Don't be Messing with Karma.

All parents know it. Once you’ve had children you are no longer allowed to brag. About anything. Even the smallest accomplishments that you or your children achieve must be kept cloistered away, never to be shared with those outside your home.

If you dare remark on your own good fortune, Karma will come a’ callin.’

Guaranteed.

And not the good, happy-happy Karma either. I’m talking about Murphy’s Law Karma.

Yes, the Karma that’s spawned when Irish bad luck and Indian folklore meet over a pint of Guinness and a pot of C’hai tea. It’s wicked nasty and should be avoided at all cost.

Yes, oh Great Karma, I am guilty.

I messed up. I forgot the rule and I bragged. I boasted on facebook for the whole world to read, that I had a full night’s sleep. Zero interruptions. No children waking from bad dreams, needing back rubs. No pooch  making tiny OCD circles by my feet, dog tags jingling wildly. No blackberry pings, jolting Drew from sleep, grunting incoherently.

And I didn’t crow about just one night of slumber, but I went so far as to gloat about two uninterrupted glorious nights…in a row. Go big or go home, I always say. Woopsie.

So what gift did Murphy’s Law Karma present me as punishment for my bravado?

Two inglorious nights of insomnia – awake until 1:00, with a side of Monkey-Brain – random worries flooded my brain as I remained sleepless, all unpleasantly capped off by Rooster-Riser – scruffy-eyed and half alert at 4:30.

My lesson has been learnt, oh Great Karma. I promise to keep silent on all future accomplishments.

Oh. Hmm.

I wonder if sharing my daughter’s great report card would be considered bragg…kk9l';'g..kdm

Doh. Hand Cramp. Owie. Duly noted, Karma.

Calgon, take me away...

Yes, please take me away. Not forever, just for a night, or a weekend…or maybe, a long weekend. Gasp.

My batteries need charging – like my cell phone, I’ve only got a millimetre of battery-bar left and it’s flashing red.

Perhaps its cabin fever, or maybe I need to escape the cold, or I need airing like an old carpet, or - whatever. I need a break.

I remember a time, pre-kids, when every Friday night, we’d fly out of the city, leaving straight from work, heading for our camp site. The only thing we needed to pick up for a weekend away was cold beer, a bag of ice, and possibly some fireworks.

To clarify, I’m not looking for a camping weekend - I’m in need of pampering a la spa treatments, romantic dinners, and shopping and less Kumbaya campfire sing-alongs, 'smores, and tenting. (It’s January in Manitoba after all.) 

What I would love is a weekend alone with Drew; tanning on the beach, sipping Mai Tais from coconuts, and feeding each other fresh pineapple. Sigh.

This afternoon, I Googled Winnipeg and direct flights to Honolulu. The Google icon laughed out loud. It chortled. Slightly spooky, but I got the hint. An exotic weekend in Polynesian Paradise is not on the near horizon for The Carmichaels. 

Not one to be easily discouraged, I widdled down our options to two front-runners.  

Fargo or Brandon.  

Dream small and you won’t be disappointed, I always say. 

I’m surprising Drew with Fargo, because if we have to use our passports, that counts as international travel, right?

So we're booked in for two nights, possibly three at the Holiday Inn Express, situated in the Target parking lot.

Aah, can you sense it? Romance is in the air.

And won't Drew look cute from his perch in the crow's nest in the pool's pirate ship.

Ahoy Matey.

I wonder if I have time to pick him up an eye patch before we head south.

It’s official…I’m in the club.

The cheque was in the mail. That’s what I kept telling everyone until IT arrived last Friday.

What is IT? IT is my first cheque for a writing piece. Numero Uno. La Premiere. Primo. Confirmation I’m not completely insane in following my writing dream.

IT is not large, or flashy. (And really, who wants that anyway? No one likes big egos, right?) And size, in this context, doesn’t matter. Although, I would’ve gladly accepted IT bigger. Just sayin.’

$37.70 is IT.

That’s all, but I’ve had my picture taken with IT as well as my kids' and we tried taking a photo of my dog Zoe, with IT, but when Zoe snapped at IT’s edge, I decided having my dog eat my first cheque was not a memory I wanted in my scrapbook. My husband, Drew, who is a very patient and understanding man decided posing with a cheque, even for me, was far too strange a thing to do, so he was the camera man.

Now, I have the proof. I’m finally one of the gang, the clique, the cool kids, the published writers.

I am published.

Whoa.

It’s a powerful statement to speak out loud. I’ve also screamed it around my living room, sang it in the shower, texted it to distant relations, and wrote it on the back of my home-made business cards. 

I read in The Secret, that you should say thanks to the universe when good things happen, so more good things stream your way. Seems slightly odd, but who wants to piss of something as endless as a universe.

So, “Thanks Big U!”

But, back here on earth, in my bright yellow house in Wildwood Park in the south end of frozen Winnipeg in January, it seems more appropriate to thank the magazine who published my article.

So, “Thank you Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild – I always did think that Saskatchewan was the rightful Belle Province!” 

Go Riders! (It is still football season, right?) 

New Year’s Resolution #1 – Submit Work to Publishers

Sounds easy, right? Print off your manuscript, stuff it into an envelope, and plop it in the mail. How hard can this be?

It’s the business end of writing and like most creative folks; it’s what we least like to do. There are rules to follow. Ick. There is planning to be done. Blanch. And patience is required. Groan.



So here, in my humble opinion, are the steps needed to get that manuscript off your computer and into the hands of the gatekeepers of publication – the editors.   

Checklist for Submission: 

1. Write stellar, out of this world, "no one's heard this story before" book
2. Edit 100 times
3. Read to your Critique Group, making copious notes on suggestions
4. Edit 100 more times, massaging every word and rethinking every comma
5. Write equally stellar, out of this world, “no one’s heard before” one page Synopsis of your novel
6. Search the internet for publishers, compiling a list of publishers interested in your genre
7. Fine tune list to those open to Unsolicited Manuscripts
8. Read over submission requirements and follow them to a T or t or tea – whatever they ask for, you must painstakingly provide
9. Write individualised cover letter that will blow away selected editor – seriously. Blow that editor off their chair, into the hallway, and down to the senior editor’s office where they collectively drool over your written words
10. Mail, email, send by carrier pigeon your submission, as requested by targeted publisher
11. Wait
12. Wait and cross fingers – helps to have friends and family cross their digits, too. (This can and should include toes. Just sayin’.)
13. Wait, cross fingers, toes, arms, legs (find friends who are double-jointed), and most importantly don’t give up hope

 Finally you will be given three possible outcomes –

•  You will receive an offer for publication – this, of course, is the best outcome. You will receive this news in a calm, professional manner, with slow head nods and a heart-felt thank-you. Or you can scream into the phone, deafening your new-best-friend-editor, and happy dance around your house, with children and dog trailing behind you. Your choice.
• You will receive a letter requesting further edits – this is not a guarantee of publication, but it keeps the writing hope alive. Hope is key to returning to your computer and pounding away at your manuscript making the next 100 edits, as required by your hopefully, soon to be new-best-friend-editor.
• You will receive a rejection letter – this, as the name implies, is not what any writer wants to receive. Honestly, it’s what keeps us up at night. However, it is a sign that you are taking the biggest step towards publication – you are submitting your work. Writing that story and shoving it into your top desk drawer will never get it onto a bookstore’s shelf, where we all want to find our books. If you do not give up and keep improving your craft, you will eventually find your new-best-friend-editor.

I have oodles of rejection letters. Some are generic form letters, many are encouraging, and one made my heart shrivel a tiny bit.

But most importantly, I have one acceptance letter. It keeps the hope alive, that one day my books will be printed and bound with beautifully glossy covers.

So, if you’ve written a novel, what are you waiting for? Your new-best-friend-editor is dying to meet you, but you’re going to have to make the first step. How do I know this for sure? Well. I don't. Not exactly, but I have a lot of hope that I'm right. 

And if you’re low on hope, may I suggest finding yourself a supportive writing group? That or a well chilled Pinot Grigio.

Again your choice.

Powerful Words

One open mike night simply wasn’t enough. I had to do it again. This time I read at the Manitoba Writers’ Guild/ Writers’ Union of Canada holiday mingle event, this past Wednesday evening.

My friend, mentor, critique group name sake, and holiday mingle organiser, Anita Daher, suggested I come out to mix, mingle, and read a piece of my work. I survived my last public reading, so I thought, “Why not?”

And, I reasoned, I need to network with other writers. After all, it’s “not what you know, it’s who you know.” Right?

I knew the reading time limit was three minutes, so I practised throughout the day. Not to make sure I could squeeze it all in; my chapter was short, the dialogue quick and snappy, but because I am by nature a speed talker. When worked up, my speech is almost comical. I say almost, because I do have some pride. Thus, I practised slowing down, so my three minute section didn’t condense itself into a one minute rant of rapid-fire, squirrel-speak.

Naturally I arrived 30 minutes early, so I wouldn’t have to rush in at the last minute all disoriented and jumbled. Of course I parked in front of the wrong building, which I realised with only 5 minutes to spare. I drove my rusty van, a la Dukes of Hazard, and careened through the streets of The Old Market Square, hastily parking with two wheels on the curb.

“Meh,” I pondered briefly, “They won’t give me a ticket for parking too close to the curb, will they?”

I raced to the building, found the correct meeting room, and introduced myself to as many fellow writers as possible. We had lively conversations about writing, conferences, and our publishing histories. I did it. I networked!

Sadly, I can’t remember a single name. I blame the panic that over took my brain when I realised I was in a room crammed full of published authors. And not just any published authors. Most of these authors wrote poetry, literary fiction and as my writing pal, Gabe helpfully pointed out, these writers wrote for the “A word.” Yes, you guessed it - adults. Gulp. This is the point where I commenced with Lamaze-style shallow breathing.

Flooded with a sense of foreboding, I scurried to the microphone when Anita called my name. I death-gripped my folio and swallowed every nervous thought. Would they like my young adult novel? Would they find it trivial or amateurish in comparison to their own writing? Taking a deep breath, I began reading my first paragraph as follows:           

     Panic.  Disbelief.  Denial.  Humiliation.

     No, No, No!  This can’t be happening. This can not be happening! 

And then I heard it. My words connected with my audience. My last line hung in the air, as a woman at the back of the room crashed to the floor. She passed out. Not once, but twice.

Was it that bad, I worried, that she lost her senses? Oh, yeah and is she okay?

When the paramedics arrived they clarified it wasn’t my words that knocked her out cold, but the Hawaii-hot room temperature.

Once the ambulance whisked her away, we opened a half dozen windows, and milled around for a few moments until Anita, our thoughtful hostess, returned to the mike. I figured she’d call it a day, but no, it was back to business and she called me up to finish.

Although I was full of trepidation, I got up to read again. I scanned the faces staring back at me, looking for the weakest link. Who would fall next? They all seemed solidly settled in their seats, with friendly (and healthy) smiles, so with hands shaking and gut churning, I began again.

Honestly, I don’t remember reading and I couldn’t hear anything over the echo of my pounding heart. I was too focused on keeping my pace from slipping into the speedy rodent-zone.

So, how did it go?

Gabe and Anita said everyone laughed in all the right places and for a bunch of talented poets and writers of the “A word”, what else could I ask for? Oh, and most importantly no one else was rendered unconscious.

Sweet, sweet success.

P.S. And yes, the fallen writer was quickly released from hospital with simple heat exhaustion and a minor case of embarrassment.

Three Out of Four Ain't Bad

Recently, I attended an art show of a friend who I hadn’t seen in years.

When we were kids, her little brother was my best friend and we raced around the neighbourhood together exploring every climbing tree, ditch, and blade of grass. We bombed down every monkey trail in Crescent Drive Park, wiping out only occasionally. Those were my tomboy days, when dresses, skirts, and leotards were anathema to me.

Seeing her incredible art, covering the gallery walls, I couldn’t help but marvel at how similar our two families turned out to be. Out of us four kids, three of us followed a creative path. She’s an artist and my brother and I are writers. My best buddy growing up, her brother, is the odd man out. He’s a bond trader. Yup, couldn’t get much further from being artistically bent, than managing a mutual fund.

When I looked around the gallery, there were close to a dozen striving artists with their work proudly displayed for all to view. Artists and sculptors have galleries, writers and poets have bookstores, musicians have coffee houses, and yet we all have the same dream. To freely create the art that drives us. And perhaps, if we’re lucky, make a living off our creative endeavours. But, like so many others before us, we have day jobs that support our passion.

Pretty sure my old pal, the bond trader isn’t working a night job sculpting statues, to fuel his passion for bonds.

So how did it happen that three out of the four of us ended up on an artistic journey?

If I look at our families they were more dissimilar than similar. Their parents were both teachers and remain happily married. My mom was a social worker and my dad a financial planner. Do I need to say more? They amicably, and most likely gleefully, divorced when I was three.

Did we attend the same Church? Nope.

Did we play on the same sports teams? No way. (Truthfully? I started on the boys' soccer team when I was 6, until someone pointed out that I was not, in fact, a boy. That was a huge deal in the '70's. Begrudgingly, I joined the girls' team. Tomboy, remember?)

 

Cresecent Drive Park, Fort Garry
 

What we do have in common is our community.

We went to the same schools for most of our adolescence and were cocooned in the heart of Fort Garry where the arts flourished and were strongly supported. It was a time where being in the school musical was cool and band wasn’t a complete social death knell. In elementary school, some of the neighbour kids were even on a local children’s television show, Let's Go.

Canada is a strong supporter of the arts and Winnipeg stands out amongst other bigger and wealthier cities as the little city that loves its artists. From The Royal Winnipeg Ballet to The Winnipeg Art Gallery; from The Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra to The Manitoba Opera; from The Guess Who to Neil Young; and most recently from Maria Aragon to Sean Quigley. From amateurs to professionals, the list goes on and on. Winnipeg has always been a nurturing place for creative hearts to grow up and dream big.

And it all starts with the courage to dream, the belief that we can succeed, the passion for our craft, and most importantly the support from our families and communities.

Then the baby steps begin.

A small gala opening, could lead to a feature at an acclaimed art gallery. An article published in a writing guild magazine, may lead to a book deal. Open mike poetry nights, at local bookstores, might lead to a signed contract.

So thank you family, thank you friends, thank you Fort Garry, and thank you Winnipeg.

Thank you for not rolling your eyes when we said we had this dream. Thank you for supporting the arts in our schools. Thank you for coming to every piano recital, Christmas concert, art show, dance competition, and fringe play. Art, in its many forms is important and your support tells us you think our work, our passion, is important too.

Just one last favour. Can we borrow 10 bucks?

Merry Christmas.

P.S. If you’re looking to buy something special this Christmas, why not check out the work of my old neighbour friend, Karen Robb.  Click  here: http://www.paintingsilove.com/artist/karenrobb 

You Can Find us Somewhere Between Sexuality and Psychology

Did that get your attention?

My writers group, The Anitas, meets every second Thursday at McNally’s. The bookstore graciously allows us into their store so we can talk children’s writing, surrounded by shelves of writing success stories – a.k.a. published books. It’s our own Nirvana. Jocks have their stadiums, music lovers have their concert halls, and writers have their bookstores.

Our favourite location is the Atrium, where we gather, nestled under the ceiling-high tree, at a safe distance from the curious attention of customers. Its wide branches cocoon us in a safe space as we share our latest work.

If the Atrium is being used for book launches, we slide over to the Travel Section, which is still cozy, tucked into a far corner of the store. But, here there are more interruptions into our “safe space” by book lovers searching the shelves to discover their next dream vacation destination.

Now, if the travel section is full we’re bumped and relocated to our most entertaining location, wedged between Sexuality and Psychology. Not so much two hours of safe sharing, but more a night of living on the wild side.

At our first meeting in S&P, we thought it somewhat appropriate for a gaggle of young-adult writers. Teens’ hormones are surging, their brain development is struggling to keep pace with their body development, and the adults in their lives are desperate to better understand the young adult their child is quickly becoming.

Ooh, that does sound like a match made in writing heaven, doesn’t it?

Perhaps. But more often we find ourselves transformed into a circle of giggling adolescents, as the “sexually adventurous” scour the shelves behind us.  

We’ve had couples snuggling far, far too closely, leafing through the pages of Karma Sutra for Dummies, hipster men on quick reconnaissance, no browsing; just in and out with how-to-book in hand, and finally our least favourite; the greasy trench-coat wearing geezers. They slowly lurk behind us while we sit wide eyed, staring at each other, willing ourselves to remain mature and not break into fits of laughter.

But last night we had a new shopper. Last night we had a lovely looking girl next door twenty-something, scanning the titles for help with, ahem, the big “O”. She arrived while I was reading a particularly steamy first kiss scene from my latest WIP.

Think back to when you were 15 or 16. Do you remember sitting in the bleachers, watching a high school basketball game and your knee bumped against the cute boy sitting next to you? And he didn’t move away when it did? What about the first time a girl held your hand? Who can forget their first kiss?

The girl, on her quest for o capitalization, could hear every word as I read this section:

His lips glide towards mine and…he’s kissing me. Fireworks explode in my brain and shoot down to my belly, blasting through my legs and arms. A kaleidoscope of emotion bursts out of me. Sheer joy mixed with something so…intoxicating, and raunchy. That’s it. Total, raunchy lust. It’s the ‘I’d like to rip his clothes off’ lust you read about in Cosmo and I gotta say, I like it!

At which point, we were interrupted by her giggles. She turned around “O” book in hand and asked, “Maybe I should be asking you guys, which book to buy. Is this one any good?”

After we calmed down, we were able to explain that we were not “those” kinds of writers. 

So, we survived our first interaction with the sexually adventurous. Hmm, another first. This encounter went smoothly, but not something I’d like to repeat, because the odds are against us. Pretty sure this would be a far different posting if an old greasy dude had invaded our circle of sharing. Shudder. Gag. Blanch.

If you see us in the S&P section next time you’re at McNally’s, don’t stop for a chat. It’s awkward. Just sayin’.

Made in Manitoba - Children's Books aren't just for Children Anymore

I’m not just talking about Harry Potter and his magical adventures that tweaked the curiosity of adults across the globe. Literature for children today, has to be well researched and well written with strong, believable characters. Books for the under 18 crowd have to be stellar from the first to last line, with no room for sloppy storylines or fanciful writing. A classroom full of kids is far more discerning than a stadium packed with adults.

But…wait, how can that be? Aren’t we better educated, older, and have read far more books than our children and grandchildren?

“Guffaw, hogwash, and balderdash!” you may say, but consider this:

Growing up, our entertainment consisted of a handful of television shows, hours tooling around the neighbourhood on our bikes, and books. Now, those bikes have grown rusty and children have a selection of 24 hour kid-focused television stations, not to mention; Ipods, Ipads, PS3s, PSPs, DSIs, and WIIs vying for their attention. 

But I digress.

Seriously, if the first paragraph of a children’s novel doesn’t grab and sustain their interest, kids will turn to a handful of other completely interactive and “easy” modes of entertainment.

(And yes, as I write this my children are bickering over Super Mario Bros, on the cursed, ‘why-did-we-ever-let-this-into-the-house’ WII.)

Mulling over this need for well crafted kids books got me thinking about an incredible book I read over the summer. It was the page-turner, The Kulak’s Daughter, by Manitoba author, Gabriele Goldstone.

The protagonist is a twelve year old girl, whose family is deemed ‘kulak’ under Stalin’s brutal regime and forcibly removed from their farm and exiled to Siberia on their way to a Gulag.

Yes, the central character is the same age as a middle grader. Yes, the perspective is from her viewpoint. And yes, it is a spell binder that kept me up ‘til 2am. I couldn’t go to sleep until I knew how it ended. Would Olga survive? What about her baby brother? Where is her father?

Once done, I was left with more questions. How much was true? What exactly is a Kulak? Why were the landowners targeted so viciously?

Luckily for me, the author is home-grown and part of my critique group. She graciously responded early the next morning, to my email of questions that plagued my dreams. She also agreed to do my first author interview and share the work that goes into writing a novel. Gabe's blog can be found by clicking on this link, http://gabrielegoldstone.blogspot.com/.

Here's a glimpse into the research she did for her first novel, The Kulak's Daughter.

Q. Gabe, what made you want to write this novel?

A. I've always wanted to write, but life kept getting in the way...(okay, so maybe I procrastinated a bit.) In 2000 a relative sent my mom a self-made calendar with old photos in it. It was the first time I'd seen photos of my mom as a child and all of a sudden I just had to know the story - what happened to the in-between time of those photos? The fact that my mom hid the calendar because she didn't want to be reminded of those days, just intensified my curiosity.

Q. You went to Ukraine (the former Soviet Union) for research. Where exactly did you travel?

A. I went to find a little placed called Fedorofka, about 2 hours east of Kyiv. I stayed in the city Zhytomyr, which is about the size of Regina.

Q. Why was it so important to physically go there, when we have so much access to photos and videos on the Internet? 

A. I did have a lot of information before I went. But going there and actually talking to the old people who remembered, walking the land where once my mom and her family lived, finding the remnants of the windmill, and reading my grandfather's files in the former KGB archives was very empowering for me. Plus, I got to smell linden tree blossoms, feel the soil, the wind - you know - the sensory detail. Plus I got to rub shoulders with the ghosts of the past and they touched me to the core.

Q. What did you do/read to research this novel?

A. I listened to my mom tell her stories. I mean I really listened. Sometimes it's easy to ask a question but not really hear the answer because I assume I know it already. My mom's answers kept surprising me. Plus, she gave me nuggets of information at times when I wasn't expecting it.

For example: I was telling her about my broken tooth and then she mentioned how she remembered when they broke her mother's teeth after she'd died, to extract the gold. I'd already written a draft of the story at that point, but had to go back and add this. 

I also read lots of books about the Stalin years and collectivization. Since the early nineties there have been many excellent books written about the subject.

Q. What surprised you most when researching Stalin's time in history?

A. The confusion. This was not a carefully thought out cruelty - like Hitler's Third Reich. The other surprise was the sheer numbers. There was nobody in that part of the world who wasn't affected in some way by Stalin's insanity.

Q. You've done school visits. Can you tell me about your first one?

A. My very first school visit is quite memorable for me. The class did drawings of their favourite scenes and the teacher collected these along with letters to me. She put these together into a little booklet. Another teacher also made me a collection of the class study questions. She even had someone from the local paper come in to interview me and do a write-up. Visiting classrooms is a very heart-warming experience. 

Q. What question from a student has surprised or impressed you most?

A. The kids are so interested in the fact v.s. fiction aspect. One boy wanted to know if I found Olga's dog when I went back.

Q. You are obviously no longer a child. Can you tell me why you write for children?

A. I've always felt a strong connection to kids - as a babysitter, as a parent, and even now as my own kids move on, I still feel that kids (especially the age I write for, which is 11-13) are on the cusp of life. They are open, vulnerable and so very honest. As adults we lose that. Staying connected to kids through writing, keeps me connected to my inner child.

Q.What advice do you have for kids who want to write?

A. Do it. Read lots and lots and make writing a habit. Trust your writing voice, it's uniquely yours.

Q. Where can people buy your book?

A. Well, I've just learned that my little publisher down in Austin, Texas is shutting down. So, it might become difficult to get my book. However, it's at the library, or contact me through my blog - I'd be happy to send it out. I'm also going to get an e-book version made. Again, please visit my blog for information about when that will be available.

Q. Can you give us a little taste of your current Work-in-Progress?

A. Well, I do have a sequel to The Kulak's Daughter, but that's been put on hold because of my publisher issues. So my current work-in-progress that I've been sharing with my delightful and talented critique group isn't historical fiction at all. It's about a boy with a brain injury.

Here's a snippet:

Black. A few sparks dance in and out of the corner of my left eye, but I can’t move - can’t turn my head to see the rest of the light show. I get vague images – but it’s all far away. Hard to explain... can’t focus.

Is that a mosquito whining in my ear?  I want to slap it, but where’s my darn hand? Why can’t I make it move?  Stupid bugs, there’s another one, sucking blood out of me and I’m letting them. What’s happening to me?

Hey! Is that a whippoorwill calling? I’ve got to see it! (Better not be an omen.) Ever since I was little, I’ve wanted to see a real live whippoorwill, and now, now it seems like I can’t even, I can’t...get my eyes open. Somebody help me!

The fireworks fade, and I’m alone in the dark. But it’s like the darkness is in me, not around me. I am the night.

I try to fight it - try to stop it from making me disappear completely. 

(And no, I did not take artisitic license with Gabe's responses. She actually said we were delightful and talented. And no, I didn't prompt her or bribe her. The Laura Secord chocolates were just a thank you gift.)

Make Mine an Extra-Large Double, Double.

Never make an important decision on a bad night's sleep.

Hmmm. On the surface this is solid advice. But what if you never get a good night's sleep...ever? Okay, so maybe I exaggerate, but it doesn't feel like such a huge stretch this morning.

I remember a day nine years ago, when we just bought our cottage. Emma was 18 months old and Grandma had her for the weekend, so we could paint over the canary yellow and pepto bismol pink bedrooms. It was our first weekend on our own, and the most memorable part of the weekend? Not the dinner out at delicious Casa Bianca, or the long walk on the boardwalk at Winnipeg Beach, or even the…well never mind about that. It all paled to sleeping in Saturday morning…until 9:00 am.

Almost an entire decade has flown by, and we’ve never come close to sleeping that late again.

 

I’m currently in a bad pattern of not sleeping. I refuse to call it insomnia. That sounds too dark, scary, and far too permanent of a problem.

 

Last night, at our writing group meeting, The Anitas, we were given a simple free writing exercise. We were each given a slip of paper with three to seven words. The task; to use each word in a five minute story. This is one of my favourite writing games. No lies, I get goose bumps just thinking about it. Once the time is up, we read out loud our “five minute masterpieces,” which are often lame, but always entertaining. So, after Mel read her seven word assignment and proudly announced she’d used each word in her story, I realized it.

I realized that I hadn’t used any of the three measly words that were typed neatly on my slip of paper. In fact, I totally forgot that was the assignment. Seriously. I remember reading the words and getting a fuzzy feeling of a theme for a story and starting to write.

 

We all laughed at my lack of attention, which was hilarious at the time, in that punch-drunk way things are funny when you’ve been without sleep for 10 years. Yup, all pretty hilarious. (I just can’t remember driving home.)

So, in the light of dawn, I’ve come to realize something else.

I suffer, like millions around the world, from self diagnosed OTPD.

Over-Tired Parents Disorder.

It’s fairly new, so you can be forgiven for not being familiar with it. It doesn’t yet have the same hype as the other acronyms that get splashed around the cafeteria.

 

Drew, recently came down with a lingering case of OTPD and he talks with reverence of that July Saturday so long ago, and that 9 am sleep-in. It’s become a sort of Carmichael Holy Day; a High Holiday for sleep deprived parents.

So...what was I supposed to be doing this morning? Right. Work. Guess I need to put the pen down, pull out of the Tim Horton’s parking lot, and get going. But wait; is that McPhillips or Pembina Hwy? 

Wait a minute...how did I get here?

I wonder if Tim Horton’s sells coffee by the carafe.  Mmmmm, coffee…

Turkey Hangover a la Beach House

As I write this, it’s the morning after Thanksgiving and the sun peaks over the far side of Lake Winnipeg. Streaming shades of pinks and oranges swirl across the pale sky. Its simple beauty fills me with peace and reminds me of how lucky I am to be a 'flatlander.' Like the wheat fields, the lake seems to go on forever; our own inland sea. The vastness makes me feel free…I’m a prairie girl to the core.

As my gaze leaves the calming vista, I glance around our tiny beach house and my inner peace wobbles. Thanksgiving debris covers every surface. A few stray forks lay on the table, entwined with the fall-leaf garland. Scraps of orange and silver foil wraps, from the mini-pumpkin chocolates my daughters insisted were tradition, litter the carpet. I know that the kitchen holds more turkey feast casualties. The gravy pan, casserole dishes and cutlery have sat all night and will have food cemented on them harder than Plaster of Paris.

14 for dinner last night meant an “all hands on deck” all day prep for Cottage Carmichael, with the most crucial question hanging in the air.

How do we squeeze 14 into a 600 square foot cottage, for a sit down dinner?

Like the list-making, over-analyzing planner I am, I sketched out a 5 step plan.

It went a little like this:

Step 1

Welcome them with a steaming cup of mulled wine

Step 2

Calm them around the campfire

Step 3

More mulled wine

Step 4

Play in mounds of leaves, shoving handfuls down Grandpa’s back

Step 5

A splash more of mulled wine

The result, of my carefully crafted plan?

Happy and relaxed guests not bothered by the table leg wedged tight against their right foot. Guests oblivious to how dangerously close their elbows come to knocking over their glass of Cabernet, when they reach for seconds and thirds of the sweet potato pie.

And was the effort worth it? Is the still disastrous kitchen, food now petrifying, an acceptable consequence of a night surrounded by in-laws?  Yes, in-laws. But not just ordinary in-laws…The World’s Best In-Laws were at my cottage this weekend.

Another reason to be thankful; for family who never complain about the hour drive to the cottage every Thanksgiving to sit around a table, like sardines in a can, and eat a turkey often over done and hours late, and tell me every year, “This is the best turkey, yet!” (I refuse to believe it’s the mulled wine talking.)

So, it’s a resounding “yes.” The effort was worth it, the clean up a small price to pay for another weekend at our little slice of heaven just an hour north of Winnipeg, surrounded by family and overflowing with love, dry turkey and gravy.

But maybe next year we’ll consider paper plates. Easy clean up. Another reason to be thankful.

For the Love of Words

Q. Why do writers write?

A. Because we are blowhards that egotistically believe we know more than others. Only for a few. (They shall remain nameless.)

B. Because we want to be rich and famous. Not only is this untrue, it borders on delusion.

C. Because we have a mad passion for words. Yes!

We love words of all sorts; unusual meanings, odd spellings, and what about unexpected pairings? That’s enough to make any wordsmith giddy. That’s right I used wordsmith – a far tastier title than writer, journalist, or novelist.

The next logical question is; why do readers read?

A. Because television is boring. Perhaps for many, but that’s too general and lumps Modern Family in with 2½ Men (Pre and post Charlie Sheen.)

B. Because they know the writer and want the wordsmith to become rich, famous and finally move out of their basement. Although we do hope our parents buy our books, most readers could care less where the novelist sleeps at night.

C. Because readers are seeking a break from their reality. Yes!

Through our carefully chosen words, readers can be transported to another place, time, or realm of existence. All without stepping on a plane, cruise ship, or time machine. Great words can invoke strong reactions and make a reader want to read on.

Case in point. Which of the next two sentences is more interesting?

She ate the apple.

OR

She gnawed the apple to the core, bruises and all.

The first sentence falls flat. Waw waw waw – a girl ate an apple; whatever.

The second makes me wonder. She didn’t just eat the apple; she ‘gnawed’ it and it was covered in bruises, which is sort of gross. Why did she still eat it? Why didn't she get a new apple? Was she starving?

It’s these subtle differences that make writers salivate and readers turn the page.

Even one word can make all the difference and carry weight.

When I was at the CANSCAIP conference, writer Shane Peacock suggested we add clarity to the theme of our novels by summing them up in one word. One word. Not a brilliantly phrased one page summary, just one…lousy…word. The ultimate in brief tag-lines.

At first this seemed far too simplistic. It took a moment for me to embrace his subtle genius and accept that the power we find in words can be intensified by using only one word. The catch? That one word must have real, true, and significant meaning.

For Shane, and the first book in his Young Sherlock Holmes Series, Eye of the Crow, the word is 'prejudice.' A powerful word full of meaning that needs no further clarification.

For my book, Spaghetti is NOT a Finger Food and Other Life Lessons, its 'inclusion.'

I began to wonder. Could a person use this one word tag-line exercise outside of writing and apply it to events and situations in their own life? Would this add clarity and break through all of life's busyness?

Perhaps you’re arguing with your spouse over who takes out the garbage more often or who folds more laundry. Could you sum it up what you’re really fighting about with one word? Maybe that word would be 'validation' or 'appreciation?'

What if life is better than best, could you summarize it as, 'contentment' or 'balance?'

What is your work-in-progress’ one word? What’s the one word for your own life? Does knowing that word add clarity?

The one word for my work-in-progress is 'self-worth.'

For my life my word is, 'gong-show.'

And yes, I realize that these tag-lines may seem like two words, but I did mention I loved words. (And the hyphen makes them one longer word. True-story.)

“That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

Thank you, Friedrich Nietzsche for that little pearl of wisdom. Those would’ve been comforting words, if I hadn’t been so certain I was going to drop dead from a panic attack. They may even have given me an extra shot of courage, if I could’ve thought beyond; breathe, smile, look at the audience, and most importantly don’t talk at super-sonic chipmunk speed.

Yes, at last weekend’s Prairie Horizon’s CANSCAIP conference I drank the Kool-Aid and signed up for the Open Mike night. I was feeling the writer-love that our Saskatchewan hosts so graciously shared with me and my fellow Anitas. I must have suffered a rare form of selective amnesia, forgetting the audience included; the illustrious editor Kathryn Cole, the critically acclaimed author, playwright, journalist, and screenwriter Shane Peacock and the incredible talent of artist Georgia Graham. 

When I recovered from my Saskatchewan love-in, and remembered this detail, I almost baled and surrendered to my fear, but I was given some advice that resonated with me far deeper than would any rantings of a long dead German philosopher.

A fellow writer said to me, “It’s not about you, it’s about your story and it needs to be shared, or you wouldn’t have written it.”

In a nutshell, that’s what being a writer is about; having these stories inside us and a burning desire to share them. That seems more poignant when you write for children. What we write and the characters and worlds we create help foster creativity and imagination in our readers and if done well, can provide a place for children to feel included and accepted.

We certainly don’t do it for the money. Beyond the J.K. Rowlings and Stephen Kings, there are few independently wealthy authors. Most of us have day jobs that help pay to keep our passion alive. We're like the actors of literature; working to fund our artistic dreams.

With heart pounding loudly up my throat, I continued down the bumpy road to publication and read to my audience of fellow writers and famous people. They laughed in all the right places and it didn't kill me. I survived and I may possibly be stronger. Except for the ulcer, but there's medication for that.

Three Cheers for Multi-Tasking!

I, like all mothers, have taken this skill to epic proportions. I can talk on the phone, make quadruple batches of spaghetti sauce, wash dishes, and check emails without pause. Never have I gaffed and washed the phone and stirred my dishes. This skill serves me well as I carve writing time from any spare moment that comes my way. 

I have become that low maintenance writer that you see madly typing on the bus; their laptop perched on their knees, ear buds blocking out all sound, swaying in their seat with the ebb and flow of traffic as they make their way to work.

There was a time where I needed silence. Uninterrupted long periods of silence…and my comfy office chair, with the back locked at a perfect 82.75 degree angle…and my coffee, fresh and hot (steaming was best) in my brightly-lit writing nook. Then and only then was I ready to write - as long as the phone didn’t ring and break the magic.

Now my computer is optional and I only need a pen, paper, and a smooth writing surface. Above is a picture of my seat-back tray from my recent flight to Toronto. What a gift; 1½ hours of writing time crammed into a Westjet seat, next to a kid that was more interested in his book than talking to the middle aged lady, who feverishly scrawled page after page of nearly illegible text.

Honestly, this was near bliss. I would have been happy with this alone, but then that tiny voice that cartwheels around my noggin’, suggested this was another prime multi-tasking moment. It was mid afternoon, and I was slightly peckish. I’m sure I've read somewhere, that all the great writers maintain perfect blood sugar levels. If J.K. Rowling would take my call, I’m almost certain she’d agree; low blood sugar hampers the creative juices. 

With firm conviction I took my bliss to a new level. I ordered, without guilt, a large double-double and bigger-than-my-face-size triple chocolate cookie from Tim Horton’s. 

Good-bye bliss, hello Writing Nirvana.

First Annual Anita Factor Retreat...a Success!

     We wrote, like prisoners on weekend leave from our city lives, shared those freshly written words, learned about each other’s writing journey, and laughed til’ the tears ran and our bellies ached.

     On the discussion table were active versus passive verbs, creating believable, strong character voices and building great stories that tickle our readers’ curiosity and grab their intention the moment they read the first line of our novels. 

    We mulled over Gabe’s overuse of the dash, Mel’s love affair with the semi-colon, and my addiction to the comma.

    Our brain breaks consisted of walks through the cottage community of Ponemah, Manitoba, where we poked around a handful of derelict cabins; our writer's minds buzzing with possible reasons for their abandonment. (It was Candice’s idea. She’s an instigator. There’s always one in every group.)

    This year we were down in numbers and those missing Anitas were toasted by candlelight, as we made a pact. Same time next year Anitas.  So, clear your calendar, dry-clean that musty sleeping bag you've tucked away in your garage, and prep your kids and husbands. There are words to be written, country air to be breathed, and cabins to be trespassed.

     Only 363 sleeps to go.