Sunday at Depot

Today it was red serge everywhere, high brown boots, stetson hats, brown gloves, puffy pants with yellow stripes down the sides. Troop graduation. Families of cadets everywhere. A desperate need for a badge wallet (among other things), because tomorrow, suddenly they'll have badges. My co-worker recommends that one of the cadets buy the flashlight that runs on double A batteries, because where she's going, lithium ions will be hard to come by, and the other flashlight we sell runs on those. We can't sell her the rechargeable flashlight because it's bigger and her waist is too small, and with a flashlight on her belt, she won't have room for her gun. She needs a pocket flashlight. Already she is having trouble finding room for an extra pair of handcuffs. I think to myself, "I could never do this."

It's a busy day. In between customers I pick up the very old and damaged copy of Russian literary theory that I am trying to wade through for my honours proposal, and I get nowhere. I keep having to reread the previous four sentences, and I make little headway. The cadets look at the title of my book, The Dialogic Imagination, and they shake their heads. They tell me that they're so glad they're not in university. I tell them that this is awesome, it's Einstein's theory of relativity applied to the continuum of time and space in a literary text. Their eyes glaze over. I sell them a copy of Emotional Survival for Law Enforcement. They'll need it.

Our worlds are different.

Lalala Human Steps

However, in good standard fashion, I think I will post a video about the body as well.

You know how we've been talking about writing the body, and the way the body is used to say particular stuff in a story? Well, here is that made literal - the body telling the story, i.e. Dance, the body as narrative.

I don't really understand dance, nor do I understand how I am meant to interpret it, the things I am supposed to look for in order to find the story in the dance, but one of my bestest fwends is a dancer, and he showed me this video - Wow. Just check it out.

Part of me has always wished that I could dance, but I'm clumsy and chubby; I tell my stories other ways. Still, you have to admire the skill here.

Is writing ever like a dance? I wonder.

Bookshop Sessions

Here is a video. It is not a video about the body, as I usually post, but it is a good video, with a literary backdrop.

Song: Little Lion Man
Band: Mumford & Sons

Location: Bookshop! Yay!

I love this band right now.

Je ne suis pas ici

I come back to the idea of legitimately literary forms of writing. This is because I am doing my honours project in creative non-fiction. Personal narratives. Memoir. Autobiography. Lyric essays. Life writing. Writing a life. It feels as if it is the creation of a self within a text, completely opposite to those theorists who claim that the more distance there is between a writer and his text, the more legitimate this text is.

I do not agree. Of course I don't. When do I ever? Honestly, sometimes I wish I could just do something normal, or think something normal, or be normal. I don't think that's in the cards for me. So I write narratives that require a subjective self.

For the last few weeks I've been thinking that this project is actually about genre, and the ways that things don't often fit into neat little genre boxes, and how I don't want my writing to be one thing but many things, and so I've been looking at texts that use all kinds of genres to tell their stories. Ondaatje's The Collected Works of Billy the Kid is one of these texts. At times this is prose, at times poetry, it is a fictional work about a real person so it contains things like news clippings and eyewitness accounts of events, there are falsified documentary-style photographs of Billy the Kid and his wife (the people in these photos are all actors/models), and the whole thing combines together to tell the story of a life. Sometimes, then, it is as far away from being what we normally associate with fiction as it can be. And, I think it might be fictional autobiography, which I sort of thought was an oxymoron.

I don't think this project is actually about genre at all, the more I think about it, even if my attempt is to deconstruct genre. The point is the subjective self. The placement of, the use of, the reality or unreality of the subjective self. Genre only offers a way for me to create that self, to look outside of my text, to look through lenses. It is secondary to where the self is found within the text.

So, where are you, subjective self?

Life's Like This

At work, Avril Lavigne is playing on the radio, and I'm thinking about why exactly I need to make things so complicated.

And at the same time, aside from the story I wrote about the guy who loses all his teeth (Medrie tells me that this boy was a particularly well-realised character, but he should be, because he is largely based on my ex-boyfriend, who I knew very well, and I know exactly why all of his teeth fell out), I haven't had this much fun writing anything in a really long time. I mean, hell yes, making my ex lose all his teeth was amazing, but I mean, as much fun as I am having right now, at work, writing my portfolio story.

Given all the frustration I felt all semester about writing the body, it seems ironic to me that I have chosen to continue to write about the body in my final project, but that is what I am doing. Plus, I've chosen a subject that I know very little about, which is making things ridiculously hard for me. And yet, it's crazy fascinating. I've been asking my friend who is a doctor, and her husband who has a PhD in biochemistry, all kinds of questions about all kinds of cool stuff - the body is crazy! And it's such a fragile shell, this singular thing that connects us to the world and to existence and to consciousness... I can't believe how much I take it for granted every day, the fact that my body works as well as it does. And I can't believe the ways that we can manipulate science, the way we stop ourselves from manipulating too much because of those pesky ethical questions.

More than I have all semester, I desperately want to do this story right. I feel like it's the first time in a while that I might actually have something to say.

I'm not putting pressure on myself though, no, not at all. I'm just doing my thing, writing with my fountain pen. Remembering that life's like this.

The First Rule of Fight Club is...

One of my pals emailed this to me. (He's never read any of my writing, so he didn't mean it to be personal.) Via Tumblr, here is some awesome writing advice... No, seriously. I try so hard to do this.

by Chuck Palahniuk
In six seconds, you’ll hate me.
But in six months, you’ll be a better writer.
From this point forward—at least for the next half year—you may not use “thought” verbs. These include: Thinks, Knows, Understands, Realizes, Believes, Wants, Remembers, Imagines, Desires, and a hundred others you love to use.
The list should also include: Loves and Hates.
And it should include: Is and Has, but we’ll get to those later.
Until some time around Christmas, you can’t write: Kenny wondered if Monica didn’t like him going out at night…”
Instead, you’ll have to Un-pack that to something like: “The mornings after Kenny had stayed out, beyond the last bus, until he’d had to bum a ride or pay for a cab and got home to find Monica faking sleep, faking because she never slept that quiet, those mornings, she’d only put her own cup of coffee in the microwave. Never his.”
Instead of characters knowing anything, you must now present the details that allow the reader to know them. Instead of a character wanting something, you must now describe the thing so that the reader wants it.
Instead of saying: “Adam knew Gwen liked him.” You’ll have to say: “Between classes, Gwen had always leaned on his locker when he’d go to open it. She’s roll her eyes and shove off with one foot, leaving a black-heel mark on the painted metal, but she also left the smell of her perfume. The combination lock would still be warm from her butt. And the next break, Gwen would be leaned there, again.”
In short, no more short-cuts. Only specific sensory detail: action, smell, taste, sound, and feeling.

Typically, writers use these “thought” verbs at the beginning of a paragraph (In this form, you can call them “Thesis Statements” and I’ll rail against those, later). In a way, they state the intention of the paragraph. And what follows, illustrates them.
For example:
“Brenda knew she’d never make the deadline. Traffic was backed up from the bridge, past the first eight or nine exits. Her cell phone battery was dead. At home, the dogs would need to go out, or there would be a mess to clean up. Plus, she’d promised to water the plants for her neighbor…”
Do you see how the opening “thesis statement” steals the thunder of what follows? Don’t do it.
If nothing else, cut the opening sentence and place it after all the others. Better yet, transplant it and change it to: Brenda would never make the deadline.
Thinking is abstract. Knowing and believing are intangible. Your story will always be stronger if you just show the physical actions and details of your characters and allow your reader to do the thinking and knowing. And loving and hating.
Don’t tell your reader: “Lisa hated Tom.”
Instead, make your case like a lawyer in court, detail by detail.
Present each piece of evidence. For example:
“During roll call, in the breath after the teacher said Tom’s name, in that moment before he could answer, right then, Lisa would whisper-shout ‘Butt Wipe,’ just as Tom was saying, ‘Here’.”
One of the most-common mistakes that beginning writers make is leaving their characters alone. Writing, you may be alone. Reading, your audience may be alone. But your character should spend very, very little time alone. Because a solitary character starts thinking or worrying or wondering.
For example: Waiting for the bus, Mark started to worry about how long the trip would take…”
A better break-down might be: “The schedule said the bus would come by at noon, but Mark’s watch said it was already 11:57. You could see all the way down the road, as far as the Mall, and not see a bus. No doubt, the driver was parked at the turn-around, the far end of the line, taking a nap. The driver was kicked back, asleep, and Mark was going to be late. Or worse, the driver was drinking, and he’d pull up drunk and charge Mark seventy-five cents for death in a fiery traffic accident…”
A character alone must lapse into fantasy or memory, but even then you can’t use “thought” verbs or any of their abstract relatives.
Oh, and you can just forget about using the verbs forget and remember.
No more transitions such as: “Wanda remembered how Nelson used to brush her hair.”
Instead: “Back in their sophomore year, Nelson used to brush her hair with smooth, long strokes of his hand.”
Again, Un-pack. Don’t take short-cuts.
Better yet, get your character with another character, fast. Get them together and get the action started. Let their actions and words show their thoughts. You—stay out of their heads.
And while you’re avoiding “thought” verbs, be very wary about using the bland verbs “is” and “have.”
For example:
“Ann’s eyes are blue.”
“Ann has blue eyes.”
Versus:
“Ann coughed and waved one hand past her face, clearing the cigarette smoke from her eyes, blue eyes, before she smiled…”
Instead of bland “is” and “has” statements, try burying your details of what a character has or is, in actions or gestures. At its most basic, this is showing your story instead of telling it.
And forever after, once you’ve learned to Un-pack your characters, you’ll hate the lazy writer who settles for: “Jim sat beside the telephone, wondering why Amanda didn’t call.”
Please. For now, hate me all you want, but don’t use thought verbs. After Christmas, go crazy, but I’d bet money you won’t.
(…)
For this month’s homework, pick through your writing and circle every “thought” verb. Then, find some way to eliminate it. Kill it by Un-packing it.
Then, pick through some published fiction and do the same thing. Be ruthless.
“Marty imagined fish, jumping in the moonlight…”
“Nancy recalled the way the wine tasted…”
“Larry knew he was a dead man…”
Find them. After that, find a way to re-write them. Make them stronger.

Lest We Forget

I normally wouldn't do this, but... I've been thinking a lot about war lately, because I'm taking a history class about the Third Reich, and today, of course, is Remembrance Day. The last week or so we've been learning about the Holocaust and I can't really talk about the things I've learned, to be honest, because I find it extremely upsetting. But it occurs to me that soon, the generation that lived through that war, and the world war that came before it, will all be gone, and the world as a whole, not just us here in Canada, but everyone, will be more removed from that history, those events, than ever.

The first half of the 20th century was characterized by atrocity and horror. Today, there is a war still happening on the other side of the world. But this blog isn't about that kind of stuff. It's about the writing, and I feel like soon all we'll have left of that time, and of this time, is the words that have been left behind, whether it's a transcript of Hitler's speeches or a poem or letter written by a soldier, or that essay that Richard Wagner wrote denouncing the Jewish population as impure and unworthy of creating music, or a blog about daily life in the camp in Afghanistan. Words, images, film footage. Art. Structures built in memoriam. The preserved remains of an extermination camp. And none of those things are permanent either, really.

This week at school, no one was wearing poppies. At Depot, the cadets had to wear them on their hats, and some of them actually grumbled about having to stop by the Trading Post to get one.

What happens when there's no one left to tell the stories? What happens when the remnants have been lost to time? What happens when no one cares anymore?

Lest we forget. Je me souviens.

Why Doesn't Time Stop in Real Life?

Because, you know, here we are, with time still just ticking away. Deadlines approaching, etc.

I realized today that I don't have a conflict for my character. And I'm writing away and everything is going pretty good, which for me is saying something because I never think that something is going well, and then it occurs to me, in that sudden way that things often occur to me, that there's really no point to any of this at all. Because if there's no conflict, then there can be no epiphany, and if there's no epiphany, then there's just a succession of events that have no real meaning. And then there's no story. There i was, thinking that everything was going so well, and I don't even have a story.

this is what I looked like when I came to this realization:

You know, no big. Time just ticking away and stuff.

Out of Time

Whoa, I just realized as I was typing it that the title of this post has a double meaning. Mind blowing.

So I'm on a deadline here, as we all are, and for my Out of Time assignment I am trying to write like Dickens. Not like the dickens, as my mom would maybe say to imply that I am trying to write quickly (where does that expression come from?), but actually, like, I'm trying to mimic the style of Charles Dickens. It seems suitable, but I really had no idea it was going to be this difficult to imitate someone else's style, and I really don't know if it's going to be obvious at all that this is what I'm doing. Maybe my reader is just going to think, 'wow, her paragraphs are suddenly really packed, and she's writing with so much detail when her style is usually so sparse. Interesting.' Maybe the connection to Dickens will never be found.

Then I started thinking about the ways that we rely on our readers and I got scared. My English 100 students can't even make a sentence. How would they notice something stylistic like this, when most of them probably never have and never will read Dickens? Who's my audience? Well, I suppose my audience is readers?

*sigh*

I have to stop blogging and go write now. Time is short. These assignments are hard.

Oh, and just one more thing...

... i took this photo from my bedroom this morning. i had to go to work today, but what i really wanted to do was what Tim suggested i do, and stay inside and drink mochas and write with my fountain pen. (oh, and by the way, thanks Tim.)

inclement weather makes me feel like writing poetry, for some reason.

Oh, but also...

... this is a picture i really like a lot.

the wonders of technology

here's the thing: it's hard to write stories that take place in London when you haven't been there for a few years, and you aren't actually familiar with that part of town (London is big; there's a lot of town to be familiar with).

so, here's what i love about the internet: google street view maps! i've never done this before, and it is kind of exciting. you can look up or down, left or right, go around the corner to the next street, turn around and come back again - you can totally situate yourself! they blur out people's faces now, since they were sued by someone who got caught cheating on his wife (something about an invasion of privacy or something... pfffft, dude was asking for it). but seriously, i go online and suddenly i'm in Holborn! an accurate setting, every time.

this is a thing that i recommend. that is all my wisdom for today.

Death of a Writer

I am becoming increasingly frustrated with the work that I'm producing in this class. I still haven't been able to write assignment 3. Assignment four has completely defeated me. I tried to force something, it's not working, and I don't know how to make it work. There is nowhere for me to go with this story, as far as I can see, and I have no other ideas. And to be frank, I don't have time to be frustrated like this.

I'm abandoning the death story. Apparently my narrator sounds too much like a character I don't know and the entire premise is too similar to a book I haven't read. What's the point in continuing with it? If I can't come up with something fast I won't be handing in assignment 4 at all.

I am completely discouraged.

You Know What Else is Bodiless?

NOTHING! Everything that exists has a physical form! 

Gah! I hate this assignment!

*sigh*

This post contains too many exclamation marks.

(And, to be fair, I only hate the assignment because I can't do it. I grudgingly admit that it's a great assignment and I am merely inadequate as a writer and am destined to fail in LIFE because of it.)

(Grumble, grumble)

*sigh*