Monthly Archives: June 2003

Farewell, Edvard

We were stuffed into the little music room last night, as the school auditorium where we usually rehearse was being used for graduation exercises. The heat was awful; there’s little ventilation, and about forty musicians playing lively stuff.

A decent rehearsal overall; we got some bad news, though. The Grieg is being cut from the program. A wind player exclaimed in relief when it was announced, and my stand partner seemed approving. I was apparently the only one who was disappointed, and I was sitting right in front of the conductor. “We could do it if we had just two more weeks,” I said. He smiled and shrugged at me, spreading his hands in a “no choice” sort of gesture. I love the Grieg, and I’ve worked really hard on it. Ah, well. We’ve been promised that it will be rescheduled, perhaps for our next concert in the fall.

I notice that it’s raining. That might be my fault. I decided yesterday afternoon that it would be nice to have my husband home today. He hasn’t come back yet, though; it probably won’t be much longer, since it’s hard to mow in the rain. Think of it this way: if it’s raining now, maybe it will actually be sunny on the weekend for a change.

The Fun Part Of Selling Oneself

I’ve just spent four hours designing a business card and a brochure for my writing services.

Damn, but I sound professional. I mean, I read my brochure, and I’d hire me. I need to tweak it a bit, though – I think I’ll end up creating two versions, one for companies and one for individuals, so I can target my audience better rather than referring to one here and another there.

The best part? It has continuity with my web site and my web log through the use of colour and the owl motif.

The almost-as-best part: this counts as writing. t! challenged me to write an opinion piece today, but I think this rather slips in under the creative writing wire. Hire me! I’m confident, capable, and I can help you. The tricky part? Telling people they need help without making them think they’ve been accused of being incompetent.

Stalking Authors

When I’m feeling singularly uninspired, I meander about and look at what other writers think and feel about writing.

Jane Yolen is an author I’ve been reading since I was about eleven. On her For Writers page, she says that [t]he Muse is an ornery creature and rarely comes when called. She wears feathers in her hair and birkenstocks on her feet and is often out in the woods when you are home at your keyboard. Which is all too true.

She quotes Gene Fowler: Writing is easy: all you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead. Of course, she goes on to point out that writing isn’t agony, and the majority of the time I’d agree with her; I’m not one of those people who thinks that an artist has to suffer in order to create, or to be able to create, good art. Every once in a while, though, yes, it really does feel that hard. Yolen also quotes Roland Barthes: The author performs a function; the writer an activity. It suggests that an author has a job, but a writer is the job. (I don’t remember ever reading anything so inspiring when I read Barthes a few years ago, but I might have missed something.)

However, the nicest thing on the page was this:

A writer has many successes:

Each new word captured.
Each completed sentence.
Each rounded paragraph leading into the next.
Each idea that sustains and then develops.
Each character who, like a wayward adolescent, leaves home and finds a life.
Each new metaphor that, like the exact error it is, some how works.
Each new book that ends–and so begins.

Selling the piece is only an exclamation point, a spot of punctuation.

Which is remarkably inspiring.

O Wall

I somehow fell out of the writing habit about a week ago, and now I’m really facing a wall.

My darling husband, when I told him I’d need to go to France in order to keep writing the Great Canadian Novel with any sense of verisimilitude, offered to take me to Quebec City for a long weekend. It’s the closest we can get to France. I was touched.

In the meantime, I’ve staring blankly at my laptop and feeling singularly uninspired. I scribbled down notes for four (yes, 4) short stories last week, but evidently they’re not write-now stories.

I’ve gone back and done some rewriting and touch-ups and doodled some plans for future stuff to happen in various storylines, but overall, there hasn’t been much concrete production. I re-read the substantial beginnings of an urban fantasy novella about dreams versus reality and I’d love to pick it up again, except the main character’s name is Trinity. With the whole “What is the Matrix?” thing going on, no one will ever believe that I wrote half this novella six years ago. Just change the name, I hear some of you suggesting; and while on the surface that would seem to be a solution, for me (and likely many other writers) it’s impossible. The character’s name is Trinity. She opened a door in my mind one day after a long day of work and came in fully-formed, falling onto the sofa, practically asleep on her feet. It would be like asking you to change your next-door neighbour’s name after living next to her for six years.

I’d say it’s frustrating, but I don’t have the energy to feel frustrated. Forlorn, yes. But not more than that.

muttermuttermutter

Is it too much to ask that people actually do a little bit of research before they post stuff on eBay?

If you’re selling costumes, listing something as RENAISSANCE / VICTORIAN / HIPPY (sic) when it’s a brand new sundress means that either you don’t know what you’re talking about, or you’re implying that your product evokes one or all of these keywords. The only thing that all three would have in common that I can think of is that they have full skirts.

No, wait, there’s a third option — you just don’t care. Or you assume that your potential clients are stupid.

I’m cranky. I was awoken rather rudely at 4.34 AM when a piece of heavy construction equipment trundled down our street, setting off car alarms as it passed. Then the cats woke up. Then my husband woke up and watched the morning news, which I heard very clearly through the pillow over my head.

I gave in, and got up.

The good thing is that it’s sunny outside again, which means my mood ought to correspond shortly.

Hellboy, Where Have You Been All My Life?

Best line in a work of fiction that I’ve read in a while:

HELLBOY: Lady, I was gonna cut you some slack, ’cause you’re a major mythological figure…

[Hellboy proceeds to gift the Lamia with a sweet uppercut to the jaw: BAPP!!]

Hellboy. Oh, yes, amusing. Witty, sarcastic, well-researched, and full of the mythological, folkloric, and occult. Terribly good. It’s taken me a while to discover it, but now that I have, wow.