The happy mistake

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In my defence, I had a cold, I’d just gone skiing for the first time in 25 years (and survived), and I was tired.

I was baking a pineapple upside-down cake for our New Year’s Eve dinner. I’d already melted the butter in the pan and sprinkled on the brown sugar, the coconut, and the pineapple. I’d mixed the dry ingredients in one bowl and the wet in another. I poured the batter over the pineapple toppings, put the pan in the over, turned around…

… and found the bowl of dry ingredients sitting on the counter.

It’s true that I’m famous for forgetting ingredients. I often serve a curry, then look in the fridge later to find the cilantro garnish sitting on a shelf. Or I open the oven in the morning to find the dinner rolls that were supposed to be served the night before.

But forgetting to mix the dry ingredients into a cake batter… this was a new low.

I removed the pan from the oven and tried to scape the wet batter off the pineapple, which of course worked NOT AT ALL. So I ended up pouring everything — toppings, pineapple pieces, wet, dry — into a bowl and mixing the whole darned thing together.

And it was delicious. No one had any idea I’d planned an upside-down cake. My daughter asked if the cake had been difficult to make, and if we could eat it again soon. (It’s possible this question prompted snorts from my husband, who had joined me in the kitchen to witness the batter-scraping fiasco.)

Let’s hope 2019 continues as it’s begun… with mistakes that turn into delicious new creations.

Happy new year, everyone!

It’s always good to have goals…

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In grade nine or ten, in a class called Consumer Education, we all took a computerized aptitude test. About half of us, including me, were told we should pursue careers in air traffic control.

I’m terrible in crisis situations, so you should all be happy I didn’t take that computer’s advice.

And surely those programs must have improved by now.

Right?

Well, my 14-year-old daughter, known on this site as Silence, took her own computer aptitude test in health class yesterday. My tiny, book-loving daughter who most recently dreams of becoming a paediatrician. And what did the computer recommend?

A career in professional hunting and trapping.

Happy hunting, Silence.

Hatching plots

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Stacey Matson and I are teaching an Ink Well Vancouver workshop on plot tomorrow, so my brain is bubbling over with different kinds of outlines. Fichtean Curve, Hero’s Journey, Heroine’s Journey, Blake Snyder’s beat sheet, John Truby’s twenty-two steps…

Ironically, neither Stacey nor I are outliners. When we were planning this workshop, we discovered that both of us start writing, get halfway through a project, realize we need structure, and THEN start plotting.

But it’s possible that story arcs are even more necessary for writers like us.

Writers, that is, who plan workshops on structure in this sort of highly unstructured way:


Maybe I’ll learn something tomorrow!

Whirlwinds

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I spent last weekend with approximately a billion lovely Edmonton relatives, including my 94-year-old grandma. I’ve been home for just long enough to do laundry and see Rachelle Delaney at the Vancouver Writers Festival, and now I’m off to the Surrey International Writers Conference.

It’s going to be a whirlwind. I teach a workshop on conflict and one on voice in children’s books, I speak on a children’s book panel, I meet individually with writers, and I try to remain socially appropriate for an entire weekend. (Possible? Probably not.)

I spoke at this same conference about five years ago, and it was fabulous. They do an amazing job of creating a welcoming, inclusive, exciting atmosphere, even when hundreds of us are introverts.

Plus: hotel room by myself for three days! (Not to imply that I didn’t love sharing those adjoining rooms with my sister and our four children over the Edmonton weekend, of course. But “room of one’s own” and all…)

This weekend’s writing conference is sold out, but if you feel inspired, there’s a cruise. Just saying.

After the conference, I’m home in time to create a haunted house at my son’s school, because somehow I’ve been put in charge of that. (Occupational hazard.)

Hope your own October weeks are fun, productive, and pumpkin-ish.

The whole existential thing

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  1. A few weeks ago, my 14-year-old daughter said, “my generation is the most depressed one, because all the other generations until now have at least had hope.” Of course I reassured her that there was still hope for the world. “When humanity gets its act in order, things can change quickly,” I told her.
  2. I read yesterday’s UN warning that we have twelve years to reverse climate change or face catastrophe, and that’s really quick. It doesn’t seem as if government leaders can change their socks that quickly, let alone change humanity.
  3. Last night, we watched an episode of The Good Place. I won’t spoil the show here in case you haven’t watched it (you really should), but let’s just say an immortal being was asked to confront the reality of death, after which he had an existential crisis and curled up in a catatonic state. He had to find a way to live without ignoring reality, but without focussing on it exclusively. It’s hard not to curl up in a catatonic state when reading about climate change.
  4. In a couple weeks I’m speaking on a children’s literature panel at the Surrey International Writer’s Conference, and one of the questions on my preparation list is: “What’s the difference between middle-grade and young-adult fiction?” In middle-grade fiction, we’re still sheltering readers from some of the atrocities of the world. When you reach high school, though, you’re confronted with the whole stinking mess — in fiction and in reality.

THE GOOD PLACE — “What We Owe To Each Other” Episode 105 — Pictured: (l-r) Kristen Bell as Eleanor, Ted Danson as Michael — (Photo by: Justin Lubin/NBC)

We’d better get our act in order within the next decade, so I won’t have lied to my daughter about hope. And I find a spot of brightness in this quote from former NASA scientist James Hansen: “1.5C gives young people and the next generation a fighting chance of getting back to the Holocene or close to it.”

I find a bright spot, too, in the sight of my daughter curled up this morning with an emotionally difficult book (Buried Beneath the Baobab Tree, by Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani and Viviana Mazza), still brushing her teeth and eager to face the day. James Hansen said 1.5°C gives young people a “fighting change” and that’s all they’ll need, really. They’re pretty amazing.

(Meanwhile, my son is practicing the accent of the Swedish chef, because at 11 he hasn’t had to face any existential crises yet.)

As I re-read what I’ve written here, I realize the key words are both “hope” and “fighting.” They’re sort of mutually dependant, aren’t they?

Breakfast-table Beckett

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I went with a friend on Saturday to see a collection of Samuel Beckett plays. I hadn’t read any Beckett since university, and I remembered only that he was unintelligible.

He remains unintelligible.

The first play featured a woman walking nine steps up a board, then nine steps down a board, stopping occasionally to say a few words, or hear a few words from offstage. My friend and I decided she was trapped in her own mind? Maybe?

In the second play, there was a boat and a moon. The women in the boat did some snoring, awoke for a nonsensical conversation, played some cards, then fell back asleep.

As I was describing these plays at the breakfast table on Sunday morning, Violence said, “I could easily write plays like that. I could make millions!”

Which led to this:

Husband: Let’s go swimming.

Violence: I can take the stairs back and forth.

Husband: It’s sunny outside.

Violence: And the Earth is round.

They are now awaiting their Nobel prize.

Mya’s Strategy to Save the World

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Happy first day of school! It seems as if today should be about all things new, so I’ve decided to post the cover for my upcoming middle-grade novel, Mya’s Strategy to Save the World (Penguin Random House).

Here’s the official write-up:

Twelve-year-old Mya Parsons could save the world and organize her family, if only she had her own cell phone. A Dork Diaries for today’s socially conscious young readers.

Mya runs her school’s social justice club with her best friend, Cleo. Her lifelong desire is to work for the United Nations and change the world, and then bask in all the ensuing adulation. Her more immediate desire is to get a phone, preferably one like Cleo’s, with a leopard-print case to match. When her distracted dad and her long-distance mom (temporarily in Myanmar taking care of Mya’s grandmother) both say no, no way, and possibly never, Mya launches a campaign to prove herself reliable and deserving. She advertises her babysitting services, takes on more responsibility around the house, and attempts to supervise her sister’s skateboarding lessons. Her efforts leave her ego bruised and the kitchen slightly scorched. She’s no closer to touch-screen victory, let alone the Nobel Peace Prize she deserves. But all that changes after an accident leaves Mya to take charge—an experience which helps her realize how much she’s grown, with or without access to proper communications.

This is the most fun I’ve ever had writing a book, possibly because the cell phone issues in my house at the time proved so… um… inspirational. The book isn’t out until Spring 2019, but it’s officially available for pre-order now on Chapters Indigo and Amazon.

The swear police

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My daughter read part of my work-in-progress today.

She said: “It’s really good, but you can’t swear in middle-grade, Mom.”

“I didn’t swear!”

“Replacing one letter with an asterisk still counts as swearing.”

Me, swearing under my breath: “Really?”

“Yeah, and you can’t say that other word, either.”

She’s talking about this line…

“Josh?” Holden says. “I always thought he was more of a benign dictator than an actual dick.”

“That’s such a good line! It’s not even a real swear word!”

“It’s a middle-grade book, Mom. You can’t say that.”

Me, glaring: “Fine.”

Who knew I’d one day be censored by my own forteen-year-old? And why am I writing middle-grade fiction when I can’t use swear-jokes?

As my mom once told me to say, when I was about fourteen… fooey.

Fall writing workshops

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I’m teaching workshops with Ink Well Vancouver again this fall, along with my friends Rachelle Delaney and Stacey Matson. Because what could be better than spending a morning talking about writing?

Well, three mornings.

If you have writers in your life, published or unpublished, send them here to register!

Building Blocks of Plot: Conflict and Tension
Sunday September 23, 9:15 to 11:45 am
Kitsilano Neighbourhood House (2305 W 7th Ave, Vancouver)
Raise the stakes of your story, amp up the pressure, and torture your characters. The goals of this workshop may sound a bit macabre, but the results will be worth it! Cranking up the conflict in your story — in carefully crafted ways — will keep your readers turning pages long after bedtime. Together, we’ll examine time-honoured methods of creating conflict, try our hands at some new ones, and discuss less recognized ways (subtext, anyone?) to build tension in children’s books.
Cost: $60.00.

Building Blocks of Plot: Scenes that Sizzle
Sunday October 28, 9:15 to 11:45 am
Kitsilano Neighbourhood House (2305 W 7th Ave, Vancouver)
Whether you’re writing an early reader, a chapter book, or a young-adult novel, building great scenes is vital. So what are the components of a strong, compelling scene? Through famous examples, writing activities, and group discussion, we’ll explore ways to develop character, establish voice, and propel your story forward.
Cost: $60.00.

Building Blocks of Plot: The Arc
Sunday November 18, 9:15 to 11:45 am
Kitsilano Neighbourhood House (2305 W 7th Ave, Vancouver)
Hero’s journey? Twenty-two story steps? Something about a cat that needs saving? There are countless plotting methods out there. In this workshop, we’ll explore the ones that work best in children’s books. We’ll figure out how to choose the right plot form for each project. Then, even the “pantsers” among us will try our hands at plotting a story!
Cost: $60.00.

People who sign up for all three fall sessions receive a 20-page manuscript consultation. (Yes, more talking about writing!)