The Struggle

The Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind beats at my door; I ignore it.

It tries to get in through the window, but can’t undo the lock.

It tries the chimney before cursing the inventor of the natural gas fireplace.

And so the Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind hovers outside, howling for attention.

“Halooo, in there,” it says, doing its best to imitate Winnie-the-Pooh.

“Go away,” I say.

“But why?”

“Because I have no use for you today.”

“Why is today different than yesterday?”

“Because I’m knackered,” I say, pretending to be British for a few moments. It’s fun.

“You could try, you know.”

“That wouldn’t exactly be fair, now, would it?”

“And why is that, per se?”

“Who says ‘per se?’ ”

“I say ‘per se,’ you nit.”

“Are you pretending to be British?”

“Only a little.”

“And?”

“It’s fun.”

“You should try being Canadian.”

“Oh?”

“Kind of halfway between being American and British. We pepper our colours with ‘u’s, but tend to organize with a ‘z.’ ”

“Not to mention the accent.”

“Canadians don’t have an accent.”

“That’s not what the British say.”

“Well,” I scoffed. “Still.”

“So,” said the Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind.

“So,” I said.

“As I was saying, why is it not fair?”

“Oh, because it's not natural. Things like this, they have to flow.”

“Naturally?”

“Naturally.”

“Well, naturally, that.”

“Yes.”

The Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind thought for a while. It can be contemplative when it wants to be.

“What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow might work. If.”

“If what?”

“Oh, if I have the inclination.”

“I hope you would be inclined.”

“I as well. This isn’t of my doing, you know.”

“Whose doing is it, then?”

“I’m not sure. It may be ennui set in or perhaps the onset of a cold.”

“Which, when stripped down to the bare essentials, are excuses. And in turn, equals no one’s choice but your own.”

“Me?”

“Of course. Who else?”

“I suppose that’s true. But still, it’s nice to give in to temptation now and again.”

“Okay, but what about productivity?”

“What about it?”

“Didn’t you say once that a little went a long way?”

“I seem to remember something.”

“Well, you did say that.”

“I suppose I should take my own advice.”

“You would be hypocritical otherwise.”

“I’m not sure if that’s entirely appropriate.”

“What’s that?”

“To call me hypocritical.”

“I’m sorry. Did I overstep my bounds?”

“Perhaps a tad, but we can overlook it.”

“Much appreciated.”

“Not a problem.”

The Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind whistled an awkward and off-key tune, clearly waiting.

I sighed. “I will let you in, but only for a few moments. My down time is my own and I can’t let this become a habit.”

“This wouldn’t happen if you stuck to a schedule,” the Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind murmured.

“What was that?”

“Oh? Just the wind.”

I opened the window a crack and it blustered in, settling and stretching at my feet.

The Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind then began its work, breathing out tendrils of inspiration that coiled and seeped and burrowed.

“Ah, nothing like some fresh ideas to spruce up an evening,” I said.

“Quite.”

“Well, enough dilly-dallying. Time to set things in motion.”

“And what of tomorrow?” sighed the Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind.

“Why, tomorrow is like any other day, my friend. We will play our roles in this; I the detractor, you the advocate.”

“And in the end?”

“In the end...well, we’ll have to see how the end plays itself out.”

“Well said.”

“Thank you. I believe I will write that one down.”

Does anyone have the...

Time had escaped. I had done everything possible to keep it on a short leash, but the second my back was turned it had bolted out a door I had left carelessly ajar. At first, I was not perturbed. Time had always come back, the proverbial dog at the door, begging to be let back in. Days turned into a week; weeks turned into months and still I didn’t worry. Eventually (and it was hard to tell how long had actually passed), it dawned on me: Time had still not returned. And so, I sprung into action. At first, I tried to look for it, digging under mounds of snow, peering under bridges and in trees and, in one instance, finding a nest of squirrels that were not too fond of someone disturbing their home.

I escalated the search by posting flyers, "Missing Time, if found, please call" etc. etc. For some reason, this only confounded the neighbours and I was forced to remove them. It even occurred to me to set a trap for Time. Being no Wyle E. Coyote, I did not have access to the latest in Acme equipment; however, I did manage to acquire a box, string, stick and a Snickers bar (it is a known fact that Time feeds only on itself, a cycle that makes it the easiest of charges. A littler known fact is that it also enjoys Snickers). I waited for hours, hiding myself behind snow forts, left behind by a mysterious benefactor or possibly the neighbourhood children, and yet I still did not snag wayward Time.

I was getting frustrated. Having no success in locating missing Time, I attempted to create (or in this case recreate) Time, but the science was lost to me, like trying to ice skate in running shoes—you might stay upright, but it is impossible to get any traction. So here I sit, abandoned by Time, yet hopeful that if I just not stare at the door, Time will come bounding in, with energy to spare and I can finally get back to spending some moments writing with Time warming my feet.

I think I hear a scratching from outside...

When I was only a little caboose

Just a short entry after a long weekend in Toronto. Although I didn’t have the chance to do any writing, I did learn, or to be more precise was reminded, that my love of reading and of passing on that joy began at an early age.

Apparently, when I was five and my brother was three, I was instrumental in teaching him to read earlier than any of his fellow three-year-old brethren. I’m not sure what spurred me to teach him. Perhaps it was the simple fact that I wanted my brother to experience the great impact that words can have on our lives. Perhaps I felt it was a reflection on me if he could read that early. Maybe I just wanted to give him a leg up in life.

Of course, it may have also been that we simply came to a business arrangement. After all, I did get first dibs on playing with his birthday gifts for the next few years.

Whatever the reason was (and don’t worry, he would always get his toys back), I’m glad that I was able to teach my brother that books are the best portal to wherever he wants to go. Hopefully, I’ve passed that on to all my brothers, and it’ll be something I pass on to my own children as well.

I'm writing a novel? Really?

Just a quick blog to celebrate the fact that I have written 100 pages in my book; it’s a milestone I sometimes doubted I would reach, and it’s surreal to think that for more than a year I’ve lived with this world inside my head.

Over the course of these 100 pages, I admit that there were times when I wanted to give up. Weeks occasionally went by without me writing a word. Could I have finished everything by now? Possibly, but I doubt it would have been the same book that it will be in the end. I stuck it out, though, stalls and all. Now, at 100 pages, even though the book is not even halfway to its climax, it has started to look like a novel to me.

I would always tell people I was working on a novel, but even I had my doubts about what I was doing. Could this really be a novel? Was the story horrible? Were the characters one dimensional? Could I keep and hold my interest for the length of time it took to write a novel? (I’m constantly distracted by shiny things. Even now, I wonder what my wife is doing in the other room and if perhaps I shouldn’t get up to see what she’s up to.) But now the book, funny enough, looks like a book. The plot is coming together; the characters, with each word, are becoming fully-formed. And I’m more excited than ever to see where this takes me.

A few weeks ago, I read an essay by an author who said it took him four years to write his first novel. Four years of starting and stopping, of writing and rewriting. And suddenly, I felt better about my own work. I was going to use a sports analogy here; you know, the one about the race and how it’s not how fast you run, but that you finish at all, but that seems a bit corny, now that I think about it. Plus, I don’t run, so I know I would finish last and would quite possibly be disqualified for trying to take an old lady’s scooter; I say try because the old lady would hit me with her purse and there was some hard candy in there; that hurt. Not that that has ever happened to me before. Ahem. *** Where was I?

Oh yes, I think that for all the hair pulling, teeth grinding, synonym finding and metaphor headaches, this novel has become an incredible learning experience, letting me mature as a writer. And even if I still tend to ramble, well, heck, that’s what the editing process is for. So here is to 100 pages of adventure, with 100, and more, to come.

***This site does not condone grand theft scooter, struggling with old ladies or candy tougher than I am.***

Inherent...like, what was I saying?

Deep in the Amazon live ancient tribes, who for centuries have avoided contact with the Western world, avoiding the trappings of things such as television, grocery stores and even money. They live off the land and practice customs that would be alien to anyone plucked from the city. But if I were to have parachuted into one of these tribes tomorrow, I would probably better understand them than I would of the people of Los Angeles in the 1960s, as portrayed in Inherent Vice, by acclaimed and reclusive author Thomas Pynchon.

I have heard of Pynchon referred to as a giant of American literature, yet I’ve never read any of his books. I thought it was a time to rectify this, although I certainly picked an odd book. It’s the story of a private eye detective set in the hippie age. The detective in question, Doc Sportello, is lead investigator, read, only investigator, at LSD Investigations (which he insists stands for Location, Surveillance, Detection). Doc, and indeed the majority of the cast inside, spends an overabundant amount of time smoking copious amounts and all manner of “illegal substances” (yes, I know, I’m a “square”), to the detriment of the plot trying to find its way out. Personally, I have no experience with the stuff, don't like it, don't want it, so you can imagine my utter confusion with the actions these characters take.

Of course, if drugs weren’t involved, the book might have only been 50 pages long. The mystery (which involves, in no particular order, crooked cops, good cops, a biker gang, real estate mogul, an ex-girlfriend, FBI, mistresses, a mysterious ship, sanatoriums, Aryan/Nazi sympathizers, drug cartels, a band and several bad drug trips) was certainly made more complicated and more confusing by the lifestyle these characters lead. At certain points, like one long drug trip, Doc takes the reader on detours from the mystery; detours with no discernable tie to the main plot, other than that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Of course, perhaps that is the point: to take a look at a culture who wanted nothing more than the freedom to do what they wanted (even if I don't agree with it). And in the end, through the haze, Doc has gained a measure of the freedom that he craved for himself and others. Whether he came out on the side of the angels or the devils, though, is a debate that he wants left to others.

I wanted to read something different, out of my comfort zone, and this was definitely it. It was an odd book, occasionally rambling, sometimes confusing. It is stereotypical in places, uncomfortable in others. I have to imagine, though, that this was the effect Pynchon wanted to achieve for the reader; a disorienting feeling that leaves you going, “Whoa, man, what just happened?”

Also, may I add that if everyone in the 60s talked like they do in the book, with a lot of question marks? Like they want some sort of confirmation to everything they say? Know what I’m talking about? If everyone talked like that, I’m surprised that anyone was able to have a conversation without wanting to whack the other guy upside the head. Debate team must have been a full contact sport.

Inherent Vice is a trippy book, one that disappoints as a mystery, but succeeds as a character study and succeeds, as funny as it sounds, at finding some heart; once you clear away the smoke, that is.

Oh, I guess I do have one thing in common with Doc. If he asked me if I’ve ever done any lines, I can nod my head and say, “Yes, actually, I’ve written many of them.”

Punctuation is your friend

Okay, this is a little late, but in honour of National Punctuation Day, here's a clever little article extolling the virtues of good punctuation and decrying the downturn of proper grammar in an age where communication is all about brevity and speed. No what I m tlking bout?

http://www.ottawacitizen.com/Watching+your+language/2041864/story.html

Have you hugged a comma today?

How's the New Year? Shofar, sho good!

I could make excuses.

No, really, I could. I’m very good at coming up with excuses: my brother ate my homework; I’m pretty sure that cake was half-eaten when I bought it; and the ever popular evil twin excuse. But I don’t think I’m going to do that today. I’ve been away for awhile, which was not unavoidable, but it did make things easier. But now, finally, I hope, I’m back where I belong: spewing half-baked ideas across the Internet.

The Jewish New Year has come and gone, and tomorrow is Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year, when I will atone for my sins, both the regular kind (coveting thy neighbour’s lawn mower) and the writing kind (bad grammar and run-on sentences). In the year 5770 (according to the Jewish calendar), I am hoping to accomplish many of my life’s ambitions. In an effort to perhaps motivate myself, I’ve decided to compile a top ten list in honour of the new year. So I now proudly present:

The Caboose New Year Writing Resolutions

1) Write every day- I’ve been lax at this, so this has to be number one. I don’t even have to write a lot; even just a couple hundred words a day would be fine. My hope is that if I make this a habit, I’ll be less likely to fall into a funk where I’m using life as an excuse not to write.

2) Improving my dialogue- I love reading conversations. Two quick-witted characters sniping at each other; characters exposing secrets to each other and the reader; I’m a sucker for good dialogue. Unfortunately, my dialogue (at least to my ears) sounds occasionally stilted and unreal. I want my characters to talk like real
people, so I have to make more of an effort to capture that real world inflection that might be missing from my own writing.

3) Be true- One of the aspects of the adoption process is to create a profile that introduces us, explains who we are and why we want to be parents. We worked on that text for weeks (and are still tweaking it), but it turned out to be one of the most “true” things I have ever written—honest, funny, touching, informative and without an ounce of fat. I want to put that in my writing so that readers know what they hold came not only from my imagination, but also from my heart.

4) Become a better self editor- I’m very lucky at work and in life to be surrounded by very talented editors who keep my writing succinct. I tend to ramble a bit when I get going. While it is wonderful to have that support, I have to learn to edit myself, to make sure that my writing is the very best that it can be.

5) Expand my horizons- One of things I have to try is to get out of my comfort zone. Read things that I wouldn’t normally read, write things I would never have dreamt of writing before and experience the world in a new light (and, oh yeah, go outside once in a while to actually SEE natural light).

6) Remember grammar without looking it up- Really annoying grammatical rules, such as hyphenation, that you just have to remember is always a pain. Some I can remember, others I have to look up each and every time. (In particular, you have no idea how #@$*&ing annoying it is when capitalization comes up.)

7) Keep a notebook close by- I often have dreams that have lead to really good ideas for books, characters, plot points, etc. Some of these ideas fall to the wayside; I forgot them by the time I actually got near a piece of paper to put it all down. So I will learn my lesson and keep my notebook close by.

8) Keep track of the books I’ve read- I’ve forgotten many of the books I’ve read in the last few years. Great for re-reading, but I’ve gotten curious as to how much I actually do read in a given year. By keeping track, I can see not only what I read, but what impact it’s had on my writing, because a really good book should add to my repertoire as a writer and a really bad book should teach me lessons of what no to do.

9) Expand my blog writing- It’s a heinous crime that I deny the Internet my brilliant wit and insightful views. A crime, I say! Alright, so I’m not that vain, but I am hoping that I can bring in new ideas, inspiring quotes and interesting links. And one can’t expand a blog if one doesn’t write in it, I am told. Also, I’m thinking I want to redesign the site; make it snazzy and hip. Jazz hands!

10) Finish my book- I started with a story that I really wanted to tell and have created an entire world to which only I have the key. I want to finish telling the story of heroes and villains, of good and evil, of love and betrayal that I started many months ago. This is a story that is worth telling and I am excited to lead it to its
conclusion and at the same time, see where it leads me.

Lucky you, a bonus resolution!

11) Never doubt my desire or ability to be a writer- Over the last few months I might have began to doubt my desire. A week without writing, a month without blogging, do I still want to do this? Why should I spend time writing when good books have already been written and are waiting for me to read? I started to doubt, but my imagination never stopped creating. I crafted a short outline for two other books, with characters that seem as real to me as any of the others that I have envisioned. And I never stopped thinking about the book that’s sitting perhaps a quarter of the way done. I knew that I had not finished telling the stories that I wanted to tell, the stories that I want to pass down to my own children. I am a writer and nothing will deter me, not even me!

I hereby and forthwith vow to follow these resolutions to the best of my ability. I know that I will occasionally slip and forget this list, but I will always be brought back, because to err is human, but to write is divine.