The Dummy

I fell in love with Dixon first.

From the moment I saw him. It was love at first sight. I like to think on both our parts.

July 1st, 2012. It was swelteringly hot.

It was the first time the Sidekick and I met. He was driving up to Kelowna to pick up his newly adopted dog and I decided to go along for the ride because ... well, I love a good adventure and apparently had disregarded all those 'stranger danger' lessons I sat through in elementary school.

The road trip was awkward. Uncomfortable. The conversation oddly one-sided. At least on the ride back I had someone to talk to, Dixon. The dog. By the time I was dropped off at my house, I was sure I'd never hear from the Sidekick again, which was really sad, because I loved his dog. I even covertly snapped a blurry picture when our driver stopped for gas.

Now, for anyone who knows me, they might say I love all dogs. This is true. I do. I am a dog lover. But the affection I had for Dixon ran deeper than blanket dog-love. He reminded me of my first pup Patches - his big meaty head and stinky farts - and it was a miserable thought thinking I'd never see him again. Thankfully, that wasn't the case. And, as the story goes, I ended up falling in love with his Dad too. But this isn't about the Sidekick. It's about the big dummy.

Dixon.

So, yesterday was a terrible day. Dixon's diagnosis was confirmed. Cancer. Lymphoma. It's not a curable cancer. He's dying. And that sucks. Big time. Because Dixon is not only a big dummy. He's not just our family dog. He's my best buddy. He's my friend. My shadow. He fills every room he is in. And he isn't just a big presence because he's doofy and clumsy and snores like a fright train coming down the tracks. He's a big presence because he takes up every inch of my heart.

We spend a lot of time together, Dixon and I.

Over the years, we have adventured and explored a vast majority of the island together. If you see me out walking, it's a guarantee it's probably with Dixon in tow. I can't say for certain how many miles we've gone but suffice to say it's far. And the things we've seen and done - you wouldn't even believe it if I told you. He's rolled in rotting fish and deer, he's stood on a dead sea lion, and he's fetched a dildo out of a creek bed. He's been afraid of bridges, benches, and birds. We've found many buried treasures and witnessed breathtaking sunsets. We've climbed mountains, waded through rivers, swam in the ocean, slept on the ground, rolled in the grass, been drenched in the rain, clomped through snow, slipped on ice, and been spooked by random noises in the woods.

As much fun as Dixon has been, he's also been a world of heartache. From allergies to hematomas and everything in between, this guy has had me worrying from the word go. There was the inexplicable head tremors he experienced a couple years ago that had me laying awake at night just holding him tight. And let's not forget the ruptured ligament from six months ago that had him limping for half a year. There was the swollen mouth from a bee sting, a bug bite on his tail that made it swell up like a balloon, the chewing of the paws so the pads came off, and the constant scratching from allergies. Every time I turned around he was wounded somehow. It was almost as if he didn't know how to be healthy. When he was doing good, something inevitably would go wrong. He honestly is like an accident waiting to happen.

Even worse, he's destroyed so much. He literally chewed his way out of his crate! A metal crate! He's chewed Ray Bans, hats, doorknobs, shoes, Tupperware, and anything else he can get his mouth on. He chewed through doors people. Two of them. Right through two doors! Let's also factor in all the things he's eaten, like a tub of margarine, which he promptly puked up ... not in one go, of course, but in seventeen uniquely greasy piles. He's devoured loaves of bread and cookies and a bowl full of chocolate one Christmas. Just tonight he tried to sneak one of the Sidekick's cookies off the coffee table. He is a vacuum. A very sweet and lovely vacuum.

The memories are aplenty. I find myself reminiscing these days and my heart is so very heavy because I just can't even imagine what life will be like without his paws dragging on the floor, without his puppy dreams, without his whining at the door, without his zooming around after a poop, without his cold wet nose, without his tongue lapping up my bath, without his mooching, without his pulling on the leash, without his stepping on my feet, without him laying behind me while I cook, without his cleaning food off the floor, without his nose prints on the glass. Without his everything.

It's hard to focus on now and not dread what's to come. But I am determined and dedicated to making the rest of his life absolutely wonderful. I want him to have fun. Each and every day, I want to do something nice for him.More than anything, I want him to know he's loved. To feel loved.

Today is National Puppy Day. I never knew Dixon as a puppy. Sure, he's my puppers, but I never knew him as a little wee one because he was over a year old when we rescued him. Still, I celebrate him today. I celebrate the life we've lived and the life we are going to continue to lead. Above all, I celebrate the fact that we have time. Time to snuggle and kiss and walk and play. Time for me to bury my face in the meaty folds of his neck and weep. I don't know how much time, but if it's a day, I am thankful. If it's a week, I am grateful. And maybe we will get lucky and it will be months. Or even a year.

So, I have wrote out Dixon's To-Do List and each day we will tackle a couple things he loves to do. If you'd like to follow along and get to know this amazing guy a little better, you can do so on Dixon's Super Awesome Instagram Account. And if you don't have a dog and you are thinking about getting one. Don't. They are just heartbreak covered in fur. 

Obviously, you shouldn't listen to me and you should go adopt and rescue a puppers ASAP. 

To Nano Or Not To Nano

That is the question, isn't it? After all, it's November 1st, which means I should certainly leave this important question to the very last minute, right? I mean, why would I try and figure out whether I am going to write fifty thousand words this month or not.

There may have been a smidgen of sarcasm in the first paragraph.

Really, though, I struggle with whether I am going to participate. I want to, I really do. But this year isn't really a writing one. It's been a huge hiccup of creativity. Nothing is running smoothly. In fact, every single word I turn out feels forced and contrived. I look at them and think, "Well, aren't you the ugliest of sentences ever."

There are pros to NANO.

But I'm having troubles coming up with them.

Today I signed into my account, you know - on the off chance I decide to participate - and I had 104 messages. We will put that in the CON column.

What do you think? Are you NANOing this year? Should I NANO with you?

In other news, it's my birthday month!

Wordy Wednesday - For My Friend Bennetts

Dear M.M. Bennetts,

When all is said and done, the circumstances of death don't really matter, but there is a relief knowing you went in your sleep. At home. In your bed. With the people you love near you. Peacefully, they say. And I know in your heart you felt the love everyone had for you.

This witchcraftery of the internet is a remarkable thing. It brought us together. It brought a lot of us crazy writers. And somehow it allowed us to bond, to develop friendships, and to relate to one another. Though our interactions existed only online, they are remembered with a fondness and an admiration on my part you might not have fully understood. 

Through 2012 we talked about how weary the direction 'up' can be. And how forward is such a monumental task. Separated by oceans and trees and bills and real life family and complications of a greater nature, we never existed beyond here. Beyond this virtual reality that a lot of people refuse to validate and consider 'real life'. But I fell in love with you. A person I have never met. I look up to you still. And I gain strength from your words and encouragement from your actions. 

A lot of people won't understand this void I am feeling over the fact that you aren't here anymore. Well, not in the physical. You will always be here. Inside us. Inside me. We talked about eating cakey and taking walks. I wanted to come visit, to share with you the haunts you described, but life certainly gets in the way of our bigger and better plans, doesn't it? 

Still, I had you for a moment, and boy does that moment feel so short right now. 

Out of everything we ever spoke about (dogs (dolliwollies, to you) horses, goals, love, life, fathers, and cake, all the cake) there is one thing I will always remember.  It was part of a bigger paragraph. A deeper conversation about goals. Small ones. But it was simple truth and beautiful in its directness. And you said: 

Sometimes, the road ahead is just so much road. 

This has popped into my head at trying times over the last two years. Times when getting up and out and actually doing something seemed terribly exhausting. But today it is the chime in my heart, ringing out and reminding me there is a lot of road, until there is no more road at all. 

It is Wordy Wednesday. 

The word: Melancholy

It is not unknown. It is not one I just learned. And it certainly isn't as fancy as the other selections have been. Still, it aptly describes my state of being. 

Wherever you go, Bennetts, continue to shine. Burn bright. Be fabulous and furious. Maintain the wit and humour everyone adored. Keep creating. And if you cross Napoleon's path, give him hell. 

Lots of love, 

Tyson 

The Boots. Always.

What's The Point?

Lately I have been trying to help a friend with a book. I hate to call what I do 'editing'. First and foremost, I am no editor. I am not trained to be one and I can't actually tell you where a comma goes, mostly because I think they are subjective, and bending the rules for creative purposes is acceptable, in my humblest opinion. Other people might call what I do 'editing', but there are those who would call it a massacre. I comment, delete, rewrite, move, clarify and set pages on fire. All in the name of love, obviously. 

While I am very liberal with the red pen (virtual, of course), I like to think I am encouraging too. At the end of a chapter, I will often write what I like, what I don't like, and how I think it can be better. It is up to the writer whether or not they consider what I have said. In the end, I am not a published writer and I don't have a degree in English. So, what the hell do I know? 

Nothing, really. Well, at least that's how I feel most of the time. In truth, I do know if a book reads well, if it makes sense, and whether the characters are clear, the motivations sound and the plot exciting. Because I myself cherish an honest opinion, I have been known to be quite frank with others. Tact can fall to the wayside. And, if I really don't like something, I will comment and say, "I really don't like this.' 

This can seem harsh, insensitive even, but I don't mean any harm. In truth, the things I say, the red I use, the comments I make, they are done out of a burning desire to make the story better. Sometimes when I read my own writing, I have blinders on. Other times, I am far more critical than necessary. This is why we need other people to read our work. Not just people who will pat us on the back and tell us it's brilliant either. We need honest to goodness critics in our lives. People we trust and won't be offended with when they tell us they dislike a scene, a twist in the plot, or the way a character is acting. 

One of my most common pet peeves, in your writing and my own, is what's the point chapters. When you have a chapter, or two, or three, that don't seem to have a point. Sometimes they are filler and need to be cut altogether, but other times, more often than not, they are simply chapters that miss the mark. You write them to serve a purpose but for some reason it is lost in the fray. When the point gets lost, the chapter becomes useless, and what I call a skimmer. 

You all know what I am talking about. Those chapters you skim through because nothing is really happening and you're kind of bored and just want to get onto the next great part. One of two things can be done to the 'what's the point chapters' and they are this: 

1. You can rewrite them to clarify the point. Say you put a chapter in to build up a character, or strengthen tension, or show the dynamics of a certain relationship, then you need to ensure that's what it does. If it doesn't execute what you intended for it too and the reader comes back and says, "What's the point of this?" or "This chapter seems pointless." Then it's back to writing, because you didn't execute the chapter well enough for the reader to understand.  

2. Cut it. Axe it. Erase. Delete. Get rid of it. There is no nice way of doing this. It always feels weird to remove two thousand words and not thinking about them ever again. As someone who has completely overhauled many a story, I can tell you sometimes cutting a chapter is better than rewriting it, especially if you are already pushing the boundaries on word count. 

In the end, erase or rewrite those 'what's the point' chapters. I promise your book will be stronger for it in the long run. 

Lost The Plot

So, I started writing this short story for a collection called 'Mermaids' for Pankhearst. I was super stoked about it, but when I got about halfway through, I realized the plot wasn't going to work. It simply didn't generate the feeling I wanted it too. Instead of a gritty, youthful vibe, it gave off a more adventure Nancy Drew tone, which is nice, but didn't really work for me, or the anthology it was going into.

What did I do? I stopped writing, put it to the side, and have been obsessing over it ever since. I have literally wracked my brain over what to do with the story. I thought to myself, surely I can come up with another plot to work with these amazing characters and crazy world.

Apparently not. It's been sitting for weeks. And I've tried so hard to develop it into something I can share with the editor of the project, but it's just embarrassing. Which is why I am going to stop altogether and put it away. It's not working and it isn't worth me stressing over. Besides, I feel terrible leaving a beautiful and talented hanging in the balance, wondering when I am going to deliver.

Of course, as soon as I officially sign off the project inspiration will strike. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.

Sigh.

Changed My Life

While cleaning my humble abode, I've been thinking about books. There are so many out there. Too many for me to ever read them all. Heck, I really wouldn't want to read them all. Because even though there are good books, there are bad ones too. 

This isn't about the terrible novels. This is about the books that changed my life. 

A little dramatic, right? How can books change someone's life? Well, I'm going to tell you, because that's generally what I do on this here bloggy thing. I talk about stuff. All sorts of stuff. 

Here they are, in a very specific and thought out order, the five books that changed my life. 

1. The beginning is the beginning. When I was young, I had trouble reading, which I now find humorous, mostly because I love words so much. I know I was definitely put into a special ed. because of my inability to make words from letters on pages, but I don't actually remember going more than once. Interesting how the brain works, right? Anyhow, there were a couple books my parents used to sit down and read in order to help me get better. One of them was the Berenstain Bears book - The Bike Lesson. 

Why is this book so important? 

Because I memorized it front to back and tricked my parents into thinking I could read. This might not seem like such a big deal, but it turned out to be a spectacular thing for my developing brain. As I recited 'first come the lessons, then the fun' to my dad, I learned how powerful the brain was. Sure, I couldn't read it, but I remembered it all, and I came to the realization that I would one day be able to read. Sure, it was going to take a bit, but one day it would click and I catch up in school.

This book taught me I could do amazing things.  

 

2. Up next is a book that instilled in me the wonder of imagination. As far back as I can remember, I have always loved creating worlds, characters, plots - but it started somewhere. I don't actually know who first read me The Secret World of Og, or if it was something I read on my own in school, but I fell in love with the world over run with mushrooms beyond the trapdoor where the green creatures who live there know only one word. Og. 

Also, this might have been the book that stoked my love for alliteration. After all, the characters in the book are Penny, Pamela, Peter, Patsy and Paul. Enough said. 

This book taught me that if you have an imagination you will always have an escape. 

3. Okay, so I had to do some math in order to get the why of this one accurate and it seems a bit off. Prancer (the Christmas movie) came out in 1989 and I distinctly remember leaving my sister's copy of The Witching Hour by Anne Rice in the bathroom of the Guildford theatre. Why do I remember this? Because I honestly thought she was going to be enraged over it. Turns out, she never knew. Actually, I don't even know if she is aware of this fact now. I never told her and she never asked where her book was. But if this is correct, then I actually started reading horror at a very young age, at least age seven. The Witching Hour isn't my number three book, though. 

It's Carrie. Without Stephen King I doubt I'd have such a love for horror, books and movies. King also taught me some very important lessons when it comes to less is more. A lot of the terror in his writing comes from allowing the reader to conjure up the scariness on their own. This is why a lot of his novels don't translate well to the big screen, or at least that's what I think. As for Misery, it made me want to become a writer. That was a little joke. 

This book taught me never to pour pig blood on anyone. 

4. The Outiders by S.E Hinton. Don't laugh. It was eighth grade and the whole class was assigned the book. I took it home and devoured it. Probably didn't help that I was obsessed with the fifties and sixties and kind of thought I belonged in those eras. There is a sadness in this book that is only outshone by hope. It's really about love and friendships. And how there are some mistakes you'll mkae that will change you.  

Did you know S.E was actually a girl and that she actually wrote the book while she was still in high school? Crazy and inspirational.  

This book taught me the importance of captivating characters with flaws. 

5. This last one might actually be a bit surprising as it also comes from my high school days. The book is Of Mice and Men and the author is John Steinbeck. Now, let me make it clear, this isn't my favourite Steinbeck novel. So, why is it here? 

Because it introduced me to Steinbeck, who has, over the years, become one of the most cherished authors of my life. His writing is both inspirational and humbling. All his novels have similar themes about human nature and have a tenancy to revolve around greed, love, trust, and immorality. Still, he can craft a very beautiful sentence. 

This book taught me not all classics are boring. 

 

What about you? What are some books that changed you life? 

Into The Swing Of Things

One of the most gruelling aspects of writing is getting back into the swing of writing a story after having put it down for an extended period of time. Currently, I am writing the third instalment in an urban science fiction novel with a writing friend and I've been procrastinating writing my chapter because my interest has waned.

Don't get me wrong, the book is amazing. But the rapid fire way in which we used to write has fallen to the wayside. Sometimes we are waiting weeks for the other to finish a chapter. This is when it gets hard. It staunches the creative flow and our excitement dwindles. I have, literally, been sitting on my chapter for a month. In my defence, my co-writer did go to Disney World. How fair is that?

Not fair at all. I mean, I really want to see Harry Potter World.

Still, I dropped the ball. I have been looking at the email in my inbox and feeling guilty. It's all on me this time. Disney World be damned.

The funny part about this whole fiasco is how fast the first two books in the series were done. We are talking a matter of weeks and they were finished. Why is this one like pulling teeth, or whatever other cliche you feel like using? I don't know if it's because this is the final book in the series, or our lives are falling apart, or I'm just not on the computer as much, but it's been so hard writing this book.

Even harder getting back into writing it after putting it aside for awhile. Even rereading it doesn't always help. So, I force myself to write. And it is painful. To read. To execute. To write. Sometimes I wonder if it's so tedious because it isn't right. Like, maybe the direction we are going is all wrong. I certainly hope not.

All I can tell you is that I am pushing forward until I am back in the swing of things and things are swinging freely.

Clearly I am tired and I should be going to bed. And meditate, of course.

And So It Begins ... Again

Last night, I couldn't sleep. At four, I was wide awake, but knowing I had to work, I hung out in bed. Hoping to drift in and out, so not to be a zombie while interacting with the public. From what I hear, no one like chatting with a drooling, lurching, unkempt woman with dark circles under her eyes.

In order to take my mind off what was keeping me awake, I started thinking about these ideas I have for books. There are these two I've been mulling over in my head for a couple months. One of them actually has been simmering in my brain stew for close to two years. Crazy, right? 

So, anyhow, last night at half past four, I came up with the first line to the one I've been thinking about the longest. Now, I was going to share it here, but I suddenly got all weird about putting it out into the world. As if someone is going to steal the first line to the book I have only penned a thousand words of. Sometimes I'm so silly. Besides, what's the chances the first line will even stay the same. Unlikely, right? I mean, none of my books have the same first lines they originally had! And yet, I'm still here waffling. 

Moving right along.  

Here's the thing - it's a vampire novel. Yes, vampires. You don't have to say it. I already know what you're thinking. I am thinking it too. There's this feeling at the nape of my neck and it makes me feel as if I'm wasting my time. Vampires are overdone, right? Vampire Diaries, True Blood, Vampire Diaries, Vampire Academy, Anne Rice's books, Bloodlines, Marked and it goes on and on. Still, there's this little, tiny, mouse-like voice that is saying this will be different. My humblest opinion - the idea is rather ingenious. Not to pat my own back or anything, but there will be blood and darkness and true vampire lore. 

So, I started writing it. Mostly because I had a first line, but also because my early morning pondering finally made it clear where the beginning is. Honestly, I don't know what this is going to turn into - what with not plotting - and that excites me. I think this will be another 'for me' book, much like my pirate novel The Reign of Billie Blackwater. This will be something I write just for myself with the hopes someone else will see the beauty in the darkness. 

And so it begins ... again. 

If you are a writer, how long do you mull an idea before beginning? Do you wait for a certain point to start? Are you a plotter? And if you are a reader, do you like reading about people who are writing and their creative processes? 

A Million Words

Over the last year, I've been writing a book for my mother. When I first moved to the island, I sat on the ferry with her, travelling from Horseshoe Bay to Departure Bay, all my belongings in a U-Haul below deck. This was one of the biggest changes of my life, leaving the mainland, but I wasn't thinking of how monumental this decision was. I sat with my mom and talked about this idea I had for a new novel. 

You know, one of those stories about the good and wicked. 

She seemed to really enjoy the premise. After mulling for a couple months, I decided to give it a go. The beginning came easily and whenever I finished a chapter or two, I'd Skype my mom and read it over the internet. In the beginning, I had a lot of time to write because I wasn't working as much and had enough energy to be creative. Once I got a job, the writing ebbed and flowed. As it goes, my imagination suffers when punching a time clock. Not that I am complaining about having work, it's just hard to craft, create and bring characters to life when you're tired and use your brain for other things, like creating Excel spreadsheets. 

 So, writing became a weekend endeavour. I worked hard to turn out those chapters. This novel, we will call her Ramona, wasn't the only thing I was working on. I had some Pankhearst projects and this alien collaboration, and a zombie thing I was dividing my time up for. Honestly, Ramona was like pulling teeth.  But I kept at it. As some of you may know, I am the Queen of putting things to the side when I lose interest in them. At the side they will sit, eating away at me, but I never seem to find the time to pick them back up and get involved again. 

Thanks to my mother's interest, I couldn't put Ramona to the side. My mom wanted to know what happened. How it ended. If everything was resolved in the end or if there were to be more books coming. And she asked about it. Asked how it was coming along. So, not wanting to let her down, I kept at it. Toiling away. Some days I'd write a paragraph, others pages, and once in awhile I'd do really good and churn out a couple chapters. Those were the best days. Days where I slipped back into those characters with ease and knew exactly where the story was going. 

That's one of the things a lot of people don't know about writing a book. 

It changes as the characters grow and as you write it. Sometimes the ending is completely different from what you thought it was going to be. This happens a lot to people like me, anti-plotters, people who don't map out where they are going, what they are doing, and how they are going to get there. What can I say, I like my freedom. 

In the end, this is the ninth book I've written on my own. Ninth. That's hard to believe. Don't get me wrong, the first eight were terrible. I've also co-wrote three novels, that are completed. And I refuse to count how many short stories I've put to virtual paper. All those words. So many of them. Thousand. Hundreds of thousands. Over a million, believe it or not. 

I have written over a million words. 

Well, that thought simply exhausts me. But before I tuck off for a nap, I want to thank my mother for her support and interest in Ramona, the clumsy book that she is. Without her I wouldn't have finished it. It's been nice having someone who cares what happens. 

In the end, Ramona is still a work in progress. After all, a first draft does not a finished novel make. There is plenty of work to do, and plenty more books to write, but for now, this one is roughly done. The fine tweaking will start, but for now she will sit and rest, until I have the courage to take another look and bring out the red pen. 

Onto the next book. 

The Cool Side Of The Pillow

Couldn't sleep last night.

It comes and goes. As someone who used to sleep all but a couple hours a night, I can handle a little tossing and turning. While laying there in bed, the half moon streaming through my window, I thought about sleeping. Everyone has their way of doing things.

Myself, I like a cold room. Fresh air is a must. A little fan noise - a quirk I picked up from my ex - and lots of pillows. I prefer blankets to quilts. And I always stick my foot out from under the blankets. I think it helps to regulate body heat.

But you know what I really love the most.

The cool side of the pillow.

Boy, did I think I was clever when I thought up the name of this blog. It actually stuck with me all through the night and well into the morning. Now I am wondering if the parallel between the title and Dark Side of the Moon will be lost.

Sleeping. Bed. Night. Moon. Pink Floyd.

Maybe not such a clever title.

Anyhow, back to my pillow.

You know when you flip the pillow and rest your cheek on the chilly fabric. That's my favourite. There's something incredibly reassuring about that feeling for me. Wish I could pinpoint exactly why. Probably has something to do with being a child, but I reckon I'm not the only one who relishes the pillow flip.

Perhaps it's a small and insignificant thing to be grateful for, but aren't those the greatest things to ruminate over?

Funny thing, I just (as in right this very second) consulted Dr. Googles on this business and apparently the Family Guy has felt it worthy enough for a mocking. Now I know I'm not alone.

Mindlessness

Last night, I wrote all of six words.

Six.

Impressive? No, not in the least.

Under normal circumstances, mindless television is the key to my creativity. It's something that I can drown out and still know what is going on. Noise is essential to my process. It feels silly writing that. Mostly because, do I even have a process? I usually just sit down and see where the blinking cursor takes me. This book I am trying to finish, let's call it "Ramona" - because that's the title it holds in my writing folder - is giving me a hard time. Fifty-something thousand words into it and struggling to get out the end.

It's rather annoying, really. I know what the final chapter will be, it's just getting there that's been an uphill journey through brambles on a scorching day. This is a bad place to get stuck. Most frustrating, really, when the first forty-five thousand words came spilling forth from my fingertips like they were greased up with butter and going down a slip-and-slide.

Somehow, I got sucked into the mindless television program last night.

And I wrote six words.

Six.

Instead of beating myself up about it, I'm going to try again tonight. If at first you don't succeed, and all those other catchy sayings people love.

At least I have the ability to write. I am fortunate for that. Grateful for my idea factory. The fact my laptop still boots up. And that I have the ability to watch mindless television with there being little repercussion, except another day slipping through my fingers.

Come on, Ramona. End already.

And if you really want to know what the television show was, just send me an email or something.

Exquisite Moments Of Utter Stupidity

I will write a book with this title. 

These are the types of notes I have in my 'ideas' folder. 

It's kind of embarrassing. 

But I can't delete them. 

There is a beginning of a poem that starts and when the moon is my companion. 

And I am no poet. Trust me. 

Another single line entry reads: Love, the ultimate goal, achieved only through heartbreak and walking a line towards a goal you often doubt exists.

Not sure what I was going for with that. Some sort of self help book? Oh, how hilarious. 

And there this paragraph that makes me laugh - Like some sort of post graduation cliché, except I was twenty-two, not nineteen, I found myself employed at a coffee shop called Bitches Brew. Only snarky females need apply. Also, I lived in a dive apartment with two other girls I barely knew. Gretchen, a wannabe folk singer, who wore toques all year round, and Polly, a waif-thin girl who aspired to be the next screenplay writer of modern chick things and who took up smoking to better suit the persona. Highly allergic to cigarette smoke and folk music, I didn’t exactly enjoy my room-mates. But they were better than my last ones—my parents.  

Perhaps I was going to write the next best disenchanted youth novel, or guide to falling in and out of love.

 

Is it just me who has this unreasonable attachment to every silly little bit and bobble of story I create? 

The folder is ever-expanding. 

First lines, paragraphs, dreams, novels with twenty thousand words that I never finished. I am overflowing with these files, which would be scraps of paper if this was fifty years ago.

Now I kind of wish they were scraps of paper. 

It's easier to forget about random files buried in my dropbox in a top secret folder. 

Harder to hide a book. 

If I had one, I'd keep it by my bed and add ideas to it every night.  

But that might only add to my abundant idea problem. 

Settle In

For some odd and inexplicable reason, I absolutely love the phrase 'settle in'. Probably because I completely support the idea of taking time to ease yourself into a new surrounding, whether it is a living space, place of employment, coffee shop, school or anything else that involves new environments, you need to take your time. No sense rushing things. Besides, there is a very important allotment of time for you to learn your way around, like if there are stairs in your new home and you haven't had stairs in years. You have to take a few days to settle in so you don't tumble down the stairs one night on your way to the bathroom. No, I am not speaking from experience.

Moving along...

These days, I am settling into my new digs. Gaff. Home. House. Abode. Dwelling. Whatever you opt to call it, I'm adjusting. This is my period of adjustment. Meaning, I am getting used to things. And you know what, it isn't all that bad this new place I'm living.

I know a lot of you don't follow me on Instagram (I linked my account if you're interested in keeping tabs on me there). You really should, though, because I post amazing pictures everyday or my extravagant little life. If you want me to break it down, I mostly just post pictures of the dogs in my life and food I cook. Sometimes random lovely things as well. There was a stint where I posted a picture a day for a year, which I documented on my tumblr here, but Instagram allows me to post 5 pictures a day. And sure, I might be annoying, but I like documenting the things I love. It reminds me of what is important and keeps the unimportant things from the cobwebs of my overworked mind.

That said, I have been documenting my settling in on Instagram. See, I already posted a vlog  that showed the rather awesome insides of my new crib. It was titled New Home and mostly consisted of Oliver going up the stairs and the boys fighting on the bed. Totally worth a laugh. But what about the outside? What surrounds me in this new foreign place on Vancouver Island? Well, I am going to show you.

Here, in no particular order, is the happenings around town so far. I mean, there's a lot more than these ten pictures, but they will simply have to do for now. So, that's what I am doing, settling in. Once I complete this, I will regale you with my thoughts on love, life, writing and cake. You know, all the stuff I am known for rambling on and on about. Until then, enjoy the pictures and let me know what you think.

 Allen Lake

 Stone Inukshuk

 Random Bridge

 Graffiti Around Town

 Into The Mountains

 Random House Two Blocks Over

 Raging River

 Allen Lake Again

 Trees & Water

 Reflection

 Water Source

 Lots Of Biking Trails Around These Parts

 A Trail

A Dixon On A Trail

The Bane Of Pacing

I have been doing a whole tractor load of editing lately. It's a yours, mine and ours situation. Which, to be honest, has been rather fantastic. I know that's crazy for you to hear coming from me because editing used to be the bane of my existence, but these days, I kind of like it. Sure, it's time consuming and aggravating when I see what a juvenile writer I used to be. I mean, I'm still a child in this word-wielding game, but I see improvement. At least, that's what I call it. 

Pacing is important this yours, mine and ours writing situation for two reasons, and I shall deliver them forthwith. 

1. Pacing to a story is essential. You want to have a plot that unfolds like a butterfly emerging forth from a cocoon, or something as equally as poetic that signifies the importance of not rushing through things. This day and age, I'm seeing people catapulting themselves into their novels, they start with a bang and whizz, a huge amount of drama and, to be blunt, I'm simply not a banger and whizzer. Does that sound weird? 

Anyway, let me clarify by saying I fully encourage people to hit the ground running. I myself sort of jog along, easing myself and the reader and my characters into things. There's always important bits and bobbles in the first couple of chapters, but I view it like poker and not wanting to give my hand away right away. In my opinion, a bit of mystery is necessary. 

This said, I fear readers might not feel the same way, so I wonder if I should change. I mean, I am aware this is part of my writing style and I don't feel it weakens the words I put to virtual paper or even the blooming plot lines. Others will most likely disagree, because not everyone likes apple wine and strawberry shortcake - whatever that means. 

To be honest, I think a lot of people struggle with pacing. Not only when it comes to plot, but also sentence structure. There are many different ways to put a paragraph together. Sometimes when you read a section aloud you will see when the pace is off. It's like poetry in some ways. You want the right beats. The correct pauses. This is something I'm working on. 

2. Now, pacing yourself when editing. I believe it is a time consuming task to painstakingly go through each and every line and pick it apart only to put it back together again in the exact same way. At times, it can feel overwhelming, which is why I strongly recommend knowing your limits. Taking on too much, yeah, I'm the Queen of that. I want to help, lend a hand, but sometimes, it isn't possible. Stress is a killer. No, really. I think stress is one of the most toxic things people cater to. 

In the last couple years, I've noticed how daunting a full manuscript can feel. Finally, I understand why agents ask for the first couple of chapters or fifty pages. It doesn't seem like such a monstrous mountain. I have a couple critique partners, editing buddies, and I've come up with the chapter by chapter method. Not only is this easier on me, but I believe it to be easier on the person I'm exchanging with. Mostly because I'm ruthless with the scalpel and have the tendency not to sugar coat things. 

Here's the thing, the chapter by chapter method allows you see areas you struggle with as you go. The changes are done more easily. And, if necessary for huge plot holes, you can fix things in advance before hitting your partner with the next chapter. Also, it helps to brainstorm as you go and get feedback so you aren't walloped over the head with a bunch of suggestions for areas of improvement. 

This, of course, may not work for you, but have you ever gotten an entire manuscript back with a crap load of red all over it and wanted to shove it in a drawer and never look at it again? 

Yeah, this method prevents those crushing feelings. 

The funny part is when I sat down to write this little post I fully intended to talk about pacing in life. Then, it turned into a little rant about editing and writing. I find it interesting where my brain takes me. 

Until next time, this is Tyson, signing off.