June 16th, 2011

What Happens When a Literary Submission Gets Published in a Journal/Magazine

I don’t know how many Rose-coloured readers, if any, are aspiring writers, but it seems like there are a lot of articles out there designed to helps us cope with rejection of our  literary work. A useful skill, no doubt, but I don’t see a lot of guides to help us deal with acceptance of said work, which, while a much more cheerful circumstance, can also be quite confusing. In an effort to stay on the Rose-coloured path, I have assembled my humble experiences with acceptance (never as many as one would like, though still not inconsiderable) into a Rose-coloured Guide to Coping with Acceptance in journals and magazines:

How long should you wait for an acceptance? There is no standard answer except: longer than you think. If the submissions guidelines list wait times, go with that plus a few weeks. If they don’t…hopefully less than a year. It is true of many (not all) lit journals that a yes takes longer than a no. For a no, many journals just need several negative reviews from first readers, and into the rejection envelope it goes, while positively reviewed pieces get passed up the food chain, read again, discussed in a meeting, possibly held over for a future meeting, and eventually accepted. And then someone has to get round to writing you a personalized note (these are lovely) accepting the piece. These things take time. It’s not always the case that no news is good news–some mags are just backlogged and slow–but good things definitely take time.

Will I get an acceptance in my self-addressed stamped envelope? Nope. I have received 100% of my story acceptances via email, even when I’ve sent a SASE. I think editors just want to get the process started at that point–they need to make sure the story hasn’t been submitted/accepted elsewhere, discuss edits, sign a contract, etc.–and email is faster.

What if I *did* submit it elsewhere? If you submitted somewhere that accepts simultaneous submissions, just drop them a note and say, “I have to withdraw my piece as it has been accepted elsewhere”–no harm, no foul. If you did submit simultaneously when the journal asked submitters not to, your email will have to be a bit more cryptic. And no, the editors of the scorned journal *probably* won’t see your piece elsewhere, realize you broke the rules, and blackball you forevermore from their journal…probably. I don’t have experience in this, though, as simultaneous submissions remain a chance I’m not willing to take.

Will I have to sign a contract? What if I don’t understand it? Maybe. Most of the bigger journals have them; smaller/newer ones mainly don’t. I find them very simple–generally it just promises a period of time in which the piece will be published and an amount of money they’ll give you. Journals and magazines should generally be asking for “First serial rights”–they’ll put it in a periodical before anyone else. If a print journal wants to put some materials on the web, they need to stipulate that and you can generally say no to that part without refusing the print part. Sometimes a journal will ask that you wait a bit of time (1 year, maybe?) before republishing, but the odds of ever being able to republish something are slim anyways. If you find yourself het up about a contract, sleep on it, then reread. If still worried, get a writer who has published a lot to look it over, or just query whoever sent it to you about what things mean. I have almost never had an issue with these contracts; they are usually nothing to worry about. Just send’em in on time.

When do the edits come? Will they be scary? Short answer–no, usually not scary. But the long answer is very long, as no two pieces of writing need the exact same things editingwise. Let’s go through some broad categories:
Revise and resubmit–This is technically not an acceptance, but I’m putting it here because it often looks like one and writers get confused. An experienced editor will word an R&RS really carefully to be clear–“Sorry that we cannot accept but…” or the like, but others don’t, and then a letter full of feedback starts to look like editing advice. What an R&RS is is an editor’s very positive reaction to a piece of writing with (what s/he perceives as) some serious flaws. S/he doesn’t know if the writer is capable of doing the work to fix these problems or would want to, so has just sent his/her thoughts. If you act on the suggestions, the ed would be interested in rereading the work and *possibly* accepting it.

If the feedback doesn’t seem useful to you, or nothing you’d be interested in acting on, sleep on it, and if you still feel that way, tell the editor thank you and that if you make use of their suggestions you’ll be sure to resend the work. Doesn’t matter if you never do–it’s their time and energy you appreciate. I would not argue or debate what is essentially just someone’s opinion; however, if you don’t understand something, by all means ask–might as well get all you can from the advice.

If you want to act on the feedback, send an immediate thank you and, unless the editor asks for the work for a given deadline, *take your time*. It is too exciting when you get helpful thoughtful engagement with your work for the first time, and very tempting to rewrite it overnight and send it off at dawn. Don’t do that–take your work through another draft, have others read it, sit on it for a while, then read it again and send it off. Why not give it your best shot?

Conditional acceptance–this is pretty rare with creative work–it’s a term carried over from academia, where you can ask a writer to add more data or examples or whatever in specific ways and know that you will like the result. It’s very hard for an poetry/fiction/creative nonfic editor to suggest edits so specifically that s/he knows that the piece will be acceptable after those edits have been done. Basically, I’ve seen this only applied to cuts–“We’d love to take this piece, but we’d like to remove the 7 pages in the middle that are exclusively about cats. Ok?”

If you don’t feel comfortable with the edit requested, it is totally fine to offer an alternative change–“How about just 6 pages?” “How about the dog section goes instead?”–keeping in mind they might say no. Some in the industry would call this “push back,” or simply “engaging with the editorial process.” Whatever, it’s normal. You might offer a brief explanation for why you prefer your alternative change. Also, if you feel you can’t make the change suggested nor any other, say so politely and with a brief set of reasons. Unless of course your reasons are that your work is inviolate and no one is allowed to edit it; in that case, you shouldn’t be submitting to publications run by non-relatives.
Acceptance, with some edits. You might get an enthusiastic acceptance with a small suggestion to re-examine your ending to make sure it’s totally clear (this is something I’ve heard several times) or to strengthen some bit of character development, etc. etc. As with all of the above, my advice is the same: think about it, sleep on it, try doing what’s been suggested and, if it really doesn’t work for you, propose an alternative and say why. Remember: editors have been doing this a long time, and more often than not wouldn’t waste their time offering you bad advice.

Will the editors make any changes I don’t know about? One would hope not. The major edits mentioned above should come in an email (or notes on a hard-copy, if you have a time machine). Then there will be a copyedit later on–in track changes in a Word file (or equivalent), a list of changes and locations in an email, or perhaps markup on a PDF of the typeset file (or again, hard-copy markup in the mail, but that’s so rare as to almost be not worth mentioning). Most copyediting should have to do with spelling, grammar, punctuation, continuity errors (this person used to have green eyes and now they’re blue; didn’t the main character already get his marriage license on page 8?) Some copyeds will try to help with awkward or confusing phrasings. You should get a chance to review the copyedit, and likely accept most of it; anything you don’t agree with you can stet (editorial speak for reject).

*Sometimes* if the copyedit is very light–just spelling and punctuation–you won’t be given it for review. I’ve generally found this fine, though everyone has heard the story of the copyeditor incorrectly changing a comma in a pivotal spot and thus changing a meaning. Don’t make yourself crazy over this one–it’s almost unheard of. Also, some small-staff journals just don’t do a copyedit, and they’ll publish your piece warts and all. You can simply ask, when your work gets accepted, “Should I expect to see the copyedit? If so, when? I’ll be sure to make time to review it.” And then you’ll know where you stand.

I have never run across a case–for my own work or anyone else’s–where an editor made content changes and then just ran the piece without the author’s approval. That would be pretty unheard of, as well as ghastly. More common, although still pretty rare, is to be sent a document containing your edited work with no indication of where the edits have been made (ie., no track changes or markup). I hate that! If it’s in Word, you can just run a “compare documents” with your original work (I’m sure there are equivalents in other word-processors, but I don’t know what they are). Compare documents is a hot mess to view, especially if the changes are extensive, but you can get through it, see what’s been changed, and send a list to the editor of what you want further altered or stetted. You might mention what a hassle it is for these changes to be made invisibly–maybe it never occurred to them.
Now what? You might get to review a PDF of the typeset pages–good time to check for typos one last time, as well as weird word breaks or loss of formatting (italics disappears in typesetting pretty regularly). Follow the deadlines the eds give you for these, or your changes probably won’t be included. This step might not happen at some journals, and I wouldn’t worry too much about it–you can’t, anyway, because when you realize that you didn’t get to proof pages is usually when you get your printed copy in the mail. Assume that they’ve proofread really carefully themselves.
Do I get to read at the launch? Maybe! Consider it a compliment if you get invited to do so! And even if you don’t get asked to read, do attend the launch if you can, and bring your friends–it is so fun to celebrate your work with others who like it too. If you live far away from the home of the publication, send your best for the launch–and certainly volunteer if you’ll be on vacation nearby and would like to stop in. Not every journal has launches, or not for every issue–especially if it’s online and the contributers/editors very dispersed. But if you get a chance to go, I’m pretty sure you’ll have fun.
When will it be in stores? If you have received your contributor’s copies, probably soon–you could ask the editor or the distro person at the journal and find out not only when but where: not every literary journal is stocked in every bookstore (sigh). Folks are usually very helpful in finding you places to buy their wares. And you could always ask for your journal by name, and encourage others to do the same. Some shops will order something in if there is a groundswell of support for it.

Something’s gone wrong: my piece isn’t in the issue it was slated for; I didn’t get my contributor’s copies; I didn’t get paid; etc. Sigh. Give everybody the benefit of the doubt: life is confusing and many journals are swamped and understaffed. Just ask, very politely, when you should expect A to happen, and/or why B is happening instead. If you don’t get a response, or the response tells you something will happen that then doesn’t, just keep sending polite emails on a regular basis. If your publication keeps getting put off, you can decide when it’s appropriate to withdraw the piece and do so–only the writer can really know when a given publication has become more trouble than it is worth. Once it’s published, that’s not an option–but really, I’ve never *not* been sent my $$ or contributor’s copies, though it’s sometimes taken much longer than I’ve expected. Gentle friendly nagging is, I’ve found, the best (and only) option.

Wow, this piece is more than 2000 words long, and covers some stressful situations. If you’ve not published work before, I don’t mean to scare you–it really is usually as fun and lovely as you’ve been hoping. But the procedures are so varied, and as a novice it’s easy to feel you don’t get to say anything or ask any questions. A few times recently, folks have asked me some of the questions listed above, but I’m hardly an expert on anything–if other people have different experiences or opinions, please do share. Really, everyone who has read this far is to be congratulated!

May 21st, 2011

NYC, City of Kittens

Yes, right, I know, New York City’s international reputation is actually not “City of Kittens.” I do know that, despite not being very familiar with that town. People always think I’m some sort of New York expert because all of the senior Rosenblums lived there for many years. I have personally actually been to the city four times, for a grand total of probably less than two weeks. Three of those four visits were before my 14th birthday.

So while I do have much anecdotal information about the Big Smoke, most of it pre-dates 1972 or comes from watching Friends/Seinfeld/Mad about You/Woody Allen movies, and I’m thus about as intimidated/excited as any other country bumpkin when I have to go there. Like tomorrow. It’s a very short trip, to meet some cool people at the Jewish Book Network and present a little book talk to them, and then turn right around and come home to celebrate my birthday.

I’m pretty nervous, though slightly comforted that, at least from the look of the map, the building where I will be speaking is next door to where one of the aforementioned senior Rosenblums lived in the 1960s. No idea why this is comforting, though it is a nice building. Maybe we can upgrade “pretty nervous” to “very nervous.”

Bottom line: when next you hear from me, I will (a) have made speech in New York City, and (b) have turned 33. I may be an entirely different person once those two things have happened. We can’t be sure.

In any case, wish me luck. More with (a) than (b), but all luck-wishes appreciated. And happy Victoria Day to you!

May 2nd, 2011

To Make My Own Days

I haven’t posted in a week for the opposite of my usual reason for delayed postings. Instead of too busy, I’ve been overwhelmed with free time, and utterly unable to organize myself to get much done. This is, at least, a new problem.

What it is is: I’ve taken a leave of absence from my job so I can write. I am extremely grateful for the time, both for the support and flexibility of my bosses, and to the generosity and faith of the Canada Council. Believe me, I am not complaining about anything, just a little afraid. Generosity, support, and faith–it’s a lot to live up to.

I don’t know if I made up this expression on my own, but whenever people are self-employed, I always say they “make their own days”–decide on the schedule, and then decide whether to follow it. And I’m slightly in awe of people who can do that. Even during my brief embrace of academia, which is supposed to be largely self-structured and freeing, I marched myself to campus every day and remained for hours, working in the library and common rooms so I could pretend someone else was making the rules.

Allegedly creative people aren’t supposed to admit this but: I love it when other people make the rules. I’m not great at making my own. Also in graduate school, I never had less than 2 jobs, often 3. Part of that was my very natural fear of starving to death, but the other thing was I like having to be certain places at certain times. Then, whenever there is a time when I don’t have to be anywhere, I know that time is for writing. When I *never* have to be anywhere, I’m never sure what time is for writing and what time is for putting up hooks and what part is for running errands and… Which pretty much explains my morning, in a nutshell.

There is also a part of me that believes that grown-up, responsible people get up early, work from 9 to 5, eat dinner, and then squash the rest of their lives into the time that comes after that and before sleep. Although, come to think of it, that never once happened in the house I grew up in.

I possibly picked up this theory during a rather devastating bout of unemployment after university, wherein I applied for 146 jobs before getting one. I think at that point I pretty much decided that if I could just find some people who would let me sit in their office all day and do something useful for them in exchange for enough money to live, I would never be unhappy again. And it worked out well enough; I’ve been basically very lucky in my employers, and I know I’m actually quite well suited to the 9 to 5 lifestyle; better than a lot of people I know, anyway.

But the thing about a good job, one you care about and want to do well, is that it does crowd out other things. It might refuse to stay in the 9 to 5 slot, and even if the actually work ends at 5, the more you care, the more you might have trouble turning your brain to other matters. And the thing about writing on a very flexible schedule is that you can always do it later. Later later later, there’s an infinite amount of it.

So to dedicate myself to writing *now*–that’s new to me. And in the 2.5 days since I’ve started, I have written a good chunk of pages, but I’ve also passed a lot of time fretting, working out, eating, staring out the window, looking at Facebook, and trying to reconfigure my internet connection. And wondering when the mail will come. And phoning my parents.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’m scared of wasting this wonderful opportunity, but I’m going to try my best. I’m not going to be too hard on myself if I can’t write all day every day–I’m already pretty sure that I can’t. But I’m trying to do all I can, without going insane, and if anyone who makes his or her own days has any tips on keeping to it, I would surely like to hear them.

April 12th, 2011

What’s this book about?

Bookstore employees, librarians, students and teachers answer this question with aplomb–accurately, succintly, and without hestitation–but I think anyone who has actually written and published a book knows how baffling it is. Something 200 pages, or even less, full of people and places and thoughts and ideas, is not easy to sum up. Even if there is in fact a spy, a grim police investigator, a hooker with a heart of gold, and a car chase through the Andes, the guy who spent a year or two of his life writing it is not going to say, “Classic spy novel,” and leave it at that. Once you’ve spent hours and days and weeks poring over the minutiae of the characters’ lives, you’ll never be able to boil them down to quick descriptors–they are far too human and complex and difficult and weird and…oh, if you really want to know, why not read the book?

Basically, when someone asks me what my book is about (either one), I am extremely tempted to say, “Everything.” Because though the characters and situations in the stories are deeply specific, unique, and definite, the book itself represents my way of seeing the world: what I think is important, worth noticing, worth dismissing, funny, strange, exciting, stupid, boring, and/or cool. A book is a world view because a book is by its nature a microcosm: what get left in versus ignored constitutes what the writer sees as important.

I can’t say for sure, having not gotten very far down the road yet, but I think this might be more pronounced in writers early in their careers. You have so many years (nearly 30, in my case) to work up to your first book and then–well, most people’s first books aren’t satires of European governance. First books are usually very personal, which is not at all to say autobiographical (though many are, of course): you can tell who people are through what they care about, just as easily as through what they’ve done.

And all this is to say: I’m having trouble coming up with a decent summary of The Big Dream. I had this problem with *Once* too–it took me months *after* the book came out to work up a competent summary of what one might expect in reading it. This necessity shouldn’t have taken me by surprise–I wouldn’t read anything that had offered no clue what it was about. But it’s only being on the inside that has shown me how hard it is to offer that clue.

So, here’s what I’ve come up with so far–what do you think? Sure, I’d like people to want to read the book after reading this paragraph, but even more important is that they have some sense of what they would experience if they did. After all, there are people in the world who would just *hate* this book, based on who they are and what they want when they read–they might as well be able to flag an inappropriate choice from the outset and not get involved. So, do you think this gives you a clue?

The Big Dream is a collection of short stories about life at the Canadian offices of Dream Inc., an American lifestyle-magazine publisher. In a tough market, the staff is struggling to do their jobs well–or even to keep them. But they’re also trying to have friends, to be good parents and good children, to eat lunch and answer the phone and be happy. The Big Dream is a book about how life doesn’t stop on company time. It’s about how the “dream job” and dream life that is supposed to accompany it do not necessarily happen, but the joys and sorrows and sandwiches of waking life are more than enough to occupy our minds and hearts. The Big Dream is a book not about jobs, but about the people who have them.

May 26th, 2010

Fun and paranoia

So I spent my birthday weekend (also Queen Victoria’s) in Montreal, frolicking and getting tan and eating tasty food and sleeping in a king-size bed in a glamourous hotel (of course I dislike the recession, but there are some fringe benefits, like glamourous hotels costing normal-people prices for a while). Sorry for not mentioning it here (or anyplace electronic)–sites like this freaked me out about “locational privacy.” So a few people who wanted to spontaneously chat with me this weekend could not and I feel a bit silly about that, but otherwise, it was a very very lovely weekend. And bonus: now I’m 32!

Back in TO, further good things are afoot (and not even just being taken out for lunches and getting cards in the post). Kerry’s daughter Harriet is turning one, and to celebrate Kerry is having a best literary babies contest, with the prize being a subscription to the wonderous The New Quarterly lit journal. Go enter! For another thing, it is a skrillion degrees out, but just perfect in the shade if you are on a patio…I’m just suggesting. And I have an essay coming out in the summer issue of Maisonneueve, on newsstands at the end of June, which I’m happy about.

There’s always more to do, natch, and also the niggling worry of the potato bug I found in my stairwell, but really, Toronto in the summer is a beautiful thing. Hope you are enjoying it.

May 20th, 2010

On Obscenity

I got an email the other day with a number of obscenities in it. It was a short note and they really stuck out, plus I was a bit bleary eyed and was having trouble grasping the rest of the content (one of the many awesome things about my life is that people very rarely curse me out early in the morning anymore). It took me a few moments to realize the note was from someone who had read a story of mine and was struck by certain language in it that might cause problems publishing it. The note wasn’t even critical, just factual, and all the obscene stuff was in quotation marks–I wrote it.

People say stuff, do stuff and, especially, think stuff, that I never would–and would never want to–but I do want to write about people who aren’t me. So, I have to learn to think (if not say and do) like someone else. Someone with different beliefs, values, standards than me. Someone who likes gefilite fish and ignores lucky pennies, to name two inane examples. Someone racist or disrespectful to women, to name to less inane ones.

So?

No so–I need to do it, because people like that exist. They are even charming and kind on occasion and witty at parties–and I want to write about them. Part of the thrill of writing and reading fiction is breaking out of our own tragically limited points of view and seeing why and how someone might do something completely else.

So if I write seriously, respectfully, and thoughtfully about someone who is is glibly thoughtlessly hateful–what is that? In my mind, that’s not only fine but necessary, but then again, it makes me nervous.

I finally finished reading *Tribal Justice* by Clark Blaise, probably one of the most nuanced, multi-dimensional and utterly agonizing fictional examinations of race and culture as I have ever read. As much as that book challenged and absorbed my every intellectual synapse, I still somehow had the mental space to wonder how my fellow bus riders were interepting the brightly titled cover, or if anyone had glanced over my shoulder to see the range of racial ephithets on many pages.

Those words needed to be there–they reperesented the language people used in the times and places Blaise was writing about. So did the graphic accounts of violence, the weird sexuality, the inflamatory rhetoric–that’s what these characters said, did, believed. These were the stories Blaise wanted to tell, and they needed telling, in the actual lived language. But oh my goodness, I hope no one got the wrong impression based on the cover, etc. (I would recommend this book, but not to everyone: it’s really hard to deal with parts of it).

So, with such openmindedness, RR, why did you note “too close to hateful language” in the margins of a couple of the student stories you were marking just now? Surely those teens have different viewpoints on race/sex/culture/etc, and have a right to represent the world the way they see it–don’t they?

Oh, man, I’m still not sure I did the right thing (don’t worry, I still have the papers, and some white-out). After reading more than 60 stories, I am pretty convinced that a lot of these kids could not distinguish well between their characters and themselves (witness the number of main characters who have perfect wardrobes, expensive cars, and perfect love, all 17). And I want to run up the flag of sensitivity without necessarily making them salute–I can’t make anyone like other races or religions or sexual orientations, I can only make them aware that they are *not* perfectly unbiased in these regards and see what they do with that new self awareness. (I am making this sound really pervasive so I can generalize, lest my students stumble on this blog–actually, it was only a couple kids).

What if I am wrong, and the students are simply writing about characters who believe these things and they don’t themselves? Well, then they’re really talented because it reads so heartfelt. And I owe them an apology.

I wonder, if I ever manage to publish the story mentioned above, if it’ll be something people read and squirm about, ducking the book into their chests on the bus? Or if I could ever be conflated with my characters, assumed to have their blindspots and uglinesses (my own are plenty).

Hmm, this post has a theme but no thesis–I certainly don’t know the answers.

October 4th, 2009

At Draft

Yesterday, I was a happy attendee and terrified participant at The Draft Reading Series. As usual at these readings, the organizers were super on-the-ball, supportive and fun. Here is Maria from the Draft group, below, introducing the event and being charming:

Then amazing Amy Jones read, also new work, which was shocking and very funny and made me even more excited to read her forthcoming book as well as for the other events we’ll be doing together soon (oooh, suspense: stay tuned, Metcalf-Rooke fans!!)

Then Sachiko Murakami read some striking poems about Vancouver, and wore some really nice boots (not pictured):

Then Lina Medaglia read from her novel about immigration, superstition and how hard it is to be a kid because no one will tell you anything:

Since it was the Draft reading series, I read a story in draft form, ie., something I wrote the week before and edited over breakfast. This is something I had never done before, and it was really only Hallowe’en kisses (can you believe I could not find a picture to link to here? Can you also believe that it didn’t occur to me before now that bringing candy to readings is awesome?) Here I am, terrified, and full of sugar (thanks for taking the pic, B):

Then, of course, the camera died (B, I don’t blame you) before I could get a shot of final reader Roz Spafford, but I assure you she was interesting too! And then there was the first open mic I’d ever seen, which was quite quite good, considering the reputation of such ventures, and included such cool readers as August Bourre and Terri Favro!

It was an entertaining and illuminating (I can read draft work to strangers without bursting into flame–who knew??) afternoon, though I was shocked that there was candy leftover. Don’t worry, that will be rectified shortly!

Teenland, whoa-oh
RR

March 12th, 2009

The Kids Are All Right

A few people have asked me how my residency at a local high school is going–I teach grade 10 and 11 creative writing every Wednesday through the Descant Arts and Letters Foundation’s SWAT Program. I won’t be able to go into detail about my students’ specific weirdnesses and wonderfulnesses, because I think if they found out I was posting about them on the internet, they would quite rightly stop coming to class in protest.

Within the bounds of the privacy act of teenhood, I can tell you that I love my classes and that I am exhausted. Teenagers have a lot of energy, and this energy is resulting in some really funny, honest, interesting work. It’s also resulting in a lot things information needing to be repeated, things falling on the floor, papers getting lost, people not writing their names on their work, not being in uniform, not understanding the assignment, not understanding that the assignment was supposed to be handed in, and/or being in the bathroom when the assignment was mentioned.

Much as I love learning, love talking, love a challenge, I am very much not a natural teacher. I am a selective chatterbox: show interest and I’ll tell you more than you ever wanted to know; show indifference or distain, I’ll clam up like the proverbial shellfish. One of the many incredible challenges of teaching is to have enough faith in what you are saying to keep saying it to people who…aren’t super into it. I think I’m lucky to have quite engaged, intelligent students, but they have a lot on their minds, and as soon as I see attention waver, I get intensely doubtful about the whole endeavour.

If we were chatting over lunch, this would be the point in the conversation where I’d hunch back in my chair and say, “But of course, what do I know? What do *you* think?” Sometimes I can, in fact, throw the discussion point to the class, but sometimes I’m not at place in the lesson where I can do that (or I throw it open and no one responds) and then I’m stuck pursuing my thesis that I believe, though I am fast losing faith in my ability to explain it.

This is unusual for me, and very hard–I hate trying to convince the unconvinced; I’d rather just allow them to remain unconvinced. Also unusual for me is granting people permission to go to the bathroom, so let’s just say the whole experience is foreign, but I’m learning a lot from trying to stick to my guns, as well as from the questions I get asked.

I’ve listed some of the things we’ve been questioning and discussing below. For sure I have my own opinions on these matters, but since I’m not so sure I can prove’em anymore–or that these are questions on which definitive answers are possible–maybe I’ll throw it open to the blogosphere and see if anyone responds. What do *you* think about:

1) What does bubblegum taste like? What does Red Bull taste like? What does Axe Body Spray smell like? What does Christmas smell like? What does hair smell like? What does the inside of a vacuum cleaner smell like? What does a sour-cream doughnut taste like?
2) How much imagination is too much? When can you make it all up and when do you have to do research? Why is ok to write a fantasy novel about an imaginary kingdom that you made up, and not ok to write a prison novel without knowing anything about prisons? Or is it, in fact, ok to make up an imaginary penal system and set it not Canada but “Canada”? Because it’s *fiction*, after all–people should know that, right?
3) Do all major characters in books have to have flaws? Can you think of a character in a book (or a movie) with no flaws? Do all villains have to have some complexity or good qualities? Can you think of a villain with some good (in a movie or a book)?
4) What can you infer about a man who wears cords with his t-shirt tucked in? What can you infer about a woman who wears a dress with holes in it? What can you infer about someone who is very pale and always wears hats? What can you infer about someone keeps a barfridge in his bedroom? What can you infer about someone who hangs salamis up in her kitchen?

I await your responses eagerly. Cause really, what *do* I know?

Oh I take a look at that picture
RR

August 12th, 2008

Mayumi

So, yes, I did it: I bought a digital camera. It doesn’t usually take this much Sturm und Drang to buy a camera (or a house) but I have a tough time with electronics. Thanks to all who supported me in my invented problem, and thanks especially to the subject of my first digital photo, beautiful Afshan in the unbeautiful rain:

The other major event of the weekend was a haircut that reduced my attractively uninteresting (boringly benign?) shoulder length curls into the Emo-Boy Special–a jaw-length tangle that flips over my entire face the moment I nod. Leaning forward, I could be in My Chemical Romance. *You* try to guess the difference:

See, impossible to tell who’s who!!

Look forward to more amusing guessing games of this nature with the help of Mayumi. Mayumi is the camera–I name my appliances to make them seem less threatening, and this camera is of Japanese parentage.

My heart is far away / tell me what to say
RR

May 18th, 2008

Hitches

It was me who was late to the meeting place, for myriad stupid reasons, none of them sufficient excuse. I ran up the stairs, and we three went briskly in search of the cab stand. But we ended up at the kiss’n’ride, and so we went to call the special number that would bring us a free taxi. They promised to come, but did not come.

We discussed, after a while, abandoning the free taxi and paying for one, or was it too late to get the bus, or was the whole operation doomed? A girl overheard, and pointed us in the direction of the actual cab stand. We started to make our delusatory way there, in painful shoes, lugging gifts. I became so distracted by my skirt blowing up above my waste that I walked in front of a moving car.

A voice called to us. Did we want a ride? The helpful girl of a moment before had kissed’n’rode with her mother, in a minivan. Strangers in cars are bad news, we knew, but really, what could be safer than mother and daughter in mini-van? They drove us exactly there, brushed off our thanks, turned out to have the same family name as one of my compatriots. We all work in the same industry. Thank you, kind strangers.

“We’re not *very* late,” we posited, running up the drive. It had rained in the morning, but by 4:08 the sun was bright, so we assumed the wedding would go as planned out of doors. We ran three-quarters of the way ’round the building before we realized it wouldn’t.

“Go all the way around!”

“Fence!”

“Go back!”

“Wait, gate. Gate!”

“Go forward.”

We spotted, then, a conservatory window filled with expectant, forward-facing faces. “Oh, *there’s* the wedding!”

“Get down, get down, they’ll see us.”

Creeping through the garden lugging gifts in uncomfortable shoes, we re-emerged at the front of the building and whirled open the front door, to come face-to-face with the bride, on her father’s arm.

Da-dum-dee-dum!

“What are you doing? You’re late!!”

“We’re sorry!”

“It’s all my—”

“Get in there!”

And, as she was walking down the aisle, “You’ll hear about this on Tuesday!”

And now J and K are married, and no two people could have had a more splendid, generous and fun day, despite such errant friends.

It caught on in a flash
RR