I’m not going to pretend that awards don’t mean anything. I''mpretty sure that they do. But I think it’s worth looking into what they really mean.
Saturday night, I picked up a literary award at the 55th annual provincial arts and letters awards gala in the short fiction category, for my short story, “Exit the Warrior”(excerpt at http://www.tcr.gov.nl.ca/artsandletters/winning_entries.htm). Every year, I make it a point to enter this competition for several reasons. One is that it’s probably the most prestigious literary award in the province. Without exception, every major author from Newfoundland has won several of these awards for fiction and/or poetry: Kenneth Harvey, Lisa Moore, Wayne Johnston, Michael Crummey, Tom Dawe, Kevin Major…and the list goes on and on. It seems that if you want to be taken seriously—better yet if want to take YOURSELF seriously—as a writer in this province, you’ve got to prove you can make it in the arts and letters competition first. It’s a real proving ground, it seems.
And it’s true. The competition is fierce, simply because the prize money is incredibly good ($1,000) and therefore all of the best writers in the province, or most of them at least, enter the fray. I’m sure that some of them don’t (not every year anyway), but sooner or later they all do if they still live here. So you get a chance to judge yourself alongside some of these heavyweight authors. I’ve won four of these in the past seven years, including the big award, the Percy Janes First Novel Award (for an unpublished manuscript) and every time I try and put it in perspective: what does it really mean? Does it do anything for you to win awards like this?
They are prestigious, without doubt. They can make you feel good, definitely. It’s nice to be seen and nice to win some money, and nice to prove to yourself that you’ve got what it takes. As I said, I test myself every year: in January or early February, I challenge myself to write a new short story. That’s it. That’s the challenge. Just knowing that I have a deadline to meet and that what I write has to be good or it won’t make the cut gives me the incentive to just write something. That, as I’ve said before, is most of the battle won when it comes to successful writing.
When a story actually wins, though, that’s a whole different story, so to speak. Each of these new stories, especially the ones that have won awards, are part of the ongoing short story collection I’m writing, and just the fact that they’ve done so well already gives me confidence that they’re good. You need that if you’re going to approach a publisher with a proposal.
Anyway, my favorite part of the awards gala, believe it or not, is NOT picking up the award and shaking hands with the minister of tourism and culture (although he seems to be a nice guy). No, my favorite part has to do with the other people involved, especially the young ones. As soon as I learned two weeks ago that I was invited to the awards ceremony (which means you’ve won an award), my second thought—right after, COOL! I won—was that I was going to be in the privileged position of sitting in on one of the best nights of entertainment around. In the junior category, there are young people from all over the province, including as far away as St. Anthony and Labrador, who came all the way to St. John’s for this night. And many of them read from their winning entries or played winning musical compositions. And their talent is staggering. With many of the writers, I found myself thinking that there is no way that I could write that well at the age of thirteen. Forget it. And the musical performers were amazing. I was just enthralled for the entire two hours. As I said to my wife, who was with me, when you look around at all the talent, you can’t help but feel that you’re in the presence of greatness, in the sense that there is so much ability and it is so special and makes you feel so good about the people you’re with and the place you come from. As far as I know, this competition is unique in Canadian arts, and it’s one of the few things that J.R. Smallwood did right.
It was a great evening also to get the chance to see and talk to some people in the arts community that I either know or don’t know and rarely get a chance to see. It can really make you feel, as a writer, that you belong. And that’s all a part of actually belonging.
There’s other news about my writing, but I’ll share that next time. I’m tired of talking about myself—a topic I grow weary of pretty quickly.
Oh, and what do awards mean? It means you’re doing something right. Now it’s time to go back to work. That’s what it means. Because, in the end, it’s still about the work itself—the writing and the privilege of being able to do that and, occasionally, if you’re lucky, you get told that what you’re doing is worth something.
G
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Monday, May 21, 2007
Summer?!
It's finally here! What a glorious few days we've had. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I've got a song in my heart, metaphorically speaking of course. I've even managed to get out jogging these past couple of days. I'm not one of those cold-weather joggers that you see all bundled up, with their steel-belted running shoes, toques, and snow suits, trekking along Elizabeth Avenue in the freezing wind and below-zero temps. Forget it.
I love running. I always have, really. Since my late teens, I've loved stepping into my shorts, a t-shirt, and running shoes and hitting the pavement...although in recent years, I prefer the soft ground. It's just easier on the joints. Not as much chance of shin splints. I even met my wife at the end of a long jog up the afore-mentioned Elizabeth Avenue. It was a sunny, warm evening in early September, a lot of years ago, and I got a call from my best friend, asking what I was up to. A friend of his was in town, and since I was getting ready to go running, I ran the six miles or so to his place and met this beautiful young girl of eighteen who stole my heart. I was nineteen at the time, so it was legit. We spent the whole night talking and four years later, we were were married.
There's something about running that I've always loved. It's the fast movement. Pushing the body to go for as long and (sometimes) as fast as it will go. But it's more than the exercise. I've never been crazy about exercise for it's own sake. But I find that running is meditative. It's almost like a trance. Nowadays, I carry my mp3 player and listen to my special "Running Man" folder, with all kinds of cool songs on it. But when I reach a stretch of the path that runs alongside a pond and is sheltered in trees, with hardly a breath of wind, I switch of the music and listen to the sounds of nature. It seems sacrilegious to do otherwise. I meet a lot of the same people on my journey, so it's become somewhat of a community--lots of friendly faces, smiling and waving. But there's lots of entertaining stuff to see too. Occasionally, I get a squirrel crossing my path. Lots of bright colored birds swoop down right in front of me. Yesterday I saw two beautiful, speeding finches. They tend to fly ahead just a bit and stop, wait for me to catch up (or so it seems) and then they fly off again. One time last year, there was this great big monarch butterfly that stopped in the path in front of me. When I stopped and bent down, holding out my hand, the butterfly flew right into my palm and stayed there for a couple of minutes. Those kinds of things are part of what I love my about jogging. It's the outdoors, the adrenaline rush, the exercise of course, the people, and the staying in shape after a horribly long winter.
As I said, I can't run in cold weather. I won't. So I've been waiting...and waiting. I've gotten out a few times this spring, but there's nothing like that first time I can shed the track pants and sweat shirt and just go in shorts and t-shirt. It's like a rush of freedom.
So I went out yesterday and today, and just loved it. In between working on my novel, of course. The end isn't in sight yet, but it's getting there. The running actually helps clear my brain. Sometimes, I think up plot points and ideas for characters while I'm out there.
Any other runners out there? I'd love to hear from you!
Gerard
Over the years
I love running. I always have, really. Since my late teens, I've loved stepping into my shorts, a t-shirt, and running shoes and hitting the pavement...although in recent years, I prefer the soft ground. It's just easier on the joints. Not as much chance of shin splints. I even met my wife at the end of a long jog up the afore-mentioned Elizabeth Avenue. It was a sunny, warm evening in early September, a lot of years ago, and I got a call from my best friend, asking what I was up to. A friend of his was in town, and since I was getting ready to go running, I ran the six miles or so to his place and met this beautiful young girl of eighteen who stole my heart. I was nineteen at the time, so it was legit. We spent the whole night talking and four years later, we were were married.
There's something about running that I've always loved. It's the fast movement. Pushing the body to go for as long and (sometimes) as fast as it will go. But it's more than the exercise. I've never been crazy about exercise for it's own sake. But I find that running is meditative. It's almost like a trance. Nowadays, I carry my mp3 player and listen to my special "Running Man" folder, with all kinds of cool songs on it. But when I reach a stretch of the path that runs alongside a pond and is sheltered in trees, with hardly a breath of wind, I switch of the music and listen to the sounds of nature. It seems sacrilegious to do otherwise. I meet a lot of the same people on my journey, so it's become somewhat of a community--lots of friendly faces, smiling and waving. But there's lots of entertaining stuff to see too. Occasionally, I get a squirrel crossing my path. Lots of bright colored birds swoop down right in front of me. Yesterday I saw two beautiful, speeding finches. They tend to fly ahead just a bit and stop, wait for me to catch up (or so it seems) and then they fly off again. One time last year, there was this great big monarch butterfly that stopped in the path in front of me. When I stopped and bent down, holding out my hand, the butterfly flew right into my palm and stayed there for a couple of minutes. Those kinds of things are part of what I love my about jogging. It's the outdoors, the adrenaline rush, the exercise of course, the people, and the staying in shape after a horribly long winter.
As I said, I can't run in cold weather. I won't. So I've been waiting...and waiting. I've gotten out a few times this spring, but there's nothing like that first time I can shed the track pants and sweat shirt and just go in shorts and t-shirt. It's like a rush of freedom.
So I went out yesterday and today, and just loved it. In between working on my novel, of course. The end isn't in sight yet, but it's getting there. The running actually helps clear my brain. Sometimes, I think up plot points and ideas for characters while I'm out there.
Any other runners out there? I'd love to hear from you!
Gerard
Over the years
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Spiders, Apes, and Me
I saw Spidey 3 over the weekend and mostly I enjoyed it. The usual stuff was there: Tobey and Kirsten, lots of leaping and swinging (all good, clean fun), thrills, chills, and spills. The special FX are awesome, as usual, though I’ve heard some hard-to-please critics say that there’s nothing new—which is a real problem for me, I have to say. Why must there always be something new? I mean, sure, it would be nice, but it doesn’t seem like a valid criticism to me to say that this movie pushes boundaries, visually, that other movies don’t even dare attempt, but it doesn’t outdo itself. It’s like saying Wayne Gretzky scored 80 goals one year, but, like, he didn’t score any on his back or while flying through the air and knitting an afghan. Good is good. If you feel like you’ve seen it before then, well, geez, buddy: it’s Spiderman THREE! Did you not read the movie poster? It’s a sequel. Read: more of the same.
Anyway, was the movie any good? I’d give it a 77 (those of you who know my grading system will appreciate what that means—it’s not good enough for an A, but it’s still really enjoyable). It is a bit long. There were several fight scenes that just seemed repetitive and pointless and could have been shaved by a minute or so each. I liked all of the characters, but there were just too many conflicts going on at once. If they had removed the one with the Sand Dude, then the movie would have been tidier and probably gotten better reviews. They just went for too much, possibly for fear that there wouldn’t be a fourth movie. There could be another Spiderman movie, and I would definitely go to it. But given the cool reception from critics on this one, it’s unlikely Sam Raimi will want to climb back up on that particular horse for a while, if ever. I’d definitely recommend seeing this one, though, if you’re near a theater. Big screen is always better for any almost any kind of movie. You know what they say: go big or go home. The do say that, don’t they? Whoever “they is”.
Speaking of monkeys (I’m sure someone was), I read on the weekend that Austrian activists are seeking human rights for chimpanzees. That’s hilarious. First of all, they must already have the right to vote. Otherwise, how would George Dubya Bush be elected president? TWICE! Or what hope would Stephen Harper have for a majority government in the next election. Giving monkeys the right to vote is the obvious way to go if you’re a right-wing politician. It’s guaranteed votes. That is, until the monkeys are given the right to an education, which only makes sense. What good are rights unless you’re educated on what those rights are and how they should be used. Once monkeys learn to read and think for themselves, the Republicans and Conservatives might find themselves out of luck once again.
How much time do these activists have on their hands anyway? Not only in Austria, but in Brazil, and several other countries are considering this as well. I understand that they don’t want to elevate chimps to the status of people (at least not most people). They say that they just want to make sure the apes are free from torture and killing, or whatever else science does with them.
I mean, realistically, when you look at them, don’t they look like little people? Those big eyes that look like they’ve seen too much, like they could be your best friend if only you’d give them a chance. Of course, they can’t talk and, as far as we know, they can’t read or think or figure out a Rubik’s Cube. Granted, I have days when I can’t do any of those things either. I’m sure we all do.
While we’re at it, I think we should grant monkeys the right to legal abortion. We should also give them fishing licenses and the right to bear arms. They have the right to defend themselves too. In fact, if this goes through, it might eventually come down to human rights versus chimpanzee rights: if a person hurts a chimp, how will the person be punished? A fight to death, maybe. Or a bake-off. Or maybe a challenge to a banana-eating contest.
But wait a minute: don’t we already have animal rights? Can’t people already be prosecuted for animal cruelty? I don’t know for sure, but it seems to me that the Western World already protects critters as much as possible.
Giving them rights under the law just seems to be taking things a bit far. But that’s just my opinion. I’m sure Amnesty International will shift its focus accordingly. Leave people to fend for themselves: we’ve got chimps who are misunderstood, seals who barely have a say, and mosquitoes who are facing genocide at an alarming rate in many so-called civilized countries. Who speaks for the humble mosquito?
It’s not that I condone cruelty to animals. I don’t. I love animals, especially furry ones that don’t look at you as if you were food. And I do think we need laws to protect them. But to extend “human rights” to that which is clearly not human seems nonsensical. We are the only species which has the ability to effectively legislate itself right out of existence. Why? Because we are the only species with the ability to understand the difference. If you change a monkey’s rights, it doesn’t know and doesn’t care. If you change the definition of a human, then we all know and feel it. It would seriously damage our sense of identity and distinction. Are the animals progressing at our expense? Are we progressing so that we embrace all as one? Or are we too smart for our own good?
It’s enough to make you feel like an endangered species some days.
Gerard
Anyway, was the movie any good? I’d give it a 77 (those of you who know my grading system will appreciate what that means—it’s not good enough for an A, but it’s still really enjoyable). It is a bit long. There were several fight scenes that just seemed repetitive and pointless and could have been shaved by a minute or so each. I liked all of the characters, but there were just too many conflicts going on at once. If they had removed the one with the Sand Dude, then the movie would have been tidier and probably gotten better reviews. They just went for too much, possibly for fear that there wouldn’t be a fourth movie. There could be another Spiderman movie, and I would definitely go to it. But given the cool reception from critics on this one, it’s unlikely Sam Raimi will want to climb back up on that particular horse for a while, if ever. I’d definitely recommend seeing this one, though, if you’re near a theater. Big screen is always better for any almost any kind of movie. You know what they say: go big or go home. The do say that, don’t they? Whoever “they is”.
Speaking of monkeys (I’m sure someone was), I read on the weekend that Austrian activists are seeking human rights for chimpanzees. That’s hilarious. First of all, they must already have the right to vote. Otherwise, how would George Dubya Bush be elected president? TWICE! Or what hope would Stephen Harper have for a majority government in the next election. Giving monkeys the right to vote is the obvious way to go if you’re a right-wing politician. It’s guaranteed votes. That is, until the monkeys are given the right to an education, which only makes sense. What good are rights unless you’re educated on what those rights are and how they should be used. Once monkeys learn to read and think for themselves, the Republicans and Conservatives might find themselves out of luck once again.
How much time do these activists have on their hands anyway? Not only in Austria, but in Brazil, and several other countries are considering this as well. I understand that they don’t want to elevate chimps to the status of people (at least not most people). They say that they just want to make sure the apes are free from torture and killing, or whatever else science does with them.
I mean, realistically, when you look at them, don’t they look like little people? Those big eyes that look like they’ve seen too much, like they could be your best friend if only you’d give them a chance. Of course, they can’t talk and, as far as we know, they can’t read or think or figure out a Rubik’s Cube. Granted, I have days when I can’t do any of those things either. I’m sure we all do.
While we’re at it, I think we should grant monkeys the right to legal abortion. We should also give them fishing licenses and the right to bear arms. They have the right to defend themselves too. In fact, if this goes through, it might eventually come down to human rights versus chimpanzee rights: if a person hurts a chimp, how will the person be punished? A fight to death, maybe. Or a bake-off. Or maybe a challenge to a banana-eating contest.
But wait a minute: don’t we already have animal rights? Can’t people already be prosecuted for animal cruelty? I don’t know for sure, but it seems to me that the Western World already protects critters as much as possible.
Giving them rights under the law just seems to be taking things a bit far. But that’s just my opinion. I’m sure Amnesty International will shift its focus accordingly. Leave people to fend for themselves: we’ve got chimps who are misunderstood, seals who barely have a say, and mosquitoes who are facing genocide at an alarming rate in many so-called civilized countries. Who speaks for the humble mosquito?
It’s not that I condone cruelty to animals. I don’t. I love animals, especially furry ones that don’t look at you as if you were food. And I do think we need laws to protect them. But to extend “human rights” to that which is clearly not human seems nonsensical. We are the only species which has the ability to effectively legislate itself right out of existence. Why? Because we are the only species with the ability to understand the difference. If you change a monkey’s rights, it doesn’t know and doesn’t care. If you change the definition of a human, then we all know and feel it. It would seriously damage our sense of identity and distinction. Are the animals progressing at our expense? Are we progressing so that we embrace all as one? Or are we too smart for our own good?
It’s enough to make you feel like an endangered species some days.
Gerard
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Spiderman, Spiderman...
Does whatever a hmm-hmm can. I can't use any more of the lyrics than that without the expressed written permission of the songwriter or his/her agency.
But I'm going to see the movie tomorrow and I'm completely stoked for it. I've watched the first two in the series again lately in preparation. Not that I'm a complete spidey-geek or anything. I've never owned the spidey leotards or tried to climb walls (lately). I haven't worked for a newspaper (more than once) and I don't go around quoting lines from the movie (mostly because there aren't any memorable ones).
I just love a good popcorn movie, that's all, and I'm a huge fan of both Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst. Plus, it's the first big blockbuster movie of the summer season, and that helps me daydream about warm weather and lazy days. I'm also looking forward to Shrek The Third and Pirates III, as I think most people are. Shrek is just funny as hell, and even though Pirates II was a bit of a mess, I still enjoyed watching Johnny Depp be Captain Jack Sparrow and watching Keira Knightley just be, well, Keira Knightley. She does it so well, and she's a fine actress too.
But there's more than that to look forward to (or maybe I just love the movies way too much). There's The Bourne Ultimatum, which I'm sure I'll have to rent again in December just so I'm not left confused forever about the plot. Ocean's Thirteen (yawn). No Julia Roberts or Catherine Zeta-Jones. But I'll go anyway because Clooney and Pitt crack me up. Die Hard IV (there might be terrorists! Ya think?). I'd also like to see that quirkey "Waitress" movie with the actress from Felicity. Can't remember her name. But it looks interesting. I'm just lookin' to be entertained. Nothing too deep for the summer months. My brain's on vacation.
I admit I'm a sucker for the big Hollywood motion picture, more so than the smaller, edgier independent films. I'm not sure why that is. Maybe I'm just shallow. Or maybe I just like a story with a beginning, middle, and (preferably a good) ending. Criticizing Hollywood is fashionable, of course, and it's certainly not politically correct to admit that you actually enjoy anything that comes out of there. But for every dreckish movie that comes out of that process, there's the occasional gem. You've just got to take the bad with the good, that's all. Or at least, that's what I choose to do.
So my seat is reserved for the summer, and I'll let you know what I think (without giving spoilers though--I hate those), for what it's worth.
Great, now I've got that song going through my head. Brain worm.
Gerard
But I'm going to see the movie tomorrow and I'm completely stoked for it. I've watched the first two in the series again lately in preparation. Not that I'm a complete spidey-geek or anything. I've never owned the spidey leotards or tried to climb walls (lately). I haven't worked for a newspaper (more than once) and I don't go around quoting lines from the movie (mostly because there aren't any memorable ones).
I just love a good popcorn movie, that's all, and I'm a huge fan of both Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst. Plus, it's the first big blockbuster movie of the summer season, and that helps me daydream about warm weather and lazy days. I'm also looking forward to Shrek The Third and Pirates III, as I think most people are. Shrek is just funny as hell, and even though Pirates II was a bit of a mess, I still enjoyed watching Johnny Depp be Captain Jack Sparrow and watching Keira Knightley just be, well, Keira Knightley. She does it so well, and she's a fine actress too.
But there's more than that to look forward to (or maybe I just love the movies way too much). There's The Bourne Ultimatum, which I'm sure I'll have to rent again in December just so I'm not left confused forever about the plot. Ocean's Thirteen (yawn). No Julia Roberts or Catherine Zeta-Jones. But I'll go anyway because Clooney and Pitt crack me up. Die Hard IV (there might be terrorists! Ya think?). I'd also like to see that quirkey "Waitress" movie with the actress from Felicity. Can't remember her name. But it looks interesting. I'm just lookin' to be entertained. Nothing too deep for the summer months. My brain's on vacation.
I admit I'm a sucker for the big Hollywood motion picture, more so than the smaller, edgier independent films. I'm not sure why that is. Maybe I'm just shallow. Or maybe I just like a story with a beginning, middle, and (preferably a good) ending. Criticizing Hollywood is fashionable, of course, and it's certainly not politically correct to admit that you actually enjoy anything that comes out of there. But for every dreckish movie that comes out of that process, there's the occasional gem. You've just got to take the bad with the good, that's all. Or at least, that's what I choose to do.
So my seat is reserved for the summer, and I'll let you know what I think (without giving spoilers though--I hate those), for what it's worth.
Great, now I've got that song going through my head. Brain worm.
Gerard
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Blue Moon
It's been a week of steady writing and the occasional foray out into the world, but really not much else to report lately. My novel, Darwin Day, is coming along nicely. It's at 138 pages now, or something like that. Once a novel gets past the 100-page mark, then I feel like it's finally, definitely going to get finished. The characters finally feel real to me now, as if they were real people, just waiting to tell me their story as it happened. I don't like to manipulate my characters by making them do things that I would like them to do. The story will feel more organic and less contrived if I just let them do the talking and the thinking while I just do the typing. Any time I've done it the other way around, it just ends badly. I've tried that with short stories and with some novels I've never finished, and those stories never quite seem genuine or successful to me. They never publish either, not surprisingly.
But I do have a good feeling about Darwin Day. It's about a young man who returns to his hometown for a summer weekend festival and winds up dead. Mostly, it's the story of his girlfriend, Bridget, and his friend and mentor, an old man named Francis Minnow--both of them have seen his ghost, but aren't sure what to do about it, especially since the town is filled with possible suspects, including both the dead boy's father and best friend. Death makes for strange bedfellows, you might say, because nothing will bring people closer together than the death of someone they both loved. But nothing will drive a small town apart more than a suspicious death.
Anyway, that's the gist of it. It'll be fun and funny, but serious and poignant at various times. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll hurl.
But first I have to finish it, which is why I haven't been blogging much lately. I'll try to do better in that regard in the coming days, though.
At least the weather's getting warmer. I think it was seven degrees today. Wind chill factor of minus four.
I love summer in Newfoundland. Oh, and not only is there a full moon tonight, but another one at the end of the month, making that later one a blue moon. So if you're going to do something special that you rarely get the chance to do, that would be the day to do it, just so you can say to someone, "Geez, I only do this once in a blue moon." Or not.
Gerard
But I do have a good feeling about Darwin Day. It's about a young man who returns to his hometown for a summer weekend festival and winds up dead. Mostly, it's the story of his girlfriend, Bridget, and his friend and mentor, an old man named Francis Minnow--both of them have seen his ghost, but aren't sure what to do about it, especially since the town is filled with possible suspects, including both the dead boy's father and best friend. Death makes for strange bedfellows, you might say, because nothing will bring people closer together than the death of someone they both loved. But nothing will drive a small town apart more than a suspicious death.
Anyway, that's the gist of it. It'll be fun and funny, but serious and poignant at various times. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll hurl.
But first I have to finish it, which is why I haven't been blogging much lately. I'll try to do better in that regard in the coming days, though.
At least the weather's getting warmer. I think it was seven degrees today. Wind chill factor of minus four.
I love summer in Newfoundland. Oh, and not only is there a full moon tonight, but another one at the end of the month, making that later one a blue moon. So if you're going to do something special that you rarely get the chance to do, that would be the day to do it, just so you can say to someone, "Geez, I only do this once in a blue moon." Or not.
Gerard
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Putting the “Mental” Back in “Environmental”
I hope she was kidding. But it’s really hard to tell. So if it’s a joke, it’s not really funny because we can’t tell whether she’s kidding or just demented. Like most people, I’d like to think Sheryl Crow is pulling our collective legs when she says we should reduce toilet paper use down to one square per visit to the [insert euphemism here].
One square? Talk about minimalism. Even the folks on “Lost” probably use more than that on their deserted island. Granted, that’s fiction. I mean big Hurley hasn’t lost any weight yet either and they’ve been on that island for months. On the other hand, if island living made you thinner I wouldn’t have to go jogging tomorrow and I’d probably eat every food that was bad for me for every meal.
When I was growing up (as I’ve said before, I’m a Recovering Catholic), we gave up certain things for Lent. You know, things we really enjoyed, like television, candy, chocolate bars, teasing our younger sister, or giving the babysitter a hard time. Besides, it hardly ever lasted anyway. And rightfully so. Giving things up is an exercise in self-control that might be put to better use by just trying to be a better person or volunteering in the community or something like that.
Still, maybe self-denial is good for the soul. But Sheryl Crow isn’t talking about any forty days and nights in the desert here. She’s saying cut your toilet paper usage back gradually until eventually you are using the very bare minimum…forever. I assume she means for “one” to be the bare minimum, because I don’t think that most of us are ready to live in a world without toilet paper. It would be Communist Russia all over again, where the lineups for toilet paper were longer than those at Motor Vehicle Registration in Mount Pearl (which reminds me: why is the DMV in Mount Pearl and not in St. John’s? Shouldn’t there be one in both cities? And if CBS, Gander, Corner Brook, and Lab City don’t have one, they should be there as well). But I digress.
Sheryl says it’s “a good thing just that we’re all talking” about this issue. By “this issue,” I assume she means the environment and not just toilet paper.
It’s her way to get us thinking about the things we use every day without thinking about how we are destroying the environment, leaving a legacy of devastation behind us for our children, so to speak. Something to think about next time you use the toilet.
I also heard this week that the frequency from cell phones is destroying the ability of honeybees to produce honey, which is not only creating a shortage of honey (no more Honeycombs! Oh, the humanity!) but driving up prices of the honey that’s been made. First oil and gasoline, and now honey. What’s next?
I know, I know: toilet paper. I’m willing to bet there’s going to be a toilet paper tax eventually just like there is on cigarettes—and the more you use, the more you pay. I’m not kidding. So if you’ve got a bad addiction to Cottonelle or that luxurious White Swan stuff, you’re really in for a tough time of it in the Brave New World. I mean, it’s worse than crack (pardon the pun)—you can’t just give up the soft stuff overnight and start buying that cheap budget t.p. that can be used to sand down the walls before plastering. It’s going to take serious time and effort to wean yourself off your current habit.
It just seems to me that we’re being asked to give up everything or cut back on everything. It’s like those medieval monks who were into self-flagellation and self-denial—no sex, no wine, no speaking, nothing pleasurable at all until all you’re left with is the bare minimum.
But I’ll bet they never gave up toilet paper. (Or whatever they used to vanquish their holy crap.)
I’m all for helping out the environment in any way I can. But if this is what it comes to, I’ll voice my opinion in the next election, and if this becomes a political (t)issue, I know exactly what I’ll do.
I’ll vote the bums out.
Gerard
One square? Talk about minimalism. Even the folks on “Lost” probably use more than that on their deserted island. Granted, that’s fiction. I mean big Hurley hasn’t lost any weight yet either and they’ve been on that island for months. On the other hand, if island living made you thinner I wouldn’t have to go jogging tomorrow and I’d probably eat every food that was bad for me for every meal.
When I was growing up (as I’ve said before, I’m a Recovering Catholic), we gave up certain things for Lent. You know, things we really enjoyed, like television, candy, chocolate bars, teasing our younger sister, or giving the babysitter a hard time. Besides, it hardly ever lasted anyway. And rightfully so. Giving things up is an exercise in self-control that might be put to better use by just trying to be a better person or volunteering in the community or something like that.
Still, maybe self-denial is good for the soul. But Sheryl Crow isn’t talking about any forty days and nights in the desert here. She’s saying cut your toilet paper usage back gradually until eventually you are using the very bare minimum…forever. I assume she means for “one” to be the bare minimum, because I don’t think that most of us are ready to live in a world without toilet paper. It would be Communist Russia all over again, where the lineups for toilet paper were longer than those at Motor Vehicle Registration in Mount Pearl (which reminds me: why is the DMV in Mount Pearl and not in St. John’s? Shouldn’t there be one in both cities? And if CBS, Gander, Corner Brook, and Lab City don’t have one, they should be there as well). But I digress.
Sheryl says it’s “a good thing just that we’re all talking” about this issue. By “this issue,” I assume she means the environment and not just toilet paper.
It’s her way to get us thinking about the things we use every day without thinking about how we are destroying the environment, leaving a legacy of devastation behind us for our children, so to speak. Something to think about next time you use the toilet.
I also heard this week that the frequency from cell phones is destroying the ability of honeybees to produce honey, which is not only creating a shortage of honey (no more Honeycombs! Oh, the humanity!) but driving up prices of the honey that’s been made. First oil and gasoline, and now honey. What’s next?
I know, I know: toilet paper. I’m willing to bet there’s going to be a toilet paper tax eventually just like there is on cigarettes—and the more you use, the more you pay. I’m not kidding. So if you’ve got a bad addiction to Cottonelle or that luxurious White Swan stuff, you’re really in for a tough time of it in the Brave New World. I mean, it’s worse than crack (pardon the pun)—you can’t just give up the soft stuff overnight and start buying that cheap budget t.p. that can be used to sand down the walls before plastering. It’s going to take serious time and effort to wean yourself off your current habit.
It just seems to me that we’re being asked to give up everything or cut back on everything. It’s like those medieval monks who were into self-flagellation and self-denial—no sex, no wine, no speaking, nothing pleasurable at all until all you’re left with is the bare minimum.
But I’ll bet they never gave up toilet paper. (Or whatever they used to vanquish their holy crap.)
I’m all for helping out the environment in any way I can. But if this is what it comes to, I’ll voice my opinion in the next election, and if this becomes a political (t)issue, I know exactly what I’ll do.
I’ll vote the bums out.
Gerard
Monday, April 23, 2007
Making the Grade
Good luck to all of you receiving your final grades this afternoon. I hope you get what you deserve, not only in English, but in all courses.
These in-between days are weird. No snow in sight (yet), and I woke this morning to see a blast of sunshine on my bedroom wall around 6:30 a.m.. Then it disappeared and now it looks and feels very much like a gray, dull kind of day is developing.
I have a theory that these are the days when you find out what you’re made of. Anybody can leap out of bed, ready to take on the world on a spectacular, sunny day in July. But it takes true heart to slog through the gray days of April and still feel like you accomplished something worthwhile.
My wife and I watched Spiderman yesterday afternoon because, with the new movie coming out in early May, we thought it would be fun to re-visit and remember what the first instalment in the series was all about. And it was just as good as I remembered, if not better. Spiderman is one of those rare comic-book movies that gives the characters a decidedly dark edge, making the protagonist all-too-human, meaning that he is vulnerable, makes mistakes of judgement and action and even suffers the consequences for it. Spidey hurts the ones he loves even more than he hurts those loathes. Oh, and I couldn’t help but notice the dual personality of The Green Goblin a la Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—the mad scientist who creates a secondary, evil creature that he soon finds he is unable to control. Of course, isn’t that what Spiderman is all about?
Funny how all heroes need to wear masks. Most of them anyway. I mean, sure there’s Superman who takes off his glasses, shows off his blue tights, and tousles his hair in a slightly different mode (I can’t tell the difference; can you? Only his hair dresser knows for sure). The wearing of a mask would only take away from his natural good looks, and that’s partly what his character is about. There are others, I guess, who don’t wear masks, but the majority of them do. Batman is a gazillionaire by day, who couldn’t dare to let the world know that he is the caped crusader in tights, a cowl, and a codpiece. I guess I wouldn’t be too eager to share that information either.
And they all have their reasons for being secretive. Partly, it has to do with the necessity of keeping the world at bay so that the superheroes are free to save it in their own way. It would be pretty hard to save the world if the bad guys knew where you lived and all the rest of it.
But I think it also has to do with the idea of the secret lifestyle—the idea that we all have a hidden side of ourselves that’s just waiting to come to the surface. Sometimes that hidden side is better than our “real” selves (the one we present in public); but most times it’s a side that is darker than the face we present to the world. Comic book heroes struggle with such broad, seemingly disparate concepts as “good” and “evil” as if there were no shades of gray. Fair enough. It’s only entertainment, after all.
But most of us in the so-called real world don’t have that luxury of recognizing good or evil in stark, unwavering, clearly identifiable terms. Sure, we know that school shootings, rape, and genocide are acts of evil (though more and more, the g.d. media presents us with the voice and manifesto of the monster and thereby creates literal sympathy for the devil among certain people who are probably bent that way anyway). But it can all get so confusing—you might find yourself recognizing humanity (a cry for understanding, a plea that “society drove me to it”) in the monster’s voice and, even though you know he/she is still a scourge upon society, there is that twinge of doubt in your mind—that part of you that wonders: did I have any part in this? Did the things that I believe in, that society believes in, our intolerance of difference, our pursuit of personal wealth and happiness, and all the rest of it, play some role in the creation of this monster?
The questions are worthwhile, but potentially damaging. They can blind us to formerly stable concepts such as truth, justice, and (cough, cough) the American way. We’re more and more becoming a society that is incapable of meting out justice because we are handcuffed by our own moral quandaries, while the “bad guys” feel free to mete out their own justice without fear of consequence. Sometimes alienation, death, and martyrdom are exactly what they want more than anything; it is often what they are.
Spiderman has similar dilemmas. But he at least tries and is rarely handcuffed, though, like most of us, occasionally finds himself entrapped in a web of his own making.
Days like these (by which I mean every day), we each have the potential to be heroes in our own lives. (I distinguish heroes from superheroes in the same way that I distinguish models from supermodels, sizes from super-sizes, and dupers from super-dupers: the “super” version has powers that are way off the charts and immeasurable in their potential for both good and bad.) I mean, you can wake up in the morning (or whenever you wake up) and you can decide: will I take out the garbage today or let it pile up in the corner until the town officials break down my door and declare me a nuisance to society? Will I be nice to the cashier at Wal-mart who’s just having a hard day or will I be a part of the problem by being nasty right back at her/him?
There are lots of ways to be a hero. And most of us choose that route without even knowing it. I’m always impressed with people who constantly do the right thing, who make themselves get up and go to work every morning and usually manage to keep a genuine smile on their face. There’s a very ordinary kind of heroism involved there. It only takes a school shooting or a daylight robbery, or some idiot setting fire to a warehouse or scribbling grafitti on someone else’s storefront to make us realize that normal isn’t as bland as it appears to be. Normal sometimes takes a lot of courage, especially when we are constantly bombarded with examples of extraordinary evil or just evil in its many shades.
Sometimes, I believe, the most heroic thing you can do is just choosing to be a good person who does your job well and performs your function as a decent human being, friend, and family member to the best of your ability—regardless of the other, myriad possibilities for your life.
Anyway, whatever grade you get today in your various courses, I do truly hope you are able to reconcile yourself with its implications about whether or not you “showed up” and did the work. But only for yourself and not for anyone else. True heroism, I believe, is shown when you are tested and there are no real, obvious consequences for doing good or bad. When you look in the mirror, how do you grade your own performance? That’s more important than any official grade from anyone else.
Regardless, I don't believe the axiom that you're only as good as your last grade. Life carries your average forward. It's an accumulative grade, earned every minute of every day. Academia, however, is not so different. The grade is made, not just at the big, showy final exam (metaphoricaly speaking, as well) or research paper; it's also made on that snowy Friday in early February when you chose whether to show up or not, having read the book or not, with something to say or not. You decided that, and I'm not saying it's either good or bad, no matter what you chose. It's beyond good and evil. It is what it is.
Gerard
These in-between days are weird. No snow in sight (yet), and I woke this morning to see a blast of sunshine on my bedroom wall around 6:30 a.m.. Then it disappeared and now it looks and feels very much like a gray, dull kind of day is developing.
I have a theory that these are the days when you find out what you’re made of. Anybody can leap out of bed, ready to take on the world on a spectacular, sunny day in July. But it takes true heart to slog through the gray days of April and still feel like you accomplished something worthwhile.
My wife and I watched Spiderman yesterday afternoon because, with the new movie coming out in early May, we thought it would be fun to re-visit and remember what the first instalment in the series was all about. And it was just as good as I remembered, if not better. Spiderman is one of those rare comic-book movies that gives the characters a decidedly dark edge, making the protagonist all-too-human, meaning that he is vulnerable, makes mistakes of judgement and action and even suffers the consequences for it. Spidey hurts the ones he loves even more than he hurts those loathes. Oh, and I couldn’t help but notice the dual personality of The Green Goblin a la Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—the mad scientist who creates a secondary, evil creature that he soon finds he is unable to control. Of course, isn’t that what Spiderman is all about?
Funny how all heroes need to wear masks. Most of them anyway. I mean, sure there’s Superman who takes off his glasses, shows off his blue tights, and tousles his hair in a slightly different mode (I can’t tell the difference; can you? Only his hair dresser knows for sure). The wearing of a mask would only take away from his natural good looks, and that’s partly what his character is about. There are others, I guess, who don’t wear masks, but the majority of them do. Batman is a gazillionaire by day, who couldn’t dare to let the world know that he is the caped crusader in tights, a cowl, and a codpiece. I guess I wouldn’t be too eager to share that information either.
And they all have their reasons for being secretive. Partly, it has to do with the necessity of keeping the world at bay so that the superheroes are free to save it in their own way. It would be pretty hard to save the world if the bad guys knew where you lived and all the rest of it.
But I think it also has to do with the idea of the secret lifestyle—the idea that we all have a hidden side of ourselves that’s just waiting to come to the surface. Sometimes that hidden side is better than our “real” selves (the one we present in public); but most times it’s a side that is darker than the face we present to the world. Comic book heroes struggle with such broad, seemingly disparate concepts as “good” and “evil” as if there were no shades of gray. Fair enough. It’s only entertainment, after all.
But most of us in the so-called real world don’t have that luxury of recognizing good or evil in stark, unwavering, clearly identifiable terms. Sure, we know that school shootings, rape, and genocide are acts of evil (though more and more, the g.d. media presents us with the voice and manifesto of the monster and thereby creates literal sympathy for the devil among certain people who are probably bent that way anyway). But it can all get so confusing—you might find yourself recognizing humanity (a cry for understanding, a plea that “society drove me to it”) in the monster’s voice and, even though you know he/she is still a scourge upon society, there is that twinge of doubt in your mind—that part of you that wonders: did I have any part in this? Did the things that I believe in, that society believes in, our intolerance of difference, our pursuit of personal wealth and happiness, and all the rest of it, play some role in the creation of this monster?
The questions are worthwhile, but potentially damaging. They can blind us to formerly stable concepts such as truth, justice, and (cough, cough) the American way. We’re more and more becoming a society that is incapable of meting out justice because we are handcuffed by our own moral quandaries, while the “bad guys” feel free to mete out their own justice without fear of consequence. Sometimes alienation, death, and martyrdom are exactly what they want more than anything; it is often what they are.
Spiderman has similar dilemmas. But he at least tries and is rarely handcuffed, though, like most of us, occasionally finds himself entrapped in a web of his own making.
Days like these (by which I mean every day), we each have the potential to be heroes in our own lives. (I distinguish heroes from superheroes in the same way that I distinguish models from supermodels, sizes from super-sizes, and dupers from super-dupers: the “super” version has powers that are way off the charts and immeasurable in their potential for both good and bad.) I mean, you can wake up in the morning (or whenever you wake up) and you can decide: will I take out the garbage today or let it pile up in the corner until the town officials break down my door and declare me a nuisance to society? Will I be nice to the cashier at Wal-mart who’s just having a hard day or will I be a part of the problem by being nasty right back at her/him?
There are lots of ways to be a hero. And most of us choose that route without even knowing it. I’m always impressed with people who constantly do the right thing, who make themselves get up and go to work every morning and usually manage to keep a genuine smile on their face. There’s a very ordinary kind of heroism involved there. It only takes a school shooting or a daylight robbery, or some idiot setting fire to a warehouse or scribbling grafitti on someone else’s storefront to make us realize that normal isn’t as bland as it appears to be. Normal sometimes takes a lot of courage, especially when we are constantly bombarded with examples of extraordinary evil or just evil in its many shades.
Sometimes, I believe, the most heroic thing you can do is just choosing to be a good person who does your job well and performs your function as a decent human being, friend, and family member to the best of your ability—regardless of the other, myriad possibilities for your life.
Anyway, whatever grade you get today in your various courses, I do truly hope you are able to reconcile yourself with its implications about whether or not you “showed up” and did the work. But only for yourself and not for anyone else. True heroism, I believe, is shown when you are tested and there are no real, obvious consequences for doing good or bad. When you look in the mirror, how do you grade your own performance? That’s more important than any official grade from anyone else.
Regardless, I don't believe the axiom that you're only as good as your last grade. Life carries your average forward. It's an accumulative grade, earned every minute of every day. Academia, however, is not so different. The grade is made, not just at the big, showy final exam (metaphoricaly speaking, as well) or research paper; it's also made on that snowy Friday in early February when you chose whether to show up or not, having read the book or not, with something to say or not. You decided that, and I'm not saying it's either good or bad, no matter what you chose. It's beyond good and evil. It is what it is.
Gerard
Friday, April 20, 2007
Summertime, Summertime, Summertime, Summertime, Summertime, Summertime!
What is UP with this fog, cold, wind, and downright crappy weather. It’s like the sun has left and is never going to come back.
I admit that it’s been affecting my mood this week. Too many gray days in a row can just suck the energy right out of me. I’ve been pecking away at the keyboard every day—just showing up—and am managing to make progress in my novel. It hasn’t been the great week that I had hoped for, but I’ve gotten about 25 new pages or so done so far, and I know I’ll do more tonight and tomorrow. It’s all progress and that’s something to be grateful for. I had to backtrack in my writing this morning because I had a (supposedly) brilliant idea last night as to what I SHOULD write, as opposed to what I DID write. But if I’d never written the first draft, I would never have thought of how to write it differently.
This is not something I normally do. Usually, I like to just keep going until the novel is finished. But this was something that would affect the rest of the story and really highlight one of the big themes that, so far, the novel had been lacking. So now when I start writing again later this morning, I’ll be on the straight and narrow. It’s really beginning to feel like it’s coming together. I can see exactly where it’s going now and how it has to end. More importantly, I’ve written enough fresh material that I now know who the characters are. I’ve had to get re-acquainted with them because it’s been a few months since I spent any time with them.
This is pretty much how my summer will go, I’m sure. I’m still aiming to finish this novel (Darwin Day) by the end of May. Then I’ll revise and finish my other one (Finton Moon, which won the Percy Janes First Novel Award a few years ago), and all will be right with the world. Then they both get sent out to editors and/or agents, hopefully before the end of summer. We’ll see about that, I guess. (I’m hoping that “summer” is one of those words like “Candyman”—if you repeat it enough times, it’ll appear.)
One of these days, maybe I’ll post an excerpt or something, in case anyone’s interested. I’m not usually much for sharing my work before it’s done, but maybe I should do that, since I’ve been talking about it so much.
I’m thinking that exams are pretty much over now. I’m not sure of the exact last date, but I guess the summer break starts for a lot of you this weekend. Granted, summer is not exactly bursting out all over. But there are signs. The snow is mostly gone, all except for a few mountains of it here and there throughout the city. There’s garbage everywhere you look. Most of my favorite t.v. shows are in re-runs, preparing for the last few shows of the season to run in early May. Soon, there’ll be no more NCIS, Lost, or Jericho. And the hockey playoffs are in full swing. Wish they were over. It’s no fun for me to watch unless the Bruins (my team) or Leafs (my wife’s team) are in it, and they just aren’t. But I’m not bitter…
American Idol is almost done, thankfully. The talent just isn’t there this year. There’s nobody with any star power like in past years. I’m quietly rooting for that young Jordin chick because she’s got the whole package (for retail purposes). But at least Mr. Smiley-face Sanjaya is gone. Maybe I’ll watch it every week now until it’s over. He just irked me. When he smiled, it was like his teeth took over his whole face and he looked like one of those those big Yahoo! smiley faces.
It’s not that I care about American Idol, any more than I care about any particular t.v. show. It’s just entertainment. If we lost cable tomorrow, I don’t think I’d be lost© or anything. I’d just find something better to do. Like watching the Blue Jays. And I don’t mean the birds that have returned from down south only to wonder why. Damn instincts. There’s got to be a better way.
Gerard
I admit that it’s been affecting my mood this week. Too many gray days in a row can just suck the energy right out of me. I’ve been pecking away at the keyboard every day—just showing up—and am managing to make progress in my novel. It hasn’t been the great week that I had hoped for, but I’ve gotten about 25 new pages or so done so far, and I know I’ll do more tonight and tomorrow. It’s all progress and that’s something to be grateful for. I had to backtrack in my writing this morning because I had a (supposedly) brilliant idea last night as to what I SHOULD write, as opposed to what I DID write. But if I’d never written the first draft, I would never have thought of how to write it differently.
This is not something I normally do. Usually, I like to just keep going until the novel is finished. But this was something that would affect the rest of the story and really highlight one of the big themes that, so far, the novel had been lacking. So now when I start writing again later this morning, I’ll be on the straight and narrow. It’s really beginning to feel like it’s coming together. I can see exactly where it’s going now and how it has to end. More importantly, I’ve written enough fresh material that I now know who the characters are. I’ve had to get re-acquainted with them because it’s been a few months since I spent any time with them.
This is pretty much how my summer will go, I’m sure. I’m still aiming to finish this novel (Darwin Day) by the end of May. Then I’ll revise and finish my other one (Finton Moon, which won the Percy Janes First Novel Award a few years ago), and all will be right with the world. Then they both get sent out to editors and/or agents, hopefully before the end of summer. We’ll see about that, I guess. (I’m hoping that “summer” is one of those words like “Candyman”—if you repeat it enough times, it’ll appear.)
One of these days, maybe I’ll post an excerpt or something, in case anyone’s interested. I’m not usually much for sharing my work before it’s done, but maybe I should do that, since I’ve been talking about it so much.
I’m thinking that exams are pretty much over now. I’m not sure of the exact last date, but I guess the summer break starts for a lot of you this weekend. Granted, summer is not exactly bursting out all over. But there are signs. The snow is mostly gone, all except for a few mountains of it here and there throughout the city. There’s garbage everywhere you look. Most of my favorite t.v. shows are in re-runs, preparing for the last few shows of the season to run in early May. Soon, there’ll be no more NCIS, Lost, or Jericho. And the hockey playoffs are in full swing. Wish they were over. It’s no fun for me to watch unless the Bruins (my team) or Leafs (my wife’s team) are in it, and they just aren’t. But I’m not bitter…
American Idol is almost done, thankfully. The talent just isn’t there this year. There’s nobody with any star power like in past years. I’m quietly rooting for that young Jordin chick because she’s got the whole package (for retail purposes). But at least Mr. Smiley-face Sanjaya is gone. Maybe I’ll watch it every week now until it’s over. He just irked me. When he smiled, it was like his teeth took over his whole face and he looked like one of those those big Yahoo! smiley faces.
It’s not that I care about American Idol, any more than I care about any particular t.v. show. It’s just entertainment. If we lost cable tomorrow, I don’t think I’d be lost© or anything. I’d just find something better to do. Like watching the Blue Jays. And I don’t mean the birds that have returned from down south only to wonder why. Damn instincts. There’s got to be a better way.
Gerard
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program
It must be springtime—as I was returning home from the Post Office this morning, there was a thin-boned, impeccably-dressed, elderly woman standing at my door as if she knew I would be home at any moment. She’d been just about to knock, pretending she hadn’t seen me coming and didn’t know that I lived behind that door.
“Oh!” She pretended to be shocked that I was standing before her in the flesh. I was afraid she might have a heart attack or something.
“Yes?” I asked, just to assure her I wasn’t a ghost.
“Good morning.” She was about to go into her spiel without taking a breath, just as she’d been trained to do. But I wasn’t having it.
“Yes, it is a good morning. How are—”
“I’m just going around talking to people about yesterday’s tragedy in Virginia. Have you heard about it? These are horrible times we’re living in, aren’t they.” She was shaking her head sorrowfully. “I mean, who knows but the next monster is living right her among us?”
I resisted the urge to say how appalled I was at her gall, the audacity she had to exploit those deaths. “I can assure you that he is.” I smiled winningly.
“Yes.” She smiled, with just a trace of uncertainty in her expression. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
“Can I help you with something? It’s not really a good time for me.”
“When would be a good time?”
“Well, never really. I’m not big on religious discussion.”
“Well, perhaps I can leave you this pamphlet then.”
“I’ve had dozens of those over the years and I’ve never read one. You should save it for someone who can appreciate what you have to say.”
Disappointed (or angry?), she put it back in her purse.
“But you have a good day anyway,” I said.
“Hmm?”
“I wish you well in your day’s work.” I was putting the key in the front door and turning the knob, opening the door as I started to step inside.
“Oh. Yes. Well, thank you.”
And that ended my two minutes today with the lady from the Jehovah’s Witness Protection program. I have nothing against the JWs. I’m sure they’re mostly good (though somewhat misguided), well-intentioned folk who think the majority of us are going to hell on a slow-moving train.
But why do they keep showing up at my door? When I was younger, I actually would stand and listen to them. Back then, they sent good-looking young women to my door. I think they’ve kept up with my aging process through their super-spy software and figure I’d be more likely to talk to an older woman now. Not true. I’m not really likely to talk to any of them. Sometimes, in the past, I would invite them in, offer them a cup of tea, and debate the existence of God with them or discuss whether Jesus would actually like the idea of people going door-to-door and using his name to discuss the ravages of war in the Middle East or the immorality of certain political figures or people “living in sin.”
Now, I just politely say I don’t have time. And still they stand there. And stand there. And smile. And wait for me to miraculously open my heart and mind to their message. Maybe I just don’t get it. Maybe I’m too harsh.
But it got me thinking: when does anything good ever come to your door? Think about it. Vacuum salesmen (always men, never women), urchins collecting beer bottles, people looking for money for one debatably good cause or another (some I always give to, others not so much). Or someone might knock on your door to tell you your house is on fire or someone next door has been stabbed and needs you to call 911. Or some longlost, anonymous relative might show up looking for shelter. Or, if you’ve lived a life of promiscuity, some young person might show up calling you “daddy” when you had no idea when you left Buchans seventeen years ago that, well, I digress…. I hope the nice JW lady doesn’t read that last thought tonight when she’s searching me on her super spyware.
All I’m saying is that the cliché is wrong: opportunity, most definitively, NEVER knocks. All good things do NOT come to those who wait. That which comes to my door generally wants something from me.
If I want opportunity I have to go find it. Make it. Hunt it down. Make something of it. Myself. It never comes to me of its own volition. If I want to win the lottery, I’d better buy a ticket. If I want to win Canadian Idol, I’d better audition.
Another way of saying it is that the Lord helps those who help themselves.
I suppose the Jehovah’s people kind of see it that way too. After all, they want recruits or converts; they want to make the numbers strong and, less cynically, I suppose they want to spread The Word. Just because I don’t particularly enjoy their version of The Word doesn’t mean they don’t see me as one big walking opportunity.
But I’m getting a little tired of being put on the defensive, of always having to say “No thank you” to people I don’t even have a relationship with. It all gets a little negative, creating bad karma (if you believe that sort of thing, which I sort of do. Consider karma to be a god. Or God is Karma. Whichever and maybe neither).
I mean, how many times are you just going along, having a great day and minding your own business, and then someone walks up to you, puts their hand on your sleeve and asks “Have you found Jesus?” or “Can you spare fifty bucks for a phone call?” or “Would you please do our survey because, well, you don’t know us, but you do owe us some of your time.” And you’re forced out of your happy place into another, relatively darker place.
The first time is probably not so bad. You might even fish in your pocket for a dollar so that a homeless man can buy a smoke or a sandwich. You might even smile and say “Yes, thank you, I have” to the woman who asks if you’ve found Jesus. (I once said I didn’t know he was missing and I sure hope they do find him because we could sure use him right now. Then I tipped my baseball cap and kept going.) But after the third or fourth or fifth time that day, you might finally blow a gasket. Or you might just find yourself inexplicably in a bit of a down mood, not really knowing why, which of course might carry over into the next discussion you have with some unsuspecting person who’s also had to deal with the fire brigade’s annual ball, the girl scouts’ cookies, and a seniors’ walkathon all in one day. They’re all good causes, but you can’t really say yes to all of them.
Of course saying “yes” puts you in a better mood. So maybe that’s just easier. You’ll be poorer of pocket, but richer of spirit. Assuming you don’t feel like a bit of a pushover.
Anyway, it’s funny what a “chance” encounter at the front door can make you think of. I’ve thought of how the Jehovah’s and I really have had a good, long run together. I feel like they’ve been with me since I left home at the age of eighteen. If only my poor, devout Catholic mother knew what they were trying to get me to believe! She’d certainly pray even harder for my soul, such as it is.
But, as I said, I can no longer harbour any ill will towards the JWs. We’re like the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote—inseparably distant and yet somehow, ironically attached, for better or for worse. “Beep-beep!” I say as they are foiled yet again…for now. But they’ll be back with the next tragedy, as sure as the leaves fall in autumn.
Sometimes, though, an opportunity is not to be missed. And I think that’s why I had to write about this.
Gerard
“Oh!” She pretended to be shocked that I was standing before her in the flesh. I was afraid she might have a heart attack or something.
“Yes?” I asked, just to assure her I wasn’t a ghost.
“Good morning.” She was about to go into her spiel without taking a breath, just as she’d been trained to do. But I wasn’t having it.
“Yes, it is a good morning. How are—”
“I’m just going around talking to people about yesterday’s tragedy in Virginia. Have you heard about it? These are horrible times we’re living in, aren’t they.” She was shaking her head sorrowfully. “I mean, who knows but the next monster is living right her among us?”
I resisted the urge to say how appalled I was at her gall, the audacity she had to exploit those deaths. “I can assure you that he is.” I smiled winningly.
“Yes.” She smiled, with just a trace of uncertainty in her expression. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
“Can I help you with something? It’s not really a good time for me.”
“When would be a good time?”
“Well, never really. I’m not big on religious discussion.”
“Well, perhaps I can leave you this pamphlet then.”
“I’ve had dozens of those over the years and I’ve never read one. You should save it for someone who can appreciate what you have to say.”
Disappointed (or angry?), she put it back in her purse.
“But you have a good day anyway,” I said.
“Hmm?”
“I wish you well in your day’s work.” I was putting the key in the front door and turning the knob, opening the door as I started to step inside.
“Oh. Yes. Well, thank you.”
And that ended my two minutes today with the lady from the Jehovah’s Witness Protection program. I have nothing against the JWs. I’m sure they’re mostly good (though somewhat misguided), well-intentioned folk who think the majority of us are going to hell on a slow-moving train.
But why do they keep showing up at my door? When I was younger, I actually would stand and listen to them. Back then, they sent good-looking young women to my door. I think they’ve kept up with my aging process through their super-spy software and figure I’d be more likely to talk to an older woman now. Not true. I’m not really likely to talk to any of them. Sometimes, in the past, I would invite them in, offer them a cup of tea, and debate the existence of God with them or discuss whether Jesus would actually like the idea of people going door-to-door and using his name to discuss the ravages of war in the Middle East or the immorality of certain political figures or people “living in sin.”
Now, I just politely say I don’t have time. And still they stand there. And stand there. And smile. And wait for me to miraculously open my heart and mind to their message. Maybe I just don’t get it. Maybe I’m too harsh.
But it got me thinking: when does anything good ever come to your door? Think about it. Vacuum salesmen (always men, never women), urchins collecting beer bottles, people looking for money for one debatably good cause or another (some I always give to, others not so much). Or someone might knock on your door to tell you your house is on fire or someone next door has been stabbed and needs you to call 911. Or some longlost, anonymous relative might show up looking for shelter. Or, if you’ve lived a life of promiscuity, some young person might show up calling you “daddy” when you had no idea when you left Buchans seventeen years ago that, well, I digress…. I hope the nice JW lady doesn’t read that last thought tonight when she’s searching me on her super spyware.
All I’m saying is that the cliché is wrong: opportunity, most definitively, NEVER knocks. All good things do NOT come to those who wait. That which comes to my door generally wants something from me.
If I want opportunity I have to go find it. Make it. Hunt it down. Make something of it. Myself. It never comes to me of its own volition. If I want to win the lottery, I’d better buy a ticket. If I want to win Canadian Idol, I’d better audition.
Another way of saying it is that the Lord helps those who help themselves.
I suppose the Jehovah’s people kind of see it that way too. After all, they want recruits or converts; they want to make the numbers strong and, less cynically, I suppose they want to spread The Word. Just because I don’t particularly enjoy their version of The Word doesn’t mean they don’t see me as one big walking opportunity.
But I’m getting a little tired of being put on the defensive, of always having to say “No thank you” to people I don’t even have a relationship with. It all gets a little negative, creating bad karma (if you believe that sort of thing, which I sort of do. Consider karma to be a god. Or God is Karma. Whichever and maybe neither).
I mean, how many times are you just going along, having a great day and minding your own business, and then someone walks up to you, puts their hand on your sleeve and asks “Have you found Jesus?” or “Can you spare fifty bucks for a phone call?” or “Would you please do our survey because, well, you don’t know us, but you do owe us some of your time.” And you’re forced out of your happy place into another, relatively darker place.
The first time is probably not so bad. You might even fish in your pocket for a dollar so that a homeless man can buy a smoke or a sandwich. You might even smile and say “Yes, thank you, I have” to the woman who asks if you’ve found Jesus. (I once said I didn’t know he was missing and I sure hope they do find him because we could sure use him right now. Then I tipped my baseball cap and kept going.) But after the third or fourth or fifth time that day, you might finally blow a gasket. Or you might just find yourself inexplicably in a bit of a down mood, not really knowing why, which of course might carry over into the next discussion you have with some unsuspecting person who’s also had to deal with the fire brigade’s annual ball, the girl scouts’ cookies, and a seniors’ walkathon all in one day. They’re all good causes, but you can’t really say yes to all of them.
Of course saying “yes” puts you in a better mood. So maybe that’s just easier. You’ll be poorer of pocket, but richer of spirit. Assuming you don’t feel like a bit of a pushover.
Anyway, it’s funny what a “chance” encounter at the front door can make you think of. I’ve thought of how the Jehovah’s and I really have had a good, long run together. I feel like they’ve been with me since I left home at the age of eighteen. If only my poor, devout Catholic mother knew what they were trying to get me to believe! She’d certainly pray even harder for my soul, such as it is.
But, as I said, I can no longer harbour any ill will towards the JWs. We’re like the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote—inseparably distant and yet somehow, ironically attached, for better or for worse. “Beep-beep!” I say as they are foiled yet again…for now. But they’ll be back with the next tragedy, as sure as the leaves fall in autumn.
Sometimes, though, an opportunity is not to be missed. And I think that’s why I had to write about this.
Gerard
Today is the first day of the rest of the week.
So today was my first day of living the dream: being a writer. I slept until 7 a.m.—an hour later than during the semester, which is a real treat. Someday I’d like to sleep until noon. I haven’t done that since…well, ever. I’ve never been much of a sleeper. Even in my days of playing with the band(s), I would get home around 3 or 4 in the morning, crawl into bed and be completely unable to sleep. Next thing I knew, it was time for breakfast. Anyway, some habits die hard, I guess, because I’m still that way. I didn't sleep much last night, wound up watching hockey highlights with the sound muted for a couple of hours. But I still get up at the same time; otherwise, I feel I might miss something (besides sleep, I mean).
After breakfast, which takes all of ten or fifteen minutes, I amble to my home office (aka “the den”) where I check e-mails, MSN news, CBC sports page, and anything else that will assure me that the world didn’t end in a massive terrorist attack overnight. Reassured, I decided it was time to start writing. (To be honest, even if Overaged Relatively Normal Ninja Turtles had bombed downtown Tokyo this morning, I probably would have continued with my day. It's just that I like to be informed, even if the world really has gone to hell.)
And it really was time to starting writing. It’s just that someone forgot to tell my brain that. It’s kind of a huge shift to go from being a teacher and academic to suddenly expecting yourself to be Creative Guy. I’m sure some of you know what I mean. In my early undergraduate years I managed to write a few short stories here and there—none of them very good; I’m not even sure I still have them—but it was hard to just turn it on and off like that. That hasn’t changed either.
I find that music helps. I have my mp3 player nearby always, just in case I need inspiration. (I intentionally don’t have an iPod because they don’t have all the features I want/need, such AM/FM radio and a microphone, essentials to me). Every time I work on a new book or story, I have a “soundtrack” that gets me in the mood for that specific story and the characters that inhabit that world. My current project is called Darwin Day (a novel), and I have two separate soundtracks for it—one is instrumental (the words of others get in the way of fresh thinking sometimes) and the other has pop and/or rock songs, some of the era in which the story takes place. It just gets me in the mood to write.
Or think about writing. Really, what I did today while listening to Rush's "Tom Sawyer" was reading over what I had already done several months ago to remind me of where it was going. I don’t get into that nasty habit of revising the first fifty pages over and over so that the story never moves forward. That’s a trap, and if you’re writing a novel or story of your own, I’d suggest you steer clear of it. Just keep going, on word in front of the last one until you reach the end (of the sentence, paragraph, chapter, or novel). Don’t look back until you’re done, and don’t show it to anyone else when you’ve written ten precious pages and ask, “What do you think?”What if they say, “You suck. What made you think you could be a writer?” Where would that leave you? It could traumatize you forever so that you definitely never would be a writer. I mean, you must have REALLY valued that other person’s opinion or you never would have asked. I’m not sure that people who ask other people’s opinions of their writing really want the truth. Besides, whose truth is it? Who has the right to tell you that your work isn’t worth anything? If you believe in it, just finish it. Ask for input from other people then, sure, but if they tell you it’s rotten to the core, don’t give up on it and throw it in the wood chipper. Just keep writing. And even if they say, "It's great!" it wouldn't mean much. It's only ten pages. The average novel far exceeds that much. It's kind of like pouring cement for a foundation and asking a master carpenter, "So what do you think of my new house?"
Anyway, I’m digressing. I was talking about my first day of writing.I read half of those first fifty pages and felt very satisfied with myself. Then I did laundry (as part of the work-sharing agreement between me and my wife in which she still does the majority), went out to meet a friend for lunch for a couple of hours, came home and answered some e-mails, and then had supper. So it’s nearly 8 p.m. and I’m just settling in to do some writing, again.
I know I’ll really start tomorrow. I promised myself that I would write fifty pages this week, which would be a major triumph for me. I can usually write way more than that, but I’m taking it easy on myself, especially considering tomorrow’s Tuesday already, and this is my first full-time writing in a long time.
I’m reminded of that story about James Joyce (I think it was from Stephen King that I read it in his book On Writing). Joyce was a slow writer, picky with his words. One evening a friend met him walking on the road and had the temerity to ask Joyce how his day of writing had gone.
“I wrote five words,” Joyce said with exasperation obvious on his face.
“Five words!” His friend clapped his hands in glee. “That’s wonderful for you, Jim. You must be pleased with your output!”
“I suppose,” said Joyce, rubbing his chin. “But I just don’t know what order they go in.”
That was a paraphrase, of course, but that’s how it feels some days. I can’t imagine only writing five words in a day, let alone fussing so much over which order to put them in. My best advice—and the advice I almost always take myself—is to just put your arse in the chair and write. That’s the best way to write anything. If you’re showing up, you’ll eventually get it done. If you don’t show up, nothing gets done. Kind of like life.
Of course, when you show up, it’s nice if you have something to say too.
Enough throat-clearing. I must go write my five words.
Gerard
After breakfast, which takes all of ten or fifteen minutes, I amble to my home office (aka “the den”) where I check e-mails, MSN news, CBC sports page, and anything else that will assure me that the world didn’t end in a massive terrorist attack overnight. Reassured, I decided it was time to start writing. (To be honest, even if Overaged Relatively Normal Ninja Turtles had bombed downtown Tokyo this morning, I probably would have continued with my day. It's just that I like to be informed, even if the world really has gone to hell.)
And it really was time to starting writing. It’s just that someone forgot to tell my brain that. It’s kind of a huge shift to go from being a teacher and academic to suddenly expecting yourself to be Creative Guy. I’m sure some of you know what I mean. In my early undergraduate years I managed to write a few short stories here and there—none of them very good; I’m not even sure I still have them—but it was hard to just turn it on and off like that. That hasn’t changed either.
I find that music helps. I have my mp3 player nearby always, just in case I need inspiration. (I intentionally don’t have an iPod because they don’t have all the features I want/need, such AM/FM radio and a microphone, essentials to me). Every time I work on a new book or story, I have a “soundtrack” that gets me in the mood for that specific story and the characters that inhabit that world. My current project is called Darwin Day (a novel), and I have two separate soundtracks for it—one is instrumental (the words of others get in the way of fresh thinking sometimes) and the other has pop and/or rock songs, some of the era in which the story takes place. It just gets me in the mood to write.
Or think about writing. Really, what I did today while listening to Rush's "Tom Sawyer" was reading over what I had already done several months ago to remind me of where it was going. I don’t get into that nasty habit of revising the first fifty pages over and over so that the story never moves forward. That’s a trap, and if you’re writing a novel or story of your own, I’d suggest you steer clear of it. Just keep going, on word in front of the last one until you reach the end (of the sentence, paragraph, chapter, or novel). Don’t look back until you’re done, and don’t show it to anyone else when you’ve written ten precious pages and ask, “What do you think?”What if they say, “You suck. What made you think you could be a writer?” Where would that leave you? It could traumatize you forever so that you definitely never would be a writer. I mean, you must have REALLY valued that other person’s opinion or you never would have asked. I’m not sure that people who ask other people’s opinions of their writing really want the truth. Besides, whose truth is it? Who has the right to tell you that your work isn’t worth anything? If you believe in it, just finish it. Ask for input from other people then, sure, but if they tell you it’s rotten to the core, don’t give up on it and throw it in the wood chipper. Just keep writing. And even if they say, "It's great!" it wouldn't mean much. It's only ten pages. The average novel far exceeds that much. It's kind of like pouring cement for a foundation and asking a master carpenter, "So what do you think of my new house?"
Anyway, I’m digressing. I was talking about my first day of writing.I read half of those first fifty pages and felt very satisfied with myself. Then I did laundry (as part of the work-sharing agreement between me and my wife in which she still does the majority), went out to meet a friend for lunch for a couple of hours, came home and answered some e-mails, and then had supper. So it’s nearly 8 p.m. and I’m just settling in to do some writing, again.
I know I’ll really start tomorrow. I promised myself that I would write fifty pages this week, which would be a major triumph for me. I can usually write way more than that, but I’m taking it easy on myself, especially considering tomorrow’s Tuesday already, and this is my first full-time writing in a long time.
I’m reminded of that story about James Joyce (I think it was from Stephen King that I read it in his book On Writing). Joyce was a slow writer, picky with his words. One evening a friend met him walking on the road and had the temerity to ask Joyce how his day of writing had gone.
“I wrote five words,” Joyce said with exasperation obvious on his face.
“Five words!” His friend clapped his hands in glee. “That’s wonderful for you, Jim. You must be pleased with your output!”
“I suppose,” said Joyce, rubbing his chin. “But I just don’t know what order they go in.”
That was a paraphrase, of course, but that’s how it feels some days. I can’t imagine only writing five words in a day, let alone fussing so much over which order to put them in. My best advice—and the advice I almost always take myself—is to just put your arse in the chair and write. That’s the best way to write anything. If you’re showing up, you’ll eventually get it done. If you don’t show up, nothing gets done. Kind of like life.
Of course, when you show up, it’s nice if you have something to say too.
Enough throat-clearing. I must go write my five words.
Gerard
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