The Sacred or the Mundane?

I spent the Victoria Day Weekend (referred to in Canada as "the big two four", no matter what date the actual holiday occurs on) writing a short story, my first entirely new piece of 2014. It was grueling. At first I thought I was rusty but then I remembered, it was always this hard.

The words were good but my timing was way off. Not enough hours slotted for research left me with no cool down before the polish. I submitted it by my deadline, which was Monday, my time (I decided.)

"Daao Sawang"
(Little Stars)

The English translation of the Thai words is incorrect so that will certainly have to be changed, whether the story is accepted for the anthology or not. It should read:

"Daao Sawang"
(Bright Stars)

It was a helluva way to spend the long weekend. First draft Friday night, second Saturday - more than 2,000 words over the maximum word count stated in the anthology guidelines. Two thousand words?

Generally, I eschew the use of totems to boost the fertility of my work, as I procrastinate enough without conducting a search for my lavender incense (which smells like pot to non-smokers and makes my eyes water so is, if anything, counterproductive) and so on. This time I wore my Buddha medals. I don't write to music but I did this time because the first half takes place in a little village in Thailand and begins with a true account of my location and company the night I smoked pot and heard Abbey Road, both for the first time. By Sunday I had the lengthiest brain worm of my life. Maxwell's Silver Hammer was imbedded in my head. Woah woaaaah woah woah!

I prefer that my characters submit to my whim and not the other way around. But in this case Carl and Rose had been yapping incessantly during the writing of the first draft. They'd gotten away from me.

These two are novel worthy.

That's all very well but I wasn't writing a novel. Once I figured that out, and pestered a few people on Twitter and Facebook, all I had to do was muster the words of my film mentor, the great Czechoslovakian actor and Canadian NFB producer, Vladimir Valenta, and the task became simple. "WHAT IS THIS SHIT IN MY FRAME?"

Draft words are written in sand.
But the final product?

"Keep your eyes on the big dog, baby."

(from "Daao Sawang")

I've read Remittance Girl's piece on the ERWA website, but I've yet to read the two posts she refers to, so I'm not prepared, yet, to weigh in on the sacredness of my words. But I'll be back.

Remittance Girl is one of the editors of Burning Book Press, which will soon publish Written on Skin, an anthology that contains a story by me. More on that as the details roll in.

My story was enthusiastically received by the three editors spear-heading the project. RG asked for more words. She didn't suggest changes to the words already on the page; she wanted some clarification of the male protagonist's kink.

I had the luxury of time in my rewrite. By the end, I think I sent RG three polishes. I said to someone (not Michael) "I think I've written a perfect short story."

In this case, my editor's request helped immensely. She told me on Twitter, "Still loving your story," which made me happy. But had she finished reading it? I asked. "Four times," was her response.

I didn't know anthology editors read the final short stories that many times. Is this the norm?

Alice Munro (my hero!) dedicated one of her books, "To the careful reader."


Writers need to meet, or exceed, the expectations of the careful reader. I can say that much right now.

Picture credits:

1) Star

2) Abbey Road

3) Canis Major

4) Blood

I Need Rest

I need rest. Oh my God my god I need rest. I need to fucking mourn. I need to write something.

If I don’t write something my mind will implode. It may even explode but imploding would be better. We could call it a nervous breakdown.

There’s a new term for “nervous breakdown” but I don’t have to search it because I’m a recent widow and because we’re having a fucking conversation here. I watch comedy specials. On the Comedy Network. In Sarah Silverman’s brilliant “39” (which she executive produced) she tells the audience of thirty-nine, “You’re in this thing with me. Don’t kid yourselves.” I’m not sure she’s the first stand up comic to say this but she’s one of the first. So if you’re reading this, you’re in conversation with me. Your job is to say, “What happened next?” and “Go on, I’m listening,” and “I hear you.”

Steve Martin said, (I’m paraphrasing) “With the advent of the internet, who really knows if his material is original?” Someone could be saying everything I’m saying on another site as I speak. I suppose that’s unlikely but not impossible. Or someone could cop this and post it on her own blog. Although my spies might find it. Like many hopelessly naïve people, I’m protected by a network of invisible friends. I actually have a world wide web. I just don’t know who the spider is, anymore.

Uh oh. Don’t tell me Madeline Moore is falling into another funk. There’s no time for that! Although . . . I am learning to understand and speak double-talk. This is absolutely necessary when one enters the system. Michael said I should’ve been an actress. I know what he meant. My fear was that I wouldn’t be able to memorize lines. I’m very impressed by the ability of actors to memorize lines. But my suspension of disbelief is awesome.

Right now I want to say that a nervous breakdown would be the very best move on my part. I’ve been told I wouldn’t like the local psychiatric facilities but if I managed to have the breakdown in Hamilton, I know for a fact the psych ward at McMaster Hospital is gorgeous. There’s no reason for me to go to Hamilton, which makes it the perfect place to stage my mental collapse.

If I could get the corner room where my step-daughter was living the day I met her, I’d stay for a month. It was gorgeous. Filthy of course but she’d already been in it for a couple of days. I bet it cleans up nicely.

She was wearing a blue gown. She threw open her arms and cried, “Step-mommy.”
I went to my safe place.

All my life people have said, “You should do stand-up.” My reply? “Standing in a smoke-filled room trying to make drunks laugh for fifty bucks a night? That sounds even worse than being a writer!”

The Comedy Network. Who knew? Who knows what the future holds. As Tom Robbins wrote in Even Cowgirls Get The Blues, “Who knows how to make love stay?” I dunno, Tim, but your line sure stuck.

It can’t be done. Love cannot be made to stay. Words stay, though. Lines.

If I had a nervous breakdown everything would be taken care of for me. I wouldn’t be able to take care of myself, obs, so people would have to come in and take care of it for me. I could write. I’d get disability money from the government. I’d be paid to live very frugally and be depressed and write. I know, eh? It sounds too good to be true but there you have it.

I’m taking breaks as I type this because the sun is shining on my balcony, which it does for about an hour a day, in the right front corner. There’s just enough room for a chair. I came in to crank up more sad music and got distracted by this piece I’m writing. It’s complicated because those who are grieving don’t focus well. Also lose stuff constantly. These little problems overly-complicate an already intolerable situation. I’ve lost my wallet three times (if you count the time it was in my purse, which I lost on Parliament Hill in Ottawa. Actually, I didn’t lose it, I just forgot it during my impromptu photo shoot. :P) That’s three times this month.

More music. I had a dance party on Twitter last night and lost three followers. HAHAHA! Plus I was snootily subtweeted about by a stupid agent I followed one day when I decided to follow a hundred agents. I unfollowed her. There you go, sweetheart! No mo’ invites to Maddy Mo’s dance parties for you. Hashtag MMdanceParty. OoooOOooo I’m subtweeting. She started it and anyway, this is a blog post. I’m not on Twitter right now. The freedom!

Free of all those fucking rules (Twitter is far from the anarchic entity it appears to be) and terrible 140 character maximum which is so useful for writers. Free from giving a damn about followers who come and go like busy little ants. I wanted more followers than following and now I have that and I always will, because if I dip in the opposite direction I’ll just go unfollow more agents. There’s only two that interest me. The rest are window dressing so the two I adore won’t know how much I adore them. I need a fucking finished manuscript first.

Which is another thing. I’m between publishers right now. No more pitch packages and advance on royalties for me. Which means I’m also free of the rules of the genre. They were so comforting, in the beginning. I liked having my options forcefully focused. I liked advances on royalties, too. But I don’t want to be restrained any more. My last attempt at writing an erotic novella that targeted the erotica reading populous tanked. So if it isn’t even working and I don’t have to do it to get an advance, I see no reason to follow any genre-related rules. Yippee. Breath play here we come!

The bells are ringing. “Bringing in the Sheaves” or “Blame it on the Stones” depending on your denomination. Oops. The sun is off my balcony. The birds are singing. They’re the same birds that will be singing when I go to bed tomorrow morning.

I need rest.

So the nervous breakdown is one option.

Here’s the other: eviction

I try to listen to the advice of my ex-husband. The man knows from money. His ideas are usually too extreme for me but in retrospect I always see how the scheme might’ve worked to my advantage. Financially. He thinks I should get evicted.

Once again, I do nothing. It all gets done for me. Perhaps not as restful as the nervous breakdown but I don’t have to get myself to Hamilton, which frankly fails to appeal. It’s a long ride and that’s in a car.

Eviction takes three months. I could fire the stuff I actually want into some boxes and out the door. The rest could be carried out around me while I sit cross-legged on the King bed, refusing to budge. Maybe cuffed to the headboard? I knew we should’ve bought a headboard. Cuffed to something. If I still had handcuffs. Everything went down the garbage chute the day Michael died. Pity, really. I kept the flogger, made with love by my man.

When I left my home and my family I took very little stuff but I cleverly absconded with the Christmas decorations I so carefully selected over the many years of my incarceration in the Institution of Marriage. I have four Rubbermaid containers of Christmas decorations. Every member of my fractured family is moving in May. Nobody will take one solitary item from my valuable collection of family memorabilia. This pains me. What about the first scribblings of my children? Their little clay hand prints? What about my pink Xmas ornament upon which is written “Baby’s First Christmas”? Nobody wants any of this shit? That is correct. Not one member of my nuclear-bombed family wants a thing. I’m sure I’ll never celebrate Christmas again. Who’s the smarty pants now, MM?

Sun is out again after all. Must go catch some rays. Ahaha. I have a mental vision of hurling Christmas ornaments off my balcony, starting with “Baby’s First Christmas.” But if I want that corner room in Hamilton, I need to have my break-down in Hamilton.
Tossing crap off the building will just get me evicted faster. Best to . . . what’s the term? Keep my counsel? I believe so.

Peter’s doing a musical number on Family Guy. “You don’t thank the Lord, you thank the whites.” Ahaha. I laugh every day, whether I like it or not.

I really need to rest.


Pictures: nervous breakdown: haleyscomic.com
balcony shot: mine, taken with a kobo
evicted woman image: Ontario rental tribunal
baby ornament: etsy.com

Seven Years in Four Hours - Speed Addiction

Last night I watched Matt Pollack’s film about his addiction to porn, Run Run It’s Him.

His filmmaker pals have banded together to help Matt launch this, his first film, shot on Super 8 over a period of 7 years. He and I have a mutual friend, the curmudgeonly Alan Zweig, who labored in irritable obscurity until his documentary, When Jews Were Funny, won Best Canadian Feature of the Year at TIFF 2013. Now Zweig is a slightly less curmudgeonly success story.

A few weeks ago I offered to review the film. I’ve pretty much abandoned my idea of becoming a pop culture social media pundit, at least until I get a more solid grounding in IT. and, oh Lordy, a lap top. Until then, I’m going to be a “wannabe” pop culture social media pundit for the land of the silver birch, home of the beaver – Canada.

I thought I’d do Matt a favor and launch my latest freelance endeavor at the same time.

I’ve never met Matt Pollack but he’s awfully adorable, I discovered when I went to his not-very-user-friendly website and watched a twelve minute interview with him. And damn, kudos for his honesty.

Happily someone stepped in to run the website. The film became available for download on April 1. I tried to purchase it at quarter after midnight and failed. By now I’m muttering, “Jesus, Matt,” as if I do know him. A quick post to the new facebook page dedicated to his film ("Is it already sold out?" I politely enquired) and his web manager had handled the problem. I don't know what Matt was doing. Probably sleeping.

Since then, he’s garnered a lot of high profile press in Canadian media. I’m not really doing him the favor I thought I’d be, but by now I have some interest in my review and my own interest in the film, so I soldier on.

Last night I sat down to watch the film. I was well into it when it occurred to me that I’d only seen three porn movies in my life. I know quite a lot about "porn theory" (thanks to my Lust Bites days) but I’ve always been a fan of written sexual titillation. Aside from the pesky tingling sensation in my loins, it seemed prudent to take a look at some of the sorts of films that are featured as mere clips in Matt’s movie.

Four hours later, I surfaced for air. In that time I’d gone from “How about a little spanking porn?” to “This stuff is boring, how about some BDSM?” to “Extreme BDSM” to “Forced fisting and dp.”

Jesus! I finished up a 21 minute foreign film, having managed not to sign up to any sites, and was grumpily wondering, “Now what?” when I noticed I had fifteen windows open, invitations from “neighbors” to chat and was actually considering digging just a tad deeper, perhaps into the not-quite -so-legal stuff, when my somewhat sticky hand moved to my mouse, almost of its own accord, and speed-closed all the windows.

My PC can’t handle this sort of action and neither, apparently, can I.

Four hours isn’t seven years but it’s enough. This stuff is insidious. Mere interest had become a feverish need for satiation that had all but obliterated any sense of reality. I’d reached for my credit card more than once before deciding there was no way I was spending my precious toonies on pornography. There had to be some free stuff that would alleviate what had gone from curiosity to an insatiable quest for satisfaction. Right?

I finished watching Matt’s film. I have my notes and my interview questions.

Another night turns to day. The cat is biting my elbows, a sure sign his food bowl is empty. So – is Run Run It’s Him a tribute or a warning? I’ll say no more. You’ll have to read the review to find out.

Run Run It's Him

Social Media for Fun, not Profit

It occurred to me that a good way to supplement my income as a writer/teacher was to become a pop culture social media pundit. A Canadian pop culture social media pundit. Why not? Besides the fact that:
1) Really, the www could not care less about pop culture opinions from Canadians.
2) I'm working on a P.C.
3) I'm only a few steps away from being a tech-luddite.
4) Did I mention I'm a Canadian?

The dream is fast losing its charm. I live-tweeted the Academy Awards and the Canadian Screen Awards. The latter was impossible, as the show was pre-recorded! Posting my comments gained me a new Twitter follow though: CBC. I was thrilled.

For one week I live-tweeted The Jimmy Fallon Show. Yesterday, (Friday) I wondered if I'd make it to the end of the hour. I was exhausted and said so, which led to a comment from some sucker whose Twitter handle is something like "ILUVJIMMY' to refer to me as 'elderly. WHA - ?

The charm of social media is rapidly fading. My greatest concern is that it's a waste of time, career-wise.

And I'm losing steam on this live-tweet thing.

Here's the big problem with Twitter: these megastars are among us and we get to follow them if we want to and Tweet stuff to them. Some, like Margaret Atwood, who is a Tweetfreak, tweet right back. It's so great! Others, like Stephen King, post a comment and never engage in the ensuing discussion.

King's first post was: I'm a Twitter virgin. Be kind." I know he and Atwood are friends so I suggested he consult Margaret Atwood and added her hashtag. She was there a minute later. I kind of felt like he should *thank* me. At the time he'd been on Twitter for about ten minutes so I was one of his first followers.

Joyce Carol Oates is another Twitter regular. Most of the time she's posting esoteric stuff I barely understand, but one time she complained that her husband wanted to put a big Buddha head in the garden. I suggested a reclining Buddha, the skinny, Therevada type with the elongated ear lobes. A few days later she posted a picture of their compromise and there it was! The Buddha I'd suggested. Again, I was a bit miffed. No thank you from Joyce? Humph.

But the one who actually drove me crazy, early in the game, was Steve Martin. He pops in, says something funny and "chats" with followers, usually correcting their grammar. But I could *not* get him to notice me. I actually had to be talked down by a Tweet friend. I had to unfollow Steve for awhile but as he brilliant (sadly, pretentiously so) and so hysterically funny I started following him again, without ever attempting to join in the fun. And you can watch a fan get ANGRY because Steve won't acknowledge him. (mostly guys get angry while girls suggest Steve make love to them.) Once I removed myself from the fray I saw how quickly the idolization turns to personal attacks. 'You're not even funny, Martin!' etc.

I think this comes back to the whole 'global village' thing. Everybody's writing a book, making a movie, starring on a reality show. Everyone can be a star! Just like real celebrities. So people think that because their celebrity idols are on Twitter, and they are on Twitter, they equals. And the stars have indicate that they're accessible; at least, the ones who actually monitor their own Twitter sites. Really, like Atwood, they *should* be accessible. Else why BE on Twitter at all?

But who are fans, who are they *really*, to think that by the simple act of following a celeb, they should be noticed? Thanked? On fb we have 'friends' but on Twitter we have "followers." That's all fans are to celebs. Followers. Followers who are so quickly disillusioned because they're not being acknowledged. So they become haters.

What will happen if Steve Martin laughs at one of my jokes, or Jimmy Fallon follows me? More Twitter followers for me, I think. But what does that mean? I only know of 2 people who follow me and have read my work.

A part of me strongly believes that using social media to become more popular is a waste of time. I suspect a billion dollar industry is keeping this truth from us. Yes, people who are already big shots probably sell more work because of Twitter, but the rest of us? I'm far from convinced.

Twitter has true value. During the disaster in Haiti, the exact location of Aid workers was known in hours, not days, because Tweets are such small packets they get out more successfully than e-mails or posts. Twitter can save lives. It's also an exercise in brevity, one I can really use! How much information can you pack into 140 characters?

But it's main usefulness is in free entertainment. Anthony Robbins said, "We aren't in an information age, we are in an entertainment age." It's astonishing how many funny people there are on Twitter; just regular folks with regular jobs who are hilarious. Twitter is *fun.* But is it a promotional tool. Is Facebook a promotional tool? Blogs? Even websites? Most of the time an author's contest is won by another author. (Unless, again, that author is already wildly popular.)

All people need, if they want to interact with an author, is an e-mail address. Here's mine: telltale@primus.ca

Did I just save myself the expense and time of maintaining a website?

Am I actually achieving *anything* on Twitter but getting and giving a few laughs? Here, on Facebook, I have "friends I've never met" and they're invaluable. But they're authors, for the most part. This is why I've used my fb page and my blog, to a lesser extent, to publicly suffer when I can't stand suffering alone anymore. Writers, perhaps because they are in touch with emotions, and knew Michael as well as me, and *know* me from conversations, e-mails, shared posts etcetera, get what I'm going through. I need that.

But that's not what I'm talking about right now. How many of us actually buy and read each others work? After all, we can access our short stories in the anthologies we appear in and as free reads on websites and blogs.

I really suspect that social media in its entirety is an addictive source of laughs and hooking up. And being a sarcastic hater, of course. Easy access to what is probably, but not guaranteed to be, accurate information. Ideas.

But is it a successful promotional tool, worth the time and effort? I have grave doubts.

Fallen

Half the trees in this town are dead. The ice-storm glazed their branches with layer after layer of glistening snow until the weight of all that beauty caused them to crack completely. The glittering ground is littered with dead debris. A natural disaster.

I came home last night. I was exhausted. They said I needed to take care of myself. I listened. I should not have come home. I shouldn’t have listened.

Passed out on the bed with the cordless receiver in my hand. The snap of dying trees punctuated my dreamless sleep until I awoke. The window lit up like a solid neon sign. A flash of orange, unlike anything I’d ever seen. Is the entire town under siege? I thought this was a private war. Who would drop a bomb on an innocent little Canadian town? Right before Christmas, too. What heartless terrorists have targeted us?
The clock stopped torturing me with time. No power.

But I must be connected to the alien ship! My fiancé was taken aboard twenty-four hours ago. The aliens, in their blue uniforms, are torturing him. What have I done? Why am I here?

The land line. I fetched it from the emergency supplies kit and plugged it in. There is a dial tone. Mr. Bee, my sister and I called it when we were kids. That was many years ago. That moment, when Mr. Bee buzzed at me, was days, no, hours ago. I listened to the trees die until I passed out again. Woke to the ringing of the telephone. And then I knew. The aliens will not release him after all.

Taxi was waiting when I burst out the front doors of the apartment building, panting from running down many flights of stairs. Don’t slip goddam it! The taxi company had prioritized me. Everyone needs a taxi this time of year. It’s the holiday season! The town was dark; no twinkling lights for anyone. As it should be. Just the sparkle of frozen snow where the headlights granted it a festive spot dance.

I was too late. Because I never should have left. They let me see the carcass. Almost all the tubes were removed, but the catheter was still in place. He hated that thing. I examined him. He was bruised; the evidence of torture was everywhere. The weight of all that pain broke him. I sat with the body, for no good reason. He wouldn’t have liked it but he wasn’t there to forbid it. I did not pray.

The deadly silence was shattered by the crack of branches, loud as claps of thunder. The giant tree at the entrance of the ship had broken. I watched with dull amazement. Was this for him? For me? Should I be grateful for this obvious metaphor: even the strongest living creature can be brought down by the force of nature. I could have laughed. No . . . I did laugh. How was it possible that this all happened at the very same time? Was I being mocked, or comforted? Did any of it have anything to do with me? Probably not. Not even the dead thing; not really.

I took his medic alert bracelet and left.

“Daddy died,” I tell the cat. I fall on the bed. If I sleep, I’ll have to wake up and remember. I don’t want to forget, not even long enough to get some rest. I cry in anguished bursts. This isn’t happening. This thing that happened isn’t happening. I sit up. All I have to do is find him.

Grope my way around the apartment. My hands press hard to the wall, for support. If I have to, I’ll search for him on my knees, but I don’t. I can stay upright, with the walls, the furniture, for help. How is it that this place has magically doubled in size? But he’s here somewhere, I just have to keep my eyes peeled. He isn’t here. He was an atheist. He isn’t anywhere. Just gone. My eyes don’t like being peeled. They fill with tears.

Oh I’m so silly. He’s in a drawer in the bowels of the Mother Ship. I need to go back there and visit him again. It’s common sense.

Or not. This must be the thing called grief. I make my way back to the bedroom. Need to remember that phrase, “make my way.” Use it properly, in the future, or maybe not at all.

Christ, how can it be that there are any branches left? Yet the noise draws me to the window. Interesting, the dead tree, where the hawks live, stands tall. You’d think it would be the first to fall but you’d be wrong.

The medic alert bracelet is on the bed. My first Christmas gift for him. It’s white gold, diamond cut. We laughed at the idea of him wearing jewelry. He loved it. He loved me. The bracelet slips easily onto my wrist. My tattoo, “M” for Michael, goes well with white gold. I rub the tattoo. I kiss it. He isn’t here.

It’s dark. The neon light that lit my window was the generating station blowing up. The great trees on King Street took it out when they collapsed. My taxi driver said so. The town has no power. We are all powerless. This much has been made very clear to me. I get it, okay? This is my only prayer.

So I stand and watch the trees snap and die. Between these sharp punctuations, everything is silent but the steady beat of my treacherous, broken heart. I want the noise to stop.

All pictures are of the Ontario December 2013 Ice Storm

1 @BenNollWeather (Twitter)
2 @JeremyGlobalTV (Twitter)
3 anglicanusefranciscan.blogspot.com
4 @MartinBPhoto (Twitter)
5 @vaughanweather (Twitter)
6 thebluebrick.ca
7 www.theatlantic.com