Friday Flash: "The Crab"

"The Crab"
by Jen Brubacher
They said if you put the crab in the freezer for twenty minutes it was still alive, but it wouldn't feel it when you boiled it to death.

I didn't believe it. But I watched anyway. The crab had come from the man at the dock whose thick grey sweater matched his beard.  He'd put it-- the crab, not his wooly beard-- into a cardboard box and wrapped the box around and around with twine to keep it from escaping.  We could hear its claws brushing against the cardboard, lightly tap-tapping like it was confused at where it had ended up.  We put the whole box into the freezer so we wouldn't have to touch it before it was asleep.

When Dad cut through the string and took out the crab he turned it over so we could see its stiff legs.  It didn’t seem like it was paying attention, so maybe it was sleeping.  But when he let it go over the pot of boiling water it hissed and screamed.  I was sure it felt everything.  I half expected it to snap in two, cold to hot so quickly like that.  I hoped it would snap in two so it wouldn't feel anything anymore.

Next day I leaned over the deep freeze and looked down where the crab had been.  I should have expected what came next but I was like the crab, curious and stupid.  My brother lifted my legs up and whoop, just like when I got dumped into the garbage cans at school, I was head-first stuck in the freezer.  And then he closed the lid.

I couldn't hear him.  My ears were full of the scraping and crack-cracking of vegetables and ice underneath me.  It was cold beyond the arctic wildnerness we'd created in the back yard last winter, and I was in a t-shirt, unprepared.  I went still and wondered how long it would take before I was asleep.  My brother wouldn't boil me to death.  Even he wouldn't do that.  But would he wait to see if I stopped moving?  To see if I was as dumb, as easily caught and kept as a crab?  He might.

When my Dad opened the lid to the freezer the first thing I saw was my wrist, veins as blue as seawater.

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This is my very first #fridayflash.

Click here for my other stories. For more information about #fridayflash and how to participate, go here.  And for a list of other stories to read, try this.

Silencing Vancouver

I was in Vancouver, British Columbia, the first time an agent expressed an interest in one of my novels.  She raised an eyebrow at the title, nodded as I gave her my pitch, and then asked me for 50 pages to read, "and the first chapter with the American character in it."  I knew immediately that she wasn't going to like that book.  At least the setting-- small town anywhere-- wasn't as much of an issue.

I've had a good number of conversations with other writers about where their books are set.  Obviously many of the writers who come to the Surrey International Writers' Conference are Canadian, but even there the general consensus on setting seems to be: "make sure it's a place that could be any American city."

The idea about Vancouver, unlike New York or London or any number of international cities where fiction is set, is that Vancouver is supposed to be dull.  Or something.  Unacceptable, anyway.  Too Northern and too Canadian, maybe.  It's gorgeous but a bit forgettable, a void ready to be filled with whatever other city's personality the artist wants to summon.

I'm as guilty of this as anyone.  When I write about a city I usually call it "the city."  I wonder what I'm afraid of?  I know I don't want to scare agents or publishers from taking on my work because they're worried American or other international audiences won't recognize the place.  But are readers really that easily confused?   And is Vancouver really so unremarkable?

Television shows are often filmed there, because it's cheaper and easier to get in to locations, but also because it's beautiful and atmospheric and kind of amazing.  Hence the sci fi:  X-Files, Supernatural, Stargate, Fringe... even "Cylon occupied Caprica" on Battlestar Galactica took advantage of the gorgeousness of the Vancouver Public Library.  But even when they're set on Earth these shows rarely admit where they are within the story, because somehow that would put off viewers.

The most illuminating example, for me, is Highlander.  The show skipped back and forth between Paris and Vancouver.  In Paris there was a whole history and depth of setting to draw on, known events and characters from reality, a flavour to the city.  But when it was in Vancouver it was just "a city," nowhere particular, dubbed "Seacouver" by fans to show that although it was obviously Northwest America, it might have been Seattle rather than Vancouver (though it wasn't,) so don't be confused.  Washington license plates and US flags were dropped into the shot whenever possible.  But what about the Gold Rush, sawmills, First Nations, and feminism?  Chinatown, drugs, fire, rich men and their trains?  What about Gastown, Granville, Kitsilano, the Coast Salish, Simon Fraser, and False Creek?



I now live in London, England.  There's obviously tonnes of history and plenty of fiction that shows it.  For example Audrey Niffenegger's Her Fearful Symmetry was based here, though the author doesn't live here, and that felt obvious to me: the descriptions were a tourist's description, an outsider's view.  I don't want to write like that.  I don't yet know London well enough to write as if I do.  My latest work in progress is based in Vancouver, the neighbourhood somewhere near Kits, stuck in beside English Bay.  "The bay" in "the city."  Do I want to erase its personality that way?  Or should I admit Vancouver into my story, its flavour and history and everything that it is, and tell interested agents, "This is where the story takes places.  The setting is not interchangeable.  And the reader will like the story better because it was based here.  They'll see the truth in it.  Trust them."

It's a gamble.

Pithy advice: Writing what you want to read

Some days it feels like there's enough advice on writing floating around, dive-bombing my brain and play-acting at being useful, that I may as well give up as actually sit down and write. Why write when there's so much to learn? Will my story be at all good, when there's always something else to consider?

One bit of advice I hear often is to "Write the book you'd like to read." Of all the apparently useful comments, this is one of the trickiest. Of course it makes perfect sense. Of course you should write a book you'd like to read. The alternative is kind of ridiculous.

Do you like mysteries? Write a mystery. That's reasonable. But beyond that, if you like mysteries with tormented characters, write that, too. And if your very favourite books are all set in New York, try New York as a setting. Do you prefer description to action? Go for it. Your interest and passion will show in your work. You'll enjoy it, and your readers will enjoy it. In theory, this method provides a no-fail way to create your perfect book.

But something bothers me about this method. As a guide how to write a good book, it's deceptive. It's tricky advice because it seems deep, like it's saying more than it is. Akin to telling someone who wants to be a chef, "Make the kind of food you'd like to eat." Oh, okay. Simple as that, right? Um, how do you poach an egg?

And then there's an issue at the heart of every human being's life: What do you like? What do I like? Why do I enjoy this book, and not that one? Why do I like it less when I read it the second time, or why do I like it more?

If I could figure out exactly what I want and why and how to achieve it, I'd have solved one of the bigger mysteries of humanity. But that mystery, while causing problems and often supporting psychologists, also makes things interesting. This is how I feel when I'm writing a book: I'm discovering something. The guide "write what I want to read" takes me as far as genre and perhaps even theme, but no further. There's a whole countryside left to map.

So it is with many of these pithy, clever bits of advice, adding a drop of theory and not much application to my writing process. And so I let them buzz around my head and try not to let them bother me too much. Nobody who dreams up the advice is actually sitting down to write my books, after all. At that stage it's all up to me.

The Definition of "Pornography"

I recently had my first encounter with an Internet filter in the workplace, and it involved pornography.  Of course it did.

A filter is one of those things that automatically indexes websites and decides if they can be viewed.  This filter gave reasons for each site it blocked, and that was fascinating.  Especially the pornography part.

I've worked in a few types of libraries, but most have been public libraries.  Therefore my personal ideas about censorship have a solid base in that perspective.  I want to supply information to everyone in the community regardless of income, ability, opinion, etc, and I expect everyone on the public computers to be either of age or supervised by a guardian.  If they aren't, well yikes, because the whole Internet is available.  And in a public library I think it should be, no matter how unfriendly the Internet can be.

This was not a public library.  And I attempted to access three sites that were blocked by the filter.  The first was Gmail.  The reason for the block: "Public Email System."  It was a work environment so I wasn't surprised.

The second site that was blocked was Twitter.  I know what you're thinking, but no, I wasn't trying to tweet from work.  It turned out there was a Twitter account attached to the organization and I wanted to see it.  The reason for the block: "Social Networking Site."  Again, it's understandable.

But the third site that was blocked was more interesting.  I had been searching for information on the organization and found a discussion between an ex-employee and someone else about literacy.  It was, in fact, the very first hit when searching for the organization.  And I was denied access.  The reason for the block: "Pornography."

...Right.  Rejecting the idea that I had grievously misunderstood the description of the link, I have to conclude that this was a mistake by the indexing program, and a pretty terrible mistake at that.  It illustrates the problem with these applications, and the reason I really disagree with the use of these filters for public library computers.  The Internet is too vast to check every site that gets blocked, so useful information is going to get censored.  And I'm not sure it's worth it.  Not in a situation where information needs to be supplied regardless of income, ability, opinion, etc.

Of course, that's the public library perspective.  A lot of cases will be different.  In this case, I just hope I don't get a message from an administrator, asking awkward questions about my browsing habits...

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Screenshot by oso, photo by noroute, both available at flickr.

This isn't my first encounter with an Internet filter altogether. A while ago I found that this very blog was censored at the Vancouver Airport.  The filter used there was broader and much more irritating.

Chinese Whisperings: The Red Book

The beginning of each year sees a bloom of articles about the death or rebirth of the short story. Every year seems to promise us that the internet, or modern attention spans, or ebooks, or a particular author has either rejuvenated short fiction or destroyed it entirely. Nobody ever writes, "It looks like short stories are still around, as always."

I guess I just did. Regardless, readers' have an uncertain relationship with the form.  This is frustrating because many emerging writers find the best way to get their writing out and read is using short fiction writing contests, or as part of an anthology. So as I writer I do myself a disservice in not paying more attention. And lately I've been trying to change that.

Some months back I was introduced to Jodi Cleghorn via the Fourth Fiction contest.  I gradually came to know about another project she was working on with fellow editor Paul Anderson called "Chinese Whisperings."  The idea is an anthology of interwoven short stories by different authors.  The first was written by Jodi herself.  The next took a minor character from that story and told their story.  And so on.

The first collection, called "The Red Book," has just been published.  I was excited to try it because the idea was so compelling.  Usually short story collections surround a certain topic, but this was a step further.  I was interested in how it would work.  My idea was to read a story or two a day and savour the experience.

No such luck.  I read it all in two days, completely absorbed.  While each story stood well enough on its own, it was after reading them all that the tapestry of the characters' world came clear.  Even when it seemed all the mysteries were solved, another payoff would come far later in the book.  The collection got better with each story read, and so too do the previous stories, the sum greater than its parts, and the parts made greater because of the sum.  The characters wavered my attention between their own selfishness and the reminder that nobody actually stands completely alone.  I'm very much looking forward to the next collection, "The Jade Book," out later this year.

Editors Paul and Jodi have also impressed me by taking a global view for the sale of the book.  Buyers can pay in any of five different currencies, based on the origins of the various writers who were involved.  This project really spans the English speaking world.  The paperback will be out in March, and in the meantime the ebook is available in formats allowing it to be read via PDA, iPhone, Kindle, Sony Reader, and other eReaders or a desktop computer.

You can read more about the concept and listen to the audio trailer at the website: http://chinesewhisperings.com/