Dreaming and Waking

I went to see Lee Maracle read this past Tuesday at the Central Library. I love her novels, especially Ravensong.

She has this fabulous laugh – deep, full, jolly. Her daughter and niece – both at the reading – have the same laugh. They filled the room with joy while Lee told slightly bawdy stories before the official reading started.

While the librarian was trying to introduce her, doing the traditional listing of awards, qualifications, and books, the family got the giggles, seemingly at the pomposity of the whole thing. The librarian finally gave up and gave over to Lee.

She read from "Will's Garden" and "Daughters are Forever", then she took questions. Someone asked her about her writing process:

Writing is a sacred thing to me. It's like a Sweat to me. ... I sit down at my computer on a Friday, and I say to my ass: "Hold on; we're going to be here awhile." I'll write, and my family asks: "Are you going to sleep?" And then on Tuesday or so, the first draft'll be done. It has to be 156 pages long; when it's 156 pages, I know it's done.

I do an average of 16 drafts before I finish a book. On a Friday night, my daughters would see me bringing out the popcorn and the pop, and they’d know: "Mom's got another draft to read to us." I'd read until Monday, with them dozing sometimes, and after, they'd be asking how it was different from the last draft they listened to...

Lee Maracle entered the 3-Day Novel Contest once. She thought she couldn't do any preparation, so she told her family to keep her distracted. Her daughters sang to her; kept her from planning. She came in second. She found out later from the people running the contest that the winner had a forty page outline.

Forty page outline! I thought that'd be cheating. That's practically a novel. I could've written a second draft in three days if I'd had a forty page outline.

It's comforting that even a published author only came in second. Comforting, too, that a published author writes a first draft in three to five days on a regular basis.

The 3-Day Novel Contest starts tomorrow at midnight. I've got an idea, but it feels fragile, like it'll dry up like a husk if I put it on paper too soon. I am trying very hard not to even look at the idea too closely; it's a seed, still in the dark, and if it comes to light too soon, it may not make it – I'll get bored with the story before I've even started to write it. Or, worse yet, I'll get bored halfway through, when it's nearly impossible to start over.

If you can't see the 3-Day entry just before this one, then you are not on my NaNoWriMo/3-Day Novel filter. Let me know if you would like to be, in case I use it to blow off steam and post silly and strange novel excerpts during this marathon.

Soon, the journey begins... I've got lots of chocolate, coffee, and garlic bread laid in.

In a dream, the ground drops slowly away and you float into the sky, or you launch yourself into the air powerfully, and you glide and soar through the air, and maybe your clothes flap around you or maybe you're naked, and maybe you fly like Superman or flap angel's wings or swim like a fish through the clear air and misty clouds, and it isn't like a trampoline or like the brief flight off the height of a swing's arc because there's no pull down, down to the earth, down to reality, down to the sore feet and the heaviness, and there's flight without fall, and freedom without consequence, and how do we know how to fly anyway?

When I was a very little girl, I wanted to be a vet. That I was scared of every animal that walks, flies, jumps, or crawls - everything but snakes (slithers) and fish (swims) - didn't seem to me to be an impediment. I was aware that most pet owners have either cats or dogs, which were the scariest creatures in my small world. I knew, from friends' tragic incidents involving goldfish, that vet assistance is rarely sought for fish. But I also knew that being a vet was a Good Thing, so that's what I wanted to be. My Mom is incredibly generous of spirit: she never laughed at six year old me who declared that she wanted to be a vet. At least, she didn't laugh at me to my face.

When I was a slightly older little girl, I wanted to be a nurse or a doctor. That I felt sick at the sight of blood and had to cover my eyes even during fictional medical procedures on TV didn't seem to be insurmountable problems. I knew that doctors and nurses made people feel better, and that’s what I wanted to do.

When I was graduating from high school and trying to decide what to do in university, I decided that I wanted to be a journalist. I didn't take into account that I dislike talking to strangers, that I get claustrophobic in crowds, and that I don't deal with stress well. Journalists were noble, and smart, and they gave people power through information, so I wanted to be one of them.

Through it all, what I really wanted to be was a novelist (and a drag queen, but that's a story for another day). In many ways, I'm well suited to it: I'm imaginative and a natural people-watcher and eavesdropper, and I like spending a lot of time alone, writing. I wonder that I never mentioned it in the "what I want to be when I grow up" field in the memory books I would fill out with my Mom at the end of every school year.

Maybe I didn't mention it because I took it for granted: I couldn't not tell stories; I couldn't not write. It didn't matter if anyone else was reading or not, I would still write.

Or maybe I didn't mention it because, even as a kid, I've always been a practical person, and I knew that I would need a day job too. Vet by day and novelist by night! Or, you know, office manager by day and novelist on long weekends.

I mailed in my early registration for the 2008 3-Day Novel Contest this week.

Vancouver has an annual literary festival, The International Writers & Readers Festival. Last year, rythos42 and I went to a couple of events together, and we continued the tradition this year. Most events are what you expect from a literary event: darkened theaters, authors reading, and thoughtful discussions about character's motivations.

Last night's event was a little different. Our first clue that this wasn't quite the same as the other events we'd gone to was that there was a bar. After some confusion about how to buy a glass of wine (the process involved tracking down and buying tickets, then using the tickets to acquire alcoholic refreshment), we settled into seats. We were just discussing our expectations for the evening when the dance music came on. And then the go-go dancers came out.

There were three male go-go dancers. They wore American Apparel briefs, t-shirts, headbands, and white knee socks with stripes at the top. One was in green, one in red, and one in yellow. Green was really into it. He was dancing his little heart out, even pulling up his shirt to show his belly button and playing to the crowd. The other two seemed a little self-conscious, maybe because their underwear didn't fit as well as Green's did. If you are going to be showing your underwear, it's a good idea to make sure it fits your ass tightly. Baggy-bum is not sexy.

After the go-go dancers came some readings, featuring selections from a biography of Houdini written entirely in poetry, "the dirtiest story in my short story collection" (about a woman working on a sex website), a poet with very poet hair who brought wine to the reading stand and repeatedly, adorably, lied that he was calm, and the 3-Day Novel winner of 2006, The Convictions Of Leonard McKinley.

I had chosen this event in order to see the 3-Day writer, Brendan McLeod. rythos42 and I had both read his book ahead of time – and unintentionally almost scared Russ out of reading it with our veiled references to the story's almost-very-disturbing conclusion. It is a funny book... and it is even funnier when he reads it. I would like to propose that all authors who have to do readings should get training by slam poets first – Brendan and the other performance poet who read from her first novel were both wonderful to listen to.

More go-go dancing during the intermission – this time without the t-shirts. Green was still enthusiastic. We'd all been given a free copy of subTerrain magazine and I used was relieved to find it full of short stories and poems. The last time I was given a magazine for free, it was a surprise to me when it turned out to be full of furry porn. Not really my thing, but very educational.

After the intermission, an audience participation game called "Tops or Bottoms" for book prizes, followed by more readings: an author who apologized for being smashed before reading a very serious passage about a mother with dementia, a novel section about giant killer ants and a milk chicken bomb (I don't know), a piece about a bridesmaid having a fling with the wedding bartender in her parents' house, and a story about a couple who sleep in a cage to prevent the man's jealous pet chimp from attacking the girlfriend. The last author, Catherine Kidd, also performed one of her poems, which was a very interesting combination of science and politics and artistry, set to music. I wouldn't want to read it – I don't think it would very interesting on paper – but it was a great performance.

After the event was over, rythos42 and I hung out near Brendan McLeod until he extracted himself from another conversation. I told him that I'd also done the contest and all three of us, along with a friend of his who had also done the 3-Day twice, commiserated on the problems of writing fast (making characters walk off cliffs, sudden earthquakes, and multiple kidnappings).

He hated his novel after writing it and didn't think it would win (which doesn't give me any hope that my novel that I hate has any chance of winning, but it is interesting given that I love his novel).

He said that the published novel is pretty close to what he wrote during the contest; he added about ten pages, took out the parts where random characters he didn't need anymore ended up walking off of cliffs, and fixed the ending so that it actually was what he'd intended it to be when writing the original manuscript. Which took us to talking about the ending (which I won't spoil; read the book!) and I think he was pleased that we'd already read the book (rather than just having bought it at the table at the other side of the room) so we could share in the joke when he told us that a middle school decided to give copies away as prizes, only to find that they really should have read the whole book first and not just the first couple of pages and that parents weren't terribly pleased with this particular literary prize. Brendan sent them some more youth-friendly and parent-pleasing poetry recordings as replacements, even though he had told them that their plan was a bad one, and one of them surely should have been able to read all 111 pages.

He signed my book, adding "P.S., Do cocaine!"

I stand in the bank, wondering why the ATM won't take my bus ticket.

That didn't really happen. But it was the kind of day where it could have.

I consider waiting for the bus even though it'll take longer to get me home just because the up escalator at the SkyTrain is broken and I hate walking up still escalators.

That part is true. Does it matter?

I decide to take the SkyTrain despite the dizzying climb up the escalator. The woman climbing in front of me has a red tote bag covered in quotes. The one near the seam facing me says "Do one thing every day that scares you". I'm scared of so many things. I'm used to pretending that I'm not scared; I do it all the time. I pretend I'm not scared that the escalator will start unexpectedly under my feet.

I have my MP3 player on. It's still a new experience wearing one; I've never even worn a Walkman before. There's an instrumental playing as I get on the train and take hold of the center pole directly in front of the door. I sway with the train's motion, the music playing directly into my brain, and stare out the window at the world passing in a sunny blur. I get off at the next station. It's a dreamy movie scene, from an artsy film in which nothing happens.

The woman and her tote bag was actually at the gym and not on the escalator. My MP3 player's batteries died earlier today, but I have worn it on the SkyTrain a couple of times before.

That's the kind of day it's been.

My coffee table is covered in fun mail and art. Between a fun bunch of Swap-Bot stuff coming through all at once and the first (beautiful) arrival from the Valentine swap at coyote_giftswap, a lot of wonderful artists and some postal elves have been very good to me this week.

But I am writing this post to brag about one piece of mail in particular: my free contributor’s copy of The Life Organizer: A Woman’s Guide to a Mindful Year by Jennifer Louden (The Comfort Queen).

My little essay on walking, which is somewhat similar to this post of mine, made it into the book!

I haven't read the rest of the book yet, so I can't recommend it, but all of you should read page 147 next time you are in the "Self-Help" section of the bookstore.

I'm pimping coyotewoman because she makes gorgeous dolls and now there are some available on her Etsy Shop. I own one of her beautiful dolls, ( Lucia ), so I know how beautiful her work is in person.

The picture doesn't fully capture her character. I think Lucia's going to be the subject of my next book - her story is already forming in my head.

When I am out in public, especially if I am alone, I become very conscious of my own behaviour and how I could be viewed – even if I know that no one cares. I also become hyper-aware of other people's actions and how they conform to or differ from the norm.

I went to a couple of the International Writers Festival panels this weekend.

Yesterday was "From the Dark Side", where I joined rythos42 to watch a panel of authors discuss writing about serial killers, psychopaths, and insane asylums. When the authors walked on to the stage, we all applauded. The authors read descriptions of a man murdering and burying a minister and a man being burned alive. I laughed at every opportunity offered; there were many. Those around me seemed to do the same.

When I'm trying to get into the mood to write those [graphic torture scenes], I read writers who've already gone there. Those books become my touchstones. When I'm trying to get myself back out of that, I listen to Enya. Enya is good for coming back out of the dark.*

Today was "Writing Life", which I attended alone. The writers, all contributors to the Writing Life anthology, spoke about writing when you have kids, doubting the value of writing, and the problems of marketing your writing. We didn't applaud when the writers walked on to the stage.

I don't know why we applauded for the authors at the first event I went to and not for the second. There were even some of the same authors on the two panels. Who makes the decision to clap or not to clap? I'm not the one who decides. If I was, we would have clapped for both panels; I like consistency.

The most interesting thing for me was when the writers started talking about feeling insecure about writing, as though it were not a worthwhile activity. One author spoke about watching a man digging a trough and thinking about how silly writing seems in comparison to the physical labour. Another spoke about being asked by her relatives: "So, you’re a writer; what's that get you?"

The audience responded most to that section of the discussion. When the time came for audience questions, most of them were actually comments from people talking about how books had changed lives or touched people they knew. They wanted to reassure these successful authors that what they are doing is important; responding to a writer's need for groupies.

There were two authors who received more applause then anyone else: a French novelist who struggled to read his book in English translation and to answer questions in a language that wasn't his own, and an author who spoke about her problems with public speaking and promoting her work. The audience reacted as a whole with compassion towards the person who was obviously trying very hard and the person who’s problem they could most easily relate to.

Cellophane
Mister Cellophane
Should have been my name
Mister Cellophane
'Cause you can look right through me
Walk right by me
And never know I'm there

When the man who played Amos Hart in a production of Chicago came out for his curtain call, he got more applause then anyone else, even the biggest stars, in no small part because of his moving performance of "Mister Cellophane", which got a lot of applause as well.

I didn't really like the audience question portion of either panel. Both seemed to be dominated by people who wanted to sound smart. Most of them didn't even have questions: they had comments or rants ending with a lame "so, uh, do you agree?". The writers, luckily, managed to make their answers interesting, even if they didn't have much to do with what was asked.

I didn't like the moderator much of the first panel. Her questions got so long and complicated that the authors ended up just sort of staring at her. But the "Writing Life" moderator was much better. The writers were very interesting and fun both times, though.

Who decides how long to clap? It just seems to end on its own, except when it doesn't. I saw a modern dance performance in the Paris Opera House once, years ago. After every dance, the curtain would close, and the audience clapped and clapped and clapped until it developed its own rhythm and everyone seemed to be clapping in unison. It was eerie.

It's been a busy weekend so far, but I hope to actually get writing again tomorrow.

*Eden Robinson, author of Blood Sports.

I have found the perfect writers' fuel. High in antioxidants, some protein, calcium, magnesium, probably some other good stuff too...

Dark chocolate with blueberries and almonds by Purdy's Chocolates. Pair with a glass of red wine for maximum benefit.

I foresee many bars being consumed during the upcoming NaNoWriMo*.

*Despite having just finished writing a novel last weekend, I am already looking forward to the next. At this rate, I will have many manuscripts, but none will ever get edited.

Stats:
Hours: 22.5
Words: 22,634
Pages: 110

Music: A Prairie Home Companion - "Original Motion Picture Sountrack" (twice, or was it three times?); Bif Naked - "Purge".

Fuel: Double-long-shot iced mocha and a lot of chocolate-covered-almonds.

I wrote the words "the end" with every intention of going back and adding some more scenes and details, but I find it very hard to motivate myself to do that.

The story's done, for better or for worse, and I want to walk away.

On the other hand, I want it to be as good as it can be, and I've got until midnight (or until I fall asleep) to improve it. On the other hand, "improving" it could cause more problems and just end up with a lot of word clutter. On the other hand, I really wanted to make it to 25,000 words - something about that number, which is exactly half of a NaNoWriMo novel, seems significant. On the other hand, I'm a perfectionist, and if I start re-reading, I might start trying for extensive editing, and that's just asking for trouble.

How many hands is that?

I'm going to take a break and then see what I think.