On Becoming a Bird by Emily Darrell

in the new SLQ!

A  rich issue, as usual. But now I'm on the editorial team, and I'm proud.

Check out Winter, by Alec Niedenthal.

And Four Disconnected Truths about my Father  by James Tadd Adcox.

Well, check out the entire issue! It is delicious.

I've been pondering this quote today

What a writer wants to do
is not what he does.



                      Jorge Luis Borges

Potted and live

Christmas trees. My daughter wouldn't have it otherwise, and I've been researching my options. My thumbs are rotten black, so it is likely I'll kill the tree. And then, what's the point? As I was gathering information about care of a live tree and the subsequent replanting (we do not have a hole prepared!) I stumbled upon this article from the Toronto Star: http://www.thestar.com/news/gta/article/734418--rented-christmas-trees-a-booming-business Christmas tree rental! What a marvelous idea!

Sometimes kids just do the right thing

Yesterday, as my kids were mixing wet and dry ingredients for two batches of chocolate chip-blueberry-oatmeal muffins, a small woman knocked on our door kitchen door. She was collecting money for a family who lost everything in a fire. Just a minute, I said, and went to get my wallet. But then I remembered I didn't have any cash. And the last coins were given to our babysitter (because I didn't have any other cash). Before I could apologise, my seven year old daughter ran to me with her pink poodle wallet. Mind you, she didn't have much there either, as her last coins went to that same baby sitter (because her parents forget that they need to have cash at home).

***

I push about 5 dollars worth of coins into the slot. The woman leaves.

A minute later my daughter runs to me with a toy--a gray bunny.

I dont' really play with this one anymore, she says. Ask the lady if there were kids in the fire who lost their toys.

At that time I see the woman make it around the corner. I also see that my 20 months old, happy that the muffin making process was left entirely up to her, poured almost an entire carton of milk into the batter. She is quite coordinated for a 20 months old--most of the milk actually did go into the batter, but she is naked and is smeared with chocolate chips.

I'm barefoot, in my pyjamas. Running after that woman seems like an impossible task.

At that very moment my husband walks through the back door and we instruct him to run, run, run after that woman and give her the gray bunny. And he does. And saves the day.

Want to design a flag?

If it wasn't for my ever-curious kids, I would've remained an ignoramus forever. But this morning we stumbled upon National Geographic for Kids contest for ocean flag design. Since my daughter is crazy about everything related to oceans, she got really excited about trying to design a flag. Now, two things: the contest is open to the US residents only (ouch) and it is for kids ages 8 to 14. She's 6 months too young.


But after a bit of clicking I learned what vexillology means. Vexillology is the study of flags. There are five principles of flag design. They are all pretty common sense, but reading through them helped me to organise my thoughts about flags.

1. Keep it simple.
2. Use meaningful symbolism
3. Use 2-3 basic colours
4. No letters of seals
5. Be distinctive or be related

My most favorite flag is Japanese. I've always loved it. I just spent 3 minutes searching for a nice clip art, and the ones that I like want me to pay for them. I'm not willing to spend more than 3 minutes on flag search. At least it is not an obscure little flag. You all know how it looks like.

Canadian is a close second.

Now, she is designing an ocean flag, and I'd like to create a flag for our family. For some reason this activity appeals to me. Now, what colours to I choose for a diorganised wife who should be sweeping the floor at this very moment?

Ideas for book promotion

I was chatting yesterday with a friend about alternative and fun ideas for book promotion, and he suggested I might claim I had an affair with Tiger Woods for a bit of free publicity. Funny, he was not the first one to mention this in the last couple of days. (I don't think I'm capable of having a serious conversation about book promotion.)

Our culture is celebrity obsessed. One thing I'm curious about--how someone who presumably has to work out and practice, finds the time?

Margaret Atwood's gift ideas for beginning writers

This is a great list (from Ms. Atwood's blog). I've wanted a moleskine journal for years, so I just told my husband that the item is number one on my favorite writer's list. Obviously it is a must.

Boxes (#2 on the list), I already have. More than I can handle (we haven't upacked. STILL). I'm going to pry the empty ones away from my kids. How many submarines does one need? Certainly not 5!

Number 3 is compilation of awful things that will happen to you in public (I'm slightly paraphrasing that one. Because I'm an optimist, you see.) And yes, there's a morbid attraction between me and the Number 3.

Number 8, the Art Instinct--I almost placed an order for this one, only to realise that my credit card has expired, and I must have thrown away the replacement. I can be absent-minded at times. I should be receiving the new on in 5 to 7 business days.

Number 10: I've owned and loved for years. YES!

I love when writers I love blog!

Uninspired?

Bored with regular writing prompts? Awkward Family Photos is a marvellous resource of visual writing prompts. Or you can add it to the list of things you waste your time on when you'd rather be writing. But do yourself a favour--skip the comments under the photos. Just skip them.

Meeting with the publisher

Today it poured from early morning to about 5PM. I met with hopefully my future publisher at Good Food Emporium to discuss editing options. I was not impressed that my 20 months old wasn't feeling well and thus she spent the last 30 minutes of the meeting trying to pull my shirt up. Apparently spilling milk and crumbling cookies wasn't entertaining enough for her. I was, however, very impressed with the publisher, who maintained his composure. I was also impressed with myself--nursing in public doesn't phase me out anymore.



Because of the rain I took a cab both ways, and consequently didn't have enough cash for the baby sitter. Luckily she lives next door and I can easily drop by tomorrow for the rest of her fee.



When I came home, we saw the most amazing rainbow out of our window--bright, wide, and huge.

Back to blogging? I'm trying to.

Piotr Siwecki from Minimalbooks (a Polish zine devoted to translations of contemporary English-writing writers) put up an interview with me on his site. There's an English version, the one I linked to, and a translation into Polish. Cool!

So it just happens that Minimalbooks was the first one to semi officially hear from me that there are semi official good news about the publication of my novel, tentatively titled Swearing in Russian at the Northern Lights. But I won't tell more for now.

But if the semi-official good news become more or less official, I hope to be blogging about the journey towards a publication, in more or less positive tones, I hope.

I recently read this essay, published in 2004, I noticed. It was the most depressing piece about being a writer I've ever read. Thanks, Len, (no, really), for sharing this. So the bottom line, I'd like not to succumb to this kind of thinking, and I will chirp cheerfully about the good stuff. There must be good stuff. I'm an eternal optimist.



This is a picture of Halifax that I like.

Back to blogging

We are finally in Halifax, and I should be blogging again. I'd even like to be blogging again, but it isn't easy to get back into the habit, especially with an infestation of fruit flies, 59 unpacked boxes, and kids with runny noses and night time fevers.

But I saw the coolest spelling today on a message board. Disreguarding. I want to use it in a sentence. I've been disreguarded all day. I think the definition is self explanatory.

Road to Somewhere

There's a new road in Iqaluit. It starts around the old military base and ends at the new gravel pit. If you drive up that road, the view is truly one of the best in town. That's one.

Iqaluit is proud to have the Road to Nowhere. I'm quite enamoured with that road and with its name, of course. That's two.

It would be a pity, for a town with the Road to Nowhere, not to have a Road to Somewhere. That's three.

Last night I printed out some posters and today my husband pinned them up at a few places in town. He said people read them and smiled.

Snowrise is now in Polish and other random thoughts

Piotr Siwecki from Minimalbooks asked to translate Snowrise for his site, and I was delighted and flattered! I hope Piotr stops by and tells more about his project! (Hi Piotr!)

Inspired by a poem by Boris Pasternak, I wrote Snowrise almost four years ago. I'm sentimental about this story. Not only it is a tribute to one of my favourite poets, but it was also my first publication, and in Per Contra no less. My husband just joked that I'd be 80 and this would still be my best story. Boo!

But right now I feel it is one of my best stories, which makes me think, have I improved at all in the last four years? I know, I know, I wrote "The Novel". I've been working on it for the last two years. I wish I had something to show for it, other than countless blog entries that state that the novel is still in revisions. It still is.

To have my "almost first story ever written" (emphasise on "almost") to be accepted for publication within weeks after its completion was an incredible boost to my frail ego. I still think that this single acceptance instantly thickened my skin to rejections, and contributed to my perseverence. I rarely allow myself to be discouraged by rejections, and when I feel like my writing is worthless, I remember Snowrise. And that it was later nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and that I was awarded The Evelyn Sullivan Gilbertson Award to an Emerging Artist in literature for it (I had to copy and paste this from my bio on Zoetrope). (Stern self talk: Ania, you are NOT a one story wonder. You will write more. You will write better.)

Today I read a post by my friend Len (scroll down when you see him running in the rain. There IS a blog there. Hi Len!) And he mentioned that some of the stories that are finding good homes right now were written a couple of years ago. This same thing is happening to me. There's so much luck involved in placing a story. The lesson here is to submit, submit, submit. Which is almost a part time job in itself, but there's no way around it.

Two things

#1. This is a photo of an illustration in a Russian picture book I've been reading to my kids in the last 2 years.



#2. Years ago, when the Internet was still very new, a rather uptight and sheltered friend asked me for help with setting an email account. Sure, I said. Sure! And instead of hotmail.com I typed hotmale.com. Oy.

Hint Fiction Anthology--write it all in 25 words or less

I've been hooked on the 50 word stories ever since April, when I heard about the Miniwords. Well, this is even better! I like that the title is not included in the word count (easier to play) and I'm in love with the concept--Hint Fiction! How lovely is that? Sometimes I wonder whether everything I write isn't exactly hint fiction. I have an entire hint novel written. But boo, novels aren't supposed to be hint novels! Now, if I can summarise it in 25 words or less, that would be different. (That was my self-deprecating self-mockery on a cold rainy day, but enough of that.)

The submission period ends August 31 (note to self--remember this date as August 27, better safe than sorry).

The complete guidelines, as well as some example of award winning hint fiction, are here: http://www.robertswartwood.com/?page_id=8

And if I understand this correctly, if one links to the official site on his or her blog / site until August 15th, one is allowed an additional third entry.

Now start writing, and don't forget to link!

Mini Words 2009

http://miniwords2009.sharedspace.org/index.php

The deadline is August 9th! I think it is August 10th, but I alwasy do better with little tricks like this.

Don't forget to submit your best 50 word story.

Procrastination 101

I'll be playing with the header of my blog for the next couple of weeks. So that you know. It is all trial and error, trial and error, and fun too.


The previous header was this:

Under construction

This blog has an identity crisis. It's arrived to a waiting place, and is not sure now what to do. It used to be called "Writing on Baffin Island", "Writing in Nova Scotia", and "Writing with Children". Now it seemingly wants to be called something else.

The last 5 days have been surreal--how is it possible that in Iqaluit the temperature has been around 25C? 27C with Humidex?

I've been spending my days hiking with the kids. Today's tidal pool finds: a caribou jaw with teeth (it gave my husband and I quite a jolt--the way it was positioned in the sand it looked surprisingly human), a dead starfish, a dead jellyfish, stainless steel salt shaker, a live snail, and a red plastic bucket.

I started working on my "new" novel--I have about 15000 words done, so it is not entirely new. But I'm trying to be more organised about its structure.

I'm also playing with the new blog header. I like the direction, but I need to rethink the balance.

And here are the photos!

When the show started, my 7 year old daughter was determined to videotape all of it with my digital photo camera, using the video function. She stood like a stick for almost an hour, and then the card was full. (Note to self: the kid needs a video camera and a tripod.) But the show wasn't over. I reviewed the photos on the camera and sacrificed a few snapshots of the baby, reduced the resolution to 5mgp, and ended up with enough space for 26 photos.

I gave the camera to my husband. "We only have 26 pictures left," I said. At that time I remembered the (not so) good old days, when a roll of film had 24 shots, maybe 26, if there was a bonus. We'd buy a roll of film for an entire trip to Niagara Falls, for example. But sitting there, watching the circus, I felt that 26 shots wasn't really enough.

Here are some of the photos, but of course, they can't convey the magnificent performance that we were lucky to witness. I could've cropped them more, but I wanted to show some of the audience as well. Two groups performed together in a a joint, superbly choreographed performance--the Igloolik circus, and the French Canadian group (I have to look up their name.)

I love the humour of the show (Notice a sign "Nunavut in 50 years" in one of the photos), as well as the incredible acrobatics. The last photo is of throat singing, and initially both singers were singing upside down. But by the end of the show the baby of the singer on the left (yes, there's a baby in the amautik!!!) fell asleep.

Too much daylight

The midnight sun of Iqaluit has been interfering with my natural writing rhythm. Everyone (meaning the kids) go to bed really late, and I end having little or no uninterrupted night-writing time. This is very frustrating, yet, on the other hand, being here is so magical and unique, that I shouldn’t be complaining.


I’ve been absorbing everything, feeling everything, experiencing it to the fullest. The writing time will come when there’s less sunlight, more opportunities to find quiet moments. But I also would like to allow myself to spend less time on my writing. Often, when I don’t have an hour or two, I tell myself that anything less won’t allow me to focus, and would be a waste of time. But this is just being lazy. True, I can’t revise unless I have at least an hour, but I can certainly write flash. I need to print this out and tape it to the wall above my laptop—“when in doubt, when pressed for time, write a flash.”


Alianait, the cultural festival is in town, and it has been fantastic. I loved the intimate workshops, where musicians would play for a room of 5-6 people and talk about their craft. My four year old son approached one of the singers, looked up at him with his big puppy eyes, and said, “I love you. I love you very much.” Yeas, he was that impressed. Contrast this with another performance which he attended listening to his sister’s ipod, making a sixty-something guitarist (performer and teacher) quite self-conscious.

Stepping back

Stepping back from my novel wasn’t easy, but it happened naturally, as I got involved with my other writing projects. The result? Amazing clarity.

Stepping back when my newly seven year old daughter writes a blog? Creative spelling and all, and calls me Any? Well, I’m exercising amazing self-restrain. It is her blog, and if she wants to blog about not getting any sleep because of her baby sister crying the entire night, well, that’s her blog.

Yesterday, her blog had more hits than mine. Creative spelling and all.

Several times in the last week I contemplated mentioning to her how certain words are spelled, or gently showing them to her in context. But I know better than that. I know she’s learning in her own pace and her obvious enthusiasm about blogging is more important than spelling. She’s aware of discrepancies, but she’s also content with the way she spells. I’m beyond content. Frankly, I’m thrilled. She’s blogging in English; still writing her novel (yes, about Unicorns) in Russian, and dreams about translating it and then selling to the targeted audience of Halifax children. Her marketing plan is better than mine as well.

Now, about that crying baby. I’ve participated in on-line discussions about parents blogging about their young children, without their consent. I never felt my wrong doings so sharply as in the moment when she blogged about the baby crying all night. It was 2 minutes, 2mintues! I wanted to tell her. Yes, it coincided with you waking up, but it was 10AM already!

Yeah, right. Her blog. Her world. My blog. My world. I won’t be blogging much about her anymore. I will try not to. But moms find their kids too adorable not to blog about. Irresistible topics.

If I stick to writing about my writing on this blog, I need a new header, a new title. Maybe.

For Every Year

Dark, disturbing, and wickedly playful--check out Cami Park's Queen Isabella Eats a Pineapple and Misses the Jews in For Every Year Project.

Flawless writing that makes you uncomfortable and yet you want it to never end.

Riding on the Night Train

I haven't been motivated to post lately. I keep thinking that in the last years I haven't grown as a writer, haven't accomplished much. I'm not sure if this is true, as I've been focused on my novel, and there wasn't the almost immediate gratification of flash fiction (both writing it, submitting, and getting pieces accepted.) I'm re-reading my novel and making more changes.


This time I'm finally distant enough from my writing, and I'm able to actually read it, rather than simply remember it. I think I've done a really good job with it. (Is this normal to be impressed with one's own writing?)This might sound like I'm contradicting my first paragraph here, but I still feel that I could've written this very same novel three years ago, hence the issue of "growing." Is it really happening? Silently and invisibly? Or am I stagnating? I simply don't know. Only time will show.


Another issue that has been bothering me is this: What if in my efforts to remain positive about my writing and not to get too affected by rejections, I'm creating an illusion that my writing is better than it actually is? How do I find the right balance? I started this post to shout about my new / old piece in Night Train, and ended up whining about my lack of progress. This is the story with the words penis and vagina in the opening lines. How's that for a hook? I wrote it 3 years ago, when we just arrived to Iqaluit. Read it here!

Anemone Sidecar Chapter 4 is live and I'm riding

I wrote this story in February of 2006. It’s vintage. A few people who workshopped it with me said they had no idea who would publish something like this, and the way they said it didn’t sound encouraging. I submitted it to Snow Monkey sometimes in 2006. I never received a reply, though months later some people told me they spotted it on the “forthcoming” list. I saw that list with my very own eyes, but then it was gone. Years passed. Novels were written. Babies were born. (Okay, only one, I tend to exaggerate sometimes. One baby easily feels like a dozen.) Still later, I found a confirmation that the acceptance email was indeed mailed to me. Blame this on Yahoo. My memory is poor—at one point I must have forgotten about this little odd story. At one point I must have also slightly revised it.

Then another acceptance email came from Anemone Sidecar, which is sort of Snow Monkey’s cousin, as far as I understand. Is it still available? Three years later? Sure, why not, I thought. Why not? With on-line ventures coming and going, a revival, even three years later is worth celebrating. Go read “Monotonies of Winters”! It’s quirky, it’s experimental, it’s a blast from the past and there are no others like it! It’s in Chapter 4, on page 5.

Representing the Process of Writing--Visually

For some reason I'm not able to embed the video in a way that shows all of the viewing screen, even if I fiddled with the html. And it buggs me. Here it is on Youtube.

Two-headed ostritch

Or what do you see?

Lunch Backwards

My second stop motion project is Hcnul. I used WindowS Movie Maker. It was fun and tasty to make. That's plain yogurt, by the way.

Stop motion animation with Windows Movie Maker

I spent the day working on (okay, playing with) stop motion animation with Windows Movie Maker. Just set each frame at the very minimum of seconds allowed (Under “Options”) and you’re good to go. I was inspired by PES on Youtube (also check 'Prank Call', 'Western Spaghetti' and the X-rated 'Roof Sex', with some chair action,) so I spent a good hour looking at apples, oranges, kiwi and dry fruits, but I was very aware of my technical limitations. At one point my 6 year old grabbed the raisin at which I was staring and swallowed it. Here you go, an actor, gone. I reached for another raisin, but it just didn’t have the right personality. Eventually I settled on dry kidney beans. It took me 5 minutes to make the movie (the technical part), from start to finish. Hooray for conceptual simplicity. However, the ending just wasn’t right, and I’m re-shooting tomorrow. Tentative title? “Awakening and Death of a Red Kidney Bean.” The death wasn’t a part of today’s production. I envision moderate technical difficulties tomorrow. Stay tuned.


My 6 year old made the cutest “Baby Snail” stop motion, but she won’t agree to make it public, at least not yet.

Novel as a scarf?

I’ve had a busy week—being new in town, even in a town I’ve lived before for two years, takes up different energy and creates different energy as well. I look at things already with nostalgia—we’ll be leaving just in a few short months. There are new buildings, new people, the same snow covered hills.

The kids have settled into a routine of watching old Russian cartoons before bed, and this leaves me with a good couple of hours of writing time. Or doing nothing time. Doing nothing is still doing something—so I sit and think and try to weave my novel, my characters’ stories in my head, while my baby sleeps on my lap. I sometimes wish I could write novels in 3-D, with things happening simultaneously on different facets. Does this make sense? I don’t know.

Last night I saw my novel as an unraveling scarf, and it totally made sense, but this morning, when I tried to imagine it again, and to bring back the thoughts that came with this image, nothing happened.

I just finished a short chapter, only about 800 words, to be expanded. I noticed that my writing style is different, but I’m not worried yet. Anything goes in the first draft.

Un-stucking my characters over tea

I went to the Frob for lunch with a friend today. We haven’t seen each other for a year, so it took us about 20 minutes to get ready to order and then another hour to get ready to pay. Then we drove to the Fantasy Palace for more tea. I love discussing my novels in progress with C. I told her about the chapters I already wrote and where my characters were stuck. C always asks the best questions. Like, what are their motives? This helps a lot. The twin sister is hiding in the woods in a tent, with her kidnapped niece. Why did she kidnap her? For some reason when she asks me, I can start brainstorming possible solutions and everything comes together, in a fluid, organic way. When I ask the same questions myself, I often don’t have any answers. So now I feel I made major progress in terms of moving my characters in the direction of…well, I’m more aware of their motives and I think I’m good for the next several chapters.

So how warm exactly the weather is?

See for youself. Shorts no t-shirt weather.

Well, not really.

I'm happy to have the opportunity to wear my amauti again!

And it is fairly warm today!

First photos on a wet, snowy day in Iqaluit

( Click on the photos to enlarge)
If you look carefully, you'll see a small plane about to land.



An absolutely irresistible pup! Very typical for Iqaluit--no collar, no leash.




That's the playground I like, because of the view. You can't really appreciate it from this photo, but my husband got me a better camera, and on a sunnier day I'll try to take a better one.



You can see snowflakes--gray smudges. On the ice below we spotted quite a few snowmobiles, and one sled pulled by dogs.

Notes from the trip to Iqaluit

Predictable: I carry my pyjama clad 4 year old into a cab at 3AM, and half way to the airport realise I forgot his boots.

Funny: The four year old falls asleep before take-off, wake up at 10 minutes stop-over 1 hour into the flight, in place called Vampiro (gotta Google it, and it might not even be called Vampiro) and asks, “How come we’re still not flying?”

Miraculous: The baby slept the entire 4 hour Ottawa-Iqaluit flight.

Outrageous: We normally fly on First Air, and their strategy of serving a hot chocolate chip cookie 1 hour before landing is a perfect distraction for everyone involved. When they say ‘hot’, they mean it. Canadian North offered an alcohol infused coffee with whipped cream. How’s that fair? Okay, I admit it, I really wanted it, and no, I don’t think they would’ve given one to a mom flying alone with 3 kids.

Forgotten: How crappy the produce is in the store. How wonderful the arctic air smells.

lay lie laid lain

I admit it--every time I need to use one of "those," I either look for a synonym, or google. This post will be my reference from now on, and maybe one day I'll just learn the forms.


recline (intransitive): lie, lay, lain
place (transitive): lay, laid, laid
falsify (intransitive): lie, lied, lied

Mini Stories

I'm addicted to fifty words mini stories. Yes, there's a prize involved, but the fun is still pure. I love the challenge, and am impressed with the depth that one can get with such brutal constraints. Another advantage? I can compose them in my head! I come up with a version late at night, before falling asleep, and in the morning I write it down and polish. Last night I tried to summarise my novel in 50 words. I wasn't successful, but I'm working on it.

The deadline is August 1oth. With the rate I'm going, I should have about 100 mini stories to choose from.

Halifax Forest Fire

There's major forest fire about 5km from us (my estimate). On the news they name the Hering Cove area, which is our general area, but we're too far from the fire to be evacuated, thanks goodness. I saw the billows of smoke as I was returning home from downtown. When I got out of the cab in front of our house, my daughter ran to me to tell me she'd been taking pictures from our backyard. (Does it look like an elephant with teddy bear's ears or like a tail-less puppy eating a bone? There was a mini debate in our household.)

Three hours ago dark clouds of smoke were still overwhelmingly huge, but right now, even if I can still see the glow of the fire from my back porch, it appears to be more under control. I feel terrible for those who have lost everything. What would I be grabbing while running out of the house? Kids' favourite toys, Russian books, my laptop, my slings. Cloth diapers. I remember reading somewhere about a mom who had a fire in her dryer and she still kept on trying to save her cloth diapers. She said no one could relate. I sure can. How come we manage to attach so much sentimental value to cloth diapers? I have no idea.

Earlier today I called my neighbour, an elderly, sweet know-it-all. "Evacuation?" she laughed. "No dear, we are not being evacuated. I've lived here for thirty years and we've never been evacuated. And even if we were, I would've been knocking on your door by now." Good to know. As usual I was absent minded and didn't even have my radio on. I'd totally miss something like an evacuation.

Thank you to those who called and offered to stay with them in the case of evacuation. You've warmed my heart. Thank you. Thank you.

Notes:

More photos here:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/marcel_t/3488986289/in/photostream/

http://twitpic.com/4agdl

Praise

Just as I was thinking that I've been stuck on one pivotal chapter, and my protagonist, a young Russian student named Dasha (short of Yevdokiya) , has been stuck in an apartment of a odd elderly man, I got an email asking whether I wanted a novel buddy. Oh YES! One of the conditions? The process phase requires praise, praise, and more praise. Oh No!

I'm sceptical of praise. I like praise, sure, but I'd rather be torn apart with criticism. Praise picks me up when I'm low, but criticism moves me forward, allows me to grow as a writer. So what do I need now, when poor Dasha sits on the sofa of a man who's neighbours just called him a drunk, and the man himself whispers into Dasha's ear that he's expecting a ghost of Chopin any moment now...I think I need praise. Because I'm not sure at all about that Chopin thing, and Dasha wants to run away, even before she realises...

Stern self-talk: Stop, Ania, stop. You need to rethink the whole Chopin situation. If Masha, or was it Dasha, needs to run away, just let her. (Masha, by the way, is short of Maria. So see, similar short forms, very different full names. Russian language is weird this way.)

So I'm preparing myself for praise and self-loving. This is how I'll get to the end of this chapter and to the end of this novel. The critical part will come next.

And an unrelated update: I love walking. I love walking in Halifax. I love warm weather. I love my old comfy sandals. I have one huge blister in a completely unexpected place on my foot. Ouch!

Submissions green, submissions brown

Last night I stayed up until midnight designing a better submission tracker. Designing is too big of a word--I finally transferred pages of notes in different files in Word into a nice and neat Excel file. Now at a glance I can see where my stories are. I also submitted six or seven stories--back in circulations, little puppies.

I love that many US magazines have on-line submission systems where, if I remember my username and password, I can see my status. I wish Canadian magazines finally embraced the technology. And what do they do with your SASE if your story is accepted? Ah? Ah? But jokes aside, postal submissions are such an incredible waste of paper that I wish I was gutsy enough simply not to submit. If a literary magazine receives 900 submissions per year, this is on average 27000 pages, and over 95% of this is a waste, even if they get to be recycled, and I'm sure they do. Recycling is only great when there are no other way to conserve, but submissions could easily be electronic.

Discipline of Connection

In our family the words 'time out' mean needing some alone time. My daughter's favourite time out activity? Eating apples and watching My Neighbor Totoro.

She came home from the yard confused and amused. "R. Said he couldn't play with me. He said he was in time-out."

"Yeah?" I asked, biting my lip, waiting for her reaction.

She was eager to share. "I told him about my time outs," she said. "I love my time outs." She thought for a moment. "But he said he was only allowed to sit on his bed. That's odd, isn't it?"

"In some families time-outs are designed to be the opposite of fun. They are meant to be a punishment," I said.

My daughter took off her coat and went upstairs. Knowing her, she'll be bombarding me with questions in about two weeks. She needs time to process things like these.

When I studied psychology as an undergraduate, one of my favourite courses was called "Learning and Conditioning" where we covered applied behavioural modification. Among the academic papers on rewards and punishments and reinforcement schedules was one short article about time-outs. I remember coming home to my husband and excitedly telling him, "This is what we're going to do. What a great alternative to spanking!" That was probably twelve years ago, six years before we had kids. Since then, somewhere on the road to discovering what "gentle discipline" is, I stopped viewing time-outs as gentle. I started looking for solutions that put relationship before behaviour. After all, if I come home in a crappy mood and am short with my husband, I'd be horrified if instead of a hug he sent me to sit on the bed--alone. A "misbehaving" (I don't like this term, thus the quotation marks) child needs connection and bonding, and a time out is the ultimate of disconnection.

I wonder how many children in time-outs feel this way?

Boys are a riot

My four year old son comes to me poking himself in the ribs. "Look what I have," he says, poking himeself in the chest. Touch me."
"Yes, these are your ribs."
"They help me pee."
"Pee???????????" (As in, are you serious, buddy? Really?)
He looks sheepish and walks away, muttering, "I guess not, I guess not."

Manuscript Submission

I hit 'print' and the printer starts spitting paper. My four year old grabs several pages and runs to me.

"That's for you, mama!" He's excited. He drops them right where the Baby just dropped her banana. "Sorry..."

In the mornings I'm all Zen. "That's okay. We'll use them for crafts. Next time you hear the printer, leave the paper there. When I print your colouring pages, I'll let you know. Want some now?"

"Nope."

I hit 'print' again and take the sticky Baby upstairs to wash up.

I come back to the living room floor covered in pages.

(%#%$$@#?????????????????)

"Mama, he's sorry," says the six year old. "He didn't mean to."

(%#%$$@#?????????????????)

"Didn't I just tell you? Just a minute ago? "

(%#%$$@#?????????????????)

(What Zen? They can hear my blood pressure rising.)

"Just a minute ago?" I wail into the ceiling. "Not to touch my pages?" I holler.

I grasp how comical the situation is when I hear two simultaneous little voices.

Son: "Yes Sir."

Daughter: "Mom, I see you're really upset, and I know this is frustrating, but this can be fixed."

After I finish laughing, I'm Zen again. *

Note: Author Jennifer Hudson Taylor compiled a list of things one should check and double-check before submitting a manuscript. Check out on her blog!

__________________________________________

*None of the children were harmed in the current episode of "Manuscript Submission."

Poetry on the way or my memory is not the same

Toronto Transit Commission has, or used to have, Poetry on the Way project. In addition to advertisements in subways and buses, there were also short poems, usually on light yellow background. When I lived in Toronto, spotting a poem in a subway car or on a bus was a marvellous blessing. I'd read and re-read them, and often copy them on a piece of paper. But for some strange reason, I could never remember a poem from the beginning to the end.
For example, I remember the feelings a poem by Margaret Atwood evoked, and even where I sat when I first read it. But the actual words? Apple jelly? Remember summer? Picking apples? Well, something like that.

There was another poem that I loved. I had it copied, typed, and printed. It had dozens of pin holes, from being pinned above my desk or in the kitchen. But I lost that piece of paper in our move. I don't remember the author. So I'm going to list the words I remember, and maybe someone, one day, will stumble upon this blog and will realise he or she knows this poem. If this happens, please let me know! The poem is a list that describes a relationship.

Flash fried perogies.
(wink?) Antonioni
Muffins before the bananas rot
List of names for a boy
Kurosawa
Kimchi
Coached to notice when mock orange is in bloom
... (asleep?) but sounds of breath from another room

Thought for the day

I blog therefore I am.

Diaper free for the Earth Day

Teach your 12 months old baby to sign "toilet" and your life will never be the same. Because signing "toilet" means: out of sling; diapers off; up the stairs; into the bathroom; in front of the mirror; can reach for toothbrushes; can beg for a bath; maybe pee, maybe not. In other words--fun. To be repeated every 120 seconds for about 30 minutes. After which I say, without much conviction: "Okay baby. Remember what diapers are for? Mommy's done exercising."

But two days later there was a pay off. The baby woke up in the middle of the night (and it just had to be the night she slept naked) and signed "toilet" while making her variation of the psssss sound, the verbal cue I make in addition to the sign. "Tch, tch," she said. And I believed her. The bed was saved.

I first heard about EC (elimination communication) or diaper free living when my six year old was a baby. It took me six years to slowly and reluctantly convert. Even then, I declared that EC-ing with a newborn was practically impossible. Yes, many do it, and kudos to them, but I tried for a couple of days, and everything was covered in bright baby poop. I was told that part-time EC-ing was an oxymoron and wouldn't work, but this depends on one's goals. Complete toilet training (I prefer "toilet learning") at an early age is not my goal. I hardly ever have any goals when it comes to parenting. When the baby was about 8 months old, I realised that taking her to pee after her naps was easier than changing her diaper. When she was about 10 months old, I noticed that she started to remain dry overnight. I was still missing her "cues" during the day, but I kept signing to her and taking her to the bathroom in the morning and after her naps.

And here she is--barely 12 months old, and she lets me know when she needs to pee.
She's dry, less laundry for me, Happy Earth Day to all!

Unicorns and the magic of learning

My six year old is writing a novel. About unicorns. Unlike her mom (who doesn't "do plot"), she already grasped the concept of a cliff-hanger. Every night for the last week or so, she stays up with me after her brother falls asleep, and we write. Sometimes she allows me to read her chapters. Let me tell you, they are action packed. There are captures, and escapes, and drunken pirates, and gigantic cannibals. I should learn a thing or two from her, I swear. She has it all figured out--I'm her editor; daddy is her illustrator; age group six and older (as there're scary parts), she will sell it in a form of a chapbook to Russian speaking children in Halifax (translation into English to follow), and the money she earns she wants to share with her parents, as she already noticed her mother doesn't really earn any money despite of all that "writing thing" she does every night.

Proud learning moment for me--I almost asked her whether she wanted me to rewrite it "nicely, so you could read it better" but I resisted the temptation. It wasn't easy. I had to stuff my mouth with a handfull of raisins and force myself to chew instead of talking. She's very independent about her endeavours and she needs to "own" her projects. There'll be plenty of time for editing when (if) she's ready. Right now the most important thing is that she's writing, creating, joyfully, and this is the best "learning" one can imagine.

On the bus

An elderly gentleman, white hair, wrinkled cheeks, very think, I'd say 75, is getting off the bus.
"Hey buddy!" a teenager in baggy pants calls after him. The man doesn't turn. "Hey buddy!" the teenager calls with more urgency. The man looks back. The teenager points at a pair of gloves left behind.

As the doors close I glance at the elderly gentleman walking alongside the bus. He shakes his head, smiling. I swear I can hear him mutter under his breath, "Buddy? You called me Buddy?"

Writing is hard

Today every word is a struggle. The story, which is a chapter in my next novel, is getting pulled together against its will, and it is not making any sense yet. I have a vision, but I'm not able to convert it into words. I just spent the last thirty minutes writing one painful, awful, sentence after another. I have barely 400 words, and I don't even feel like re-reading them.

I do know that tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, I'll be able to make sense of it all and flesh out the chapter. At least for now I have images and ideas already written down.

How does your novel breathe?

When I first wrote my novel, it was breathless. Katya, my protagonist, was unsettled, distracted, disoriented. Her thoughts were jagged, her memories overtook her. Visually, there was a lot of white space in the novel. Even sentences were separated by white space. The white space was as important as the text--each block of white as a gulp for air. Scenes were interrupted by flashbacks and flashbacks were interrupted by the present day events, only to continue pages later.


Then I got scared I wrote something too unconventional. A couple of reviewers told me that they felt disoriented. That it wasn't a good thing. That my scenes were too short, that my transitions weren't smooth enough.


When I first tried to make the changes--consolidated scenes, reworked transitions--I felt physically sick. I read the revised parts and I started shaking. I cried. There was almost no white space. Instead of flashbacks being indicated only by the shift to the past tense, I now had proper transitions, such as "Two months ago..." I e-mailed a friend: "This is not my novel. I hate it!"


Two days later something happened. I started appreciating the new way my novel was breathing. The breathing was still fast, but more stable. It felt right. When I told my husband about it, he said, laughing, "You've been brainwashed." I said I just started seeing it differently.


Two days ago, another friend who read my novel months ago, read my first pages again. "You lost the 'wow factor'," she said. And that was it. I have no confidence in my decision anymore. I'm in agony. I can't sleep. I'm trying to mediate and I even tried to pray--for clarity of mind. I feel I lost touch with my novel. Why am I blogging about it? Sometimes when I blog about things, something marvellous and unexpected happens. I think I'm throwing this out to the Universe and hoping that a solution will come to me. Am I done with my novel, or do I start revising again? How does my novel want to breathe?


I wish I knew.

New and Cool

"Nanoism is a new online publication dedicated to twitter-fiction: fiction of up to 140 characters. Shorter then traditional flash fiction, it’s both a challenge to write and quick as a blink to read. It’s the perfect art form for the bleeding edge of the internet revolution."

Love it! I love the challenge, I love the form. Particularly this one, by David Tallerman, from April 6.

And this: Imagine going to your favourite organic coffee shop and reading your paper placemat? And instead of the typical Welcome / Bienvenue, there's a flash piece or two? How perfect is that? My only suggestion would be to publish several flash pieces of let's say 250 words, instead of one of 1000 words. 1000 words might be a bit too long with coffee.

Flash Fiction is Free

Let's face it, most flash fiction magazines are on-line, and most of them don't pay. There are some notable exceptions, like Flashquake, Bound Off, Vestal Review (recently became mostly print) or Cezanne's Carrot (pays a stipend to one author). I 'm sure there're more , one only needs to log into dutrope.com and check the needed criteria to see the whole list. But even the best ones, like Frigg, SmokeLong, elimae--they don't.

I'm not sure why I've embraced the culture of not being paid for my work, and why I think that it is okay to publish a flash for free, while not a short story. True, flash fiction requires, in most cases, less time commitment than a 5,000 word story, but it is not like I spit them out in minutes either. But flash fiction + internet is such a perfect marriage, and I've seem amazing quality of flash on-line. Most editors run those magazines in their free time with no reimbursement. And besides the magazines are free for their readers as well--which is marvellous and celebrates true accessibility.

But then there's The Toronto Quarterly. A new Canadian print quarterly edited by Darryl Salach. It doesn'te even have a web page--their communications are done through facebook, blogger, and my space. They boldly state, scream even, that they won't offer any compensation--not even a free contributor's copy (though pdf file can be uploaded from lulu.com for free). At first I wasn't quite sure what to think about it, but then I started to like the idea. I liked their honesty. They're certainly grounded in reality. Other non-paying mags might say, in a small print, at the bottom of their submission pages, that currently they don't offer any reimbursement. Some might add that in the future they hope to be able to do so. Right. It is not that they are lying, but they are certainly dreaming. Dreaming is great, I admire it. I also admire honesty. So I submitted a 500 word flash, and to an email yesterday that it is going to appear in the Fall issue of the Toronto Quarterly. It is called "No Memory of Rats." It is one of my "early" stories, and thus obviously the issue will become a collector's item in the very near future, so make sure you (YOU! And You, and you! ) buy a dozen copies. (Psssssst, and send me one).

Bunnies and Eggs

My children, despite of me keeping them in the closet (joking, joking, joking) found out about Easter Bunny, one of the "Canadian" traditions we haven't fully adopted. Until this year. Last week they came running into the house with the news the neighbourhood kids had told them--bunnies laid eggs. I mocked them a bit, and we all had a good laugh, but the damage was done. I told them, without the gory details, what Easter and Pesah really means, but the idea of an egg hunt was already planted in their curly little heads. As normally I am only vaguely aware of dates and holidays, I accidently told them that the hunt would be on Friday. Oops. So we did a mini trial sort of thing. It started badly--I had to tell them in the morning that the night before I didn't find the little chocolate eggs that *I* hid (on one of the upper-upper shelves).

Today , in a pouring drizzle (a very Halifax phenomenon) we went to a pharmacy to get more chocolate eggs. I think I was allowed through the crowd of other disorganised parents only because I had three wet kids with me and we looked pathetic. They all sighed with relief when I bought the most expensive brand name chocolates--I'm still worried about melamine in milk powder in more generic brands. The supplies on the shelves were very limited and the tensions were running high.

So maybe we are Canadians now. Happy Easter!

Row around the world

Today on the bus I met Sergei Morozov, a Russian navigator who currently lives in Halifax, who wants to row around the world. Now, that's inspirational!

He sat across from me. Sometimes we, "Russians" (i.e. former Soviet citizens), sense each other. There's something unidentifiable, ephemeral--in the eyes, or in the posture. I sensed he was one of "us," but wasn't certain until I heard him speak on his cellphone. I said hello, we talked for a few minutes. Just before I got off he gave me his card with a link to his web site.

A young man next to us asked if we were speaking German or Russian. Russian, I replied. He was close. I'm surprised how many people here think I speak French after hearing me speak Russian.

In conversation I got disoriented and almost missed my stop.

I'm humbled and inspired by this project. A writer can't afford much, but half of my Descant honorarium is going towards Sergei's project.

Shitty first drafts

Zoetrope is a great on-line community and workshop. I've been a member since November 2005. Today I posted a 240 word flash--a rough draft. I was stuck and needed direction. I knew the story wasn't there yet--no edge, no spark, no cohesion. And yet I wanted the story to work, wasn't prepared to give up yet, and needed help. The story is a for a local newspaper contest.
In any workshop where you've been a member for a while, were rated high enough to be in the monthly "top three" several times, as a writer and as a reviewer, there's a danger of insincere reviews. It has happened to me before--a story I thought needed major work received glowing reviews and suddenly everyone was saying how great it was. Pleasant to my ego (in the first 30 seconds of receiving such a review), but overall, useless.


Today was a notable exception. The reviewer said my story had no structure, no meaning, was poorly written, and my sentences were awful. Good luck your writing, he added. Ouch. And very refreshing too.

I hope more inspiration comes to me before the deadline.

My story in Descant? Oh YES!

Come and pinch me! (Descant)

If the acceptance came on April 1st, I would've thought somebody pranked me. But it came on March 30 (Yes, it took me 5 days to start believing that it finally happened), and who would know I submitted there anyway? After all, even I almost forgot about it--they seriously can't expect a mom of three to remember something that happened 18 months ago (I'm estimating here, but I know I was still in Iqaluit then.)

My submission tracking system is obviously lousy, and every time I think I will start being organised and write everything on a little piece of paper, I lose that piece of paper. I have lots of information on my old laptop, but I can't access any of it. I need a fresh start, but I have a feeling many of my stories are still pending in my favourite Canadian lit mags.

Stern self-talk:

1. Hey, you! Get serious about your submissions tracking system! Or use duotrope, like everybody else. Starting NOW!

2. Try to reconstruct, from memory and saved cover letters, your submissions from the last 18 months! (Hey, who are you kidding? That's impossible.)

3. Start thinking of yourself as a real writer, starting NOW! (Really? Am I allowed? Okay.)

4. Tell someone who has no idea about short story writing and submissions about it, so that you can hear them say, oh, so you get ONLY $100? (Oh, I already did this, cross this out.)

Telephone safety--scam reminder from an absent minded writer

If someone calls you and tells you they are calling from your bank / credit card and wants to ask you some questions and these questions turn out to be personal information, they are NOT calling from your bank.

I was in the middle of cooking dinner last night, while also trying to mediate an argument between my kids. I was absent minded enough to give them my date of birth and postal code, but after that I clued in, and terminated the call. I felt like a total idiot, but that's life, I guess.

My credit card customer service told me that I didn't give out anything crucial, but they could still send me a new card for my peace of mind, because "this is what we are here for," so I feel marginally better about my stupidity.

The call sounded very "professional"-- but something was definitely off. I felt it right away, and hesitated before telling my date of birth and postal code. I actually paused for quite a bit, and considered hanging up, but somehow went with the flow.

My credit card people advised me that they would never ask for personal information if they were to call me. Also, if someone calls, claiming to be from your bank, and offers some kind of financial information or service, ask them to mail it to you.

Flashing and Blushing

My story Piercing Heat was accepted by Night Train! It was rejected by one of the Canadian print literary magazines, and after that it took me a while to submit it again. So even if it has been almost three years since I wrote it, it hasn't travelled much. I remember writing this flash, the moments of its creation. I remember thinking that it was an odd one. We just arrived to Iqaluit, the computers weren't even unpacked yet. I sat at the dining room table, in the furnished, but otherwise empty house, writing on my husband's legal pad. The truck with the hundreds of our boxes would be delayed for weeks, and the house felt bright, spacious, and not fully "ours" yet. I rarely hand write my stories. One story that comes to mind is Yevdokiya's New Name, published by the now defunct BuzzWords. The energy of the handwritten stories is different, I think. They end up being my favourite. Yet not every story is suitable for the medium. I love the fast typing and deleting and the conveniences of the computer.

I have a bad habit of submitting previously polished stories without rereading them. I reread this story just now, and wowza, it has the words "vagina" and "penis" right in the first paragraph. Though as I just told my friend Stacy, the story is not, I repeat, NOT, about sex. It is much more subtle than that. Despite its rather graphic beginning, It is about mysterious and gentle connections.

Spring Cleaning

With the novel done (well, almost, almost), and with the snow finally melted, and with the baby not puking anymore, it is the time for spring cleaning. I'm inspired to declutter. I toss things out ruthlessly, but things do accumulate or rather shift around the house--this is the house of kids, after all. But this spring I'm more committed than ever, and I'm fighting moments of frustration and despair with the help of this blog.

Done with the revisions!

I even managed to have the cover page without a page number on it. In the New Word (aka the biggest PITA) there's no simple option of not displaying page numbers on the cover page. Instead, there's an add a cover page option, where it gives you a number of garish cover pages--thankfully, they are easy to edit.

This, of course, calls for a celebration. I wish I were in Iqaluit today, because there, according to my google page, is SPRING. While here in Halifax it is still very much winter. Forget the melted snowmen. My kids have been storing bags after bags of the "last snow" in the freezer.

"At the Foot of the Mountain"

I blogged about the process of writing this flash almost exactly two months ago. I am really happy to see it live in SLQ. If you click on the illustration you can see it in more detail--I love it!

I've never had a favourite flash before, but this one became a favourite. Maybe because I was so intently aware of its creation.

Final Revisions

Final revisons are completed--on paper. Now, page by page, I decipher my notes and transfer them into Word.

Now Halifax has everything I need

The store Olha's Ukrainian Foods offers less selection than the stores in Toronto, but satisfies my cravings just fine. I still call this "Russian food," out of habit, but the point is the same--this is the food of childhood celebrations. Food available (sometimes, if we were lucky) for New Year's Eve, or someone's birthday. Pickled red tomatoes, vegetable spreads, "syrki" (I introduce them as mini chocolate covered cheesecakes, only better, to my Canadian friends), zefir (like marshmallows, only better, way better)...Ah...I just ate way too much of good stuff.

A sure sign of spring

Mid-march revisions

I'm half way through my revisions. This week the tempo is slower--my 6 year old is attending almost daily early morning art classes, one hour away...The weather's nice, and I'm tempted to meet up with friends in Local Jo's. After two years in Iqaluit, a nice little organic cafe is a very necessary treat on the first days of spring. I'm also emotional--after this, the novel will be truly finished, and the next revisions will be with an agent or editor. No, I'm not "too confident", I'm only trying to remain optimistic. Which means I'm not optimistic, but I'm trying to stay positive and keep on writing.

This morning I took a walk by the Alderney Landing in Darthmouth. The sun was already warm, and the wind lost its yesterday's bite.

An empty spot on the kitchen counter

The betta fish we've been fish-sitting for the last 2 months is safely home with his owners. I'm glad and relieved he made it, and a little sad not to be able see his inquisitive little face.

God is everywhere. Leave a message.

You'll have to call long distance. You have about 6 months to do this. I first read about it in a local newspaper, and the number was listed. Now I can't find it in the on-line articles.

Read about the project here.

Still progress

Another 500 words, and some ideas on what scenes I still need. Yesterday I thought I was done adding scenes, but now I see that was a bit premature. I'm both excited with the new scenes and the information they provide, and worried that I might be making it all too contrived. I hope to know the difference when I finally print it out and read the whole novel on paper.

I just ordered 12 Russian books for my children to read from a store in Ottawa. I take pride in being the store's biggest shopper, at least I think I am. I still manage to read to the kids mostly in Russian, even if books in English are much more accessible, and much cheaper too. I, on the other hand, mostly read in English for pleasure. I can't justify spending so much money on myself.

More progress

Today I had to make myself to work on the revisions. I didn't want to. To be honest, I wanted to be done. I wanted to send it out. I wanted to be writing my current novel, which is in that exciting stage of being fresh and new, flowing and unexpected. I'm proud of myself for forcing myself to get back to "Swearing." The word count is probably around 200, but these were the most important words.

In the next days I'm going to read through the whole novel again, making sure everything is consistent with the new additions, and making corrections as I go. Then I'm going to polish the newly added segments, and then I'll be done for certain.

500!

Five hundred words today, and some other major developments. I realise now my changes won't take up as many words as I thought. What a relief.

In addition we also went to the pool, which in itself is quite an achievement. Not the swimming / splashing part, but getting dressed without anyone crying, whining, screaming, or complaining. Yes! A bus driver told me today, "Your hands are full," (Which is pretty much the only thing I hear when I'm out by myself with three kids. I respond with "Not as full as my heart."), and I replied, "Sometimes." I meant, of course, that sometimes they are a handful, but most of the time they are a joy. When we got off I realised he probably thought I was babysitting.

My neighbour told me today about the time change. I love our life--we haven't even noticed.

Oh nooooooo. Oh yes!

So you thought I finished my novel? I thought I finished my novel. Then, the day after reading and critiquing my friend's novel, I woke up knowing with certainty what I had to do to strengthen mine. This realisation scared me--I've considered my novel finished for the last several months. "Finishing" it wasn't a rushed decision. I workshopped it, rewrote, revised. It has been put away and revised again.

But I'm also exhilarated, because I think I'm right, and another revision is in order. I'm developing another story line!

I made a deal with the kids--unlimited play time in the morning; unlimited reading time in the evening. But in the middle of the day, while the little one naps, it is my working time. Today it worked out perfectly. I wrote 900 words. I made countless notes and comments. I'm making progress!

Here he is

82 Markets

March! I love this month. New beginnings. I haven't been submitting my short stories aggressively enough in the last year--new baby, new novel, a move cross country, another novel. I've been busy writing and living, and the little ugly aspect of actually submitting my work was on the back burner. This morning I went back to duotrope.com and hit my search criteria: literary fiction, short story, payment token and up, print publication, electronic submission, simultaneous submissions allowed. 82 markets.

I'm picky about where my short stories go. While there are great markets on-line for flash fiction, I still stubbornly think that short stories belong in print magazines. One reason for my bias--I think that flash is best suited for the Internet. Flash is easy to read on screen. But when I want to read a short story, I want an actual magazine in my hands. I want to be able to walk away from it and come back, without scrolling and going into my favourites. It is just a different feeling. Another reason--flash is infinitely more accessible on-line. I can send my links to my friends (and strangers); I can post them on my blog. I like how a flash piece becomes alive on the internet.

As for my short stories--I'll try a submission a day for the month of March.

My flash in Dogzplot--141 words

Shit. Read it, tell me what you think.

Yes, you can be a writer and a mom

But you have to be a pretty relaxed person. She's been quite busy with the goldfish crackers for at least half an hour--while I drafted a chapter in my flash novel.

Updates

My compost bin moved overnight. I must have goblins. Thank you, thank you! I hope it hops to the curb on the collection day.

I got myself a really cool domain name. www.ania.me Dot me! After the initial panic over my impulsive purchase I realised I do like it very much. Right now it is filled with their free template stuff.

I'm 18K into the novel and it is going well.

Last night the fish did the tummy up thing again, and I just tilted the tank a little and he woke up. I think I'm getting used to the fish.

Spring should be coming soon.

In the midst of despair

J. from the city waste management told me today I was the only person whose organic waste bin froze to the ground. Her tone of voice said it all--I was stupid. Then she spelled it out for me too--and irresponsible. I should take an ice pick and hack it out, she said.

Instead I'm watching Russian game show Chto Gde Kogda on etvnet.ca., and waiting for spring.

Blog design

I'm getting a new template. Just like new stationary, it inspires me to blog more. It isn't even up yet, but I already have a mental list of topics ready. The first on the agenda--unfortunately, the fish. In the last ten days it did the tummy-up floating thing three times. Every time he perked up. But my hopes are low.

Friday morning decisions

I'm awake before my kids. It's so quiet. I should always do this, instead of staying up late. But then there's a risk of them waking up. But maybe that's a risk worth taking. I get up that early on Fridays only--garbage day. I can't afford to miss a garbage day. Also, my 6 year old takes an art class one hour away by bus. The art class starts insanely early, but as the teacher says, the best artistic energies run in the morning. She's probably right, but we're night owls. So I'm standing here trying to make a wise decision, and I don't feel wise. The wind is gusting to 70km/h. It is -2C. It is going to be -8C or lower in the afternoon, but the wind's going to calm down somewhat. Yesterday was +4C. The streets must be frozen. Yet today is also the last day to sub my short story to the Prism International Short Story Contest.

The house is still quiet. Decision made. I think we'll make sushi in the morning--everyone's favourite activity, and for once I have all the supplies. My friends who are coming over for lunch will have sushi, and then I'll need to convince them to mail my short story to Prism. Deal?

My flashes

Or, flashi, according to Kuzhali Manikavel. I have so many of them, and what are they good for? I don't know. I love flash fiction. I love the challenge, the precision, the intensity of both writing and reading flash.

As I was waiting for a bus today it occurred to me that I can probably make a novel out of them. Or, in other words, I think my flashes do comprise a novel. It isn't complete, but it is getting there. I just need to arrange them, fill in the gaps.

Maybe I'm delirious. Maybe it won't work. Maybe it should be a collection of poetry instead. But I'm going to try. It will be fun to try.

February!

February! I'm excited. I'm back on track with my novel--I finally figured out the structure. I have two flashes coming up--one in Dogzplot and one in SmokeLong Quarterly. My first publication, exactly two years ago, was in SLQ, so it is great to be there again. SLQ is classy and is always beautiful. This time this is the same flash that I wrote from my own prompt, the one with snowflakes like bugs. I blogged about the process of its creation here. I'll let you all know when it's up.

This month I'll post more updates about my novel, as well as more photos. Though my camera just black screened on me, so maybe no to more photos. The fish, on the other side, is doing much better. Cross your fingers for me, please!

Writing with children--it can be done. Proof #1

My plan was to toss all the toys back on the sofa, where they rightly belong, after my 6 year old snapped this photo. For an inspiring "before and after" sequence, you see. But then somehow we got busy with something else. Miraculously, the sofa's still pristine.

Another Saturday, another writing prompt

I keep rereading Miriam N. Kotzin's poems from Reclaiming the Dead. This week's prompt is from her poem Daylili House.

"The house is surrounded
by lilies we fry for supper."

Obligations

I'm ready for the January to be over. One post per day is simply too much. The fish is doing well. I'm writing my novel after a bit of a break. I'm reading poetry--always an inspiration. I still can't get warm--our morning excursion into Darmouth chilled me to the bones. It's not an expression, I realised. It's the gruesome reality.

Swearing in Dogzplot

Check out Andrea Kneeland's flash 'Requirements' in Dogzplot! Favourite quote: "One difference I've found is that birds are more common, in the sense that I see many birds every day but a number of days or even months can pass without a donkey sighting."

My micro Shit will appear in Dogzplot late in February. (Shhhhhh, don't tell my husband. He asked me to never publish anything with the word 'shit' in the title. He doesn't read my longer pieces, you see. Like THE NOVEL, which I sincerely hope will be published one day. Which is called Swearing in Russian at the Northern Lights. Yes, there's swearing in it.)

Book promotion

Author Mark Budman asked on his blog whether anyone would ride a bike naked to promote his novel.

Publishing houses, even the big ones, spend less and less of their budgets on promotion these days, and authors are expected to be quite involved in actively promoting their work. Which got me thinking. I certainly wouldn't ride a bike to promote someone else's novel, but what about mine (as of yet unpublished novel)? I can think of a number of things I could do to promote it, when the time's right. Off to work on my abs. Back in an hour.

One more thing before I go, though: would YOU ride your bike naked (or even simply ride your bike?) to promote MY novel? (If you don't ask, you won't know, right?)

Symmetry in forecasts

I can't help myself. I like it.

Arctic January

Thursday: Sunny. Low minus 30. High minus 27.
Friday: Sunny. Low minus 31. High minus 27.
Saturday: Sunny. Low minus 29. High minus 27.

Good news!

The update you've all been waiting for! Yesterday I risked my life and finally got a small halogen lamp. For the fish. (How did I risk my life? The sidewalks turned to ice without warning, that's how. I also discovered I definitely could learn to fly if I practiced enough. Too bad I chose kids and writing as my primary foci. Foci! I said foci! The last time I said foci was in my experimental psych class.) Back to the fish. Oh how he adored its light and warmth! We have an alive fish now! His little fins flutter constantly, he swallows his frozen critters with joyful eagerness, he examines himself in the mirror and likes what he sees--a weaker, duller opponent.

I feel bad, horrible, for not getting the lamp sooner, but the owners have repeatedly assured me that he didn't need it. I quoted articles, they quoted articles. I said they did keep him under a light, they said it was a coincidence, not a necessity.

Little things make me happy.

The process of flash writing, day 2

Yesterday, just as I posted my last blog entry, I looked out of the window. It was snowing. Immediately I realised that my "bugs" were going to be "snow bugs." More images: sister / brother, bugs, snowbugs, tragedy, avalanche. Avalanche. I knew it was going to be about an avalanche. I wrote the first sentence:

"The day after the avalanche snowflakes fluttered like bugs--they gathered around my head, stung me just below my eyes, and burrowed into my mohair scarf to lay their eggs. "

I finished the draft, 477 words, and am now revising. I'm not sure of the title, yet.

Serendipity in flash writing

Okay, this is funny. Funny! Listen to this.

Often, when I'm stuck, I read flash fiction written by others--for inspiration. One of my favourite on-line mags is elimae. So I open the latest issue and click on a random story. It's called Kalila, and it is by Sarah Joy Freese. First of all, I LOVED this flash. Second, this is the funny part. This is the quote from Kalila:

"When I get stuck, I read what others have written. Usually, I want to slit my wrists afterwards, but not in a suicidal kind of way. In this issue, there are interviews with Salman Rushdie (24), Nam Le (42), Kathryn Harrison (58), and Andrew Sean Greer (76). I am reading Slice."

Okay, back to writing.

Flash writing

I sat down to write a flash based on the yesterday's quote. Immediately I wanted to write about insects, or, more precisely, about a character confronted by insects. I wrote my first sentence, "They never talk about bugs when they talk about camping."

The second sentence didn't come, so I thought I'd google "bugs" for inspiration. The whatsthatbug.com came up first. (An awesome sight, by the way). I was drinking tea with Salame di Cioccolato, only instead of sugar I'd used date powder.

The first photo on the bug site was of human bot fly larva. I swallowed my salame di ciococolato way too fast. I don't like looking at larva when I eat.

These are my images for my flash: childhood food / childhood; larva / something gross; evening by a pond (this one is from the actual prompt); dusk / cool / muggy / summer.

Now back to flash writing. I'll post it here when I'm done.

New Writing Prompt from "Reclaiming the Dead"

Maybe I should dedicate Saturdays to new writing prompts? I wonder if I'm organised enough. Let's see. Fresh prompts on Saturdays, new flashes on Sundays, thanks to my own writing prompts! Anyone wants to join me?

This week's prompt comes from Miriam N. Kotzin's poetry collection, Reclaiming the Dead.

"Over the pond the tree swallow
stitches the evening."

The fish is not doing so well...

Just as I thought the betta would surely make it. I'm not sure now. He's keeping low and has ignored his food twice. He pays no attention to his mirror. He's either is sick or depressed, fish forums say. Some googling suggested he might be too cold. We don't have any warm lamps that we could put him under, and I'm not sure about the advice I read on-line to add warm water. When I saw him swimming, for just a few seconds, I found myself running to the tank around the kitchen counter, saying "Hey, baby! That's it, little one." By the time I got to the other side of the counter, he was still.

Fierce, by Hannah Holborn

Hannah Holborn's collection Fierce was delivered to my door this morning! I dove into it immediately and read two stories, while my baby napped and the two oldest watched a DVD (educational, it turned out--they told me later to never give our party words to friends and divorce is when grandparents move in).

We Were Scenes of Grief is the opening story, and the first one I read. It starts with a dream--a big no-no, they say, but the language is so precise and evocative, and the imagery so grotesque, I couldn't stop reading.

Favourite line: "Outside, the town was like a cornered wildcat." How awesome is that?

Then I flipped to the table of contents to pick another story. A lot of thought goes into arranging the order of stories in a collection, but I can't help myself. I rarely read in order. I recently even read a novel (The Birth House) out of order and thoroughly enjoyed it (You're crazy, my husband said. So what?)

I picked a story titled Sedna--after all Sedna , the goddess of marine animals, appears in my own writing. This story also opens with a dream, but this time we don't know whether the main character is dreaming or not. The opening is surreal, and there're hints, of course, that this might not be exactly real, but hey, who knows. I love (LOVE!) when realities interweave this way.

Favourite line (The protagonist is describing an 8 year old girl): Her small black eyes brought to mind the word shrew. If Angelina came upon this child in her travels, she would not bring her home to Brad.

I loved the bizarre worlds created in these stories. Magical, surreal, and yet too real, almost too painful, as the characters grieve, hope, and dream.

Lisa Moore's blurb on the cover: "Holborn's collection of stories is electric with wit and insight. Sassy, sexy, full of willful women, nasty business, a few freaks, some drunks, acts of adultery and abandonment, the voice of God and veins of gold. It's fierce."

I'm sure to write more as I read more of the stories.