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I love pyjamas. They are the most comfortable form of home lounge wear. And, I’m certain, the working outfit of many writers. 

The door bell rang late this morning. I glanced down at my pyjama-clad self. Well, I shrugged, it’s the weekend, and they are coming to me, so. My terms. 

I could see, clearly, one tall 50+ yrs old white male on the other side of the door. A stranger. There was someone else beside him. A little shorter. Same age. Both wearing econo suits. Probably religious, I thought, but it would be rude to not open the door, so I did. 

“Hello, we’re out here today to talk about the Lord Jesus Christ,” he said. 

“No, thank you,” I smiled, and began to slowly close the door. 

“What language are you?” he cried, trying to play another hand. 

“Clearly, I am speaking English,” I said. And closed the door faster. 

“No, I mean– never mind…” he said. 

I’m always a combination of bemused/annoyed/curious/wondering/appalled when this kind of thing happens. It clearly underscores the human tendency to create a flash narrative, unthinking, but instantaneous. The flash narrative is built upon all the narratives and biases assimilated throughout the person’s life. It does not matter what actually happens in the interaction– the flash narrative is overlaid atop of the event to recreate the existing beliefs of the subject. This kind of situation happens a great deal around race, gender, sexuality, body. 

Two Christmases ago I was vacationing in San Francisco with family members. The streets were busy with tourists and seasonal merry-makers. At one busy intersection we were waiting for a traffic light to change. A man beside me was rambling on, a monologue, that was difficult to decipher. I thought he was mostly talking to himself. He began talking to me, a mishmash of ideas that I could not follow, that made me slightly uneasy. I didn’t respond. 

“Do you understand English?” he asked me. 

“Not very well,” I replied. 

And he left me alone. 

<GRIN>

Well, my daughter and I had to move because we were in a sabbatical house (not christian nor jewish) and the folks came back. Luckily, we moved Right Next Door, in the exact same type of late 1940s house. Where the last place was blue, this house is orange! An older woman lived here, alone, for many years. There is a heaviness in the rooms, a kind of psychic imprint of emotions that are clearly not our own. 

What does sadness smell like? What is the smell of loneliness and boredom? 

Smell is such a primal sense– I think a lot of writers under-utilize this in their work because for the sighted, we privilege vision over our other sensorial experiences. But nothing can get an immediate and stronger response than a powerful odour. 

Larissa Lai integrated odours to remarkable effect in her dystopic novel, Salt Fish Girl. 

In a very animal way, I’m intent on scent-rubbing our new home space. I’ve opened the windows and screen doors so that the wind blows through. Last night I baked one of those frozen stuffing-filled turkey breasts for our little easter dinner. M, who was here for a little while, burned some incense in the open window. The smell of rich, dark coffee. The odours of laughter. The scent of conversations, tinged with emotional inflections.

It was a physical move, sideways, to the house next door– we’re trying, through the sense of smell, to climb up diagonal ladders, but sometimes we snake down into the memory pockets of a stranger.

(Who’s the fool?) 

<WideCatGrin> 

I’m very excited! This is my first book-length American publication! Rock on! 

I’ll be at WisCon, the best feminist SF conference in the world, the May 28th weekend, to promote Half World. Sharyn November, my brilliant editor at Viking, will be there, as well as the most amazing feminist sf writers, readers, thinkers, dreamers….

Maybe, in my next life, I’ll be able to write sf…. It’s a special talent, to bring in science and speculation, in a meaningful and integrated way, into story. It’s not simple. First of all, you must know the science. Otherwise, “science” is just a costume. This is the same in writing fantastic fiction. Elements of the magical need to be systemic and logical and consistent throughout, otherwise it can devolve into gimmick or the worst kind of deus ex machina. I have such a profound respect for the writers of good feminist sf! I take my hat off to them. <dapper bow> 

Meanwhile, I’m working every day on Darkness…. 

(And, reconsidering my resistance to Twitter…. <grin>)

Paper birch. Distant roar of the wind rocking the tall trees, the sound of the sea. The strobe of light and shadow breaking through the branches. 

I’m  at the Leighton Studios at the Banff Centre. A generous component of my writer-in-residency, it is such a privilege, a treasure of time and space! The studios are single detached specially designed buildings placed amongst trees. Each studio is kitted out with a kitchenette and washroom. The last time I was here I would stay up until 3 or 4 AM, walk back to my room in darkness, between the creaking night language of trees. This was way back when, when I was working on The Water of Possibility. It was a prime example of circumstance/environment working into the text. I wrote, mostly at night, in the dark. So, I ended up writing a lot of scenes in the novel set underground, in caves, tunnels, etc! 

This time I’m working on my companion novel to Half World. The working title is Darkness. <grin!> 

I’ve decided that since this is a retreat I will not read any online newspapers while I’m here. I usually read several every day, rather compulsively. And it’s an important part of my reading/research day. But it can also distract as well as take me into a psychologically tired and sad place– there is much woe, suffering and injustice in the world, and the news foregrounds this. 

I will let the roar of the wind, the language of the trees guide me.

Today I woke up at 5 AM to make a one-day trip to UNBC in Prince George. I had time enough for a shower, coffee and a drive out to the international airport in the snow without speeding. Took off fine, had to reconnect in Vancouver. Saw the blush of spring leaves on deciduous trees as we flew over the city. When we reached PG airspace the captain’s voice, tinny, calm, and slightly apologetic, informed us of a fog bank. We will try to land, he said. Moments later we plunged into the soft white folds. I peered out the window, fingers crossed, begging that the air would clear, let the captain see! But the engines roared as the captain pulled up, Abort! Abort landing sequence! The acceleration pressing us into our seats like the Gravitron. And the Six Million Dollar Man theme song starts streaming through my head… Na naa naa nahhhhhh, nanana na na nana na nahhhhh.

“He’s not going to make it!”

“I’m burning up! I’m burning up!” 

(If Steve Austin cost $6000000.00 to rebuild in the mid-70s, how much would he cost now?)

We had to fly back to Vancouver and I disembarked at the same gate I had returned to just last month, when I was fogged out of Edmonton! This had never happened to me before in my travelling life, but twice, now, in consecutive months! Aside from a 12-hour-day basically travelling for nothing, I’ve left an enormous carbon footprint to top it off. 

On a happy note, while I was flying around willy nilly, I got started on my goal of learning to write with my left hand. (Just in case I won’t be able to write with my right hand in the future.) This is not such a nutty plan, I tell you! I was getting repetitive strain mousing with my right hand, so I switched to my left. No problem. Also, writing with the left hand will use different areas of my brain! How neat is that? (One can grow tired of using the same sections over and over again….)

from the living

room a guitar strums

chording, the crackle

of a page being turned

a tub of frozen chicken curry

defrosts on the counter

an entire hour traded 

for light

Every day the black tongue of open water stretches further along the frozen river. The skin of ice crumples. Sparrows and chickadees, nuthatches and magpies chirrup and cherrilee, squawk and warble with blood warming. Global warning. The early spring makes me uneasily happy….

A gift horse can still bite off your fingers. 

I had been prepared to live locked in Edmonton snow until the end of April. Lions and lambs aside, woodchucks long gone, March is upon me, a week passing me by while I was still looking over my shoulder at February. 

Holy smokes! 

Forms to fill, deadlines to meet, the rush and thrum of blood’s constant flow. It’s a good time to start a new poem. Write the first paragraph of a new short story. Book projects are such long-term commitments…. Sometimes all I want is a kiss.

Like that.

There are no sure-fire ways to shaping and writing a novel. If your method works (be it intuitive or conceptual or outlined, or a combination, etc.) , marvellous! If it doesn’t, uh-ohhh! Especially if you’re on deadline. 

I can say that I was primarily an intuitive writer for a bulk of  my writing career. This is the “discovery” method of writing. I have a premise or a character and I go forth, into the darkness, to see what there is to be discovered. A lot of writers talk about the pleasure of discovery through their process of writing. I think this is a hard-wired trait in our species. (A  trait that leads us into diverse regions thus spreading the gene pool, etc. Clearly there are issues of conquest and colonization that goes along with this trait!) Discovery, making connections I hadn’t foreseen, these things can send of frisson of creative delight rippling through my being.  

Lately I’ve been trying to develop at least a rough outline for my novel-length projects. Two reasons, both pragmatic. 

1) Unless you’re so well-established that a publisher will offer you a contract because you say, “Mmmm, I feel like there’s another book coming,” you need to have a synopsis and a hefty chunk of the writing-in-progress to submit to an agent or publisher in order to sell it before completion. 

2) Discovery is super cool, but it’s not all wild strawberries and beds of dark green moss. If a person is dropped into the middle of the forest and she has no idea where she should go, if she begins to walk and continues without any reference points she will inevitably end up walking in a giant circle. I think this experience can serve as a useful analogy of the unmapped writing process of a novel. If we have a sense of direction, or at least a notion of the end point we know which way to go. This is good. Also, the thing about the forest is that it’s not predictable. We might come to an unexpected mountain range, or a wide, swift impassable river. We know we are heading north, but we can’t go the way we planned. So, We need to be adaptive, and, also enjoy the discovery of the impassable moment, the new trail we must blaze to move toward our goal. See! Discovery and direction! Gooooood! ^__^ 

There’s no one way to writing a novel. Really, if it works for you, then it works!

Sometimes I think that I’ve figured something out about writing, and then the next time I write a novel it doesn’t work and I have to relearn how to write the novel once again. A new way. <shaking head> <shrug> 

Sometimes I just have to lie down on the springy moss, close my eyes and pray that the bears are too busy with Goldilocks to bother with me.

Sometimes I’m asked what a writer-in-residence does. There’s bound to be some variation, but I imagine most residencies involve similar duties. A significant amount of time is meant to be spent on my own creative project (yay!)– I’m currently working on a new YA novel as well as a secret project! Aside from one’s own writing, the w-i-r makes herself available to the writing public, who seeks one-on-one consultations for feedback on their writing. I’m also available for public readings, classroom visits, panel talks, etc. 

When people come in to see me with their project I try to offer feedback that will have them consider ways they might make their writing stronger. A significant number of people want to know where they should submit their work for publication. A legitimate question, I suppose, because if the writer comes in seeking a consultation, they are moving toward making their work enter the public space. 

It pains me when I have to say that I don’t think their writing is ready to be submitted for publication. I also think that the question of publication should come much later in a writer’s development, and should never pre-empt the question: What can I do to further develop my craft? 

There are many paths to becoming a published author. Workshops, writing groups, MFA programs, continuing education courses, correspondence courses, mentorships, independent study, etc…. Clearly, the developing writer’s goal to become a published author is reasonable and necessary. But if this goal becomes the primary objective it can impede that which would lead you to become a publishable writer in the first place– developing strong writing skills. 

I don’t want to be a downer…. But the reality is that there are soooo many writers in the world, and all of them are seeking publication. What will make your work stand out? 

The careful development of your own voice and style. Your unique way of seeing/thinking/dreaming successfully transformed into words on a page that will evoke/elicit in the reader that which you sought to evoke/elicit. Writing a line, crafting a sentence, building a scene, developing character, playing with language, handling plot, or getting rid of plot entirely, transporting the reader into a different place and time, taking an old story and shining it new…. 

It’s a long, long path with so much to observe and integrate. Sure, some hares are bound to win some races, but the tortoise will always outlast and endure. 

Develop your craft and all else will follow.

My oldest sister has a marvellous skill for  coining words or phrases. While I was in Calgary for the university reading I was interviewed for the campus radio station, CJSW, on their program, “Writers Block”. At any rate, an older man (my age? 5-10 years older?) was selling used cds and dvds in the food court on campus. And I totally scored some tunes from my junior high soundtrack!!! Bat Out of Hell, and the best of Led Zeppelin. Not a huge LZ fan, but adored “All of My Love”…. Was talking to my sister about our rocker days and she said we were influenced by this guy, Murray, who was a couple years older than us who worked at our parents’ mushroom farm. She qualified that all things considered, we had been “harmless headbangers”…. <grin>  

I was a bit nervous/anxious about the U of C reading for numerous complex reasons. But when I cranked up “Bat Out of Hell” and The Meat just filled the interior of my vehicle with his soaring voice and ki, my testosterone levels rose and endorphins kicked in and all was well. Thank you, Meatloaf!

The next morning I cranked up “All Of My Love” in the house, and danced what we called “the hangover” with my mum. This was how we danced in junior high. The guy latched onto the belt loops of the girl’s jeans, just at the waist, and the girl placed her hands on the boy’s shoulders. People who were going steady mashed up against each other. Other dance-couples could easily have a 12-inch space separating them. The ‘dance-steps’ are not unlike the steps a zombie would make, a kind of lurching side-to-side motion. 

In grade 7 I thought ‘necking’ meant people pressed their necks against each other. It did not compute what the erotics were of this particular act. 

The U of C reading was lovely and such a warm and generous audience. It was good to catch up with old friends. The U of C writer in residence, Marcello di Cintio, will be coming to Edmonton for his part of the exchange– watch for updates on his reading. 

I’ve not been writing 1000 words every day– at least not during these public presentation days. After the intense sessions at the Grant MacEwan writing conference this weekend (immediately following the trip to Calgary) I’m a pancake of exhaustion. My daughter called me a potato couch and we ordered pizza for dinner. 

It’s okay…. Listen to the body. Rest when it’s time to rest. Epsom salt baths– two cups of salt and a minimum of 12 minutes soaking.