Monthly Archives: January 2004

The Bad News, Balanced by the Good News

The Bad:

Last week I got the sad news that my sweet little sewing machine is going to cost about a hundred dollars to fix. It was exactly what the man who took it in suspected: the timing has gone on it. A lightweight machine like this one isn’t designed to sew anything heavy, and that’s pretty much all I’ve sewn with it. The repair shop was impressed that it had lasted eight years, but the man warned me that to fix it would likely not be worth the money it would cost. His phone call last week confirmed it. He told me that even if he fixed it, I’d likely run into the same problem within a year or so if I used it for the same projects.

Now that I have a functioning printer of quality, my original plans to buy a new one no longer apply. I think that when the cheque for the first project I finish at the US publisher comes through, I’ll use a bit of it to treat myself to a new sewing machine instead. One with a bit more oomph, a little more weight, the design to handle heavyweight material and projects, and maybe a range of speeds that embraces more than bunny/turtle.

The Good:

I had an hour-long chat with my editorial contact at the US publisher – the imprint specialist is a go, with the contract being tweaked before it’s sent down to me. The series proposal is being fleshed out as I go. This is becoming more and more of a full-time thing, a real career. I’ll be going down to Boston somewhere around the end of February to pitch the proposal and meet everyone, and possibly one of my authors as well. There are the fall bookfairs to think about too, where publicity for the new imprint might require me to be on hand for talks and info session with buyers.

Yes, I’m still stunned.

I’ll need new clothes. Jeans and t-shirts (beloved uniform of home-based freelancers everywhere), however fetching I look in them, are just not going to cut it in a conference room or a marketing sales floor.

Gratuitous Candy Review

Caramel Kit Kat:

Disappointing. It’s not even worth buying one to try. If you’re a Kit Kat fan, stick with the regular kind. If you’re a caramel fan, buy something else.

This misses the point of a Kit Kat, and the point of caramel, on so many levels.

O Frabjous Day!

I just got a parcel from my parents in the mail. In it was the manual that goes with my printer.

Now that I know what all the buttons mean, I can photocopy. Thank you, gods!

And thank you, Mum, for the January treat!

Update: Aha. If I don’t click on the black & white button, the copier assumes it’s in colour – even if the original is b&w. And I end up with green music to practice with. Well, it’s, um… different.

From the “It’s A Small World” File

Yesterday was the first rehearsal for Beethoven’s Ninth. Walked in, sat down, smiled at the bassist, said hello to the cellists I played with last November, and set up. The conductor (who’s a riot) announced that just for kicks, we’d start off with the fourth movement.

Yes. The movement. It’s what the Ninth Symphony is all about, really.

Me: Erk! Gulp!

(You see, the cellos figure prominently in the forth movement. Erk, indeed.)

And then the conductor lifted his head from his score and said, “Is that good for you, Brad? Can you do half a rehearsal here, then half off wherever else you need to be?”

Naturally, not knowing everyone in this symphony orchestra, I turned my head to follow his line of sight. As I did, a voice said, “No, I’m all yours today. It’s good.”

I blinked. I know Brad. Last time I saw him was, oh, seven years ago.

So we played (and what a ride, to sight-read the fourth movement of Beethoven’s Ninth – I mean, really), the cellos got lots of compliments, and eventually we took a break. I put away my cello and got my water bottle, then picked a path through the chaos of instruments and strangers wandering around playing random bits of music to themselves all the way to the back where Brad sat with his trumpet on his lap, talking with someone else who was, oh my gods, the music teacher from my old high school.

I waited politely until they’d finished their topic of conversation, and when Brad turned to me, I said, “Last time I saw you, you were standing in the doorway to my apartment, holding out a bottle of IBC root beer and telling me that you couldn’t stay for my housewarming.”

We exclaimed and laughed a bit and caught up on the past seven years. He’s married, too. He complimented me on having reached a level of ability equivalent to playing with this symphony (and ooh, didn’t my ego need that bit of bolstering, although I admitted I was an emergency fill-in). Then he turned to introduce me to his friend Murray. I smiled and say, “Yes, Murray Rosenhek. You taught music at Mac High while I was there.”

He charmingly admitted that he didn’t remember me, which was highly amusing since, as I quickly assured him, I never took one of his classes. All my friends took music, but as our school didn’t teach strings, I took drama instead. When he asked with whom, and I told him Elaine Evans, he said, “Oh, that was twenty years ago!” as if that explained his memory lapse. Brad got a good laugh out of it.

It was good to share memories with someone who had been instrumental (if you’ll pardon the pun) in getting me into orchestra. It all began rather oddly. Brad, having access to Concordia’s database of students, contacted me via e-mail with compliments after he’d seen me sing in LLO’s production of The Pirates of Penzance. We started messaging, got to know one another, hung out a bit, and then one day he proposed an interesting gig: his wind orchestra was performing a really modern symphony by Johan de Meij called Lord of the Rings, and they had the idea of writing a dramatic narrative to introduce the symphony as a whole, as well as the individual movements. Would I be interested in performing something like that? And did I know someone with a good deep voice who could co-narrate with me?

Heck, yes!

Thus it was that Tal and I were guest performers with the Lakeshore Concert Band in May of 1998. (Okay, so Brad and I haven’t seen one another in six years. Feels like longer.) One of the last times I saw Brad was when he invited me along with some of the concert band to attend a Canada Day chamber orchestra concert in Pointe-Claire village. They all urged me to talk to the conductor and ask about joining. As secure as I was in my dramatic abilities, I was just as insecure about my cellistic talents, and as much as I wanted to play with an ensemble the level of technique displayed in the concert scared the hell out of me.

Has anyone made the connection yet?

Yes. I eventually managed to screw up the courage to call that conductor and inquire about a place for a cellist in the Lakeshore Chamber Orchestra. It’s now my third season with them.

And now Brad and I are playing together in Cantabile. Small world, indeed.

Here And Gone

So now that I’ve got this bulletin board, very cool-looking with lots of important story assignments and ongoing projects pinned to it (have I mentioned that I got a postcard from Neil Gaiman?), I am experiencing writing blocks the size of Stonehenge.

No, actually, I’m not. I’m exeriencing computer aversion.

Yes, there’s a difference. Last night I went to bed early, curled up in candlelight with cats, and began to work through a Great Canadian Novel issue that had been dropped by the wayside a while ago. Yes, all two of you out there who’ve read the GCN, I refer to Ben, poor guy. Yeah, he kind of vanished, didn’t he? I’m certain my protagonist would like him to stay vanished, but that just can’t happen.

I have never been a fan of the concept of jacking into some sort of computer system, but ye gods, if there were to be a method created for authors to allow ideas to pour straight from noggin to file, I’d be all for it.

And, of course, when I woke up this morning… gone. This is even worse considering that I’m one of those people who urge others to write down their ideas in order to encourage the creative subconscious with positive reinforcement (which, as t! pointed out to me last week, is simply another term for brainwashing). An evening of work, lost due to being warm and comfortable and sleepy. (And speaking of t!, yay for regular posting!)

As others in my general artistic circle are realising, writing without a regular schedule is just asking for problems.

One of my thoughts last night was about the idea of outlines. I had a rough chapter-by-chapter outline for my 2003 NaNo novel, and it worked. Not only did it work, I added stuff in-between. Now, I also enjoy working in a discovery-type fashion – no outline, no idea, just sit down and whee, where’s my protagonist going today? The GCN is written like that, and in general it works really, really well (the problem of the disappearing Ben aside), because the novel is about the protagonist discovering herself.

I used to write in a very episodic fashion: I’d have an idea for a scene and I’d write it. This meant I’d have a pile of scenes that I could play with like a jigsaw puzzle, or – even better example – a Tarot spread. How do these scenes relate? In what order do they appear? How can I tell a story that connects them all and have it make sense?

I’ve recently revived an old set of scenes written like this about a decade ago. They’re good; I like the characters. I know what order they come in. Now I just have to write the stuff that connects them all, which means – yes – an outline of sorts. And for some reason, I’m really resisting the outline idea right now. Probably because I know it’s Good For Me.

None of which, of course, even remotely connects to the computer aversion issue. Which is, quite simply, the fact that I don’t want to sit at a computer to write. Don’t tell my creative subconscious, but I’m going to outwit it by going back to pen and paper for a while. I might even buy it a new notebook and pen to lull it into complicity.

Shh. We mustn’t spoil the surprise.