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.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
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.
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.***
Saturday, October 3, 2009
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.”
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.”
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
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?
http://www.ottawacitizen.com/Watching+your+language/2041864/story.html
Have you hugged a comma today?
Sunday, September 27, 2009
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.
Friday, July 24, 2009
What have I been reading, you ask?
One thing about these rainy summer months is that it gives me plenty of time to read. (Although, truly, if it were nice outside, would I really be Out There instead of in here reading? I am known for my aversion towards the sun. Sort of like a vampire, only without the penchant for blood, black capes and dramatic overtures to women with immaculate necks.) Over a seven day period, I have devoured four books, ranging in quality from meh to wow! Let's take a look at them, shall we?
When you are Engulfed in Flames, by David Sedaris—There's a wrestler by the name of Terry Funk who was taking blows to the head and being slammed into barbed wire well into his 50s and maybe even 60s. By then the announcers would refer to him as "middle-aged and crazy". For some reason, I thought of that phrase as I read this book. David Sedaris is a humorist, who writes about his life, both the odd and the mundane, in a conversational tone. I was actually surprised how much I enjoyed this book. He talks about a number of things I can't really relate to, including drugs, alcohol, smoking, living abroad, and, most shocking of all, keeping a spider as a pet. *Shudder*. In the end, though, he uses wit, wordplay and occasionally self-deprecation to put readers at ease, and let them into his thoughts, as strange as those might be.
A Model World and Other Stories, by Michael Chabon-This is a short story collection from years back; only his second published work. Although I liked a few tales, and appreciated the ambition of following one character's life through several short stories, this collection was a bit disappointing overall, considering how much I loved his other works. You can clearly see where he has yet to advance as a writer, and where he forsakes plot and character to get lost in flowery language. This short collection doesn’t reflect the brilliance of his later novels or essays.
Relentless, by Dean Koontz-This one is the hardest to classify. I read it over the course of two evenings, so there was clearly something to enjoy, yet the plot suffers because of easy outs taken by the author. Too many coincidences and sci-fi elements muck up the second half of the book, I mean, really, what are the odds that the characters happen to have a genius five-year-old son who just happens to invent two impossibly complicated devices that figure so prominently in the climax; or that the wife just happens to have a family who not only is gun crazy, but have seemingly unlimited resources and a hidden, underground bunker. Like I said, too many coincidences. It also suffers from what I refer to as the Koontz Ending. Frequently in his books, Koontz builds up the "big bad" only to have them be defeated rather quickly and easily in the end after the protagonists go through much suffering. So, even with all its faults, why did I find it hard to put down? Although Koontz may have taken the lazy approach to plot, he puts a lot of effort into character and dialogue. The main protagonist, writer Cullen "Cubby" Greenwich, is not only likeable, but he reminds me a bit of me (without the tragic secret/backstory). He's wisecracking, loving and appreciates the written word. The hilarious exchange with his agent, who is pushing him to write a sequel to The Great Gatsby, Jaws and other literary works, makes any plot holes totally worthwhile. This is a person I want to know and this is someone who I will follow to the end of the book, even if the circumstances get a little hokey towards the end.
I am the Messenger, by Markus Zusak-A fantastic book, without a doubt. The characters are alive and rich; the story is original, heartfelt and meaningful. It's classified as a teen book, though there's enough swearing in it that I wonder about that designation. It truly is an adult book about growing up, realizing your potential and coming away from your own life to help others who may not be as fortunate. It's one of those books that make you sad when it ends. These are characters I want to know and that keep me coming back page after page. Between this book and The Book Thief, this author is making a very clear and wonderful impression on me.
Despite my busy schedule, and even though my wife and I have a ton of adoption related stuff to deal with still, I always find time for books, both good and bad. Oh, and about a palette of comic books. Yeah, I just made up that measurement.
When you are Engulfed in Flames, by David Sedaris—There's a wrestler by the name of Terry Funk who was taking blows to the head and being slammed into barbed wire well into his 50s and maybe even 60s. By then the announcers would refer to him as "middle-aged and crazy". For some reason, I thought of that phrase as I read this book. David Sedaris is a humorist, who writes about his life, both the odd and the mundane, in a conversational tone. I was actually surprised how much I enjoyed this book. He talks about a number of things I can't really relate to, including drugs, alcohol, smoking, living abroad, and, most shocking of all, keeping a spider as a pet. *Shudder*. In the end, though, he uses wit, wordplay and occasionally self-deprecation to put readers at ease, and let them into his thoughts, as strange as those might be.
A Model World and Other Stories, by Michael Chabon-This is a short story collection from years back; only his second published work. Although I liked a few tales, and appreciated the ambition of following one character's life through several short stories, this collection was a bit disappointing overall, considering how much I loved his other works. You can clearly see where he has yet to advance as a writer, and where he forsakes plot and character to get lost in flowery language. This short collection doesn’t reflect the brilliance of his later novels or essays.
Relentless, by Dean Koontz-This one is the hardest to classify. I read it over the course of two evenings, so there was clearly something to enjoy, yet the plot suffers because of easy outs taken by the author. Too many coincidences and sci-fi elements muck up the second half of the book, I mean, really, what are the odds that the characters happen to have a genius five-year-old son who just happens to invent two impossibly complicated devices that figure so prominently in the climax; or that the wife just happens to have a family who not only is gun crazy, but have seemingly unlimited resources and a hidden, underground bunker. Like I said, too many coincidences. It also suffers from what I refer to as the Koontz Ending. Frequently in his books, Koontz builds up the "big bad" only to have them be defeated rather quickly and easily in the end after the protagonists go through much suffering. So, even with all its faults, why did I find it hard to put down? Although Koontz may have taken the lazy approach to plot, he puts a lot of effort into character and dialogue. The main protagonist, writer Cullen "Cubby" Greenwich, is not only likeable, but he reminds me a bit of me (without the tragic secret/backstory). He's wisecracking, loving and appreciates the written word. The hilarious exchange with his agent, who is pushing him to write a sequel to The Great Gatsby, Jaws and other literary works, makes any plot holes totally worthwhile. This is a person I want to know and this is someone who I will follow to the end of the book, even if the circumstances get a little hokey towards the end.
I am the Messenger, by Markus Zusak-A fantastic book, without a doubt. The characters are alive and rich; the story is original, heartfelt and meaningful. It's classified as a teen book, though there's enough swearing in it that I wonder about that designation. It truly is an adult book about growing up, realizing your potential and coming away from your own life to help others who may not be as fortunate. It's one of those books that make you sad when it ends. These are characters I want to know and that keep me coming back page after page. Between this book and The Book Thief, this author is making a very clear and wonderful impression on me.
Despite my busy schedule, and even though my wife and I have a ton of adoption related stuff to deal with still, I always find time for books, both good and bad. Oh, and about a palette of comic books. Yeah, I just made up that measurement.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Literary currency
A picture, we are told, is worth 1 000 words.
That's a horrible exchange rate, if you ask me. Has anyone thought to check the ticker in the last few centuries to see if it's gotten any closer to par? It is way past time for writers to come up with their own system of "art currency"; one that fairly reflects the real worth of words. (For a brief and perhaps inaccurate [considering the source] history lesson on this expression, visit Wikipedia)
First, let us talk about value of writers, because words are only as good as the writer who wields them. There is a presumption Out There that because most people use writing to a certain extent in their every day lives (memos, e-mails, crank letters to the editor), that anyone can write, that it’s an easier dream to attain. An artist, though, is seen as having a great talent that cannot be duplicated. This isn't to say that we don't appreciate our authors, but if you ask around, I'm willing to bet that a lot more people have a dream of being a writer than an artist. This, by virtue of the fact that they say to themselves, "I know English, I'm well read, I have that story my Great Aunt Flo used to tell me about that fishing trip to Poughkeepsie. I bet I could write that down and become a Writer!" So pretty much any schmo with a laptop can sit down one day and claim to be a writer, while those same schmos know that they would not be able to sit down at an easel and be an artist.
Ah, but what goes into being a writer? Most would say that you are a writer when you are published, which is partly true, because for most people, unless you are independently wealthy or are a "starving artist", you are a writer slash something. (some are lucky enough, like me, to be a writer slash writer, but I digress). Being a writer/something comes with the knowledge that although writing is a serious goal, it could be seen by some right now as a hobby that you do in your spare time. I am of the opinion, however, that an unpublished writer is no less of one than a painter who has never held a gallery showing is considered less of an artist. Either way, stories and art are being produced. Whether people read or see them are inconsequential. But that doesn't mean that just anyone can be a writer...
So if you don't have to be published, what do you need to be a writer? In my mind, writing takes a few things: a sound knowledge of grammar; a knack for storytelling and having a story worth telling; an ability to paint a picture with words; the commitment to telling the truth; a history of reading a broad range of material; the dedication to finishing something you started, no matter how long it takes. Some of these can be learned and others will evolve over time, but they are all things that people need to have a rudimentary sense of in order to be a writer. In this way, a writer needs just as much talent and training and has to work just as hard as an artist for his or her craft.
Now that we know the merit of a good writer, how much are words worth?
Consider this sentence:
Tragic, no? Tugs at the heartstrings, don't it? Did you shed a tear or two? You know you did. You can see the pain of a mother as she clutches at her child; the shock, the feeling of helplessness, of fear. You wonder what happened to bring this about and you wonder what comes next. This, my friends, is why words are worth any number of pictures. With these 15 words, you are transported to your own imagination, you are caught up in a story and you are invested emotionally in an intense situation. A photo may be able to capture this image, but with words, you can truly feel like you are there. (And just so you don't worry, the blood turned out to be ketchup; he was playing a prank on his mother. Watched too many episodes of Punk'd. He got grounded for two weeks, missed playing in the playoffs at little league. Didn't get a trophy. Very sad. Kids today)
So the next time you are at a gallery and you hear someone say that a picture is worth 1 000 words, you turn around and say, "You might be able to describe a picture in 1 000 words, but
1 000 words can paint a picture more vivid than any on canvas."
I've just checked the ticker, we're finally at par.
That's a horrible exchange rate, if you ask me. Has anyone thought to check the ticker in the last few centuries to see if it's gotten any closer to par? It is way past time for writers to come up with their own system of "art currency"; one that fairly reflects the real worth of words. (For a brief and perhaps inaccurate [considering the source] history lesson on this expression, visit Wikipedia)
First, let us talk about value of writers, because words are only as good as the writer who wields them. There is a presumption Out There that because most people use writing to a certain extent in their every day lives (memos, e-mails, crank letters to the editor), that anyone can write, that it’s an easier dream to attain. An artist, though, is seen as having a great talent that cannot be duplicated. This isn't to say that we don't appreciate our authors, but if you ask around, I'm willing to bet that a lot more people have a dream of being a writer than an artist. This, by virtue of the fact that they say to themselves, "I know English, I'm well read, I have that story my Great Aunt Flo used to tell me about that fishing trip to Poughkeepsie. I bet I could write that down and become a Writer!" So pretty much any schmo with a laptop can sit down one day and claim to be a writer, while those same schmos know that they would not be able to sit down at an easel and be an artist.
Ah, but what goes into being a writer? Most would say that you are a writer when you are published, which is partly true, because for most people, unless you are independently wealthy or are a "starving artist", you are a writer slash something. (some are lucky enough, like me, to be a writer slash writer, but I digress). Being a writer/something comes with the knowledge that although writing is a serious goal, it could be seen by some right now as a hobby that you do in your spare time. I am of the opinion, however, that an unpublished writer is no less of one than a painter who has never held a gallery showing is considered less of an artist. Either way, stories and art are being produced. Whether people read or see them are inconsequential. But that doesn't mean that just anyone can be a writer...
So if you don't have to be published, what do you need to be a writer? In my mind, writing takes a few things: a sound knowledge of grammar; a knack for storytelling and having a story worth telling; an ability to paint a picture with words; the commitment to telling the truth; a history of reading a broad range of material; the dedication to finishing something you started, no matter how long it takes. Some of these can be learned and others will evolve over time, but they are all things that people need to have a rudimentary sense of in order to be a writer. In this way, a writer needs just as much talent and training and has to work just as hard as an artist for his or her craft.
Now that we know the merit of a good writer, how much are words worth?
Consider this sentence:
"The woman, numb and trembling, collapsed over her broken child, the
blood soaking her blouse."
Tragic, no? Tugs at the heartstrings, don't it? Did you shed a tear or two? You know you did. You can see the pain of a mother as she clutches at her child; the shock, the feeling of helplessness, of fear. You wonder what happened to bring this about and you wonder what comes next. This, my friends, is why words are worth any number of pictures. With these 15 words, you are transported to your own imagination, you are caught up in a story and you are invested emotionally in an intense situation. A photo may be able to capture this image, but with words, you can truly feel like you are there. (And just so you don't worry, the blood turned out to be ketchup; he was playing a prank on his mother. Watched too many episodes of Punk'd. He got grounded for two weeks, missed playing in the playoffs at little league. Didn't get a trophy. Very sad. Kids today)
So the next time you are at a gallery and you hear someone say that a picture is worth 1 000 words, you turn around and say, "You might be able to describe a picture in 1 000 words, but
1 000 words can paint a picture more vivid than any on canvas."
I've just checked the ticker, we're finally at par.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
If a blogger blogs and there's no one around to read it, has anything been written?
Neil Gaiman recently wrote a blog entry titled "The Unblogged Life", which certainly describes me in the past month. After returning from our vacation, my wife and I made a monumental decision, which has taken up most of my time and forced me to venture outside the house far more than usual. We have begun the adoption process.
I'm told that children are not something you just jump into, not like buying a house or a car; you have to plan and prepare for the eventual upheaval of your life. No more so is that evident than with adoption. In Ontario, there are rules stacked on rules, with more rules peaking out from beneath tables, ready to trip you up if you aren't careful. We've begun the process with a few weekends’ worth of classes, as well as with many articles and books.
And the forms! I've never seen so much paperwork! Not only "sign-here-please" forms, but full on essays on our lives, delving into our childhood, our marriage, our families, our parental views, what we had for breakfast and so much more. It's invasive, it's time-consuming, but in the end, it is all worth it.
So now you perhaps understand where I've been, what I've been doing and why, in the next few months, postings will be sparse. I haven't, however, been lapse in my reading. Here are some of the books I've read in the last month, which come highly recommended:
The Alchemist: A short book, but a poignant one about following your dreams and never giving up, and perhaps realizing that it was never about the destination, but about the journey. Also, never be too wrapped up in yourself that you miss the signs the world gives you (And before you ask, I’ve already tried. I can’t go to Dairy Queen just because I saw the commercial. “Honey, it’s a sign that I need ice cream!” “No, it isn’t dear. It’s a sign that you watch too much TV”).
The Book Thief: One of the best books that I've read in quite some time. A unique narrative flow (it is narrated by Death, who jumps through the years to tell the tale and interrupts with his own interpretations and views), yet, instead of jarring, it is wholly appropriate given the subject matter. It is sad, funny, haunting, memorable and heart-warming. The prose flows like honey, making even the bitterest scenes go down easy. There are many things to take away from this book, but what hit me the most was the power of words; the impact they have en mass and for individuals. This is essentially a love letter for the written word and a warning to use words carefully, because an errant one can not only hurt, it can kill.
Smoke and Mirrors: A fantastic short story collection by a master of his craft. What strikes me the most about reading any work by Neil Gaiman is the extent of his imagination and the boundlessness of what he can conjure up. He makes connections with words that few of us can see, and no matter how many times I read the same tale, I am always entertained in a different way. His books, short stories, etc., are like sitting in front of a fire, listening to an old man who you just met, but who seems vaguely familiar, tell you a story that takes you back to a time where all things are possible. Oh, and since Neil Gaiman is English, I always picture the old man with an English accent. Classes up the joint.
Whiteout Vol. 1 & 2: Two excellent comic book collections, featuring a murder mystery and a “high speed” chase respectively, both taking place in the harsh climate of Antarctica. Wonderful characters, superb art and a hard-nosed US Marshall all make for an enjoyable trip.
Blankets: Not all comics need be superheroes, procedurals or genre specific. This graphic novel, clocking in at more than 550 pages, tells the tale of the writer/artist's childhood, his first love and his relationship with his brother, his family and the world. It is a character study, which must have been cathartic to create. Craig Thompson bares his soul; his pain as a troubled child and an awkward teen; his struggle with religion; and the overwhelming urge to follow his heart. I haven't read many non-superhero, non-genre related graphic novels / comics, but this one definitely proves that, like books, this medium has something for everyone.
Calvin and Hobbes: I've had this collection for a few years; my wife got it for me for my birthday (I still feel bad that I asked for this, as I was unaware that it weighed over 20 pounds. My wife literally had to drag it back to her office over lunch). I have already read through the collection at least twice, but I was compelled to pull it out again a few days ago after I felt the need for some "comfort food". Starting with Peanuts when I was very young, comic strips have always had a way of calming me down, relaxing me instantly. Each strip transported me to a simple world. A monochromatic world, in most cases, where site gags ruled and the sarcasm and characters flew off the page. Calvin and Hobbes was one such collection, the imagination and ingenuity oozing from each panel. For me, whenever life seems to get overwhelming, whenever something's bothering me, I know that I can open up a page of this book and lose myself in an age of innocence. That, for me, is heaven, and it is one of the reasons that I so enjoy not only comic strips and comic books, but the written word in general, no matter where I find it.
And so, my wife and I continue our adoption journey, one that will keep me busy, keep me up at nights, and keep me from writing, but it is a journey we will make together, and one we will happily make. And in the meantime, I'll lose myself in the words when I need to and pop my head in occasionally to let you know that I haven't forsaken you, my legion of fan.
I'm told that children are not something you just jump into, not like buying a house or a car; you have to plan and prepare for the eventual upheaval of your life. No more so is that evident than with adoption. In Ontario, there are rules stacked on rules, with more rules peaking out from beneath tables, ready to trip you up if you aren't careful. We've begun the process with a few weekends’ worth of classes, as well as with many articles and books.
And the forms! I've never seen so much paperwork! Not only "sign-here-please" forms, but full on essays on our lives, delving into our childhood, our marriage, our families, our parental views, what we had for breakfast and so much more. It's invasive, it's time-consuming, but in the end, it is all worth it.
So now you perhaps understand where I've been, what I've been doing and why, in the next few months, postings will be sparse. I haven't, however, been lapse in my reading. Here are some of the books I've read in the last month, which come highly recommended:
The Alchemist: A short book, but a poignant one about following your dreams and never giving up, and perhaps realizing that it was never about the destination, but about the journey. Also, never be too wrapped up in yourself that you miss the signs the world gives you (And before you ask, I’ve already tried. I can’t go to Dairy Queen just because I saw the commercial. “Honey, it’s a sign that I need ice cream!” “No, it isn’t dear. It’s a sign that you watch too much TV”).
The Book Thief: One of the best books that I've read in quite some time. A unique narrative flow (it is narrated by Death, who jumps through the years to tell the tale and interrupts with his own interpretations and views), yet, instead of jarring, it is wholly appropriate given the subject matter. It is sad, funny, haunting, memorable and heart-warming. The prose flows like honey, making even the bitterest scenes go down easy. There are many things to take away from this book, but what hit me the most was the power of words; the impact they have en mass and for individuals. This is essentially a love letter for the written word and a warning to use words carefully, because an errant one can not only hurt, it can kill.
Smoke and Mirrors: A fantastic short story collection by a master of his craft. What strikes me the most about reading any work by Neil Gaiman is the extent of his imagination and the boundlessness of what he can conjure up. He makes connections with words that few of us can see, and no matter how many times I read the same tale, I am always entertained in a different way. His books, short stories, etc., are like sitting in front of a fire, listening to an old man who you just met, but who seems vaguely familiar, tell you a story that takes you back to a time where all things are possible. Oh, and since Neil Gaiman is English, I always picture the old man with an English accent. Classes up the joint.
Whiteout Vol. 1 & 2: Two excellent comic book collections, featuring a murder mystery and a “high speed” chase respectively, both taking place in the harsh climate of Antarctica. Wonderful characters, superb art and a hard-nosed US Marshall all make for an enjoyable trip.
Blankets: Not all comics need be superheroes, procedurals or genre specific. This graphic novel, clocking in at more than 550 pages, tells the tale of the writer/artist's childhood, his first love and his relationship with his brother, his family and the world. It is a character study, which must have been cathartic to create. Craig Thompson bares his soul; his pain as a troubled child and an awkward teen; his struggle with religion; and the overwhelming urge to follow his heart. I haven't read many non-superhero, non-genre related graphic novels / comics, but this one definitely proves that, like books, this medium has something for everyone.
Calvin and Hobbes: I've had this collection for a few years; my wife got it for me for my birthday (I still feel bad that I asked for this, as I was unaware that it weighed over 20 pounds. My wife literally had to drag it back to her office over lunch). I have already read through the collection at least twice, but I was compelled to pull it out again a few days ago after I felt the need for some "comfort food". Starting with Peanuts when I was very young, comic strips have always had a way of calming me down, relaxing me instantly. Each strip transported me to a simple world. A monochromatic world, in most cases, where site gags ruled and the sarcasm and characters flew off the page. Calvin and Hobbes was one such collection, the imagination and ingenuity oozing from each panel. For me, whenever life seems to get overwhelming, whenever something's bothering me, I know that I can open up a page of this book and lose myself in an age of innocence. That, for me, is heaven, and it is one of the reasons that I so enjoy not only comic strips and comic books, but the written word in general, no matter where I find it.
And so, my wife and I continue our adoption journey, one that will keep me busy, keep me up at nights, and keep me from writing, but it is a journey we will make together, and one we will happily make. And in the meantime, I'll lose myself in the words when I need to and pop my head in occasionally to let you know that I haven't forsaken you, my legion of fan.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Rifling through Charles de Lint's stuff
Authors, it turns out, are people too. Of course, I knew this on some fundamental level, but whenever I picture my favourite authors, they are magical and whimsical. They live in houses that suit their style of writing (i.e. Neil Gaiman would live in a house of gothic proportions, while Isaac Asimov’s house would have been a modern monolith, a futuristic house with the latest gadgets emitting the faintest humming noise that could be heard from the streets). But alas, my fantasies were shattered when I visited the house of Charles de Lint, author of many wonderful flights of what has been referred to as urban fantasy.
Now, before you get the wrong idea, no I have no taken to stalking my favourite authors. Not yet, anyways. I was at that house to avail myself of Mr. de Lint’s annual yard sale, a culling of books that he has collected over the years. I pulled up to a quiet, non-descript house in a quiet, non-descript area of Ottawa and walked up the short driveway to find rows upon rows of books stacked up on folding tables. The house I imagined would have resembled those of his books, perhaps tall and expansive, or old and full of the crackling magical energy that permeate his books. I think a part of me even expected some sign that an Important Man lives here (to some people, important people consist of politicians and policy makers, to other actors and musicians. To me, the Most Important People are authors and imagination encouragers). Of course, there was no such sign, but there were plenty of books to go through: fantasy, comic books, science fiction, all genres, in fact. What fascinated me most were the advanced copies of books that had already gone to print. These are unique editions, with errors intact and with space for authors to give their comments and opinions. These editions are not something that can be found in every corner store, they are one of a kind items that give someone like me, interested in the process of publication, an intimate look at an important step of how a book gets from an author’s imagination to the reader’s hands.
Having found some treasures, I went up to pay and who should greet me but Charles de Lint himself. Now, I should probably mention that he is a very approachable individual. But for me, this was akin to a normal person meeting someone popular, like, I don’t know, George Clooney or Susan Boyle (or whoever YOU deem to be an Important Person). I have only met two authors previous to this, and, since they were both also popular wrestlers (the likable Mick Foley and the great, yet troubled Bret Hart), I had a total of perhaps two minutes with each of them. I was unsure if this would be a similar experience.
I paid him for the books and most likely proceeded to make a fool of myself (I’ll be honest, I tend to sound eloquent in my head or on a page, but when I open my mouth, mush comes out). I gushed about his books and thanked him for inspiring me to come to Ottawa in the first place (his book, Moonheart, takes place in Ottawa, and I read that prior to choosing which university to apply to. When I noticed Carleton University in Ottawa had a journalism program, I put two and two together and decided to apply. It was Charles de Lint’s book which made it a little less scary to leave home and try to build a life in a different city). He grinned broadly and said that he hoped that it all worked out for me (let’s see: loving wife, good education, good job, nice house, excellent comic collection, I’d say that it worked out just fine).
It occurred to me afterwards that I didn’t even introduce myself to him, but I’m hoping that this is just the first time of many that my paths will cross with this wonderful wordsmith. Although it may be a paltry thing to some people, I am happy that I was able to express my appreciation to a man whose books changed my life. I can only hope that one day someone will pick up a book with my name on the cover and have a similar experience. For why do we write if not to try to make the world a little bit better, through poignancy, enlightenment, laughter, or just plan entertainment. We writers do all this as we do everything: one word at a time.
Now, before you get the wrong idea, no I have no taken to stalking my favourite authors. Not yet, anyways. I was at that house to avail myself of Mr. de Lint’s annual yard sale, a culling of books that he has collected over the years. I pulled up to a quiet, non-descript house in a quiet, non-descript area of Ottawa and walked up the short driveway to find rows upon rows of books stacked up on folding tables. The house I imagined would have resembled those of his books, perhaps tall and expansive, or old and full of the crackling magical energy that permeate his books. I think a part of me even expected some sign that an Important Man lives here (to some people, important people consist of politicians and policy makers, to other actors and musicians. To me, the Most Important People are authors and imagination encouragers). Of course, there was no such sign, but there were plenty of books to go through: fantasy, comic books, science fiction, all genres, in fact. What fascinated me most were the advanced copies of books that had already gone to print. These are unique editions, with errors intact and with space for authors to give their comments and opinions. These editions are not something that can be found in every corner store, they are one of a kind items that give someone like me, interested in the process of publication, an intimate look at an important step of how a book gets from an author’s imagination to the reader’s hands.
Having found some treasures, I went up to pay and who should greet me but Charles de Lint himself. Now, I should probably mention that he is a very approachable individual. But for me, this was akin to a normal person meeting someone popular, like, I don’t know, George Clooney or Susan Boyle (or whoever YOU deem to be an Important Person). I have only met two authors previous to this, and, since they were both also popular wrestlers (the likable Mick Foley and the great, yet troubled Bret Hart), I had a total of perhaps two minutes with each of them. I was unsure if this would be a similar experience.
I paid him for the books and most likely proceeded to make a fool of myself (I’ll be honest, I tend to sound eloquent in my head or on a page, but when I open my mouth, mush comes out). I gushed about his books and thanked him for inspiring me to come to Ottawa in the first place (his book, Moonheart, takes place in Ottawa, and I read that prior to choosing which university to apply to. When I noticed Carleton University in Ottawa had a journalism program, I put two and two together and decided to apply. It was Charles de Lint’s book which made it a little less scary to leave home and try to build a life in a different city). He grinned broadly and said that he hoped that it all worked out for me (let’s see: loving wife, good education, good job, nice house, excellent comic collection, I’d say that it worked out just fine).
It occurred to me afterwards that I didn’t even introduce myself to him, but I’m hoping that this is just the first time of many that my paths will cross with this wonderful wordsmith. Although it may be a paltry thing to some people, I am happy that I was able to express my appreciation to a man whose books changed my life. I can only hope that one day someone will pick up a book with my name on the cover and have a similar experience. For why do we write if not to try to make the world a little bit better, through poignancy, enlightenment, laughter, or just plan entertainment. We writers do all this as we do everything: one word at a time.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
So many books, so little room in my suitcase
Tomorrow, we jet off to New York, one of the literary hotspots of the world. Whether I’ll see anything of literary note, I don’t know, but I will be visiting one of the largest comic book shops in the world, so that should be fun!
One of the most difficult parts of packing is deciding what to bring to read. I tend to overpack on books while neglecting to bring the essentials (just ask my sister-in-law who innocently offered me a pink, sparkly t-shirt when I forgot my pyjamas years ago while I was visiting the future Mrs. Caboose). I know I won’t have that much time to read, but that doesn’t stop me from carrying as many books as I can!
First thing that goes in is the book I’m currently reading, Someplace to be Flying, by Charles de Lint. This is one of my favourite books, one that I’ve read six or so times now, and one I will discuss in greater detail upon my return.
Now, I’m fairly confident that even though I’m already halfway through the book, that I won’t have the time to finish it on the vacation, what with the shopping and the touring and the shows and the New Yorkers who will beat me up for telling them how great the Toronto Blue Jays are. However, that doesn’t stop me from bringing a second book, Odd Hours, by Dean Koontz. This is number four in a series of books starring the character of Odd Thomas, a person who can communicate with ghosts. Although these books aren’t exactly intellectual fodder, they are a ton of fun and I find the character has a unique voice that I enjoy revisiting time and again.
Finally, to satisfy the comic nerd in me, I am bringing the fourth volume in the Ultimate Invincible Collection. Invincible is a superhero saga, cleverly written, beautifully drawn, and, despite the familiar super-themes, has entertaining twists on the classics.
So there you have it. Three books, which I’m fairly sure I won’t get through, but my motto is like the Boy Scouts: Be Prepared. Of course, I would be lost in the woods (for years, if someone asked me what direction north was, I would point up), but plunk me down in a long line-up or waiting room and I will always be ready to stave off boredom.
When I return, I hope to have plenty of adventures to blog about. Until then, I wish the Internet a fond adieu. Oh, and don’t touch my stuff!
One of the most difficult parts of packing is deciding what to bring to read. I tend to overpack on books while neglecting to bring the essentials (just ask my sister-in-law who innocently offered me a pink, sparkly t-shirt when I forgot my pyjamas years ago while I was visiting the future Mrs. Caboose). I know I won’t have that much time to read, but that doesn’t stop me from carrying as many books as I can!
First thing that goes in is the book I’m currently reading, Someplace to be Flying, by Charles de Lint. This is one of my favourite books, one that I’ve read six or so times now, and one I will discuss in greater detail upon my return.
Now, I’m fairly confident that even though I’m already halfway through the book, that I won’t have the time to finish it on the vacation, what with the shopping and the touring and the shows and the New Yorkers who will beat me up for telling them how great the Toronto Blue Jays are. However, that doesn’t stop me from bringing a second book, Odd Hours, by Dean Koontz. This is number four in a series of books starring the character of Odd Thomas, a person who can communicate with ghosts. Although these books aren’t exactly intellectual fodder, they are a ton of fun and I find the character has a unique voice that I enjoy revisiting time and again.
Finally, to satisfy the comic nerd in me, I am bringing the fourth volume in the Ultimate Invincible Collection. Invincible is a superhero saga, cleverly written, beautifully drawn, and, despite the familiar super-themes, has entertaining twists on the classics.
So there you have it. Three books, which I’m fairly sure I won’t get through, but my motto is like the Boy Scouts: Be Prepared. Of course, I would be lost in the woods (for years, if someone asked me what direction north was, I would point up), but plunk me down in a long line-up or waiting room and I will always be ready to stave off boredom.
When I return, I hope to have plenty of adventures to blog about. Until then, I wish the Internet a fond adieu. Oh, and don’t touch my stuff!
Sunday, May 10, 2009
A Very Caboose Mother's Day
Mother’s Day is here, and I would be remiss if I didn’t give my own mother her due as one who influenced my love of words. For you see, my mother came to Canada via Israel, via Brazil, and she came to this country not exactly ready to converse with the landlord about why I was found crawling around in the air ducts (okay, that never really happened, but I’m sure I could have found a way in if I would have tried, and then my mother would have had some explaining to do. Luckily, as a baby, I couldn’t be blamed, which served me well until my brother came and I wasn’t the baby anymore. That was very discourteous of him, so I bit his toes. You know, one day I should figure out how I go off on these non sequiturs and perhaps analyze why the tracks of my train of thought was built by a committee of cartoon ducks. And, as history has shown us, cartoon ducks are shoddy craftsmen, so the tracks don’t exactly go anywhere.)
(I was pretty sure I was talking about something…oh right, my mother) One of the ways my mother would practice English would be to read to me out loud the daily comics in the newspaper, many of which use simple language and visual gags to allow people to understand the joke, even if they don’t understand the words. My love of reading, and certainly my love of all things comics, can be traced back to my mother, who made sure not only to love me unconditionally, even when I did bite my brother’s toes, but also to allow me the opportunity to begin, at an early age, my love of reading.
I am forever indebted to my mother, and I am forever thankful that I was raised with compassion and with books. Happy Mother’s Day to one and all! (Now go give Hallmark some money or writers who work on funny limericks will be out of a job.)
(I was pretty sure I was talking about something…oh right, my mother) One of the ways my mother would practice English would be to read to me out loud the daily comics in the newspaper, many of which use simple language and visual gags to allow people to understand the joke, even if they don’t understand the words. My love of reading, and certainly my love of all things comics, can be traced back to my mother, who made sure not only to love me unconditionally, even when I did bite my brother’s toes, but also to allow me the opportunity to begin, at an early age, my love of reading.
I am forever indebted to my mother, and I am forever thankful that I was raised with compassion and with books. Happy Mother’s Day to one and all! (Now go give Hallmark some money or writers who work on funny limericks will be out of a job.)
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Returning to the Caboose
Time gets away from me.
The last three weeks have been about everything except for blogging. I'm hoping that will change in the near future as I get back into a groove. Here are a few short snippets on what I've been up to, the books that I've read and the thoughts in my head (Rhyming rules!):
Canada Book Day
This was back on April 23, which is a wonderful day to look back at the hundreds of books that I've read in my life. I am so blessed to not only live in a country where literacy is encouraged, but also where it is so readily available to anyone who wants it. Canada Book Day probably passed by without you noticing, but trust me, we should always be thankful that books offer an alternative to Wii and Playstation and Morgan Freeman.
Toronto visit
I can't write a blog entry without mentioning one of my favourite literary locations, the one where it all started: my house in Toronto. I would spend hours sitting in my room, or around the house, reading book after book. The shelves would be filled with library books, many of which would go unread, and books new, used and handed down from generations past. And I cannot help but mention my parents, who instilled a love of reading at an early age, and who did everything possible to nurture my passion for words. (Although I'm certain they would have been happy if I had come up for air every so often to go outside and play sports. I think I compromised by reading a few books about sports. That counts, right?)
The Venetian Betrayal, by Steve Berry
This is a gloriously fast-paced book, with shallow characters and a plot that mixes history, conspiracy and a fictitious Asian conglomerate. You won't find anything new or groundbreaking here, but like a summer action movie, it provides solid entertainment for 500+ pages. And the hero’s name is Cotton Malone, which is one of the best names for a character that I've seen recently. Plus, really short chapters for those with short attention spans, which is pretty much me.
New Dan Brown
The biggest news in the literary world is that Dan Brown's new book is set to debut in September. His other books are of the vein of The Venetian Betrayal: history, conspiracy and mystery combining to create a compelling tale. His last book sold a zillion copies and no doubt his next novel will sell another zillion copies; Hollywood will make it into a movie starring Tom Hanks; and Dan Brown will buy an island and marry J. K. Rowling to form a super writer that will no doubt destroy us all. I'm beginning to hoard. Just in case.
Toronto Blue Jays
No real literary connection. I'm just impressed that they're one of the best teams in the league. Many an afternoon and evening has been wasted yelling at the TV in hopes that they won't blow the game instead of writing blogs. So really, I'm going to lay the blame squarely on the Blue Jays' shoulder. It's their fault I haven’t blogged.
Free Comic Book Day
Oh glorious day! I woke that morning chastising my wife for not wishing me a Happy Free Comic Book Day (my sister-in-law remembered, however, to wish me Many Happy Returns, which was impressive). This is a great day for comic books, as I get to stroll (and by stroll, I mean drive) to a comic shop to pick up a slew of free comics, some I greatly look forward to, others I pick up just because they say "free" on the cover (let's be honest, I'm not reading the free Archie Comics, but I’m compelled to take it because they gave it to me and it’s in comic book form). I love this day, not only because of the free comic books, but also because of the sight that greeted me as I came into the shop: fathers and sons and mothers and daughters, coming together to enjoy the medium. I hope that these kids, like I did, grow up to respect and admire comics as not only a fun way to kill an afternoon, but a real literary experience, on par with any novel.
Star Wars Day
Also nothing to do with literacy. May 4th is Star Wars Day, because "May the fourth be with you". Get it? It's so corny, that it's funny.
Shatterday, by Harlan Ellison
“Writer’s take tours in other people’s lives.”
The first short story in this collection begins with this line and other subsequent stories repeat it, driving home Harlan Ellison’s point. This collection turns sci-fi, horror and fantasy into literary gold, each story displaying the author’s strength as a storyteller and his love of the English language. If there is one thing that a writer can take away from these stories is that you can’t be afraid to write what is in your heart. You can’t be deterred by what people might think and you have to be prepared to bare your soul to the reader and hope that they can sift through the fact and fiction to get to the truth of what the author is trying to say. So really, while Harlan Ellison took tours in other people’s lives, he also took a tour through his own, and it is one that I have voyeuristically enjoyed. (Not in an icky way, though) This book has given me inspirations for my own short stories, which I hope one day will be half as good as what Ellison's imagination has conjured.
The last three weeks have been about everything except for blogging. I'm hoping that will change in the near future as I get back into a groove. Here are a few short snippets on what I've been up to, the books that I've read and the thoughts in my head (Rhyming rules!):
Canada Book Day
This was back on April 23, which is a wonderful day to look back at the hundreds of books that I've read in my life. I am so blessed to not only live in a country where literacy is encouraged, but also where it is so readily available to anyone who wants it. Canada Book Day probably passed by without you noticing, but trust me, we should always be thankful that books offer an alternative to Wii and Playstation and Morgan Freeman.
Toronto visit
I can't write a blog entry without mentioning one of my favourite literary locations, the one where it all started: my house in Toronto. I would spend hours sitting in my room, or around the house, reading book after book. The shelves would be filled with library books, many of which would go unread, and books new, used and handed down from generations past. And I cannot help but mention my parents, who instilled a love of reading at an early age, and who did everything possible to nurture my passion for words. (Although I'm certain they would have been happy if I had come up for air every so often to go outside and play sports. I think I compromised by reading a few books about sports. That counts, right?)
The Venetian Betrayal, by Steve Berry
This is a gloriously fast-paced book, with shallow characters and a plot that mixes history, conspiracy and a fictitious Asian conglomerate. You won't find anything new or groundbreaking here, but like a summer action movie, it provides solid entertainment for 500+ pages. And the hero’s name is Cotton Malone, which is one of the best names for a character that I've seen recently. Plus, really short chapters for those with short attention spans, which is pretty much me.
New Dan Brown
The biggest news in the literary world is that Dan Brown's new book is set to debut in September. His other books are of the vein of The Venetian Betrayal: history, conspiracy and mystery combining to create a compelling tale. His last book sold a zillion copies and no doubt his next novel will sell another zillion copies; Hollywood will make it into a movie starring Tom Hanks; and Dan Brown will buy an island and marry J. K. Rowling to form a super writer that will no doubt destroy us all. I'm beginning to hoard. Just in case.
Toronto Blue Jays
No real literary connection. I'm just impressed that they're one of the best teams in the league. Many an afternoon and evening has been wasted yelling at the TV in hopes that they won't blow the game instead of writing blogs. So really, I'm going to lay the blame squarely on the Blue Jays' shoulder. It's their fault I haven’t blogged.
Free Comic Book Day
Oh glorious day! I woke that morning chastising my wife for not wishing me a Happy Free Comic Book Day (my sister-in-law remembered, however, to wish me Many Happy Returns, which was impressive). This is a great day for comic books, as I get to stroll (and by stroll, I mean drive) to a comic shop to pick up a slew of free comics, some I greatly look forward to, others I pick up just because they say "free" on the cover (let's be honest, I'm not reading the free Archie Comics, but I’m compelled to take it because they gave it to me and it’s in comic book form). I love this day, not only because of the free comic books, but also because of the sight that greeted me as I came into the shop: fathers and sons and mothers and daughters, coming together to enjoy the medium. I hope that these kids, like I did, grow up to respect and admire comics as not only a fun way to kill an afternoon, but a real literary experience, on par with any novel.
Star Wars Day
Also nothing to do with literacy. May 4th is Star Wars Day, because "May the fourth be with you". Get it? It's so corny, that it's funny.
Shatterday, by Harlan Ellison
“Writer’s take tours in other people’s lives.”
The first short story in this collection begins with this line and other subsequent stories repeat it, driving home Harlan Ellison’s point. This collection turns sci-fi, horror and fantasy into literary gold, each story displaying the author’s strength as a storyteller and his love of the English language. If there is one thing that a writer can take away from these stories is that you can’t be afraid to write what is in your heart. You can’t be deterred by what people might think and you have to be prepared to bare your soul to the reader and hope that they can sift through the fact and fiction to get to the truth of what the author is trying to say. So really, while Harlan Ellison took tours in other people’s lives, he also took a tour through his own, and it is one that I have voyeuristically enjoyed. (Not in an icky way, though) This book has given me inspirations for my own short stories, which I hope one day will be half as good as what Ellison's imagination has conjured.
* * *
That is the sum of my thoughts for tonight. Seriously, that's all I got. I tried coming up with a clever line to tie it up, but I'm coming up with zilch. So do me a favour and just imagine I said something funny or intelligent or meaningful here.
That is the sum of my thoughts for tonight. Seriously, that's all I got. I tried coming up with a clever line to tie it up, but I'm coming up with zilch. So do me a favour and just imagine I said something funny or intelligent or meaningful here.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Have you hugged an editor today?
I read this and proceeded to fall off my chair laughing. This is made even funnier when I think of everything I have edited or will edit in the future. However, it does give a good idea of how much a good editor can contribute. And how much damage a bad or disgruntled editor can do. My advice? Be nice to editors. We are a sensitive lot.
…at least the [Encyclopaedia] Britannica reading has given me some new
perspective on my job. It’s given me awareness of the power of editing. I’m
thinking, for instance, of the Ems telegram in 1870. Prussian chancellor Otto
von Bismarck edited the report of a diplomatic meeting to purposely offend the
French and start the Franco-Prussian War. I’m not saying that as an editor, I
want to start a war, but it’s nice to know I could.
~A. J. Jacobs, The Know-it-All: One Man’s Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World
Sunday, April 12, 2009
A blind date with a book
Discovering a new author is like a going on a first date. There’s an awkward period where you’re trying to figure out if you really are compatible and if you enjoy the company. Fortunately, with a book, you have no fear of rejection and all the power in asking for a second “date” with the author.
One of my friends recently suggested that I try out the style of Carl Hiassen, and proceeded to hand me Basket Case, a book that is immersed in mystery and the world of obituary reporting. Even though I graduated with a Bachelor of Journalism degree, I haven’t spent much time in a professional newsroom (if you don’t count the university newspaper). I did spend two weeks working at the Ottawa Sun, where I was lucky enough to write stories based on press releases (including one article about groundhogs in love. Unfortunately, I’m not joking). All this to say, that I’m not too familiar with the inner workings of a newsroom, but I have a feeling it might be run a lot like the one in Basket Case.
The book bills itself as a comedy/mystery, yet I find that it is much better classified as a noir novel. The comedy wasn’t slapstick or laugh-out-loud funny, but contained more the sarcastic, ironic humour that suits a hard-boiled reporter; the mystery itself wasn’t a great head scratcher, as both the reporter and reader knew who the villain was relatively quickly. What really drew me in was the snappy dialogue, the vivid descriptions, the neuroses of the characters and the fact that they act like real human beings. Too often in these types of novels, the main character goes it alone and is the sole hero in the book. This time around, the character knows enough to bring in his friends and anyone else who can help him solve the case and get the story. It is refreshing to read a book where, like any of us would, a character relies on the kindness of the people he knows and loves to get everything straightened out.
This book is entertainment, pure and simple, and I have discovered that Carl Hiassen is an author that I will definitely have a second date with. (Wait, that doesn’t sound right…)
One of my friends recently suggested that I try out the style of Carl Hiassen, and proceeded to hand me Basket Case, a book that is immersed in mystery and the world of obituary reporting. Even though I graduated with a Bachelor of Journalism degree, I haven’t spent much time in a professional newsroom (if you don’t count the university newspaper). I did spend two weeks working at the Ottawa Sun, where I was lucky enough to write stories based on press releases (including one article about groundhogs in love. Unfortunately, I’m not joking). All this to say, that I’m not too familiar with the inner workings of a newsroom, but I have a feeling it might be run a lot like the one in Basket Case.
The book bills itself as a comedy/mystery, yet I find that it is much better classified as a noir novel. The comedy wasn’t slapstick or laugh-out-loud funny, but contained more the sarcastic, ironic humour that suits a hard-boiled reporter; the mystery itself wasn’t a great head scratcher, as both the reporter and reader knew who the villain was relatively quickly. What really drew me in was the snappy dialogue, the vivid descriptions, the neuroses of the characters and the fact that they act like real human beings. Too often in these types of novels, the main character goes it alone and is the sole hero in the book. This time around, the character knows enough to bring in his friends and anyone else who can help him solve the case and get the story. It is refreshing to read a book where, like any of us would, a character relies on the kindness of the people he knows and loves to get everything straightened out.
This book is entertainment, pure and simple, and I have discovered that Carl Hiassen is an author that I will definitely have a second date with. (Wait, that doesn’t sound right…)
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Me Canadian. Me read.
Some good news from the book world. It appears that Canadians are reading more, despite the downturn in the economy. Books stores are reporting a 7% increase in sales in the first quarter of the year, which is a wonderful thing to see. While I encourage people to visit their library and take out a pile of books, it is nice to see that people are supporting their book stores, both the big Chapters chains and the smaller independent shops. It is news like this that will ensure that writers can continue to make a living off their words and readers can continue to enjoy a wide and diverse range of material.
* * *
As expected, I have come to the end of Wonder Boys and could not recommend it highly enough. I leave you with one of my favourite quotes from the book that really speaks to the mind of the writer. Is this an all encompassing statement? Probably not. But you’d be surprised when the door is closed and you’re sitting at the keyboard what you will tell yourself.
* * *
As expected, I have come to the end of Wonder Boys and could not recommend it highly enough. I leave you with one of my favourite quotes from the book that really speaks to the mind of the writer. Is this an all encompassing statement? Probably not. But you’d be surprised when the door is closed and you’re sitting at the keyboard what you will tell yourself.
While I worked I told myself lies. Writers, unlike most people, tell their best
lies when they are alone.
-Michael Chabon, Wonder Boys
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Yellow light means slow?
I’ve grown to love the writing of Michael Chabon. I’ve read his books before and enjoyed them, but it was only recently that I’ve appreciated the artistry of his words. Even the most deplorable situations are painted so clearly and with such grace that I can find myself squirming uncomfortably as the characters do and experience things that I could only imagine, yet enjoy every sentence.
A month or two back, I spoke admirably of his book, Gentlemen of the Road (or, using the working title, Jews with Swords, which, I think, is a lot better. Who wouldn’t read a book about Jews with swords?), and today I find myself devouring another one of his books, Wonder Boys. While I’m not quite done reading, I’ve read enough to know that it is one book that I will devour again and again, marvelling at the way he can give us characters that can do such horrible things to themselves and to those they love, yet do it all with a flourish of language that is unparalleled in my eyes.
Of course, reading this book has identified a weakness of my own writing, one which will be remedied in the second stage of editing, but also one which I am trying to keep in mind as I continue to write. Some people say the devil is in the details, but in my writing, the details seem to be somewhat lacking.
One of the things I realized reading Wonder Boys is that I’m not a very patient man. I love the imagery, the details and the evocative nature of literature when I’m reading, but when I’m writing, I’m very impatient. I don’t want to spend time talking about how the trees looked in the forest or describing the town that our heroes visit; I want to get to the next plot point, I want to be able to bring the characters from point 'A' to point 'B' to see what happens. Stop and smell the roses? No way! Rose smelling takes way too much time! Drop that flower and get yourself to your destination so questions can start being answered! I’m surprised that I haven’t given anyone a jetpack yet…
Stephen King, in On Writing, gives his opinion that when you finish a piece of writing, you should endeavour to slash 10% of it (I may be wrong about the number, but at this point in the day I don’t very much feel like going to verify it. Suffice is to say that 10% is a good number to start with). Cutting some of your scenes make sense, as writers often put in either too much detail or put in unnecessary detail that can be removed without harming the story itself. However, I may be one of those writers who, when looking back at a completed manuscript, may have to ADD 10%. Specifically, I will have to put in descriptions of what the characters see and experience, and I will do this knowing that I don’t have a need to see where the story will take itself.
In an effort to make myself a better writer, I am trying to slow down and, if not smell the roses, then at least acknowledge that there are roses in that bush over there. I don’t have a lot of experience in writing novel-length material, so I can only guess where my words will take me, but I know that to become a well-rounded writer, sometimes you have to stop, look around, and let your readers in on the world inside your head.
A month or two back, I spoke admirably of his book, Gentlemen of the Road (or, using the working title, Jews with Swords, which, I think, is a lot better. Who wouldn’t read a book about Jews with swords?), and today I find myself devouring another one of his books, Wonder Boys. While I’m not quite done reading, I’ve read enough to know that it is one book that I will devour again and again, marvelling at the way he can give us characters that can do such horrible things to themselves and to those they love, yet do it all with a flourish of language that is unparalleled in my eyes.
Of course, reading this book has identified a weakness of my own writing, one which will be remedied in the second stage of editing, but also one which I am trying to keep in mind as I continue to write. Some people say the devil is in the details, but in my writing, the details seem to be somewhat lacking.
One of the things I realized reading Wonder Boys is that I’m not a very patient man. I love the imagery, the details and the evocative nature of literature when I’m reading, but when I’m writing, I’m very impatient. I don’t want to spend time talking about how the trees looked in the forest or describing the town that our heroes visit; I want to get to the next plot point, I want to be able to bring the characters from point 'A' to point 'B' to see what happens. Stop and smell the roses? No way! Rose smelling takes way too much time! Drop that flower and get yourself to your destination so questions can start being answered! I’m surprised that I haven’t given anyone a jetpack yet…
Stephen King, in On Writing, gives his opinion that when you finish a piece of writing, you should endeavour to slash 10% of it (I may be wrong about the number, but at this point in the day I don’t very much feel like going to verify it. Suffice is to say that 10% is a good number to start with). Cutting some of your scenes make sense, as writers often put in either too much detail or put in unnecessary detail that can be removed without harming the story itself. However, I may be one of those writers who, when looking back at a completed manuscript, may have to ADD 10%. Specifically, I will have to put in descriptions of what the characters see and experience, and I will do this knowing that I don’t have a need to see where the story will take itself.
In an effort to make myself a better writer, I am trying to slow down and, if not smell the roses, then at least acknowledge that there are roses in that bush over there. I don’t have a lot of experience in writing novel-length material, so I can only guess where my words will take me, but I know that to become a well-rounded writer, sometimes you have to stop, look around, and let your readers in on the world inside your head.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Arriving at the Summit
Yesterday, the wife and I took a drive over the border, the very first time I have driven such a great length. As I drove, taking in the quaint sights of small town America, and in between conversation, I drifted into the well-known terrain that is my imagination. But this was no mere trip into my subconscious. The time spent driving on a sunny day, with the road ahead clear, and a confidence that we would somehow get to our intended destination, was an opportunity to think about story ideas, fix nagging plot holes in my book and let the characters I created run rampant through my brain, doing what comes natural to them, whatever that may be.
It was a Summit of the Brain, if you will.
Occasionally, these things will be convened where characters show up from all corners of my mind to contribute to the conversation.
On this day, the main characters of my novel took the conference table, while ancillary characters milled around the room. Other characters sat in the shadows, brooding on the sidelines; some looked ready to burst in the light, but stayed still, knowing it just wasn’t time for their story to be told. The heroes of my story were the first to congratulate me on reaching the milestone of over 30 000 words written. After this, however, one of them harrumphed, stood and awkwardly pointed out that the first part of my story was, as he put it, “utter rubbish”. I had to agree and promised once it was all said and done to go back and rework the beginning. Another one asked if this was like the time I said that I would start exercising, to which I replied with a sheepish grin and a heartfelt, “No, I really will rework the beginning. In fact, what I will do is…”
I was interrupted by a chorus of fingers being put into ears. Characters are notorious for not wanting to know what is in store for them. Ruins the spontaneity for them, they say.
The next to have the floor was the villain, who stated matter-of-factly that he was appalled at the role he had been given. He moved that “villain” and “bad guy” be stricken from his record. That notion was shot down by all and sundry. He spent the next 20 minutes in a sulk, sinking to pilfering the pens and stuffing them into his pocket. This particularly frustrated those members of the ancillary crowd who were struggling writers and who desperately wanted something with which to record their ideas (I believe that all writers create these characters in their head for sympathy, so that when they run into a rough creative patch, there is someone there to commiserate with. Only one struggling writer appears in my book and I think he will become much more interesting once I take away his pen).
A few minor characters got into an argument which had to be separated by two brutes whose sole purpose is to keep the peace at these meetings. Their names are Morris and Steve. Both wish desperately for their own story where they open a detective agency. Morris would also like it to be known that he plays killer piano. None of this has bearing on this particular meeting, however, so they keep quiet and enjoy the small victories of escorting rowdy participants into another room where they can be convinced to retain a level head on matters.
The floor was then opened to others to hear their own concerns. Several characters made the pitch to be the lead in the short story I am working on. None of them were winners, but some had interesting ideas.
It was then that the floor heard from the others who had come to the meeting, non-characters who are just as vital to a writer. Themes, plot devices, personifications, metaphors and atmosphere also pay a visit. They sit in one corner, observing the circus that happens and wait patiently for their turns to speak. Oddly, they all speak in a British accent, lending elegance to the proceedings.
Back in the car, I turn off the highway; we have arrived at our destination. I adjourn the meeting for the day. Characters get up and leave, some laughing with each other, some drifting off deeper in the shadows and some with a flourish. When everyone is gone, I turn down the lights and go hand-in-hand with my wife to enjoy the day.
Back in the meeting hall, Morris and Steve sigh, turn the lights back on and start stacking the chairs. As they work, they formulate plans to pitch the detective agency again. Steve insists that it would work wonders for their case if they actually solved a crime. Morris agrees and they start looking for clues to the missing pens.
It was a Summit of the Brain, if you will.
Occasionally, these things will be convened where characters show up from all corners of my mind to contribute to the conversation.
On this day, the main characters of my novel took the conference table, while ancillary characters milled around the room. Other characters sat in the shadows, brooding on the sidelines; some looked ready to burst in the light, but stayed still, knowing it just wasn’t time for their story to be told. The heroes of my story were the first to congratulate me on reaching the milestone of over 30 000 words written. After this, however, one of them harrumphed, stood and awkwardly pointed out that the first part of my story was, as he put it, “utter rubbish”. I had to agree and promised once it was all said and done to go back and rework the beginning. Another one asked if this was like the time I said that I would start exercising, to which I replied with a sheepish grin and a heartfelt, “No, I really will rework the beginning. In fact, what I will do is…”
I was interrupted by a chorus of fingers being put into ears. Characters are notorious for not wanting to know what is in store for them. Ruins the spontaneity for them, they say.
The next to have the floor was the villain, who stated matter-of-factly that he was appalled at the role he had been given. He moved that “villain” and “bad guy” be stricken from his record. That notion was shot down by all and sundry. He spent the next 20 minutes in a sulk, sinking to pilfering the pens and stuffing them into his pocket. This particularly frustrated those members of the ancillary crowd who were struggling writers and who desperately wanted something with which to record their ideas (I believe that all writers create these characters in their head for sympathy, so that when they run into a rough creative patch, there is someone there to commiserate with. Only one struggling writer appears in my book and I think he will become much more interesting once I take away his pen).
A few minor characters got into an argument which had to be separated by two brutes whose sole purpose is to keep the peace at these meetings. Their names are Morris and Steve. Both wish desperately for their own story where they open a detective agency. Morris would also like it to be known that he plays killer piano. None of this has bearing on this particular meeting, however, so they keep quiet and enjoy the small victories of escorting rowdy participants into another room where they can be convinced to retain a level head on matters.
The floor was then opened to others to hear their own concerns. Several characters made the pitch to be the lead in the short story I am working on. None of them were winners, but some had interesting ideas.
It was then that the floor heard from the others who had come to the meeting, non-characters who are just as vital to a writer. Themes, plot devices, personifications, metaphors and atmosphere also pay a visit. They sit in one corner, observing the circus that happens and wait patiently for their turns to speak. Oddly, they all speak in a British accent, lending elegance to the proceedings.
Back in the car, I turn off the highway; we have arrived at our destination. I adjourn the meeting for the day. Characters get up and leave, some laughing with each other, some drifting off deeper in the shadows and some with a flourish. When everyone is gone, I turn down the lights and go hand-in-hand with my wife to enjoy the day.
Back in the meeting hall, Morris and Steve sigh, turn the lights back on and start stacking the chairs. As they work, they formulate plans to pitch the detective agency again. Steve insists that it would work wonders for their case if they actually solved a crime. Morris agrees and they start looking for clues to the missing pens.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
A Writer's Life for Me
It’s been a while since I’ve sat down at my computer and did some serious writing. A few hundred here and there, but today was the first time in a few weeks where I have had the energy to put in a full session. I was afraid that the characters would have lost their lustre after a few weeks; they may have decided to go off and do other things while waiting for me to get back to their story. I was sure one of them had opened a Tim Hortons’ franchise and was hawking donuts and coffee. I was relieved to discover that returning to these characters was easier than I had thought. I was also surprised to discover a twist in my story that I had not seen coming. My dialogue was working its way towards a specific goal, a situation I wanted to get one of the main characters into. I found myself instead listening to the villain, who was a lot smarter and a lot more charming then I gave him credit for, and following his lead instead. Now my character finds herself in a more interesting situation then I had originally planned, one which gives new dimension to the book and one which I am excited to see played out.
The lesson of the day? You are a writer, but you are telling the story of these characters’ lives. Let them live it; you just record it.
* * *
In book news, I recently saw the Watchmen movie, which prompted me to dig out my old copy of Watchmen, which I have already read three or four times. Each time I bring out this graphic novel (a misleading statement, since it was printed originally as a comic book miniseries and only collected and called a “graphic novel” when a marketing expert determined a “comic book” could never be considered to be literature), I discover something new, a nuance I missed, a background piece I missed, something in the dialogue that takes me by surprise.
This time, I was fascinated to compare the book to the movie, to recognize where scenes and even lines were lifted straight out of the comic book. Did the movie translate well? The resounding answer is yes, but it does not compare to the original source material, which never ceases to thrill me or inspire me to write better, to craft more carefully and to never be afraid to break out of any given mould.
If you have not read Watchmen, read it. If you have never read a comic book and think that they have nothing to offer you, read it. If you have already read it, read it. Again.
I am going back to writing now, to wring every last word out of my fingers before bed.
The lesson of the day? You are a writer, but you are telling the story of these characters’ lives. Let them live it; you just record it.
* * *
In book news, I recently saw the Watchmen movie, which prompted me to dig out my old copy of Watchmen, which I have already read three or four times. Each time I bring out this graphic novel (a misleading statement, since it was printed originally as a comic book miniseries and only collected and called a “graphic novel” when a marketing expert determined a “comic book” could never be considered to be literature), I discover something new, a nuance I missed, a background piece I missed, something in the dialogue that takes me by surprise.
This time, I was fascinated to compare the book to the movie, to recognize where scenes and even lines were lifted straight out of the comic book. Did the movie translate well? The resounding answer is yes, but it does not compare to the original source material, which never ceases to thrill me or inspire me to write better, to craft more carefully and to never be afraid to break out of any given mould.
If you have not read Watchmen, read it. If you have never read a comic book and think that they have nothing to offer you, read it. If you have already read it, read it. Again.
I am going back to writing now, to wring every last word out of my fingers before bed.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
My Whereabouts
The last three weeks snuck up behind me and hit me over the head with a chair. When I awoke, I was tied to railroad tracks, the weeks twiddling its evil looking moustache. As weeks often do, it told me exactly what its plans were, rubbing its hands together in glee. Its plans were fiendish, but, as it often is with weeks, it failed to reveal every detail to me, forcing me to adapt and come up with new plans of how to break my bonds. Finally, when its back was turned, I was able to escape using a paperclip, rubber band and the latest issue of Newsweek. I am the Jewish MacGyver. When it had discovered that I had escaped, it wrestled with me as the train approached, it had my head down on the tracks, with moments to go until I would probably have a massive headache at the very least. Then, at the last moment, I remembered my jiu jitsu training (I am skilled in seven deadly martial arts but can seldom remember that I am). I threw the weeks over my head where it made a satisfying “splurch” sound as the train met it head on (“splurch” is the sound a week makes when it is hit by a train. Don’t try to look it up, though, just take my word for it).
I limped back home where I was embraced by the new week that will be coming up. It looks friendlier, but I will be on guard in case it turns on me.
As I struggled, I had to forego writing, including keeping this blog up to date. In the next few days, as I recover from my ordeal, I will get back into a routine of ranting, raving and generally making my presence on the Internet known to my legions of fans (all two of you).
I limped back home where I was embraced by the new week that will be coming up. It looks friendlier, but I will be on guard in case it turns on me.
As I struggled, I had to forego writing, including keeping this blog up to date. In the next few days, as I recover from my ordeal, I will get back into a routine of ranting, raving and generally making my presence on the Internet known to my legions of fans (all two of you).
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
We Want You! (to vote)
As Canadians, do you feel gypped that you didn’t get to vote for Obama? Can’t get enough of voting for things in general? Well, this is your lucky day! Head on over to http://www.dailywritingtips.com/short-story-competition-2-sixth-round-is-open-for-voting/, and vote to your heart’s content! Not that I’m telling you who to vote for, but I personally like that first story. *Cough*
Anyways, vote now. Because Obama wants you to! Yes we can (write)!
Anyways, vote now. Because Obama wants you to! Yes we can (write)!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
A Lazy Kind of Day
The weekend, and indeed the week, has gotten away from me. Today seemed like a day of catching up on just doing nothing, and so I followed my whims and read to my hearts content. But before I go back to that, I thought I would share a couple of links with you, my loyal Caboosers (I’m trying it on. Not quite Hulkamaniacs, but it’ll do for now)
Speaking of making words up (transitions rule!), have you ever tried to make up a word and pass it off as part of the regular English language? Well, these people have:
http://www.addictionary.org/
Look up words you never knew existed, see definitions for words that you never knew existed or add your own made up words.
Today’s word of the day: Myrthquake, meaning a belly laugh. It’s a perfectly cromulent way to spend the day. (Yeah, I rhyme now)
* * *
Discover information on the new Amazon Kindle:
http://krisabel.ctv.ca/blog/_archives/2009/2/9/4086740.html
Although it won’t be released in Canada, it’s still a pretty nifty looking machine. Will it ever replace the printed and bound book? I hope not. But, devices like the Kindle may take off, and it may be a perfect way to build a library without needing all that shelf space.
* * *
I’m hoping that I can get a proper blog entry in this week, but in the meantime I wish you good writing.
Speaking of making words up (transitions rule!), have you ever tried to make up a word and pass it off as part of the regular English language? Well, these people have:
http://www.addictionary.org/
Look up words you never knew existed, see definitions for words that you never knew existed or add your own made up words.
Today’s word of the day: Myrthquake, meaning a belly laugh. It’s a perfectly cromulent way to spend the day. (Yeah, I rhyme now)
* * *
Discover information on the new Amazon Kindle:
http://krisabel.ctv.ca/blog/_archives/2009/2/9/4086740.html
Although it won’t be released in Canada, it’s still a pretty nifty looking machine. Will it ever replace the printed and bound book? I hope not. But, devices like the Kindle may take off, and it may be a perfect way to build a library without needing all that shelf space.
* * *
I’m hoping that I can get a proper blog entry in this week, but in the meantime I wish you good writing.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
The Words of Chabon
The Writer’s Guilt will be posted in a day or so, but in the meantime, here is a quote from Michael Chabon, an author that I am have great respect for. I discussed earlier about a seemingly lax take on writing. To clarify, I don’t want you to think that you shouldn’t take it seriously, only that you shouldn’t force yourself to write to the determent of your enjoyment of writing. Mr. Chabon offers the following take (this is quoted from a Wikipedia entry, taken from an interview given with The New York Times. The journalist in me tried to find a corroborating source for the quote, but couldn’t. Regardless, here it is):
For what it’s worth, and for all that it seems to contradict my original statement, I do agree with this author’s point of view. Writing novels is a serious business and you can’t just type it out over a single weekend. It takes weeks and months and sometimes years to get your tome just right. And even then, you’ll find something about it you don’t like, something you wish you were smart enough or talented enough to fix. Thing of it is, I think that whether you write every day for an hour, several times a week or only on weekends, you have to be committed to your prose. There will be lots of instances where you are tempted to chuck the whole thing, and that is the true test. Do you love writing enough to continue. Is your story important to you. Are the characters begging you to tell them what happens next.
To be able to push through is essential and Michael Chabon knows this. Do you need to keep a strict schedule like Mr. Chabon to work through the tough times or to prove that you are a “serious writer”? No, and every writer, no matter their success, will give you a different idea of what their schedule, or non-schedule, is like. But there is one thing they all share, novice and professional alike. We all write when the mood strikes us, when the words are flowing so fast from your brain that your fingers work overtime to keep up with them.
Writing is work, but it is something we do because we love a good book, each compelling chapter, every descriptive paragraph, all the well-constructed sentences and the singular beauty of a word used in just the right place.
There have been plenty of self-destructive rebel-angel novelists over the years,
but writing is about getting your work done and getting your work done every
day. If you want to write novels, they take a long time, and they're big, and
they have a lot of words in them....[T]he best environment, at least for me, is
a very stable, structured kind of life.
For what it’s worth, and for all that it seems to contradict my original statement, I do agree with this author’s point of view. Writing novels is a serious business and you can’t just type it out over a single weekend. It takes weeks and months and sometimes years to get your tome just right. And even then, you’ll find something about it you don’t like, something you wish you were smart enough or talented enough to fix. Thing of it is, I think that whether you write every day for an hour, several times a week or only on weekends, you have to be committed to your prose. There will be lots of instances where you are tempted to chuck the whole thing, and that is the true test. Do you love writing enough to continue. Is your story important to you. Are the characters begging you to tell them what happens next.
To be able to push through is essential and Michael Chabon knows this. Do you need to keep a strict schedule like Mr. Chabon to work through the tough times or to prove that you are a “serious writer”? No, and every writer, no matter their success, will give you a different idea of what their schedule, or non-schedule, is like. But there is one thing they all share, novice and professional alike. We all write when the mood strikes us, when the words are flowing so fast from your brain that your fingers work overtime to keep up with them.
Writing is work, but it is something we do because we love a good book, each compelling chapter, every descriptive paragraph, all the well-constructed sentences and the singular beauty of a word used in just the right place.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Writing without Borders
It’s been a busy few weeks. Errands, combined with some heavy traffic, some snow, some good TV and a few books being finished, resulted in a less than favourable writing ratio. In other words, I haven’t written much during the week.
Now, all writers who write for a living will tell you that writing is a muscle you have to exercise; that true writers will make the time to write and will put themselves on a schedule so that they can reach their goals. This is very good advice. It is also, however, advice that most of us can’t follow. As much as we would like to take one or two hours an evening to write or create, we all have responsibilities to shoulder. Parents have children to look after, homeowners need to shovel, couples need to eat dinner. And if, at the end of all that, and after a long day at work, you just want to collapse and vegetate with a new episode of Lost? Well, I think you’ve earned it.
Does that make me a bad writer? Does it make me any less dedicated to my craft, knowing that I only take a few nights a week, here and there to write, and sometimes only weekends? I should hope not. Writing strikes me as something that should be done when you are having fun, especially if being a writer isn’t a full time job. I keep this blog because I love to write, I have over 25 000 words written in a novel because I love to write. I jot down ideas for short stories because I love to write. When I get frustrated at myself for not writing for a few days, my wife wisely reminds me that there are things we have to do and things we want to do. I want to write. And that is what keeps me coming back to the keyboard week after week.
Next time on the Caboose: I talk about some of the consequences of not writing every day and I try to patent a new writing term—Writer’s Guilt.
Now, all writers who write for a living will tell you that writing is a muscle you have to exercise; that true writers will make the time to write and will put themselves on a schedule so that they can reach their goals. This is very good advice. It is also, however, advice that most of us can’t follow. As much as we would like to take one or two hours an evening to write or create, we all have responsibilities to shoulder. Parents have children to look after, homeowners need to shovel, couples need to eat dinner. And if, at the end of all that, and after a long day at work, you just want to collapse and vegetate with a new episode of Lost? Well, I think you’ve earned it.
Does that make me a bad writer? Does it make me any less dedicated to my craft, knowing that I only take a few nights a week, here and there to write, and sometimes only weekends? I should hope not. Writing strikes me as something that should be done when you are having fun, especially if being a writer isn’t a full time job. I keep this blog because I love to write, I have over 25 000 words written in a novel because I love to write. I jot down ideas for short stories because I love to write. When I get frustrated at myself for not writing for a few days, my wife wisely reminds me that there are things we have to do and things we want to do. I want to write. And that is what keeps me coming back to the keyboard week after week.
Next time on the Caboose: I talk about some of the consequences of not writing every day and I try to patent a new writing term—Writer’s Guilt.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Absolutes
“Reality is unforgivingly complex.”
Anne Lamott, author of Bird by Bird, uses this line to explain why authors occasionally write their own morals into stories. This is a simplification of her argument, but this chapter is not what I would like to discuss. It is the line itself which stopped me in my reading.
Why do we write? It’s an age old question and one that I will no doubt come back to time and again because the answer is as varied as the stories we tell. One reason that we write is to make sense out of our complex reality.
Some of the most timeless tales have clearly defined heroes and villains. You know exactly who to cheer for, who wants to fight for truth, justice and the American (Canadian/Mexican/Brazilian / et cetera / ad nauseam) way. Conversely, you know who wants to do dastardly things because of some childhood trauma, girl rejection or plan for world domination. Am I oversimplifying things with this description? Yes, but that’s just to get my point across. Heroes can have flaws and flirt with the dark side and villains can be sympathetic and cuddly (who hasn’t wanted to give Darth Vader a hug…you haven’t? Just me? Okay, we’ll just gloss over this part).
The point is that we want to know that heroes can still be heroic and villains can still be defeated. No matter how complex the good guy vs. bad guy story is, it all boils down to the fight between good and evil. In reality, however we live in a world of greys, where good and evil are immensely complex terms, depending on your point of view, and good doesn’t necessarily conquer evil.
There are always stories that break from this mould. Some stories are told from the villain’s perspective, some have the villain winning and some have no heroes and villains to speak of. And then there are some set in our complex reality and the story comes from characters’ attempts to navigate our topsy-turvy world.
But some writers, or at least this writer, want to create escapism stories. These stories take us away from the pressures of work, bills and the world’s woes. In these tales, the hero beats the villain, the boy gets the girl and the side of good always triumphs. Are they predictable? Some would say yes, but for me it is the journey that is worth the price of a paperback. The greatest stories I have read are the ones that transport us away from reality and into a world where we can believe in the absolute terms of good and evil.
Anne Lamott, author of Bird by Bird, uses this line to explain why authors occasionally write their own morals into stories. This is a simplification of her argument, but this chapter is not what I would like to discuss. It is the line itself which stopped me in my reading.
Why do we write? It’s an age old question and one that I will no doubt come back to time and again because the answer is as varied as the stories we tell. One reason that we write is to make sense out of our complex reality.
Some of the most timeless tales have clearly defined heroes and villains. You know exactly who to cheer for, who wants to fight for truth, justice and the American (Canadian/Mexican/Brazilian / et cetera / ad nauseam) way. Conversely, you know who wants to do dastardly things because of some childhood trauma, girl rejection or plan for world domination. Am I oversimplifying things with this description? Yes, but that’s just to get my point across. Heroes can have flaws and flirt with the dark side and villains can be sympathetic and cuddly (who hasn’t wanted to give Darth Vader a hug…you haven’t? Just me? Okay, we’ll just gloss over this part).
The point is that we want to know that heroes can still be heroic and villains can still be defeated. No matter how complex the good guy vs. bad guy story is, it all boils down to the fight between good and evil. In reality, however we live in a world of greys, where good and evil are immensely complex terms, depending on your point of view, and good doesn’t necessarily conquer evil.
There are always stories that break from this mould. Some stories are told from the villain’s perspective, some have the villain winning and some have no heroes and villains to speak of. And then there are some set in our complex reality and the story comes from characters’ attempts to navigate our topsy-turvy world.
But some writers, or at least this writer, want to create escapism stories. These stories take us away from the pressures of work, bills and the world’s woes. In these tales, the hero beats the villain, the boy gets the girl and the side of good always triumphs. Are they predictable? Some would say yes, but for me it is the journey that is worth the price of a paperback. The greatest stories I have read are the ones that transport us away from reality and into a world where we can believe in the absolute terms of good and evil.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Book Covers
Art and literature has always had a very symbiotic relationship. Some feature art prominently, such as in comic books and graphic novels, and some rely on art so that reader can indeed judge a book by its cover. The Book Cover Archive is a Web site devoted to featuring great art work that authors have used to sell their books. So as you look through these entries, think how you would design your own book cover. How would you design it? What prominent object, person or detail would you want to take from your writing and transplant it to an artist’s rendering? It’s always nice to dream!
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Discovering the Secret
As a writer writing about writing (writer…writing…no, that’s right), I am constantly looking to others for their helpful suggestions on how to improve my own work. No man is an island and no blogger is without his inspiration.
I recently came into possession of three books which gives different perspectives on how to write, what to write, when to write, etc. Writing Down The Bones: Freeing The Writer Within, by Natalie Goldberg, Bird By Bird: Some Instructions On Writing And Life, by Anne Lamott, and On Writing, by Stephen King. I chose these three because of each writer’s different background and each one’s differing philosophy on life. I wanted to see what was out there for writers and learn if there was any consensus of what ingredients can make a good writer. As I go through each book, I’ll try and discuss some of the different ideas each writer gives, what works and what doesn’t. First up, On Writing, which is a fascinating view of a writer who may be prolific, but is not necessarily considered literary.
Now, can a writer learn how to write simply from reading one or three books? Not exclusively, no, though I do think that a particular book can be helpful and inspirational (if I didn’t, having this Web site is a bit of a waste). Writers have an innate need to have an outlet for their voice. They skim their brains for ideas and throw them down to see what happens to come up. Many, including myself, began without focus, without knowing how to be disciplined, how to calm the thoughts long enough to put them down in some semblance of an enjoyable yarn.
I’m hoping each book will provide a few helpful hints on how to channel the power of the word. Each week I will try to provide you with one or two new points of view, perhaps even something you haven’t considered. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll discover The Secret to great writing.
I recently came into possession of three books which gives different perspectives on how to write, what to write, when to write, etc. Writing Down The Bones: Freeing The Writer Within, by Natalie Goldberg, Bird By Bird: Some Instructions On Writing And Life, by Anne Lamott, and On Writing, by Stephen King. I chose these three because of each writer’s different background and each one’s differing philosophy on life. I wanted to see what was out there for writers and learn if there was any consensus of what ingredients can make a good writer. As I go through each book, I’ll try and discuss some of the different ideas each writer gives, what works and what doesn’t. First up, On Writing, which is a fascinating view of a writer who may be prolific, but is not necessarily considered literary.
Now, can a writer learn how to write simply from reading one or three books? Not exclusively, no, though I do think that a particular book can be helpful and inspirational (if I didn’t, having this Web site is a bit of a waste). Writers have an innate need to have an outlet for their voice. They skim their brains for ideas and throw them down to see what happens to come up. Many, including myself, began without focus, without knowing how to be disciplined, how to calm the thoughts long enough to put them down in some semblance of an enjoyable yarn.
I’m hoping each book will provide a few helpful hints on how to channel the power of the word. Each week I will try to provide you with one or two new points of view, perhaps even something you haven’t considered. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll discover The Secret to great writing.
You must not come lightly to the blank page.
-Stephen King, On Writing
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Sanctuary
I hate shopping. Yes, I can be a stereotypical guy. When my wife says that we need two silver vases of different sizes to put atop our dining room hutch, I just have to scratch my head and ask, why and how much? It doesn’t help that I am voted down by both my wife and my sister-in-law (who doesn’t live in our house, but somehow has a vote. Apparently, it’s a sister thing. Or maybe it’s a girl thing. I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but I digress…). And when faced with this obstacle, I did what any husband would do. Two silver vases sit in my dining room, along with a silver bowl that has nothing in it and is full of holes.
Now, as much as I hate shopping, there is one way to guarantee that I’ll behave and be more amiable towards a useless purchase. Just promise to take me to a book store. In addition to the stack of comic books purchased each month, I always make sure to have enough to put towards a book purchase or two. Or in my case, seven.
Today, I went to the mailbox to find my latest order from Chapters had arrived. In every purchase that I make, I try to be eclectic with my choices. Some stuff I have already read, some I have heard about here and there, and some I have been dying to read, but have never gotten around to it.
Now, a lot of you may ask, why not just go to the library? After all, it’s free and doesn’t take up permanent shelf space which is already at a premium in my house. All of you who ask this question are quite nosy, and should perhaps look into ways to improve that. However, since you have already pried into my business, I am not shy to tell you that there is a certain amount of satisfaction in owning a crisp, unopened book. The covers are clean and shiny and new. The spine is unbent. It still has that new book smell. Don't get me wrong, I love the library, but there is nothing like getting a new book to call your own.
Plus, when my wife and I one day get a bigger house, I have a dream that there will be a room with wall-to-wall bookshelves, a spot to place my comic books, a La-Z-Boy in the middle and a writing desk tucked away in a corner. The books I have collected will be placed perfectly on the shelf and my sanctuary will be born.
And so, I collect my books. I place them with care on my bookshelf, closet, wherever they will fit. And I read, and I write, and I dream.
Now, as much as I hate shopping, there is one way to guarantee that I’ll behave and be more amiable towards a useless purchase. Just promise to take me to a book store. In addition to the stack of comic books purchased each month, I always make sure to have enough to put towards a book purchase or two. Or in my case, seven.
Today, I went to the mailbox to find my latest order from Chapters had arrived. In every purchase that I make, I try to be eclectic with my choices. Some stuff I have already read, some I have heard about here and there, and some I have been dying to read, but have never gotten around to it.
Now, a lot of you may ask, why not just go to the library? After all, it’s free and doesn’t take up permanent shelf space which is already at a premium in my house. All of you who ask this question are quite nosy, and should perhaps look into ways to improve that. However, since you have already pried into my business, I am not shy to tell you that there is a certain amount of satisfaction in owning a crisp, unopened book. The covers are clean and shiny and new. The spine is unbent. It still has that new book smell. Don't get me wrong, I love the library, but there is nothing like getting a new book to call your own.
Plus, when my wife and I one day get a bigger house, I have a dream that there will be a room with wall-to-wall bookshelves, a spot to place my comic books, a La-Z-Boy in the middle and a writing desk tucked away in a corner. The books I have collected will be placed perfectly on the shelf and my sanctuary will be born.
And so, I collect my books. I place them with care on my bookshelf, closet, wherever they will fit. And I read, and I write, and I dream.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Beyond the Graveyard
The Graveyard Book, by Neil Gaiman, has been described by many, including the author himself, as an homage to The Jungle Book. I can’t make the comparison intelligently, having never read Rudyard Kipling’s work myself (I did see the Disney version, but for some reason I think that Mr. Kipling’s book didn’t have any snappy jazz numbers performed by monkeys). I can, however, state my unequivocal love of this book.
Bod is a baby when his family is killed by the man Jack. Baby Bod manages to wander into a nearby graveyard, where he is taken in and saved by the ghosts who inhabit the area, as well as by Silas, the loveable, cantankerous resident, and sometimes caretaker, of the graveyard.
After rescuing Bod and giving him the “Freedom of the Graveyard”, which includes being able to interact with its denizens and getting lessons in ghost-like behaviour from his adoptive ghost-parents, ghost-friends, ghost-teachers and one amusing, but tough, were-teacher with a penchant towards bad cooking.
The book follows young Bod through adolescence, his adventures in the graveyard and his inevitable fall into the regular world. The book is structured in eight chapters (and an interlude), each one reading like a short story about Bod’s world. When taken together, however, it is a fascinating tale of growing up and the magic that can be found in the simplest of places.
One chapter, entitled “Danse Macabre”, gives a stunning and imaginative description of what happens when the dead and the living get together for a night. Seeing those events through Bod’s eyes made me wish to once again see the world through a child’s eyes, with innocence and acceptance.
Bod realizes that sometimes you have to leave your comfortable place to see what might be over the next hill. This simple lesson is one I am still trying to learn, despite having left my comfort zone in Toronto some eight years ago.
Mention should also be made to the illustrations by long-time Gaiman collaborator, Dave McKean. The haunting drawings that accompany the prose enhance it without overwhelming it, creating the perfect atmosphere to experience the Graveyard.
Neil Gaiman has given the world some memorable stories filled with unforgettable characters, but his simple story of Bod is one I will come back to over and over again; anytime I need a reminder that life is worth living, even if it is with the dead.
Bod is a baby when his family is killed by the man Jack. Baby Bod manages to wander into a nearby graveyard, where he is taken in and saved by the ghosts who inhabit the area, as well as by Silas, the loveable, cantankerous resident, and sometimes caretaker, of the graveyard.
After rescuing Bod and giving him the “Freedom of the Graveyard”, which includes being able to interact with its denizens and getting lessons in ghost-like behaviour from his adoptive ghost-parents, ghost-friends, ghost-teachers and one amusing, but tough, were-teacher with a penchant towards bad cooking.
The book follows young Bod through adolescence, his adventures in the graveyard and his inevitable fall into the regular world. The book is structured in eight chapters (and an interlude), each one reading like a short story about Bod’s world. When taken together, however, it is a fascinating tale of growing up and the magic that can be found in the simplest of places.
One chapter, entitled “Danse Macabre”, gives a stunning and imaginative description of what happens when the dead and the living get together for a night. Seeing those events through Bod’s eyes made me wish to once again see the world through a child’s eyes, with innocence and acceptance.
Bod realizes that sometimes you have to leave your comfortable place to see what might be over the next hill. This simple lesson is one I am still trying to learn, despite having left my comfort zone in Toronto some eight years ago.
Mention should also be made to the illustrations by long-time Gaiman collaborator, Dave McKean. The haunting drawings that accompany the prose enhance it without overwhelming it, creating the perfect atmosphere to experience the Graveyard.
Neil Gaiman has given the world some memorable stories filled with unforgettable characters, but his simple story of Bod is one I will come back to over and over again; anytime I need a reminder that life is worth living, even if it is with the dead.
“Do you know what you’re going to do now?” she said.
“See the world,” said Bod. “Get into trouble. Get out of trouble again. Visit jungles and volcanoes and deserts and islands. And people. I want to meet an awful lot of
people.”-The Graveyard Book, Neil Gaiman (2008)
Friday, January 9, 2009
God Bless America!
Tough times are ahead for the United States, Canada and, well, pretty much everywhere else.
That's why I was heartened to discover that the United States treasury secretary, Henry M. Paulson Jr., had released the following, pleading for stricter practices:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/04/weekinreview/04gough.html?_r=2&ref=books
For the United States of America. For Canada. For the world. (Cue national anthems. All of them. At once. It's just faster that way...)
That's why I was heartened to discover that the United States treasury secretary, Henry M. Paulson Jr., had released the following, pleading for stricter practices:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/04/weekinreview/04gough.html?_r=2&ref=books
For the United States of America. For Canada. For the world. (Cue national anthems. All of them. At once. It's just faster that way...)
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Fear of Writing
Many writers I have read about have always said they started writing at an early age; that they loved to create their own world and to share it with their friends of family.
My own story, however, went a little differently. The very first writing experience that I remember was not a pleasant one. I was perhaps in grade 3 or 4. The class was told to write a short story, on any subject, probably just to demonstrate that we had been listening in class to grammar points and spelling. I watched my classmates as they immediately put pencil to paper, writing furiously to meet the deadline. I watched them, but that's pretty much all I did.
I remember writing my name at the top of the page and then sitting there, staring at a blank piece of paper. Nothing came. I sat there for a full half hour, trying to convince myself to write even one word. In the end, the teacher came around to collect the sheets. I handed mine in completely blank, except for my name.
Later on that day the teacher took me aside and asked me why I hadn't completed the assignment. I couldn't come up with a good excuse. She gave me the option to do the assignment during recess. I can't recall what I said, but I was a stubborn child, so that's probably how I ended up at the counsellor’s office. After much finagling, he or she was able to convince me to write something down. I have no idea what I wrote, but I do recall hating every moment of it.
Obviously, I overcame my loathing of writing to actually become a writer myself, but as I think back, I can actually see why I stubbornly refused to write, how that continues to affect me today, and how it may help other aspiring writers who are having trouble getting past the blinking cursor on the screen.
There is a reason I didn't put pencil to paper that day in the classroom, which has nothing to do with having nothing to write about. Creative writing lays bare your soul. Your thoughts are put on the page for anyone to read. I was a very shy child and I was unnaturally uncomfortable in sharing my inner thoughts with anyone. Of course, not all writing can reveal your innermost thoughts. I could have written a description of a TV show or what I had for dinner, anything innocuous. But for me, sitting there with the pencil in my hand, I felt as if my teacher were asking me to strip my mind and lay it on the page. That was something I just couldn’t do.
As time passed, my shyness ebbed. I discovered that I quite enjoyed writing and that I wanted to transfer my hurricane of thoughts to a sheet of paper. Sometimes it was even cathartic. But, in the back of my head, there was, and still is, a voice that tells me that I should not, at any cost, reveal more of myself then I should.
Lately, my writing has been waning because every time I go to continue with my story, I am at a loss of what to say. I hem and haw and waste my time on the Internet until an hour has passed and nothing has been accomplished. I told myself it was writer’s block and that every writer gets it, but I think it is something else, something that many novice writers could associate with.
This is only my theory, and feel free to disagree with me, but I think that the when you have trouble writing, it isn’t necessarily writer’s block, it’s fear. Fear that when someone reads your work they won’t like it, fear that you have nothing relevant to say, fear that your skills aren’t up to par with your favourite author, fear of failure.
Of course, fear is only one aspect preventing a writer from doing what comes natural, but I think that for beginners especially, this can be problematic. How you deal with this is up to you, but I think it’s something worth thinking about. When it comes down to it, fear is something that prevents you from accomplishing your goals.
When you are sitting at your computer, struggling to come up with the next line, chapter, stanza, verse, etc, think about what is causing the delay. If you find, like in my case, that it was fear holding you back, fight back and write. Even if all you’ve written is garbage, at least you have taken the first step to overcoming fear.
The eight-year old in me is railing against baring my soul, but the writer in me knows that it is just what is called for to continue the adventures of the characters on my page.
My own story, however, went a little differently. The very first writing experience that I remember was not a pleasant one. I was perhaps in grade 3 or 4. The class was told to write a short story, on any subject, probably just to demonstrate that we had been listening in class to grammar points and spelling. I watched my classmates as they immediately put pencil to paper, writing furiously to meet the deadline. I watched them, but that's pretty much all I did.
I remember writing my name at the top of the page and then sitting there, staring at a blank piece of paper. Nothing came. I sat there for a full half hour, trying to convince myself to write even one word. In the end, the teacher came around to collect the sheets. I handed mine in completely blank, except for my name.
Later on that day the teacher took me aside and asked me why I hadn't completed the assignment. I couldn't come up with a good excuse. She gave me the option to do the assignment during recess. I can't recall what I said, but I was a stubborn child, so that's probably how I ended up at the counsellor’s office. After much finagling, he or she was able to convince me to write something down. I have no idea what I wrote, but I do recall hating every moment of it.
Obviously, I overcame my loathing of writing to actually become a writer myself, but as I think back, I can actually see why I stubbornly refused to write, how that continues to affect me today, and how it may help other aspiring writers who are having trouble getting past the blinking cursor on the screen.
There is a reason I didn't put pencil to paper that day in the classroom, which has nothing to do with having nothing to write about. Creative writing lays bare your soul. Your thoughts are put on the page for anyone to read. I was a very shy child and I was unnaturally uncomfortable in sharing my inner thoughts with anyone. Of course, not all writing can reveal your innermost thoughts. I could have written a description of a TV show or what I had for dinner, anything innocuous. But for me, sitting there with the pencil in my hand, I felt as if my teacher were asking me to strip my mind and lay it on the page. That was something I just couldn’t do.
As time passed, my shyness ebbed. I discovered that I quite enjoyed writing and that I wanted to transfer my hurricane of thoughts to a sheet of paper. Sometimes it was even cathartic. But, in the back of my head, there was, and still is, a voice that tells me that I should not, at any cost, reveal more of myself then I should.
Lately, my writing has been waning because every time I go to continue with my story, I am at a loss of what to say. I hem and haw and waste my time on the Internet until an hour has passed and nothing has been accomplished. I told myself it was writer’s block and that every writer gets it, but I think it is something else, something that many novice writers could associate with.
This is only my theory, and feel free to disagree with me, but I think that the when you have trouble writing, it isn’t necessarily writer’s block, it’s fear. Fear that when someone reads your work they won’t like it, fear that you have nothing relevant to say, fear that your skills aren’t up to par with your favourite author, fear of failure.
Of course, fear is only one aspect preventing a writer from doing what comes natural, but I think that for beginners especially, this can be problematic. How you deal with this is up to you, but I think it’s something worth thinking about. When it comes down to it, fear is something that prevents you from accomplishing your goals.
When you are sitting at your computer, struggling to come up with the next line, chapter, stanza, verse, etc, think about what is causing the delay. If you find, like in my case, that it was fear holding you back, fight back and write. Even if all you’ve written is garbage, at least you have taken the first step to overcoming fear.
The eight-year old in me is railing against baring my soul, but the writer in me knows that it is just what is called for to continue the adventures of the characters on my page.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
The Language of the New Year
The English language is filled with wonderful (and often funny) words. As a writer, words fascinate me. In my writing, I always try to play around with words, to try to come up with different ways to say the same thing. It's a challenge that I enjoy. I also enjoy showing off my skills at language whenever I get the chance (although, despite what my wife might say, I don't know all the words).
For New Year's, my wife and I attended a laid-back party, which consisted of many fine tasting deserts, a Barbie movie (courtesy of the four-year old guest. Not that I watched it or now know some of the songs...ahem) and a spirited game of Cranium.
The teams were split between the girls and the guys and one question had the boys’ team stumped. One of our team members had to describe a word to us using only play dough. This was made doubly tough when he admitted to not quite knowing what the word meant. In a desperate attempt to get through to his thick-headed teammates (some of whom just couldn't tear their eyes away from the Barbie movie), he constructed an 'M', which looked curiously like McDonald's golden arches. At the last minute, I blurted out in frustration, "Mukluk!" The girls stared at me in amazement, for that, my friends, was the correct response.
There is a lesson to be learned here: learn every word you can, because you never know when a hastily blurted out, funny sounding word will win you the point.
(How did the boys’ team do, you ask? Well, I hardly think that's relevant to the story. Hey, look over there!)
For New Year's, my wife and I attended a laid-back party, which consisted of many fine tasting deserts, a Barbie movie (courtesy of the four-year old guest. Not that I watched it or now know some of the songs...ahem) and a spirited game of Cranium.
The teams were split between the girls and the guys and one question had the boys’ team stumped. One of our team members had to describe a word to us using only play dough. This was made doubly tough when he admitted to not quite knowing what the word meant. In a desperate attempt to get through to his thick-headed teammates (some of whom just couldn't tear their eyes away from the Barbie movie), he constructed an 'M', which looked curiously like McDonald's golden arches. At the last minute, I blurted out in frustration, "Mukluk!" The girls stared at me in amazement, for that, my friends, was the correct response.
There is a lesson to be learned here: learn every word you can, because you never know when a hastily blurted out, funny sounding word will win you the point.
(How did the boys’ team do, you ask? Well, I hardly think that's relevant to the story. Hey, look over there!)
The Sum of All Parts
In fantasy novels, there is a tendency to sprinkle characters like I pour sugar: all over the place. There is usually a main character or three, as well as a multitude of supporting characters most of whom will no doubt drift in and out of our hero’s (or heroine’s) life.
Recently, I finished reading the second novel in Terry Goodkind’s Sword of Truth series. In the second book, the hero (Richard) and heroine (Kahlan), as well as the kindly Wizard (who is also a mainstay of fantasy novels), are separated, each one going on their own separate adventure, populated by its own unique cast of characters. It never occurred to me how often writers of fantasy novels separate their characters. It’s been done in Lord of the Rings, it’s been done in the Wheel of Time books, by Robert Jordan, and it’s been done in this series. In fact, a little case of separation anxiety serves a few purposes for the reader.
First, the writer realizes that, while we might enjoy the interactions of the main characters when they are together, the separation allows them to grow and to shine in their own way. The heroine cannot lead an army to victory when the hero would be the one she deferred to if he was there. Likewise, the hero could not grow into the character he needs to be to defeat the Big Bad if he is allowed to rely on the heroine to lead him through a strange land.
Second, the reader, who may identify with one character or the other, might enjoy a respite from a perceived annoyance when they are together. This especially works well when the hero and heroine are in love. No together time means that we can avoid too much mushy stuff and get right down to the sword-swinging and magic-wielding.
Of course, there are always drawbacks to having them separate. At first, I was actually annoyed that the writer did this. Not because I disliked any particular character, but because I was so invested in Richard’s story, that any divergence into Kahlan’s story was met with rolled eyes and a wish to get through her story quickly so that I could get back to Richard’s journey through magic and prophecy.
It was only after I thought on how often writers use this tool that I was mollified. In fact, I have used the same tactic in my writing, separating my characters for the sake of the story.
Characters often do things that the reader does not like. They can be whiny, heart-broken, dim-witted or just oblivious. Every reader will have a story thread that they like above the others, and will often skip passages to get there faster (I was guilty of that when I was younger). My advice is to take it slow. Savour each thread and character as they come along, because often the author knows exactly what he or she is doing. You may not like it, but when the author brings together the converging storylines, when the characters are reunited, you will have realized just how much you might have actually enjoyed each and every thread. And when you cannot wait to see what happens in the next book of the series, you have just had a wonderful reading experience
Remember, the sum is greater then its parts. Even if some parts involves mushy stuff instead of swords.
Recently, I finished reading the second novel in Terry Goodkind’s Sword of Truth series. In the second book, the hero (Richard) and heroine (Kahlan), as well as the kindly Wizard (who is also a mainstay of fantasy novels), are separated, each one going on their own separate adventure, populated by its own unique cast of characters. It never occurred to me how often writers of fantasy novels separate their characters. It’s been done in Lord of the Rings, it’s been done in the Wheel of Time books, by Robert Jordan, and it’s been done in this series. In fact, a little case of separation anxiety serves a few purposes for the reader.
First, the writer realizes that, while we might enjoy the interactions of the main characters when they are together, the separation allows them to grow and to shine in their own way. The heroine cannot lead an army to victory when the hero would be the one she deferred to if he was there. Likewise, the hero could not grow into the character he needs to be to defeat the Big Bad if he is allowed to rely on the heroine to lead him through a strange land.
Second, the reader, who may identify with one character or the other, might enjoy a respite from a perceived annoyance when they are together. This especially works well when the hero and heroine are in love. No together time means that we can avoid too much mushy stuff and get right down to the sword-swinging and magic-wielding.
Of course, there are always drawbacks to having them separate. At first, I was actually annoyed that the writer did this. Not because I disliked any particular character, but because I was so invested in Richard’s story, that any divergence into Kahlan’s story was met with rolled eyes and a wish to get through her story quickly so that I could get back to Richard’s journey through magic and prophecy.
It was only after I thought on how often writers use this tool that I was mollified. In fact, I have used the same tactic in my writing, separating my characters for the sake of the story.
Characters often do things that the reader does not like. They can be whiny, heart-broken, dim-witted or just oblivious. Every reader will have a story thread that they like above the others, and will often skip passages to get there faster (I was guilty of that when I was younger). My advice is to take it slow. Savour each thread and character as they come along, because often the author knows exactly what he or she is doing. You may not like it, but when the author brings together the converging storylines, when the characters are reunited, you will have realized just how much you might have actually enjoyed each and every thread. And when you cannot wait to see what happens in the next book of the series, you have just had a wonderful reading experience
Remember, the sum is greater then its parts. Even if some parts involves mushy stuff instead of swords.
Friday, January 2, 2009
This is Your Conductor Speaking
When first I had the idea to start this blog, I agonized over the name. I knew I wanted it to be a haven for writers, but I also knew that I wanted to be able to write about my own thoughts and to hone my own skills as a writer.
For inspiration, I perused my bookshelf, which right now occupies two high bookcases, one smaller bookcase and the shelf in my closet (not to mention my nightstand). I happened to glance over at Jurassic Park, by Michael Crichton, which got me thinking on the author, who recently passed away, and all the enjoyable hours that I have spent with his material. One of the first books of his that I enjoyed was The Great Train Robbery (now stay with me, I am going someplace with this).
Thinking of trains got me reminiscing about all those old westerns, especially all those that have a chase scene through the train, out the back and onto the roofs of the cars (for the near perfect version of a future train robbery, go watch Firefly. It’s worth it, trust me). It was then that I remembered the caboose (told you I was going somewhere). The caboose, in addition to being a funny word in and of itself, is the part of the train which I was most fascinated with. Something about standing on the platform, watching the scenery flash by you in the opposite direction tickled me. When I happened to look up the word on Wikipedia, here is what it had to say:
And so, we come to the reason of my selection. The caboose was a place of business, but was also used as a living quarters, which was personalized by each of its occupants. I want this blog to be my own recording place, somewhere I can take care of business when I see fit, but also be my own corner where I can personalize and decorate with my unique brand of quirkiness.
And so was born...The Writer's Caboose! And now you know…the rest of the story.
For inspiration, I perused my bookshelf, which right now occupies two high bookcases, one smaller bookcase and the shelf in my closet (not to mention my nightstand). I happened to glance over at Jurassic Park, by Michael Crichton, which got me thinking on the author, who recently passed away, and all the enjoyable hours that I have spent with his material. One of the first books of his that I enjoyed was The Great Train Robbery (now stay with me, I am going someplace with this).
Thinking of trains got me reminiscing about all those old westerns, especially all those that have a chase scene through the train, out the back and onto the roofs of the cars (for the near perfect version of a future train robbery, go watch Firefly. It’s worth it, trust me). It was then that I remembered the caboose (told you I was going somewhere). The caboose, in addition to being a funny word in and of itself, is the part of the train which I was most fascinated with. Something about standing on the platform, watching the scenery flash by you in the opposite direction tickled me. When I happened to look up the word on Wikipedia, here is what it had to say:
The caboose provided the train crew with a shelter at the rear of the train. They
could exit the train for switching or to protect the rear of the train
when stopped...The conductor kept records and handled business from a table or desk in the caboose. For longer trips the caboose provided minimal living quarters, and was frequently personalized and decorated with pictures and posters.
And so, we come to the reason of my selection. The caboose was a place of business, but was also used as a living quarters, which was personalized by each of its occupants. I want this blog to be my own recording place, somewhere I can take care of business when I see fit, but also be my own corner where I can personalize and decorate with my unique brand of quirkiness.
And so was born...The Writer's Caboose! And now you know…the rest of the story.
The Writer's Caboose
Welcome one and all to the Writer's Caboose, a blog which I hope will provide answers to questions that you may have, give you questions to ponder that you may not have thought about, and generally serve as an outlet for my writer's block and occasional insanity.
I am also hoping that this will serve as a writer's sanctuary—where authors and book lovers will discover how to stave off writer’s block; find my thoughts on books new and old; unearth answers to that nagging grammar question; and hopefully are inspired by quotes that I will occasionally provide. If you accidentally find yourself coming by my little corner of the Internet, then I bid you welcome and hope that you will come back for what will surely be an evolving and interesting journey.
I am also hoping that this will serve as a writer's sanctuary—where authors and book lovers will discover how to stave off writer’s block; find my thoughts on books new and old; unearth answers to that nagging grammar question; and hopefully are inspired by quotes that I will occasionally provide. If you accidentally find yourself coming by my little corner of the Internet, then I bid you welcome and hope that you will come back for what will surely be an evolving and interesting journey.
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