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. 

This Is Not A Mummy Blog

While the little one sleeps, I'm stealing a moment to update my very loved and completely neglected blog. But if I loved it so, would I neglect it in this fashion? Sure. I think of it like long lost friends - the ones who, no matter how long you are apart, act the same when they see you again. Some bonds you simply cannot break. This blog is one of those bonds. For crying out loud, I've had this damn thing since 2006. That's ten years!

Ten years of blogging. Someone get me a medal. No seriously. Do you know how many people start blogs and abandon them without care or concern? Thousands. There are literally thousands of lost blogs floating around the interweb with one or two posts and then - nothing. How tragic. And yet, here I am. Still plugging away on what use to be That Girl Tyson. Sure, I only posted a handful of times last year, but I posted 339 times in 2014. That's almost a blog a day, which is actually what I was going for.

Trust me when I say there is a lot of hidden content on here. After ten years, there are probably close to a hundred posts I've turned to drafts again in hopes of them being forever forgotten. Not simply because there were riddled with poor grammar, which they were, but because they are too private or silly. Either or. The others I've gone back and re-edited, hoping to clear away the errors.

In fact, I just edited my last post and found four errors. Unacceptable. I can't believe I hit publish without correcting 'excitement' and 'friendships'. I even misspelled 'will'. It's a four letter word, how the hell did I misspell it? Probably something to do with sleep deprivation and carb-overdosing. Yes, I don't sleep enough and I am eating too much food. Some will say I need the food to create the milk to feed the babe, but the truth is my breasts are a big dodgy and have issues sustaining life. Long story short, this isn't a mummy blog. So we will end that right here. 

The point of this post is to tell you this isn't going to be all about my wee infant. I am not going to post photos and updates, and talk about the pros and cons of motherhood. There will be no tricks to putting a babe to sleep or ways to make the bitty one stop bawling, I don't know those types of things anyway. Isn't the best approach to simply repeat "please stop crying" and "please go to sleep" over and over? Or am I doing this wrong. 

So, this ins't a mummy blog, as the title states. Except, the problem is, he's currently my entire existence. Whenever I get to thinking about writing a little blip here, it's always about him. I have five drafts I simply didn't share with you because it's all about him and his perfect mouth and hands and bum and eyes. And then there are those times I want to write about the birth. Mostly, I think, because I still have PTSD from his entrance into the world and, well, I want to talk about all the gory details. Just to put them down somewhere. Because people always say you forget the details of the birth and, quite frankly, I don't want to. I want to remember everything, from the sound my waters made when they broke them to the poop I left behind on the floor. Too much information? Sorry not sorry. Birthing is beautiful. It's disgustingly beautiful. Horrifically beautiful. Batshit beautiful. 

Batshit beautiful. Now, that's a saying I can see catching on. I'm trademarking it. 

To clear things up, I don't have anything against mummy blogs, except for the fact that I don't think people really want to read them. I mean, I've read my fair share as I try to stumble through being a mom, but everything has already been said about parenting. I certainly don't have anything worthy to add. So, I promise I won't write about the Timbit all the time - but sometimes, yes, because I can't help myself! The thing is, just because he consumes my life right now doesn't mean I won't have other thoughts later. I suppose I am making a promise. Not just to you, but to myself as well. I promise to write again. Not only blogs but novels and stories too. I am determined to be creative. Maybe not right now, but it's coming. Big things are coming. I can feel it in my bones. And on that day, watch out.

Ten years and I am still toiling away. Labour of love, indeed. Actually, October is my true ten year anniversary here, according to my first posted blog. So, I suppose I'll throw a party then and someone will get me a tin gift. It's tin for ten years right? 

I'm sure I will have become a big, successful, household named author by then. Go ahead, laugh with me. 

I'm Trying

And at least I'm trying. 

Slacker

What might first appear to be slacking here on the blog is actually a result of productivity. (Doesn't that seem like such a dirty word?) When I signed up to do this 365 Day Blogging challenge, I didn't really take into account November and whether or not I would try to complete NANO. Honestly, after last year's feeble attempt, I kind of resigned myself to not doing it. You know, because I don't work under pressure and writing hasn't exactly been my forte as of late.

Then inspiration struck.

And while I am OK with losing (I do it every day in one way or another) it turns out I want to be a winner this year. I want to WIN. Currently, I have twelve thousand words to write in the next three days. Some of you might argue and say there are four, but November 30th is, in fact, my birthday, so I will actually be eating cake on that day.

But surely I can eat cake and write?

No, I can't. I will only be eating cake on that day. End of argument.

So, yeah, twelve thousand words to write in three days, which might not seem like a lot. I mean, who can't write four thousand words a day and have a full time job, and sleep, and eat, and knit all the Christmas things? I know this past week has been a bit of a dip in quality here on the blog, but I promise it isn't because I don't love you. Actually, just between the two of us, I am so tired of blogging. This whole writing a blog every day thing has turned out to be quite an experience. I would love to tell you it's been an amazing experience, but for the most part it has become a burden, but I am determined. Even though I have already failed.

Failed I say?

Yes, failed. I went through to count out the blogs I've done and apparently I missed three in August, which I have no idea how that happened. I don't foresee myself writing enough blogs to catch up, so I've failed the blogging challenge, which is why I am more determined to win the NANO.

The NANO must be won. For no other reason than my own damn goals.

Welcome To The Nineties

For those of you who are unaware, I am writing a new novel. It's for NANO. Those of you who are privy to my NANOing struggles will be happy to know I am about eight thousand words behind with high hopes of catching up and 'winning'.

This new novel is sort of based off of time travel. Kind of, but not really. No one actually goes to a different time or place, but there are ripples into the future. I'd explain it all to you, but you should just wait until it's published. (wink-wink)

Anyhow, part of the novel, the good part, takes place in the nineties. (The bad part takes place in 2013) The main character has an affection for music and I've been drawing inspiration from the hits of my youth. Just between us, I totally remember the lyrics to all the songs I loved as a kid. My tastes were fairly broad, my main character's isn't. He seems to have a problem with R&B. What I have been partaking in is a lot of grunge and punk stuff, and I must say, this stuff is awesome. The Pixies, Nirvana, Rancid, Green Day, Hole, The Cranberries, Flaming Lips ... hell, I've been singing Better Man by Pearl Jam in my head all morning and don't even mind. (Peal Jam being a band I've never really liked. At all.)

The truth is, I love all kinds of music, but there is something about the nineties that makes me incredibly happy. Nostalgia is a funny thing. But as I am sitting there, hammering out a chapter from my novel, I am singing along to all these songs I kind of forgot about. Not truly, I mean, obviously they've just been on the back burner simmering away because I remember every single word, but I think I overlook how awesome the nineties were.

You'd think because I grew up in that era I'd be able to paint a vivid picture of it, except I've had to do a fair bit of research. From computers to clothing and right on to world events, I have a hundred tabs open at once. (A bit of a hyperbole). But each detail I manage to filter in makes me giddy. I've dressed my characters in Doc Martens and made them drive a Volkswagen Cabrio, they've gone to the Kennel Club and smoked indoors, their computers strain the eyes and use dial up to connect to the internet, and so much cocaine has been snorted that even my nose feels raw.

Conclusion? This is fun. I think the last time I've had this much fun writing a book was when Billie was delivering revenge on the open sea.

Honestly, you wouldn't believe what pops into my head, from shows to clothes and bands I have no idea whatever happened to them. (Like how the Sneaker Pimps' song 6 Underground just randomly came to mind) It's weird what snaps back to you when you start thinking about it. Tomorrow I will be wearing a baby doll dress, Sketchers, way too much black eye makeup, outlining my lips with brown eye pencil, using concealer as lipstick, and wearing a floppy hat with a huge flower on it. Don't worry, I won't go so far as to bantu knots. Never.

And I hop you will be pleased to know one of my characters does in fact have angel wings tattooed on her back. For authenticity, of course.

Wordy Wednesday - Perplex

An enjoyable way to spend my time is to peruse the thesaurus and learn new and exciting words. Between the two of us, I sometimes get stuck in a vocabulary vortex. As the nerd in me squeals out delight, I beg of you to forget this admission and instead focus on confusion and all the amazing interchangeable words for it. 

Baffle. Astonish. Confound. Perturb. Befuddle. Dumbfound. Bewilder. Mystify. 

How can they all delight the tongue in such a fashion? And they all manage to convey a sense of wonderment, as if a magician has simply produced them from a hat along with a velveteen bunny the colour of untouched snow. Yes, they are  fluid and cloaked in allurement, but above all of them is one untouchable word which draws me in with it's lushness. 

The Word: Perplex

Essentially, it means to confuse, and yet the state of 'perplexity' conjures up to me the image of a lost creature stumbling through an enchanted land filled with mystical beings. It is Wonderland and Oz rolled into one. A Dr. Suess book with a dash of Never-Ending Story, an ounce of Labyrinth and just enough The Dark Crystal to keep things interesting. 

The word itself is fantastical and can transport you, not only to a different time and place, but a world where all mythical creatures roam free. It isn't scary or worrisome, but soothing in its oddness. Puzzling, but not unsettling. A world where anything can happen. And where Falkor exists, so I can pet his head and nuzzle into his silken fur. 

 

Look, I never claimed my thoughts made sense. 

The First Week - NANO Recap

The first week of NANO is over and I've done my best to hunker down in the evenings and churn out a decent word count. Working with NANO gives you an idea of what it's like to have a deadline. The downside is, even though you know you need to write fifty thousand words by the end of the month, it's easy to reason the deadline isn't real. It's not like you have an editor breathing down your neck or an agent demanding your next best seller. Unless you do have those things, in which case, I hate you. Just a little. Not enough for you to worry about.

Besides, a little hate might get you through the next thirty-seven thousand and five hundred words. By my calculations, which could be wrong, except I used a calculator, so they aren't, you have penned a mighty twelve thousand and five hundred words.

Congratulations. You aren't even halfway there.

Just between the two of us, I'm relatively happy with the results I'm seeing. It's been a bit stressful because I'm juggling two plot lines and hoping they seamlessly come together in the end, but for the most part the words are coming. A miracle really. It's been a long time since I've gotten past ten thousand words. The main issue I see cropping up already is the interactions between my male and female lead. For one, I'm concerned I am giving away too much up front. Another, the love crap feels so contrived. Seriously. My cynical eyes are rolling every time I write a kiss or stroke or snuggle.

As for advice, everyone writes differently, but just don't get distracted. Shut down Facebook. Put your phone in another room. Don't write hungry. Have water on hand. Sit in a comfortable chair. Plug into music. Reiterate to everyone you live with beforehand that you writing and do not want to be disturbed. Set a goal. And use write or die.

If that all fails, get someone else to write the book for you.

So, cheers. Here's to ten thousand more. No worries. I got this.

Maybe.

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!

My Writing Journey

Sometimes when I am uncertain what I should be working on, what deserves my attention most, I reread all my first chapters. There are many of them. So many I don't want to count. And they are terrible. Well, not all of them. The one I am currently reading isn't half bad. Still, it feels as if I am drowning in first chapters and that is defeating. Even worse, most of my chapter ones don't have endings. A lot of them aren't finished. I suppose I can seek comfort in that. Perhaps I can simply call those ideas instead of chapters.

Ideas I have yet to invest time, energy, and love into.

I know a lot of writers. By a lot, I mean most of the people on my Facebook page. Almost all of them are people I've picked up along my writing journey. Now, I've been writing my whole life, but I don't actually consider my birth the beginning of my writing journey. I consider the year I finished Seeking Eleanor to be the actual beginning of my journey. The moment I actually started learning what it takes to write a book and be an author.

The year was 2004. I actually can't recall when I completed her for certain. I was working at Yellow Pages and letting Rebs read it chapter by chapter. We shared a cubicle wall. It was friendship at first rude interruption. She was super encouraging. I doubt the book would have been completed if not for her. This is why I promised her an assistant job if I ever hit it rich and famous. We all make promises we probably won't ever have the chance to keep.

Once Seeking Eleanor was done, I grew as a writer. I'd say flourished, but that is deceiving. Makes it sound far too easy. As if a little water and sunshine and, just like that, I became this wonderful writing flower. Wisteria. In reality, it was a struggle. There was so much I needed to know, like the rules, so I could make the conscious decision to toss them out the window. I've never been a rules girls. In the following months, and subsequently years, that followed, I perfected tense, learned about character arcs, figured out saving the cat, overused wordle, and recognized my lust for adverbs. Oh, and I have yet to plot a book out.

It's been a long road. Sometimes I think I should be farther along. You know, it's been almost ten years, and I don't have that traditional publishing contract. I'm not being paid to write. And most people don't know who I am. I'm a nobody. Chances are I will remain a nobody for the remainder of my life, and that's okay. The struggle is part of the fun, right? In the end, the self doubts and uncertainty doesn't matter. In the end, the publishing contract doesn't matter. In the end, not being paid to write wicked words doesn't matter.

Because I still love writing. And I think that's what counts.

Wordy Wednesday - On Wednesday

And we are back to our regular scheduled programming! Whew! Wipe that sweat from your brow. Hopefully I won't make another mistake - I say with a wry smile, since making mistakes are kind of a part of my whole shtick. Did you know Wednesdays are almost my favourite day of the week? Truth! They are only trumped by Saturdays, which is kind of unfair because it's the last day before my weekends start. This 'wordy' feature is kind of awesome, if I do say so myself.

Today's word comes with a story.

The word: Omnipresent 

It's origin is Medieval Latin, which is sort of awesome all in itself, and the definition is a widespread and all-knowing presence (kind of like God and Santa). It's an interesting idea,isn't it? To be all places at one time. If we apply this 'all knowingness' to writing then we will be heading in the direction to the reason why I like this word so much.

A long time ago, I think it was 2004, or maybe earlier, I joined a writing website and uploaded a couple chapters of the first novel I ever wrote - Seeking Eleanor. I did this for a couple of reasons, mostly because I wanted to be a better writer, but also to see if I had any chops at all. The thing about writing a book, anyone can do it, but that doesn't mean they are actually any good at. Sure, you can put a sentence together and it could be grammatically gorgeous only to come up short when it comes to the art of yarn spinning. (Not talking about knitting here, but the way in which wonderful writers weave words together to form paragraphs that keep you up at night) Now, I always thought Eleanor was a beautiful girl, but her original condition is a little embarrassing to admit and, when I think back on it, I cannot believe I allowed strangers to read her. After all these years, she's undergone many changes, rewrites and edits have morphed her into a much more appealing novel.

In the beginning, on this writerly website, my little book was noticed and rapidly moved up the ranks, which I can openly admit gave my a boost of confidence. Except, there was a fair bit of debate circling her. Obviously, she needed work, the amount of adverbs were atrocious and the tense was a little mixed up in parts, but those things were easy to fix. The point of view was another thing all together. I distinctly remember a man named JayG who left a comment about how there was way too much head-hopping going on in the narrative.

Head-hopping?

I didn't know what this meant. After all, I was a green writer who only wanted to tell tales and had never concerned herself with reading up on structure and format, or any of those other things that are (or so I feel) secondary to voice. So, like any good writer, I looked it up because I wanted to learn and get better and grow and, maybe one day, be able to sell a book to a publisher and make a modest income off of writing.

Head hopping is when the author jumps between characters in the narrative, changing their voice as they do so, telling what one person is thinking only to flip to what another is feeling. All the while maintaining multiple character voices. This can, of course, be muchly confusing. A thread sparked a debate in the forum, led my me actually, because I wanted to know if my voice was changing throughout. Was I head-hopping? Or was there a different term for what I was doing?

For the majority of readers, the voice wasn't changing, which meant it wasn't head hopping but an omnipresent (or third person omniscient) point of view. Meaning, the voice was the author/narrator's, not a character from the novel, who knew what everyone was thinking, feeling and doing. All seeing. All and powerful. Kind of like Oz. Authors are kind of godly when writing a book, aren't there? I mean, a little, right?

What I find most interesting is that the third person omniscient point of view used to be more commonly used, by Jane Austen, Tolstoy and Tolkien (to name a few), but over time this preferred way of writing has fallen to the wayside. Nowadays, limited third person and first person POVs are hugely popular due to their ability to create a more personal connection between the characters and the readers. I myself always enjoyed the omnipresent way of writing because it allowed you to see into  each character.

One day, when Seeking Eleanor is published and available for readers to fall in love with, I imagine there will be people out there who will say, "I remember when she had an omnipresent POV and was riddled with adverbs." That's right, I changed the entire book. Why? Because I felt there was a distance between the reader and the story going on. Besides, I wanted to develop Eleanor and Devon's voices, to bring them to life, and make them believable. I suppose if I was a truly gifted writer I would have been able to do this while maintaining the omnipresent narrative.

It seems strange to love a word for the role it once played in your first novel. Well, the reason I have such an affection is because I learned something from it. And isn't that why we are all here? To learn and grow, and be better, even the things we do for fun.

You Can't Start A Fire Without A Spark

Bruce Springsteen clearly has a lot to teach us. Okay, he might have been talking about love when he sung that line from Dancing In The Dark, but it's a pretty apt observation. You certainly can't start a fire without a spark. Not only is it applicable to love and life and adventures and happiness and new starts, but it coincides with writing.

At this very moment, I've sat down to write a short story, just to get into the habit of writing again, and I need the spark. I can't start without it. If I do, I will remain uninspired and the words will dry up, dwindle, and fade away, then I will have another beginning without a middle and end. The creative juices shall not floweth until I get a flicker. A bit of heat. Some sort of combustion would be nice. Something that will turn into an all out inferno.

It's hard to know when it will come. What will feed the fire. If the spark will fizzle due to lack of oxygen, much like every spark I've had in the last couple months. The best is when you do get the spark and a decent flame going, you're putting kindling on it, stoking it, blowing, and it catches! Oh, it's a glorious feeling to watch the fire build, then you need to put something bigger on it, so it can heat the whole house and not just the living room. This is where it turns into a real challenge. What if the bones aren't dry enough? What if it starts raining doubt and uncertainty? Sometimes a huge gust of negative wind will sweep through and threaten to extinguish the fire of creativity.

Sometimes it does, and you feel so angry that you spent all that time trying to build the fire. You're frustrated because you didn't get to put it out yourself. There are times you kick at the depressing ashes. Other times, you crouch back down and blow on the coals, hoping against all odds you can revive it. The joy that comes when you succeed is exhilarating, nothing compares, but so many times it simply burns out. You promise to come back to it later in the day. Days turn to months. Months to years. Every now and then, you revisit it.

All of this glorious work and frustration and excitement doesn't happen if not for one little thing.

A spark.

So, we wait.

Wordy Wednesday

The word: Phantasmagoria

This is explained as an ever-changing scene that is confounding or strange and reminds you of a dream. Or, a shifting series of phantasms, illusions, or deceptive appearances as created by the imagination. Honestly, I just love the way this word sounds. There is a classiness to it. A fantastical eerie feel to it. I've never actually used it in a sentence, but one of these days I hope to.

After doing a bit of reading, I've discovered phantasmagoria is a form of theatre where people used seemingly magical lanterns to project spooky images onto walls, either with smoke, light or screens. With a mobile projector, the images could move and change in size, either growing bigger and smaller. This form of theatre came from France in the late 18th century but gained popularity in the 19th century in Europe (especially with the English.)

Phantasmagoria, and the usage of this magic lantern, which was really just a candle and concave mirror, is actually still used today, though the lanterns are modernized. Have you ever been to Disneyland? When you're on the Haunted Mansion ride and your cart turns around only for you to see a ghost between you and whoever you're riding with? This is phantasmagoria!

In fact, this ride utilizes this form of theatre a lot. Consider all those spectres you see along the way. Not to ruin it for you, but those are all created by a projector, which is nothing more than a modern day magic lantern.

Creative Hour

The Sidekick and I are trying to have a creative hour every night. From eight to nine. It's a tactic for each of us to focus on our arts. His being painting and drawing and mine being writing. I thought of the idea and wanted him to join me because if he doesn't participate then I'll feel as if I am ignoring him for an hour every night. Maybe even more, if I get on a roll. 

Last night was our first attempt and it was a complete disaster, though. I opened one of my old documents, a spark that fizzled out, and I wanted to breathe some life into it. Except, the dog I am babysitting decided he wanted to bite me, twice. And, believe it or not, I am one of those annoying people who are affected by their surroundings and what's going on. I love having the television on or music while I am writing, I can even handle the Skype noises when someone is trying to talk to me. 

One of these days, I'm going to finish these WIPs (work in progresses). If anyone asks, I'm not finished here. I have words to write. Books to complete. Stories to wrap up. Characters to flesh out. And plots to weave. Sometimes I worry about exciting stage left without having finished all these books that are half completed (some are even three quarters of the way there.) It concerns me that one day someone will look at my Dropbox writing folder and notice how most of the novels aren't finished. 

Then said person will write a blog about it. 

And the world will know how little follow through I have. 

These are the things I think about when my mind has a couple minutes to run off on its own. 

With all this being said, creative hour is simply a way to dedicate more time to what we love doing. Setting aside this time of day for our art means we have a reason to shut out the world, even each other, and just create. This is nice. Maybe tonight will go smoother. 

New Word Document

There's this idea haunting me. A love story. Believe it or not.

Tonight I opened a new word document. This is a first step.

I open the document. I put 'Chapter One' at the top.

And I wait.

Because the words will form and the rush will come in.

This is the grind. This is the process.

Hot Off The Presses

The virtual presses, I suppose. For those of you who don't know, I am part of Pankhearst, an independent writers collective who have been working tirelessly to deliver quality writing that will leave readers saying "Yes, this is exactly what I have been missing in my life." Some of you might remember a little book called Cars & Girls, or not. If you do and you liked my story Roadrunner, then you might be interested to learn I have now had a single published called Mini. It is available for purchase at a very reasonable price and you can find it here.

Like my previous Cars & Girls short, these two stories both have swear words and some sexy stuff in them, and they actually have mention of suicide as well. If you are squeamish or cringe easily at the mention of misery, there is an option to simply purchase the single and not actually read them. That being said, you might actually enjoy them, even if they make you a tad uncomfortable. These two shorts are a bit on the dark side. They feature women, cars, love, lust and a bit of melancholy for balance.

The tracks on my single are as follows. Side A is called Thunderbird and revenge on a cold night is a pivotal plot point. A small town rocked by fear is waiting for the ghost of Amelia Banes to take her next victim. Side B is a tale of the most beautiful suicide and the complexity that often accompanies life.

If you do pick this gem up, please let me know. All feedback is genuinely appreciated. If you like them, or even if you don't, feel free to share them with friends, or even enemies. Because I am a generous lady, here is a random snippet from Thunderbird:

Do These Words Count?

These days, I can't be arsed to write. The creative juices aren't dried up (that sounds really wrong). In fact, I come up with wonderful ideas for novels and short stories all the time. It's the actual act of sitting down at my computer and hammering out a few thousand words that seems so tedious right now. 

The only writing I've been doing are these posts. Do they count? Since January, I've published at least a hundred thousand. I'm guessing. I really can't be certain how many words I've actually typed out here. More, maybe? Certainly not less. We are over halfway through the year, which means I'd only have to average five hundred words a day in order to make a hundred thousand of them. Now, some of my posts aren't very wordy, but I have been known to get ranty, or wordy. Yeah, wordy. It sounds far more pleasing to my ear. 

Anyhow, they say you need to make room for what you love. There's one of those motivational Facebook posts everyone is sharing and no one is following. Something along the lines of doing the thing you love for at least fifteen minutes every day. The conclusion being you won't believe how life-changing only fifteen minutes a day can be. 

So, I love writing. Creating is exciting for me. And when I set out to do a blog-a-day for a year, I thought it would be a great way to stick to writing every day. This was supposed to be my fifteen minutes, I guess. Except, these take way longer than fifteen minutes. But the thought was there. This was me making room for what I love. 

The problem is, most of all my other writing has ground to halt. This makes me wonder, has this blog-a-day for a year been detrimental to my other more creative writing? Is making time for blogging cutting into me penning the next great Canadian masterpiece? I like to think I have it in me to write more than a blog a day. There was a time when I was churning out books every other month. Ah, the good old days when I used to write at work. 

There are excuses. It's been a less than stellar year. I'm moving. The job takes up a lot of my time. I'm working hard to keep my relationship with the Sidekick healthy. Two dogs are more time consuming. I've been trying to be more healthy and active. 

But it really comes down to inspiration. I suppose I am uninspired lately. And tired.

So, tell me these words count, because if not I'm going to be really displeased. 

Wordy Wednesday

If you're one of my privileged readers who have been with me since the beginning, you may remember that I used to have regular features on my blog. For a long time, there was Melodic Mondays, where I posted songs I love, or have loved, or will love. This went out the window because YouTube kept removing videos from their site, thus rendering my posts obsolete. After that, or maybe around the same time, I posted Wilde Wednesdays, where I paid hommage to the inspirational and treasured Oscar Wilde. I didn't keep up with this, because the man only said so much and I hated feeling limited to only posting about Oscar Wilde on Wednesdays. 

While neither of these endeavours lasted, I did enjoy the idea of know what I was going to post on those days. It made the week go a bit easier. And that was back when I was only posting once or twice a week. These days I am blogging every day, because I am doing a challenge, which you can read about here. So, now I need the help more than ever. 

Inspiration struck in the form of a post on Facebook made by a friend. A new word I'd never heard of. Here I am thinking about how much I love words, this new one in-particular, and how I would love to share the new words I find with the world, especially the readers of my blog. I imagine most of you who tune in here are readers and word lovers in your own right. That you aren't just here because you love my face or think I say witty things. 

This love of words may be our common denominator, so why not nourish it? In the end, it can only bring us closer together. Welcome to Wordy Wednesdays, where we will learn together and grow fonder of each other. Maybe. 

Today's word: Petrichor

Definition: The lovely scent that accompanies rain when it hits the parched ground. You know, when it hasn't rained in forever and the sun has baked the earth, then the sky breaks and the droplets hit the sun-kissed ground. The aroma that arises from that. 

So fresh. So clean. So invigorating. 

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.

Simple Words

This evening I'm thinking about words.

How there are so many words. Hundreds. Thousands. Yet, some people have such trouble saying what they are thinking and feeling, what they mean. I understand my vocabulary is extensive, that I use words in my each and every day others may not use, or even understand, for that matter. I am an epic communicator. It is with ease I will tell you what exactly is on my mind, but whether or not it makes sense is another matter completely. In truth, most of the thoughts running rampant through my head are so fleeting not even I can grab onto them long enough to understand them.

Still, all these words, this lush language and comprehensive communication, is so easily rendered pointless by simplicity. Sometimes I think about what I am saying, all these paragraphs I am creating in hopes of getting my point across, only to realize I might not need all this filler. Do I really need to articulate myself so thoroughly?

Can someone say this better? Quicker? Easier? With fewer words? Sure, I can pretty this sentence up, add delectable descriptors worthy of making lexicon lovers quiver in delight, but maybe that isn't a talent at all. Maybe a truly proficient wordsmith embraces 'less is more' and understands how valuable each word is, both in speech and writing. There is one thing to be a word lover, another to be a word whore.

Tonight I believe words are more powerful when used sparingly, like adjectives and exclamation points. Things don't have to be complex. In fact, they should be simple, so everyone can understand, so we all can enjoy. Sure, there is something to be said about the beautiful way in which words can be woven together (and the attractiveness of alliteration), but there is a sweetness in stark sentences. In their stripped down state, they can become so severe, leaving a sting you will always remember.

I am reminded of Dharma Bums, this little beatnik book, recommended to me by a long lost friend. And there is one sentence that stuck with. Needled my heart. Taunted my brain. And I cannot let it go.

One day I will find the right words and they will be simple. - Jack Kerouac.    

This is what is on my mind tonight. At times, I feel as though all these words I have written are all wrong and, when the right ones come, they will be modest. They will not be dressed in their finest clothes. They will be naked. Bare. And bold. And they will stick with someone else. They will needle  hearts and taunt brains. They will not be easily let go.

And then there is Robert Frost, who is clearly the master at the game of wordplay.