My blog buddy, Heidi Willis, asked me to do this, and I'll do it for her because she is one of my favourite people I've never met. We're part of an online writing group, in which we plan lovely getaways to Heidi's Maine beach house, where we'll read in our jammies all weekend (in pretend world). I didn't think I had anything interesting left of me -- I spill a lot on this blog. I might repeat myself, so consider pretending you don't know anything about me first.
1) I have a crooked spine. I've come to terms with it. Symmetry is over-rated. Imperfection is interesting.
2) I was at a bush party in 1987 with my boyfriend. I watched him take a drunken beating from a particularly tough dude, while standing beside my ex-boyfriend. Also in attendance that night, although I didn't know it yet? My next boyfriend. I ended marrying him and we don't do bush parties anymore. Good times.
3) I have written 5 novels. One of them is pretty good. One of them is really good and getting better, but I'm aiming for excellent. None of them are actual real books. However, I can call myself A Writer because I have been rejected by some of the best literary agents in North America, darn it!
4) I got a pony for my 7th birthday. I named her Chocolate. Because she was dark brown. I was seven; clever literary reference names weren't in my repertoire yet. Besides, "Hemingway" is a ridiculous name for a small filly.
5) I don't care or mind if you resent me for #4. Hey man, I didn't have much of anything else, but I had ponies and that was more important than anything else. Even Barbies.
6) I am a bit of a tomboy but I loved my Barbies. (Both of them.)
7) I had a huge crush on Shaun Cassidy when I was eight. I had the T shirt. I had the pin-ups on the wall. Until John Stamos came along a few years later, Shaun was the sun in my sky. What can I say, I fall hard and I fall easily.
8) I had a Donny Osmond doll too. He had purple socks!!!!!
9) Sometimes I really lay it on thick with the red carpet stuff. Like, "Well when I was on the red carpet the first time..." and "We walked right past (insert Famous and /or Well Known Canadian Artist) and he/she is actually very short..." and also "....about four feet away from Shania Twain..." and I am just a tiny bit ashamed that I throw it around like that.
But come on! I grew up on a pig farm! My husband grew up behind the feed mill! RED FRIGGEN CARPET? You are damn right I'm gonna brag that up.
10) If I had money to burn I'd start up a Useless Critter Farm. I'd have a llama and a few miniature horses, heck, I'd have the three horses I have now. A large collection of donkeys. A sheep. About 50 goats, because they rock! Numerous cats. Peacocks. Heck if I could I'd have an elephant.
hahaha, I just changed four of those because I thought of something more interesting than what I first wrote.
Showing posts with label bush party. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bush party. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Monday, May 17, 2010
RONNIE JAMES DIO Rock in Peace...
NOBODY ELSE SOUNDED OR LOOKED LIKE HIM
He could appear absolutely evil, with his sharp eyebrows and mass of dark curly hair. As he aged, his hair thinned and made him look even more frightening. Pair that with his note-perfect wail and you got one impressive front man.
In real life, he was polite, articulate and had a winning smile. I never got to see him perform, and yeah, I regret that.
A SMALL MAN WITH A HUGE VOICE
As some of you may already know, I myself am not very big. This guy is like a hero to me - only shoulder high to his bandmates but on stage, larger than life! It's like his whole body was filled with that magnificent voice. He is unmistakeable.
HE WAS ALWAYS WORKING, AND CONSISTENTLY SOUNDING PERFECT
For the last couple years, he was recording and touring with Heaven And Hell.
They took the band name from the title of their first album together, after Ozzy left the band. They don't call themselves Black Sabbath because that's the Ozzy Osbourne-fronted band. Heaven And Hell toured, and last year made a blistering studio album. It'll be the last one, sadly.
But Dio fronted several bands in his career, as well as a few solo albums.
HE WAS INTO RAINBOWS AND DRAGONS AND SWORDS AND STUFF BUT WAS STILL INFINITELY HAAAAVY
He was the singer for this band, formed by the guitarist formerly of Deep Purple. This record contains a lyric about a "rainbow in the dark." Think about that for a minute.
Jethro has this on vinyl and in the late 80s we used to listen to it in his "band room." Good times.
HIS RECORDS HAVE SOME OF THE SCARIEST COVERS THIS SIDE OF IRON MAIDEN
What in the disturbing heck is going on here??? Scared the snot outta me when I was 17 but what a cool piece of work this album is. Jethro had this on cassette. We'd listen to it in his '67 Strato Chief. See that logo? Jethro drew that on his school notebooks. Badass.
Twenty years has sort of eased the scare factor on that cover art. But age hadn't dulled these guys at all. In 2009 they came out with possibly the friggin scariest album art EVER.
I felt guilty about something, even though I wasn't sure what exactly, when I looked at this record.
I mean, that's just not right, is it? Jethro had this on vinyl too. Of course he did. We'd sit on his wrecked couch and listen to this. Other people would debate on which singer was better in Black Sabbath: Ozzy or Dio? I never thought that should be a debate. My world was big enough for both.
HE IS WIDELY CREDITED WITH INVENTING/POPULARIZING THE "DEVIL HORNS".
And it totally worked for him.
HE WAS RESPECTFUL TO HIS AUDIENCE
HE COULD WEAR SPARKLY STUFF WITH BELL SLEEVES AND STILL BE RIGHTEOUS.
HE WAS AWESOME AND WE'LL MISS HIM.
Friday, March 07, 2008
The Friday Report
This has been just a sucky week, folks, not gonna lie. But the good news is we have the day off school today and I get to hang with two of my favourite people in the world- my kids! We'll be going out for a barn day. I haven't been on a horse at all this week and don't think I will today either. Not up to my usual strength. My girl will ride, but first we need to shovel a lot of snow out of the riding ring. Oh, and it looks like we're only getting one snowstorm this weekend, which is actually an improvement over the last four months...
Jethro will be busy all weekend at Canadian Music Week. He's been setting up gear and doing sound checks and having a few "Hello Cleveland" moments in the underground of a big old building in Toronto. He'll be recording about six bands each day for two days and rubbing shoulders with all kinds of music biz people. Considering the physical effort of setting up and tearing down, the lack of sleep, and nasty weather, he'll likely sleep in the city both nights. Check him out with his glamourous life, eh? I won't be joining him. As much as I love seeing new bands, I've had enough city for awhile. I can wait til we go to Calgary a month from now.
I miss Jethro when he's got to stay the night for work, but that's life. I'd rather have him that way, busy all the time, than not have him at all.
The critters and I have been sort of lolling around the house all week. I've done a lot of editing this week and the Cat was in my lap for most of it. I have black cat hair in the keyboard. The Pug looks really disappointed that he's not getting as much lap time. I told him he's getting too big and he just looked at me with That Look and you know what look I'm talking about.
He did offer to clean my computer screen for me though. Wanna see? It looked like this!
So about those edits?
Well... I'M DONE.
I went through the whole thing, made every change in the Pages document that I'd scribbled in pencil in the hard copy. I had some moments of Oh my gosh that is so good and some moments of That's awkward and I can make it better and some of Ha! He'd never say it like that! He'd say it like THIS! and yes a few moments of OH MAN THIS IS WAY TOO SLOW AND I HAVE TO TOTALLY REWRITE THE FIRST 50 PAGES AND THE ENTIRE ENDING!!!
But y'know... for the first time, in over a year, I can open it to any page and go, Hmm... this is a pretty good story.
I love my characters and have promised one that he'll get his own book some day. There's conflict, there's struggle, lots of pain, a few chuckles, some sex drugs Jesus rock n roll and dusty dirt roads. Lots of stuff I love except for drugs. It's dark, people, and I was so scared to let the dark scary stuff in there... but without it it's just a bunch of kids doing stupid stuff out in the sticks. It's just an endless bush party. I had a story to tell and I couldn't avoid it anymore. I let the dark nasty stuff in and that's what makes it worth reading. Without the dark there's no hope to balance it out, or some other kind of Zen reasoning. It'll all make sense later. Trust me.
And in case you're wondering, yes, I am going to look over the first few chapters. I still think they can be tightened up. I will be shipping the first 50 pages off to an agent very soon, and those pages are like my audition. They have to grab her. If they don't, my chance there is gone. Yes there are other agents but she's a big fish in a Canadian pond -- without mentioning any names, she's good at getting books out there and on a few big lists-- and I'm giving her first shot this time around. I didn't send to her before because I didn't have the guts. Well I'm all guts now, folks.
Oh boy. Heavy.
Heavy like snow.
And because it's Friday, and you've been patient with a long rambling blog post, and because in my neck of the woods we're all really sick of snow....here's your warm weather Depp...
think happy thoughts think happy thoughts think happy thoughts
Jethro will be busy all weekend at Canadian Music Week. He's been setting up gear and doing sound checks and having a few "Hello Cleveland" moments in the underground of a big old building in Toronto. He'll be recording about six bands each day for two days and rubbing shoulders with all kinds of music biz people. Considering the physical effort of setting up and tearing down, the lack of sleep, and nasty weather, he'll likely sleep in the city both nights. Check him out with his glamourous life, eh? I won't be joining him. As much as I love seeing new bands, I've had enough city for awhile. I can wait til we go to Calgary a month from now.
I miss Jethro when he's got to stay the night for work, but that's life. I'd rather have him that way, busy all the time, than not have him at all.
The critters and I have been sort of lolling around the house all week. I've done a lot of editing this week and the Cat was in my lap for most of it. I have black cat hair in the keyboard. The Pug looks really disappointed that he's not getting as much lap time. I told him he's getting too big and he just looked at me with That Look and you know what look I'm talking about.
He did offer to clean my computer screen for me though. Wanna see? It looked like this!
So about those edits?
Well... I'M DONE.
I went through the whole thing, made every change in the Pages document that I'd scribbled in pencil in the hard copy. I had some moments of Oh my gosh that is so good and some moments of That's awkward and I can make it better and some of Ha! He'd never say it like that! He'd say it like THIS! and yes a few moments of OH MAN THIS IS WAY TOO SLOW AND I HAVE TO TOTALLY REWRITE THE FIRST 50 PAGES AND THE ENTIRE ENDING!!!
But y'know... for the first time, in over a year, I can open it to any page and go, Hmm... this is a pretty good story.
I love my characters and have promised one that he'll get his own book some day. There's conflict, there's struggle, lots of pain, a few chuckles, some sex drugs Jesus rock n roll and dusty dirt roads. Lots of stuff I love except for drugs. It's dark, people, and I was so scared to let the dark scary stuff in there... but without it it's just a bunch of kids doing stupid stuff out in the sticks. It's just an endless bush party. I had a story to tell and I couldn't avoid it anymore. I let the dark nasty stuff in and that's what makes it worth reading. Without the dark there's no hope to balance it out, or some other kind of Zen reasoning. It'll all make sense later. Trust me.
And in case you're wondering, yes, I am going to look over the first few chapters. I still think they can be tightened up. I will be shipping the first 50 pages off to an agent very soon, and those pages are like my audition. They have to grab her. If they don't, my chance there is gone. Yes there are other agents but she's a big fish in a Canadian pond -- without mentioning any names, she's good at getting books out there and on a few big lists-- and I'm giving her first shot this time around. I didn't send to her before because I didn't have the guts. Well I'm all guts now, folks.
Oh boy. Heavy.
Heavy like snow.
And because it's Friday, and you've been patient with a long rambling blog post, and because in my neck of the woods we're all really sick of snow....here's your warm weather Depp...
think happy thoughts think happy thoughts think happy thoughts
Monday, October 29, 2007
Vacuum
Today's post has a double meaning! Not only does it refer to the bizarre suffocating blankness I've discovered after sending off a pile of queries, but also to what I have to do today.
I've neglected my house so badly! I spent so much time agonizing over queries and synopses and emails and envelopes...and spending two hours, three days a week at the barn...that I have barely kept up with basic housework maintenance. Yesterday, as I was languishing on the couch having a day off, I had a visual standoff with a herd of dust monsters under the Comfor Tabble Chair across from me. The confrontation ended with neither of us making a move. It was my day off. But dammit, today I'm gonna wrestle those dust monsters down and destroy them.
It doesn't help that I hate housework and suspect that I don't really know how to do it.
But we'll talk about that later.
Last week, I felt like I'd done a marathon. I got my stuff sent away and kind of didn't know what to do with myself. My brain had been so full of JennyKatieWillAdamTom that without them, I was aimless. I puttered around, made myself go out to Susan's place and ride, and walked through the house forgetting what I was meaning to do. Every day I'd think, okay, that project's done, on to the next one, and I'd write, but my mind wandered off and wouldn't come back when I called! I told myself I was allowed to kind of decompress after the intense pressure I put on myself to get the submissions perfected and get them out there. All week I thought I was ready, and I wasn't.
Whooooooosh. Slow, steady flight off the momentum ride....looks like it'll be a soft landing. Relief.
The new Fake People have moved in. Two sets of Fake People, in two different Stories, which could make things rather crowded up there in my brain...but heck, that's nothing new. I just hope they all get along and nobody gets jealous if someone else gets more speech time.
And since today's all about housekeeping, I invite you to imagine today's soundtrack, which will consist largely of Red Hot Chili Peppers and Rage Against The Machine and quite possibly some Bill Munroe, because after all Bluegrass is sort of the Unruly Speed Metal cousin of country music, right? Am I right? And let's get some housekeeping out of the way here at Hick Chic. Or should I say, Hick Sheeeeeek.
Thank you for your suggestion on my next Hick Chic Guide. I am still trying to decide!! But I do know one thing...coming up in November...HICK CHIC FASHION WEEK!!!!! It's gonna be awesome! I'm collecting pictures for it already!
Tomorrow will be your Hick Chic Guide, so you know I'll be thinking about the topic while destroying dust monsters.
And in the heck-why-not category, I'm going to share with you the first paragraphs of three stories. I've already posted them on this here internet, over on Nathan Bransford's Largely Indispensible First Paragraph Challenge so heck why not- here they are.
From TROUBLE WILL FIND US, for which I laboured over a query letter for months and is now out of my hands... Swear word warning, okay?
Jenny is totally wasted, sprawled on the hood of the Caprice, blinking at the big black sparkling sky spinning above her. She’s been drunk often enough so far to know that she’s a happy drunk. Normally, anyways, she’s a happy drunk. She started off the evening by referring to my ex-boyfriend Marty as a big fucking goof, which didn’t stop her from taking a beer from him. Once she got going she picked up a few more beers, and her mouth got bigger, and she’s pretty damn lucky that she’s a girl and so far, even in 1988 when we’re supposed to be all liberated and equal, guys still have enough respect to not hit a girl.
These next two are in progress. They'll be changed a lot before the whole thing is done and readable. That's the way I work. Here goes...
From a new project with the working title INNOCENT-
I’m having a hot, slow motion summer. Everybody’s either away or working, and all the jobs in Forthright were taken in May. I should have gotten my ass out there and started looking sooner. Instead, I’m stuck here with no friends and no money and nothing to do but read, which is why I’m on my way to the library. It’s 9:30 and already hot as hell. I pull a covered elastic from my wrist and get my hair back into a ponytail. It’s too hot to have my hair on my neck. A drop of sweat runs down my chest and into my bra. I wish I could just not wear a bra but then my girls will run wild and I don’t think that’d be good. Guys can’t stop staring at them as it is and I think I’ve caused enough scandal in this town already. After five years of being called, let’s see, a slut, a homewrecker, a liar, a prostitot, that was creative, and my favourite, “Evil in a pretty package,” the last thing this stupid dot on the map can handle is the sight of my girls running wild.
From a new project with the working title RIDE-
I attract every lost soul, oddball, weirdo, eccentric, nutbar and freak within sensory distance of me, and that magnetism alone is what makes me a freak. My freakiness turned me into a hermit. I only wanted to hang around out here in the hills with the horses, and let people come to me for their riding lessons and then go away. I kept my room mates in the basement apartment so they wouldn’t bug me. I went into town once a week, twice if I had to. I destroyed most of the pictures of my ex husband. I left the city. I didn’t have to pass the homeless guy on the corner any more and feel horrible that I couldn’t sit down and feed him and fix him up and save him. I didn’t have to be overwhelmed by all those damn people going somewhere, all the time. I rented myself a window full of fields and trees and a big old barn. I bought a kicking stereo and a computer. I’d go out on a road trip for the occasional rock concert. I owned a pickup truck, old but paid for, and owned two awesome horses. Things were settling down, man, and I was feeling okay about life again. I was just hunkered down, laying low. And then Brandon, the freak, him with his sweet grey eyes and his coloured music notes and his long legs, got out of a car in my muddy yard, and I knew him, because I’d already been to, like, five of his gigs. I totally knew that he was just a kid and I had a good thirteen years on him. But how did a freak like him end up way out here, standing in front of a fence, with a freak magnet like me...except that naturally, that’s the way it works, right?
So there you have it. I will never have writer's block because I have two stories going on. I'm so hesitant to write INNOCENT. If I thought TROUBLE was an uncomfortable experience in some places, I've got some learning to do. This is a book that demands I write it, not necessarily something I'd choose to write. It found me. I have to do it. RIDE on the other hand is a lot more fun. I'll save it for times when the other one threatens to bury me under its weight.
Speaking of crushing...and submission...
I must wrangle the dust monsters.
I've neglected my house so badly! I spent so much time agonizing over queries and synopses and emails and envelopes...and spending two hours, three days a week at the barn...that I have barely kept up with basic housework maintenance. Yesterday, as I was languishing on the couch having a day off, I had a visual standoff with a herd of dust monsters under the Comfor Tabble Chair across from me. The confrontation ended with neither of us making a move. It was my day off. But dammit, today I'm gonna wrestle those dust monsters down and destroy them.
It doesn't help that I hate housework and suspect that I don't really know how to do it.
But we'll talk about that later.
Last week, I felt like I'd done a marathon. I got my stuff sent away and kind of didn't know what to do with myself. My brain had been so full of JennyKatieWillAdamTom that without them, I was aimless. I puttered around, made myself go out to Susan's place and ride, and walked through the house forgetting what I was meaning to do. Every day I'd think, okay, that project's done, on to the next one, and I'd write, but my mind wandered off and wouldn't come back when I called! I told myself I was allowed to kind of decompress after the intense pressure I put on myself to get the submissions perfected and get them out there. All week I thought I was ready, and I wasn't.
Whooooooosh. Slow, steady flight off the momentum ride....looks like it'll be a soft landing. Relief.
The new Fake People have moved in. Two sets of Fake People, in two different Stories, which could make things rather crowded up there in my brain...but heck, that's nothing new. I just hope they all get along and nobody gets jealous if someone else gets more speech time.
And since today's all about housekeeping, I invite you to imagine today's soundtrack, which will consist largely of Red Hot Chili Peppers and Rage Against The Machine and quite possibly some Bill Munroe, because after all Bluegrass is sort of the Unruly Speed Metal cousin of country music, right? Am I right? And let's get some housekeeping out of the way here at Hick Chic. Or should I say, Hick Sheeeeeek.
Thank you for your suggestion on my next Hick Chic Guide. I am still trying to decide!! But I do know one thing...coming up in November...HICK CHIC FASHION WEEK!!!!! It's gonna be awesome! I'm collecting pictures for it already!
Tomorrow will be your Hick Chic Guide, so you know I'll be thinking about the topic while destroying dust monsters.
And in the heck-why-not category, I'm going to share with you the first paragraphs of three stories. I've already posted them on this here internet, over on Nathan Bransford's Largely Indispensible First Paragraph Challenge so heck why not- here they are.
From TROUBLE WILL FIND US, for which I laboured over a query letter for months and is now out of my hands... Swear word warning, okay?
Jenny is totally wasted, sprawled on the hood of the Caprice, blinking at the big black sparkling sky spinning above her. She’s been drunk often enough so far to know that she’s a happy drunk. Normally, anyways, she’s a happy drunk. She started off the evening by referring to my ex-boyfriend Marty as a big fucking goof, which didn’t stop her from taking a beer from him. Once she got going she picked up a few more beers, and her mouth got bigger, and she’s pretty damn lucky that she’s a girl and so far, even in 1988 when we’re supposed to be all liberated and equal, guys still have enough respect to not hit a girl.
These next two are in progress. They'll be changed a lot before the whole thing is done and readable. That's the way I work. Here goes...
From a new project with the working title INNOCENT-
I’m having a hot, slow motion summer. Everybody’s either away or working, and all the jobs in Forthright were taken in May. I should have gotten my ass out there and started looking sooner. Instead, I’m stuck here with no friends and no money and nothing to do but read, which is why I’m on my way to the library. It’s 9:30 and already hot as hell. I pull a covered elastic from my wrist and get my hair back into a ponytail. It’s too hot to have my hair on my neck. A drop of sweat runs down my chest and into my bra. I wish I could just not wear a bra but then my girls will run wild and I don’t think that’d be good. Guys can’t stop staring at them as it is and I think I’ve caused enough scandal in this town already. After five years of being called, let’s see, a slut, a homewrecker, a liar, a prostitot, that was creative, and my favourite, “Evil in a pretty package,” the last thing this stupid dot on the map can handle is the sight of my girls running wild.
From a new project with the working title RIDE-
I attract every lost soul, oddball, weirdo, eccentric, nutbar and freak within sensory distance of me, and that magnetism alone is what makes me a freak. My freakiness turned me into a hermit. I only wanted to hang around out here in the hills with the horses, and let people come to me for their riding lessons and then go away. I kept my room mates in the basement apartment so they wouldn’t bug me. I went into town once a week, twice if I had to. I destroyed most of the pictures of my ex husband. I left the city. I didn’t have to pass the homeless guy on the corner any more and feel horrible that I couldn’t sit down and feed him and fix him up and save him. I didn’t have to be overwhelmed by all those damn people going somewhere, all the time. I rented myself a window full of fields and trees and a big old barn. I bought a kicking stereo and a computer. I’d go out on a road trip for the occasional rock concert. I owned a pickup truck, old but paid for, and owned two awesome horses. Things were settling down, man, and I was feeling okay about life again. I was just hunkered down, laying low. And then Brandon, the freak, him with his sweet grey eyes and his coloured music notes and his long legs, got out of a car in my muddy yard, and I knew him, because I’d already been to, like, five of his gigs. I totally knew that he was just a kid and I had a good thirteen years on him. But how did a freak like him end up way out here, standing in front of a fence, with a freak magnet like me...except that naturally, that’s the way it works, right?
So there you have it. I will never have writer's block because I have two stories going on. I'm so hesitant to write INNOCENT. If I thought TROUBLE was an uncomfortable experience in some places, I've got some learning to do. This is a book that demands I write it, not necessarily something I'd choose to write. It found me. I have to do it. RIDE on the other hand is a lot more fun. I'll save it for times when the other one threatens to bury me under its weight.
Speaking of crushing...and submission...
I must wrangle the dust monsters.
Monday, September 17, 2007
The fine line between the WRITER and the WRITTEN
...with today's special guest, "Mort Rainey" who makes an appearance here today courtesy of Mr Johnny Depp.
The last two days have been interesting. I've recovered my missing glasses, who were lurking on the floor beside my bed at the farm, I've given my blog address to two friends from church (Hello!!!!) and realized with a jolt that all those notes I scribbled in my manuscript with red ink did not get done inside the computer!! I've been sending a first chapter to agents that still needed editing!!! Gack! Nooooo!
All weekend I've been reminded over and over that writing fiction can be uncomfortable and sometimes frightening.
I'm basically a liar and a thief!
I make stuff up and I want you to believe it, even though it never really happened. I steal things from real life to tell my lies. I might take a conversation I had with you and use it. I'll twist it and mangle it beyond recognition, but I am aware at all times that any of this could end up in a novel. The closer I get to my goal of being an actual author as opposed to a person who writes for nothing, the more frightened I get that somebody will think they see themselves in my words...and feel hurt by it.
It is so difficult to separate the Writer and the Written.
I do it too, y'know. I had such a hard time with A COMPLICATED KINDNESS. Just this past summer I read two Young Adult novels that made me wonder just how much fiction was involved and how much was thinly veiled autobiography. And I'm afraid to read anything by James Frey.
So how do I face this thing I've created, this monster of words that sits here on my desk with poke marks all over it?
Already from my test readers I've gotten The Question. Which one is you?????
None of them are me. I made them up. However...if I am totally truthful...all of them are me.
Just creating them in my head makes them me. I put little bits of myself into each imaginary person- that's how it's done.
This is what makes me cringe. Even though it's fiction, not my life story, it is so deeply personal and so thoughful that I can hardly separate myself from the work. I tell people it's fake, it's not real, none of it really happened, but I must have had glimpses of it in order to write it. Yes I have a very vivid imagination but I must have observed something like this in order to write it. Right?
Let's see...Mennonite teenagers. Late 80s. No internet, no cell phones, no trained grief counselors working for the public school board. Boyfriends with long hair and motorcycle jackets. Long drives down dark country roads. Photos of a tragically deceased friend. Drug abuse. Sex and everybody's attitude about it. Parties gone wrong. Sitting in church wondering what it's all about. Praying to a God who hopefully hears it, praying desperately that everything's gonna be okay. Watching the world change and feeling completely helpless about the whole thing.
Yeah.
I can see why people would make the mistake of thinking it's my life story.
Finally late last night I put it all together and it's not a new revelation. I've known this for awhile but I can articulate it now.
This is not my life story. But it's the story only I can tell.
I fully expect that this story will offend people and I'm already sorry about that. Not sorry enough to abandon it though. Definitely sorry enough that I'll be prohibiting my parents, sister, many close relatives and church family from reading it! WARNING: this book will offend you and cause you to think cruel thoughts about the author! Do not read! Ignore the book and love her anyways!!!
And on that note, Mort and I have work to do. Mort needs to just write something. He needs to put down the slinky, stop stalking his imaginary people, and hit a few keys on his computer. Get busy, Mort. I will be checking up on him later to make sure he's staying at it! As for me...I have to go fight the bear and bring home the bacon...or something...and I have about 355 pages of red pen marks to enter into my computer.
This'll keep me busy for a few days. I need to get this done so I can keep on with my Quest For A Literary Agent. Plus, y'know, I have to be there for poor Mort while he frets over his cheating wife and shakes that writer's block!
I want to hear from you though-- how much do you think of the writer when you're reading something? Do you wonder how much of the story might be based on real life? Do you believe in the power of a writer's imagination? And most important of all, when I finally do get that place in the country, where none of the neighbours are close enough to see me, should I lurk around in a nasty old bathrobe while I write???? Or should I stay in my barn clothes all day?
The last two days have been interesting. I've recovered my missing glasses, who were lurking on the floor beside my bed at the farm, I've given my blog address to two friends from church (Hello!!!!) and realized with a jolt that all those notes I scribbled in my manuscript with red ink did not get done inside the computer!! I've been sending a first chapter to agents that still needed editing!!! Gack! Nooooo!
All weekend I've been reminded over and over that writing fiction can be uncomfortable and sometimes frightening.
I'm basically a liar and a thief!
I make stuff up and I want you to believe it, even though it never really happened. I steal things from real life to tell my lies. I might take a conversation I had with you and use it. I'll twist it and mangle it beyond recognition, but I am aware at all times that any of this could end up in a novel. The closer I get to my goal of being an actual author as opposed to a person who writes for nothing, the more frightened I get that somebody will think they see themselves in my words...and feel hurt by it.
It is so difficult to separate the Writer and the Written.
I do it too, y'know. I had such a hard time with A COMPLICATED KINDNESS. Just this past summer I read two Young Adult novels that made me wonder just how much fiction was involved and how much was thinly veiled autobiography. And I'm afraid to read anything by James Frey.
So how do I face this thing I've created, this monster of words that sits here on my desk with poke marks all over it?
Already from my test readers I've gotten The Question. Which one is you?????
None of them are me. I made them up. However...if I am totally truthful...all of them are me.
Just creating them in my head makes them me. I put little bits of myself into each imaginary person- that's how it's done.
This is what makes me cringe. Even though it's fiction, not my life story, it is so deeply personal and so thoughful that I can hardly separate myself from the work. I tell people it's fake, it's not real, none of it really happened, but I must have had glimpses of it in order to write it. Yes I have a very vivid imagination but I must have observed something like this in order to write it. Right?
Let's see...Mennonite teenagers. Late 80s. No internet, no cell phones, no trained grief counselors working for the public school board. Boyfriends with long hair and motorcycle jackets. Long drives down dark country roads. Photos of a tragically deceased friend. Drug abuse. Sex and everybody's attitude about it. Parties gone wrong. Sitting in church wondering what it's all about. Praying to a God who hopefully hears it, praying desperately that everything's gonna be okay. Watching the world change and feeling completely helpless about the whole thing.
Yeah.
I can see why people would make the mistake of thinking it's my life story.
Finally late last night I put it all together and it's not a new revelation. I've known this for awhile but I can articulate it now.
This is not my life story. But it's the story only I can tell.
I fully expect that this story will offend people and I'm already sorry about that. Not sorry enough to abandon it though. Definitely sorry enough that I'll be prohibiting my parents, sister, many close relatives and church family from reading it! WARNING: this book will offend you and cause you to think cruel thoughts about the author! Do not read! Ignore the book and love her anyways!!!
And on that note, Mort and I have work to do. Mort needs to just write something. He needs to put down the slinky, stop stalking his imaginary people, and hit a few keys on his computer. Get busy, Mort. I will be checking up on him later to make sure he's staying at it! As for me...I have to go fight the bear and bring home the bacon...or something...and I have about 355 pages of red pen marks to enter into my computer.
This'll keep me busy for a few days. I need to get this done so I can keep on with my Quest For A Literary Agent. Plus, y'know, I have to be there for poor Mort while he frets over his cheating wife and shakes that writer's block!
I want to hear from you though-- how much do you think of the writer when you're reading something? Do you wonder how much of the story might be based on real life? Do you believe in the power of a writer's imagination? And most important of all, when I finally do get that place in the country, where none of the neighbours are close enough to see me, should I lurk around in a nasty old bathrobe while I write???? Or should I stay in my barn clothes all day?
Thursday, September 13, 2007
The Lost Bush Party Scene (which had to be cut due to pacing problems)
Friday's blogpost at Hick Chic has been postponed until Monday while Heidi sleeps off a sore throat and stuffed skull, occasionally rising to check her email for rejections from literary agents. If she feels like it she'll ride a horse this weekend. All Johnny Depp pictures for the week will appear on Monday. Until then, please read the following novel excerpt. You may party in the comments section but please clean up after yourselves. Thank you and have a good weekend. Stay healthy and keep track of your glasses!
I check to make sure all the locks are pushed down, and clutching the keys in my hand, slam the door. The keys are in my hand. I stuff them in the back pocket of my jeans, and then tell myself that they’re in my back pocket. I reach back and feel them.
“Geez, Kipper, let’s go!”
We follow the faint sound of tunes and voices, past the barn and the shed, until we see the orange glow of the bonfire. The sky’s a deep dark blue now, but we can still see the bush lane from the yard light on the corner of the shed. The party is in a sheltered little valley, just before a scrubby bush set into a hill. Obviously this is a part of the farm that isn’t anything but a hassle; even I can see that. You couldn’t run a tractor up the steep hill, so it was left to grow wild. The bonfire is roaring away happily on the edge of the bush lane, and already some kids are standing around, most with some kind of can in one hand, and judging by the little points of orange light that bob from hip level to head level, a cigarette in the other hand. I can tell that Jenny’s hyping herself up as she walks: she’s got a strut to her walk, and I’ve known her long enough to feel the energy buzzing off of her. All the world’s a stage. I stick one hand in my pocket, stick my chin out, and crush down the butterflies. We’ll have to walk up and have everyone looking at us. What if none of our friends are here? What if it’s all the serious metalheads in Grade 12? What if--?
“Katie Kipfer,” a low voice calls out. Brent steps into the bonfire light, smiling as usual. “How’s it goin’?”
I shift, put on a smile, and answer, as casually as possible, “It’s goin’.”
Brent has a nice little hockey haircut and never looks tough or mean, only marginally cool. The red plaid bushwacker jacket gives him a vague air of toughness but he always looks too clean cut. He’s a nice farm boy no matter what. He motions over to the group. “Get over here, there’s a bunch of guys here already.”
Turns out it’s an accurate statement, because there are a bunch of guys here: about ten guys, and no girls. We’re the only girls. We’re the only girls standing around with a bunch of guys, and suddenly this party idea doesn’t seem so smart.
But Jenny goes on like a light bulb. “So what’s going on here,” she crows over the tunes coming out of the boom box, “Where’s that big fuckin’ goof Marty Martin?”
Brent takes a big fat swig off his beer bottle and replies, “He should be here by now. He’s gonna ride his bike over.”
I notice Ozzy the Ashtray, much to my disgust, on the other side of the bonfire.
“Who’s the big dude standing beside your mailbox?” Jenny asks loudly.
“My uncle Jim.”
“Oh yeah? Do your parents know about this little event?”
“Nope, and if no bad shit happens they won’t have to know til it’s all over.”
Jenny nods. Then the conversation slows, letting the awkwardness settle in. We stand there in our tough denim jackets and our high top Converse sneakers, our studded belts and black eyeliner, quickly losing the ability to pretend that it’s okay to be outnumbered by slightly drunk boys in the dark out in the country.
I check to make sure all the locks are pushed down, and clutching the keys in my hand, slam the door. The keys are in my hand. I stuff them in the back pocket of my jeans, and then tell myself that they’re in my back pocket. I reach back and feel them.
“Geez, Kipper, let’s go!”
We follow the faint sound of tunes and voices, past the barn and the shed, until we see the orange glow of the bonfire. The sky’s a deep dark blue now, but we can still see the bush lane from the yard light on the corner of the shed. The party is in a sheltered little valley, just before a scrubby bush set into a hill. Obviously this is a part of the farm that isn’t anything but a hassle; even I can see that. You couldn’t run a tractor up the steep hill, so it was left to grow wild. The bonfire is roaring away happily on the edge of the bush lane, and already some kids are standing around, most with some kind of can in one hand, and judging by the little points of orange light that bob from hip level to head level, a cigarette in the other hand. I can tell that Jenny’s hyping herself up as she walks: she’s got a strut to her walk, and I’ve known her long enough to feel the energy buzzing off of her. All the world’s a stage. I stick one hand in my pocket, stick my chin out, and crush down the butterflies. We’ll have to walk up and have everyone looking at us. What if none of our friends are here? What if it’s all the serious metalheads in Grade 12? What if--?
“Katie Kipfer,” a low voice calls out. Brent steps into the bonfire light, smiling as usual. “How’s it goin’?”
I shift, put on a smile, and answer, as casually as possible, “It’s goin’.”
Brent has a nice little hockey haircut and never looks tough or mean, only marginally cool. The red plaid bushwacker jacket gives him a vague air of toughness but he always looks too clean cut. He’s a nice farm boy no matter what. He motions over to the group. “Get over here, there’s a bunch of guys here already.”
Turns out it’s an accurate statement, because there are a bunch of guys here: about ten guys, and no girls. We’re the only girls. We’re the only girls standing around with a bunch of guys, and suddenly this party idea doesn’t seem so smart.
But Jenny goes on like a light bulb. “So what’s going on here,” she crows over the tunes coming out of the boom box, “Where’s that big fuckin’ goof Marty Martin?”
Brent takes a big fat swig off his beer bottle and replies, “He should be here by now. He’s gonna ride his bike over.”
I notice Ozzy the Ashtray, much to my disgust, on the other side of the bonfire.
“Who’s the big dude standing beside your mailbox?” Jenny asks loudly.
“My uncle Jim.”
“Oh yeah? Do your parents know about this little event?”
“Nope, and if no bad shit happens they won’t have to know til it’s all over.”
Jenny nods. Then the conversation slows, letting the awkwardness settle in. We stand there in our tough denim jackets and our high top Converse sneakers, our studded belts and black eyeliner, quickly losing the ability to pretend that it’s okay to be outnumbered by slightly drunk boys in the dark out in the country.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
My First Boyfriend
Donny and I had gone to the same grade school for as long as I could remember, and we knew each other. He was a grade older. He went off to high school and I spent Grade 8 not giving him another thought.
The next year, I was at the high school too. I chewed through a ridiculous amount of crushes, and in my 14 year old drama, believed by spring break that I’d never ever ever ever have a boyfriend.
I wish I could remember what got us together. I have a vague memory of a friend intervening with messages between us of liking and interest.
Soon we were holding hands and smiling at each other and writing pages of notes back and forth to each other.
He was painfully cute. He wasn’t much bigger than me. I doubt he was much more than 5’2” at the time. His hair was jet black and his eyes dark dark brown. His eyebrows were perfectly shaped and yes, he had those gorgeous black eyelashes. His skin was light brown. He was a little punk, seriously. His hair was chopped off in ragged edges and he wore those cheap rubber toe cap sneakers. His clothes were ripped up and held together with those iron on band crests.
I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why I hadn’t noticed him in grade 7.
Probably because he was a total smart mouthed snot nosed little punk ass.
Which, by the time I got to Grade 9, had started to very much appeal to me.
This being 1985, he loaned me mix tapes with the Clash, the Sex Pistols, U2, and the Cure. We haunted thrift stores together and bought matching mustard yellow men’s shirts. We sat together in the school cafeteria holding hands. He kissed me cautiously at first, and eventually we were smooching under the stairwell across from the Agriculture classroom. I don’t know why he took Ag. He wasn’t from a farming family. He wrote the final exam with his fingers because he didn’t bring a pen. What a smartass. I adored him. I’d never touched somebody else’s tongue before. So, so careful. So curious and afraid.
We were darn cute together too. If we’d stayed together forever, we’d have had tiny petite brown eyed babies with olive skin and waves of thick dark hair. They’d have been gorgeous too. Just like him.
Never once in the four months of going together did I meet his parents. My sister knew them, because she was casual friends with his little sister. In a small place like that, you’d be friends with someone just by default, just from being in the same class. We heard weird stories about how detached the mother was and how rude the father was. There was a brother too, who was less than a year older, bigger, and way more badass. Donny sometimes dropped by our farm on his way hitchhiking down the road, but never stayed long. He was the only kid I knew of who was more poverty stricken than me. He also had more pride than he knew how to handle. If he couldn’t pay his own way, he wouldn’t go.
I broke up with him that summer.
I wasn’t as in love with him as I thought I was, and I felt like I had to let him go before things got too deep. I didn’t think it was fair to him to keep it going. But I felt awful. I felt like I broke his heart. I second guessed my decision but it was done.
He really liked me. All those summer days that we were alone together and I knew damn well he wanted more than kisses but he never forced anything.
I have no idea where he is now and I hope wherever he is, he’s okay. He’s a good guy, deep down, just a kid with no self esteem from a messed up family in a small town.
The last time I saw him, we were at a bush party. He looked different. His hair was longer, all one length, and he was about four inches taller than me. He still wore his beat up leather jacket and he was still beautiful. We stood there chatting while my boyfriend at the time was in a situation involving beer, shouting, punching, and the biggest meanest metal head in the area.
Little did I know at the time that I was in the company of my ex boyfriend, current boyfriend and future husband that night. But that’s really another story.
I’d like to see him again because I don’t know if he realizes how special he was to me. Wherever he is, I hope he’s found his way, and I hope he’s found a little woman to care for him like he deserves.
The next year, I was at the high school too. I chewed through a ridiculous amount of crushes, and in my 14 year old drama, believed by spring break that I’d never ever ever ever have a boyfriend.
I wish I could remember what got us together. I have a vague memory of a friend intervening with messages between us of liking and interest.
Soon we were holding hands and smiling at each other and writing pages of notes back and forth to each other.
He was painfully cute. He wasn’t much bigger than me. I doubt he was much more than 5’2” at the time. His hair was jet black and his eyes dark dark brown. His eyebrows were perfectly shaped and yes, he had those gorgeous black eyelashes. His skin was light brown. He was a little punk, seriously. His hair was chopped off in ragged edges and he wore those cheap rubber toe cap sneakers. His clothes were ripped up and held together with those iron on band crests.
I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why I hadn’t noticed him in grade 7.
Probably because he was a total smart mouthed snot nosed little punk ass.
Which, by the time I got to Grade 9, had started to very much appeal to me.
This being 1985, he loaned me mix tapes with the Clash, the Sex Pistols, U2, and the Cure. We haunted thrift stores together and bought matching mustard yellow men’s shirts. We sat together in the school cafeteria holding hands. He kissed me cautiously at first, and eventually we were smooching under the stairwell across from the Agriculture classroom. I don’t know why he took Ag. He wasn’t from a farming family. He wrote the final exam with his fingers because he didn’t bring a pen. What a smartass. I adored him. I’d never touched somebody else’s tongue before. So, so careful. So curious and afraid.
We were darn cute together too. If we’d stayed together forever, we’d have had tiny petite brown eyed babies with olive skin and waves of thick dark hair. They’d have been gorgeous too. Just like him.
Never once in the four months of going together did I meet his parents. My sister knew them, because she was casual friends with his little sister. In a small place like that, you’d be friends with someone just by default, just from being in the same class. We heard weird stories about how detached the mother was and how rude the father was. There was a brother too, who was less than a year older, bigger, and way more badass. Donny sometimes dropped by our farm on his way hitchhiking down the road, but never stayed long. He was the only kid I knew of who was more poverty stricken than me. He also had more pride than he knew how to handle. If he couldn’t pay his own way, he wouldn’t go.
I broke up with him that summer.
I wasn’t as in love with him as I thought I was, and I felt like I had to let him go before things got too deep. I didn’t think it was fair to him to keep it going. But I felt awful. I felt like I broke his heart. I second guessed my decision but it was done.
He really liked me. All those summer days that we were alone together and I knew damn well he wanted more than kisses but he never forced anything.
I have no idea where he is now and I hope wherever he is, he’s okay. He’s a good guy, deep down, just a kid with no self esteem from a messed up family in a small town.
The last time I saw him, we were at a bush party. He looked different. His hair was longer, all one length, and he was about four inches taller than me. He still wore his beat up leather jacket and he was still beautiful. We stood there chatting while my boyfriend at the time was in a situation involving beer, shouting, punching, and the biggest meanest metal head in the area.
Little did I know at the time that I was in the company of my ex boyfriend, current boyfriend and future husband that night. But that’s really another story.
I’d like to see him again because I don’t know if he realizes how special he was to me. Wherever he is, I hope he’s found his way, and I hope he’s found a little woman to care for him like he deserves.
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