First of all, CONGRATULATIONS to Maureen on the launch of NOT READY FOR MOM JEANS! I seriously cannot wait to read this. I love her voice and I'm really looking forward to seeing what kinds of knots Clare can tie herself into this time! Sartorially or otherwise.
As for me? My fashion faux pas usually happen above my neck.
Here's the thing about being shortsighted. When I go to the salon, and take off my glasses for the duration of the procedure, I have absolutely NO idea what's going on with my head until the thing's done and there's no turning back. This has led to some... interesting coifs.
Some years ago I let an obviously deranged stylist have a go at the ol' locks. He cut my bangs asymmetrically, in two layers, dyed the underside black and the rest of my hair bright red. The end result looked as if I was a French femme fatale spy in disguise whose wig had slipped.
My mother said I looked like Biff Naked. I don't even want to know how she knew who that was.
Then there was the spiral perm. The end result of which was that, in high school, one of my numerous nicknames was Fluffy the Wonder Poodle. That's the kind of a name that sticks with a girl.
Once I came away from the rinse station with the hair at the back of my head showing a muddy shade of green. I was in the salon until ten that night as my stylist had to perform a rather extensive color correction due to something the previous stylist had used. I think it might have been toxic.
I stick with straight now. And blonde. And a hairdresser who seems as though they haven't been in the back room sipping cough syrup all afternoon. And I have a team on standby to do an intervention the next time I say: "I'm thinking of having something different done with my hair this time..."
Showing posts with label Lesley Livingston. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lesley Livingston. Show all posts
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
"You were banished because you were clumsy?"
Me and Jar Jar Binks. We have that in common. (That is all we have in common. I did not ruin a movie franchise with my ridiculous antics, thank you very much!)
And maybe I wasn't exactly banished, but I was definitely clumsy.
It's probably the thing about me growing up that drove my mom nuts the most. I mean aside from my lack of punctuality (er... see last week's post and, er... the timing of this week's post!)
You see... as a small child, I was fond of running into things with my face. It's like I'd get up to speed and then couldn't figure out how to stop, so I'd just point my mug in the direction of the nearest hard/pointy/sharp/injurious surface and cease forward momentum thusly.
For example, I distinctly remember the day my mother was baking snickerdoodles (I also didn't give silly names to cookies - that's just what they're called, all right?) and I'd endured an afternoon of delicious chocolatey smells wafting down from the kitchen. When, finally, she called down that they were ready, I went tearing upstairs, misjudged the door frame and door opening by several significant inches and split my forehead open on the corner of the wall. This was in the days before cell phones: my dad came home from work to an empty house, mouthwatering aromas, and random blood-spatters as my mom had taken my brother to the neighbors and driven me to emergency to get my face sewn shut.
Then there was the time I split my eyebrow open bouncing on my bed - having flown off wildly after a rogue bounce and finding it necessary to impede my flight by way of the dresser.
Oh yeah... and then there was the time I split my lip open on the fireplace hearth. I don't even remember what my reasoning was that time. Probably just kids havin' fun...
All of these incidences required various degrees of needle-work to make right. So by the time I slipped on a patch of ice in the school playground and broke my arm in the second grade, my adorable visage was a road map of scars both fresh and fading. Not surprising then that the doc who was plastering my skinny limb into a cast didn't believe me when I said I'd "fallen down". Sure you did, kid. Ma'am, we'd like to talk to Lesley alone, for a moment, please...
Honestly, I think the poor woman thought they were going to call a social worker on her! But then I probably did something like fall off the examining table, lending credence to the "No really - she's just unnaturally clumsy!" theory.
They let me go home and I'm sure my mother was relieved at that. But yeah - I'm pretty sure that it also drove her fairly nuts.
And maybe I wasn't exactly banished, but I was definitely clumsy.
It's probably the thing about me growing up that drove my mom nuts the most. I mean aside from my lack of punctuality (er... see last week's post and, er... the timing of this week's post!)
You see... as a small child, I was fond of running into things with my face. It's like I'd get up to speed and then couldn't figure out how to stop, so I'd just point my mug in the direction of the nearest hard/pointy/sharp/injurious surface and cease forward momentum thusly.
For example, I distinctly remember the day my mother was baking snickerdoodles (I also didn't give silly names to cookies - that's just what they're called, all right?) and I'd endured an afternoon of delicious chocolatey smells wafting down from the kitchen. When, finally, she called down that they were ready, I went tearing upstairs, misjudged the door frame and door opening by several significant inches and split my forehead open on the corner of the wall. This was in the days before cell phones: my dad came home from work to an empty house, mouthwatering aromas, and random blood-spatters as my mom had taken my brother to the neighbors and driven me to emergency to get my face sewn shut.
Then there was the time I split my eyebrow open bouncing on my bed - having flown off wildly after a rogue bounce and finding it necessary to impede my flight by way of the dresser.
Oh yeah... and then there was the time I split my lip open on the fireplace hearth. I don't even remember what my reasoning was that time. Probably just kids havin' fun...
All of these incidences required various degrees of needle-work to make right. So by the time I slipped on a patch of ice in the school playground and broke my arm in the second grade, my adorable visage was a road map of scars both fresh and fading. Not surprising then that the doc who was plastering my skinny limb into a cast didn't believe me when I said I'd "fallen down". Sure you did, kid. Ma'am, we'd like to talk to Lesley alone, for a moment, please...
Honestly, I think the poor woman thought they were going to call a social worker on her! But then I probably did something like fall off the examining table, lending credence to the "No really - she's just unnaturally clumsy!" theory.
They let me go home and I'm sure my mother was relieved at that. But yeah - I'm pretty sure that it also drove her fairly nuts.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
A thing my mom didn't teach me. And a thing she did.
Punctuality.
Obviously. Exhibit A - this post. Yup - late again.
When I was a kid, we moved across town when I was between elementary school and junior high. This meant that I would have to go to a different school than all my other little buddies come the fall. To say I raised a stink at this prospect would be a vast understatement. After all, these were my bosom, lifelong friends and they would remain so should we continue on in our studies together. (I can remember the names of maybe three of those bosom chums today, their faces not at all, and am facebook friends with one of them. Yes, my logic was flawed. Oh hindsight...)
My parents, to their credit, acquiesced and enrolled me at the school I pined to attend... and then my lovely, wonderful, long-suffering mother drove me to and from school every day for three interminable years. I have yet to adequately apologize to her for putting her through that.
I suppose that it wouldn't have been quite so bad for Mom except that, every single day, she would pull up in front of the school and watch as all the other kids came out the doors, got into cars, or walked to the bus stop, or wandered home in twos and threes... and I would not appear. The last of the stragglers would leave and the teacher parking lot would empty and still my mom sat there in the car, wondering where the heck I was.
Eventually--and it was always a long eventually--I would emerge, knapsack full of books (almost none of them homework-related) and clamber into the front seat, where Mom sat, frowning faintly as she tried to parse my unfocused gaze and unexplained tardiness.
"Where were you?" she would ask (meaning perhaps physically and/or mentally).
"Hmm?"
"What took you so long?"
"Uh... I dunno... I was just thinking."
"You can't think and get your coat on at the same time?"
Well - apparently not. Because my busy little brain wasn't really up to multi-tasking at such a young and tender age but it was certainly occupied. I was an inveterate daydreamer and, as such, was easily distracted to the point where I would just stand there in front of my open locker, staring into its depths, miles and worlds and adventures away. And, as often as it drove my mother positively bonkers to have to wait and wait and wait for me (ie: daily) she never completely blew a gasket. Popped a couple of seams, maybe, but that was only fair. I wasn't a particularly comprehensible or accommodating child. I didn't mean to be an unmitigated pain in the ass, I just wasn't that self-aware, you see. As frustrating as it must have been, my mom put up with me.
But she never taught me punctuality.
Because that would have meant teaching me to put my daydreams away before I was done with them. I wasted a good deal of her time back then... and she let me. Because I think, somehow, she knew deep down that those daydreams might lead me somewhere. And by letting me follow them, even at the expense of her own patience and sanity on occasion, she taught me that it was okay to do that.
She taught me that my inconvenient daydreams were important.
It was the absolute best thing she could have taught me. And she had to sit there listening to an awful lot of talk radio for me to learn it. Sorry, Mom. And Thanks.
Obviously. Exhibit A - this post. Yup - late again.
When I was a kid, we moved across town when I was between elementary school and junior high. This meant that I would have to go to a different school than all my other little buddies come the fall. To say I raised a stink at this prospect would be a vast understatement. After all, these were my bosom, lifelong friends and they would remain so should we continue on in our studies together. (I can remember the names of maybe three of those bosom chums today, their faces not at all, and am facebook friends with one of them. Yes, my logic was flawed. Oh hindsight...)
My parents, to their credit, acquiesced and enrolled me at the school I pined to attend... and then my lovely, wonderful, long-suffering mother drove me to and from school every day for three interminable years. I have yet to adequately apologize to her for putting her through that.
I suppose that it wouldn't have been quite so bad for Mom except that, every single day, she would pull up in front of the school and watch as all the other kids came out the doors, got into cars, or walked to the bus stop, or wandered home in twos and threes... and I would not appear. The last of the stragglers would leave and the teacher parking lot would empty and still my mom sat there in the car, wondering where the heck I was.
Eventually--and it was always a long eventually--I would emerge, knapsack full of books (almost none of them homework-related) and clamber into the front seat, where Mom sat, frowning faintly as she tried to parse my unfocused gaze and unexplained tardiness.
"Where were you?" she would ask (meaning perhaps physically and/or mentally).
"Hmm?"
"What took you so long?"
"Uh... I dunno... I was just thinking."
"You can't think and get your coat on at the same time?"
Well - apparently not. Because my busy little brain wasn't really up to multi-tasking at such a young and tender age but it was certainly occupied. I was an inveterate daydreamer and, as such, was easily distracted to the point where I would just stand there in front of my open locker, staring into its depths, miles and worlds and adventures away. And, as often as it drove my mother positively bonkers to have to wait and wait and wait for me (ie: daily) she never completely blew a gasket. Popped a couple of seams, maybe, but that was only fair. I wasn't a particularly comprehensible or accommodating child. I didn't mean to be an unmitigated pain in the ass, I just wasn't that self-aware, you see. As frustrating as it must have been, my mom put up with me.
But she never taught me punctuality.
Because that would have meant teaching me to put my daydreams away before I was done with them. I wasted a good deal of her time back then... and she let me. Because I think, somehow, she knew deep down that those daydreams might lead me somewhere. And by letting me follow them, even at the expense of her own patience and sanity on occasion, she taught me that it was okay to do that.
She taught me that my inconvenient daydreams were important.
It was the absolute best thing she could have taught me. And she had to sit there listening to an awful lot of talk radio for me to learn it. Sorry, Mom. And Thanks.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Beltane Eve!
The Hawthorn trees are in bloom and the Fair Folk ride at midnight! For it is Beltane Eve and, on this night, the walls between the worlds thin and, in places, vanish...
In Faerie mythology, Beltane is known as one of the "Days of the Open Doors" -- one of the four points on the Celtic calendar when the realm of Faerie comes closest to our own. This is a time for celebration -- for lighting bonfires and drinking to the health of your friends and the Good Neighbors. It is a time of high magick!
So, naturally, it is entirely appropriate that this week is the launch of Tracy's A BREATH OF MAGIC. And, as the resident Faerie writer among the Girls, it seems only right and proper that this, the Eve of Beltane, is my day to post! (And -- look everybody! -- I'm actually posting on my day! What sorcery is this??)
I want to wish all good luck and great fortune to Tracy and my fellow Girls and all you marvelous TNG Readers! I think you're all pretty magickal! But be careful!... Sparkly things like you lot tend to attract the eye of the Fair Folk. So don't be at all surprised if you feel the brush of wings on your cheek after sundown tonight, or hear the far-off baying of spectral hunting hounds and laughter on the wind.
Just be careful on the way home. Stick to the paths and don't get caught out in the open near the Faerie Mounds or they may decide that, in honor of the holiday, you should come in under the Hill for a drink and a dance... and that's probably the last we'll see of you for the next few decades...
And then you'd miss out on all the contesty goodness happening over at Tracy's blog to celebrate A BREATH OF MAGIC! You don't want that to happen!! OR, for that matter, you don't want to miss the contesty goodness happening right here! Just leave a comment and you'll be entered to WIN A COPY OF A BREATH OF MAGIC!! Now that's something to celebrate!
Friday, April 23, 2010
The One Unforgiveable Thing.
Don't bore me.
Recently, I read a book that was the literary equivalent of dragging sandpaper over my eyes. I finished it... because I had to--don't ask... but I actually skimmed over the book's climax. Yup. The biggie moment. The dramatic reveal. The scene of *yawn* jeopardy. The... perilous... whatever... *zzzzz...*
Couldn't. Care. Less.
By that point in the book, I was so numbed by pedestrian imagery, lack-luster plot and pacing, paper-thin characterizations, and a parade of utter predictability only interrupted by a completely nonsensical "twist", that I didn't give a rat's butt about what was happening. I still scowl at that book everytime I glance at it on the shelf. "You BORED me! Stupid book!"
I can read less-than-perfect writing. I can read about characters I may not necessarily like. I can read about subjects that aren't my cuppa. I can--generally speaking, although this one's tough--read a book in a voice that might grate.
I can't read boring. This is not to say that I require a car chase and incendiaries on every third page. I've read books that were nothing but pages and pages of conversation. But it has to be dang good conversation. I've read books that have entire chapters consisting of almost nothing but lush scenic description. But it's interesting description.
I've read books stuffed with action scenes that lulled me into a coma.
I can't define it. I can't tell you exactly why the one will bore me and the other won't. And of course it's subjective. It's a case of "I know it when I read it!" --an unexpected turn of phrase, a plot twist I didn't see coming for eighty pages, a place or person that piques my curiousity. Something.
If I don't finish a book... I'll know that something was missing. I'll know that I was bored.
Recently, I read a book that was the literary equivalent of dragging sandpaper over my eyes. I finished it... because I had to--don't ask... but I actually skimmed over the book's climax. Yup. The biggie moment. The dramatic reveal. The scene of *yawn* jeopardy. The... perilous... whatever... *zzzzz...*
Couldn't. Care. Less.
By that point in the book, I was so numbed by pedestrian imagery, lack-luster plot and pacing, paper-thin characterizations, and a parade of utter predictability only interrupted by a completely nonsensical "twist", that I didn't give a rat's butt about what was happening. I still scowl at that book everytime I glance at it on the shelf. "You BORED me! Stupid book!"
I can read less-than-perfect writing. I can read about characters I may not necessarily like. I can read about subjects that aren't my cuppa. I can--generally speaking, although this one's tough--read a book in a voice that might grate.
I can't read boring. This is not to say that I require a car chase and incendiaries on every third page. I've read books that were nothing but pages and pages of conversation. But it has to be dang good conversation. I've read books that have entire chapters consisting of almost nothing but lush scenic description. But it's interesting description.
I've read books stuffed with action scenes that lulled me into a coma.
I can't define it. I can't tell you exactly why the one will bore me and the other won't. And of course it's subjective. It's a case of "I know it when I read it!" --an unexpected turn of phrase, a plot twist I didn't see coming for eighty pages, a place or person that piques my curiousity. Something.
If I don't finish a book... I'll know that something was missing. I'll know that I was bored.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Shipwrecked on a paper shore...
I am on an island. Have been all weekend.
It's called my dining room table. The storm that brought me here, one of words and em-dashes and ellipses...
I've been copy editing. So this entry's gonna be a short one. The deadline sharks are circling (or possibly that's just the cats wanting to be fed...)
My essentials on this lonely sojourn have consisted of a stack of marked-up manuscript pages, a pack of multi-colored sticky-note flags, a pad of paper, two pens (one pink, one peacock blue), copies of WONDROUS STRANGE and DARKLIGHT, my battered Complete Works of Shakespeare, my laptop, a (now-sadly-empty) coffee cup, and a half-eaten bag of cheezies.
No palm trees, gentle breezes, or shirtless Josh Holloway. Which is probably just as well, because that would just be a distraction. And I really have to finish these so I can courier them back to NYC tomorrow.
It feels a little weird. After this... I'm done. Done with the Wondrous Strange trilogy. Wow.
I might be a little sad at that... except I'm too tired at the moment. And it was also announced a few days ago that WONDROUS STRANGE won an award!! The CLA (Canadian Library Association) 2010 YA Best Book Award! You can read about it here on my personal blog! This helps alleviate any tendencies toward melancholy immensely, I can tell you!
So will a good night's sleep, I think. And maybe a Survivor-type Immunity Idol. Delivered to my copy-island by a shirtless Josh Holloway. Or one of the cats.
Where's my pink pen?
It's called my dining room table. The storm that brought me here, one of words and em-dashes and ellipses...
I've been copy editing. So this entry's gonna be a short one. The deadline sharks are circling (or possibly that's just the cats wanting to be fed...)
My essentials on this lonely sojourn have consisted of a stack of marked-up manuscript pages, a pack of multi-colored sticky-note flags, a pad of paper, two pens (one pink, one peacock blue), copies of WONDROUS STRANGE and DARKLIGHT, my battered Complete Works of Shakespeare, my laptop, a (now-sadly-empty) coffee cup, and a half-eaten bag of cheezies.
No palm trees, gentle breezes, or shirtless Josh Holloway. Which is probably just as well, because that would just be a distraction. And I really have to finish these so I can courier them back to NYC tomorrow.
It feels a little weird. After this... I'm done. Done with the Wondrous Strange trilogy. Wow.
I might be a little sad at that... except I'm too tired at the moment. And it was also announced a few days ago that WONDROUS STRANGE won an award!! The CLA (Canadian Library Association) 2010 YA Best Book Award! You can read about it here on my personal blog! This helps alleviate any tendencies toward melancholy immensely, I can tell you!
So will a good night's sleep, I think. And maybe a Survivor-type Immunity Idol. Delivered to my copy-island by a shirtless Josh Holloway. Or one of the cats.
Where's my pink pen?
Sunday, April 11, 2010
It's what day, again?
First off, an apology for my recent scarcity around these here parts. And lateness of posting. Seriously. It's Sunday? Already?? How did that happen???
Second, an explanation - of sorts - which relates rather nicely to this week's theme: it hasn't stopped.
Allow me to explain. What do I mean by 'it'? I guess I mean the writing because that really hasn't stopped... but I also mean all the other stuff that goes along with the writing. As my fellow Girls have already illuminated with their customary collective brilliance in the preceding entries, what happens after you turn in your manuscript is that... well... a LOT happens after you turn in your manuscript!!
I think there is a tendency among first-time writers to think that after the MS goes to copy-edits, or galleys, or actual press, our work is essentially done.
HA!
No no, my friends. That is not so. No kicking back on a beach for you, young word-slinger. Not just yet.
You already know, now, about what happens to the words after you turn them in. And you already know a little bit about what happens to you. I'd like to expand on that a bit. Here are just a few of the possibilities of the things which will occupy your time while you wait for your shiny new book to hit the shelves - all or none or some of which might be relevant to your particular situation, all or none or some of which you may or may not accomplish with flourish and panache (and, as Jillian points out, it seems like you wait forever for the book to hit the shelves. Or possibly just an eyeblink).
You might, in the interim, indulge in the following pursuits: blurb-gathering, blogging, blog-touring, blog-hosting, group blogging, giving interviews, answering q&a's, cover-copy approval, cover-art approval, catalog copy approval, website design/redesign/overhaul/maintenance/upkeep, twittering, facebooking, myspaceing, school visits, festival appearances, launch-party planning, book tour planning, recording the audio book version, shooting the book trailer, organizing contests and give-aways, putting together press-releases, networking your butt off, approving and signing contracts for foreign or sub-rights.
You could also set aside blocks of time to fret over cover art, rejoice over cover art, start another book, get another contract, finish that other book, start on the third book, pitch a couple of new projects, fret over advance reviews, rejoice over advance reviews, weep over advance reviews, attend conferences, participate in forums, self-google incessantly, wonder why you even own a tv, try to do laundry every now and then, and order in pizza. A lot.
Sometimes it gets a teensy bit overwhelming. And yet, for all that, there is the awesomeness. For example, on Thursday night I had a fund-raiser for a school in Brampton to attend where I was the guest of honor (whee!) and got absolutely mobbed by an awesome bunch of students; on Friday, I was the guest speaker at the York Catholic School Board's White Pine Event (an award for which I am gleefully shortlisted for WONDROUS STRANGE! whee!) and got absolutely mobbed by a different awesome bunch of students; this weekend was the Ad Astra SFF Literary convention at which I was a guest, had three panels to speak on, and a book signing to do; tomorrow, I have another school visit with two sessions of writer workshops to lead. Book 3 just went to copy-edits, I have a new book to finish by August, and I'm working on a pitch for another project as well. It's been barely over two years since I turned in that first MS. Feels like forever ago. Or maybe just an eyeblink.
And, while I might be a little sleepy, occasionally late or absent on the blog-front, and slightly swiss-cheesy in the brain, I have no complaints whatsoever. But I do wish they'd hurry up and perfect cloning!
Second, an explanation - of sorts - which relates rather nicely to this week's theme: it hasn't stopped.
Allow me to explain. What do I mean by 'it'? I guess I mean the writing because that really hasn't stopped... but I also mean all the other stuff that goes along with the writing. As my fellow Girls have already illuminated with their customary collective brilliance in the preceding entries, what happens after you turn in your manuscript is that... well... a LOT happens after you turn in your manuscript!!
I think there is a tendency among first-time writers to think that after the MS goes to copy-edits, or galleys, or actual press, our work is essentially done.
HA!
No no, my friends. That is not so. No kicking back on a beach for you, young word-slinger. Not just yet.
You already know, now, about what happens to the words after you turn them in. And you already know a little bit about what happens to you. I'd like to expand on that a bit. Here are just a few of the possibilities of the things which will occupy your time while you wait for your shiny new book to hit the shelves - all or none or some of which might be relevant to your particular situation, all or none or some of which you may or may not accomplish with flourish and panache (and, as Jillian points out, it seems like you wait forever for the book to hit the shelves. Or possibly just an eyeblink).
You might, in the interim, indulge in the following pursuits: blurb-gathering, blogging, blog-touring, blog-hosting, group blogging, giving interviews, answering q&a's, cover-copy approval, cover-art approval, catalog copy approval, website design/redesign/overhaul/maintenance/upkeep, twittering, facebooking, myspaceing, school visits, festival appearances, launch-party planning, book tour planning, recording the audio book version, shooting the book trailer, organizing contests and give-aways, putting together press-releases, networking your butt off, approving and signing contracts for foreign or sub-rights.
You could also set aside blocks of time to fret over cover art, rejoice over cover art, start another book, get another contract, finish that other book, start on the third book, pitch a couple of new projects, fret over advance reviews, rejoice over advance reviews, weep over advance reviews, attend conferences, participate in forums, self-google incessantly, wonder why you even own a tv, try to do laundry every now and then, and order in pizza. A lot.
Sometimes it gets a teensy bit overwhelming. And yet, for all that, there is the awesomeness. For example, on Thursday night I had a fund-raiser for a school in Brampton to attend where I was the guest of honor (whee!) and got absolutely mobbed by an awesome bunch of students; on Friday, I was the guest speaker at the York Catholic School Board's White Pine Event (an award for which I am gleefully shortlisted for WONDROUS STRANGE! whee!) and got absolutely mobbed by a different awesome bunch of students; this weekend was the Ad Astra SFF Literary convention at which I was a guest, had three panels to speak on, and a book signing to do; tomorrow, I have another school visit with two sessions of writer workshops to lead. Book 3 just went to copy-edits, I have a new book to finish by August, and I'm working on a pitch for another project as well. It's been barely over two years since I turned in that first MS. Feels like forever ago. Or maybe just an eyeblink.
And, while I might be a little sleepy, occasionally late or absent on the blog-front, and slightly swiss-cheesy in the brain, I have no complaints whatsoever. But I do wish they'd hurry up and perfect cloning!
Friday, March 26, 2010
Kid? Meet Candy Store!
Also know as "Topographical Ordinance Survey maps? Oh boy oh boy oh boy!"
Gimme a quiet carrel in the back of the history stacks, or come follow me down a rabbit-hole of never-ending hyper-links on the trail of an info-morsel. I'm almost never happier than when I'm bloodhounding around for info for a new project.
Eeeeyeah.... I'm whatcha call a research nerd. I can cheerfully delve into historical minutia until I'm blue in the face and you can barely see the top of my head over the book pile. I don't think I've ever written a book that didn't involve hanging crucial plot mechanics off a specific locale or historical personge or event or bit of lore or, most likely, some combination of all of the above.
When I'm not actually writing (and sometimes when I am), I can most frequently be found lost in a text or a website, consumed by some bit of arcane, obscure fact-checking. It gounds me in my stories. But also, more often than not, it also provides me with my stories.
To wit: I once wrote a short story--a short story, mind you--whereupon I first had to wade through a sea of information pertaining to plant-derived toxins, including but not limited to the identification of a toadstool known as "Destroying Angel" (nice--how poetic), characteristics of the fungus known as ergot (do stay clear of ergot-tainted barley unless you're fond of, y'know, gangrene), and how many parts of the Taxus Baccata--or common yew tree--are actually poisonous (answer: ALL of them--unless you're a bird, whereupon the seeds will pass harmlessly through your digestive tract, or a deer--which seem to have built up an immunity to taxanes... not so much cows and horses, commonly found dead in fields where yew trees grow)... Er... yeah.
That was for a humorous little short story about sorcery. And it all developed from one bit of info and a really bad pun.
Another example of my research pathology: for one of the next projects I'm working on, my upcoming book ONCE EVERY NEVER, I needed a place. A very specific place, actually. A place which has very distinct topographical features and dimensions. And I need it to be located within a specific geographical radius. It was a tall order.
Now, I know what your thinking. "Lesley," you think, "you write fiction. Surely, you could just make the dang thing up, right?"
Well... that's what I figured I'd pretty much have to do because my parameters were so dang narrow. And I was totally okay with that. However, on a lark, I started off on a bit of a surf. I googled around, using broad variations of descriptions for this bit of non-existent landmark, only to find--much to my surprise--that it's not non-existent at all. In fact, it not only exists, it exists right where I need it to.
For realsies. Eu-freakin'-reka!!
I was gobsmacked. It was, in fact, such a perfect match, that I started to almost believe that all my wild, fictional theories--constructed strictly for the purposes of the story and predicated firmly upon a willing suspension of the disbelief in, er, magic--might actually have historical merit!
In retrospect, I don't know why I was surprised. This has happened to me at some point in pretty much every project I've ever written. My friend Adrienne thinks it's uncanny. I think it's just be because I read up so much on my subjects of interest--on the kind of stuff I invariably wind up writing about--that I just start subconciously making these unconnected connections. But whatever the case, when it happens--wow!--it's always a total EUREKA moment. And yummy like candy. Well-researched candy. Mmm.....
Gimme a quiet carrel in the back of the history stacks, or come follow me down a rabbit-hole of never-ending hyper-links on the trail of an info-morsel. I'm almost never happier than when I'm bloodhounding around for info for a new project.
Eeeeyeah.... I'm whatcha call a research nerd. I can cheerfully delve into historical minutia until I'm blue in the face and you can barely see the top of my head over the book pile. I don't think I've ever written a book that didn't involve hanging crucial plot mechanics off a specific locale or historical personge or event or bit of lore or, most likely, some combination of all of the above.
When I'm not actually writing (and sometimes when I am), I can most frequently be found lost in a text or a website, consumed by some bit of arcane, obscure fact-checking. It gounds me in my stories. But also, more often than not, it also provides me with my stories.
To wit: I once wrote a short story--a short story, mind you--whereupon I first had to wade through a sea of information pertaining to plant-derived toxins, including but not limited to the identification of a toadstool known as "Destroying Angel" (nice--how poetic), characteristics of the fungus known as ergot (do stay clear of ergot-tainted barley unless you're fond of, y'know, gangrene), and how many parts of the Taxus Baccata--or common yew tree--are actually poisonous (answer: ALL of them--unless you're a bird, whereupon the seeds will pass harmlessly through your digestive tract, or a deer--which seem to have built up an immunity to taxanes... not so much cows and horses, commonly found dead in fields where yew trees grow)... Er... yeah.
That was for a humorous little short story about sorcery. And it all developed from one bit of info and a really bad pun.
Another example of my research pathology: for one of the next projects I'm working on, my upcoming book ONCE EVERY NEVER, I needed a place. A very specific place, actually. A place which has very distinct topographical features and dimensions. And I need it to be located within a specific geographical radius. It was a tall order.
Now, I know what your thinking. "Lesley," you think, "you write fiction. Surely, you could just make the dang thing up, right?"
Well... that's what I figured I'd pretty much have to do because my parameters were so dang narrow. And I was totally okay with that. However, on a lark, I started off on a bit of a surf. I googled around, using broad variations of descriptions for this bit of non-existent landmark, only to find--much to my surprise--that it's not non-existent at all. In fact, it not only exists, it exists right where I need it to.
For realsies. Eu-freakin'-reka!!
I was gobsmacked. It was, in fact, such a perfect match, that I started to almost believe that all my wild, fictional theories--constructed strictly for the purposes of the story and predicated firmly upon a willing suspension of the disbelief in, er, magic--might actually have historical merit!
In retrospect, I don't know why I was surprised. This has happened to me at some point in pretty much every project I've ever written. My friend Adrienne thinks it's uncanny. I think it's just be because I read up so much on my subjects of interest--on the kind of stuff I invariably wind up writing about--that I just start subconciously making these unconnected connections. But whatever the case, when it happens--wow!--it's always a total EUREKA moment. And yummy like candy. Well-researched candy. Mmm.....
Friday, March 12, 2010
Enlightened by that which has gone before...
Looking back over this week of TNG posts, it strikes me that the conversation has gone a little like this:
Hopes...
Dreams...
Reality...
Perspective...
all leading up to my small contribution to the dialogue. I call it enlightenment, but not in a grandiose way. Small 'e' enlightenment - but enlightenment nonetheless.
I personally think every entry from the Girls this week should be considered required reading. Individually, they are each moving in their own way. Taken as a whole, they offer up a kind of truth. This is what we do, as humans. We hope and plan and daydream about the future. Then reality sometimes smacks us upside the head. And that makes us reevaluate the present.
I honestly struggled with what I would write about this week. I've always been the kind of person who lives pretty 'in the moment'. If I think too far ahead, I tend to run madly off in all directions. At the same time, I also tend to dwell on present problems and magnify them way out of proportion - I get stuck down the well-hole of my mind. Now I just think my duty to the topic is to point readers in the direction of my fellow Girl's posts.
Because here are the things I have taken away from this week's words: Tracey and Maureen's posts remind us that it's important to have dreams and aspirations. Lisa's post reminds us that it's important to recognize life may have other ideas. And Jillian reminds us, in that light, that maybe it's most important of all to not ignore the present for yearning of what may come.
I don't know where I'll be in ten years. You know what? I'm not even going to speculate. Ten years ago, if you'd asked me the same question, I would have answered. And I would have been wrong on just about every last thing I would have said.
Now it's more like: "Second star to the right, straight on 'til morning."
I don't know where I'll be in ten years.
But I am determined to try and have fun and appreciate the journey while I'm getting there.
Hopes...
Dreams...
Reality...
Perspective...
all leading up to my small contribution to the dialogue. I call it enlightenment, but not in a grandiose way. Small 'e' enlightenment - but enlightenment nonetheless.
I personally think every entry from the Girls this week should be considered required reading. Individually, they are each moving in their own way. Taken as a whole, they offer up a kind of truth. This is what we do, as humans. We hope and plan and daydream about the future. Then reality sometimes smacks us upside the head. And that makes us reevaluate the present.
I honestly struggled with what I would write about this week. I've always been the kind of person who lives pretty 'in the moment'. If I think too far ahead, I tend to run madly off in all directions. At the same time, I also tend to dwell on present problems and magnify them way out of proportion - I get stuck down the well-hole of my mind. Now I just think my duty to the topic is to point readers in the direction of my fellow Girl's posts.
Because here are the things I have taken away from this week's words: Tracey and Maureen's posts remind us that it's important to have dreams and aspirations. Lisa's post reminds us that it's important to recognize life may have other ideas. And Jillian reminds us, in that light, that maybe it's most important of all to not ignore the present for yearning of what may come.
I don't know where I'll be in ten years. You know what? I'm not even going to speculate. Ten years ago, if you'd asked me the same question, I would have answered. And I would have been wrong on just about every last thing I would have said.
Now it's more like: "Second star to the right, straight on 'til morning."
I don't know where I'll be in ten years.
But I am determined to try and have fun and appreciate the journey while I'm getting there.
Friday, March 5, 2010
In which I get unintentionally rant-y and off-topic... sorry...
Um... apologies in advance... apparently a certain movie REALLY hits one/ several of my hot buttons... sorry... very sorry...
I don't get out much. At least, I haven't recently.
**!!Brief interjection to point out that this may change now that I've
!!!! FINISHED BOOK THE THIRD !!!!
It's almost a real-really-real trilogy, kids!!**
Right. So. Where was I? Oh yeah - didn't get out to many movies in the last year.
Saw Avatar. Umm.... how do I put this.... HATED IT. I was SO bored.
Sure, it was pretty. It was shiny to look at. It was a technological acheivement. And I would have opened up a vein for a single moment of original dialogue or an unexpected plot twist. Just one. ONE.
Or a character I cared about or found interesting. Maybe, y'know, a villain that had more depth than a card-board stand-up video game ad display.
"I see you?" That's great. Now please, get your creepy ear/tail/hair out of my creepy ear/tail/hair.
Not only was Avatar a predictable, uninspired dumping ground cobbled together out of the stolen plots of every other movie James Cameron has ever seen - including his own!! - it just plain made no sense. Er - in my opinion.
Honestly though, why does a giant robot suit need to carry around a giant robot bowie knife??? 'Cause it looks cool? Not a good enough reason.
I found the whole 'noble savage' trope uninspired and lazy in its employment here. Why does it take the "white" guy to figure out how to tame the dragon? You know - that thing we all knew he was going to do as soon as the giant dragon/great leader plot point was introduced in the clunkerific info-dump of a scene designed to let us all know an hour before it happened that this is EXACTLY what was going to happen?
I think it would have been much more interesting story-telling if JakeSully had failed miserably in his attempt at dragon-surfing and needed the cranky blue guy's help. (Of course, I think it would have been more interesting if he'd gotten eaten by the dragon. Or plummeted to his death. So never mind.)
I miss Ripley. Seriously - how did Sigourney Weaver go from that, to this, where she displays all the charm and acting subtlety of a giant redwood in hiking boots? And why is her Avatar wearing hiking boots again??? To differentiate her visually? That's called poor character design. Also, what exactly makes her character so sooper-speshul that she gets to have the care-bear sparkle-tree healing attempt, but not any of the grievously wounded natives - who actually have a vested belief in said tree?
Why are all of the mammals on the planet based on a six-limbed genetic model... except the mostly (but never completely for some reason, although they don't seem particularly shy) naked blue people... who are bi-peds? Is it because JakeSully would never have had any sympathy for the Na'vi (or hots for the Na'vette) if they'd looked like the aliens in District 9 (which I didn't see, but really wish I had - mostly I wish I'd seen it instead of Avatar).
The creepy ear/tail/hair thing really is creepy. And makes NO physiological or biological sense whatsoever.
"Unobtainium"? Seriously? You're actually naming your macguffin after... a macguffin? And not ironically? And the stuff is SO rare that your company CEO has a random chunk of it floating above his desk like a paperweight???
Oh, I could go on. But I won't. Oh wait, I already did. Sorry. And I don't mean to suggest that those who enjoyed Avatar shouldn't have. I just think that maybe I saw a different Avatar than everyone else. The "gag" Avatar. Which strikes me as unfair. :-(
And DON'T get me started on this bloody 3-D crappola. What a crock. I don't want gimmicks. Especially ones that hurt my delicate proboscis and give me a scorching headache at the twenty-minute mark. Whatever happened to plain old storytelling? Would Raiders of the Lost Ark have gained anything by being shot in 3-D? No. No. No.
..........
Oh, look. I got all rant-y and off-topic. That never happens.
(Er - just a heads-up - I'll probably hate Alice in Wonderland, too.)
..........
Um... okay. Back on track, then: movies I saw recently that I liked.
Star Trek. More fun than a barrel of space monkeys, pitch-perfect, witty, straddled the line between respect for the source and not getting precious with it, imaginative stoytelling, great performances, awesome design, great score, fun fun fun.
Strangely enough, Zoe Saldana - who Star Trek shares with Avatar - was the only thing I half-liked about Avatar. She managed to do that hissy thing without coming across as a complete dork. Which, as any voice actor knows, can be tricky.
Up. Aside from a bit of drag around the middle, a thoroughly delightful movie. And, like Star Trek, had a prologue that had me weeping before the opening credits. 3-D crappola not an issue - saw this one on DVD, didn't miss the pop-up bookery for a second.
Other than that? Well... a couple of weeks ago, John sat me down and made me watch To Kill A Mockingbird - which, I am ashamed to say, I had never seen. And there is nothing for me to say about it other than it is a Perfect Movie. That is all.
So. Yeah... I'm gonna give the Oscars a miss this year. 'Cause if Avatar - by some catastrophic confluence of universally bad judgement wins best pic - I'm gonna have to find a new planet to live on.
Maybe one with nekkid blue people and glowy plants trying to eat my face.
Or maybe not.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Podium Ponderings...
As the resident Canuck Girl, I will say straight up that I'm proud Canada is hosting this event. I want us to go out there and kick Olympian butt.
But, some of the sports... I just don't know. I will freely admit that I don't really get some of it.
Like men's figure skating--I certainly don't understand the scoring--I'm not sure anyone does--but I particularly don't get the costumes. Seriously. Is that... maribou? You look like a muppet in a Vegas strip joint.
Actually, there's a lot about Olympic-wear that kinda gives me the wiggins. Speed skating uniforms for example. They just look like they would chafe horribly. How long does it take you to get into something like that? And where does the sweat--and I imagine there is a deal of it--go?
Curling pants... what does one say about curling pants besides... "Eep." Except maybe "Ow my eyeballs!" and "Why? Why??"
The hairstyles of the snowboarders.
There are other things, non-sartorial things, I also just don't get about some of the events.
Double's luge? Who thought that would be a good idea in the first place? What's the guy in back contributing to the process?
Skeleton is, quite obviously, a sport for the certifiably insane. "I'm gonna luge. But I'm gonna do it on my face. Yeah."
Ice-dancing. That's... different from ice-skating. I think. And I still don't get the scoring.
I get sympathy knee-aches watching slalom events. Do those guy even have any cartilage left once they reach their 20's?
Is bobsled really a sport? It just kinda seems like... steering fast to me. And what do those other three guys do after the initial push-off??? Aren't they just... ballast? Honestly. I really don't know. If there is something here I'm missing... please let me know.
Like I say, some of it just leaves me scratching my head.
But--here's the other thing. I also get kinda... verklempt... watching the Olympics. Particularly the individual contests. I can't stand it when skaters fall, skiers crash, boarders wipe-out... I feel nervous and clenchy and palm-sweaty when it's one athlete out there busting their hump, striving to achieve and I feel bad--really bad--when they lose. Or come up short. And there's always that shot of slo-mo heartbreak that they show over and over again. Which I guess, is kind of the point. It's the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat.
But then there's the hockey. Wherein everything (except the officiating--but that's to be expected) makes sense. Hockey. That, to me, is what the Olympics is all about. GO CANADA GO!!
But, some of the sports... I just don't know. I will freely admit that I don't really get some of it.
Like men's figure skating--I certainly don't understand the scoring--I'm not sure anyone does--but I particularly don't get the costumes. Seriously. Is that... maribou? You look like a muppet in a Vegas strip joint.
Actually, there's a lot about Olympic-wear that kinda gives me the wiggins. Speed skating uniforms for example. They just look like they would chafe horribly. How long does it take you to get into something like that? And where does the sweat--and I imagine there is a deal of it--go?
Curling pants... what does one say about curling pants besides... "Eep." Except maybe "Ow my eyeballs!" and "Why? Why??"
The hairstyles of the snowboarders.
There are other things, non-sartorial things, I also just don't get about some of the events.
Double's luge? Who thought that would be a good idea in the first place? What's the guy in back contributing to the process?
Skeleton is, quite obviously, a sport for the certifiably insane. "I'm gonna luge. But I'm gonna do it on my face. Yeah."
Ice-dancing. That's... different from ice-skating. I think. And I still don't get the scoring.
I get sympathy knee-aches watching slalom events. Do those guy even have any cartilage left once they reach their 20's?
Is bobsled really a sport? It just kinda seems like... steering fast to me. And what do those other three guys do after the initial push-off??? Aren't they just... ballast? Honestly. I really don't know. If there is something here I'm missing... please let me know.
Like I say, some of it just leaves me scratching my head.
But--here's the other thing. I also get kinda... verklempt... watching the Olympics. Particularly the individual contests. I can't stand it when skaters fall, skiers crash, boarders wipe-out... I feel nervous and clenchy and palm-sweaty when it's one athlete out there busting their hump, striving to achieve and I feel bad--really bad--when they lose. Or come up short. And there's always that shot of slo-mo heartbreak that they show over and over again. Which I guess, is kind of the point. It's the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat.
But then there's the hockey. Wherein everything (except the officiating--but that's to be expected) makes sense. Hockey. That, to me, is what the Olympics is all about. GO CANADA GO!!
Friday, February 12, 2010
"It started out just like Romeo and Juliet..."
"...but it ended in tragedy."
One of my favorite Simpsons quotes. Poor Milhouse. Bemoaning the crash and burn of his grade-school love affair. And yet... and yet... the little bespectacled dork has a point.
Romeo and Juliet is considered by some to be the most romantic, most tragic, most passionate and beauteous love story of all time.
Poppycock, sez I.
It's no tragedy. That play is a comedy!
"What?" you say. "Have you lost your Shakespeare-addled mind?" you say.
I have not.
That play is, in fact, a farce that hinges entirley on catastrophically bad timing, one wacky friar's "cunning plan", and the gross inadequacies of the Italian postal system back in the day.
Did you know that it's entirely likely that most of Shakespeare's audience would have considered Romeo and Juliet to have been justly served by their fate? That's right. Elizabethan society looked poorly on the kind of impetuous disregard for social convention and hotheaded recklessness shown by the two lovers. They would have thought the end unfortunate but... enh - what are you gonna do? They got what was coming to them.
How's that for romantic?
You want romance from Shakespeare? Real romance? I give you Beatrice and Benedick from Much Ado About Nothing. Often considered to be nothing more than a frothy romp, nothing too deep and meaningful, I put it to you that - in fact - the love story in this play is far more profound than that which springs up over the junior Montagues and Capulets.
Here we have a couple of stubborn, set-in-their-ways adults - determined not to give in to the painfully obvious attraction that has been building between them over years - rather than overnight - and, when forced to confront the truth of their mutual attraction, they act like a couple of giddy schoolkids, profess their love, demand oaths of bloody revenge for wronged relatives (Beatrice), promise - after some fiery convincing - to exact said revenge (Benedick), take the time to solve a mystery Scooby-gang style, and through a bit of clever deception make absolutely certain that everything will turn out all right for everyone (not just themselves) in the end.
That's what I call romantic.
Don't believe me? Rent the Brannagh/Thompson movie and watch as these two go from adversarial, to goofy-smitten, to deadly serious, to giddy joy all in the name of love and honor.
And, I have to say, the scene where Beatrice is on the garden swing and Benedick is diving through the fountain is one of the all-time cinematic greatest visual representations of true love ever committed to celluloid, in my opinion!
Now... don't get me wrong. I still have to wring my hanky out after a good production of Romeo and Juliet - a good one mind you - I just think that, maybe it's reputation as Shakespeare's most romantic play might be a teensy bit misleading.
All that aside, and speaking of love... I LOVE Jillian Cantor. I LOVED her first book The September Sisters and I cannot wait to dive into The Life of Glass. Congratulations, Jillian, on the release of your second book. And for everyone reading this post - what are you waiting for!?!! Go leave a comment for a chance to win TLOG!
Have a Happy Valentine's Day kids! And - remember - don't listen to the crazy friar!
That whole "faking your own death" thing might sound like a good idea at the time but.....
One of my favorite Simpsons quotes. Poor Milhouse. Bemoaning the crash and burn of his grade-school love affair. And yet... and yet... the little bespectacled dork has a point.
Romeo and Juliet is considered by some to be the most romantic, most tragic, most passionate and beauteous love story of all time.
Poppycock, sez I.
It's no tragedy. That play is a comedy!
"What?" you say. "Have you lost your Shakespeare-addled mind?" you say.
I have not.
That play is, in fact, a farce that hinges entirley on catastrophically bad timing, one wacky friar's "cunning plan", and the gross inadequacies of the Italian postal system back in the day.
Did you know that it's entirely likely that most of Shakespeare's audience would have considered Romeo and Juliet to have been justly served by their fate? That's right. Elizabethan society looked poorly on the kind of impetuous disregard for social convention and hotheaded recklessness shown by the two lovers. They would have thought the end unfortunate but... enh - what are you gonna do? They got what was coming to them.
How's that for romantic?
You want romance from Shakespeare? Real romance? I give you Beatrice and Benedick from Much Ado About Nothing. Often considered to be nothing more than a frothy romp, nothing too deep and meaningful, I put it to you that - in fact - the love story in this play is far more profound than that which springs up over the junior Montagues and Capulets.
Here we have a couple of stubborn, set-in-their-ways adults - determined not to give in to the painfully obvious attraction that has been building between them over years - rather than overnight - and, when forced to confront the truth of their mutual attraction, they act like a couple of giddy schoolkids, profess their love, demand oaths of bloody revenge for wronged relatives (Beatrice), promise - after some fiery convincing - to exact said revenge (Benedick), take the time to solve a mystery Scooby-gang style, and through a bit of clever deception make absolutely certain that everything will turn out all right for everyone (not just themselves) in the end.
That's what I call romantic.
Don't believe me? Rent the Brannagh/Thompson movie and watch as these two go from adversarial, to goofy-smitten, to deadly serious, to giddy joy all in the name of love and honor.
And, I have to say, the scene where Beatrice is on the garden swing and Benedick is diving through the fountain is one of the all-time cinematic greatest visual representations of true love ever committed to celluloid, in my opinion!
Now... don't get me wrong. I still have to wring my hanky out after a good production of Romeo and Juliet - a good one mind you - I just think that, maybe it's reputation as Shakespeare's most romantic play might be a teensy bit misleading.
All that aside, and speaking of love... I LOVE Jillian Cantor. I LOVED her first book The September Sisters and I cannot wait to dive into The Life of Glass. Congratulations, Jillian, on the release of your second book. And for everyone reading this post - what are you waiting for!?!! Go leave a comment for a chance to win TLOG!
Have a Happy Valentine's Day kids! And - remember - don't listen to the crazy friar!
That whole "faking your own death" thing might sound like a good idea at the time but.....
Friday, February 5, 2010
Er... Food-related. Sort Of. Plus Bonus Snowy Digression!
Hoo boy.
I got nothin', Girls.
My roasting pan is empty. The pilot light on my stove is out. The microwave is unplugged.
Recipes. Recipes... I know I've heard that word before... isn't that the term used for the series of numbers one punches into a telephone to make food appear at one's front door?
No?
I made "sloppy joes" once. They turned out pretty good, I seem to recall. I could really kind of go for one right about now, actually...
I know there was ground beef and a can of chicken gumbo soup involved in the process. Also dry mustard. And Lipton's onion soup mix. There might have been a dash of ketchup and some Worcestershire Sauce. Or maybe HP. I'm hazy on that detail. Maybe garlic powder.
And buns.
And I think I probably had to call my mom on the other side of the country to avert some sort of disaster mid-way through.
It's sad really. I missed last week's topic becaue I killed my laptop in the middle of Book 3 revisions - why yes, I was freaking out, thanks for asking! - and that was actually something I could have impressed y'all with.
Winter activities.
I skate. I ski. I pack a mean snowball. In university I took a weekend workshop and somehow wound up competing in the Senior Women's open catagory in Naturbahn Luge - yes, that's right, LUGE! - in the Alberta Wintersport Championship and, after only a couple of weeks of training, came in 7/10ths of a second away from a bronze medal.
Yup. I'm a demon on the slopes.
But I can't boil an egg without setting off the smoke detector.
I got nothin', Girls.
My roasting pan is empty. The pilot light on my stove is out. The microwave is unplugged.
Recipes. Recipes... I know I've heard that word before... isn't that the term used for the series of numbers one punches into a telephone to make food appear at one's front door?
No?
I made "sloppy joes" once. They turned out pretty good, I seem to recall. I could really kind of go for one right about now, actually...
I know there was ground beef and a can of chicken gumbo soup involved in the process. Also dry mustard. And Lipton's onion soup mix. There might have been a dash of ketchup and some Worcestershire Sauce. Or maybe HP. I'm hazy on that detail. Maybe garlic powder.
And buns.
And I think I probably had to call my mom on the other side of the country to avert some sort of disaster mid-way through.
It's sad really. I missed last week's topic becaue I killed my laptop in the middle of Book 3 revisions - why yes, I was freaking out, thanks for asking! - and that was actually something I could have impressed y'all with.
Winter activities.
I skate. I ski. I pack a mean snowball. In university I took a weekend workshop and somehow wound up competing in the Senior Women's open catagory in Naturbahn Luge - yes, that's right, LUGE! - in the Alberta Wintersport Championship and, after only a couple of weeks of training, came in 7/10ths of a second away from a bronze medal.
Yup. I'm a demon on the slopes.
But I can't boil an egg without setting off the smoke detector.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Ten YEARS ago...?
I can barely remember ten MINUTES ago.
Seriously.
The last ten years have been so packed with stuff that every time something new happens, it pushes something old out of my brain. It's like this--you can really only fit so many clowns into the clown car before they eventually start pouring out the other side. You know?
Let's see... I do know that I didn't have a publishing contract ten years ago... I don't even think I had a finished book. John and I didn't have a house. We didn't have a herd of cats....
We did have the theatre company. I was writing. We were as acutely busy as we are now (well... maybe not quite--but close). But the rest is kind of a blur--a continuum of activity that I find hard to differentiate into 'events'. Believe me when I say that I would make a terrible memoir writer.
That's why it's hard for me to think in terms of a linear progression of what has happened in those ten years. I know the decade started with the fact that the world didn't end with the dreaded Y2K flip-over, much to the chagrin of the disaster-preparedness people in the office where I worked. They were so sure. Heh. Buncha clowns...
What's happened in the interim? Things have gone on.
I know we lost people from our lives.
And, along the way, we gained some too.
I know that all the significant things that happened to me over the last decade have led me to this place that I'm at, even if I can't list specifically what all those things are. But I have a suspicion that, even more than the significant things, it's the utterly insignificant (seeming--at the time) things that have led me here. I guess that's why it's impossible for me to catalog them. I don't really do milestones. I'm terrible at remembering birthdays and anniversaries. Sometimes, I actully have to ask other people how old I am. Because I honestly can't remember.
What I do know, beyond all shadow of doubt is that the last ten years have been extremely good to me. As I sit here in my nook, working on my revisions for my third book, contemplating the fact that I just announced my deal for a fourth in a whole new project, I cannot help but think that the next ten have got some pretty big shoes to fill. Clown-shoes big.
Shiny red clown-shoes. And I kinda like that idea--even if clowns do kinda freak me out.
Cue the circus music... and ask me again in another ten years.
Seriously.
The last ten years have been so packed with stuff that every time something new happens, it pushes something old out of my brain. It's like this--you can really only fit so many clowns into the clown car before they eventually start pouring out the other side. You know?
Let's see... I do know that I didn't have a publishing contract ten years ago... I don't even think I had a finished book. John and I didn't have a house. We didn't have a herd of cats....
We did have the theatre company. I was writing. We were as acutely busy as we are now (well... maybe not quite--but close). But the rest is kind of a blur--a continuum of activity that I find hard to differentiate into 'events'. Believe me when I say that I would make a terrible memoir writer.
That's why it's hard for me to think in terms of a linear progression of what has happened in those ten years. I know the decade started with the fact that the world didn't end with the dreaded Y2K flip-over, much to the chagrin of the disaster-preparedness people in the office where I worked. They were so sure. Heh. Buncha clowns...
What's happened in the interim? Things have gone on.
I know we lost people from our lives.
And, along the way, we gained some too.
I know that all the significant things that happened to me over the last decade have led me to this place that I'm at, even if I can't list specifically what all those things are. But I have a suspicion that, even more than the significant things, it's the utterly insignificant (seeming--at the time) things that have led me here. I guess that's why it's impossible for me to catalog them. I don't really do milestones. I'm terrible at remembering birthdays and anniversaries. Sometimes, I actully have to ask other people how old I am. Because I honestly can't remember.
What I do know, beyond all shadow of doubt is that the last ten years have been extremely good to me. As I sit here in my nook, working on my revisions for my third book, contemplating the fact that I just announced my deal for a fourth in a whole new project, I cannot help but think that the next ten have got some pretty big shoes to fill. Clown-shoes big.
Shiny red clown-shoes. And I kinda like that idea--even if clowns do kinda freak me out.
Cue the circus music... and ask me again in another ten years.
Friday, January 8, 2010
"The road goes ever on and on..."
"...Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say..."
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say..."
Thus Bilbo Baggins, leaving Bag End.
I love adventure. I love the beginnings of new adventures - as scary and queasy-making as they can be in those first few fresh steps - and that's sort of what this feels like for me. Well... it does and it doesn't.
Truthfully, last year this time was closer to the beginning of my adventure - not just a writer but an author. This year, I am no longer a debut author. And, for some reason, that makes it feel like the road is finally reeling out in front of me. Like I'm stepping off the gravel track onto the asphalt! It's scary and exhilirating, full of unseen destinations and encounters. And I can't. hardly. wait.
My first book is doing wonderfully thanks to all of you out there whove taken care of it and given it a home, or at least a place to stay for awhile. My second book, DARKLIGHT, is just now beginning its adventure out in the world. My editor will be sending back my edits on Book the Third in the series and I am breathless with anticipation. I have new projects on the go, and a brain full of stories, and a waiting keyboard, and the best story-sounding-board of a guy ever to help me find the right paths to take. I have the best agent in the world riding shotgun with me. I have family and friends lining the road flag-waving and cheering me on.
2010? Bring it. I have excellent walking shoes and I'm looking for the sign that says "Adventure --> THATAWAY"
Saturday, January 2, 2010
The Year That Was...
I sit here looking back on 2009 from the lofty perch of two whole days into 2010. I have the honor of being the first Girl to post in this New Year and the distinction of being late again to do so. What--you wouldn't want me to do something weird like make resolutions and keep them or anything would you? ;-)
No no. Instead, I thought I'd kick off the year by doing absolutely nothing productive yesterday (a sort of tradition for me--it's like a transitional period from one year to the next) and then do something fun today like... announce the winner of the DARKLIGHT release week contest!
Please email me at lesley (at) lesleylivingston (dot) com and send me your address!!
And, see, this is what looking back on 2009 means to me! The fact that I can do that--that I can give away a copy of my second book--is what this year has meant to me. I published my first book this year. I wrote the sequel. I saw it launch (yes yes-- I know, in the US. The Canadian release date is mired in confusion which I hope to have cleared up next week when the HC Can offices are open! Promise!). And I finished the first draft of the third book in the trilogy. Ye gods, I have written a trilogy. Everything else?... Pretty much a blur.
Well, not exactly a blur... but the overarching theme for me for 2009 was, of course, the insanity of sudden, acute writerdom! It was a year of tremendous excitement, fun, anxiety, weirdness and wonder. And I would have lost my mind somewhere along the line if it hadn't been for the extraordinary support of family friends and you guys.
It's funny. You spend so much time reaching and reaching for something and then suddenly you have it in your hands and you say "Holy Hell--where did this come from?? And what do I do with it now that I've got it?" That was what 2009 was for me. Half "brass ring", half "be careful what you wish for", all of it... ultimately... awesome. I can't wait to see where 2010 goes from here!
No no. Instead, I thought I'd kick off the year by doing absolutely nothing productive yesterday (a sort of tradition for me--it's like a transitional period from one year to the next) and then do something fun today like... announce the winner of the DARKLIGHT release week contest!
RKCharron come on down!!
You are the winner of a signed, hardcover copy of DARKLIGHT!!
YAY!!! *muppet arm flail*
You are the winner of a signed, hardcover copy of DARKLIGHT!!
YAY!!! *muppet arm flail*
Please email me at lesley (at) lesleylivingston (dot) com and send me your address!!
And, see, this is what looking back on 2009 means to me! The fact that I can do that--that I can give away a copy of my second book--is what this year has meant to me. I published my first book this year. I wrote the sequel. I saw it launch (yes yes-- I know, in the US. The Canadian release date is mired in confusion which I hope to have cleared up next week when the HC Can offices are open! Promise!). And I finished the first draft of the third book in the trilogy. Ye gods, I have written a trilogy. Everything else?... Pretty much a blur.
Well, not exactly a blur... but the overarching theme for me for 2009 was, of course, the insanity of sudden, acute writerdom! It was a year of tremendous excitement, fun, anxiety, weirdness and wonder. And I would have lost my mind somewhere along the line if it hadn't been for the extraordinary support of family friends and you guys.
It's funny. You spend so much time reaching and reaching for something and then suddenly you have it in your hands and you say "Holy Hell--where did this come from?? And what do I do with it now that I've got it?" That was what 2009 was for me. Half "brass ring", half "be careful what you wish for", all of it... ultimately... awesome. I can't wait to see where 2010 goes from here!
Friday, December 4, 2009
Tick Tick Tick... Kaboom
Okay. So one thing I obviously haven't learned since the launch of my first book, a year ago this month (!) is time management (shout out to Lisa, below - I hear ya' sister!). Heh. I ducked out of last week's posting and disappeared off the face of the planet and for that I must apologize to my fellow Girls ("hi Girls!"). I did it because I was, quite simply, overwhelmed. Also - I'm Canadian. And I already did the Thanksgiving thing weeks ago. All that talk of turkey was making me sleepy. Yeah. That's it.
No, seriously. You see, I was facing down the charging-bull of a deadline (which I've mostly met now, barring a handful of pages I kept back to work on before sending) for... Book the Third.
And here's where it gets weird. I'm still a "debut novelist", technically. DARKLIGHT, the second book in my WONDROUS STRANGE series hasn't even hit the shelves, yet! And I'm worrying about finishing up Book Three!! All of a sudden, time in my universe has become some kind of weird, convoluted Star Trek: TNG plot contrivance. "Help me, Commander Riker! I'm caught in the vortex of a temporal anomaly!" There is the constant threat of explosion. Or implosion.
Tick tick tick. It's the subject of many a pop song, Time.
Songs to which I can now vividly relate:
"Time keeps on slippin' slippin' slippin'..."
"Tiiiimme... keeps flowin' like a river..."
"Time time time... see what's become of me..." (yeah, see, I always hear The Bangles singing that in my head rather than Simon & Garfunkle...)
And that one song to which I quite simply cannot relate to AT ALL anymore:
"Too much time on my hands...."
So much has happened to me in this relatively brief span that, while I feel there is not nearly enough of the stuff (time), I've learned that - given the right impetus - you really can make use of it for all it's worth.
But, at the same time (heh), I've learned that, when something like this (becoming a debut novelist... and moving toward becoming a not-debut novelist) happens, you do really have to step back once in a while and make the world stop for you. Even if it's just for an hour at a stretch. Look around. Take a deep breath. Realize that something phenomenal has happened and let yourself appreciate it. Hell - MAKE yourself appreciate it.
Because, like Jillian said, once the book got out there... I, too, kind of thought it would be an ending of a sort. That the clock had counted down to the launch. And it had. But now there's a stopwatch constantly ticking that measures how I go forward from that point. It's a marathon. It's a series of sprints. I've learned to love the sound of seconds passing. Sometimes it sounds like a grandfather clock. Sometimes, a digital timer on an action-movie bomb.
My fellow Girls are wise. And they always get to this stuff before me. If you find yourself in this situation or one like it (and I hope you do!), follow the excellent advice they have given you below. What they have told is is all the stuff I have learned, and more. And I will add one more thing: it's not just time - it's YOUR time. Treat it as such.
And, know this: You're gonna miss things. And you're gonna screw things up because it all happens so fast. And you're gonna say things like "Dang, I wish I had more time!" You won't. And that's okay. You will just have to make the most of this finite precious resource. Me? Right now I'm on the west coast, hanging out with (regular Novel Girl reader) my mom. And looking out over the ocean.
I'm finishing my third book. I have a second book coming out in a few weeks.
A very short time from now.
An eternity away from this moment.
No, seriously. You see, I was facing down the charging-bull of a deadline (which I've mostly met now, barring a handful of pages I kept back to work on before sending) for... Book the Third.
And here's where it gets weird. I'm still a "debut novelist", technically. DARKLIGHT, the second book in my WONDROUS STRANGE series hasn't even hit the shelves, yet! And I'm worrying about finishing up Book Three!! All of a sudden, time in my universe has become some kind of weird, convoluted Star Trek: TNG plot contrivance. "Help me, Commander Riker! I'm caught in the vortex of a temporal anomaly!" There is the constant threat of explosion. Or implosion.
Tick tick tick. It's the subject of many a pop song, Time.
Songs to which I can now vividly relate:
"Time keeps on slippin' slippin' slippin'..."
"Tiiiimme... keeps flowin' like a river..."
"Time time time... see what's become of me..." (yeah, see, I always hear The Bangles singing that in my head rather than Simon & Garfunkle...)
And that one song to which I quite simply cannot relate to AT ALL anymore:
"Too much time on my hands...."
So much has happened to me in this relatively brief span that, while I feel there is not nearly enough of the stuff (time), I've learned that - given the right impetus - you really can make use of it for all it's worth.
But, at the same time (heh), I've learned that, when something like this (becoming a debut novelist... and moving toward becoming a not-debut novelist) happens, you do really have to step back once in a while and make the world stop for you. Even if it's just for an hour at a stretch. Look around. Take a deep breath. Realize that something phenomenal has happened and let yourself appreciate it. Hell - MAKE yourself appreciate it.
Because, like Jillian said, once the book got out there... I, too, kind of thought it would be an ending of a sort. That the clock had counted down to the launch. And it had. But now there's a stopwatch constantly ticking that measures how I go forward from that point. It's a marathon. It's a series of sprints. I've learned to love the sound of seconds passing. Sometimes it sounds like a grandfather clock. Sometimes, a digital timer on an action-movie bomb.
My fellow Girls are wise. And they always get to this stuff before me. If you find yourself in this situation or one like it (and I hope you do!), follow the excellent advice they have given you below. What they have told is is all the stuff I have learned, and more. And I will add one more thing: it's not just time - it's YOUR time. Treat it as such.
And, know this: You're gonna miss things. And you're gonna screw things up because it all happens so fast. And you're gonna say things like "Dang, I wish I had more time!" You won't. And that's okay. You will just have to make the most of this finite precious resource. Me? Right now I'm on the west coast, hanging out with (regular Novel Girl reader) my mom. And looking out over the ocean.
I'm finishing my third book. I have a second book coming out in a few weeks.
A very short time from now.
An eternity away from this moment.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
What makes a meal?
Yeah... I just ordered a pizza.
I'm neck deep in the home stretch on book 3 - yes I know I'm mixing metaphors. Quiet you. I'm also dog-tired from a full day of recording for the audio book version of DARKLIGHT yesterday with another full day in the studio tomorrow.
As far as food goes these days, pretty much anything I have time for - and somebody makes for me - is awesome. That somebody, of course, is usually John. But on the occasions when we do eat out, and eat out somewhere other than the place up the street, I do have a few faves. I'll tell you about two of them that, really know how to "make" a meal.
There is a steakhouse in town called Tom Jones. It is absolutely Old School. It's been around forever and the piano bar looks like it could have been a shooting location for Ocean's Eleven. The original one. This place has career waiters and - if you have ever experienced really high quality wait-staff service, you'll know what I mean when I say that they make all the difference in the world. These guys make the meal. They also, not coincidentally, make the salad. Ahhhh... the table-side caesar salad. I can taste the garlic just typing this. They will remember, for instance, even if I haven't been there in months, that I usually like a glass of Pinot Grigio before dinner. And seriously. I don't go there that often. That makes a meal.
Another place I'm ford of is the The Stonegrill on Winchester. These guys don't make your meal. They don't cook for you. Rather, they bring you your food uncooked, on a lava rock platter heated to - I dunno - a billion degrees, and they tell you to cook it. Just the way you like it. It is awesome. The ingredients are simple and straightforward - slab of meat, hot rock - and of exceptional quality. And you control the cooking time. It's delicious. And, of course there's that element of danger! And, in this case, that makes the meal.
And now I'm hungry. Where's my pizza?!??
I'm neck deep in the home stretch on book 3 - yes I know I'm mixing metaphors. Quiet you. I'm also dog-tired from a full day of recording for the audio book version of DARKLIGHT yesterday with another full day in the studio tomorrow.
As far as food goes these days, pretty much anything I have time for - and somebody makes for me - is awesome. That somebody, of course, is usually John. But on the occasions when we do eat out, and eat out somewhere other than the place up the street, I do have a few faves. I'll tell you about two of them that, really know how to "make" a meal.
There is a steakhouse in town called Tom Jones. It is absolutely Old School. It's been around forever and the piano bar looks like it could have been a shooting location for Ocean's Eleven. The original one. This place has career waiters and - if you have ever experienced really high quality wait-staff service, you'll know what I mean when I say that they make all the difference in the world. These guys make the meal. They also, not coincidentally, make the salad. Ahhhh... the table-side caesar salad. I can taste the garlic just typing this. They will remember, for instance, even if I haven't been there in months, that I usually like a glass of Pinot Grigio before dinner. And seriously. I don't go there that often. That makes a meal.
Another place I'm ford of is the The Stonegrill on Winchester. These guys don't make your meal. They don't cook for you. Rather, they bring you your food uncooked, on a lava rock platter heated to - I dunno - a billion degrees, and they tell you to cook it. Just the way you like it. It is awesome. The ingredients are simple and straightforward - slab of meat, hot rock - and of exceptional quality. And you control the cooking time. It's delicious. And, of course there's that element of danger! And, in this case, that makes the meal.
And now I'm hungry. Where's my pizza?!??
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Love is never easy...
Sometimes, it's down-right hard.
And this week, its been damn-near impossible where my darling city is concerned.
Oh, Toronto, with your whimsical Tower and your quaint streetcars and adorable junior subway (I can say that - I just had to navigate around the NYC subway by myself and - trust me - the TTC is Subway Lite!), and your unpredictable lake-effect weather that always assures that whatever I choose to wear on any given day is exactly the wrong thing. I do love you. I do. That's why I'm here. You are vibrant and cultured and polite and pretty. But this week, you have put my love to the test.
Well maybe not the whole city. Maybe just my immediate neighborhood.
I live right downtown. This has the advantage of putting me smack where the action is. I'm a seconds-long walk to 2 streetcar lines (which is lovely - except when there's an accident east of the bridge and neither of them are running...)
I have a local pub just up the street where I can go for a pint and a brainstorming session about whatever current plot problem is making me crazy.
There is shopping and entertainment on Queen Street.
There is the historical Distillery District a brief stroll away.
There is Leslieville with its up-and-coming funkiness and the creeping revitalization of Corktown which is slowly taking it from seedy to hip.
There is a lot happening in a very close radius to my house. Hence the love/hate attitude. See... I understand that for revitalization to take place, there must be new building. I just object to the fact that it has to be right in front of my house. My view of the aforementioned whimsical tower is gone now and I haven't slept past 7:00 am in almost a year (and I am NOT a morning person).
I understand that to accommodate the growth you need to do things like replace water mains. I don't understand why this needs to be done at 4:00 in the bloody morning. Yes. 4. Not a typo. (See - sleep deprivation, above).
I completely get the fact that living downtown means bustle and noise and craziness. But on Saturday? Every Saturday? Seriously?
So you see... this post would be much more elegiac if I wasn't so very very tired.
It's like this: it's tough to write a love note to someone who's kept you awake all night with monster-loud snoring. Mostly you just want to elbow them sharply in the kidney.
Also... the Leafs lost again last night. Love hurts, man. Love hurts.
And this week, its been damn-near impossible where my darling city is concerned.
Oh, Toronto, with your whimsical Tower and your quaint streetcars and adorable junior subway (I can say that - I just had to navigate around the NYC subway by myself and - trust me - the TTC is Subway Lite!), and your unpredictable lake-effect weather that always assures that whatever I choose to wear on any given day is exactly the wrong thing. I do love you. I do. That's why I'm here. You are vibrant and cultured and polite and pretty. But this week, you have put my love to the test.
Well maybe not the whole city. Maybe just my immediate neighborhood.
I live right downtown. This has the advantage of putting me smack where the action is. I'm a seconds-long walk to 2 streetcar lines (which is lovely - except when there's an accident east of the bridge and neither of them are running...)
I have a local pub just up the street where I can go for a pint and a brainstorming session about whatever current plot problem is making me crazy.
There is shopping and entertainment on Queen Street.
There is the historical Distillery District a brief stroll away.
There is Leslieville with its up-and-coming funkiness and the creeping revitalization of Corktown which is slowly taking it from seedy to hip.
There is a lot happening in a very close radius to my house. Hence the love/hate attitude. See... I understand that for revitalization to take place, there must be new building. I just object to the fact that it has to be right in front of my house. My view of the aforementioned whimsical tower is gone now and I haven't slept past 7:00 am in almost a year (and I am NOT a morning person).
I understand that to accommodate the growth you need to do things like replace water mains. I don't understand why this needs to be done at 4:00 in the bloody morning. Yes. 4. Not a typo. (See - sleep deprivation, above).
I completely get the fact that living downtown means bustle and noise and craziness. But on Saturday? Every Saturday? Seriously?
So you see... this post would be much more elegiac if I wasn't so very very tired.
It's like this: it's tough to write a love note to someone who's kept you awake all night with monster-loud snoring. Mostly you just want to elbow them sharply in the kidney.
Also... the Leafs lost again last night. Love hurts, man. Love hurts.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
The 'I's have it! Or do they...?
Just so's you know... I am writing this entry in FIRST PERSON SICK (oh, so sick of being sick... again...) and that's why it's late. *kaff* stupid public transit germ factories *snork*
Right. So. POV. (I love acronyms, btw: "Hey! I can't figure out my POV in this scene - it's like my characters have gone MIA! WTF?")
I've used a variety of 'em in my day. And I'm not sure I have a preference - at least not a general preference; I always, of course, wind up having a very specific preference for the individual work, even if it takes a couple of tries to figure out what that is...
Like my fellow Girls, I too am somewhat enamored of first person. The immediacy of thought. The intimacy of emotion. The "I" factor...
But.
But... but... but...
First person, it does have it's challenges.
The first book I wrote was written entirely in first person. That was cool, because it really let me get deep inside the character, and - in this particular instance - I couldn't have written it any other way. Problem was, the main character was living a second life, had a complete set of memories from his first life, and - over the course of the story - had to tell his story from both a past and present perspective, often including key scenes from his past that had occurred after his death. I had to relate those things through anecdotal evidence from other characters, and everything was filtered through the main character's dual perception.
Yeah. I know what you're thinking. No wonder the damn thing took me so long to write.
In that particular case, plot, structure, characterizations... absolutely everything was a product of the POV I chose to write in. It was... challenging. It was also the book where I learned to write. A worthy exercise? Absolutely. I hope you get to read it someday, 'cause I personally think it kicks a fair bit of arse. (er... and probably needs a fair bit of editing - I was over-fond of adjectives in those days...)
Since that time, the projects I have finished have been written in third person (the book that landed me an agent), and third person close alternating between 2 POVs - those of Sonny Flannery and Kelley Winslow in, of course, my WONDROUS STRANGE trilogy.
The first project was interesting because it gave me a chance to get inside the character's head, while also retaining a degree of 'directorial' control and commentary. It still poses some of the same challenges as first person, ie - you can really only tell the story from one person's perspective, but it lets you focus in close or pull back into a medium or wide shot (to use that aforementioned director-speak) as needed. It's nice and versatile.
As for the WONDROUS books, writing in dueling 3-p-close perspectives, and alternating form chapter to chapter was a ton of fun, because I was able to attack the story from both my protags' perspectives. I was able to get so close, it was almost first person, but able to keep the big picture in view at the same time. It gave the structure and dramatic flow of the story a kind of drive that I wouldn't have gotten with only one perspective. But it was occasionally hellacious to write, if only from a purely logistical stand. Still - I couldn't imagine writing this story - the story of two people from two completely different worlds, who actually, unknowingly belong to those different worlds... it just wouldn't have worked any other way. Still. Oy. It was tough to wrap my head around some days.
In her post, Maureen kindly mentions that my chosen method for these books was not, in fact, madness. That it works. *And here we heave a sigh of relief!* I really appreciate that. Hearing from another writer that you pulled of a tricky bit of the trade (especially hearing that from a writer that you, yourself, admire) is balm to the writerly soul.
I haven't tackled anything major in second person or omniscient yet. Not because I don't appreciate these POVs, I just haven't found projects to suit them yet.
Second would, for me, take a very particular story. It is, I think, the POV where the story and the format are distinctly predicated each upon the other, more so than any other viewpoint.
As for omniscient - I may tackle that next. We'll see. But first, I think I'll need to get rid of this cold, in order to clear up some head space!
Right. So. POV. (I love acronyms, btw: "Hey! I can't figure out my POV in this scene - it's like my characters have gone MIA! WTF?")
I've used a variety of 'em in my day. And I'm not sure I have a preference - at least not a general preference; I always, of course, wind up having a very specific preference for the individual work, even if it takes a couple of tries to figure out what that is...
Like my fellow Girls, I too am somewhat enamored of first person. The immediacy of thought. The intimacy of emotion. The "I" factor...
But.
But... but... but...
First person, it does have it's challenges.
The first book I wrote was written entirely in first person. That was cool, because it really let me get deep inside the character, and - in this particular instance - I couldn't have written it any other way. Problem was, the main character was living a second life, had a complete set of memories from his first life, and - over the course of the story - had to tell his story from both a past and present perspective, often including key scenes from his past that had occurred after his death. I had to relate those things through anecdotal evidence from other characters, and everything was filtered through the main character's dual perception.
Yeah. I know what you're thinking. No wonder the damn thing took me so long to write.
In that particular case, plot, structure, characterizations... absolutely everything was a product of the POV I chose to write in. It was... challenging. It was also the book where I learned to write. A worthy exercise? Absolutely. I hope you get to read it someday, 'cause I personally think it kicks a fair bit of arse. (er... and probably needs a fair bit of editing - I was over-fond of adjectives in those days...)
Since that time, the projects I have finished have been written in third person (the book that landed me an agent), and third person close alternating between 2 POVs - those of Sonny Flannery and Kelley Winslow in, of course, my WONDROUS STRANGE trilogy.
The first project was interesting because it gave me a chance to get inside the character's head, while also retaining a degree of 'directorial' control and commentary. It still poses some of the same challenges as first person, ie - you can really only tell the story from one person's perspective, but it lets you focus in close or pull back into a medium or wide shot (to use that aforementioned director-speak) as needed. It's nice and versatile.
As for the WONDROUS books, writing in dueling 3-p-close perspectives, and alternating form chapter to chapter was a ton of fun, because I was able to attack the story from both my protags' perspectives. I was able to get so close, it was almost first person, but able to keep the big picture in view at the same time. It gave the structure and dramatic flow of the story a kind of drive that I wouldn't have gotten with only one perspective. But it was occasionally hellacious to write, if only from a purely logistical stand. Still - I couldn't imagine writing this story - the story of two people from two completely different worlds, who actually, unknowingly belong to those different worlds... it just wouldn't have worked any other way. Still. Oy. It was tough to wrap my head around some days.
In her post, Maureen kindly mentions that my chosen method for these books was not, in fact, madness. That it works. *And here we heave a sigh of relief!* I really appreciate that. Hearing from another writer that you pulled of a tricky bit of the trade (especially hearing that from a writer that you, yourself, admire) is balm to the writerly soul.
I haven't tackled anything major in second person or omniscient yet. Not because I don't appreciate these POVs, I just haven't found projects to suit them yet.
Second would, for me, take a very particular story. It is, I think, the POV where the story and the format are distinctly predicated each upon the other, more so than any other viewpoint.
As for omniscient - I may tackle that next. We'll see. But first, I think I'll need to get rid of this cold, in order to clear up some head space!
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