December 14th, 2010

Reverb 13

When it comes to aspirations, it’s not about ideas. It’s about making ideas happen. What’s your next step? (Author: Scott Belsky) (www.reverb10.com)

I’m pretty sure writing it here qualifies as the idea, and not the making-ideas-happen, but I guess in January (or sooner, if being a giant slacker gets boring) I will begin another book. I’m looking forward to it, mainly, but also–what else would I do?

December 2nd, 2010

Reverb 10 Day 2

Still doing the Reverb thing–thanks to those who shared their own words in the comments of my last post.

Here’s today’s prompt:

December 2 Writing.
What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?
(Author: Leo Babauta)

Hey, I didn’t even know this was a writing project–I feel so special! Uh, I suppose the thing I do is self-delude. I tell myself that *everything* I do contributes to my writing in some way. I need to go to parties and hang out with my friends, or I’ll be too sad to write. I need to play Facebook scramble and eat a lot of snacks as healthy breaks from writing. I need to get totally obsessed with page-formatting or editors will think I’m a slob.

Cough.

Probably not all those things are true, but I sure do enjoy them. In truth, I probably can’t entirely cut these things out, but I can cut down on the self-lies…a little. I do think it has to be ok with me that I’m not a terribly focussed person and maybe never will be; it has to be ok that I take breaks and slack off and make random phone calls instead of working sometimes. Because honestly, the biggest enemy of productivity seems to be guilt. The worse you feel about writing vs. not writing, the less you’ll actually accomplish (at least, in my opinion/experience).

What are your big non-contributors?

November 16th, 2010

This post is full of friends

1) Washington, DC, at least as hosted by the wonderous Fred is delightful.
2) AMT (also wonderous) pointed out that the link to Oberon’s site (which you might want to click on for various reasons, including investigating Best Canadian Stories 10) was broken. But now it isn’t.
3) The new New Quarterly is now out and about, with some very interesting portraits (including one of me), stories (including one by Jessica Westhead) and essays (including one by Kerry Clare).

Hooray!

November 5th, 2010

A Matter of Influence

Earlier this week, I did a short talk and Q&A with a short story class that’s studying some pieces from Once. The theme I was asked to discuss was influence–what short stories and short-story writers had I learned from, and what, and how much. Well, I extrapolated those questions from the theme given; I think I got it more or less right.

There are so many writers I tried to learn from…ok, imitate…when I was younger. Ok, and I still do. I have never ever been called out on any of this rampant imitation, and here’s why: my mimicry is not good enough to remind any of the writing that I’m supposed to be mimicking. I’m not that good–it takes talent to make your voice sound like someone else’s, a weird and specific talent that few possess.

This is why the old teenage justification–“I don’t want to read other people, because it’ll influence me and my work will be derivative”–is so hilarious. Yeah, you read too much Sylvia Plath or JD Salinger, and you are in *real* danger of sounding exactly like that genius person. That’s the problem.

I don’t think I’ve ever succeeded in sounding like much of anyone except myself. But the writers that I choose to mimic–and thus to read closely and repeatedly and with care–teach me things in small and subtle ways, and point me in directions I never good have found all on my untutored own. I am a firm believer that imitation is a perfectly excellent way to begin; the places where we first hear are own voices in our work are the places where we’ve utterly failed to sound like someone else.

The influencer I chose to talk about with the students is Leon Rooke, and the stories we took up were Leon’s A Bolt of White Cloth, probably one of my favourite stories ever (it’s a long list of faves), and a story of my own that Leon pushed me (both figurively, by inspiring me with his own work, and literally, by tapping my arm and saying, “Hey, this is what you should write!”), “Linh Lai” (sorry, it’s not online).

What’s funny is that I started the talk with the same basic material on “influence” as above, talked about and read from “Bolt,” then talked about and read from “Linh,” then asked if they could see a connection. Partly, I think the students were nervous to have a stranger teaching them (they loosened up later and the Q&A was really fun) but also, the connection is not obvious.

My writing is not very Rookian, more’s the pity. I don’t have that swing to my prose, usually, and Leon’s background and experiences take him to places I can’t go. But *I* feel the connection, and know how much I learned about quotidan magic and wet-laundry romance from Leon, not to mention how to set a scene with just a glimpse of the sky. Just because my imitation is a 99% failure, doesn’t mean that that 1% isn’t in there, beating for all it’s worth.

This is *not* to say that I take my story as a failed story (I love that one, and all my published stories, actually; modesty ought to have forbid me saying that but oh well!)–just that the imitation didn’t work. But nor should it. We already have one human who can write like Leon Rooke, and he carries the mantel admirably. I am happy to just write like me, which is of course the sum everything I’ve known and seen, and everyone I’ve learned from.

October 28th, 2010

Grammar ranting (no, not again!)

Note 1: This post has been edited because, ironically, part of it wasn’t very clear the first time out.
Note 2: I’m not really that obnoxious in restaurants.

I could be accused of ranting about spelling and grammar in this space–I have no choice but to hang my head in shame. I’ve been making resolutions to stop it, to accept that language is fluid and evolving (well, I’m trying, AMT>) but every time I read certain things, I want to get back into the grammar ranting game.

On the weekend, I was thinking about about what sort of post I could write that would, a) help people care to some grammar rules and b) not come off as pretentious and bitchy. And then last night I had this magical dream (did you just stop reading this post? probably). I was eating a nice Italian restaurant called Lemon House (not real, but should be!) and having a really hard time deciding on what to eat. The waiter came over and we spent a long time discussing what I might like. For some reason, once I decided, I asked him, “What is a waiter’s job?” And he responded, “A waiter is your advocate in the kitchen.” (for the record, I got some fancy pizza that was excellent).

When I woke up, I knew the dream was about editors. Editors are readers’ advocate with the writers–they try to get good stories for readers the same way waiters try to get good food for hungry people. Really good editors take what the writer *wants* to say, and tries to help the reader understand–by removing excess words, replacing ambiguous phrases, tightening structure, and correcting errors. Editors also word towards “felicity”–work that sounds good and pleasing to the ear. But the definition of “felicity” is best left to the debate between the writers and eds themselves.

My point is, most editorial work is not about telling writers they are “wrong,” but helping writers get their ideas to readers in a way that will be understood and appreciated by the most people possible.

Which is why certain language “mistakes” can probably allowed to stand–though it kills me, spelling “all right” as “alright” probably confuses no one. Other sorts of error, though, I’m going to keep right on ranting about, because no matter how common they get, they still impede meaning.

Like what, Rebecca? is what I know you are asking.

Like using the posessive pronoun to modify a singular noun when a plural is meant. I don’t even know why people do this–typing that “s” is not that exhausting. It’s sadly common, and the results can be really baffling. Like this:

“I can’t stand that hipster couple. They both always park their car right over the sidewalk.”

So–was that hipster couple sharing a car, and whoever is driving it consistently parked over the sidewalk? Then the sentence above is correct. However, if a very common error has been made, there were two cars–each individually parked over the sidewalk by one person each (I think this is where the erroneous idea takes hold) but definitely plural in the sentence above.

In this particular case, you could eventually say “who cares? People are so mean to hipsters” unless you are a bi-law officer, in which case you could go look at the sidewalk and count the cars. But my point (eh?) is that if 10 pages later, the two hipsters have a head-on collision with each other, the reader has been prevented from making a clear picture in her head, and worse, drawn out of whatever the writer wants her to think about (evil hipsters) to wonder, “I thought they had only one car?” which in fact the number of cars shouldn’t matter at all.

This is a very small issue, but it’s only small when you make yourself perfectly clear, so the reader doesn’t think of herself as reading grammar, just a story.

Thank you, magic dream waiter.

October 7th, 2010

Why date a writer

I’m really going to try to cut down on the number of email forwards I use as posts here, but I can’t help it; this one is funny! Some of this stuff is just untrue slanders, but not #6 and #13!

Of course, one solution to all this is just for writers to date other writers, so that both partners’ quirks will cancel each other out and you’ll be totally charmed by each others’ pretensions. I’m just sayin’…

EDIT #2: I originally posted this with a request for proper attribution, and Nicole kindly provided it–the author is Kathryn Vercillo and she originally posted the list here. However, I didn’t realize that her original commentary was something else–the list has been edited by Nitsuh Abebe and reposted here–thanks to Mo for pointing that out. I really hope I’ve got this all correct now!

1.          Writers will romance you with words. We probably won’t. We write for ourselves or for money and by the time we’re done we’re sick of it. If we have to write you something there’s a good chance it’ll take us two days and we’ll be really snippy and grumpy about the process.

2.          Writers will write about you. You don’t want this. Trust me.

3.          Writers will take you to interesting events. No. We will not. We are busy writing. Leave us alone about these “interesting events.” I know one person who dates a terrific writer. He goes out alone. She is busy writing.

4.          Writers will remind you that money doesn’t matter so much. Yes. We will do this by borrowing money from you. Constantly.

5.          Writers will acknowledge you and dedicate things to you. A better way to ensure this would be to become an agent. That way you’d actually make money off of talking people through their neuroses.

6.          Writers will offer you an interesting perspective on things. Yes. Constantly. While you’re trying to watch TV or take a shower. You will have to listen to observations all day long, in addition to being asked to read the observations we wrote about when you were at work and unavailable for bothering. It will be almost as annoying as dating a stand-up comedian, except if you don’t find these observations scintillating we will think you’re dumb, instead of uptight.

7.          Writers are smart. The moment you realize this is not true, your relationship with a writer will develop a significant problem.

8.          Writers are really passionate. About writing. Not necessarily about you. Are you writing?

9.          Writers can think through their feelings. So don’t start an argument unless you’re ready for a very, very lengthy explication of our position, our feelings about your position, and what scenes from our recent fiction the whole thing is reminding us of.

10.      Writers enjoy their solitude. So get lost, will you?

11.      Writers are creative. This is why we have such good reasons why you should lend us $300 and/or leave us alone, we’re writing.

12.      Writers wear their hearts on their sleeves. Serious advice: if you meet a writer who’s actually demonstrative, be careful.

13.      Writers will teach you cool new words. This is possibly true! We may also expect you to remember them, correct your grammar, and look pained after reading mundane notes you’ve left for us.

14.      Writers may be able to adjust their schedules for you. Writers may be able to adjust their schedules for writing. Are you writing? Get in line, then.

15.      Writers can find 1000 ways to tell you why they like you. By the 108th you’ll be pretty sure we’re just making them up for fun.

16.      Writers communicate in a bunch of different ways. But mostly writing. Hope you don’t like talking on the phone — that shit is rough.

17.      Writers can work from anywhere. So you might want to pass on that tandem bike rental when you’re on vacation.

18.      Writers are surrounded by interesting people. Every last one of whom is imaginary.

19.      Writers are easy to buy gifts for. This is true. Keep it in mind when your birthday rolls around, okay?

20.      Writers are sexy. No argument. Some people think this about heroin addicts, too.

September 24th, 2010

First Drafts Are So Embarrassing (post 2)

I’m just finishing off a new draft of something–not final, but a “good” draft. Maybe “better”? Anyway, among the last steps is rereading my workshop notes to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Not that I take all advice offered in workshop (by a longshot) but it’s better to refuse advice because you thought it over and decided against rather than that you didn’t see it written way off in the corner there.

In this rereading, I was reminded of problems (now solved) that fit the FDASE profile. To wit:

–I accidentally had a character doing something that would’ve caused her trouble with the law. I didn’t know what the law *is*, you see. But now I do.

–Several times characters went home and then came back to work, and yet it was mysteriously still the same day.

–Written in the margin: “There’s an app for that!” I’ve actually now incorporated that line into the dialogue, it’s such a part of our 2010 language.

–Rich people don’t use buy flip phones. Apparently.

–This I learned not from workshop but from Spellcheck: it’s “blowjob” not “blow job.” Good to know, MSWord. I’m actually not very embarrassed about this one.

You know, I don’t necessarily need to play this game by myself–if anyone else has any FDASE type moments they are willing to share, please do!!

September 22nd, 2010

First Drafts Are So Embarrassing (post 1)

I think this is good cathartic feature for me to start, although I’m not sure if I’ll be able to keep going or get engulfed in a wave of shame. Anyway, first and possibly only FDASE post:

Was–

Mark suddenly sat up and looked deeply Sanjeet in the eyes. “I’m a good person.”
Sanjeet rubbed the fronts of his thighs uneasily. “Sure.”

Adverb mania!!!

Better:

Mark sat up and looked Sanjeet in the eyes. “I’m a good person.”
Sanjeet rubbed the fronts of his thighs. “Sure.”

September 14th, 2010

Bronwen Wallace

A call for submissions that might be worth considering:

The Bronwen Wallace Award for Emerging Writers: You’ve got to be under 35 and unpublished in book form to qualify for this one, but otherwise it’s quite uncomplicated to enter. Deadline December 17.

September 13th, 2010

Reality: not a good idea

Years ago, I knew some people very distantly–“saw around” is probably closer than “knew”–who struck me as interesting. Then we had a series of interactions, very brief, that made me intensely curious about how they could possibly relate to each other, let alone get along as well as they seemed to. They treated each other (and me) very strangely, and while it was fine to treat me any way they liked, since they never had to talk to me again, I couldn’t imagine how they could stick with each other like that. The whole thing was very very odd.

Afterwards, as we all made good on that opportunity not to speak again, I thought about those folks a lot, and began to try to work out possible reasons for them to have acted as they had. I started filling in motivations and also backgrounds, childhoods, hometowns, central people in their lives, etc. Finally, I came up with a rather plausible world and lives for these acquaintances, whom by that time I had lost track of entirely in the real world. Mind you, I had no notion I was putting together the *right* or even probable background for these people; I just wanted something logical to quiet my mind.

Once I had that logical thing, I realized what it was was a story, of the sort I write, so I wrote it. Through many drafts, it shed almost all of its antecdents in reality , and took on more and more of my imaginings. Finally I published it–and I think it’s one of my favourite pieces–with only a few bits of physical description linking it to the original “characters” who inspired it. I’m quite certain not even they would recognize themselves.

This all took years, because I have an incredibly hard time working from reality: I have to almost entirely digest and regurgitate something in my own way before I can write it. I have to make it my own, which means throwing out 99% of the reality it came from, and just keeping some tiny nugget that makes the connection for me, though it’s likely entirely lost on the reader. So that’s my process, if you are curious, but that’s not the point of this post.

The point of this post is that, a few weeks ago, owing to the wild randomness of the web and people’s sense of privacy or lack thereof, I found out what was going on all those years ago. Not quite all of it, mind you, and not what anyone thought of me personally (though I can guess), but quite a bit of the emotional background and actual events leading up to that period, enough to pretty much know why it all happened. I also found out, in broad strokes, almost everything that happened to one of the characters in the years since.

I was so wrong. SO wrong, about everything. I am trying to keep this as vague as possible so that no one will ever work out who I mean, but I do have to say: I would never ever have guessed the role of the ukelele in all this. True!

And then I freaked out slightly, and am perhaps still doing so. It’s hard to pin down why. I don’t care that I was wrong, because I never set out to be *right*–I just wanted a story that would satisfy my own desire for logic and closure and narrative. It’s more like in those time-traveller books when a self from the past or future comes along and bothers its present incarnation. I made up these fictional characters to take the place of the real people in my mind–the real people went *away* and were not interested in explaining themselves to me, so I replaced them. And now the really people are *back*, insisting on their real-ness, disrupting the space-time continuum.

I don’t like it.

This is why 90% of my stories are made up out of the whole cloth–less interference. But even when you just take a grain of real-life, it can still mess with your head. I am not a journalist, and don’t owe a moment’s thought to empirical accuracy–fiction writers are all about emotional truth, however it might be told. But it is bad for my brain, not to mention my morale, to have competing versions of my work show up with greater truth claims than I could ever muster.

Oh fellow writers, how do you deal with this?