One of the warmest, most encouraging writing books I own is Escaping into the Open, by Elizabeth Berg.

And one of my favorite pieces of advice in the book is this:

“Go to a gigantic office supply store and spend a long time looking at all the options available to you, and get the ones that make you feel the best.”

Okay, she’s talking about pens, not purple paper clips. But I happen to like paper clips. Any manuscript becomes better once it’s held together by a giant, plastic-coated, candy-colored clip. It’s a known fact.

We’re writers. We don’t own yachts or drive Porsche Cayennes. We don’t commute. We don’t even use that much paper anymore, now that editing arrives electronically. So why not splurge on a box of office supplies, if it makes you even a tiny bit happier to sit down at your desk?

Disclaimer: Under no circumstances should you use a pink paper clip while submitting material to a publisher or agent. The underpaid and overworked youngtillectual there will assume your name is Candi (with a heart dotting the i), and move your material directly to the bottom of the slush pile. These items are for personal use only.

Between late 2006 and mid 2007, we were getting very little sleep in the Kyi household. Min had a pinched nerve in his shoulder. I was carrying what would turn out to be a 10.7 pound baby. And once said baby arrived, he cried so often that Min had heart palpitations and the walk-in clinic sent him to the hospital by ambulance.

I’m not making this up.

I mention it now because last weekend, Min said: “You know, I finally feel like my IQ is back to normal.”

“It’s funny you should say that…” I answered.

During that exact time, I had a contract with Annick for a book about underwear. I wrote, they edited, I wrote, they edited, I wrote… and on the verge of the editor and I both giving birth, we all threw our hands in the air and cancelled the contract.

Well, I’m now working with Annick on a new project which involves mining much of that old underwear research material. So I pulled the manuscript out, and:

It’s DRECK!

It’s HORRIBLE!

There’s no structure. There’s no organization. There are huge, gaping holes in the research.

All of this leaves me feeling grateful that Annick was willing to work with me again. And thankful that my IQ has returned to normal.

But has it? And how can I tell for sure?

A big Karen Connelly fan since Touch the Dragon days, I picked up my very own copy of Burmese Lessons last week.

I started reading just before bed, and her first impressions of Burma seemed so real to me — the monks, the curious kids, the thanaka make-up — that I dreamed of Burma all night.

A guide or driver in Burma will never contradict you — not even when you’re obviously wrong. He’ll merely “suggest” a different option. As in, “Would you perhaps like to go in this direction?”

If your North American ears are still in direct communication mode and not yet attuned to Burmese social nuances, you’ll miss your cue and find yourself hopelessly off course.

So when Karen repeated, “No, I’m happy to walk. I won’t get lost,” in the first chapter as her guide suggested otherwise, I was already cringing. And of course the power went out, leaving her wandering Rangoon in complete darkness.

Then there’s the scene in which she tries to explain condoms to a family of seven in Bagan…

I’m only a few chapters in, and I’m already in love with this book.

I’ve heard people say it’s vital to write daily, and I’ve heard people rail against that rule. For me, at least in the uncharted territory of the first draft, it’s the only way. Here’s why:

Writing a first draft is like feeding an infatuation. Remember back in grade eight when you had the crush on that dark-haired grade-ten boy? And every time the bell rang, all you could think about was whether or not you would pass him in the hall? Maybe you arranged to walk by his locker before school started, just in case he was there and just in case he happened to look up and just in case… it never happened, but just in case… he smiled at you?

You couldn’t stop thinking about him. When you were in math class, when you were doing homework, when you were washing dishes, you were thinking about him.

THAT’s the feeling I need with a first draft. It needs to be lingering in the back of my mind all the time. And writing every day keeps it present. Even if I have only 15 minutes. Even if I read over the previous day’s writing, add two more sentences, and have to turn off the computer. That’s fine.

The fact that it’s fresh in my mind will mean that in the afternoon — when a skateboarder careens in front of my car and smirks at me instead of apologizing — I don’t just think, “moron.” I think, “hey, that moron’s hair swirl is perfect for the evil twin in my new book.”

When I hear the two girls on the bus talking at full volume about the number of days between periods and whether or not they’re pregnant and why they can’t remember that particular night, I think, “ah! That’s what my main character’s sister is talking about behind the closed bedroom door.”

And when I walk out the door into a shower of cherry blossoms I realize that I’ve set my entire novel in winter when obviously — why didn’t I realize it before? — it has to end in spring.

Writing every day maintains the infatuation. At some point in grade eight, we all realized our grade 10 crushes actually picked their noses, while pretending they were only scratching. And our infatuations popped like overblown balloons.

If too long passes between writing sessions, the same thing happens to my writing. I see the flaws. And it’s harder to fall in love a second time.

This little tidbit of fiction arrived unexpectedly, while I was sitting in a coffee shop attempting to proofread.

I’m writing this memoir so it can be sold as part of my estate once I’m dead. Not that I’m expecting to die anytime soon. But I’ve noticed these artifacts are most valuable if they reveal previously unknown facts about the subject’s early childhood. With 13 looming on the horizon, I have to get going.

This is how I would like my lawyer (likely a permanent member of my staff by then) to allot my income, royalties, and remaining unsold devices or personal papers. First, said lawyer is to ask my oldest living female relative to classify the rest of my family. She is to rank them, beginning with the most responsible, mature, and deserving and ending with the one most likely to case anxiety, disappear overnight, or experiment with obscure chemicals. The last of the list, the most degenerate soul of the clan, is to receive my estate.

I have decided on this method because my grandmother saw my face this morning and almost tipped out of her chair.

“You’re blue!” she howled. A bit like saying the sun is yellow. I mean, it was obvious. Pointing is out was redundant.

Although… you never know. My mother might not have noticed if Grandma hadn’t sounded like a sick coyote.

“Nothing serious,” I assured her.

I have no idea why his face is blue. Any ideas?

After yesterday’s mention of shamans, I couldn’t resist sharing this little tidbit from my manuscript-in-progress, 50 Poisonous Questions:

About 1700 years ago, Mayan shamans induced trances with poisonous enemas. They injected their rear ends with a concoction of mead, tobacco juice, mushrooms, and morning glory.

Hmmm…. I wonder if that would work as a cure for writer’s block?

Check it out — I won a contest. You’ll recognize my entry by the truly horrid food photography. (Would you believe I’ve taken two entire photography courses? They taught me to recognize my pictures for the dreck they really are.)

Anyway, I won despite my visuals. I think it’s the sandwich-free status that did it. And the lack of sprouts. What kid eats sprouts? (Okay, personal bias there. My mom and a neighbor lady went on a sprout-growing spree while I was in primary school and I’ve never gotten over it.)

No sprouts, lots of veggies, and banana bread. Hooray for lunch!

I went to a Writers’ Union of Canada workshop on Friday about the future of publishing. It was depressing, enlightening, and inspiring in turn. The quote of the day was from Ross Laird:

“Books are dead. They just don’t know it yet.”

Strangely, I’m not worried. As much as I’m attached to books, I understand that not everyone shares this view. (Ahem… Min.)

But here’s the thing: everyone needs a storyteller. From ancient shamans to medieval bards, Victorian novelists to star bloggers, there have always been storytellers. They preserve our histories, interpret our cultures, and explain us to ourselves and to each other.

And if performers once shared the Illiad or Beowolf without paper, why should their descendants cling to printed books so fiercely?

I hate when strangers ask me about my writing. I know I’m supposed to say… Well, actually I have no idea what I’m supposed to say. That’s the problem.

I’m sure it’s something scintillating and insightful. Or maybe something scripted by the marketing department, such as “Yes! I’m a writer! You can find my books at the store just down the street. May I walk you there?”

That never seems quite right.

I am tremendously grateful to be a writer. It’s my dream job, and I’m blessed to be able to do it. I just develop sudden-onset neurosis when people ask:

“Would I recognize your books?”

My usual answer is, “Well, I didn’t write the Harry Potter books.”

Because, really, how many other middle-grade books do members of the general public recognize? I’m thinking: none. Even if I were a zillion times more successful, they wouldn’t know my work.

If we have to talk about my books, my favorite question is:

“Are you published?”

It’s a nice, open-ended question. It acknowledges that people can be writers without being published. And if I want, I can say, “Well actually, I’m thinking of working as a barista instead.”

And then run for the nearest cave and hang a “recluse in training” sign on the door.

I went to a CWILL BC meeting last night and the discussion revolved around methods of inspiration and, even more importantly, ways to get started again once you’ve let a project sit for too long.

I have very short windows of time in which to write. Between 1 and 3, when my son is sleeping, and sometimes a couple hours in the evening. Generally, I spend the whole morning wishing for time to write, and then when 1 o’clock rolls around, I would much rather have a nap. Or mop the floors. Or bathe feral cats, for that matter.

You know how chronically late people try to trick themselves into punctuality by setting their watches 10 minutes fast? Well, here’s how I trick myself into writing:

1. Make a hot drink. Tea, coffee, hot chocolate. On bad days, a mix of coffee and hot chocolate. On really, really bad days… a marshmallow on top.

2. Say, “Well, if I’m going to sit down to drink this, I may as well sit at the desk and check my e-mail.

3. Check e-mail.

4. Check mls to see if my dream house has suddenly become available.

5. Now that there’s nothing else left to do, decide to just open the manuscript, even for 10 minutes, and look at what I wrote yesterday.

6. Check the clock, amazed that two hours have passed, and rush out the door to collect daughter from school.

Just don’t combine this method with the punctuality method, or you’ll loose 10 valuable minutes of writing time.