My mum said in the print version (She very conveniently has a newspaper box just across the street tho she needs to beat the other morning paper buyers in the neighbourhood. Apparently it can be very competitive!) the interview was in one column, and paired beside it was a column about the Queen. Your photograph was bigger than the Queen’s! she said. I was taken with her post-colonial glee about this size issue.

I think I look an awful lot like my dad in this shot. He would have been very gleeful about the Queen pairing for sure. He would have smacked his palm on his forehead (a wide forehead he had) and dragged his hand downward. Taken a deep breath. And pronounced, “Canada is Grrreat!”

I have to confess that the business side of writing is not my favourite part. Certainly there are many writers who are more extroverted and enjoy speaking about themselves and their latest book. They do a great service for boosting their own profile; after all, if we can’t get readers interested in picking up the finished book, if we can’t get it read, the project fails. Without readers books are inanimate objects (except for that person who’s made the most wondrous sculptures out of books!). We are writing these books so that they shall be read.

So why this reticence to self-promote, why so uncomfortable about using my person(ality) to foreground a project I believe in and worked very hard at completing?

Part of it is cultural. ~__~ . I don’t know if this is a cheap excuse. But anything that was anywhere near to “bragging”, even “self-promotion”, could be seen as a form of self-aggrandizement, a mark of a weak character. Not noble. Not “classy”. Clearly there are a lot of imbedded problems with this model– I know! But, man, those childhood lessons sear into bone.

Of course I believe in my own novel. If I didn’t I wouldn’t have been able to complete it. But I still have a lingering reservation about sales-pitching my own work. Clearly I must overcome this aversion because after the creative art process of writing, the book published by a publisher definitely enters the public space simultaneously as an art project as well as a product. The product exists in a market. The book is not only something that is read, but it is also something that is bought.

The buying part is important because if you are an artist who is making her living with her writing how well the book sells matters a great deal! I am nowhere near a “comfortable” place in income earnings. I get by each year by hook and by crook (not crookedly!). So in practical terms I should be busting my ass with promo after the book is in my hands. But I bite my lower lip and avert my gaze, hoping that someone else can do this for me….

Well! Tomorrow morning I have a Skype meeting with my publicist about “key message points”! And I will listen carefully and learn some new ways of talking about my art. Because I have moved past the “art-creation” point in the project, and into the region of “business and sales”.

And I’m really pleased with how Darkest Light turned out. I am ~__~. I hope you will be too.

The beautiful illustration by artist extraordinaire, Jillian Tamaki. The gorgeousness of design all shimmery green and deep sea-like. How lovely to delight in this moment. Especially when a novel often takes years to write, rewrite and polish. A culmination of the hard work of so many people. Thank you, Lynne, Jennifer G, Caitlin, Dave, Karen, Vimala! Thank you Agent Sally!!  Arigatou, Razorbill! I’m so grateful! It’s available for pre-order thru Amazon in Canada. But if you have a favourite local bookstore please ask them to order you a copy.

(And thank you to Edward Parker for tech support, S. Goto for taking photo!)

We’ve left the faucet dripping in the kitchen sink. It plinks and plops its liquid sound. Pretty. A deep freeze is settling upon the city. The low roar of the bus driving down the slope. Everyone is sleeping. My tired eyes water and I drag the back of my hand across them. A second bus roars louder travelling in the opposite direction.

Tomorrow is today.

But now. Sleep.

You need to be a member (very easy) to be able to sign in and chat! (Just fyi, the website address will switch from “.ning” to “ca” at some point. They’re still beta. I don’t know exactly what that means, but they are transitioning and I also wanted to write it down because it sounds cool.)

I’ll be online and Chatting on Friday, January 20, 2012 from 6-7pm EST/3-4 pm PST.

Come ’round and say hello. ~__~

But let me first say, Happy New Year!!! Dragons! There be dragons!

Clearly I haven’t made a resolution to blog more regularly. It’s that blogging is not on the top priorities list. Firstly, it’s secondary writing, primary being the writing of fiction, poetry, the odd essay, etc. Also, before secondary writing comes paid contract work. Money = savoury meats & manuka truffle bars. So, of course. <wink>

I just turned 45! ^__^

This seems like a great writer-age to me. I’ve dealt with several demons and lesser imps, I’m not a raving alcoholic, I’ve numerous novels published (enough so I don’t worry that I won’t be able to write the next one, and even if I find that I can’t I can be satisfied that I’ve put out what I have) and my children have grown big and they’re almost ready to fledge. Awesome! Now it may be that Daughter proves a little elephant-natured and wish to stay in the matrilineal herd for a while, she’s still a teen after all. And welcome she is (as long as she does her share of work of course such as tipping over suitable trees, not raising too much dust when we migrate, stay away from crocodiles, etc.)– but I will be relaxed-mother, with more space for writer to stretch and scratch, and that is mighty fine indeed!

It’s also that time of year when the grant letters comes in. >_< Every autumn the writers outline their book-length project, gather up supporting material, dust of their cvs and submit their application. Most all of us are strong enough writers to be able to receive a grant. But there are limited funds, and only a small percentage will actually get one. Every new year we nervously wait by the mail slot, we wait to hear from a writer friend, Did you hear back? It came in? The Writer’s Die is rolling and the results arrive in an envelope. If only I could handle the die (and my cane sword!) like Zatoichi! (My mum isn’t a fan of the Zatoichi films. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s a class-based aversion but I didn’t push it. I’d much rather focus on getting her to stop buying bottled water!) It’s rather nervousing I must say. I’ve heard from a friend that they’re coming through the chutes. What will the die reveal?

Every year about this time I wonder, what will I do if I don’t receive a grant? I wonder if I could try to pick up some teaching gig. If I could somehow finally get a non-writing-related pay job thereby expanding my life experiences and would also serve as interesting research. But in my heart of hearts I want that grant really badly so that I can continue writing as I’ve somehow been able to do for close to twenty years. Relying upon one’s writing is not the most economically secure way to live. But it can also be said that economic security is a pipe dream. There are so many sad stories about people losing their jobs then their homes– and they had socially accepted and respected careers, jobs, etc. There are no guarantees.

I’m 45 years old and I’m doing what I love the most. This is not a gamble. This is a passion, joy and commitment. The grants come and go. But there will always be writers.

I hope to be writing when I’m 75! Or painting. Or knitting. Or drawing. Making something. At the very least making out!

I have no New Year’s resolutions. Every year is another year to write. To read, to think, to dream and love. To live well.

Blessings to you and the world.

Believe. (Definitely more X-files than anything else of course. <wink>)

What do I save? What do I destroy? (Are feminist archivists screaming?) University and library archives collect writers’ stuff. Especially early drafts of novels with marginalia, letters between two writers/artists, relevant business letters, journals, etc. I’m torn because on the one hand I think my private life and private journals are private, but on the other hand recognize that the personal is political and that there hasn’t been enough saved and researched on the lives of women. All these archives filled with the lives of men of belle lettres and women only more recently gaining a foothold in the stupid canon. Shoot me out the cannon, I say! In a tutu and fishnet stockings, blasting a foghorn as I sail above everyone’s head toward my event horizon!

In the grand non-scheme of things my mortal time and space is nothing more than a single heartbeat in a vast dark universe. And the universe will reabsorb me just like I breathe in motes of dust. (This is an image that reassures me though I suppose it may give others the willies.) So really? What do my papers matter?

But then maybe this vantage point is too far out. It’s unlikely I’ll ever get to see the Earth from outer space (Billionaire Benefactor, hear my plea!!! I’ll dedicate my next un-nice novel to you! ^__^) let alone leave the Milky Way. And I am of this Earth and of the communities of people around me. I’m a small part of the greater body of feminists, writers, artists, activists, queer folk of my time.

A writerfriend told me that really personal stuff can be sealed and not be accessible until a time you’ve specified. A very good thing to do if you have children. There are some things children would rather not know about their parent(s) and that’s perfectly acceptable.

So I’m torn. I think about how wonderful it would feel to shred all my old stuff and fold it into the composter! Really! Awesome! It may feel like a snake shedding her skin…. Oooooooo! Lovely. The snake doesn’t hoard all her old skins and save them in an archive! (Hmmmm, nice story image. And reminding me of the cell libraries in A Door Into Ocean. Love that book. Tho the first 1/3 was kinda slow-going. Well worth the patience, tho!)

Haven’t made up my mind. The scale is almost perfectly balanced. I’ve a deadline on this project so I must make a choice. I suppose many writers/artists go through similar dilemmas. <shrug>

I’ll post on this when I’ve come to my decision! ^__^

Not only confined to the speed of email response (we will not speak of texting!) we are also meant to speak very quickly. Especially in an interview situation. Writers are frequently interviewed and live radio and, heaven forbid, live tv sets up a strange and hyper-accelerated venue where silence (wherein one is thinking) is called “dead air”. When political candidates are on tv in debate or interviews situations I feel really bad for the ones who need more time to gather their thoughts (Also, I’d far rather vote for a leader who takes the time to consider before expressing his views.). But the demands of acceptable time interval is shrinking continually. In the debate/hotseat situation, taking time to think is construed as dull-wittedness.

The relativity of perceived “acceptable” duration of time between question and response was neatly and dramatically illustrated for me when I was asked to go in the stead of a writer friend who was not able to follow through on an invitation to read at Lasqueti Island. This was several years ago.

I looked up cursory travel route info and understood that I’d take the main ferry across, drive to another smaller port, and catch a second ferry. I was bemused to discover that I couldn’t drive my car onto the second ferry– I had assumed this was the scenario. It was a passenger-only, and it was, to my eyes, a very small boat. Holy smokes! I thought when we hit the strong current of the Georgia Strait. The boat pitched and rocked like a drunken horse and the horizon swung in and out of my world. I began feeling nauseous and knew I wouldn’t make it if I stayed sitting inside. Ohhhh, don’t let me disgrace myself like a sad-ass city-slicker, my former rural heart muttered. I lurched onto the back deck, stood with my feet slightly more than shoulder-width apart and rode out the waves as I grimly kept my eyes on the horizon, where is ought to be when the waves rose up again. Salt spraying my face. So cold. Stinging.

I made it to Lasqueti Island without disgracing myself though it took a little time for my inner ears to settle down. My lovely and generous hosts gave me a tour of their amazing acreage, their carefully built vegetable gardens, a small generator powered by a small stream. People were laid back. There was no where to rush to….

The reading was held in their small community hall. It was dark by then and the roads muddy. I was feeling self-conscious, worried that my stories wouldn’t be of much interest, that I was a back-up reader because my poet friend couldn’t make it.

I’ve read so often and in so many venues that I’m no longer traumatically stressed about reading publicly. But being able to perform isn’t the same as being a desired guest. I read one of my stories and it was time for Q & A. I waited for someone to ask the first question. Everyone gazed at me, not unkindly, and no one said a word. I could feel heat beginning to creep up my cheeks and a dampness growing beneath my arms. Oh no, I thought. Uh-ohhh. And still no one said a thing. I think I piped up some comments, and then unhappily waited for someone to tell me the evening was over. Then someone asked me a question. Slowly. Thoughtfully. I smiled with relief and whizzed off a response. A heavy silence settled over the room once more. Whoa, I thought. This is so awkward. This is so weird. A second person asked a question. And I responded, with relief, once more. The still heaviness grew again. And with the silence something began to expand inside my head.

The audience wasn’t disengaged or stand-offish… they were thinking! They were taking time to think about what was said, and what they’d like to ask me. It was me who had been off, me with my frenetic pace, like over-caffeinated electrons. There was space and time to take as much time as I wanted to really think about what I would say! There was no need to hurry. And suddenly I was free.

Such an enormous relief. I had never so consciously examined my relationships to social pressure to respond so very quickly to everything and everyone. But it wasn’t “normal”! It was relative. And I didn’t have to do it on Lasqueti Island. I could have wept with joypleasurerelief upon this understanding. It was a generous gift.

I slowed down. And it felt very good. It felt very right. We talked long into the night.

In the morning there was stone-ground organic wheat flour pancakes with home-made jellies and maple syrup. My hosts took me to their beach where I got to harvest oysters, digs some clams. The rocking horse ferry was a milder beast.

As I drove toward home I clung to a small seed of Lasqueti Island time so that I could have it with me no matter where I roamed.