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.