Check this out. George Bernard Shaw wrote in a backyard shed, which he called London. Then, when friends called him up, his secretary could say, “Oh, I’m sorry, but he’s not here right now. He’s in London.”
I am so jealous that I can’t even decide what to be jealous of — the revolving hut, or the secretary.
I’m working on a book about underwear. At the moment, the content is weighted too heavily toward girls. So, in the name of research, I asked my 40- going on 14-year-old husband what interests boys about underwear. Here’s his list:
Males are a strange and unique species.
I just read Adrienne Mason’s latest blog post over at Tough City Writer, and she’s provided a link to the best book website EVER. You have to go and look. In case you miss them, there are little pink arrows in the bottom right corner.
I received an e-mail from a new friend yesterday, who had just read some of my Crowsnest installments. She wrote: “how brave you are to post as you go. Does it help the process?”
Um… NO! It does not help the process, because there is no process. There is only the embarassment of sometimes writing dreck, combined with a frightening, looming sense of responsibility.
Which might lead one to ask, “Tanya, if writing Crowsnest is stressing you out, why exactly are you doing it?”
Well, because my sister’s reading it. She says she likes it. There are a couple other friends reading it. There’s a woman in Creston who I’ve never met but hope to — she comments. And isn’t that all a girl needs? Apparently, printed books are going down the toilet any day now. At the best of times, they only earn enough money to buy dinner for four at the Keg. So why not scribble some ideas and keep writing as long as the story is pleasing me or entertaining someone else?
Sandy, Jacqui, Shanda, and Deryn, if you start hating Crowsnest… you pull the plug anytime.
I’m loving this whole outline thing.
Today, I anticipated an hour of coffee-shop writing time while the kids were in a class. I couldn’t find my laptop, so I needed a distinct scene to scribble about in my notebook. (Yes, I realize that the fact I couldn’t find my laptop may imply that I should have spent my hour cleaning and not writing. But art involves sacrifice. And sacrifice may or may not include getting cholera in my kitchen. So shush, already.)
Anyhoo, I pulled up my handy-dandy outline, and picked a scene. Then I remembered the article I read this week about microsetting, and I chose an interesting location. (Which may or may not have been the back seat of a crew cab truck… but didn’t I already tell you to shush?)
Forty-five minutes in coffee shop. Scene written. Outlines rock. Onwards!
I have created (drumroll, please) an outline.
I came back from my writer’s group meeting last week having spent a while complaining to the table about the lack of a discernible plot in some of my former fiction attempts. And I know I’ve complained before about outlines. I prefer to write in bits and pieces, jumping back and forth in the novel as scenes occur to me.
There are benefits to this approach: it makes it easy to write in coffee shops while my kids are in art class; it makes it easy to write without referring to previously written material; and, it’s easier to simply create scenes without having to drudge through the connective tissue necessary for sequential writing.
But, it finally occurred to me after last week’s meeting that whining about plot problems AND whining about outlines is a bit like complaining about someone else’s food when you don’t know how to cook. You either have to shut up, or you have to learn.
Maybe I’ll never be able to outline before I begin a project. The current project, fortunately, is about one-third complete, with scenes dangling at all stages of the novel. So I sat with my list of scenes on one side of me and my synopsis on the other and began slotting in events and deciding what needed to be added, and where.
I am now basking in the feeling that I’ve just drawn my own treasure map.
Going in the file for any future Blue Jean Book reprints: there’s some wacky molecule in blue jean ink that’s going to help scientists make better solar panels.
Check it out on Treehugger.
Woohoo! My latest non-fiction manuscript is off to the publisher. If my posts this week have been “brief,” it’s because I’ve been focussed entirely on underwear.
Now, I get to alternate between periods of celebration, during which I revel in the freedom of a deadline-less life, and periods of nail biting, during which I wait for the publisher to call and tell me my content sucks, or I’ve messed up the word count by oh… 15,000 or 20,000 words.
Not that that would ever happen.
Except once.
As I have not yet figured out where this book is heading (suggestions welcome), you are stuck with flashbacks. Links to previous installments can be found at the bottom of the post. And coming soon… a page on which to read the collected bits.
I’ve just finished clearing away the lunch things when Edwina plucks at my sleeve and leads me to the back of the house. She’s pinched some paper from the parlor desk and we spend our lunch hour locked in the lavatory, Edwina dictating and me writing in the best hand I can manage while cramped on the porcelain like that.
Dear Mr. Baecker,
“Edwina Baecker,” Edwina giggles. “Isn’t that a mouthful? Is it Baker or Becker, do you think? I’d have to stop and wonder whenever I wanted to say my own name.”
“Shhh… concentrate. What do I write next?”
In response to your advertisement, I would like to become a wife to you, and mother to your family also if you have one.
“You think he might have children?” I gasp. I hadn’t thought of that. How do you become a mother to someone else’s children? Edwina is only two years older than I am and seventeen is hardly old enough to become a mother. Not that she has a choice, Mr. Baecker or no Mr. Baecker. But what if his children are older – as old as her?
“He might. Why else do you have to run an advertisement for a wife?” she says practically.
“I could think of a few reasons,” I say, and then we’re both giggling again.
“Keep writing,” she nudges.
I have many years experience in domestic work and I am a good cook.
“What else?” I prompt.
“I suppose we’d better tell him something about me. He might want to know what kind of package he’s getting in the mail.”
I have lovely brown hair and…
Edwina fingers her hair and blushes. She has no reason to – she’s a million times prettier than I am. My hair is brown, but her hair is that rich brown color like the wood of the dining room table. With her green eyes and little wisps of curls escaping her cap, she looks like she could be a milkmaid in a book of nursery rhymes. My own eyes are the color of manure, as my brother once told me.
“I hate that you’re leaving,” I sigh.
A bang on the door startles both of us. “What are you two doing in there? Other people need the facilities.”
It’s only the stable hand. “Women’s problems. Get away,” Edwina snipes. Then she waves a hand at me. “Just write some sort of description of me and finish it. He’ll either take me or he’ll not.”
…green eyes, like the rest of my family in Ireland. Many call me pretty, and I hope you would find me so. I will look forward to your reply.
“It’s perfect,” she says when I read it to her. “Only it sounds so professional like that he’ll be expecting better than he gets.”
“Well, he’s already getting more than he’s bargaining for.” I say it as a joke only, to make us laugh again, but Edwina winces and puts a hand over her belly, protectively.
For a moment, I feel the sharp teeth of jealousy nibbling at my own belly. Stupidity. This letter to Mr. Baeker is little more than a lark, and Edwina’s condition is a life sentence to poverty. This time next year, she’ll be taking in laundry in a shanty somewhere, or worse.
“Don’t worry so much. It’ll work out,” I whisper, mostly to hide my own thoughts. Then I tuck the letter into my apron and we nip back into the kitchen to help with the dishes.
If you’d like to read the whole story:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Dear Ms. MacDiarmid:
This is a follow-up to my April 9, 2010, letter regarding the funding shortfalls of the Vancouver School Board.
At the time I wrote to ask you to provide more money. I have to admit, however, that I wasn’t sure whether the fault lay with the government or the school board. I was brought up listening to my dad’s views on politics (ie. “everyone’s a crook”) and I often find it difficult to parse the propaganda and decide who’s actually right.
So, it was with great interest that I read the recommendations of your special advisor.
Ms. MacDiarmid, I am now firmly on the side of the Vancouver School Board. I can’t believe the irony of implementing huge rent increases for preschool and after-school care organizations operating out of facilities such as my local elementary school, while, at the same time, marketing full-day kindergarten as a solution to early childhood needs.
Another one of my dad’s favorite phrases is “I’m not the most educated man, but any idiot can see…”
In the end, it doesn’t really matter whether the school board or the government is responsible for the funding shortages. My children shouldn’t have to pay the price. My son is signed up for preschool in a facility that would be affected by such ridiculous rent changes. And once again, I would like to remind you that my daughter attends class in the basement of a 100-year-old building, with a horrific earthquake rating, broken windows that the school can’t afford to fix, and classrooms that function only because of the fundraising abilities of a highly dedicated PAC – and this is in the premier’s own riding.
Ms. MacDiarmid, you have succeeded in one thing. Yes, you’ve accomplished something that 17 years of fatherly lectures, five years of university, and countless family visits couldn’t do: you have convinced me that my dad was right all along.
I hope you will reconsider your current funding plans.
Sincerely,
Tanya Kyi