Category Archives: Writing

Honey, I’m home

We’re back in our house! The floodwaters have receded. We’ve unpacked. And I just got my own tea out of my own cupboard. I brewed it in the new stainless steel teapot my family gave me for my birthday, which has been sitting unused, waiting for this moment.

And now I’m sitting at my very own desk in my very own room, doing actual work.

Things are looking up.


‘Cause that’s how they do it in Katroo

Following up on yesterday’s post, and the idea that everyone sucketh sometimes, there’s a fascinating post over at Booktryst about an unpublished Dr. Suess manuscript.

It seems that Dr. Suess has self-rejected here, casting this manuscript aside. His assistant asks him to reconsider, and the writer explains the problem with the work. He’s not at all defensive. He’s not emotional. He’s simply embraced the idea that not every bit of scribbled brainstorming is going to turn into a published work.

(On a side note, I happen to love Dr. Suess. More than my kids do. Which really isn’t fair. One of the benefits of having children should be unlimited Dr. Suess read alouds. And if my very favourite title is Happy Birthday to You! I should be able to read it before bedtime even if it does happen to be excessively long. So snip that with snoppers, kids.)

On embracing your inner suckiness

Here’s a small part of the talk I gave at Cap University a couple weeks ago. The talk itself was about inspiration, but this little portion is about how sometimes, your work will — to put it technically — sucketh. And that’s okay.

You hear a lot of people say that as a writer, you need to develop a thick skin. You need to be so sure of yourself that you maintain a perfect wall of self-defence even in the face of the most hurtful rejection.

Then you hear that writers must be supremely sensitive and empathetic. You need to notice the exact way the leaves look outside. You need to be able to recreate that stomach ache you got after your first boyfriend dumped you. You need to be able to eavesdrop on a bus stop conversation and feel empathy for those people, who might become your future characters.

If you develop a thick skin, and walk around telling yourself what a great writer you are, you lose some of that sensitivity.

So here’s my alternate advice:

Embrace your inner suckiness.

Sometimes, you’re going to suck. Admit it, embrace it, move on.

I’ve sent my publisher some proposals that make me want to crawl under my desk and hide when I think about how bad they are.

Consider:

Have I submitted a proposal for a book about ten ways the world might end… for the children’s market? Yes. Have I submitted a manuscript that was 20,000 words too short? Yes. Have I tried something new, like an early reader, and blatantly sucked at it? Yes.

And except for the proposal about the apocalypse, those situations worked out fine in the end. I sucked, I got over it. I fixed it. The books were published. You’re not going to be good at everything, and every idea is not going to work out. I’m sure Margaret Atwood doesn’t publish every piece of writing she does. Everyone sucks sometimes.

So, embrace that. Don’t worry if it’s going to suck, especially on the first draft.

The envelope please…

And the winner of kc dyer’s Facing Fire book draw (chosen at random from scraps of paper, by a highly random three-year-old), is… Stacy! Congratulations, and thanks for stopping by to enter. I’ll have my peeps contact your peeps.

If you’ve caught the contest bug, head over to Deryn’s No. 1 Mystery Novel blog. She’s in the midst of a subscription drive and if you add your name to her list of readers, you get a chance to read a sample chapter of her novel in progress.

Which I have already received. Because I was already a subscriber. I believe in the world of Min and electronics, that’s called being an early adopter. And it scored me a chapter!

Ca-ching

My underwear book is off to the illustrator. During my final set of revisions, I was tweaking a sidebar about Andy Warhol, who painted one of his dollar bill images on a pair of undies. I came across this great quote:

“I like money on the wall,” he said. “Say you were going to buy a $200,000 painting. I think you should take that money, tie it up, and hang it on the wall. Then when someone visited you, the first thing they would see is the money on the wall.”

Now if only I could get my toonies to stick…

Wild Kingdom, take two

Apparently, my friend Jacqui remembered that I spent my childhood watching Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. She sent along this video, which I think its pretty much the funniest thing ever.

There’s some nekkedness. You’ve been warned.

Do you think the blackberries I picked at Jericho this summer will see me through the winter?

Visiting star… Darby!

Hey Tanya’s Readers!

My name is Darby Christopher, and I’m taking over Tanya’s blog today, since it seems she’s off digging up more burning questions…

While we’re on the subject of fire, I’m here to tell you something about myself. I don’t generally chase down the answers to burning questions as a rule, but I after the past year or so it’s become pretty apparent that I do have a talent for …time travel. This month, I’m celebrating the release of my new book, FACING FIRE, and it’s got me to thinking.

My new book picks up the story of what happened after the magical summer that you may have read about in A WALK THROUGH A WINDOW. But before I get to the walking-through-windows and slip-sliding-through-time bits…I have to face a little Fire.

Not so little, actually. So I thought since Tanya and I have burning questions in common, I could give her my most important advice about Facing Fire.

Fire is not always about the flames.

Hear that, Tanya?

I’m not going to explain it, either. I think you’ll just have to read the book. If you’re interested, you can find out more about the book at this site.

Or better still, how ’bout winning a copy as a prize? If you comment on this post, Tanya will put your name into a draw to win a free copy of the new book – FACING FIRE. And if you actually link to this post somewhere else [like in another blog, or facebook post or even a tweet] we’ll put your name in for the draw for BOTH of my books. So comment away!

By the way, if you’re into looking for prizes, check out my blog HERE at Darby Speaks. I have an AMAZING contest going with some totally fantastic prizes. If you like twitter, you can follow all the latest on the contest and the blog tour and launches @DarbySpeaks.

See you there!

And hey — does anyone smell something burning…?

~Darby


Crowsnest

This is a scene from a serial novel in progress. At this stage in the novel, Elsa has taken the identity of a dead friend, Edwina. She has fled Ontario to accept an offer of marriage from a man she’s never met, a miner in the Crowsnest Pass. Staying at the local boarding house, Elsa is waiting for the traveling minister to arrive and perform the wedding ceremony. That’s when she meets an unexpected boarding house guest: Frank MacLeod, the wealthy son of her Ontario employer.

If you’d like to read the whole mess, look here.

Having Frank in the house is like having an itch right in the centre of my back, where I can’t reach to scratch. For the first day I tried to pretend he wasn’t here, but the questions kept scraping at my skin. What happened after I left? What did they do with Edwina’s… body? Was there a funeral? And did Mr. MacLeod at least look contrite, even for one moment?

Then I remembered that I wasn’t here as myself. What must he think when he hears Janina call my name — Edwina’s name — across the house? What if he mistakenly calls me the wrong thing, and gives me away?

By the third day, I don’t care. I don’t care if he shouts my true name from the top of the blasted mountain. I have to know. I’ll corner him, I decide. Keep watch quietly from the kitchen entrance after dinner. And when he rises, I’ll approach.

As it turns out, he corners me, first.

I’m in the upper hallway with a rag in one hand and a bucket of water in the other when he steps from the doorway behind me and lays a hand on my shoulder. I stop so abruptly, water sloshes over my feet before I can set down the bucket. He’s so close the I instinctively lean against the wall as I turn toward him. And that leaves me staring up, into his eyes.

There was a mountain cat in a cage last week, in the middle of the village. One of the trappers had got him, and decided to show him off, I suppose, rather than kill the creature straight away. That cat was locked in a cell barely bigger than itself, yet it still managed to pace, twisting its body around and hissing at all who approached. Its eyes half-slitted, yellow and dangerous.

The same look Mr. MacLeod wears as he puts one arm on the wall above my head and leans over me.