The gravest error any writer can make is assuming that what they're working on HAS to be read to by others. The sad truth is no one needs to read your work. Adoring fans, or any audience for that matter, are not conjured up; they are manufactured. And an egotistical perspective of your own work is a great way to find yourself left alone to flounder in your own devices. There can be pride, sure. But respect, humility, and an ability to stroke the ego's of others go a long way too.
You have to sell yourself, which means networking, a huge componant for any artist desiring audience. But networking also provides the opportunity to connect with like-minded people, an invaluable resource.
Networking is not an easy thing to do for some people. There are times when I know I would much rather be safe at home, TV remote in hand, then heading out to some function where people don't know me and I have to schmooze. But it can be a lot of fun, once you make that almost Kierkegaardian leap to get out there.
For all you writers close to BC, there are number of festivals and conferences that take place annually:
On the more literary side of things (see my previous post for thoughts on "literary"), there is a wonderful gem called the Vancouver International Writer's Festival. I attended an event this past Friday called Vancouver Writes, which grouped aspiring writers in competitive teams to complete three writing tasks. For each task, a different published author would join the team as a guide. A poet friend of mine pushed me into going and I was glad she did. Not only did we meet some wonderful people, but I managed to make contact with some great authors/poets like Brad Cran and Nancy Lee, who were more than happy to provide email addresses and information. Their talent is immense, so I encourage you to research both of them. Of course, the wine and other libations helped too.
For those of you who enjoy genre writing (Fantasty, Romance, Thrillers etc.), one of North America's largest conferences is held every year in Surrey: SIWC (Surrey International Writer's Conference). I've attended it twice, even though I don't write genre fiction and made some good contacts on both occasions, not to mention receiving some valuable advice from agents and published authors alike. One great feature is called Blue Pencil which allows you to sit and dialogue with agents and/or authors (15 minute intervals) about your work. If you've completed a manuscript, you can pitch it to an agent or publisher. If you just need some advice or help, they are available for that too.
The important thing is to act. Don't be passive about your writing. Attend events that provide you oppportunity. Be genuinely interested in what others are doing; learn from their successes and failures.
Thus endeth my sermon...
February 25, 2007
February 11, 2007
What is Literary?
No Great Mischief
I know that a lot of us often walk by the top-ten bestseller lists in supermarkets and cringe. We roll our eyes at stories of sordid affairs between wealthy octogenarians and well-muscled pool boys, thumb our noses at yet another supernatural thriller about demon possession. Of course, from time to time when no one is looking, we’ll grab one of these little brain-candy pieces and read them while we hide downstairs in the den with a flashlight held between our teeth and a blanket over our heads. But we would prefer to be known for our exquisite taste in literature (like the Macleod book pictured here... absolutely brilliant), our wealth of knowledge about Steinbeck, Faulkner, Thoreau and the multitude of other greats Oprah has unfortunately claimed as her own. We consider them to be “literary” greats, genius scribes in a kingdom of hacks. But what does it mean for an author's writing to be “literary”?
This question gets asked all the time and the answer is more difficult to come to than you would think. I attended a seminar at a writing conference a few years ago that posed this question of literary value and everyone seemed to have their own opinion. For some, it was an indication of something that had stood the test of time, a classic like Crime and Punishment or The Age of Innocence. For others, it was word choice: the author’s painstaking measures to craft the perfect sentence. Still others said it was those books that garnered critical acclaim.
It’s perplexing that such a simple word has such a complicated definition, maybe no clear definition at all. I discussed this with a poet friend of mine once and she made the rather intelligent observation that the term had become ambiguous. It may not have started out that way historically, but now the word is used in so many different scenarios it cannot possibly retain a clear, decisive meaning.
She may be right. The definitions mentioned before cannot stand on their own accord. We cannot place all classics along the same gradient. Clearly what Dostoevsky did was monumentally different from Dickens, or Edgar Allen Poe. Likewise, some authors have different skills at morphing words into images (compare Alistair Macleod to Rohinton Mistry). And, of course we all know that critical acclaim is in the eye of the beholder. There are enough awards to go around for everyone, and what one considers prestigious, another may find laughable. And yet these authors have a vast number of readers, and their books are almost sacrosanct.
So, what then do we use as our barometer for literary value? In my mind it is likely a combination of all the mentioned definitions plus some personal taste. I’ve always said that our approach to literature, film, painting, illustrations etc. is similar to wine tasting. When starting off, you go for what is sweet, what tastes good to you. But as time goes by, and your palette develops you begin to notice complexities to what you drink, subtle flavours or influences. Art, in kind, also grows to become something more than sweet entertainment. Embedded in its subtleties lie truths about human nature, relationships, the earth and how everything interacts. In other words, the term “literary” is a blend of certain poetic qualities and nuances but also a reflection of someone’s own artistic journey, the ability to empirically detect more than what appears at the surface and to feel the weight of words.
I know that a lot of us often walk by the top-ten bestseller lists in supermarkets and cringe. We roll our eyes at stories of sordid affairs between wealthy octogenarians and well-muscled pool boys, thumb our noses at yet another supernatural thriller about demon possession. Of course, from time to time when no one is looking, we’ll grab one of these little brain-candy pieces and read them while we hide downstairs in the den with a flashlight held between our teeth and a blanket over our heads. But we would prefer to be known for our exquisite taste in literature (like the Macleod book pictured here... absolutely brilliant), our wealth of knowledge about Steinbeck, Faulkner, Thoreau and the multitude of other greats Oprah has unfortunately claimed as her own. We consider them to be “literary” greats, genius scribes in a kingdom of hacks. But what does it mean for an author's writing to be “literary”?This question gets asked all the time and the answer is more difficult to come to than you would think. I attended a seminar at a writing conference a few years ago that posed this question of literary value and everyone seemed to have their own opinion. For some, it was an indication of something that had stood the test of time, a classic like Crime and Punishment or The Age of Innocence. For others, it was word choice: the author’s painstaking measures to craft the perfect sentence. Still others said it was those books that garnered critical acclaim.
It’s perplexing that such a simple word has such a complicated definition, maybe no clear definition at all. I discussed this with a poet friend of mine once and she made the rather intelligent observation that the term had become ambiguous. It may not have started out that way historically, but now the word is used in so many different scenarios it cannot possibly retain a clear, decisive meaning.
She may be right. The definitions mentioned before cannot stand on their own accord. We cannot place all classics along the same gradient. Clearly what Dostoevsky did was monumentally different from Dickens, or Edgar Allen Poe. Likewise, some authors have different skills at morphing words into images (compare Alistair Macleod to Rohinton Mistry). And, of course we all know that critical acclaim is in the eye of the beholder. There are enough awards to go around for everyone, and what one considers prestigious, another may find laughable. And yet these authors have a vast number of readers, and their books are almost sacrosanct.
So, what then do we use as our barometer for literary value? In my mind it is likely a combination of all the mentioned definitions plus some personal taste. I’ve always said that our approach to literature, film, painting, illustrations etc. is similar to wine tasting. When starting off, you go for what is sweet, what tastes good to you. But as time goes by, and your palette develops you begin to notice complexities to what you drink, subtle flavours or influences. Art, in kind, also grows to become something more than sweet entertainment. Embedded in its subtleties lie truths about human nature, relationships, the earth and how everything interacts. In other words, the term “literary” is a blend of certain poetic qualities and nuances but also a reflection of someone’s own artistic journey, the ability to empirically detect more than what appears at the surface and to feel the weight of words.
January 25, 2007
5 Things...
Okay, this is completely off topic for my blog and I'm wary to partake, but considering how few people actually read this damn thing I've decided to play along... mostly to appease my wife, The Mighty Sally. I was tagged by her and informed that I must comply.
So, here are five things that some of you readers (all three of you) may not know about me:
1) I cry in movies. That's right, you heard me. For some reason I find myself to be rather emotional in films... good ones at least. Worst culprits are: Dancer In The Dark, Lost in Translation, and The New World, which in my mind are some of the more beautiful achievements these past few years.
2) If I could be anything in the entire world, I would be a singer in some metal band. While I love all kinds of music, especially the older, protest music of Neil Young and Bob Dylan etc. I love the raw, brutally honest sentiment of metal. I love the way it screams out at injustice, revels in its own bleak outlook. I've sung before, could even pull it off. But, as a good friend of mine once said, we never pursue what we truly love because to fail at that could mean the end of our passion. I'd love to be a MMA fighter too, but that's a close second.
3) My biggest fear is to fail as a father to my upcoming child. I suppose we all are keenly aware of our own shortcomings, those hidden and those more obvious, but I worry that mine will one day prevent me from connecting with my child completely.
4) I hate South Park. This may be a surprise to most people who know me, as this would probably be the one show they'd think I love. Untrue. This show sucks. Its social commentary is minimal, the characters are funny maybe once every thirty episodes. Even the religious slams, which I normally adore in other shows, fall short. Stupid, ineffectual crap.
5) I think car racing, whether it be Indy 500 or F1 or whatever, is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen. Not only is it an environmental disaster (think of the amount of fossil fuels being wasted), but it has absolutely no positive effect on any element of society, save for the red-neck faction who somehow think noise+fumes = entertainment. In fact, I have no real interest in cars in general. Sure, I'll buy one to get around, but I do not spend time thinking about which fancy sport car would be cool to drive. Do not care. I wish we didn't need a car at all.
I guess that's it...
So, here are five things that some of you readers (all three of you) may not know about me:
1) I cry in movies. That's right, you heard me. For some reason I find myself to be rather emotional in films... good ones at least. Worst culprits are: Dancer In The Dark, Lost in Translation, and The New World, which in my mind are some of the more beautiful achievements these past few years.
2) If I could be anything in the entire world, I would be a singer in some metal band. While I love all kinds of music, especially the older, protest music of Neil Young and Bob Dylan etc. I love the raw, brutally honest sentiment of metal. I love the way it screams out at injustice, revels in its own bleak outlook. I've sung before, could even pull it off. But, as a good friend of mine once said, we never pursue what we truly love because to fail at that could mean the end of our passion. I'd love to be a MMA fighter too, but that's a close second.
3) My biggest fear is to fail as a father to my upcoming child. I suppose we all are keenly aware of our own shortcomings, those hidden and those more obvious, but I worry that mine will one day prevent me from connecting with my child completely.
4) I hate South Park. This may be a surprise to most people who know me, as this would probably be the one show they'd think I love. Untrue. This show sucks. Its social commentary is minimal, the characters are funny maybe once every thirty episodes. Even the religious slams, which I normally adore in other shows, fall short. Stupid, ineffectual crap.
5) I think car racing, whether it be Indy 500 or F1 or whatever, is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen. Not only is it an environmental disaster (think of the amount of fossil fuels being wasted), but it has absolutely no positive effect on any element of society, save for the red-neck faction who somehow think noise+fumes = entertainment. In fact, I have no real interest in cars in general. Sure, I'll buy one to get around, but I do not spend time thinking about which fancy sport car would be cool to drive. Do not care. I wish we didn't need a car at all.
I guess that's it...
January 15, 2007
Edit This, Muffler Trucker
Most of you struggling writers out there can attest to this: generating income from writing is bloody difficult.. damn near impossible really. Okay, not actually impossible, but frustrating enough that every once in awhile you consider going back to whatever menial job you once had and ignoring your writing impulse for as long as you can. I'm with you, no question.
The past few months have been spent researching other writing possibilities that can help with the household income. Getting a short story published really doesn't cut it. I am fortunate (blessed, really) to have a wife that makes a decent salary while I pursue these inclinations. And thank the sweet baby Jesus in his manger that society no longer frowns on the husband being the "stay at home" half of the relationship, albeit my in laws still secretly mutter about my apparent lack of responsibility. My discoveries so far: it is a slow process, full of plenty of rejection. But, it can be done.
I've started a correspondence introductory course on Editing/Publishing from Simon Fraser University (SFU) here in Surrey. It's interesting enough, even from a writer's perspective. Lots of insight into the various types of editors out there and their respective roles: hunter gatherer, liaison and everything in between. There is potential here. A combination of factors, namely the mass influence of the world wide web and the corporate takeover of most of the major publishing houses in North America, a lot of the actual editing work (read: grammar, style, flow, consistency, accuracy etc.) is freelanced out. This means opportunity, once schooling is completed of course. But at what cost?
Much in the same way I think Creative Writing and English (studies) are at odds (construction vs. deconstruction), I think Editing and Writing may be opposing also, though not to the same extent. The job is all consuming. Most of the work revolves around ensuring the publishing machine is running smoothly: money is being put in the right places, copywriters are doing their jobs, the author is happy. At the end of the day, the editor takes the manuscripts home with him to read in his "off hours". This, of course, would be the exact time he should be working on his own material.
An even more complex notion is the issue of becoming a part of the publishing collective; your brain begins to self edit your work to suit the publisher, not your own sense of voice and style. This is perhaps the most deadly of outcomes. Publishing houses are choosing books for their marketability these days, their potential to sell to whatever demographic will offer the most money. It's a business sadly removed from any romantic love of the written word. Most writers cater to the publishing houses, then to the market, then to whatever remnants of their creative voice they feel they have left. Take a look at the bestseller lists in the supermarkets. Horrible tripe most of the time, and yet these are the authors who make the most money. I don't want to fall into that plastic, soulless realm. But, in the same breath, I want to have my work read... even at the risk of it being disliked.
So the trick is finding that razor's edge, that precarious perch where I can balance both my writing, my responsibility, and... my ego. What a vain existence. Slip one way and I'm a sell out. Slip the other way and I've become narcissistic for the sake of some dim vision of art. Stay perched on the edge and I'm safe and... mediocre. And this is all assuming that I have something to offer the industry to begin with. Writers are an underpaid, prattling lot. I suspect many write one way to survive, and another way to experience their lives fully. This is what I would love to be able to do.
The past few months have been spent researching other writing possibilities that can help with the household income. Getting a short story published really doesn't cut it. I am fortunate (blessed, really) to have a wife that makes a decent salary while I pursue these inclinations. And thank the sweet baby Jesus in his manger that society no longer frowns on the husband being the "stay at home" half of the relationship, albeit my in laws still secretly mutter about my apparent lack of responsibility. My discoveries so far: it is a slow process, full of plenty of rejection. But, it can be done.
I've started a correspondence introductory course on Editing/Publishing from Simon Fraser University (SFU) here in Surrey. It's interesting enough, even from a writer's perspective. Lots of insight into the various types of editors out there and their respective roles: hunter gatherer, liaison and everything in between. There is potential here. A combination of factors, namely the mass influence of the world wide web and the corporate takeover of most of the major publishing houses in North America, a lot of the actual editing work (read: grammar, style, flow, consistency, accuracy etc.) is freelanced out. This means opportunity, once schooling is completed of course. But at what cost?
Much in the same way I think Creative Writing and English (studies) are at odds (construction vs. deconstruction), I think Editing and Writing may be opposing also, though not to the same extent. The job is all consuming. Most of the work revolves around ensuring the publishing machine is running smoothly: money is being put in the right places, copywriters are doing their jobs, the author is happy. At the end of the day, the editor takes the manuscripts home with him to read in his "off hours". This, of course, would be the exact time he should be working on his own material.
An even more complex notion is the issue of becoming a part of the publishing collective; your brain begins to self edit your work to suit the publisher, not your own sense of voice and style. This is perhaps the most deadly of outcomes. Publishing houses are choosing books for their marketability these days, their potential to sell to whatever demographic will offer the most money. It's a business sadly removed from any romantic love of the written word. Most writers cater to the publishing houses, then to the market, then to whatever remnants of their creative voice they feel they have left. Take a look at the bestseller lists in the supermarkets. Horrible tripe most of the time, and yet these are the authors who make the most money. I don't want to fall into that plastic, soulless realm. But, in the same breath, I want to have my work read... even at the risk of it being disliked.
So the trick is finding that razor's edge, that precarious perch where I can balance both my writing, my responsibility, and... my ego. What a vain existence. Slip one way and I'm a sell out. Slip the other way and I've become narcissistic for the sake of some dim vision of art. Stay perched on the edge and I'm safe and... mediocre. And this is all assuming that I have something to offer the industry to begin with. Writers are an underpaid, prattling lot. I suspect many write one way to survive, and another way to experience their lives fully. This is what I would love to be able to do.
January 2, 2007
Jumping to Contusions with New Year's Resolutions
Right, so the holidays are finished. Everyone has consumed far too much of everything, groaned their way through meaningless conversation and sweaty hugs from pungent relatives otherwise forgotten. So now what? Back to work? Same old thing? Or is this the new era of [insert name here]?
I realized, a long time ago, that I failed at every single New Year’s resolution I ever made. They were always losing battles to begin with: stop cussing for a year, memorize the Bible, no more awkward, longing gazes at attractive girls too old for me in high school. That sort of thing. But now, whenever New Year’s rolls around, I feel a void. Am I supposed to be making active changes to better myself as a person? After all, 2006 was a bust, so now I have to begin 2007 with some element of evolution in mind, progression and such?
In writing, there is an endless amount of growth required. My biggest issues are complacency, distraction, and often self-defeat. I find it easy to talk myself out of writing for the day simply by assuming that I will not get anything accomplished to begin with. Lack of seeing the big picture, really. And I doubt I am alone in this. It doesn’t even have to be about writing. Any artistic project outside of the realm of every day work can take a back seat to flicking on the television and watching Seinfeld reruns.
So, in the spirit of wanting more from myself, recognizing shortcomings (and there are many), and wanting to be disciplined enough to push past them, I’ve stolen my resolutions for the year from Ginny Wiehardt’s writing suggestions posted on about.com, a decent resource for fiction writers if you can get past all the damn ads.
Top Ten Resolutions for 2007.
I figure the odds are in my favor. With ten resolutions to work with, even if I fail at a few of them I can still make the passing grade, yes? Nothing like setting my sights as high as possible (that’s sarcasm, folks).
What about you other writers? Any resolutions you have that are missing from this list?
I realized, a long time ago, that I failed at every single New Year’s resolution I ever made. They were always losing battles to begin with: stop cussing for a year, memorize the Bible, no more awkward, longing gazes at attractive girls too old for me in high school. That sort of thing. But now, whenever New Year’s rolls around, I feel a void. Am I supposed to be making active changes to better myself as a person? After all, 2006 was a bust, so now I have to begin 2007 with some element of evolution in mind, progression and such?
In writing, there is an endless amount of growth required. My biggest issues are complacency, distraction, and often self-defeat. I find it easy to talk myself out of writing for the day simply by assuming that I will not get anything accomplished to begin with. Lack of seeing the big picture, really. And I doubt I am alone in this. It doesn’t even have to be about writing. Any artistic project outside of the realm of every day work can take a back seat to flicking on the television and watching Seinfeld reruns.
So, in the spirit of wanting more from myself, recognizing shortcomings (and there are many), and wanting to be disciplined enough to push past them, I’ve stolen my resolutions for the year from Ginny Wiehardt’s writing suggestions posted on about.com, a decent resource for fiction writers if you can get past all the damn ads.
Top Ten Resolutions for 2007.
I figure the odds are in my favor. With ten resolutions to work with, even if I fail at a few of them I can still make the passing grade, yes? Nothing like setting my sights as high as possible (that’s sarcasm, folks).
What about you other writers? Any resolutions you have that are missing from this list?
December 14, 2006
Movies of 2006
2006 was not what I would consider a year for great movies. So much Hollywood formulaic garbage crammed into the local cinemas, I had a hell of a time coming up with a "Top Ten Best" list. Another factor was how difficult it was to find a theatre where films of interest were playing. Where I live, the two closest theatres are Colossus (Famous Players) and Strawberry Hill (Cineplex Odeon). Not exactly what I would call independently oriented. Most of the good films were at least a forty-five minute drive away and I ended up missing them. So, in the spirit of cynicism, I will mention some of the movies I saw this year that I enjoyed, followed by a brief list of films I wish I would have seen, but must now wait until they come out on DVD.
1) Babel: Inarritu’s latest installment of what appears to be a trilogy. Three separate stories overlap, working with themes of fear, ignorance, alienation, and love. Genuine performances, even by Brad Pitt, with beautiful cinematography compelled me to consider this the best film of the year. A+
2) The Proposition: Gritty, minimalist western set in the Australian Outback. Flawless camera shots and a pared down, rugged script that blends stark landscapes with punctuations of bloody violence. Nick Cave, a great songwriter, penned the script. A+
3) The Prestige: Many critics commented about the formula of this film, that it was too predictable. I did not find it as such, perhaps because I was so engrossed in the story I did not want to sit and figure it out. I guess sometimes formula works. While not perfect, the suspense building was great, the sets and atmosphere dark and moody. Much in the same way V for Vendetta was, this was simply good story telling. But maybe I’m a sucker for magic. A-
4) Little Miss Sunshine: Simple, cute story with quirky characters and some good dialogue. Not usually one for the “feel good” movies, but I enjoyed this one. B+
5) The Illusionist: Another film about magic, not quite as good as The Prestige, but with amazing performances and atmosphere. Based (loosely) on a dark short story “Eisenheim The Illusionist” by Steven Millhauser, this film blends love and deception with more magic. A
6) The Departed: When Scorcese wants to, he can really weave a story of mayhem. The tension builds and builds in this one, leading to an over the top finish, which I think may also be its downfall. Classic performances as one would expect from the cast, but not necessarily landmark. Still, well worth watching. B+
7) Lady In The Water: Not Shyamalan’s best, mostly due to what appears to be a flawed script from the start. But he makes you want to believe so badly, that I never walk away from his films disappointed. Mythical and epic, yet sincere in its delivery. B
Runner ups: Apocalypto, Thank You For Smoking, V for Vendetta
Movie Wishlist (not seen yet): The Last King of Scotland, Flags of Our Fathers, An Inconvenient Truth, The Science of Sleep, Half Nelson
I guess that’s about all there is to say for now. Who knows what will pop out at the awards ceremonies this year, not that they’re ever a true barometer. Feel free to post any lists you have, or mention some films that I may have missed.
December 10, 2006
Memory and Variation, Honesty and Truth
During a walk along Crescent Beach a few years back, I saw an older woman moving very slowly along the footpath with the help of a care-worker. The woman looked anxious, completely out of her element and this glimpse of frailty sparked a memory of my final hospital visit to my oma (grandmother), before her death. Once I was at my laptop, other memories started to flow in: not being recognized by Oma during the visit, Mom finding her crammed between the toilet and the wall of the tub one morning because of a late-night fall. It got to the point where I constructed an entire story around my visit to the hospital, something that later became a project for class. But the story was not wholly true, even if it did come from my memories. I invented details, added emotions and characteristics that may not have existed during the original experience. Our memories are extraordinary archiving systems, but they are not wholly accurate. A lot of what we archive, and dredge up at different times, is coloured by our viewpoint of the moment. So, as details can be forgotten from memory, they can also be tainted by potentially opposing emotions once the memory is brought out.
What exactly should be credited as the trigger of my story: the memory I had of Oma in her hospital bed or the moment I chanced upon the elderly woman out on her afternoon walk? The answer is both. Would my story still have come out the same way if I had not seen the old woman? Probably not. It may have come up at a later time, sure, but it would have been different. Details, emphasis, all would have been filtered through whatever the other trigger would have been. And herein is the great variable: unreliable memory combined with an unknown amount of potential triggers equals endless story possibilities. Or, at least an endless amount of ways the details of a story can come out.
I try to write what I know. I got this advice from every writing professor I ever had. On the surface it seems like such a simple statement and yet, considering my earlier comments, this is in all likelihood not possible. So, perhaps the statement needs to be modified to I write what seems to be a genuine response to the moment, the trigger, and everything else that comes out while the process unfurls. So writing then becomes more about an honest reaction than an objective, intellectual truth. Especially as it is being put down on the page. And this task is far more difficult than a person may think.
What exactly should be credited as the trigger of my story: the memory I had of Oma in her hospital bed or the moment I chanced upon the elderly woman out on her afternoon walk? The answer is both. Would my story still have come out the same way if I had not seen the old woman? Probably not. It may have come up at a later time, sure, but it would have been different. Details, emphasis, all would have been filtered through whatever the other trigger would have been. And herein is the great variable: unreliable memory combined with an unknown amount of potential triggers equals endless story possibilities. Or, at least an endless amount of ways the details of a story can come out.
I try to write what I know. I got this advice from every writing professor I ever had. On the surface it seems like such a simple statement and yet, considering my earlier comments, this is in all likelihood not possible. So, perhaps the statement needs to be modified to I write what seems to be a genuine response to the moment, the trigger, and everything else that comes out while the process unfurls. So writing then becomes more about an honest reaction than an objective, intellectual truth. Especially as it is being put down on the page. And this task is far more difficult than a person may think.
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