I’ve been wondering if writing is actually like having an addiction. The more you write, the more you need to write. After all, I’ve never heard a fellow writer complain of having too much time to write. No one ever has enough.

Before I had kids, I was doing graphic design part-time… never enough time to write. With babies… definitely never enough time. Now… still not enough time. And everyone tells me that when I reach the promised land (ie. both kids in school), I’ll still fill my time up with other things. (I have a hard time believing this, but multiple people have predicted it.)

Which all leads to the question: should I take up a crack habit instead?

Lately, I’ve been dreaming of having an actual office. (This could have something to do with the hair elastics, Barbie brush, and toy iguana currently taking up my desk space.)

My dream office would have a nice window by the desk. Just like the window by my current desk, except without the bed behind it. And definitely without the pile of laundry on the bed.

Let’s see… what else? A wooden desk painted white. Some sort of breezy curtains. A shelf full of inspiring office supplies like colored paperclips. (Seriously. Those are important.) And tea. Delivered by the butler.

Ah… the butler. Almost forgot about him. When IS his starting date, anyway?

In the land of children’s non-fiction, you finish the manuscript and the editing, and then you enjoy a long period of watching while other people work.

For example, I finished most of the 50 Burning Questions revisions in July. Since then I’ve spent my weeks musing over illustrations and sample page designs and cover revisions, all sent to me just for my opinions or input, and requiring little actual angst or hair-pulling.

And then… the index. The request arrives in my in-box like a brick through the window and forces me to put aside all my airy-fairy new book ideas and actually focus. With every ounce of the limited logic available to me.

But now, it’s done. Finished. Complete. And so is the last of my work on this book. The whole thing is heading off to the printer this week and all I have to do is wait a few months for a colourful copy to arrive at my door.

Bon voyage, 50 Burning Questions!

I have joined an on-line fiction workshop, part of Alison Acheson’s newly launched Writers Workshop. I haven’t done a lot of real workshopping since my UVic days, and I find myself checking the site at random times just to see if any of the other participants have posted anything (one has!!).

I was hesitant to join… something about a January 1st non-fiction deadline or some silly thing like that… but now that I’m all signed up, I can’t wait!

Oh, and if you want to be part of the spine-tingling, I think there are still a couple spots open.

Wish me graceful comments and good vibes!

I picked up A Memoir of Friendship: The Letters between Carol Shields and Blanche Howard, and I’m completely absorbed. It’s like being on a long walk at dusk and getting to glimpse scenes through living room windows. (Um… not that I would do that.) Even better, these living rooms happen to belong to great writers.

Knowing that Carol Shields raised five kids makes me feel better about the possibility of me being a productive writer at some point in my future. These letters begin when her kids are in high school, though, which makes me wish I could ask the following questions:

1. What do you do when, in the midst of a playdate with two extra kids rampaging around your house, your publisher calls and needs to discuss something urgently? Is it wrong to lock yourself on the front porch with the phone, and hope nothing is set on fire behind you?

2. Have you ever been so absorbed in your reading that you absently nodded yes to anything your toddler asked, then watched in complete innocence while said toddler got in trouble for emptying his father’s wallet and playing with the credit cards? Only to be outed by your preschooler? (No, me neither.)

3. Have you ever been printing page proofs, thinking of possible index organization schemes, cleaning up after a play date, attempting to help a bathroom-bound toddler, and listening powerlessly as the doorbell rings at the same time?

Well, Carol, advice from your current heavenly perspective would be gratefully accepted.

I made the mistake of starting Chanda’s Wars, by Allan Stratton. I say mistake, because there’s no low-tension point in the entire book. Nowhere you can put it down to, let’s say, eat. Or sleep.

I finished it at 1:30 a.m., when sane, non-reading people were dreaming, instead of biting their fingernails and worrying about African warlords.

If you feel like a sleepless night sometime, it was an excellent read.

Just in time for Halloween, Book Aunt brings us the etymology of the word “pumpernickel.” Don’t miss it.

Here’s a shot of me at my display table at Friday’s Fall Book Harvest. This picture was taken by the lovely Mary Jane Muir, the most techno-savvy retiree I have ever met.

The form for my daughter’s reading olympics contest at school has space for books read by parents. As Min has only read video game magazines this month, I am in charge of filling that space.

The Honourable Gordon Campbell

Premier of British Columbia

Box 9041 Station PROV GOVT

Victoria, BC V8W 9E1

Dear Premier Campbell:

I’m writing to ask that you reinstate funding to our arts organizations, including BC Bookworld, the Association of Book Publishers of British Columbia, and the Vancouver International Writers and Readers Festival. As both a professional writer and an avid reader, I find these groups an integral part of the my cultural community.

During my university years with my economics-major boyfriend, I had a discussion (euphemism for argument), to which I thought you might relate. (Don’t ask why I was dating an economics major. It was a long and drawn-out mistake.) He was arguing that government funding was wasted on culture. I, of course, was arguing the opposite. Badly. I tried all the usual arguments that cultural groups provided valuable jobs, economic activity, and educational opportunities. He countered each point fluidly, until I gave up the discussion in disgust.

That’s when he said, “You should have argued that culture is valuable because it defines us as a community.”

I was shocked. My right-wing boyfriend had just said something about cultural community? But he went on to explain that cultural activity develops and confirms our identity as a group, a group separate from, say, the United States. Without the culture to join us under one identity, we are open to invasion – cultural and economic if not otherwise – from other places. And if Canada was no longer an independent nation, well… you’d be out of a job, wouldn’t you? And so would I.

I hope I’ve explained this properly. You could probably call my ex-boyfriend for a more thorough look at the issue. His name’s Kevin, and I think he’s a stockbroker in Alberta somewhere.

I thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope you will consider fully supporting the arts community in our province.

Sincerely,

Tanya Kyi