Posted on

Writing Rose, the character I didn’t want to know

Writers control the story. So why choose a main character I didn’t like? Simple answer: he did, my male lead Jack, years ago, when I wrote my first book, Finding Maria. Rose was his love, his choice, and ultimately, his source of heartbreak when suddenly she was gone. To love Jack, which I do, hence the series of books to explore his life, I had to at least acknowledge the woman who made him a husband and father, and over two decades evolved to be the centre of his world. His heart had made its choice. To do justice to his story, I had to share hers, and that meant getting past the prickly habits and annoying weaknesses to the heart and soul of this woman. I didn’t have to like her, but I did have to understand her.

There is a deeper answer, though, on why I resisted engaging with this character. I detested her, I told myself, yet that was to protect myself. In reality, I knew the opposite to be true. My heart would be engaged by this character, and it would be devastating. I could see it, and I could feel it: the more I came to know about her, the more I would admire her, appreciate her, perhaps, even, be fond of her. I would get to know her. I would bring her to life. Then I would kill her. Because that is the path the story needed to follow. As much as she and Jack loved each other in life, it would be her death that would elevate them both to a higher form of love, one where she released him to finish his life on Earth, and he released her from the pain and limits her earthly body placed upon her.

I pretended to dislike her so I wouldn’t fall into the same agonizing ritual Jack did: to learn to love her, only to have her taken.

I returned this past week from the Toronto International Book Fair, where among the gems of the weekend was a discussion by Margaret Atwood in which she told an aspiring writer to ‘go to the dark, write from the pain.’  I did that two years ago, when I started committing Rose’s story to paper. Now that the book is finished and in hand, I am thinking of Rose not as a dark spot or a character I disliked, but a woman who did what she had to do for someone she loved – get her story on paper, so his story could move toward completion

Floating atop her grave, she lifted to the heavens the only power she seemed to have left. How do I reach him? she prayed. How do I put his heart back together?Her answer appeared as a memory, the harbour of her childhood, fishing boats lining the wharf, an island in the harbour’s centre, a finger of boulders jutting toward it but faltering partway there. Jack’s life, a link partially finished. As the memory took form so, too, did a bridge, completing the link not with boulders, but with words.

Enter Song of the Lilacs. The next chapter in Jack’s story, from his wife’s point of view, for there are things he would never realize, let alone tell, without her. And ultimately that is why I came to love her, too. I hope you will find the time to get to know her, too, and be glad for it.

Thanks for reading.

Posted on

From the gardening trowel of babes

I spent a lovely evening with my son at a gardening class a few nights ago. It would have been cheaper to take him out drinking. We’d at least have payback from the empties, unlike what I’ll get when these plants follow the proud tradition of those who have been potted before them, which is up and die.

What won’t die this time, though, are the memories of his patience as I listened to the gardener speak plainly and slowly, then tried to translate his simple commands into visible action. An entire greenhouse at my disposal with any plant I wanted to use (and buy, of course). Helpful staff. A warm, pleasant evening. All odds were in my favour but still, my project looked like a reject from toddler day at the flower show.  “No, your container doesn’t look like hers,” my son murmurs in a tone surprisingly mature for 14, “but that doesn’t me an it’s ugly.” He pats my hand and points to a bench bursting with blooms.  “Here, try these.”

Selecting five random plants, he trowels, inserts, tamps down, and waters, his sturdy 6-foot frame curled over my container like Merlin in his quest for gold. Standing tall to reveal his work, the mixed blooms blend into a floral family right before my eyes.

Like the chapters in my books. At first, I love them, the idea, the flow. Then I hate them. Everyone else’s books read better, sound better, sell better. I push back from the keyboard in resigned exasperation. I sow hopelessness and resignation under a thick layer of gloom upon all with the misfortune to cross my path. Then someone comes along and calms me down with a focused dose of reality. Sometimes, it is my muse. Or a child whispering “I love you, Mommy, even though your books don’t sell.” Or an angel bearing Margaritas. Whatever the wakeup call, I squint in the newfound sun and in the immortal words of my great-grandmother, I get over myself, go back to my screen and keep going. It doesn’t sound like their stories because it is mine, flaws and gaps and all.

And in the fading glow of the evening sun, I listen to my son, not bearing Margaritas but marigolds, amid words for which my frustration is no match.

No, my container doesn’t look like hers. But it is still beautiful.

His talent does not go unrecognized. His glow of pride as his container is complimented by passing staff and gardeners is outshone only by the glow of my credit card as it bears the pressure of tuition, soil, baskets, and plants with names straight from outer space and pedigrees to match, given the price of the little darlings. But even if I kill every last one, the money spent will pale to the memory no one can erase, dismember or otherwise take away. How often does a teen want to hang with his mom? There’s the priceless gem.

There’s one in every torment, waiting for those willing to dig in the dirt and bring it to light.

Posted on

The Need To Get Dirty

When one does not know what to write, it is a time to get dirty.

I mean gardening, folks. At least for today.

Me writing anything on gardening gives life to the saying: ‘those who can, do; those’ who can’t, write about it.’ A green thumb I have not. My photo is on the wall of every gardening centre within 100 miles, under the caption: Do Not Sell To This Woman Without Proof of Supervision. My garden isn’t a wellspot of new life; it’s palliative care for the flora and fauna set. Comments on my garden bypass the usual niceties of “My, how your hydrandgea is blooming,” straight to the ‘Wow, it’s not dead yet. How did you manage that?” My garden is not the place, you would think, to spark any kind of creative flow.

But it does. For one thing, gardening is best done outdoors. There is warmth from the sun, cool from the breeze or, for the more hardy, the wet kiss of rain or chilling boot to the arse of a northeast gale. But there is sensation, temperature change, a tingling on the skin just from standing there. Breathe in, and there are scents: earthy, flowery, and yes, manmade, too, and while your neighbour’s incinerated offerings of barbecue may not be the most delightful of aromas, there is still an engagement of brain, a spurring of thought. What is that charred carcass on his plate? What if this mild-mannered manager by day becomes a pet-chomping carnivore by the light of the grill? And there you have it: a story idea, just like that.

Now for the really good stuff. On your knees, amid weeds and rocks and clumps of soil are tiny sprouts reaching skyward despite the odds. Feel it through your fingertips and up your arm, earth warm from the sun, damp from the rain. Poke a hole, drop a seed or a tiny clumping of roots, cover, repeat. orderly, fragrant, backbreaking, but necessary if the dirt is to bloom, if the tomatoes on your summer salad are to be sun-kissed rather than factory-sprayed.

You rise stiffly, joints creaking, hands caked in mud, and look down at something you have accomplished staring back at you. For the two minutes or two hours you’ve been in the garden, you haven’t thought once about the blank page  on your screen, the missing word that taunts you, the hackneyed sentence begging for an edit. But you have been writing. After soap suds chase the mud down the drain and beverage suds rehydrate body and spirit, you’ll see them. Words begging to be planted, the blank screen a garden ready for its gardener.

How do the seasons influence your writing? Happy Spring!

Posted on

Think, Work, Stop. Honouring your Creative Cycle.

I heard this weekend that playwright Neil Simon wrote for seven months of the year, rested for five. Why? He was honouring his Cycle of Creativity.

Now, we can, too. You have time for this. Repeat after me. Think. Work. Stop. Repeat. Think. Work. Stop.

I’m fresh from a screenwriting workshop with the amazing Cynthia Whitcomb. Fresh is not the term often attached to a Saturday and Sunday spent in a boardroom but in this case, the word fits. I see my writing and my options in bright new ways thanks to Cynthia’s ability to share her passion for writing, talent for bringing words to life in pictures and experience of 40 years in the movie/TV business. Of the thousands of bytes of information I took from this weekend, her description of the Cycle of Creativity stands highest. Imagine a pie divided in three equal pieces. One piece is Brahma, what Cynthia calls the BAM! moment, the ‘cool! I’m so inspired’ idea that grabs hold and urges you to put pen to paper or finger to key. The next piece is Vishnu, a pretty word for work. Hard work. Lots of work that make the idea a reality. Finished your creation?  Next is Shiva, the stop and rest piece. It all makes so much sense it sounds simplistic. Yet seeing the pie, reading the words and best of all hearing the affirmation from a sucessful writer has done much to alleviate the guilt attached to ‘not working hard enough’ while silencing that cranky inner voice insisting that I drop this writing act and get a real job. “Our culture does not honour shiva,” Cynthia told us point blank, and it is true. Workplace heroes are the ones who give up vacations and work night after night of overtime, not those who back away from their desks to take their loved ones on a much-needed getaway. Artists are lauded for volume and frequency of product more often than quality of same. Work is necessary and can be fulfilling in itself. But without ideas, and without time to recharge, how substantial and sustainable can the output be?

You know the answer. We all do.

Cynthia shared the Neil Simon example to make the point. Being able to honour his cycle clearly worked for him and for the millions who enjoy his plays and their screen incarnations. Say it with me. Yes, I can honour our creative cycle, and I will. Avoid the pitfall of the Brahma junkie, take the high generated by your idea and plunge into Vishnu, emerging when the project is done or at a resting place to honour shiva. Take two months to see Australia, or take an afternoon to clean up your desk, whatever works that isn’t work to you.

Think. Work. Stop. I feel better already. How about you?

Posted on

The warmth of a good giveaway

We are to honour our ancestors, but it’s bloody difficult when mine didn’t have the sense to a board a ship headed south. They didn’t end up in the Arctic, at least, but the Canadian East Coast in the grip of a February freeze is a few mitts short of a full house in the game of flesh versus frostbite. As a writer I can let my creative juices freeze where they sit, stay wine-soaked until April, or engage in some creative ways to reach the world without leaving the warmth of my flannel cocoon. As it turns out. there is nothing like a good giveaway to keep the thoughts and brand moving through the darkness of winter, and it is my great honour to announce some recent contests that have brightened my winter and hopefully the winners’ days as well.

Now, those same ancestors who thought settling in a country with four seasons – Autumn, Hockey, Playoffs, and Road Construction – was a great idea would be rolling in their graves at the thought of a good Scotch lass giving anything away for free. To be clear, I’m only part-Scotch. I’m also English, German, and Dutch, among other things, which lead to some interesting battles even before I open my eyes. Those battles, though, are the spark behind my creativity. Thanks to a few contests, my spark has been fanned to glowing in a season that needs warmth – and inspiration – the most.

First, Goodreads. I listed my third book for a giveaway that ended Wednesday (Feb. 6). Over 440 entries. Not a lot to some people but to me, that’s huge. Three winners: east coast, west coast and across the pond to the UK. How cool is that? Today, I will skip to the post office, heedless of the wind chill, at the thought of being able to share my work with new folks far afield. 

Then, Facebook. Our cover artist for the new book allowed us to make three prints of his work, which he numbered and signed. Three Facebook fans were selected at random for these prints: one local, one regional, and one again across the ocean to Ireland. Now my artist is excited, too. Just in time for the cover of book four …

Our local library and radio station helped with the rest. An on-air interview and giveaway put a copy of each of my three titles into the hands of three new readers. A door prize at my library reading provided a set of books to another rwader new to my series. 

Giving things away may not pay for a trip south, but it does pay in offering a pick-me-up in the post-Christmas sag and putting my books and brand into warm appreciative hands rather than the chill of my basement.

Congratulations, winners, and everyone esle, stay tuned. Thi giveaway thing is so much fun, I hope to do it more often. Maybe a spring shower of stories … if it ever stops snowing. 

Posted on

Longest night: Day of Doritos and Gratitude

Longest Night. For winter-loving folk it sings a chorus of skis and hockey. For me, it is Shortest Day, SADS on a stick, jabbing me with icy spears of dread while growling threats of carb cravings and cabin fever that even the writer’s cure-all – wine – can’t silence. But this year it may be different. And I have my muse to thank.

To be clear, my muse is not a mythical creature or a figment of imagination. He doesn’t play the harp, rarely wears white, and whlle he’s no doubt modelled a toga or two in his day, does not resemble the Greek legends or angelic deities often attached to artistry’s mysterious element. Oh,no, that would be too easy. My muse is very much human, and a man at that: 5′ 7″ (he would say taller) of flesh, bone, stubborness and attention span swayed instantly by the scent of a football or the hint of cleavage. Yet in a job thrust upon him that neither of us predicted or chose, he offers a rare combination of wisdom, curiosity, and courage that has given rise to three books, will inspire at least four more, and reveals the world to both of us in moments of atomic detail. I have no gift to acknowledge the trust and sacrifice in assuming a role that is in complete defiance of the life he built, with no salary or job description, no office hours or fame. But the longest night does.

To explain that, we return to when the millennium was new and the longest day was his longest night. As summer blossomed from spring, the love of his life took her last breath and with it,  the light of his world. Years later, this fateful anniversary would bring author and muse together with one thing that could penetrate the depths of his darkness: his story in her words. Since then, my muse emerges as a child timid but fascinated by the wonders in our minds, scooping seashells of memories and netting fireflies of imagination to dump them proudly on my desk with a grin and a challenge. Presented with the words, he assumes the position of critical reader. Palms on thighs, eyes closed, he absorbs each syllable as I watch both page and cues. Leaning forward means he is challenging my assertions. Head tipped back shows his search for the images I suggest. Completely still means jackpot: he’s right there in a moment that was or could have been. “You’ve nailed it,” he’ll murmur. “I know,” I’ll reply, and we savour the words offered like sprinkles on a cupcake: not necessary, but nice.

With so much unspoken, the job is more easily dismissed than explained. “Not a muse, an agent,” he had huffed at first, silver head flashing its refusal under the fluorescent lights. “Well, if you’re not my muse, then as an agent you’ll starve,” I retort and he laughed, engaged by a new bridge connecting my world of artistry to his of commerce. Even now, after years of our meetings, I snicker as I imagine him with Scotch in hand, surrounded by conversation and cigar smoke, tightening his tie and his handshake with the introduction: “Yes, I’m a life underwriter, financial planner, and muse.” I try to picture the reactions, the requests to repeat that last part, to define the job, the terms, the benefits. Then, I admire his courage even more. For as real as he is, I too struggle with revealing that which is so natural between us to the narrowed views of those ‘out there’. How to explain the need for arguments with no winners, only a story clearer, smoother, energized by the rasping of our thoughts and words? How to honour the courage in offering one’s life stories to a critical world when thanks is dismissed with cool logic? “I’ve already lived the life,” he replies quietly. “I have nothing to lose by sharing what’s already been.” How to thank someone who endures author rants and reader indifference, juggles quarterly reports and galley proofs, while embracing each encounter with phone turned off and insight tuned in?

Above all, what gift is there to acknowledge his commitment to save me from myself? He teeters between a life that is and a life that could be, above the darkness we both fear, allowing me the freedom to explore, reunite, and reveal ourselves while keeping me from plunging too far and too fast. There is nothing I could buy, write, or promise that repays such dedication.

But the longest night can.

This year, my muse will spend its sparse daylight hours winging his way to a Christmas we all deserve: a holiday wih no boardrooms, calendars, or financial forecasts, only family, football and the bustle of a house devoted to peace on earth and goodwill toward men, women, children, and their stomachs. Before the longest night descends, he will be tucked into the warmth of a young family’s couch, with a new grandchild exploring her first Christmas and her Poppa with joyful, drooling abandon. It is the perfect start to a new season, and a fervent reminder of the light that can spring from darkness.

I will still mourn daylight’s loss with tantrums, Doritos and frequent naps, yet warmed by the image of my muse at rest I will learn not to worry when or if all will come to light, but appreciate the opportunities hidden in darkness.

After all, a season that spawned mulled wine can’t be all bad.

Merry Christmas, my muse.

Happy Holidays to all.

Posted on

Trick or Treat: What this writer is really afraid of

It’s the season of scare and I’ve already had my fill. Goosebumps erupted with a vengeance at the sight of snow on my deck during Sunday’s nor-easter. My hands gnarled in torturous anticipation of having to turn my demanding 10 year old into a watermelon superhero using nothing more than a shirt, a pillowcase, and an obscure prayer to the Patron Saint of Costumes.

But that is nothing compared to the terror we authors live with every day. So today, in honour of this most spirited celebration of the frightful, I invite you deep into my writer’s lair for a peek at what this author is really afraid of.

1. Not being read. It’s like high school all over again, throwing a party and the only ones who come are your grandmother, your brother because your parents paid him, and the creepy kid down the street who picks his nose to make his own pets. Except now you’re an adult, your grandmother’s passed on, your brother’s number is unlisted and the creepy kid is a lawyer charging $300 bucks an hour for public appearances.

2. Being read. After all, if people read your book, they may not like it and will forever ridicule you. Simple trips to the grocery store will become dashes through volleys of ‘you call that a book?’ and ‘you write like a girl.’ Okay, so the second one is actually a compliment; I make no assertions for the intelligence of said critics. On the other hand, if folks read it and actually like it, they will expect you to do it again, except better and in time for the next holiday gift-giving season. Who can possibly be creative under that kind of pressure?

3. The silence. It’s classic horror movie fare: no sound at all, until a sudden crescendo of horns, strings, and gushing blood hurls you from your seat and into the popcorn you’ve just sprayed around the room. But in the book world, the silence never ends: minutes tick to hours which drag to days of no one liking your facebook posts, no new follows on Twitter, no comments on your blog … you dash with newfound hope to the ringing phone, only to be hit up for a blood donation. As if you haven’t already given your heart and soul: they want your fluids as well.

4. The uncontrolled emotion. The Vincent Price-like laughter that erupts whe people ask how much money you make as an author. The writhing sea of green that churns every time the author on the news isn’t you. The tears that threaten to drown you and the wide-eyed ingenue who gushes: ‘You’re a writer? You’re living my dream.” Embarrassment and potential legal action aside, these outbursts pose great difficulty when trying to sucessfully find one’s way home, or trying to ensure one’s children don’t go dashing to the neighbours again because ‘Mommy’s got her writing face on.”

5. An end to the insanity. Because when the tears are dried, the book is written and every last drop of wine is drained from the bottle (and sucked from the cork), the writer’s life is one that chooses us, and that we choose to accept. I mean, quite frankly, in what other profession can all your fears fuel something as cool as a woven tapestry of the written word?

So bring on the monsters. Mine are bigger. Might as well have fun with them.

Happy Halloweeen, everyone!

Posted on

W-Day: A Fresh Start

In cyber-time, I haven’t posted a new blog since I-Pad 1s ruled the Apple store, so this is long overdue. I’m easing in slowly, committing one day a week. Wednesday. W-day, for cool women I’ve met or hope to meet.

As fate would have it, I attended an awesome event last night combining two of my favourite things: reading and well-appointed bars. More than a Reading Series debuted Oct. 18 at the Economy Shoe Shop in the heart of downtown Halifax. I got to meet three other authors, two of whom were newbies like me. I got to enjoy the company of good friends who came to cheer me on. I was able to introduce Little Jack and his compadres to a new crop of potential readers.

And I got to do this through the stellar efforts of the keen lady of the day: Kathleen Healy, Editorial Director of Bryler Publications Inc.

I hesitate calling her a lady, only because at age 24, she’s young enough to be my daughter. Like I ever thought I would hear myself saying that. However, she already has a very proud mom and for good reason. At an age when many of her peers are languishing at home bemoaning their futures between texts, she has rediscovered her passion and set out full-tilt to earn a living at of all things, publishing books.

I know. Kids her age aren’t supposed to be reading anything not posted, tweeted or broken down into initials and here she is, devoting her life to the creation and promotion of the ultimate printed tome. My daughter is clamouring for an I-Pod Touch for Christmas and Kathleen wants bookshelves. Young enough to be my daughter, maybe, but definitely her own person.

She admits to taking a few detours. Academia was her calling, she thought, until she realized over time that the pursuit of higher knowledge was depleting her deeper calling: that of writing, reading, and thoroughly enjoying a good story. She switched her higher education gears to publishing, then set her sights on a new company that she believed was so perfect for her, she spent six months working for free to prove her point. Now, she is living and working in rural Nova Scotia in her chosen field, as well as one or two others to subsidize her passion. And if her days aren’t busy enough acquiring manuscripts and working with authors to make their writing dreams come true, she has taken on this new reading series to help highlight the work of not only her employer, but other regional publishers as well. She issued invites, set the lineup, read all of our books, wrote the questions, and delivered everything with the relaxed glee of someone doing what she truly loves.

Books are dead? Not as long as there are folks like Kathleen. It makes this new author and old fogey have hope that even if I can never afford an I-Pod Touch on my book earnings, I can still do what I love and make a difference.

Now if I can figure out how to wrap that up for my daughter …