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Today while I was sitting in the office (my fancy name for the spare bedroom) trying to decide what to blog about the toilet started up again. Today it was all “bwop, bwop, bwop, bwop, bwop”. At first I ignored it but it just kept going like a stuck record of a baritone scat singer (I am awesome at simile construction like a badger is awesome at burrowing holes!) so finally I ran for the bathroom to watch it bubble.

My life if full of excitement!

It goes on for another minute then the bubbles and the bwops get smaller and quieter but then I notice a few tiny bubbles floating on the surface. At first I think they are just regular air bubbles from the agitated water but when they don’t immediately go away I start to wonder. They continue to multiply and soon the toilet is half full of bubbles.

Despite my fascination/horror with this growing mound of suds I have been standing over my toilet for several minutes now and I am lazy and want to sit down.

I decide against bringing a kitchen chair into the bathroom so I can sit and watch my toilet produce bizarre noises and substances because my life cannot possibly hold that much excitement. I mean WOAH! Right?

So now I’m back in the office typing this blog post and I can hear it; the soft, stealthy bwop, bwop, bwop of my toilet and probably bathroom floor slowly filling with foam of unknown origin coming up out of my toilet (please let it be soap, even if it used soap).

My greatest paranoia is now that a rat will climb from my toilet. Does my building have rats? No. How do air bubbles and soap in the plumbing translate into rats that can breathe water and climb through pipes? I don’t know. Maybe they could use the air bubbles as a little life pod. (I think I just had the greatest children’s Saturday morning cartoon idea ever!)

I take it back. My greatest paranoia is not that a rat will climb from my toilet. It is that a rat climbing from my toilet while I am sitting on it. And also the air bubble it is traveling in splashes used toilet water on my butt. Then the rat bites my butt. And I die of the Plague. On the bright side I have the most effortlessly clean toilet ever.

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Infidelity

I am being tempted.

It has come. Curse of the writer mired by the tribulations of a difficult Work in Progress. I struggle and sweat to get through so many difficult little scenes and it is hard to keep going. I’ve done this twice before, I know I’ll get through. Probably.

Then tonight I was diligently slogging away, knowing intellectually that soon I would break past the wall and the story would flow for me again. I have my outline and I know soon I will love my novel effortlessly, like a mother at her child’s birth instead of the mother of a teenager who is argumentative, sullen and prone to shrieking profanities while slamming doors. You still love them but… you have to work at it a little.

And then this little idea sauntered past with a come hither gaze and a saucy wink.

Just a little idea, nothing to be afraid of. So I wrote it down. Surely there’s no harm in keeping a good idea for when I have the time? A moment later I knew my hook. From that came the easiest elevator pitch I’ve ever written. Then I couldn’t stop, I wrote a perfect back cover blurb in one go. Then I outlined a little and I knew how it would begin and how it would end. (So touching! So poignant! So heart breaking!) The two main characters told me their names and they provided me all the information I would need to breathe life into them. They came alive like a single brush stroke on crisp linen paper. Simple. Elegant. Perfect.

Then their world started nudging its way on to the page. A detail here, a factoid there. Just a bit of world building, no harm in it. I tried to tell myself that it was just enough to keep all the details fresh for when I come back to it.

“Come back? How can you leave me when I am so new and shiny?” asked the idea.

And so begin the seeds of infidelity. I love the novel I have but it is hard, so HARD! I work and I toil and it only demands more of me. I know deep down that the new idea will grow and live on my attention and love until it is just as demanding as my current work in progress but it’s still new and full of easy promise. Its characters are smooth as polished glass, it’s plot threads yet to be tangled.

I’ve been tempted before, even done a little outlining. Temptation will come again, sure as I’ll wake up tomorrow to a hungry/angry cat pawing at my head. Infidelity is a risk of being a writer. I’ll resist. I’ll save the file and leave the idea for another day.

It’s just harder than usual today.

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I have two To Do lists at any and all times. The first is a general list. For example:

  • unpack boxes
  • clean the cat litter before the cat stages a coup
  • dishes (for previously stated reasons this pretty much never gets crossed off as I tend to lap loads)
  • sort laundry
  • buy cat food, see above
  • write

That last item never really gets crossed off either, it recycles daily and is really only there to remind me that it is the most important item on any list (except the cats food and litter, she gets cranky).

My second list is dedicated to my creative goals. For example:

  • Edit latest flash fiction
  • Write ‘X’ number of words by ‘date’
  • Outline characters for WIP
  • Do Celtx tutorial in preparation for Scriptfrenzy
  • Learn flash
  • Make 10 second flash cartoon
  • Rough draft art for next webcomic installment (unpublished and on hiatus, like so many projects)

I like lists and I like tracking my progress and crossing things off. I have notebooks dedicated to my lists where items from yesterday can be brought to the next page and you can see the progress (or not) of my industriousness like layers in sedimentary rock. I have such a poor memory that I couldn’t really function without them. They keep me on track.

Sometimes though, I use my lists to procrastinate. I especially use that first list to procrastinate on the second.

Which is crazy right? I look at that second list and there is not one thing listed which fails to get me excited. Just sometimes the steps are a little too large and I get daunted or more often I get everything ready and then my self-doubt kicks in. So I wander off and do something else and if that something lets me cross something else off of a list, any list, then I get to feel like I’ve accomplished something. It’s not the same high I would get from a submission-ready final draft of that flash fiction but it’s easier than facing all that fear and self-doubt.

In my defense I usually come back to the second list and get some work done but I’m certainly less productive artistically than I could be. Than I SHOULD be.

Today I procrastinated by making what I thought would be a time intensive fancy dinner that turned out to be quick easy and delicious. I was done and fed in no time and got a lot of little things crossed off my creative to do list. So to celebrate that quick return to my word processor I’d like to share another author recipe.

 

Vichyssoise (Leek Soup)

This soup is more delicious than you.

Ingredients:

  • 1 leek, chopped
  • 4 medium potatoes, diced
  • butter 2-3 tablespoons as desired
  • 3 cups chicken stock (veggie stock for the vegetarians)
  • salt and pepper
  • 2 cups half and half cream (10%)

Optional Extra Ingredients

  • 2-3 tablespoons bacon bits, homemade or store-bought
  • 1 cup of Mushrooms, thinly sliced, I like a blend of crimini and mini bellas (technically these are all the same mushroom at different ages)
  • Chives, chopped

Instructions
Steps involving bacon and mushrooms may be omitted.

  1. Saute chopped leaks and potatoes in a large saucepan (mine is 12 inches with high sides) for several minutes. Until it is nicely aromatic.
  2. Once the smell of leeks and butter are making your mouth water add the broth, salt and pepper, and optional bacon.
  3. Simmer for 20 minutes.
  4. While simmering broth sauté mushrooms in butter until they develop a nice colour. Do not crowd.
  5. Remove both broth and mushrooms from heat and allow to cool.
  6. Add cream and half of mushrooms to broth and mix.
  7. Puree in blender (fills blender twice)
  8. Serve cold or reheat in pan.
  9. Garnish with chives and mushroom.

Serves 6.

Tips

  1. Don’t forget to reheat the garnish mushroom if serving the soup hot.
  2. Keep in mind if you use bacon bits they might be made with dye to achieve their bright colour. You could see this as a disaster or pretend to be Bridget Jones and serve pink soup!
  3. Omitting the mushrooms and bacon I think this would be a highly adaptable recipe. I intend to try several variations.
  • Add citrus and fruit with the broth (veggie), lemon and cranberries perhaps. Nothing too sweet, it should be light and summary. This could turn out horribly wrong. Either way you’ll probably hear about it.
  • Walnuts and almonds, blended into a paste and then blended into the soup. Definitely served cold. It would be so rich and decadent!
  • Stir in some cooked wild rice to the finished basic recipe to add flavour and texture to the creamy soup.
  • Use 35% cream and blend the soup until it stiffens.  Serve as savory mousse appetizer.  (I really want to try this!)

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I’ve been working on a full update of all of my creative goals but it’s actually a bit daunting to sort it all out. I have so many interests that at times I get bogged down and nothing gets done on any of them. So I’m going to use the goals update to really look at where I want to put my limited personal resources.

In the meantime here’s a shorter update of my most recent accomplishments:

  1. I’ve officially signed up for Scriptfrenzy on the website. I’m looking forward to spending a month just working on dialogue and by extension human interaction.
  2. I wrote and have half edited a flash fiction. The working title is Ape Dreams until I think of something clever. I have a strong belief that flash fictions must have clever titles.
  3. I wrote 5000 words on my Novel!! Woo! The dry spell is over! After two months of opening my novel and looking at it, pecking out a few words and trying to catch that thread I had lost, I’ve finally found my way back into it. Granted I started with a scene that was pretty easy and from the point of view of my favorite character to write at the moment but I’ve got the momentum now to keep going on those harder parts and trickier characters. Such a relief.
  4. I’ve written several synopses for short film scripts I want to write for Scriptfrenzy. Including a longer one that has really caught my attention.

After all the work I’ve put into the Monster-Post-of-My-Many-Goals it’s really good to be able to look at this list and see the things I’ve accomplished rather than all the things I’m not getting done.

The pessimist says the glass is half empty. The optimist says the glass is half full. The scientist says the glass is full, half with water and half with air. I don’t know who coined that last part but I like it. My glass is half full of the things I’ve accomplished and half-full of the things I’m going to do. It’s going to be great!

 

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Today during a conversation with PiscesMuse I noticed my new phone’s autotext automatically capitalizes the word bacon like it is a god or a country, or possibly a day of the week. In honour of this stupendous idea I have written this short as a warm up for Scriptfrenzy.

An empty stage save for a bistro table with three chairs.

Man One sits at the table eating bacon, enter Man Two stage right.

Man Two

Hey what day is it?

Man One

It’s Bacon.

Man Two

Right. I’m supposed to have breakfast with my mom today.

Man One

Oh yeah? What are you having?

Man Two

Duh, Waffles. What else would you eat on Bacon?

Man One

Oh right, waffles are the holy food of God Emperor Bacon, after whom this day is named. All hail him.

Man Two

All hail him indeed. Man, that guy sure loves waffles.

Man One

Who doesn’t!

Man Two sits down at the table and they proceed to eat bacon together. Pig enters stage right.

Pig

Hey guys, what’s shakin’?

Man One

Hey Pig, it’s great how we call the meat of your belly by the name of waffles.

Man Two

Yeah anything else would be so weird!

Pig

It sure would! Hey is that waffles?

The pig sits down and proceeds to join Man One and Man Two in a tasty snack of bacon.


Eventually I think I’m going to turn this into a flash cartoon, time permitting.

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Fair warning: I will talk about my toilet in this blog post. Your are warned.

I have moved five times in the last 5 years and lived in 15 different homes in my 30 years on this planet. In fact I moved into home #15 on my 30th birthday about a month ago. Aside from becoming a master packer I have also learned a thing or two about apartments and I love my latest apartment which is good because the plan is for me and boyfriend to be here for a long time. It’s large enough to accommodate our crap without leaving us crammed into the remaining space. It has reasonably decent natural light. It has good water pressure, hard wood floors and a balcony, which will be surrounded by lovely trees come summer. For the first time we have an apartment shared with no one but ourselves and our cat.

My nomadic living has left me with an appreciation for a place that meets so many of my needs with extra perks like wooden floors and a balcony. So I can forgive little things like when the toilet makes strange noises and emits odd substances. At least I was forewarned. Here is a recap of my first week living with a new toilet.

Day 1: Boyfriend and I move in. When we meet in the hall neighbour makes lighthearted joke about plumbing birthing Cthulu. It is my 30th birthday so we invite some friends over to enjoy our piles of boxes and bizarre wall colours and get drunk. If toilet attempts to bring about the end times we fail to notice.

Day 2: Late in the night the toilet emits… gurgles. Loud ones. They last a few seconds and then quiet down to small burbles before going silent. We knew it might do something like this and despite the eerie nature of the noise I roll over and go back to sleep.

Day 3: Boyfriend is out-of-town for the next five days and the late night burbles are louder and more unsettling. Possibly because I am alone and having vivid memories of the short film The Blob from one of the crypt keeper movies I saw as a child and it scarred me for life. Seriously, I still can’t swim in water over my head unless I am with someone else who will get eaten first while I get away. I am a bad friend to swim with. Anyway I am a grownup now and a few plumbing noises aren’t going to make me hide under the covers (much).

Day 4: I am invited over to a friend’s house for dinner. I return very late to find the toilet seat has been put down, something I do not normally do. I may have done so in my rush to get out the door and forgotten but this unnatural toilet lid position contributes to my general feeling of unease. When I lift the lid I see that water is all over the bottom of the lid and on the seat. Not small drops either, big splashy ones. I check their colour to ensure they are in fact just water. It is at this point that I realize how violent the burbling must be and that if I ever have the misfortune to be using said facility during an episode I might get to have my first ‘bidet’ experience. Ew. I can live with this though since the violent gurgles seem to mostly occur between 4am and 6am.

Day’s 5 and 6: I continue to hear the toilet in the wee hours due to insomnia. It does not get less eerie. Attempts to see burbles in action prove fruitless as it never lasts long.

Day 7: I am getting used to the night-time burbles and have yet to be treated to a splashed behind. I return home from class in the afternoon and rush to use the facilities. I sit down without looking in the toilet first because I am an adult and don’t believe rumours of rats coming up through the plumbing. Surely there could be nothing ominous mere inches from my butt.

As I am finishing the phone rings and I rush from the bathroom without bothering to flush. The lever needs to be held down for several seconds and I don’t have time because SOMEONE WANTS TO TALK TO ME! (I am lonely because boyfriend is out-of-town) After I am done on the phone I return to the bathroom because the not-flushed toilet will bother me. I look down and discover that the bowl had been pretty fully when I sat down.

Not actual event. Picture depicts a later foam incident for "not gross" purposes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is full of soapy foam more than halfway up the bowl. This creeps the hell out of me. Much as I believe in and try to practice water conservation I am not one of those people who can pee without flushing just to save water. It’s just creepy to me out to sit over it later. Also gross, what if it splashes?

So now there is this mystery foam in my toilet and it was mere centimeters from my bottom.

Aw, it looks like a heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I choose to assume it is soap and not some weird chemical, this helps. But the real question is where did it come from? I chalked up all the burbling to water in the pipes. Now comes this unknown foamy white substance.

How does plumbing work exactly?

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Sweet swag!!

I haven’t read any of these yet but they sound fantastic! Check out the contest but don’t count on winning those books ’cause I’m so getting there first!

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Warning: long-ass post

I think that before cauterizing a wound the Doctor should be legally obligated to say “Hi! I’m going to burn you until you’re better!” and then he shoves his cauterizing tool into your flesh and you wonder how you’re definition of better could possibly differ so wildly from another person’s definition of better.

Allow me to start at the beginning. I am not big on housework, I’m tidy enough that I don’t like trash to pile up around me so I throw it out but sometimes it takes a day or two… or several if I am doing a lot of writing at my desk but I make sure it’s in neat piles while it waits to get chucked out.

I sweep semi-often, put things where they belong pretty regularly, wash the floors when visibly necessary and dust when the dust bunnies begin to spawn kittens from all the cat hair, and only because I’m too lazy to look after more than one cat. My sweetie is fine with my level of cleanliness (mostly) so we get along.

Dishes are the problem. You see I’ve never liked them, ever. I think I got this from my mother who equally dislikes them and now I have taken on her bias whereas if she had just pretended to like housework then I would be able to have neat freaks in my house without having to apologize while they hyperventilate backed into a corner making little whimpering noises and rocking back and forth while they clutch their knees to their chest.

Anyhow, around March of 2005 on a lovely Saturday morning I got up around 9am and made plans to meet friends at the mall. Then I remembered that I had a small load of dishes to do. For the first time ever I decided that rather than leave them and let them pile up until I had a pile big enough to make it a really onerous chore I would just whip the little load into shape now. I felt awesome, like I was turning over a new leaf in my dish doing habits that would echo through the way I lived the rest of my life making me super efficient in all my endeavors and propelling me through the higher education I was finally contemplating until I was a learned scholar with a totally awesome job and lots of respect from peers rather than an unemployed 24-year-old living with her mother and spending Saturday hanging out at the mall despite having no money.

It all hinged on one load of dishes.

I was on fire! I tossed all the dishes into the sink and even made sure to look for glasses that had been left around the house. Feeling efficient I filled up my sink with soap and water and got to washing. The world was mine and I was going places bitches!

I scrubbed the cutlery clean in no time at all and like a dish-washing machine that is super fast and efficient I grabbed a glass to go at that next.

My mum had these cobalt blue octagonal glasses that I thought were really cool. They were also big so we used them a lot for drinking water. I picked up the first one and shoved my hand in with the dish cloth, it was a tight fit.

As I twisted my hand awkwardly in the glass all of a sudden a U-shaped piece of glass about two inches deep popped off the glass from the rim, I continued to twist my hand around as I took note because as I said I WAS ON FIRE AND NOTHING COULD STOP MY DISH DOING AWESOMENESS!

That’s when it started to… sting. I pulled my hand out and the entire back of my hand was covered in blood. I looked at it for a second before applying pressure with my other hand to the general area where it hurt.

I walked calmly into the bathroom and lifted my hand for a second. Blood continued to coat every surface and obscure whatever wounds I had sustained. At this point I very calmly and quietly uttered “fuck’n shit.”

I was quite composed really. Despite this my mother, who had been sleeping, vaulted from her bed in the next room and came rushing in asking frantic questions about how badly I was dying.

I assured her I was okay and asked her to turn on the cold water tap for me and asked her to find me some Band-Aids. As it turned out we didn’t have any which was fine because once I rinsed off all the blood it was apparent my left pointer-finger knuckle was missing. It looked like that mountain that Richard Dreyfuss builds out of mashed potatoes in Close Encounters of the Third Kind if the mountain was bleeding from the top. So maybe like a volcano? During the brief second before more blood came oozing out I could flex my finger and clearly see the tendon move under a thin membrane which was probably composed of the layer or two that was left of my skin or possibly an under-skin like the long johns of anatomy.

So off to the walk-in-clinic we go.

Once there it was a pretty short wait for the Doctor. He came in and I lifted the giant wad of toilet paper I had used to cover the wound and soak up blood in the absence of band-aids, Kleenex or paper towels. He looked for a second or two before telling me I had done a really good job which as motivational talks go is pretty fucked up because who wants a talent for self-mutilation? Besides people who are into self-mutilation.

He poked and prodded a bit. I had three wounds, the missing knuckle bit which was about the size of a penny, a tiny cut a few millimeters away from it and a longer cut just beyond the small one. If you were to play connect-the-dots along the lines of wounds they might resemble a delicious cherry lollipop.  He let me know I would need stitches in the long cut. He had me lay on my back with my hand held against my stomach on top of some gauze to catch blood then went and got a needle and injected some freezing around the long cut.

He said it would take a few minutes for the numbness to kick in. Then he turned around and did something at the counter that I couldn’t see. When he turned back around he was holding what looked like a thin wooden dowel with a black tip and a cord coming out of the bottom end. I looked on with interest and unsuspecting innocence, waiting for him to tell me what it was, completely oblivious to what would happen next.

Holding the strange wand thing and standing over me he said, “The knuckle wound is missing too much skin to sew shut so it will have to be cauterised.” And then without pause he shoved the black tip into the bleeding wound. He continued to explain this process but I was too distracted by the whole burning flesh of my hand thing to pay much attention.

I do remember him saying something about how the freezing wouldn’t work for this procedure so I would be able to feel it but since he said this several minutes (possibly only several seconds) after he had actually begun the procedure of burning my wound shut I was tempted to yell something like “You don’t fucking say? I’m glad you told me in such a timely manner!” but ultimately I decided that yelling sarcastic comments at the guy with the burning stick in my flesh might be unwise. He might decide to do an extra super thorough job.

I felt so proud of my foresight and restraint that it distracted me from my burning flesh. Sort of.

During this procedure I remained outwardly silent and calm but my poor mother was in a corner climbing a wall and making little pain noises. As much as it hurt I think it hurt more in her head. Normally she’s calm and collected during medical emergencies so it was weird but in a way that was also blessedly distracting once being proud of my sass-control wore off.

Afterward the Dr stitched me up, which I had been excited about before the cauterization thing because these were my first stitches but it turned out to be kind of anticlimactic. I still watched avidly though.

Then he gave me a prescription for antibiotic cream, showed me how to bind my hand with gauze and told me to keep it absolutely dry for a couple of months.

I returned home to a sink half full of dishes, soapy water, a chunk of my knuckle and the knowledge that my hopes of ever being successful were going to be washed down the drain with about a liter of my blood. Fortunately I was also blessedly free of any dish related chores until my gaping wound healed over and stopped being a slimy mess. I have yet to be enthusiastic about dishes since.

But the story doesn’t end here. Oh no.

See when I got home I investigated the broken glass and found that the way it had broken was bizarre and improbable. I showed it to my mum.

As it turned out the glass had previously been cracked in a sort of J shape, hence the U-shaped break which had sliced so much of the back of my hand as it twisted around in the glass. Rather than throw it out she had opted to set it aside, beside the coffee pot away from the regular dishes (to her mind in a ‘safe spot’) because she wanted to use it in a mosaic project. My mother is constantly collecting odds and ends to use in art projects; the house was and is full of them.

So my wound was easily preventable with a little more forethought then “if I set this imperceptibly cracked glass two feet from the other glasses that will make it crystal to clear to everyone it is not to be lumped in with the regular dishes”. But that’s my mum, at 24 I should have known better.

Now I am 30 and I live with my sweetie and not my mother and I am a successful student who will eventually be a professional and totally an adult who doesn’t spend a week eating nothing but birthday cake, chicken wings and popcorn. So last week I was at my mums going through some boxes in her spare room looking for some stuff I had stored there. I lifted a lid from an unlabeled box and there it was, the glass that had severed my knuckle, waiting. In fact it was nestled amid a whole box full of broken dishes. I hollered in surprise and my mum came running.

Me: (indignant) What is this doing here?! (I gesticulate haphazardly in the direction of the box full of shards of potential doom)

Mum: (prosaically) Oh, that’s my stuff for making mosaics.

Me: But that’s the glass that horrifically mutilated my hand and prevented me from having a lucrative career as a hand model!

Mum: (blinks like I’m slow) Yes. I’m saving it.

Me: Saving it for what? To make a commemorative table top about the time I had to get stitches and a Doctor had to burn my hand until it was healthy?!

Mum: Yes.

Me: …

She may never get around to learning to mosaic since my mum is the queen of procrastination. I have a feeling that someday a long time from now I will be settling my mums affairs and I will once again come face to face with that stupid glass.

And then it will pay. Oh yes, it will pay.

If I ever find the charger to juice up my camera I will take some pictures both of my scars and of the drinking glass that caused them.

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I am terrified of falling down stairs. I would say I was phobic but as my fear springs from a totally rational source I am clearly right to fear stairs. The problem is that I tend to fall down them. Sometimes I trip over some dangling thing I failed to notice. Sometimes I slip on icy cement or metal stairs outside. Canada presents many opportunities to slip and fall on all kinds of surfaces, and I do, but stairs are my true nemesis.

My last fall involved a gorgeous set of highly polished wooden stairs leading into a friends basement. The 2-3 glasses of wine I’d had probably didn’t help but I have it under good authority that those particular stairs are a menace to more than just myself. They are a lovely polished-to-a-high-sheen deathtrap with a plethora of victims.

I bring this up because I am currently working on a script for Scriptfrenzy and one of my characters has a similar problem but more so. At worst I’ve sprained wrists and earned some spectacular bruises. By contrast I’ve got this character breaking limbs, getting concussions and I’m toying with a short coma. She isn’t me but she’s going to be a lot like that aspect of me, multiplied.

I’m torn between using the experience and feeling like I’m cheating because it won’t be coming from my imagination. Though in a way I guess it is because my own fear is fueled by my imagining of worst case stair-falling scenarios.

I’ve read a lot of John Irving and I think he’s a brilliant author. Many of his books consider the issue of whether writers should make up their stories from whole cloth or whether it is okay to take elements or even fully formed characters from real life. His novels tend to fall on the side of using-real-life-is-cheating. I’m curious to know if Mr. Irving himself truly believes this and has projected it onto his characters (oh the irony!) or if it is merely an opinion of his fictional characters. My own paranoia even wonders if it’s a fake out aimed at budding authors but this paranoia is the kind that just makes me giggle because that would be sort of awesome.

The result is that I sometimes feel like I am cheating when I lift elements or out of context events from real life and include them in my fictional writing. Worse I often feel like those are the parts that read as most true compared to what I had come up with on my own. This worried me for a long time but lately I’m less concerned about it. I feel like some of my truly fictional elements are getting better. I still use pieces from real life but I think I’m learning to write even fictional parts that ring true. Maybe someday I’ll learn to write without stealing from my own life but honestly, I don’t know that I will and I think I’m okay with that.

But I still worry about it. That’s okay though, I’m just a paranoid sort of person.

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So far this blog has been primarily used for writing updates because I am working on my skills as a writer. Word count updates have proved a challenge to do in a way that’s interesting. So, though I will continue to do updates about my goals, progress and achievements as a writer, I will also be including some new kinds of posts.

I have a couple of narrative posts lined up. I’ve just moved and I’m experimenting with narrative, especially humorous narrative by recounting stories about the quirks one encounters in a new home. I will also be doing some book reviews both fiction and non-fiction.

Between a hectic school schedule and an unexpected change of residence my word count has been flagging this semester. Plugging away at the novel has gotten harder. I’m hoping by switching it up now and then with fun blog posts and book reviews I’ll be fresher to work on my larger work. I also intend to keep working on poetry as well. Oh so many aspirations!

Of course all of that wonderful planning might go out the window come April since I’ve committed to participating in Scriptfrenzy this year. It’s like Nanowrimo but instead of 50,000 words participants have to write 100 pages of script which should be around 20,000 words. This sounds easier but it’s got to be all dialogue!

I’d call myself crazy but since I got excited about Scriptfrenzy I’ve done some pretty nice outlining for my script, written and polished two and a half future blog posts, hacked away at an old short story (okay that was more of a warm-up to the other stuff) and pulled my novel out after a month without even looking at it.

Things are looking up!

So, to announce my first book review which I hope to post before April begins.

I’m currently reading How Not To Make A Short Film: Secrets from a Sundance Programmer by Roberta Marie Munroe.

It was a birthday present from my best friend who took me to the bookstore and let me pick whatever I wanted. How awesome is that!

There are two reasons I chose this book. One is that it will be really helpful with Scriptfrenzy because it has some excellent chapters on Script Story and Script Structure which I hope will come in handy come April. It is also on my bucket list to make a short film.  So to recap by reviewing this book now I:

  1. Will be doing research to help me write a better script for Scriptfrenzy
  2. Will be learning to analyze non fiction for a review.
  3. Will be producing what I hope to be an interesting new type of entry for this blog.
  4. Will begin to learn film making skills that will help me cross an item off of my bucket list.

Multitasking shall be the key to achieving my goals.

Now back to my novel!

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