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 I certainly wouldn't ride a bike to promote someone else's novel, but what about mine (as of yet unpublished novel)?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.

Submissions

I finally printed out my yearly bunch of submissions to the Canadian literary magazines. It will be my third year trying. I just received a bunch of rejections in October. With the response time of almost a year, and the "no sim subs" rules, AND snail-mail, well, I'm not too optimistic about being published in Canada. Though The Room is trying out email submissions. I hope they like it. I like what Carousel is doing--they ask for a $2 fee when submitting via email. This seems fair--saves trees and hassle, and if they want to print them, they don't need to pay out of their pockets. We were about to trot to the post office, but then a friend called to warn me that the +4C weather was about to change to -15C. And we still almost went, but then it started to rain.

I'm working on a story. Taking a little break from my novel. Though it might end up a chapter.

I broke 3 plates today. I swept and swept, but still a shard of glass must have punctured my exercise ball on which I normally sit when I write. I'm terribly low right now. It took me a while to notice. But they says broken plates mean happiness or good luck. We'll see. Maybe I'll land a story in Grain.

Rennet, anyone?

I don't know if I'm the last person on earth to find out, as it seems everyone but me read The Little House series as a child, but hard cheeses are still made with calves' stomachs. (Rennet: The inner lining of the fourth stomach of calves and other young ruminants. A dried extract made from the stomach lining of a ruminant, used in cheesemaking to curdle milk.) My daughter asked me to Google this 10 minutes ago, and I'm still digesting the news.

I'm not sure where this bit of information fits in our life, as my daughter has talked more and more about becoming vegetarian, and possibly vegan. We've significantly reduced our meat consumption over the last months, but we're a family of cheese lovers.

Last night, as we read in bed, I assured my daughter that rennet wasn't used in modern cheese production ( I HAD NO IDEA!!! She screams.) Well, it still is, according to my initial Googling. There are vegetable based coagulants, and of course, genetically engineered ones (I'm sure these are the ones we consume when we buy a cheap block of cheese "for snacks" and home-made pizzas. Don't I want to gag now? Back to spending double on organic cheese.) I'm sure my daughter will have a similar reaction when I tell her that her favourite, quite expensive cheese (so expensive and rare that I forget its name), is made with rennet.

For your information, soft cheeses are NOT made with rennet.

Iqaluit poem by Environment Canada

January in Iqaluit

Thursday: Sunny. Low minus 36.
Friday: Sunny. Low minus 33.
Saturday: Sunny. Low minus 36.

Little fishtank on my counter and other exciting news

I've become more at ease about the fish. I glance at him from time to time as I wash the dishes, and I see the bubbles. I have faith now. The fish will make it. Little things make us happy.

In other news, we've been reading Little House in the Big Woods, and I learned what a delaine was. (Ma wore her best delaine to the dance.) I wish I could wear dresses like this. I guess I could. Why not? I could wear anything I want.

And yet in other news, my daughter was dying to make butter, a la Ma and Laura, and we spent 20 minutes working on the 18% cream. I would've died in the wilderness, I swear. My coffee was pleasantly fluffy, though.

Our elderly Betta

He looked completely immobile. I moved the tank. Nothing. I felt all wrong inside. I moved the tank again. He floated tangled up in the plastic plant. I told my daughter that we needed to keep in mind that R. was really, really old. "Do you mean he could die?" I was glad she put it in her own words. "I think he might." I didn't want to reveal this too suddenly. I imagined what we'd do for the funeral. Would I need to touch him? Scoop him out? Flush the entire contents of the tank down the toilet? Would I need to preserve the body as evidence? In the freezer? "Let's feed him," I said. We sprinkled fish food. He didn't move. We stared at it. I was trying to find the right words. I went back the kitchen and washed a couple of plates. "He woke up!" My daughter exclaimed. I sighed so loudly she looked up. "What?"
"I thought that maybe..."
"He was already dead?"
I had to admit it.
"But mama, he was moving his little fins! I knew he was just sleeping!"

Fishsitting a Betta

We're fish-sitting an elderly betta. He's already almost 18 months old, and this is how long they live in captivity. He sleeps a lot. It's been only 3 days. We'll have him for weeks. Every morning I'm on edge. I approach slowly. He's motionless, close to the surface. I check for bubbles. I wave my hand. I don't know if he likes me, or if he even knows me. In any case, I'm not his owner. He doesn't move. My daughter skips down the stairs. She's innocent. She has no expectations. "He's awake! Is it time to feed him yet?" And he moves. Just barely, but he moves.

Breaking News! Miley Spears and Lindsey Aniston break up with Chris Brown in underwear

So I stole this title from Greenbetty because I really want to see the search keywords that I'll be getting. I love a little experiment-ish. I'll be updating, of course.

Btw, she followed with an informative post on sustainability. I wanted to follow with a recipe, but as I'm eating the mystery item right now--better not.

What's the cost of a non-reusable coffee cup?

I had nightmares about missing the bus. We woke up before sunrise. We finished up our cereal and jumped out of the house. The bus ride to my daughter's art class was exactly 1 hour. While she painted, I took my 4 year old and the baby to an organic cafe nearby.

"Could I have a cup please?" I asked the owner. That was after a $30 order, which included 500 ml of chocolate milk in a carton. I wanted to pour it into a cup so that we could walk to the library with less chances of spilling.
"You can have this one, but they have no lids."
"I'd like the one with the lid, if possible."
"They are really expensive. I don't give them out. I sell them."
"How much are they?"
"35 cents."
"That's okay, we'll do without it."
"Not, take it."
"That's okay, you can keep it."
"No, no, take it."
PAUSE.
"Okay, I'll take it." (This, accidently, is a famous, much debated and much rehearsed, line from the famous 2 minute fim I made in graduate school.)

I felt compelled telling the owner that we'd be regular customers from now on, that we would never again ask for a cup, and that her sandwich was nice. I felt like I stole that cup. 35 cents? Really? I felt so bad that I actually brought it home with me. I *am* concerned about the environment, am I not?

Refocusing my energies

I'm not going to even open my computer tomorrow! I swear. Solemnly.

Edit: This obviously didn't happen. But I had to check the weather! Had to. Stepping outside into the freezing rain somehow didn't cut it. I needed the *forecast.*

The Complete Maus Prompt

My old shirt I hid to my pants.


This prompt comes from Maus.

I love how Spiegelman does his father's accent. I can just hear his voice in my head.

Iqaluit vs. Halifax

It's so warm in Iqaluit today, my friend is not even wearing her mitts! It is warmer (-7.7C) there than in Halifax! (-7.1C, but the wind chill is-14C, while it is only -11C in Iqaluit).

It's easier to feel cold in Halifax. Yesterday, on our 10 minute wak to Tim Horton's, my toes got numb in perfectly balmy weather because we stopped every two meters as the kids played in the snow. My toes were never numb in Iqaluit! My hikers were warmer, I walked faster, and if it was below -35C, I wasn't out for long periods of time. If anything, I was often hot in Iqaluit by the time I got home from my walks--sweating under my parka. My face, though, was another matter. That wind could scrape off a layer of your skin, that's for sure!

A poem by Environment Canada

Halifax Forecast
Wednesday: Snow or rain.
Thursday: Rain or snow.

Writing a Novel

Lessons learned from completing a novel:

1. I can do. I love doing it.

2. Format as you go. Everything. Paragraphs, page numbers, headings, italics. Don't think you'll do it later. Because when you have 70K or more, and you've done your revisions, edits, and more edits, and you think now you are ready to submit the novel, all these things that you thought were little and easy, well, they are there to kill you! Trust me.

Even though I felt silly starting my new, barely-there novel, with an official title page, I did it anyway. Better early, than sorry.

Writing prompts

I love writing prompts. Sometimes a word or a sentence is enough to inspire me to write a flash. Most prompts that I find on-line are too specific. A recent example of a prompt I googled for? Write 10 things you like to do on a rainy day and journal about one of them for 15 minutes. Or, Place two football players in a museum and add a broken glass.


I prefer open-ended prompts. Last week I asked my friend Matt Maxwell to email me a sentence from the nearest book he could reach. He was at work with only manuals around. ALWAYS stay away from tanks engulfed by fire, he wrote. I loved it! This prompt was what I needed to write chapter two of my novel. No, my chapter is not about tanks, and even not about fires. It is about trying not to do something, and yet doing it anyway.


If very specific prompts are your cup of tea, I found them here. If you like open-ended ones, you'll be able to find one or two in the top right corner of my blog.

What makes an interesting blog?

Since I prematurely promised to post one blog entry a day for the month of January, I'm a little preoccupied with the issue of content and potential readership. What makes an interesting blog, when the blog's writer is an aspiring novelist with just several published pieces? I'm not qualified to give any writing advice (obviously). I'm not sure I have any helpful tips. I'm not witty enough to sustain my readers by my words alone. Am I blogging in order to have readers, or am I just blogging? Shouldn't I be finishing the next chapter of my new novel? Especially since my old stalker has resurfaced and is reading these very words now and planning another assault? (just kidding about the assault).

This is what I learned from my kids last night: bears eat honey because they are after bees and larva. The honey itself is secondary.

Cooking with Children (similar to Writing with Children)

But an entirely different image. Imagine me. Blue pyjama pants. My nine-months-old baby in a back carrier on my back. Something by Madonna's playing. I'm jogging on the spot while peeling carrots for a carrot cake.

This is the carrot cake that I baked: http://www.chow.com/recipes/10183, but with a cream cheese-pine apple-shredded coconut frosting.

I don't use sugar in my baking--only maple syrup and honey, and usually half of what they suggest.

One Year in 40 seconds -- life in snapshots

One Year in 40 seconds by eirikso.com

I wanted to do something like this for years, but it is one thing wanting, and another is actually doing it. Amazing in its simplicity; the feeling of wonder it creates.

Katya, the protagonist of the novel I just finished writing, takes hundreds of photos a day, documenting the mundane of her life. She drinks her tea, she takes a photo of the mug. She goes to the bathroom, she takes a photo of the empty toilet paper roll. She focuses on the lines and forms, on the colours and shapes.

I met a woman once who was taking daily pictures of the sky. I also met a woman who wanted to take photos of the sky, but never did.

Writing with children

I'm going to come out and be honest about it--writing with three kids six and under requires commitment. If I face a choice between writing and organising my laundry room, I don't obsess over what's the write thing to do. If my kids build a fort in the middle of the living room with sofa cushions, pillows, and two duvets, the fort is going to stay until they build a space ship out of the same materials. I'm not the one to interfere with their creativity. Forts are here to stay, otherwise, what's the point?

I certainly can and will go to bed with my dishes unwashed. Though I'll fight deadly fatigue and get up at 3AM to finish a chapter. Or a sentence.