Television to Revolution in one easy step

I've been reading Clay Shirky's book Cognitive surplus: Creativity and generosity in a connected age. In the first chapter he explains that television became popular because it arrived at a time when we had an excess of free time combined with a reduction in social support. Watching television is something you can do alone that relieves feelings of loneliness. It's a social surrogate.

When I stopped watching so much television I started writing more. So of course I had to consider it, but no, writing is not another social surrogate. It seems like it should be; Creating a whole world of people seems like it should fight a little loneliness. But I don't write to pretend, I write to actually connect with other people. Not a character, a real person. The character is just a medium.

In his On Writing Stephen King said that writing is telepathy.

"Here we go—actual telepathy in action. You'll notice I have nothing up my sleeves and that my lips never move. Neither, most likely, do yours.

Look—here's a table covered with a red cloth. On it is a cage the size of a small fish aquarium. In the cage is a white rabbit with a pink nose and pink-rimmed eyes. In its front paws is a carrot-stub upon which it is contentedly munching. On its back, clearly marked in blue ink, is the numeral 8.

Do we see the same thing?"

And more than this, more than transmitting a vision or a speech, is the transmission of ideas. Whether a simple source of comfort (c'mon, there's nothing simple about that) or an inspiration, ideas are powerful. And good ideas can change someone's life. So with writing I'm not trying to escape, I'm trying to change the world.

No pressure though, right?

For the record, Shirky's book is fascinating to me both as a writer and a librarian. I think it's a must-read for anyone trying to understand social information systems, and in this age that's almost every information system.

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Photo: one less tv by Kevin Steele on flickr

Squint

Today I set the font on my Twitter app to Ariel, size 16.

I feel no shame.

The other day I flipped through a paperback my husband was reading and said, "How can you read this? I'd need a magnifying glass." He laughed. We looked at the book I'd been reading, a hardback with enormous words, and my Sony Reader that always has the text size set to medium or large. On the computer I bloat all my documents to 150% as soon as I open them, or they're blocks of mush. I've even given "constructive criticism" to bloggers when their text size or colours make it too difficult to read their writing.

This from the girl who created her first site with Geocities, with a busy dark blue background and font size set to 10.

When I first needed glasses, at seven or eight years old, the optometrist said it might have something to do with all the reading I did. How embarrassing. Spectacles were not going to improve my nerdy image. I hid them in my desk at school (beside my many books) and tried to squint at the chalkboard until finally giving up because the chalkboard was just a green blur without my glasses.

That first optometrist said my eyes might even adjust and fix themselves, as long as I wore the corrective lenses.

Sure, sir, whatever you say.

They haven't. In high school I got contact lenses, which hid the problem and allowed me to spend hours every year putting the lenses in, taking them out, and shaking them all about (aka cleaning them.) And it looks like I'm going to need some other kind of optical correction soon, too.

Maybe this?

And this time I don't care. I have a thesis to write, as well as several hundred related articles to read, beloved fiction to write, fascinating fiction to read, and a few road signs I don't want to miss. I guess I've sacrificed my eyesight for my favourite pass-times. As long as they don't stop making magnifying glasses, I don't regret it. I won't ever regret it.

At least my other senses are right on.

Sorry, what? What did you say? I can't hear you when you mumble.

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Photos: Magnified by Jake Bouma, at the lighthouse again by shoothead, & Kinlea's binoculars by wonderfully complex on flickr

Writing exercise: "Waiting"

I started the week with Write Anything's 10 Line Writing Prompt. It interested me, which should confuse my writing friends, because I am notoriously critical of writing exercises and usually break every rule as I go. I think I may have followed the rules on this one. That alone is worth a mention.

My result surprised me. You can listen to me read it:


Play along by listening to Write Anything's audioboo and then writing your own. I'd love to read or hear it, so feel free to post a link or just let me know what you thought.

Friday Flash: "Enjoy the Show"

"Enjoy the Show"
by Jen Brubacher
Blackness. There’s a mutter somewhere—a hundred voices restrained but joined in common commotion, then hushed to nothing by a warning flicker. A faint red glow in front of her. The veil of thick velvet holds it back, and then it’s on her: the spotlight.

She looks up into the crowd. The bright lights burn her eyes and all she sees are spots and a sea of shapes, nothing descript, no one familiar. She puts herself into the role—the first line is always the most important, it gives the rhythm for the night, gives the audience the confidence to believe—and she begins.

There is precision to this. It is art, yes, but also perfectly scientific. Change of tone there, cadence here, and timing, so much timing! This kind of thing can be taught, but badly. Some have it. Some don’t. There’s no way to tell until you’re up there bombing out and listening to bored sighs.

She had it.

The performance is a flood of emotion and effort and she’s left spent, sweating and smiling as the lumpy shapes in the darkness stand and applaud. Another well played game, she thinks. Another feather, another coin, another spectacular spectacle.

The house lights come up and they begin to leave, trailing out slowly, sliding their coats on and gathering purses, forgetting garbage and the programs. Don’t they want the programs?

She’s still standing there on stage. They won’t notice.

It’s always this way. She’s been warned. Still, it’s a shock when the audience is gone, the set cleared away, and she’s left waiting for her something more. The flowers from opening night have wilted. Truthfully, it’s been years. When did that happen?

Burn out or fade away. Choose quickly. There's never much time.

Time, time, and her performance is the same. It still takes all of her. But audience reaction dims. Who needs street vendors and the black market? For her the stage is a drug that is sure to produce an addict, and it’s sure to lose effectiveness, and it’s sure to cost her everything.

She looks at the posters on her dressing room wall. They’re from the great beginning, when it was all coming together. Colourful paintings of herself and her co-conspirators, drawing vivid images into people’s minds and leaving them breathless.

Leave them wanting more is the key. What does she have left to give?


She’s an old woman. Her hair has gone from shiny brown to silver, and her skin has fallen all around her body so she feels she’s keeping it up instead of the other way around. The stage is gone. Still she sees the red velvet framing everything she looks at. She asked someone once if that was normal, and they patted her hand. It’s alright, dear, as if that answered anything. Thanks a lot.

Burn out or fade away. She never chose, so the world chose for her.

---

Click here for my previous flash fiction.

Photo: Red spotlight/yellow spotlight by Richard Holden on flickr

New build: a seriously extended metaphor

A few months ago I finished the first draft of a novel, edited and revised, worked on it until I was happy, and sent it to my first reader. And that's that.

Now I'm beginning a new novel, and it has me worried. The old novel was a familiar structure. Its residents were well-rounded, its suites fully furnished. There was an entryway, a stairwell and many rooms. There were clear windowpanes and a quirky attic.

This new novel has a few residents, but they're strangers to me and they come without references. The floorplan is starting to appear out of the haze but dark corners remain. The site manager says, Wait. I don't want to wait. Time and energy are being invested here. I want a guarantee.

There is no guarantee. Planning permission has been granted, of course, but I'm worried about continued funding. I'm worried the architect is going to skip town.

But nothing gets built if you let the worry chase you away. Not a shack, and not a palace.

Time to get to work.

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Photos: Stack by orcmid & NYC - Civic Center by wallyg on flickr

Friday Flash: "We'll Get the Next One"

"We'll Get the Next One"
by Jen Brubacher
I let the red wine roll over my tongue, delicate tartness washing at the inside of my cheeks. Not too shabby, I thought. The scent of it was full and sweet. Then my wife told me it was poisoned.

It had been too long, and I knew her too well, to react the way she wanted me to. I set my glass on the Cedar dining table we’d bought from a Comox artisan and sighed.

“How’s that?”

She leapt on my question like an Okanagan mountain lion. “The grapes for this wine grow near the banks of the Nass River. It’s the Northernmost winery in British Columbia. The sacred headwaters are rich in minerals and they give the wine its deep, layered flavour.”

She took a breath and abruptly altered her tone from smooth and silky to a jagged bark.

“But the area is also rich in coalbed methane, and there are those who are willing to destroy the ecosystem to get what they want. And our government has given them permission!  Despite that the Nass and other affected rivers are the home of wild salmon. They live there. Breed and thrive there.”

I looked down at my plate where the translucent bones and limp peeled skin of a Sockeye steak accused me.

“Also affected are sheep, goats, wolves and—” She held a hand to her throat. “—bears.”

“Probably mosquitoes, too,” I added before I’d realized.

“You aren’t taking this seriously.”

“Of course I am.”

“You think it’s a joke.”

“Obviously it isn’t a joke. Obviously you care a lot about it.” I leaned over the pottery dishes we'd bought at Coombs Country Market and took her hand. “But there’s only so much we can do. We picketed parliament during the last prorogue. We stood in front of trucks on Haida Gwaii. I even took a month off work so we could tie ourselves to trees in Clayoquot Sound.”

“Yes?” She shook her head as if these things were unrelated to her current cause.

I picked up my wine glass and put it down again when she threw me a glare. “Maybe… Maybe someone else can take this one, hey? Maybe it doesn’t have to be us this time. We aren’t the only people who care, after all. Just this once we can let someone else deal with it. We’ll get the next one. Okay?”

She looked at me for a long moment and I started to sweat. “Honey?”

Then she said, “Okay.”

I should have recognized the change in her voice. I should have known what was coming next. She tilted her head, half a smile forming at the edges of her lips. And she said, “Sweetheart.”

I swallowed. “Yes, dear?”

“Have you heard about the recent Mountain Pine Beetle infestation?”

---

I’ve been wanting to write a Canadian-oriented story since Canada Day went by last week. I saw Eric J. Krause’s prompt this week—Your significant other explains the wine you just drank was poisoned—and this idea leapt out at me fully formed. There’s one thing that’s very Canadian, particularly British Columbian, that doesn’t get mentioned in the beer ads or on Southpark: caring so very much about our environment that it hurts. Vive le Canada!

Click here for my previous Flash Fiction.

Photo: j'adore canada! by wootam! on flickr

Audioboo and reading flash fiction

I've never been a fan of podcasts. I'm sure some are fascinating, but I have a particular approach to the excess of information that flies at my head each day, which is to be very careful about how I spend my time assimilating. I read a lot because I can read very quickly and pick out the ideas from articles, but there's no way to speed up spoken word, so I generally steer clear.

Then the ease of Audioboo caught my attention thanks to Jodi Cleghorn's introduction. There's no download, you can register and start publishing right away, and there's a five minute time constraint that nudges speakers to get to the point. That brevity also nudged me to realize that it was the perfect place to lend a voice to the flash fiction I'd been writing over the last few months. I recorded my first fridayflash, "The Crab," and found the process addictive.

I also found out that I love hearing authors read their own work. I have occasionally, at author readings at libraries and conferences, but most of the time the text stands alone. Audioboo is a wonderful way to hear authors I've never even met read their work, like Annie Evett's haunting "Leather Tack and Tears," and Tina Hunter's funny and inspiring "A Steaming Cup Full."

I've recorded two stories so far, both revealing a lot more to me as I spoke them out loud than I'd ever noticed as I read and re-read their quiet words:

"Familiar"


"The Crab"


I'll post more at the readings page as I go.

Photo: Rebecca reads by angus mcdiarmid on flickr

An interview with Ev Bishop

Today I'm retreating to the MC role and letting author and editor Ev Bishop take over to tell us about her writing life. I've known Ev for five years and she has always inspired and amazed me with her craft and accomplishments. I'm thankful that she's agreed to let me interrogate interview her here. Trust me, you won't be able to read about her monkey without wanting to know more. So, Ev!

Tell us about your first publication.

It wasn’t so much a publication as it was a public reading. I was in Grade 2 and a bit of a weird kid who always struggled to fit in. We were given an open topic story assignment and I wrote a little ditty about a terribly badly behaved little monkey who farted on a train. The teacher hadn’t vetted the stories before she got us to take turns sharing what we’d written with the class. I remember being kind of bored and fidgety and she had to call me up twice before I heard her.

The class actually tuned in and started listening. They even laughed at appropriate places. I was feeling pretty pleased—and then I got to the fart and its ramifications and they just went crazy! I didn’t get to finish my reading. I had to go stand in the hall and wait until my teacher got the class to settle down and start working on something else. Then “we” had a talk about being appropriate and blah, blah, blah. I couldn’t hear her; I had to fight with everything I had to keep from grinning and laughing with delight! My story—mine!—had made everybody laugh. They liked my monkey!

I’m still excited (even a little awed) whenever I have something accepted for publication or when someone who’s read something I’ve written shares a comment about how they liked it or connected with it, etc . . . but that long ago day stands out as special. It was the first time I realized that maybe I had a bit of the same gift that I adored in the stories I read—the ability to pull in the audience. It was also my first “official” blush of power, the heady feeling of delight in the power of my own words.

I’ve always wondered if that teacher had any idea of how profoundly and powerfully her lecture affected me. ;-D

How did you get into freelance writing and editing?

My business developed almost unintentionally. I was writing a lot and starting to sell pieces, and eventually people started calling and asking me to take on writing/editing jobs.

Somewhere along the line, I realized I could probably make a successful business out of these unsolicited phone calls—and do something that means a lot to me: inspire and encourage others in their writing goals.

Do you have any opinions about self-publication vs. traditional publication, or other ways publication is changing?

There have always been a variety of ways to publish (well, for the last couple hundred years or so, anyway) and there has always been controversy about self-publishing versus “traditional” publishing, the latter usually being deemed more professional or a better indictment of the author’s skill (though, really, that’s just silly—many famous authors originally self-published).

If your goal is to get your stories into the hands of as many readers as possible though, today I think going through the journey of getting your manuscript published by a publishing house is the way to go. If you want a treasure to pass on to friends or family or have an eclectic book that will have high appeal to a select few, I think one of the many self-publishers or P.O.D. publishers is probably what you’re looking for.

Any opinions about ebooks vs. traditional books?

Anything that helps us share information and tell stories is all-good in my books. Pun intended. ☺ I love nothing more than the sensory experience of paper pages under my fingers, the scent and smell of the paper and glue, the texture of the cover . . . It will be a long time, if ever, that traditional books are replaced. For ease of packing around, updatability, etc (especially for textbooks and certain works of non-fiction), e-books just seem practical to me. The more modes a person can read in, the better.

What are you working on right now?

Book II in a three-book series (though each novel works really well as stand alone.)

Why did you choose to write in your genre?

My genre changes from story to story and it’s never a conscious This book will be a . . . Rather, a story occurs to me and then I figure out what it is. When I realized that my last book was a mystery/suspense with supernatural elements, I was really intimidated but really excited.

What's your favourite writing book, and why?

Um . . . like I could ever just have one favourite writing book. I have two full shelves in my library are dedicated to books on the craft of writing—a very dangerous thing. Why dangerous? It's just that I'm always looking for ways to avoid writing (Don't ask why; it makes no sense. Writing is both what I love to do best and what I most strenuously attempt to avoid!) Losing myself in others' wisdom, while feeling fully justified because I'm bettering my craft, is a great stalling technique. If you would be a writer, read and read! But don't forget to write and write and write. That said, in no particular order, here are my favourite writing-related books:

SELF-EDITING FOR FICTION WRITERS: How to Edit Yourself Into Print by Renni Browne and Dave King
I go as far as to say that if you buy this book on editing fiction, you will never need another—except a large dictionary, of course, but you have one of those, right?

ON WRITING by Stephen King
It's not that any of the information in this book is so mind-blowing or craft-changing (although it does have some helpful tips), it's that sometimes when you spend a lot of time alone, writing, submitting, being rejected... (and repeat and repeat and repeat!), it's just really good to have someone witty, dry and a tad sarcastic to cheer you on and to remind you why you write in the first place. My writing friends who fit that bill dislike calls in the wee hours of morning or in the deep hours of night, but Stephen King? He's always there. (Creepy!) His words make me laugh out loud and feel comforted and affirmed at the same time.

CONSIDER THIS . . . Questions That Make You Think by Barbara Ann Kipfer
Just good because . . . well, the questions make you think. I use them as writing prompts.

THE PRACTICE OF POETRY: Writing Exercises From Poets Who Teach Edited by Robin Behn and Chase Twichell
I don't care if you fancy yourself a poet or not, or even if you like poetry. This book is amazing and doing its exercises will a) be great fun, and b) strengthen and add depth to your writing.

WHAT IF? Writing Exercises for Fiction Writers Compiled by Anne Bernays and Pamela Painter
Even if you don't do the exercises, just reading through what they're meant to bring out of you is hugely valuable. But I'd do the exercises.

What's your favourite fiction book (or author) and why?

Right now I’m in love/envy/awe with Tana French (have her latest—Faithful Place—on pre-order) and I’m devouring Jodi Picoult’s House Rules with great interest (as I do most of her books.) I adore Diana Gabaldon’s epic stories and most of Stephen King’s. Aldous Huxley and C.S. Lewis were hugely formative to me in my younger years . . . I also love Susan Howatch, Elizabeth Berg, Phil Rickman and Louise Penny. It’s impossible to narrow down a definitive list of favourites, however, and even though I’m stopping now, I feel guilty because of the names of other much loved, influential authors leaping to my mind.

Tell us about your favourite thing you've ever written.

Every book I write is my favourite while I’m writing it and is also my best work—I think it kind of has to be like that, doesn’t it? Simultaneously, my current WIP is also the book I’m most sure I won’t pull off and the best example of just how terrible a writer I am . . .

My first novel, however, What Is Seen will always have a special place in my mind, because it was my first and proved that I could do it—I could write a novel!

Give us a DO and a DO NOT for aspiring writers.

Do write for the fun and for the love of writing itself.

Do not ever stop striving to be a better writer. Writing is a craft and a discipline—learn it, hone it, practice it—for life.

And then a bonus question: Tell us about your local public library.

I can’t say enough about the value of public libraries. There seems to be some “modern” notion that libraries are obsolete, that no one uses them, that the Internet has made them redundant. Absolutely nothing could be further than the truth. It’s a gross falsehood perpetrated by people wanting to justify funding cuts by touting the myth of the affluent that “everyone” has access to books, information and computers . . .

Today, as in days of their inception, libraries stand as kind sentinels, providing information and guarding our individual rights to knowledge, regardless of age, gender, and socioeconomic class, etc.

The real value of libraries, however, is both larger and smaller than just their role in society as a promoter of equality and freedom. They are nourishment for the soul and fuel for the imagination and spirit of every person who has ever gotten lost in the stacks and wondered, what if . . .

Stepping off my soapbox now and getting personal: I’ve had a library card with the Terrace Public Library—my library ☺—since I was seven. It is still the place I am most likely to get drunk on the sheer exquisiteness of possibility . . .

Thanks for inviting me to be interviewed, Jen. It was really fun!

Cheers,
Ev

Author Ev Bishop is a columnist with the Terrace Standard, and her non-fiction work appears in a variety of regional and international publications. Her fiction has been published in Cleavage, Breakaway Fiction for Real Girls, a Sumach Press anthology, AlienSkin Magazine, and Every Day Fiction Magazine.

Alongside her creative and business writing, she offers editing services and craft workshops for writers of all ages and ilk.

When Ev doesn’t have her nose in a book or her fingers on her keyboard, you'll find her hanging out with her kids and husband, lounging at a lake, or consuming pots of coffee with her friends.

Visit Ev online at www.evbishop.com or read her blog, Write Here, Write Now at http://www.evbishop.wordpress.com