I gave back the first 1080 essays for the semester this week, and they were mostly better than I normally expect. It’s the first time in a decade of teaching at MUN I’ve given out three A’s on the first assignment, and several other people were close to getting one. Section 15 had no A’s at all, which is more the norm for this time of term.
There’s still a lot of work to do, as can be seen by the number of students lined up outside of my office door lately. With another assignment due on October 22, I figured a little advice wouldn’t hurt. So the next couple of bloggings from me will concern how to fix up some of the major problems nearly everyone had on the first essays. (Some info re-posted from an earlier blog entry, but revised to fit English 1080).
First of all, I don't make these things up. Sentence fragment, tense shift, and comma splice are real words and have real consequences for your writing. You should have learned about them in high school English, but either no one showed you or the lesson just didn't take. Or maybe in the time since you last wrote an essay, you forgot how to do it. That's all understandable, but what can we do about it? First, you might notice that I used some abbreviations on your essays: 1. "T.S." means tense shift. 2. "C.S." means comma splice. 3. "S.F." means sentence fragment (probably not what you were thinking SF could stand for).
Here's what those terms mean: 1. Tense shift just means that you're switching from speaking in the present voice to speaking in the past voice. You're using "was" when you should be using "is". You're ending words in an "-ed" suffix instead of ending them in "-es" or just "s". Just be consistent. Somtimes, it's fine to use past tense, but most of the time you should consistently use the present tense when talking about fiction, as if the action were happening right now as you read it. So if you said something like "Elisa worked in her garden most of the time," it should read: "Elisa works in her garden most of the time."
2. Comma splice means that you're joining (i.e. "splicing") together two sentences using a humble comma. The comma wasn't intended for such heavy labor. It's like using a screwdriver as a chisel. You can do it, but eventually there will be breakage. Your sentences get too long and, usually, tough to follow.
Here's how to recognize a comma splice: read what you've written on both sides of the comma; if both sides read like a complete sentence, then you've used a comma splice, which is a major grammatical error, not to mention confusing. See, a comma tells you to pause. But periods, for the sake of clarity, require you to stop. (See what I mean there in that last sentence?)
So how do you fix a comma splice, supposing you should see one? 1. Use a period and make two separate sentences. 2. Or use a semi-colon, which is designed to join/separate two complete sentences that are related to each other in thought/theme. 3. Or use a conjunction (e.g. “but,” “however,” “and,” “because,” and so on) and (sometimes) use a comma with it. That's probably the easiest and most common fix. You'll have to get used to recognizing comma splices in your sentences. That's the only way to eradicate the problem from your writing: practice. After a while, it will become natural. I've seen it happen for thousands of students in a matter of weeks and it can happen for you. Depends on how bad you want it. Here's an example of a comma splice:
Comma Splice: Henry leans over the fence, he startles his wife.
Fix: Henry leans over the fence. He startles his wife.
Fix: Henry leans over the fence; he startles his wife.
Fix: Henry leans over the fence, but he startles his wife.
Fix: Henry leans over the fence and startles his wife.
Fix: When Henry leans over the fence, he startles his wife.
3. Sentence Fragment just means that what you've said (and obviously think is a full sentence because it starts with a capital letter and ends in a period after a string of seemingly meaninful words) is not a complete sentence. It's a fragment of a sentence, a mere piece of one: a pretend sentence in disguise, and it's up to you to start recognizing its covert behaviour. It shouldn't be hanging out with the other sentences because, well, it just isn't one and it should just solve the problem by BECOMING one. Their main offense is that they just don't make sense on their own, sort of like Nick Lachey. That's how you fix a sentence fragment: either make it a full sentence by itself OR join it to the preceding clause. That's right: if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
Here's an example of a sentence fragment.
Sentence fragment: Arnold Friend, standing outside her door, asking if he can come in, which Connie refuses.
Looks, smells, sounds, and feels like a sentence, doesn't it? And yet, on closer look, it isn't quite complete. It needs something else, doesn't it? The sentence lacks context.
So the fix is in: Arnold Friend is standing outside her door, asking if he can come in, which Connie refuses.
Or: Arnold Friend stands outside her door, asking if he can come in, but Connie refuses.
See the difference a simple verb can make? I just added the word "is" or change “standing” to “stands” and now it all makes sense because we can (sort of) see them doing what we've implied they are doing. Fixing sentence fragments is usually just a matter of revising your verb (the word that implies action).
The other way to fix this problem would be to simply connect the fragment to a preceding sentence. For example, let's say you (okay, somebody else. Denial has its uses.) wrote this:
Connie looks into mirrors a lot and looks at other people’s faces. Which tells her how she is doing.
You no doubt recognize that the second "sentence" is an imposter: a mere sentence fragment.
Here's a quick fix: Connie looks into mirrors a lot and looks at other people’s faces, which tells her how she is doing.
Notice that all it takes is a simple comma (also notice that what follows the comma is NOT a complete sentence, so we haven't created a dastardly comma splice, and so everyone sleeps well).
Anyway, I hope this helps. If you're still confused, just come see me or get in touch, okay?
There's no need to feel like you're out there on your own with nowhere to turn. Help is available. :-) And my e-mail address is toll-free. Act now and you'll get free advice about plot summary (which means you're tell me what happens instead of why such details are important for your thesis). Offer available for a limited time only (till December 12, 2008).
It’s almost Thanksgiving weekend, and I’m guessing most of us have a lot to be thankful for. I’ll be very grateful if I never have to talk about comma splice, sentence fragment, or tense shift again this semester because that would mean people are getting it.
Next time: paragraphing and organizing your essay, perhaps a little on thesis statements and topic sentences too.
Till later,
GC
Friday, October 10, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Young Goodman Brown: A Sock's Tale
Here's an adaptation of Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" that I thought you'd enjoy.
I particularly like the actor who plays the devil figure. I think he shows a lot of range, while the one who plays YGB is a bit stiff. The actress who plays Faith is appealing in her own way, though fairly one-dimensional.
Also, please note that the video contains scenes of nudity that might be offensive to some. Or not. Enjoy!
http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=4RbgjOa34wI
I particularly like the actor who plays the devil figure. I think he shows a lot of range, while the one who plays YGB is a bit stiff. The actress who plays Faith is appealing in her own way, though fairly one-dimensional.
Also, please note that the video contains scenes of nudity that might be offensive to some. Or not. Enjoy!
http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=4RbgjOa34wI
Thursday, September 25, 2008
New story
By the way, in English 1080, we'll be starting "Young Goodman Brown" by Nathaniel Hawthorne on Monday, Sept. 26. Just a reminder.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
The Grapes of Wrath
I was talking about John Steinbeck's "The Chrysanthemums" in class on Friday, reflecting on how, being published in 1938, it really does reflect the social, cultural, political, and economic realities of the Depression era. As I mentioned, the Great Depression really began in 1929, triggered by Black Tuesday, which began a decade of massive unemployment, with millions of jobs lost, people losing their houses and life savings, losing hope, losing everything. That era, more than anything, is a reminder to most of us in the Western World (though the Depression was felt everywhere, not just in the USA and Canada) of just how bad it can get, economically. It's a benchmark of how terrible our social and economic problems can become if we, our governments, and big business don't actually mind our business properly.
The same conditions appear to exist today. Although I'm no economist, it doesn't take one to see that our financial system is built on a house of cards--even more now because we no longer even have paper money and hard cash so much to produce. Most of what we own is a bank machine printout that says how much, or how little we have. It's all just numbers being traded back and forth. Same with Wall Street, as it always has been, I suppose. The U.S. government seems to have no clue to the value of a trillion dollars, buying out huge companies (though arguably, they are also preventing dozens of other companies from filing for bankruptcy in a sort of domino effect), shelling out billions and trillions to pay for wars they can't afford and, arguably, shouldn't even be fighting.
Beyond that, people are losing their houses in record numbers because banks loaned them money they really shouldn't have loaned them. So the banks foreclose, but that's not the same as the bank getting its money back. So the people are in debt, the banks lose money, and the whole thing starts to go up in smoke. The banks are getting bailed out by government, which only means the government goes in debt by trillions more, and the government is actually the people themselves.
Factor in massive layoffs, a global economy that depends on American stability (an oxymoron if I ever heard one), and the impending financial and other catastrophes as a result of global warming, and you have the recipe for a perfect storm. Great Depression II. Will it happen? Maybe there's a solution, or maybe someone's working on one. Let's hope so because it's not just an American problem.
Anyway, I mentioned in class on Friday that, for my money, The Grapes of Wrath by that same John Steinbeck feller is one of the top four American novels of all time. I consider The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in the Rye, and To Kill a Mockingbird to be the others--though I admit I need to reconsider my list and maybe update it one of these days. But my point, really, in writing this entry is that the movie version of The Grapes of Wrath is actually on CBC television tonight at 1:30 a.m. (Newfoundland time; midnight ET) in case you're interested in taking a peek. It's in black and white (which I love) and stars Henry Fonda, one the greatest actors of all time. You'll get to see his portrayal of the character in Bruce Springsteen's best song of all time (my opinion, anyway) "The Ghost of Tom Joad." That song gives me shivers every time I hear it because it makes me think of the fragility of our social fabric, but the strength of the human spirit at the same time.
The highway is alive tonight,
And where it's headed, everybody knows.
Just sittin' down here in the campfire light,
Waitin' on the ghost of Tom Joad.
If you're interested in seeing the video, I just found it on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1DEtA5fhk4k
And if you've a mind to watch a clip from the movie, you'll see where Springsteen got his inspiration, from one of the most famous speeches in literary or movie history: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wke1RBvcNQ
The same conditions appear to exist today. Although I'm no economist, it doesn't take one to see that our financial system is built on a house of cards--even more now because we no longer even have paper money and hard cash so much to produce. Most of what we own is a bank machine printout that says how much, or how little we have. It's all just numbers being traded back and forth. Same with Wall Street, as it always has been, I suppose. The U.S. government seems to have no clue to the value of a trillion dollars, buying out huge companies (though arguably, they are also preventing dozens of other companies from filing for bankruptcy in a sort of domino effect), shelling out billions and trillions to pay for wars they can't afford and, arguably, shouldn't even be fighting.
Beyond that, people are losing their houses in record numbers because banks loaned them money they really shouldn't have loaned them. So the banks foreclose, but that's not the same as the bank getting its money back. So the people are in debt, the banks lose money, and the whole thing starts to go up in smoke. The banks are getting bailed out by government, which only means the government goes in debt by trillions more, and the government is actually the people themselves.
Factor in massive layoffs, a global economy that depends on American stability (an oxymoron if I ever heard one), and the impending financial and other catastrophes as a result of global warming, and you have the recipe for a perfect storm. Great Depression II. Will it happen? Maybe there's a solution, or maybe someone's working on one. Let's hope so because it's not just an American problem.
Anyway, I mentioned in class on Friday that, for my money, The Grapes of Wrath by that same John Steinbeck feller is one of the top four American novels of all time. I consider The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in the Rye, and To Kill a Mockingbird to be the others--though I admit I need to reconsider my list and maybe update it one of these days. But my point, really, in writing this entry is that the movie version of The Grapes of Wrath is actually on CBC television tonight at 1:30 a.m. (Newfoundland time; midnight ET) in case you're interested in taking a peek. It's in black and white (which I love) and stars Henry Fonda, one the greatest actors of all time. You'll get to see his portrayal of the character in Bruce Springsteen's best song of all time (my opinion, anyway) "The Ghost of Tom Joad." That song gives me shivers every time I hear it because it makes me think of the fragility of our social fabric, but the strength of the human spirit at the same time.
The highway is alive tonight,
And where it's headed, everybody knows.
Just sittin' down here in the campfire light,
Waitin' on the ghost of Tom Joad.
If you're interested in seeing the video, I just found it on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1DEtA5fhk4k
And if you've a mind to watch a clip from the movie, you'll see where Springsteen got his inspiration, from one of the most famous speeches in literary or movie history: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wke1RBvcNQ
Sunday, September 7, 2008
A New Chapter
It being September, I've begun teaching English at MUN as of this past Friday. So "Hi!" to all the new readers who'll be checking in over the next few weeks to see what's on the go.
I started this blog a little over a year and a half ago with the intent of keeping students informed about assignments, as well as providing some extra information and inspiration whenever possible, to help them get through my in-class ramblings a little easier. By the end of that semester there were about two thousand posts, telling me the experiment was a success--although most well-meaning people had told me it wouldn't fly. Since then, I've received e-mails, comments and notices from, not only former students, but people all over the world, really, who've been reading the blog and getting something out of it. Some people like the lessons on grammar and essay writing (there'll be more of that); others like my musings on fiction writing (there'll be some of that, though a bit less for a while); others were interested in the accounts of my attempts to publish my own work; while still others just seem to see something they liked in general.
I can't explain it really, but I appreciate that so many people seem to be reading this blog. After a couple of semesters off from teaching, though, I'm back at it again and so this blog will take on more of a collegial tone. I'll be writing more about assignments and essay-writing, while also offering the occasional bit on life in general, just to keep it interesting. So for those of you who've been tuned in all along, there's no need to go anywhere.
For you newbies: welcome. My hope is that you'll get something out of this that will help you on the journey. Feel free to poke around through past entries and comment wherever you'd like. Mostly though, just come visit once in a while and I'll try to have something here for you as often as the need arises.
The nature of blogs, for better or for worse, is that they inevitably become about the person who's writing them. Really, though, this one was never meant for that. It still isn't. And now, at last, we return to regularly scheduled programming.
And so it ends. And so it begins.
I started this blog a little over a year and a half ago with the intent of keeping students informed about assignments, as well as providing some extra information and inspiration whenever possible, to help them get through my in-class ramblings a little easier. By the end of that semester there were about two thousand posts, telling me the experiment was a success--although most well-meaning people had told me it wouldn't fly. Since then, I've received e-mails, comments and notices from, not only former students, but people all over the world, really, who've been reading the blog and getting something out of it. Some people like the lessons on grammar and essay writing (there'll be more of that); others like my musings on fiction writing (there'll be some of that, though a bit less for a while); others were interested in the accounts of my attempts to publish my own work; while still others just seem to see something they liked in general.
I can't explain it really, but I appreciate that so many people seem to be reading this blog. After a couple of semesters off from teaching, though, I'm back at it again and so this blog will take on more of a collegial tone. I'll be writing more about assignments and essay-writing, while also offering the occasional bit on life in general, just to keep it interesting. So for those of you who've been tuned in all along, there's no need to go anywhere.
For you newbies: welcome. My hope is that you'll get something out of this that will help you on the journey. Feel free to poke around through past entries and comment wherever you'd like. Mostly though, just come visit once in a while and I'll try to have something here for you as often as the need arises.
The nature of blogs, for better or for worse, is that they inevitably become about the person who's writing them. Really, though, this one was never meant for that. It still isn't. And now, at last, we return to regularly scheduled programming.
And so it ends. And so it begins.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
The Toughest Fight
"To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else, means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting."
e.e. cummings
e.e. cummings
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Fumbling Through Ecstasy
I went swimming at the Aquarena this morning. When I got home, my wife asked, "Was it fun?"
"I hurt all over."
"But did you enjoy it?"
Enjoyment had nothing to do with it, I told her. I haven't been swimming since Jesus was a baby (not that that was my reason for doing it back then; the two events are completely unrelated), but I've been meaning to.
When I was a kid, I spent my summers in water. I'd swim in the ocean day after day. I knew the tides better than I knew my friends' habits. There was this huge rock at Sandy Cove I used to stand on and use as a diving platform. When the tide was in, only the very top of that boulder--which was really about the size of a small shed--protruded from the salty brine, making it a perfect launching pad. I'd do somersaults, back flips, and jackknife dives into the North Atlantic, eyes wide open as I explored the seabed filled with rocks and sand, seaweed, starfish, shellfish, jellyfish, and whatever else the ocean had to offer. The last time I did that I was seventeen years old and the rush just never got old--that feeling of exhiliration from doing something forbidden and even potentially dangerous, especially since I swam alone a lot. I'd go there with friends too, but, as with skating (also on the ocean) it was my habit to get up early most days and enjoy it in solitude. Nothing but me and nature. Sometimes, I'd get out of the water and just sit there, not even breathing heavy, and just listen to the birds, the tide, and the wind.
Sounds pretty idyllic. Of course, we also had a community outdoor swimming pool just down the hill from our house, and it was open from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. It would kill me to have to wait until 9 a.m., to be honest. Most days, I'd be there at the door, rushing to be first in line, with my money in hand. I'd stay there all day if I could, though most days I had enough money for only two or three hours. I'd swim pretty much all day. Up and down, deep end or shallow end, teasing the girls of course, diving off the board, though none too pretty. It was a swimmapalooza, all summer long. I hated when the pool would shut down for the day and I had to wait all night and early the next morning for it to open again. It wasn't that I had no life; it's just that, when I was young, this pretty much was my life. If I wasn't reading a book, I was playing some kind of sports. It wasn't that I had to choose swimming over softball, basketball, or hockey. I'd do those things too, often all in the same day.
Well, things have changed. I still run a few miles several days of the week and play badminton occasionally, putting the same amount of effort in that I always did. But it's been YEARS, actually decades, since I've been swimming, except for the occasional dip over the years at Butterpot Park (once about fifteen years ago) or glacier fed (thus, extremely cold in August) Harrison Lake in British Columbia's lower mainland.
I made up my mind I was going to get back to it--been meaning to for years. Well, this morning, I finally did. It's a little unnerving to don the swim trunks again after so many years. Back in the day, I didn't worry about how I looked; I just went. Now it's in the back of your mind, after years of hearing things in the media about how you're supposed to wear the right things to the beach and be in shape for summer, and all the rest of it, that you can't help it. You just know you're being assessed by everyone in the pool, lifeguards and all.
Then there's the fact that I never really was a very strong swimmer. Sure, I could do it. But I never learned the techniques you're supposed to learn. So I wondered: could I really do it after all these years?
Turns out I can, but there's a price to be paid. First of all, forget about how I look in swim shorts. Everyone at the pool, except for the twenty-year-old lifeguards who looked like they wouldn't put me out if I was on fire, let alone rescue me from drowning on their watch, was at least a little overweight. I was easily the smallest and (I thought) most fit person there.
So I went there, got in the water, didn't think about it, just dove in. Figured that was the best way. Well, it seems that somewhere along the way the muscles that one normally uses for swimming had decided to retire without telling me. Swimming is like giving birth (or so I've been told): no one tells you that, if you've never done it before, it's FREAKIN' HARD! Michael Phelps is a god. No two ways about it. But the thing is, he practices. He swims five hours a day. He eats, sleeps, breathes, and dreams about swimming. And so do most of those other aquine Olympians.
I swam thirty metres out, and I thought I was gonna die. Honestly. My heart was pounding. My arms were already sore, and my legs were like jelly. I only thought I was physically fit. I mean, sure I am fit for the most part, but nothing had prepared me for that burning sensation of my limbs and lungs.
But I stuck it out. I stayed for about forty minutes, forcing myself to swim though I felt like quitting. I knew that the only way I was going to get better and stronger at this was to practice. And it's not going to happen overnight. Just like when I start running after a long absence, I'll have to start slowly (in this case, excruciatingly slow) and work my way up to it. Maybe in a month or so I can do an entire 100 metre lap. That's the goal for now. It's not easy to do these things when so many people are watching. The Aquarena is a very public space, with eyes on you everywhere you turn, including the two lifeguards, who looked so bored and disgusted with my feeble efforts. I mean, it was obvious I'm no swimmer or that I haven't done it in a very long time. So give me a break.
The thing I often think about is, when you guys are in your thirties and forties, are you still going to be stretching yourself athletically and in other ways? Are you still going to be daring yourself to try new things or things that scare you a little? Are you going to be willing to teach yourself something slowly, painstakingly slowly, until you at least become good enough at it that you can enjoy it?
I can honestly say I've lived my life that way. Every now and then I do something to shake things up. So I take up a new sport or creative pursuit. I remember once, in my early twenties, I woke up one morning and went downtown with my guitar to busk for a day. It was a horrible experience in some ways, but exhilirating in other ways. Thing is, I wanted to know how it felt just so I could empathize with those who did it, but also because it was such a scary, public thing to do--I mean, singing for strangers on a street corner, most of them looking at you like you were a freak or a hobo. I didn't want money. I wanted self-respect: knowing that I could do such a thing meant that I had nothing to be afraid of in life.
The experience of taking up swimming this morning was just like that. You just take the thing that scares you the most in life and dive right in.
The next step, of course, is to take some lessons. I need them, just to get my technique down. After that: practice, practice, practice. It's not just how you get to Carnegie Hall. It's how you get the most out of life.
"I hurt all over."
"But did you enjoy it?"
Enjoyment had nothing to do with it, I told her. I haven't been swimming since Jesus was a baby (not that that was my reason for doing it back then; the two events are completely unrelated), but I've been meaning to.
When I was a kid, I spent my summers in water. I'd swim in the ocean day after day. I knew the tides better than I knew my friends' habits. There was this huge rock at Sandy Cove I used to stand on and use as a diving platform. When the tide was in, only the very top of that boulder--which was really about the size of a small shed--protruded from the salty brine, making it a perfect launching pad. I'd do somersaults, back flips, and jackknife dives into the North Atlantic, eyes wide open as I explored the seabed filled with rocks and sand, seaweed, starfish, shellfish, jellyfish, and whatever else the ocean had to offer. The last time I did that I was seventeen years old and the rush just never got old--that feeling of exhiliration from doing something forbidden and even potentially dangerous, especially since I swam alone a lot. I'd go there with friends too, but, as with skating (also on the ocean) it was my habit to get up early most days and enjoy it in solitude. Nothing but me and nature. Sometimes, I'd get out of the water and just sit there, not even breathing heavy, and just listen to the birds, the tide, and the wind.
Sounds pretty idyllic. Of course, we also had a community outdoor swimming pool just down the hill from our house, and it was open from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. It would kill me to have to wait until 9 a.m., to be honest. Most days, I'd be there at the door, rushing to be first in line, with my money in hand. I'd stay there all day if I could, though most days I had enough money for only two or three hours. I'd swim pretty much all day. Up and down, deep end or shallow end, teasing the girls of course, diving off the board, though none too pretty. It was a swimmapalooza, all summer long. I hated when the pool would shut down for the day and I had to wait all night and early the next morning for it to open again. It wasn't that I had no life; it's just that, when I was young, this pretty much was my life. If I wasn't reading a book, I was playing some kind of sports. It wasn't that I had to choose swimming over softball, basketball, or hockey. I'd do those things too, often all in the same day.
Well, things have changed. I still run a few miles several days of the week and play badminton occasionally, putting the same amount of effort in that I always did. But it's been YEARS, actually decades, since I've been swimming, except for the occasional dip over the years at Butterpot Park (once about fifteen years ago) or glacier fed (thus, extremely cold in August) Harrison Lake in British Columbia's lower mainland.
I made up my mind I was going to get back to it--been meaning to for years. Well, this morning, I finally did. It's a little unnerving to don the swim trunks again after so many years. Back in the day, I didn't worry about how I looked; I just went. Now it's in the back of your mind, after years of hearing things in the media about how you're supposed to wear the right things to the beach and be in shape for summer, and all the rest of it, that you can't help it. You just know you're being assessed by everyone in the pool, lifeguards and all.
Then there's the fact that I never really was a very strong swimmer. Sure, I could do it. But I never learned the techniques you're supposed to learn. So I wondered: could I really do it after all these years?
Turns out I can, but there's a price to be paid. First of all, forget about how I look in swim shorts. Everyone at the pool, except for the twenty-year-old lifeguards who looked like they wouldn't put me out if I was on fire, let alone rescue me from drowning on their watch, was at least a little overweight. I was easily the smallest and (I thought) most fit person there.
So I went there, got in the water, didn't think about it, just dove in. Figured that was the best way. Well, it seems that somewhere along the way the muscles that one normally uses for swimming had decided to retire without telling me. Swimming is like giving birth (or so I've been told): no one tells you that, if you've never done it before, it's FREAKIN' HARD! Michael Phelps is a god. No two ways about it. But the thing is, he practices. He swims five hours a day. He eats, sleeps, breathes, and dreams about swimming. And so do most of those other aquine Olympians.
I swam thirty metres out, and I thought I was gonna die. Honestly. My heart was pounding. My arms were already sore, and my legs were like jelly. I only thought I was physically fit. I mean, sure I am fit for the most part, but nothing had prepared me for that burning sensation of my limbs and lungs.
But I stuck it out. I stayed for about forty minutes, forcing myself to swim though I felt like quitting. I knew that the only way I was going to get better and stronger at this was to practice. And it's not going to happen overnight. Just like when I start running after a long absence, I'll have to start slowly (in this case, excruciatingly slow) and work my way up to it. Maybe in a month or so I can do an entire 100 metre lap. That's the goal for now. It's not easy to do these things when so many people are watching. The Aquarena is a very public space, with eyes on you everywhere you turn, including the two lifeguards, who looked so bored and disgusted with my feeble efforts. I mean, it was obvious I'm no swimmer or that I haven't done it in a very long time. So give me a break.
The thing I often think about is, when you guys are in your thirties and forties, are you still going to be stretching yourself athletically and in other ways? Are you still going to be daring yourself to try new things or things that scare you a little? Are you going to be willing to teach yourself something slowly, painstakingly slowly, until you at least become good enough at it that you can enjoy it?
I can honestly say I've lived my life that way. Every now and then I do something to shake things up. So I take up a new sport or creative pursuit. I remember once, in my early twenties, I woke up one morning and went downtown with my guitar to busk for a day. It was a horrible experience in some ways, but exhilirating in other ways. Thing is, I wanted to know how it felt just so I could empathize with those who did it, but also because it was such a scary, public thing to do--I mean, singing for strangers on a street corner, most of them looking at you like you were a freak or a hobo. I didn't want money. I wanted self-respect: knowing that I could do such a thing meant that I had nothing to be afraid of in life.
The experience of taking up swimming this morning was just like that. You just take the thing that scares you the most in life and dive right in.
The next step, of course, is to take some lessons. I need them, just to get my technique down. After that: practice, practice, practice. It's not just how you get to Carnegie Hall. It's how you get the most out of life.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
No Country For Old Men
I was reading an article a few days ago that suggested John McCain should not be allowed to become president of the United States because he is old. I've also heard that Mats Sundin should no longer be a Maple Leaf because he's in his thirties and, therefore, too old to be of use to the team anymore. I've seen dancers and figure skaters, tennis players and actors contemplating retirement because they've reached their late twenties and can hear the clock ticking. We live in a time when a new artist of any sort--singer, writer, actor--has to be a teenager (preferably between 13 and 17, as 18 is getting a little long in the tooth) in order to warrant any kind of attention.
What the hell is wrong with us?
Even older people are trying to look younger and will do whatever it takes, including (gasp!) exercise and eating right. Of course, more people are figuring out early that you have to start doing those things when you're young, say in your early twenties, so that your face doesn't look like a road map by the time you're in your forties. If they've cheated all along and eaten all the wrong foods, stayed up every night till dawn, partied with the wrong drugs and people, and avoided exercise like it was a deadly form of torture, then there's always the nip-and-tuck version of youth and beauty.
I've got to ask though: what's wrong with having a wrinkled face or a few gray hairs? I won't even go so far as to say that they are signs of anything except getting older. But that's my point: what's wrong with getting older? It happens to all of us, and yet we treat aging as if it should be a source of shame. Well, shame on us all if that's how we feel because the fact is we are all getting older, every second, every minute, every day. It's one of those things that unites us as a race of human beings.
Recently, I've had arguments with people about the idea of mandatory retirement. It seems some people think as soon as a person (say a university professor, which was the profession under discussion) reaches an age when they can get a pension, they should just bow out gracefully and go out to pasture, go live in an old folks' home or something like that. But isn't it when a person gets into their sixties and seventies that they have accumulate the most wisdom they have ever had? We need the old to teach the young, and we need the young to be interested enough to listen and to act. Of course, the young will still make the mistakes of the young, and the old will still shake their heads. But it's another thing altogether for either group to dismiss the other as being too rebellious or irrelevant. To say an entire group of people is irrelevant because of their age (whether old or young) is a sort psychological genocide, where an entire sector of the population is wiped out and invisible. And don't tell me it doesn't compare to real genocide because, although it doesn't involve physical death, it does involve a moral, spiritual, and philosophical death. If you tell someone they don't matter because they are old, you are effectively cutting them off from your life and the lives of others who your own age. You are also sentencing yourself, and others, to an inevitable, hoary old age--one in which you don't matter, ultimately, because you only matter when you are young and shiny, new and relevant.
Mick Jagger turned 65 yesterday. I wish people would stop criticizing him for still rocking when he's a grandfather and start applauding him, unanimously for keeping the dream alive, for ignoring what he himself probably believed when he was young. The Who once sang, "Hope I die before I get old." That pretty much sums it up.
I think a lot of us would like to die before we get old. Look at how we revered John Kennedy, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Kurt Cobain, Heath Ledger. All great talents who never grew old. Forever young, and all that. Even Jesus H. Christ didn't have the audacity to age before our very eyes. He died in his early thirties, before he started to not look like the portraits we all have of him in our heads. But how many people have I heard say that they won't go see Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, or Elton John in concert because, "Dude, they're old." Fine. These singers are predominately of an earlier generation. But it seems that they still have a lot to say while a lot have people have tuned out. That's no way to treat your grandfather, your mother, yourself, or your own children. Can you look at your new-born child, niece, or nephew and say, "I like you now, but when you get old, people should stop paying attention to you"? That seems wrong, and yet it's what we do to OTHER people's children. No wonder Tom Waits sang, "I don't wanna grow up." Not much fun in that.
But I've found the answer. See, I'm getting older. Surprise! (The real kicker is, so are you.) But I find that I often forget how old I am, unless I'm forced to answer the question for some government census or something like that. I've gone entire years thinking I was older than I am so that when my birthday came, I was pleasantly surprised to get to live that year of my life over again. A do-over!
But the real trick is to not fall into the trap of allowing yourself to feel old and act old, while at the same time avoiding the pitfalls of trying to be younger than you are. I don't pay much attention to birthdays, but at the same time, I've always been somewhat athletic in my own way, always keeping on the move, running, weightlifting, sports, and that sort of thing. I take care of my mind too by reading books, playing chess and Scrabble, engaging in political discussion, paying attention to what's going on in the world, engaging with the lives going on around me. When it comes to your mind, you either use it or lose it, and that doesn't start when your fifty or sixty-five. It starts when you're young.
There's a forty-one-year old swimmer from the United States in the upcoming Olympics and she wasn't expected to make the team. I'll be cheering for her when the Games begin in August. Just the same as I'll be cheering for the youngest athletes who are there for the first time. In spite of all this, my point really is that I don't care about age. I can learn something from someone of any age. When I teach university courses, I love teaching first-year because I learn from their vitality, their ability to look at everything with fresh eyes, to question everything. But I also learn that just because you're young doesn't mean you do all these things naturally. Sometimes you need to be taught, and that comes from your peers, to some extent, and from your (gulp) elders, to a larger extent. Sometimes the young are afraid, and that's okay. Sometimes they are bold and brash, and they'll break your heart by either trying too hard or not trying hard enough. Either way, they know things, and I can learn from them.
Which brings me back to where I started. Sometimes a country or a sports team needs an old warrior to bring some wisdom and dignity to the proceedings. They've been there before and they've learned some things that might be used as weapons, either offensively or defensively. Don't cast them aside, but let them fall on their own swords at their own time and place of choice. Don't force them to go gentle into that good night because, if they're smart, they won't go--not without a fight. And neither should you.
But then, you've got lots of time, right? And when you're old, you're someone else.
Right.
Oh, and I actually wouldn't vote for John McCain if I were American, but that's just a matter of politics. I don't really care if his heart's in good condition, as long as it's in the right place. I wouldn't vote for Barack Obama because he's relatively young, as long as he's relatively smart, compassionate and strategic.
The whole age debate is stupid and pointless. It's hard enough getting older without feeling like the whole world's against you. But I swear some days, it is.
I feel young today, but I can see the day coming when my words will fall on deaf ears because my hair is mostly white, my muscles aren't toned, and my voice is shaky. Heck, I already need to wear glasses more often and often have to ask people to repeat what they said. The signs are there, and they all say, "Yield!" Well, I won't be yielding any time soon. I'll need to be knocked out of the way or hauled off the stage when the time comes. Anything else is a contradiction of what I've stood for since the day I was born. Why would you work hard all your life to become something just so you can give it over to someone younger than you, who will inevitably do the same thing when their time comes? That's what we teach the young: it's all over at a certain age, so if you haven't succeeded by the time you're thirty (or forty, at most), then you should just stop trying. And if you are successful by then, well, move over because the kids want to sit in your chair.
The time is now. No matter what your age, your time is now. Don't let anyone ever tell you different. Sometimes the young are too young to know, and sometimes the old are too old to care. The former I can forgive--it's okay not to know, but it's not okay to remain intentionally ignorant. The latter I can forgive, too. They've had a lifetime of people telling them what's on the road up ahead.
Nothing but road kill.
What the hell is wrong with us?
Even older people are trying to look younger and will do whatever it takes, including (gasp!) exercise and eating right. Of course, more people are figuring out early that you have to start doing those things when you're young, say in your early twenties, so that your face doesn't look like a road map by the time you're in your forties. If they've cheated all along and eaten all the wrong foods, stayed up every night till dawn, partied with the wrong drugs and people, and avoided exercise like it was a deadly form of torture, then there's always the nip-and-tuck version of youth and beauty.
I've got to ask though: what's wrong with having a wrinkled face or a few gray hairs? I won't even go so far as to say that they are signs of anything except getting older. But that's my point: what's wrong with getting older? It happens to all of us, and yet we treat aging as if it should be a source of shame. Well, shame on us all if that's how we feel because the fact is we are all getting older, every second, every minute, every day. It's one of those things that unites us as a race of human beings.
Recently, I've had arguments with people about the idea of mandatory retirement. It seems some people think as soon as a person (say a university professor, which was the profession under discussion) reaches an age when they can get a pension, they should just bow out gracefully and go out to pasture, go live in an old folks' home or something like that. But isn't it when a person gets into their sixties and seventies that they have accumulate the most wisdom they have ever had? We need the old to teach the young, and we need the young to be interested enough to listen and to act. Of course, the young will still make the mistakes of the young, and the old will still shake their heads. But it's another thing altogether for either group to dismiss the other as being too rebellious or irrelevant. To say an entire group of people is irrelevant because of their age (whether old or young) is a sort psychological genocide, where an entire sector of the population is wiped out and invisible. And don't tell me it doesn't compare to real genocide because, although it doesn't involve physical death, it does involve a moral, spiritual, and philosophical death. If you tell someone they don't matter because they are old, you are effectively cutting them off from your life and the lives of others who your own age. You are also sentencing yourself, and others, to an inevitable, hoary old age--one in which you don't matter, ultimately, because you only matter when you are young and shiny, new and relevant.
Mick Jagger turned 65 yesterday. I wish people would stop criticizing him for still rocking when he's a grandfather and start applauding him, unanimously for keeping the dream alive, for ignoring what he himself probably believed when he was young. The Who once sang, "Hope I die before I get old." That pretty much sums it up.
I think a lot of us would like to die before we get old. Look at how we revered John Kennedy, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Kurt Cobain, Heath Ledger. All great talents who never grew old. Forever young, and all that. Even Jesus H. Christ didn't have the audacity to age before our very eyes. He died in his early thirties, before he started to not look like the portraits we all have of him in our heads. But how many people have I heard say that they won't go see Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, or Elton John in concert because, "Dude, they're old." Fine. These singers are predominately of an earlier generation. But it seems that they still have a lot to say while a lot have people have tuned out. That's no way to treat your grandfather, your mother, yourself, or your own children. Can you look at your new-born child, niece, or nephew and say, "I like you now, but when you get old, people should stop paying attention to you"? That seems wrong, and yet it's what we do to OTHER people's children. No wonder Tom Waits sang, "I don't wanna grow up." Not much fun in that.
But I've found the answer. See, I'm getting older. Surprise! (The real kicker is, so are you.) But I find that I often forget how old I am, unless I'm forced to answer the question for some government census or something like that. I've gone entire years thinking I was older than I am so that when my birthday came, I was pleasantly surprised to get to live that year of my life over again. A do-over!
But the real trick is to not fall into the trap of allowing yourself to feel old and act old, while at the same time avoiding the pitfalls of trying to be younger than you are. I don't pay much attention to birthdays, but at the same time, I've always been somewhat athletic in my own way, always keeping on the move, running, weightlifting, sports, and that sort of thing. I take care of my mind too by reading books, playing chess and Scrabble, engaging in political discussion, paying attention to what's going on in the world, engaging with the lives going on around me. When it comes to your mind, you either use it or lose it, and that doesn't start when your fifty or sixty-five. It starts when you're young.
There's a forty-one-year old swimmer from the United States in the upcoming Olympics and she wasn't expected to make the team. I'll be cheering for her when the Games begin in August. Just the same as I'll be cheering for the youngest athletes who are there for the first time. In spite of all this, my point really is that I don't care about age. I can learn something from someone of any age. When I teach university courses, I love teaching first-year because I learn from their vitality, their ability to look at everything with fresh eyes, to question everything. But I also learn that just because you're young doesn't mean you do all these things naturally. Sometimes you need to be taught, and that comes from your peers, to some extent, and from your (gulp) elders, to a larger extent. Sometimes the young are afraid, and that's okay. Sometimes they are bold and brash, and they'll break your heart by either trying too hard or not trying hard enough. Either way, they know things, and I can learn from them.
Which brings me back to where I started. Sometimes a country or a sports team needs an old warrior to bring some wisdom and dignity to the proceedings. They've been there before and they've learned some things that might be used as weapons, either offensively or defensively. Don't cast them aside, but let them fall on their own swords at their own time and place of choice. Don't force them to go gentle into that good night because, if they're smart, they won't go--not without a fight. And neither should you.
But then, you've got lots of time, right? And when you're old, you're someone else.
Right.
Oh, and I actually wouldn't vote for John McCain if I were American, but that's just a matter of politics. I don't really care if his heart's in good condition, as long as it's in the right place. I wouldn't vote for Barack Obama because he's relatively young, as long as he's relatively smart, compassionate and strategic.
The whole age debate is stupid and pointless. It's hard enough getting older without feeling like the whole world's against you. But I swear some days, it is.
I feel young today, but I can see the day coming when my words will fall on deaf ears because my hair is mostly white, my muscles aren't toned, and my voice is shaky. Heck, I already need to wear glasses more often and often have to ask people to repeat what they said. The signs are there, and they all say, "Yield!" Well, I won't be yielding any time soon. I'll need to be knocked out of the way or hauled off the stage when the time comes. Anything else is a contradiction of what I've stood for since the day I was born. Why would you work hard all your life to become something just so you can give it over to someone younger than you, who will inevitably do the same thing when their time comes? That's what we teach the young: it's all over at a certain age, so if you haven't succeeded by the time you're thirty (or forty, at most), then you should just stop trying. And if you are successful by then, well, move over because the kids want to sit in your chair.
The time is now. No matter what your age, your time is now. Don't let anyone ever tell you different. Sometimes the young are too young to know, and sometimes the old are too old to care. The former I can forgive--it's okay not to know, but it's not okay to remain intentionally ignorant. The latter I can forgive, too. They've had a lifetime of people telling them what's on the road up ahead.
Nothing but road kill.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Dark Seeds, Dead Ends, and The Happy Fisherman
Been working on my short story sequence lately (Moonlight Sketches), and it’s been an exhausting, exhilarating process.
I started out with a few stories that have already been published and a few more that have won literary awards but have not necessarily been published. I definitely don’t send my stories out to publishers enough, which is probably the main reason why those award-winning stories haven’t sold yet. I’d rather just write and write, submit occasionally but if a story gets rejected, I tend, subconsciously at least, to say, “Well, that’s that.”
But that isn’t that. I have to admit the few stories I’ve published were all accepted the first time out. I’m not sure I’ve ever published a story that got rejected once, and that’s just not right. Rejection is such a normal part of the publication process that it’s just understood, when you send something out, chances are it will come back to you with a note—a form letter if they’re too busy and unimpressed to be bothered with you or a handwritten bit of encouragement if they liked your writing style but the story itself wasn’t quite what they usually publish, or it was flawed or whatever. Most of mine have been of the latter variety. Fifteen years ago, an editor at Random House in New York wrote me a note a silly novel I’d written, saying “Please don’t give up. You write very well.” The same year, Redbook rejected a story of mine that in no way, shape or form was right for their magazine (I can see that now): “Very nice. Try us again” the editor said.
Well, I didn’t try either one of them again. Not intentionally. I just went in a different direction. Perhaps even a foolhardy direction, but different nonetheless.
I’m beginning to see a trend.
Anyway, this summer, I’ve been writing my damn head off, trying to stockpile manuscripts so that I can just send them all out at the end of summer and hope for the best. Like scattering seeds to the wind. Maybe some of them will take root.
I received an arts grant to write my short story collection, and so I’ve already written quite a few. It was quite a challenge, and very intense, as I wrote them all in a two-week span. Of course, they’re not perfect, but I have the rest of the summer to fluff them up and make them look nice. I still have two or three stories to write in order to finish the series, but I am very pleased with it. It’s amazing the stuff that comes out of your head when you work intensely like that. I can see now why some of the best Gothic and horror novels get written in a short period of time. You’re just in a different head space, and the intensity of writing, writing, writing produces a sort of vortex in your mind. Imagine Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson) in The Shining, sitting at his typewriter in that big hotel, writing page after page of “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” I imagine the original novel was written by Stephen King in pretty much the same way—though that scene doesn’t appear in the book. That was all Kubrick.
But, yes, it’s been a spiraling vortex of energy all around me, and what came out was dark. Very dark. I’m exploring the worst side of humanity and, conversely, the best side of humanity, if only for contrast’s sake. I find that I let my mind go where it wants to go. And we live in such dark times. Really. Bodies getting chopped up and left in suitcases for children to find in the back yard. People getting beaten and robbed in broad daylight. A serial rapist who’s never been caught by city police. And then there’s all the stuff happening in the bigger world, with global catastrophes greeting us on the news every day, along with the rising prices of oil, causing an enormous strain on public and private economies, among other things. All of this has a human cost.
Which is where I come in. As a writer, I don’t necessarily feel the need to comment on any of this stuff. After all, tomorrow it might be all different again, and I’m not about to start trying to catch any waves. That’s a dead end.
But what happens is that all of this stuff comes swirling down the pipe and into my brain, coursing through my veins like that dark sludgy stuff that transformed Spider-man last summer and what oozes out is, well, dark sludgy stuff that somehow unintentionally catches the vibe of the twenty-first century. The characters are darker, the places descending into madness, and the plots strive for something hopeful to cling to. But sometimes, I don’t follow the road toward the light; sometimes, it’s the darker road that beckons the loudest.
So that’s where my head is at. So then the phone rings and some telemarketer wants me to answer questions very politely. I don’t even try, to be honest. They’ve got jobs to do, and if I was to call them at their work place and ask them to answer some questions about the state of the world, they’d probably hang up on me. So when I’ve spent three hours in my proverbial basement, mining the dark depths of my mind and dwelling in the land of nightmares, I just don’t feel like being cordial for a while.
The collection is called “Moonlight Sketches,” but I’m leaving it for a little while to simmer on the back burner while I think of a few more stories that need telling.
I’ve turned my attention to a re-write of my novel, Finton Moon, which I’d left off in order to do the short stories. But FM is nearly done now. Another couple of weeks should do it, and then I’ll be finishing that darkest of stories, The Ghost of Emily Dickinson. The title of that one’s going to have to change, of course. But I like it for now. That one’s about two characters, a man and a woman, who find each other and fall in love, but don’t know much about one another. It’s really all about the way in which St. John’s, and Newfoundland, is changing from this ridiculous “happy fishermen” idea to an oil-driven, economic powerhouse that takes a massive toll on those who aren’t slurping from the gravy train. It’s hard, hard times. And the more they change, the more they stay the same.
Now there’s a pleasant thought for the day.
Anyway, I have to get some stories in the mail. Maybe there’ll be a happy ending to that, at least.
I started out with a few stories that have already been published and a few more that have won literary awards but have not necessarily been published. I definitely don’t send my stories out to publishers enough, which is probably the main reason why those award-winning stories haven’t sold yet. I’d rather just write and write, submit occasionally but if a story gets rejected, I tend, subconsciously at least, to say, “Well, that’s that.”
But that isn’t that. I have to admit the few stories I’ve published were all accepted the first time out. I’m not sure I’ve ever published a story that got rejected once, and that’s just not right. Rejection is such a normal part of the publication process that it’s just understood, when you send something out, chances are it will come back to you with a note—a form letter if they’re too busy and unimpressed to be bothered with you or a handwritten bit of encouragement if they liked your writing style but the story itself wasn’t quite what they usually publish, or it was flawed or whatever. Most of mine have been of the latter variety. Fifteen years ago, an editor at Random House in New York wrote me a note a silly novel I’d written, saying “Please don’t give up. You write very well.” The same year, Redbook rejected a story of mine that in no way, shape or form was right for their magazine (I can see that now): “Very nice. Try us again” the editor said.
Well, I didn’t try either one of them again. Not intentionally. I just went in a different direction. Perhaps even a foolhardy direction, but different nonetheless.
I’m beginning to see a trend.
Anyway, this summer, I’ve been writing my damn head off, trying to stockpile manuscripts so that I can just send them all out at the end of summer and hope for the best. Like scattering seeds to the wind. Maybe some of them will take root.
I received an arts grant to write my short story collection, and so I’ve already written quite a few. It was quite a challenge, and very intense, as I wrote them all in a two-week span. Of course, they’re not perfect, but I have the rest of the summer to fluff them up and make them look nice. I still have two or three stories to write in order to finish the series, but I am very pleased with it. It’s amazing the stuff that comes out of your head when you work intensely like that. I can see now why some of the best Gothic and horror novels get written in a short period of time. You’re just in a different head space, and the intensity of writing, writing, writing produces a sort of vortex in your mind. Imagine Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson) in The Shining, sitting at his typewriter in that big hotel, writing page after page of “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” I imagine the original novel was written by Stephen King in pretty much the same way—though that scene doesn’t appear in the book. That was all Kubrick.
But, yes, it’s been a spiraling vortex of energy all around me, and what came out was dark. Very dark. I’m exploring the worst side of humanity and, conversely, the best side of humanity, if only for contrast’s sake. I find that I let my mind go where it wants to go. And we live in such dark times. Really. Bodies getting chopped up and left in suitcases for children to find in the back yard. People getting beaten and robbed in broad daylight. A serial rapist who’s never been caught by city police. And then there’s all the stuff happening in the bigger world, with global catastrophes greeting us on the news every day, along with the rising prices of oil, causing an enormous strain on public and private economies, among other things. All of this has a human cost.
Which is where I come in. As a writer, I don’t necessarily feel the need to comment on any of this stuff. After all, tomorrow it might be all different again, and I’m not about to start trying to catch any waves. That’s a dead end.
But what happens is that all of this stuff comes swirling down the pipe and into my brain, coursing through my veins like that dark sludgy stuff that transformed Spider-man last summer and what oozes out is, well, dark sludgy stuff that somehow unintentionally catches the vibe of the twenty-first century. The characters are darker, the places descending into madness, and the plots strive for something hopeful to cling to. But sometimes, I don’t follow the road toward the light; sometimes, it’s the darker road that beckons the loudest.
So that’s where my head is at. So then the phone rings and some telemarketer wants me to answer questions very politely. I don’t even try, to be honest. They’ve got jobs to do, and if I was to call them at their work place and ask them to answer some questions about the state of the world, they’d probably hang up on me. So when I’ve spent three hours in my proverbial basement, mining the dark depths of my mind and dwelling in the land of nightmares, I just don’t feel like being cordial for a while.
The collection is called “Moonlight Sketches,” but I’m leaving it for a little while to simmer on the back burner while I think of a few more stories that need telling.
I’ve turned my attention to a re-write of my novel, Finton Moon, which I’d left off in order to do the short stories. But FM is nearly done now. Another couple of weeks should do it, and then I’ll be finishing that darkest of stories, The Ghost of Emily Dickinson. The title of that one’s going to have to change, of course. But I like it for now. That one’s about two characters, a man and a woman, who find each other and fall in love, but don’t know much about one another. It’s really all about the way in which St. John’s, and Newfoundland, is changing from this ridiculous “happy fishermen” idea to an oil-driven, economic powerhouse that takes a massive toll on those who aren’t slurping from the gravy train. It’s hard, hard times. And the more they change, the more they stay the same.
Now there’s a pleasant thought for the day.
Anyway, I have to get some stories in the mail. Maybe there’ll be a happy ending to that, at least.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
It's been more than a week since that amazing Leonard Cohen concert at Holy Heart, and my feeling that it was a spiritual experience is borne out by the fact that I still can't get the show, those songs, or His incredible presence out of my head. I keep playing the CD in the background whenever I'm doing anything--it's the only music I find fit to listen to these days.
BUT, having said that, I was at the annual arts and letters gala Saturday night and saw another wicked show. As usual, the entertainment was fantastic, especially from the younger winners. It wasn't Cohen or Dylan, but I enjoyed every second of it. With all of the writing, music, and visual arts talent we have here, it's just a feast for the sense whenever you get that many artistic souls and their work together in one spot. I did pick up my third consecutive award for fiction, this time for my short story "Hold Out". Earlier in the week, I was lucky enough to receive a much-coveted arts grant for the writing of my short story collection called Moonlight Sketches--the title being a sort of backhanded homage to perhaps the most famous short story collection in Canadian history, Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town by Stephen Leacock. So I'm hard at work writing the remaining stories in that collection while I put my novel(s) on hold for a little while. There's a lot to get done over the summer, that's for sure. I wrote a new story today called "The Darkness and Darcy Knight," which is easily one of the darkest stories I've ever written. I think it's a keeper. Once that one was done, I immediately started work on another new story. My goal is to write at least three complete stories by the weekend--for me that's a lot. I've never written more than one in an entire month before, although when they come, they usually only take a day or two to put them together. I like to write fast when I'm channelling a short story. It's just the way my brain works. Poe said that the short story had to be able to be read in one sitting. Well, the best way to accomplish that as a writer is to compose the whole thing in one sitting, more or less.
Anyway, tomorrow's my birthday, about the same time as last year, in fact. I'll be taking some time off, though I'll probably be working a few hours. Not feeling older and not necessarily any wiser. If I was, maybe I wouldn't be working so much on my birthday.
Peace out.
BUT, having said that, I was at the annual arts and letters gala Saturday night and saw another wicked show. As usual, the entertainment was fantastic, especially from the younger winners. It wasn't Cohen or Dylan, but I enjoyed every second of it. With all of the writing, music, and visual arts talent we have here, it's just a feast for the sense whenever you get that many artistic souls and their work together in one spot. I did pick up my third consecutive award for fiction, this time for my short story "Hold Out". Earlier in the week, I was lucky enough to receive a much-coveted arts grant for the writing of my short story collection called Moonlight Sketches--the title being a sort of backhanded homage to perhaps the most famous short story collection in Canadian history, Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town by Stephen Leacock. So I'm hard at work writing the remaining stories in that collection while I put my novel(s) on hold for a little while. There's a lot to get done over the summer, that's for sure. I wrote a new story today called "The Darkness and Darcy Knight," which is easily one of the darkest stories I've ever written. I think it's a keeper. Once that one was done, I immediately started work on another new story. My goal is to write at least three complete stories by the weekend--for me that's a lot. I've never written more than one in an entire month before, although when they come, they usually only take a day or two to put them together. I like to write fast when I'm channelling a short story. It's just the way my brain works. Poe said that the short story had to be able to be read in one sitting. Well, the best way to accomplish that as a writer is to compose the whole thing in one sitting, more or less.
Anyway, tomorrow's my birthday, about the same time as last year, in fact. I'll be taking some time off, though I'll probably be working a few hours. Not feeling older and not necessarily any wiser. If I was, maybe I wouldn't be working so much on my birthday.
Peace out.
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