Category — work

I am writing a novel.

Just looking at those words makes me feel giddy, ridiculous and nervous, but I’m doing it – I’m putting down words that are creating a story, and one day I hope to see it published.

In order to make sure that I don’t publish some horrific piece of rubbish, I’ve banded together with two other writers – Nicole and Laura – so we can encourage each other and critique each others writing.  I find the encouragement to be really, really helpful, it’s nice to be cheered on and to cheer on others. I genuinely wish for their success because they are working hard for it and, perhaps selfishly, because I feel that if they are successful, then maybe I could be too.

Besides, meeting up with a couple of cool people to guzzle caffeine and eat slightly dried out scones is always a good time.

We met last night and among our other discussions, we talked about critiquing our own work and giving it out to others to critique.

I actually like having my work critiqued, I’m not so stupid as to think that whatever I write is brilliant the first time I set it down on paper. I would much rather have Nicole and Laura rip it to pieces -  where only the three of us can see the wreckage  – than, say, self-publish it and pull the literary equivalent of walking around with the back of my dress tucked into my pantyhose.  I like seeing comments that let me know when I’ve created a bump in the text that jolted my reader: typos, grammatical errors, tense issues, word-choice, plot holes, pacing, tension…all the things that when done right, should draw the reader in and give them an enjoyable escape from reality.

I think it’s a sign of professionalism to take criticism well – especially when it is offered constructively and not just a statement like, “I dunno, it just sucked.”

So, I’m OK with that part of critiquing. I’m not afraid to get rid of the sucky or boring bits in my writing either – if the majority of feedback says, “Ugh, awful!” then I kill it with a gleeful press of the Delete key. What bothers me most is my lack of self-assurance in sending it out in the first place. Let me explain.

Remember your first day of high school? I do.

I got up, I got dressed in what I hoped was an outfit that looked half-decent (it looked ridiculous actually, but such was fashion in the early 1990′s) and I felt very nervous and a little excited. What if I got lost? What if I wandered into the wrong class and got laughed at? What if I couldn’t find my locker, or worse, I did find it but couldn’t remember the combination? What if I tripped and fell in the cafeteria? What if I fell asleep in class and drooled on myself? What if I fell asleep in class and farted? Dear god, the horror!

I knew the what-ifs were going to bog down my whole day, so I focused on what I knew I could do. I made sure I wore deodorant and brushed my teeth thoroughly. I made a checklist of stuff I knew I’d need and then made sure I had it all. I tucked a couple of Tylenol into my pocket just in case. I reminded myself to not talk too much, and to watch and listen.

I got on the bus and made it to my new school without incident. But as I walked through the halls, searching for my homeroom, I was seized by the sudden and dreadful knowledge that I had forgotten to put on pants.

My first instinct was to grab at my own butt to find out, but I couldn’t do that because a) grabbing your own ass – clothed or not – on the first day of high school in a busy hallway would be social suicide and b) I was afraid to discover that I would only find underwear – and even more afraid to discover that I’d forgotten that too. But it felt breezy somehow, I was sure I felt a draft on my bare skin and therefore I was sure that I hadn’t remembered pants.

It would only be a matter of moments now before some kid, probably a popular one, noticed and pointed it out to everyone else. The next four years rolled out before me, a long four years of torture and misery. I would get nicknamed “Pants”, certain cretinous morons would assume I was easy, my yearbook write-ups would be so horrifying I would have to burn down the school just to rid the Year Book office of the evidence. I would have to hire a hit-man to take out everyone currently in the hallway. I would die old and alone and unloved by anyone. They would write, “Here lies ‘Pants’ McTavish – she died of shame” on my tombstone.

I wanted to look down and check, but I felt that I was being watched; they were waiting for me to discover my pantless state and then the teasing would begin. So I kept walking, I found my homeroom and slid into an unoccupied desk at the side of the room and quickly peeked downwards (under the guise of fussing a little with my backpack). And when I looked down, there they were, in all their cotton, slightly-baggy, army-green glory: pants.

That same, suddenly naked feeling happens to me now when I send out some writing for a good critiquing.I’m afraid that I’ve sent myself out without any pants. That my writing is missing something really, really crucial and that without it, my fellow writers will roll their eyes and write, ” D+ Needs work, see me after class.” on it, (mostly because there is not enough space on the page for all the derision and scorn they need to heap on it) – and it will be awful.

It never happens like that of course, the feedback I get is immensely helpful and honest (hurrah!) but still nice somehow, and Nicole and Laura are making me a better writer for offering it (and they offer it freely too! No sense of begrudging duty here!).

But when I hit the send button and know that my latest revised piece is heading through the InterTubes – I always have a little moment of panic and  think, “Did I remember pants today?

I’m not generally a big fan of shopping. With the exception of things that come in shiny or iridescent containers, I can’t be suckered into buying things I don’t need.

Of course, this sensible attitude goes right out the window when it comes to books, or art/office supplies.

So, the other day as I am walking around North Vancouver, I see a big group of smokers standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Normally this irritates me – I despise having to walk through clouds of smoke coming out of people’s mouths. I always want to yell at them, “Thanks for making my hair smell like the inside of your mouth, you cretin!”

But, this time, they were standing a few feet away from the entrance of an art store. So I thought, “I’ll just pop in here and have a look and when I leave, they will have left.” I was just escaping the cigarette smoke you understand. I couldn’t possibly be expected to just go around them, right? Right?

So anyhow, weak excuse in hand, I walk in.  Art stores are the perfect place to make your credit card company love you. All those pens, pencils, fancy paper, water colour paints, paint brushes and ink. I know right then and there that I am not leaving until I have purchased something. It doesn’t have to be much – a gum eraser, a mechanical pencil with neon pink leads, a small notebook – I’m not fussy, but I will be bringing something home with me.

I say hello to the woman sitting behind the counter and I hope to have the following exchange:

Me: Hello.
Her: Hi there. How are you?
Me: Good, thanks. You?
Her: Oh, can’t complain. If you need any help, let me know.
Me: OK, thanks.

This is my ideal shopping experience. Say hello, maybe tell me what’s on sale, and then leave me alone. I’ll ask for assistance if I need it – I’m good like that.

Sadly, this was not the experience I had. That part where she was supposed to say, “Oh, can’t complain. etc.”? It went more like this:

Her: Oh just feeling kind of crappy – one of those days, you know? My boyfriend’s daughter is thirteen and I’ve known her for, like, …well, she was born in…I can’t remember now, but I’ve known her, like, forever. Anyway, he wants her to play soccer, but she doesn’t want to and he can’t really afford it anyway, but he keeps pushing, you know? And I told him if you keep pushing her, you’re going to lose her. I mean, she’s really tiny, like not even five feet and her Dad is huge – like, nearly six feet tall and at least 225 pounds, so he can be really intimidating and she just talks back and says no, but he keeps bullying her anyway. So, I told him off, I was rude to him actually and I’m never like that, and he told me he didn’t want to hear my opinion, so I made him get out of my car…”

Even worse than listening to her personal life and that of her 225 pound boyfriend and his short-but-feisty 13 year old daughter, was how oblivious she was to my discomfort at hearing all this. I wandered away, not looking at her – she followed. I made totally non-committal noises in response to anything that sounded even vaguely like a question – she kept talking.  Finally another customer asked for her help, and I fled with a “seeyoulaterbyebyenow” and I hadn’t purchased a thing.

If this was a chain store, I could just go to a different location, or complain to a manager, or even just  hope that one day she’d be let go for scaring customers off, but this is an independent store – the sort of place I generally feel strongly about supporting – and the chances of her being fired are pretty much nil; she’s the owner’s daughter and, I believe, part-owner herself.

I wish I could say this time was the first time I’d had an uncomfortable experience shopping there, but it wasn’t. I’ve listened to rants on many things there: people who shop at the big art chain store, how much they despise the chain store and the most of the suppliers and all the jerks with art supply warehouses on the Internet who undercut their prices. I’ve also weathered unasked for opinions on politics, weather, local news and religion.

I’ve also been given what I call the “jammy-handed child” treatment: “Please don’t touch that paper. It’s expensive. We don’t want your finger prints on it.” Really? Sorry, but I buy paper based on how smooth it is – textured paper and pencil crayon look bloody awful together – if I’m going to ensure I’m making the right purchase, then I need to touch the paper. Period. You’d think I came in cradling a bucket of KFC under one arm while licking my fingers and making a beeline for the expensive paper so I could use it to wipe my mouth on.

At any rate, this latest display of un-professionalism has cemented my decision to not go back. I probably should have said something like, “I’m really not comfortable hearing this much about your personal life, but I hope it all works out for everyone involved.” But, even that seemed rude somehow and I couldn’t bring myself to do more than wait for a good opportunity to run.

Bottom line? I’m willing to pay more elsewhere – even a chain store – to have the sort of shopping experience I want.

I have finally got up enough courage to start writing what I think may turn out to be a novel (or a really, really long short story – hard to say).

I’m at the 30,000 word mark and I’ve discovered that writing stories makes you a little mental.

On a good day of writing, my 2000 word minimum comes easy as though the words were being dictated by the people in the story and I was just the recording secretary.

I love these days.

The bad days definitely feel like me doing the work. Each word comes as though I were pulling it out of thick mud, or excavating it out of a diamond with nothing but a sharp stick and willpower.

Over the last few days I have abandoned all sense of pride and started arguing with the characters:

Me: C’mon…I can’t write this by myself! I don’t even know what happens!

Them: Why should we do all the work? You showed up late today and completely neglected us last Friday.

Me: But, the kid upstairs used the sprinkler to water my bedroom though the open window. I can’t be held responsible for that little devil spawn’s actions!

Them: Whatever lady – but hey, good luck and stuff.

So, I’ve spent the last few days feeling like I watched most of the finale of the most awesome show that ever was, only to miss the last 15 minutes because the cable cut out.

And worse, my characters are all wandering around with superior smirks on their faces because they know how it ended.

Jerks.