today’s prompt into any existing project, which is no concern, but I could fit it into a potential 2017 NaNoWriMo story. I’ve been pondering writing Science Fiction instead of my social conscious urban literary stuff.  I only invested 313 words in it, but I think it is full of theme, conflict, and potential. The conflict is implied: we’re all becoming the same, and what does that mean for humanity. Could be my backbone theme for my seen-book series *grin* It is a very thin piece, trite, but I actually love it. I will try to write more around this piece and other ideas this month and through the busy summer ahead of me. NaSsWriMo might just make NaNoWriMo very productive.

Enjoy

Prompt: People called him The Doll Maker. Nobody ever wondered aloud why every doll had the same face.

“Did you guys see Doctor Davis’ new robots?”

The lunch table paid no attention to him. Jared set down his tray and pulled in his chair.

“He can choose any face he wants with a few clicks but he picks the same face, the same physical features for every one of them. You guys don’t find that odd?”

“Jarrod,” Emily says. “You had a busy morning? You’re late.” She stuffs a roll of California Gold into her mouth.

“You haven’t heard a word I said.”

“Sorry,” she says as she crunches on the crusty, green roll of processed unknowns the government has certified as optimally nutritious for young scientists. She chases it with a glass of fortified water the color of the noon sky as displayed in the wall monitors. “We were just discussing Doc Davis’ new robots. Did you know he ordered them to all look identical? Why would he do that?”

Jarrod picked the gray New Jersey Jets roll up from his gray plate. “It makes no sense. You’d think he was building an army or something.”

Emily inspects her mint-green plate for crumbs but finds none. “I know. It’s so creepy. We’re not going to be able to tell which is which.”

“They’re all fucking robots,” William chimes in with his usual cheer. “Who cares what they look like? You ask for a Solar Coffee, they get you a Solar Coffee. It’s not like you’d have sex with one of them.”

“Speak for yourself,” Emily says.

“They’re all male,” Jarrod says.

“So?” says William.

“They’re all so…unremarkable,” Emily says and smiles.

“He could have selected at least some variety,” Jarrod says.

“They’re robots,” William says.

“What does he have planned?” they all say simultaneously. They stop but don’t laugh.

William picks up his blue Florida Fish Roll from his light-blue plate and looks at it. “Why are they all the same?”

 

Editors, A Mysterious Breed

Tags

Canada Writes, contest, K.M. Weiland

I am almost finished a short, short story of 1,440 words. I plan on submitting it to Canada Writes. As usual, I sought help from beta readers. For the first time, I solicited help from an editor.

Editors. Impressive species. They remind me of sandhill cranes — drab, erect, self-aggrandizing, and uber-pedantic. An editor would slash the previous sentence five ways from Sunday. Mine would anyway.

He is a copy editor for a  newspaper. He is not schooled in the discipline but is a natural. He is the same age as my oldest daughter. He was born without fear. He is clear-sighted, has a perfect ear for prose, and he is expert at riding the conflict fence. Not only does he tell me what he is really thinking, but he makes me feel good about it. He is also in one of my writing groups, we share social time together over coffee or scotch, I am in his book club, and I call him a  friend. Even more dangerous. Only a good editor could edit a friend’s fiction and remain friends. *I’d say the same about the writer, but I have my doubts about him.

What baffles me is how they do it. I mean, I have worked on this piece since early September, have let close to a dozen people read it and give me feedback — see a previous post — and I have scoured over it almost daily. I have taken a couple of short breaks. I have also read up on self-editing. Fred Stenson’s “Things Feigned Or Imagined” has a couple of great sections on self-editing, and I’ve read every article posted by Writer’s Digest or K.M. Weiland. Yet the stuff my editor sends back to me baffles me. Not the content; that’s exquisite. I mean how he was able to discern trouble.

I had the following two sentences.

He staggers to the kitchen, yanks open the fridge door, and grabs another beer. He punches the tab and the drinking hole stares back at him, the empty, steely eye of his beer can.

He thought these verbs were too strong for where they were in the story. He felt the rise in action broke the tension prematurely. I read it and the rest of the section. He was right. What baffles me is I knew he was right all along. I knew these verbs were wrong and subtracted from my later explosions. I had felt it many times, but I did not recognize my feelings. He found other places where I distracted the reader, spend too much energy on getting points across, used wasted, superfluous adjectives. He messaged an answer to one of my challenges that he had read the sentence five times. He said that he follows the rule if he has to read something more than once, there is a problem and it’s his job to root it out.

That’s what I fail at, stopping. I let my uneasiness be passed over. I don’t stop and smell the flowers, or stinkweed. Again, I know this. I think I have acknowledged this before on this blog. And I don’t know how to train myself to stop, or if it is even a good thing.

Seriously, is it good to be able to stop and smell the flowers? Is it good to be able to read your most subtle reaction, stop, analyze them, and investigate the source of their being? It is for an editor, but is it for the writer? Once I learn, can I ever lock the editor out of the room? Don’t I need him to take a vacation while I write?

I often stray when I write. I step sideways, and backward, and sideways the other side, and even forward. I explore character and plot when I write, all while trying to keep to an objective of story, character, and scene. If I let my editor question everything I write, I wonder if much of what I write would never find the surface of the page?

I worry too much. Yet I worry, and worry is good. I hope.

If you have techniques for making yourself aware of issues in your prose, please tell me. Suggestions like my editor’s — if you have to read it twice, there is a problem. That will now stick to me until I die, but there have to be more of these techniques. These little mental reminders. Filters I can turn on and off as needed.

Oh, and I am extremely happy with my story as it stands. I think it has chances. If not this contest then in a literary journal. I think the story is ready. I just hope the jury is up for being slammed upside the head.

Thank you my editor and editors everywhere.

Social Media Sucks

I’m not referring to its general uselessness but its aid to aspiring authors.

It comes down to two questions: what do we need as writers and where do we fill that need?

When it comes to writing, aspirants like myself need much help, and there are many ways to categorize this help. I’ll start top-down.

First, we need to understand what story is. We all know inherently what constitutes story. When we read, hear, or view one, we are moved. We react. Story is part of our genetic makeup. We have been telling story as long as we have been communicating with each other with words. Four million years? Six thousand years? Apply your own understanding of human history, but story has always been there. We all know story, yet hardly anybody can define story without help. Very few people can tell story effectively. Even fewer can write good story. Modern story is told with ancient techniques, but we have refined our understanding of story so that it is now considered a complex field of study worthy of advanced educational degrees o– MA, MFA, PhD., and this refinement is hidden within the philosophies and tomes of our history. Everything we now understand about story has its roots in Aristotle’s Poetics. Story is opsis, melos, lexis, dianoia, ethos, and methos, otherwise known as spectacle, melody, diction, thought, character, and plot. These elements are arranged in order of importance with the most important — plot — at the end. Story falls apart without plot, but story can fly with weak spectacle. Great stories address all of these elements.

I wish it was as easy as remembering six concepts. It’s not. Drama is more than high-level story. Drama is created at scene, paragraph, sentence, and word levels. Each level of refinement brings its own dramatic challenges. Fail to write effective scenes, and your story becomes mush. Your paragraphs do not sing and pulse with rhythm, well, aloha reader. You fail at comparing and contrasting, figures of speech and other literary elements, foreshadowing, backstory, consistency, and connecting dots, your story falls apart. If you fail at grammar — and too many writers do — then you’ve lost your reader before you’ve started. Can you name thirteen sentence structures? Can you describe when to use each type of structure? Do you understand voice, and not just the point of view considerations? Does your writing come from one voice or does it transcend? Have you incorporated the chorus? Why or why not?

Most writers have little idea about what I just rambled on about within their own stories. Most writers I see in social media circles seem to simply write a book and throw it out there. Most of social media writing groups consist of writers looking for validation of some mysterious ability they possess and is clearly evident in their prose if you would only buy their $0.99 book.

Writers in social media circles do not discuss these fundamental elements of writing fiction, not regularly. These writers want ideas for world-building. These They want help in picking names for characters, advice on overcoming writer’s block, or story ideas. These writers want you to share in the fun they experience at the keyboard. These writers search in the dark for lost keys, in a hurricane, on a beach, naked and afraid.

I have given up on them. In a half-year of trying to gain knowledge from writing groups, I’ve abandoned them. I clicked “leave group” and turned off notifications.

So where am I going for help? I am re-discovering forums. Absolute Write has some very knowledgeable peeps. Other forums are also popping up. Forums are good at a few things social media groups fail at: they persist  information and they categorize it.  If there was a discussion of correct comma usage five years ago, it is still there for me to read. In social media, it is gone from my view within days at most.

One thing social media has helped with is spread the fiction writing bug. I believe that writing story is catching on again. I believe that people are discovering that a life without story is shallow, that a life full of story is compelling.

My main source of nuts and bolts help is in books and blogs. Whenever I find a used writing book, I snap it up. When I address a weakness in my writing and find that one book that fills the gap, I buy it. I have bought one new book in the past two years. I now have over fifty craft books.

Writing blogs are everywhere. If you cannot find them, you are not looking.

I get involved with real people. Hold on, I need to count my fingers … I belong to four (five under broader criteria) writing groups, three book clubs, and am a board member on a literary festival. I get people to review my writing and I offer to review other writers’ works. My team knows they can slam me hard and they do. And I grow with every word of feedback. I grow every time I read to a group. I grow with every book discussion. I grow with every book I read, every scene, paragraph, sentence, and word I read. I grow when I write.

I have never grown from any interaction with a social media writing group. They are now history with me.

Doing it the write way!

Last Monday or Tuesday, maybe Wednesday — sheesh — I began another edit of my novel. I have a couple of manuscripts out to readers, but the story called to me. This might go against all sound advice, but I completed a development edit on August 31, and the story was more or less fresh in my head. I debated giving it a long timeout, say three months, but I knew there were sections that needed surgery. At the end of my story, looking back, I knew of several scenes that needed either modification or removal. Reparative surgery or amputation. I debated waiting for feedback to confirm my suspicions.

I decided to re-read my first chapter.

I should backtrack a bit. I’ve been reading Neil Gaiman’s ‘American Gods’, Francine Prose’s ‘How to Read Like A Writer’, and Ray Bradbury’s ‘Fahrenheit 451’. I had literary words in my head. I had Gaiman’s efficiency, Prose’s extreme literary examples, and Bradbury’s almost hyperbolic style hitting me all at once. I had focus on words, sentences, and paragraphs. I was focused on the writing, not the story. I felt I was in a zone.

I have also been working on a short story extracted from my novel. One of my readers told me a short scene I shared read like a short story. But it was only 500 words. Hmmm. I found another dangling scene and glued them together. It was an improvement, but it didn’t quite work. (see my previous post) The story also primed my thinking on my novel, and reaffirmed my need to get back at it.

I created a new file and began. I assumed a position of a content and line editor. I asked two questions: does it read well and does it belong? Maybe these do not belong in the same edit, but that is what I asked. The very first answer of the very first sentence was no, so I re-wrote my opening lines. I smiled. I felt good. I kept going.

Scene number three was my first challenge. I felt many times it needed trimming but could never find it, could never slash any of it. As I read it, it became very clear that much of it was crap. It was crap content and it was crap writing. I cut, cut, and cut. I then jumped ahead to a scene I knew needed a beat-down. I had just pounded one scene, so let’s roll. Let’s rumble why we’re in the mood. I chopped, chopped, chopped.

I am now 27k words in and have removed almost three thousand words. Yes!

But I added my short story in. It is a chapter in my novel. And this brings two dilemmas:
– do I remove bits of reference material needed for the story but not for the scene; because they were introduced in the novel?
– what will this do to my publishing chances? How does the copyright thingy work? Is it good or bad to publish a chapter as a short story?

I am discouraged I write so poorly, but aren’t we all? Anne Lamott in ‘Bird By Bird’ claims all our first drafts are shitty and not to worry about it. Good writing takes much effort, may rounds of editing, many attempts at trying new words and phrases, of experimenting, of working at it. Determination results in more creativity any noetic miasma might. So I plod forward and don’t look back.

Last night, after a weekend away, I edited a key scene. I asked myself “did I really write this?” It was good. Seriously, it was very good. It gave me chills. I woke this morning at 4:30 and jumped back in the pool. I re-edited the same scene and felt just as good. I edited the next scene, and … I removed it. It was part of my short story. I welded the remnants to the next scene, and read through it twice. I made some sentence changes. I moved me almost to tears. I smiled. “Fuck I’m good,” I thought, and slapped myself.

No I am not. Not yet. Never will be good. Quality writing occurs with a quality process. Focus on the process John. Do it the write way!

If you are beta-reading my last draft, sorry about this, but I will not likely use much of your feedback. Well, maybe I will, or maybe I will have already.

“The Slilent Treatment” – Writing Prompt, 2014-8-20

Our second prompt last night at the city library’s main branch was “Silent Treatment.” Readers in order were Philip, Abbey, a new girl whose name I cannot remember, Megan, Scott, Neil, Sally, Max (female and not short for Maxine), Hendrine, Elsa, and me, John. The six women slammed the four men with their sexist prose, poetry, and historical account *grin*, so I was happy to finish with this little [unedited] piece 😉 

“What are you doing Phil?”

“Huh? Oh, checking out the dog house.” He’s on all fours with his head in the thing.

“Good Lord, no, we are not getting a dog,” Megan says. “We don’t have room in the house for us.”

“I don’t want a dog,” Phil says. “I’m checking out its construction.”

“Get up off the floor already,” she says. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“What?” he says, his words muffled by his new enclosure. His head is shoved in as far as it can go. His stalwart shoulders won’t fit through the entrance.

“Jesus Phil, get your ass out of there!”

Phil pulls back and slowly stands. “I don’t understand,” he says. “I can hear you just fine from inside this one.”

Phil turns and walks towards the power tool section.

The best writers give themselves the most permissions.

Tags

In Football Season, John Updike, The Music School

Sandford Lynne has written a very popular book on poetry titled “Writing Poetry From The Inside Out.” Thank you Robert Brewer and the fine participants over at Poetic Asides for the recommendation. I am not recommending this book though, at least not yet. It is a beginner’s book and I am a beginning, ignorant poet, yet the book bothers me. Me. I am looking for nuts and bolts and so far the author has only given his attempted inspiration. I am on page 67 and until now it has all been writing BS — “You can do it!” Pfft. I know that; I just don’t know how.” But on with my point I feel so self-secure about.

In the last paragraph of Chapter #4 the author leaves us with his legacy. When I read it I stopped, and not because it is the end of the chapter. I re-read it and re-read it. I have read it several times now, and I have Googled it. Many have written about his lines on this page number 31. I’ll present his full text since I always seem to skip the most important parts when I truncate.

When I think about it, the happiest, most successful, most fulfilled people I know are the ones who, over time, gave themselves the most permissions — in all areas of their lives. Guided by the compass of an inner truth, they did not wait for others to tell them what was okay to do, or wait for others to tell them which steps to take. Through trial and error, they learned how to experiment with their lives. And maybe this is worth underscoring: The best writers give themselves the most permissions. The happiest, most fulfilled people give themselves the most permissions. The two go hand in hand.

I am writing about this prescription to let it go because it has been a theme with me this past year. I run a prompt writing group, and this is really our one and only theme. Let it go! I have written poetry, essays, fiction, and pages full of landfill. I have turned a few of them into novel scenes and maybe one short story. Time flies. Every Wednesday night when it isn’t blizzarding I let myself go as much as I can.

I think I wrote not too long ago about my Douglas Glover workshop. On the way out he encouraged me with some direct advice. “Let it go!” I don’t know if those were his words; he probably said something more elegant. But that was the message. Let it go. Give yourself permission to go for it, and damn it all, go for it!

But an aphorism is useless without action. Words are just words, unless you are writing them. Or reading them. Yesterday I began my first John Updike read. I’ve been picking up his little novels for over a year now, but I have never managed to hold one open in front of me long enough to let anything sink in. I am notorious for that — reading a paragraph and brushing it off. I a a profligate first paragraph reader and a delinquent last paragraph finisher. I grabbed his short story collection “The Music School.” It was first published in 1962 and is almost as old as I am. Some of the stories, maybe all, are likely older. So let’s start from my beginning, I thought. How bad can this be?

The first sentence and the paragraph of the first story — “In Football Season” — hooked me.

Do you remember a fragrance girls acquire in autumn?

Are you serious? Of course I do. I paused while my mind raced back to chasing my wife at university in the autumn of 1979 and remembering her fragrance. My mind continued back to junior high school in 1973 when my interest in girls had exploded open in that young teenage hormonal irruption. The fragrance of girls at the school dances and on the mile and a half walks to and from school each day.

As you walk beside them after school, they tighten their arms about their books and bend their heads forward to give a more flattering attention to your words and in the little intimate area thus formed, carved into the clear air by an implicit crescent, there is a complex fragrance woven of tobacco, powder, lipstick, rinsed hair, and that perhaps imaginary and certainly elusive scent that wool, whether in the lapels of a jacket or the nap of a sweater, seem to yield when the cloudless fall sky like the blue bell of a vacuum toward itself the glad exhalations of all things. This fragrance, so faint and flirtatious on those afternoon walks through the dry leaves, would be banked a thousandfold and lie heavy as the perfume of a flower shop on the dark slope of the stadium when, Friday nights, we played football in the city.

Updike knew his opening sentence would create many of these sensations on its own, but now he directs them towards us. He tells our histories to come alive and be remembered. And then once he has us, at least us knuckle dragging men, he then directs us to the football field. And now we’re all hooked on John Updike.

But was this giving permission in action? What does giving permission mean and how do you know if you’ve given yourself permission? These are questions I ask of my own writings. Am I giving enough?

First, how many grown men would write about the fragrance of young teenagers? How many would write past glancing references and delve into flirtations and implicit inviting crescents? In today’s pedophilia-phobic society? In 1960? Any way you cut it, John Updike explored emerging sexuality without inhibition — at least by 1960’s standards — and went so far as to publish his words. I think it is pretty clear he gave himself permission to explore and write about all facets of the human condition. And the more I read John Updike, the more I fall in love with his free pen. The more I read John Updike, the freer I feel with my own writing hand.

Write on!

My Signed Novels — [Can-Lit Warning!]

Tags

authors, autographs, can-lit, novels, readings, signatures, signed

I don’t know anybody else that collects signed novels, and mine is hardly a collection. Fourteen is a loosing football score – -*update* I added a new one since I began writing this blog. Now it is a Canadian football score. It is not a particularly impressive collection, even if you are a fan of Canadian literature. Nothing rare. Nothing I will ever make money off of. These are not Babe Ruth signed books, this is Canadian Literature. *yawn*

I am a fan of Canadian literature, and in my opinion, we should all be fans of it. The books I read all seem to offer an insight into humanity I do not find elsewhere. I am sure they exist. But not like in Canada. Our little pond is full of big fat fish.

I will start off with my Newfoundland collection. I like Newfy authors. They are possibly the most honest people on the planet. When you read a Newfy author, you often get a deep look into your own soul. Isolation psychology?

> Every Little Thing by Chad Pelley

This is not my favorite book, but Chad might be my favorite author. He is a literature pusher. His now defunct blog Salty Ink has been a Can-lit stalwart, and he recently launched a new magazine in St. John’s called The Overcast, Newfoundland’s Arts and Culture Magazine. He has visited us in Saint John at least twice. I have eaten a meal and drank beer and coffee with him. Chad is a literary rock from The Rock, and I am proud to own a book signed by him.

> The Deception Of Livvy Higgs by Donna Morrissey

I enjoyed this book, but it is not on my top ten lists. I attended a workshop Donna ran while she was here, and it and her reading were amazing. Energetic and animated do not begin to describe Donna Morrissey, yet she combines her liveliness with such thoughtful insight. She is an introvert in and extrovert’s clothes. The perfect combination for a writer? A book to remind me that writing is hard work and needs our passion and energy. It motivates me to look at the back of this book.

> Finton Moon by Gerard Gallant

Gerard has stopped by at least twice. His tours seem to zig zag around Atlantic Canada. Newfs apparently get lost on the mainland. He also ran a workshop here, and I thought it really helped me understand some of my writing. I realized I tend to write to me, and that may not be a good thing; or it might be. Gerrard went to the same University as I did, Acadia, and I suppose we share a bond in it. Stand Up And Cheer, Gerrard. I was at Acadia at the same time as Russell Wangersky. I don’t have any signed Wangerskies, and I don’t remember or know him, but we feel like family to me. Ha. Next…

> The Colony Of Unrequited Dreams by Wayne Johnston
> The Son Of A Certain Woman also by Wayne Johnston

I carried Unrequited around for six months. I read it in the car while I waited for my wife after work. Five minutes here, twenty minutes there. It has that slept on the floor of the car lustre. Sorry Wayne, but it’s beat to shit now. I have yet to crack the other book, but I plan on it soon. My reading pile … piles are too high.

Wayne is the funniest reader I have ever listened to. Seriously, he could be a stand-up comic. He is dry and knows a good story. Wayne is an easy read (a compliment), so I should get at it. I also have a few other of his books I picked up but never got signed.

Now I move to the mainland’s authors.

> The Free World by David Bezmozgis

This story wasn’t the most exciting, but it was interesting. It is a peek into the life of 1970’s Russian Jews emigrating to Canada (and to the USA and Israel). This is historical fiction that should be read by all simply for its insights into this little written about aspect of our history. I think it has potential to be an important addition to historical literature. David was a fine reader and it was a big crowd, a very enjoyable evening. I am proud to own this book.

> Dogs At The Perimeter by Madeleine Thein

Madeleine has amazing control of the English language. I will admit I expected the stereotypical struggling Asian English. No. She puts everybody I’ve ever known or heard to shame. I sat and listened dumbfounded. Her character’s voice also jolted me. It was first person present tense — similar to the voice I was playing with for the novel I am now writing — and I noticed it jumped around from present to past to inside the character’s head. I immediately felt an affinity with the voice and I bought the book and chatted with her about the voices. She signed it “To John, in celebration of the beautiful present tense.” I cherish this book.

Dogs is an important book. There are very, very few novels about the Cambodian killing fields. This is not about them but about escaping them, coming to Canada, and returning to find the lost … names. People lost their names in those times. To keep one’s name was to associate with the enemies of the Khmer Rouge, to mark yourself as an enemy. The few who managed to flee came with an emptiness that Thein wields expertly and gnaws at you throughout the book. It is not a book about the torture but about rediscovery of self. It is powerful and moving. A very well written and important book.

> The Golden Mean by Annabel Lyon

I enjoyed Annabel’s reading and was intrigued by her background stories. She has studied Aristotle and this story is largely about her theory he suffered from bipolar disease.

I did not enjoy the book so much. I found it thematic with thin characterization and thinner plot. It was a worthy read. I now view thematic novels as something to avoid, yet I also try to write to strong themes. I think this book has helped convince me a strong plot is needed in a novel. I carry an opposition to MFA style stories, I think, and this book has played its part in me building this wall.

> Attack Of The Copula Spiders by Douglas Glover
> Savage Love also by Douglas Glover

Doug just finished a stint as the writer in residence at UNB in Fredericton, an hour and a half drive from me. I have emailed him too often, met him three times, and attended a workshop of his. He is MFA through and through, but even so, I was quite effected by his essays in Attack Of The Copula Spiders. This is perhaps the most important book I own. And I am not going to say anything more. Sorry. It’s one of those leading a horse to water scenarios. I am not going to try and make you drink, and don’t even ask to borrow my copy. I now look forward to reading Alice Munro and Ernest Hemingway short stories because of Doug. I now read much slower and more carefully because of Doug. I now read with a pencil because of Doug, I now write paragraphs like this one because of Doug. Nuff said?

I haven’t read his Savage Love yet. As I just stated, I am a slow reader, but it is in the queue behind about a hundred other books.

> The Town That Drowned by Riel Nason

Don’t tell Riel she is an inspiration for me. Of course any local author who gets published is, but she is more than that. She can also write. This is a very well written first novel. There is much in it working against my liking it — a young woman’s coming of age story, a literary bent, more of a young adult story, and I may be the only reader to ever not like the character Percy, but the story works. It really works.

I have heard her speak three or four times. We say hello to each other in the mall and we both smile. She congratulated me when I won second place in a local short story contest. You know? It’s great to have successful authors around you waiting to pat you on the back. It’s important. If I ever succeed at getting published, Riel will get a thank you from me.

> The Headmaster’s Wager by Vincent Lam

Vincent was an awesome reader. He is full of energy, wit, and well written words, and he was very engaging. Again I have not yet read his book, but it is creeping towards the top of the pile. It is another Asian story, Vietnam during the war. I think it is another important historical story.

> Road To The Stilt House by David Adams Richards

This is DAR country, yet I have only ever been in the same room as him three times. I have only every read one of his books. I am torn about whether I like his writing or not. On one hand he does so much wrong. “For Those Who Hunt The Wounded Down” read like a mentally challenged twelve year old wrote it, yet it was also captivating. His characterization is paramount.

I think hearing him read helped explain his voice. He reads emphatically. He almost shouts like he is tone deaf. He forces the words on you, and once he starts, he does not want to stop. Once he starts, you don’t want him to stop. When he reads his stories they sound true and clear, like a book you have to buy and read, yet when I read the same passages, I shake my head and wonder what I was thinking. Enigmatic to the core.

Anyway, he didn’t sign this for me. I found it in the stack of DAR novels for sale at Loyalist City Coins. I picked it up, saw his signature, and thought it was worth the $4 they were asking for it. *grin*

> Accusation by Catherine Bush

Another book I have not yet read. During her reading it became very apparent her story had lots of parallels to a story I was planning to write for NaNoWriMo 2013. That’s why I bought it. I got it signed just because I bought it and she was there. I cannot say anything good or bad about this book except it is small and easy to carry around. It is near the bottom of my to-read mountain.

> Carnival by Rawi Hage

Rawi blew me and everybody in the room away with his reading. When he finished there was absolute silence. He asked for questions, nobody moved, and he almost walked away. I told him afterwards it was because we were all stunned by his reading and he seemed confused, like I was joking. I joke not. He writes like a male Alice Munro. The images he created in my head were layered, grew with the tension of the chapter, and at the end exploded in street themes. I was not planning on buying this book or staying for a signature, but I couldn’t help it.

This reading was also not long after he battled on CBC’s Canada Reads with The Orenda. So he was up there in everybody’s mind. Just writing about this reading has moved it up near the top of my reading list. I think it might get read next. Alice, you’ll have to wait again. *grin*

Perhaps my most treasured signed book.

ADDENDA A

> The Name Of The Wind by Patrick Rothfuss

Pat Rothfuss visited us in early October 2013. He spent a day at our local university, UNBSJ, for an event called “One Campus One Book.” The school paid Pat a ridiculous amount of money to spend a full day at the school interacting with students who all received — and were expected to read — his book. Later that evening he spoke to The Lorenzo Society, the university’s author touring platform. And after that, Pat spent another hour or more on a patio bar discussing the publishing industry. He drank coffee and I drank beer. Yes, autumns in Canada are beautiful, mostly. Sometimes.

I was born in Wisconsin and it felt good talking with a homey, but honestly, his book didn’t do much for me and neither did he. I know he has a large fan base, and while I cannot speak negatively of him or his writing in any way, I am just not a fan. I cannot choose what or who I like.

> Child Of Change by Garry Kasparov

In 1988 I helped organize The World Chess Festival held in Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada. We hosted some 300 of the world’s top players and included a Candidates’ elimination round for the FIDE World Championships. I played several named players including Mikhail Tal who won the first World Blitz Championship. Kasparov came but didn’t play in any tournaments but the Blitz Championship. He put on a simultaneous exhibition and also sold and signed his new book.

ADDENDA B

> Light Lifting by Alexander MacLeod

I totally forgot about this book. I remember attending his reading, but I do not remember buying his book or getting him to sign it. I am glad I did. This year I read his father’s only novel “No Great Mischief” which is a must read for any Atlantic Canadian. I am going to try and find time to read it this year. Next year for sure. I have so many quality short story collections I want to read, and I read them so slowly 😦

Short Story Action

Doesn’t it always happen this way? I’m editing full speed ahead. My current novel is at page 150 of 256. The quality and completeness steadily grows. Then wham, I’m hit in the head with other ideas.

I recently experienced three short, interesting snippets of life. One happened Sunday at church, the next happened somewhere un-remembered, but I wrote it down, and the third happened while writing to a prompt during Wednesday’s writing group. I do not want to explain them, but they all involved a person who didn’t fit, an awkward, imaginative oddball kid. I felt the relationships, and I recognized three as the magic number of events, so I quickly whipped up a short story using all three.

It sucked.

Actually it flowed really well and I liked the voice, but the main theme escaped me. I ended up with the person being an adult in an adult situation, but his situation did not tie into the events.

Yeah, so I sat on it for a couple of weeks.

Last Sunday I was at church again — it’s a great place to get ideas. I think it is a mood thing. It is a very introspective service, loud rock music and meaningful sermons. Ha. I’d met a member and her daughter a day or two earlier in a café. Cute little thing. So was the kid. Anyway, I saw the kid again Sunday and watched her while the band played. The story grabbed me by the throat, choked me, and threw me down on the cheap tiles. Good God, I thought, can I write that?

I did the next morning. 4500 words. I brought it to my writers group Wednesday and had two confidants edit it for me. I re-edited it Thursday, and took it in town Friday to edit it again. Let’s just say it is about a little girl who prophecizes — is that a word? I am not a religious person, and I listen to the gospels with a writer’s demeanor. Curious stuff. I sat at Starbucks with my wife, and I told her I  had this story I didn’t want her to read, at least not yet. I said I needed someone who is intimate with fundamental, right wing Christianity, someone who understands prophecy, but someone who can read it objectively and not take offense. Oh, there is excess reason to take offense, if it offends you that is. I’ll say no more. She suggested someone we had just met, an ex-minister who had apparently sinned so greviously that he is now selling cars. Must have been a doozy, eh? I thought he sounded okay, but then suddenly my revelation appeared. Across the hall of the mall I saw Dan. Not my coffee shop Dan, but a real Dan. He is Jewish, educated, introspective, philosophical, and a friend. He fills in leading the local Rabbi-less synagogue and is considering publishing a book of his essays he has used. His idea is to make it available to the multitude of Rabbi-less synagogues around the world for free. He sat down with us, my wife left, and I asked him about prophecy. Wow, he talked for twenty minutes straight and he left with a copy of my piece. He had to read the first paragraph first, though. I am happy to say he really wanted to finish it.

So this weekend I’ve edited them both, and I edited the first story again this morning. I sat out on the deck and read it to the cats. The few errors I had left jumped out, and now my dear wife has a copy. There are a number of contests with April 30 deadlines, and I am seriously considering submitting this story. This begs the question, though — what is the lifecycle of story marketing? I’m thinking contest or contests followed by major literary journals followed by minor literary journals followed by maybe a zine? Is it alright to submit to multiple contests? What do I do when Joe Blow contest gives me an honorable mention? Do I then tell Tom Howard I no longer wish to qualify? Oh to have such a problem!

Wish me luck.

Tom Howard/John H. Reid Short Story Contest

Lorian Hemingway Short Story Competition