Blurred Line

Two quick things to mention: Melly's having a very interesting discussion on evil over on her blog today. Be sure to read the comment thread as well. Also, the results of the "Midnight Road" Contest are in. I didn't win, but I was stoked to see that my favourite entry won both the contest and the reader's choice award.

Anyhow, a very long day at work gave me ample time to come up with a solution to my motivation problem. I figured that there's absolutely no excuse - not in the entire world - that should prevent me from writing 1000 words in the space of a week. I know, that's a pitiful amount, but I'm taking baby steps here. It's more than I've been doing. I can write roughly 400-500 words in the space of an hour, where my concentration is devoted solely to writing. So, that means about two and a half hours of writing per week. If I can't do that, I might as well throw all of my notebooks into a bonfire as a sacrifice to the writing gods because, let's face it, only divine intervention could help me at that point.

So, starting this Monday, there will be another progress meter to make sure I'm keeping on top of my weekly goal. And if I fall behind, I grant everyone the permission to sign me up for spam emails, googlebomb "Cavan Terrill" so that it leads to the Wikipedia entry on "loser", email me viruses that cause my computer to constantly display "Start Writing, Bitch", or any other sort of malicious activity you can think of really hound me about it.

And, on a completely unrelated tangent: Alan Moore (the guy behing Watchmen and V for Vendetta), is getting some copyright hassles because of his books about Wendy (Peter Pan's Wendy) engaging in some naughtiness of the sexual variety.

...kick in the ass. That's what I need. I've come to realize that, more than anything else, it's laziness that's doing in any chance of me having any sort of semi-regular writing career.

Now, I realize that for most people, writing is in itself its own motivation. Well, it is for me, too - it's just that I'm a very lazy person in general, so my motivation to sit down and write only ends up amounting to a couple of hours per week.

The only times in the past that I've really written steadily for hours at a time and days in a row was either when I was coming close to the end of a novel (which doesn't really count, since I think that's the way most people get when they're finishing a long project) and during NaNoWriMo, where I think the sense of community really helped me out. So, a question for those who have also gone through periods of really having to motivate themselves: What works?

Sorry for the lack of posting lately. First, there was general laziness. That was followed by a grand weekend adventure involving a very large fire, a creepy baby doll, Chuck Berry, an industrial sized breakfast, and far, far too much alcohol. Then a day-long bout with fatigue. But, here I am now, perfectly recovered.

So, I thought I'd talk a bit about some a method of fleshing out your character early on in the writing process. I don't do this too often, so I might end of talking about stuff that I've got no authority to comment on but, hey, isn't that what blogs are for? Anyhow, I'd been thinking about these character description sheets that we got back in grade school for writing stories. They'd be about four pages long, double-sided, with far more questions about your character than was really necessary. Stuff like "What's your character's favourite kind of pizza?" or "How does your character relate to the colour blue?". Our teacher was very adamant that, even if we didn't use all of this information in our stories, we had to know it. We had to know our characters frontwards and backwards, in four dimensions.

Of course, then everyone would have stories that started "Harold was pretty much indifferent to the colour blue, even when he was eating his favourite kind of pizza, pepperoni and mushroom."

Although I'm sure there's something to be said for getting to know the ins and outs of your character beforehand, I've always thought that it made more sense to get to know your character the same way your reader will. Your first chapter (or whatever the first section that introduces your character is) should be a lot like a first date. You get some of the basics - a general feel for the character and maybe a few details, like occupation and that kind of thing. There should also be a few hints towards the deeper, more veiled personality traits.

I remark on this because I recently got a submission where someone played all their character cards in the first few pages. By the fifth page, you'd learned pretty much everything there was to know about the character - what their personality was like, what their concerns were, etc. As you can imagine, it wasn't a very developed character. This is because it's the small stuff, the subtleties, that really make up a fully-realized character.

I put an entry into the "Midnight Road" contest, which is being run by Jason Evans over at his blog, The Clarity of Night. The contest is for works that are no longer than 250 words and are based on an image that's posted over on his blog (a power line against set against a backdrop of very dark and menacing clouds).

You can read my entry, "Blood Electric", here.

For those who remember what I was talking about a couple months back on this blog, you may be interested to know that the Clarion Workshop is kicking off in just five days. And, just for the record, I'm now officially telling people that I was one of the last cuts from this year's Clarion, since I got my application in well before the deadline, but didn't find out whether I'd been accepted or not until the very last day the rejections/acceptances were sent out. Of course, I have no idea whether this is true or not. So, when I say that this is what I'm "officially telling people", I mean that this is what I'm officially telling myself, in an effort to cope. Because, you know, I would never spread around anything unless I can verify its truth. Uh...yeah.

Anyhow, in case you're interested, I thought I'd link to a listing of blogs by people who are attending Clarion this year. Alex Wilson, a Clarion attendee, has done all the legwork here so, you know, props to him. Clarion blogs tend to make for interesting reads, in my opinion, so I'll definitely be keeping an eye on this year's crop (but definitely not an envious, crazed with jealousy kind of an eye....no, of course not).

You might have noticed that the wordcount on Mass Romantic has not moved in quite some time, but fear not, work is indeed being done. Much rewriting and a bit of polishing lately as I figure out how all of the pieces are going to fit together. Here's another glimpse:

I wonder what her home looks like. Something very modern, maybe a little bohemian. A surprising amount of black, the harshness offset by an eclectic variety of knick-knacks that show off a more whimsical side of her. The sofa, like mine - a replica of something from days gone by. Sophisticated end tables on either side which support sophisticated lamps. Straight black lampshades (not the crinkled kind) with a single line of white running round the bottom. The lights emit a soft glow. The glow calls music to mind, subdued jazz issuing forth from some other room.

The bedroom, too, is soft. Soft and pink, but not garishly so. A mass of pillows at the head of the bed. A finely crafted armoire with smooth curves and a glossy finish. The sheets are not silk, just something with a very high thread count. Still sensuous, but somehow more real. I stop at that thought. Yes, very real.

I try to picture Helena in her kitchen, but nothing comes. It is empty.

Eventually, I sleep. Dreams of swords and pillows. The slow fade in of a face. The slow fade out.

My birthday was on Thursday, and festivities continued on to Sunday, which was nice. Of course, putting it that way might make it seem like I actually did something of interest. Well, not so much - I got taken out for a dinner a couple of times and ate multiple cakes, but that's about all. Not that I'm complaining - I've had a cold now for so long that I think it might actually be allergies or something, so I wasn't too keen on partying into a drunken oblivion (FYI: Drunken oblivion is a lot like regular oblivion, except with more public nudity).

Plus, it's been extremely hot here in town lately, and very humid as well, so you get this thick, oppressive air that just makes you want to sit down and not move ever again. I don't have air conditioning. I live on the sixth floor of my building. So, needless to say, it gets very hot - hot enough that I can't sleep very well, so my rhythms are all thrown off (last night I slept from 10:30 to 2:45, and then from 6:30 to 8:45).

The award for strangest birthday gift goes, as usual, to my mother. She's always sending me some bizarre knick-knack, and this year's was an Alberta Weather Forecaster (she lives there, and I was born in Edmonton and spent a good chunk of my childhood living in Calgary). That little piece of paper attached to it says this:

You are now the owner of an Alberta weather forecaster. For best results, hang on a nail outside your window. If it's moving, it's windy. If it's wet, it's raining. If it's stiff, it's freezing. If it's white, it's snowing. If it's gone, you've been ripped off.

I say the tourists who buy this thing have already been ripped off. Because, you know, they paid money for it.

I would write something about writing today, but to be perfectly honest, my mind is elsewhere. Here's Jussi in practice today, getting ready for the game, which kicks off in about 45 minutes. Go Oilers!

This terrific debut novel from Lewis DeSoto follows two South African women during apartheid - Marit is the wife of a farmer who is forced to take over control after the farm after her husband is killed in a terrorism-related incident. Tembi is her housemaid and, eventually, becomes her only friend.

I'm a huge fan of post-colonial literature, so this one really appealed to me. It also managed to delight the English Student part of me, as DeSoto employs some really fascinating literary devices that are a lot of fun to deconstruct (you know, if you're into that kind of stuff). Even if you're not, though, A Blade of Grass succeeds because its two main characters are so well-developed. Both of these characters are flawed, but you're sympathetic to their plight all the same. This one's a very good read - be sure to check it out.

Yesterday, Flood asked me whether I look at a market and then write a story accordingly or if I write whatever I feel like and then look for markets. Now, on the one hand, I think this says a lot about a writer and, on the other, I don't think it says anything at all (yes, contradiction is the order of the day, thank you very much).

I've come across writers who are almost offended at the very idea of writing for market. What they say, invariably, is that "you should write for yourself". Well, duh. I have no problem with the idea that people should write for themselves, but this does not mean that, just because you picked out a certain market and wrote a story tailored to their needs, you're some kind of horrible sell-out (note: I'm not saying that anyone who reads this would make such an accusation - all of my readers are far too intelligent for that kind of thing, not to mention extremely attractive, well-mannered, and snappily dressed...but I digress). However, if those kind of people were reading this blog, here's what I'd say:

Writing for oneself does not equal a lack of commercial viability. Writing for market does not equal a lack of artistic merit, nor, for that matter, a lack of authorial fondness for the story produced.

That, then, is my rather long preamble to the question. I don't think it much matters which direction you take in finding markets. Some people do, but they're...you know, wrong.

Anyhow, as for my own personal choice, I've gone both ways. A lot of what I write happens to be similar to the types of material that shows up in markets like Strange Horizons and Futurismic. As a result, I tend to submit to those places first. Now, my stories aren't specifically tailored for them (or for many market), but my the stuff I like to write about is the same kind of stuff they like to read, so it works out for the best. However, I've also gone to some markets and thought, Hey, I could do something like this, and tried to write a story that would fit for them. Likewise, whenever I see a market with a themed issue that I might like to submit to, I'll sit down and try to come up with something that would fit for them. In fact, that's one of my favourite ways to try writing about stuff that I wouldn't otherwise bother with.

I think this question also lends itself to another, and that is this: How important is it to you to get your work published? For some people, they don't much care. Writing is its own reward. I'm not that type. For me, publication is very important because, frankly, writing isn't something I want to be a hobby of mine for the rest of life. Sure, I realize that the chances of becoming a full time writer are slim to nil, but that's my goal, so publication is something that matters a lot to me. As such, I probably spend more time writing for market (but remember, that doesn't mean I don't like what I'm writing) than your average aspiring writer.

So, what's your opinion?

The other day I was clicking around Duotrope's Digest in order to familiarize myself with a few new markets. The piece of writing advice I ignored the longest is something that appears in the submission guidelines of nearly every market - they tell you to read their magazine in order to get a taste of what they look for. Well, that seemed kind of labour intensive, so I never bothered with it much. Of course, as soon as I did start following that bit of advice, my stories seemed to fare a lot better in terms of acceptances and nice rejections. Anyway, I digress.

I was intrigued by one thing that I saw in one market's submission guidelines (can't remember which, for the life of me). It said something along the lines of "Please name your characters. If you don't, how can we be expected to care about them?". As some of you know, I have a propensity for writing in the first person. I also have a propensity for not naming my first person narrators. So, when I saw this, it raised my eyebrows.

It seems to me that, provided you're writing in first person, the lack of a name doesn't necessarily alienate the reader from the character. I can see how it might work if you're writing in third person, since you'd always have to refer to the character as "the man" or "the woman" or whatever. But, even then I'm pretty sure there are ways around that, if you have enough talent.

I think the problem is not really the lack of a name in itself, though. Perhaps some will disagree with me (and feel free to do so in the comments), but I think the fact that this market requires characters to be named indicates that they've received plenty of submissions where writers have extremely underdeveloped their unnamed characters. I suggest this because a lot of people will do anything they can do add suspense to a manuscript. And a good way to do this is to add a mysterious character to the mix. To achieve that, the writer might simply not tell the reader anything about the character (read: unnamed and underdeveloped). I'm stretching one particular example here to get my point across, but I think you get the gist of what I'm getting at.

It's not the lack of a name itself that makes a character hard for the reader to identify with, but the lack of a name that makes it easier for the writer not to give them a fully-realized personality (thus, reader can't identify, etc, etc, so on and so forth). Any other opinions?

It's pretty overcast today, as you can see. One of the other things you might glean from this photo (taken from my balcony) is that it looks like I'm out in the middle of nowhere. There's a lot of fields and trees, and one lonely building off in the distance. Actually, though, I'm right in the middle of the city (that building is part of the Carleton University campus) and all those fields are part of something called the Experimental Farm.

Now, when I first moved to Ottawa, I wasn't so sure about this Experimtal Farm. I mean, it sounds like the kind of place where they're splicing genes all over the place and inventing new species. And, if movies have taught me anything, that kind of stuff invariably results in a bunch of monsters escaping their restraints and wreaking havoc on humankind. So, you know, I wasn't sure if I wanted to move close by. I didn't really want to be the first to die.

What they actually do is test new kinds of crops, like wheat that's supposed to be hardier and stuff like that. This brings me to my point - appearances can be deceiving.

For example, someone might look at this Serenity DVD and say "Wow! An entirely legitimate copy of Serenity!". They would, unfortunately, be incorrect. I bought the movie off eBay and the auction seemed perfectly legit. The guy had a really high feedback rating, he was a registered Power Seller, he even mentioned that if anything went wrong with the purchase, he would work something out, because his buyer's satisfaction was important to him. Well, I get the DVD and it's printed on a gold disc (not your regular silver DVD), there's something smudged out on the back of the disc and the case cover is clearly not right. I mean, all the right artwork is there on the front, but there's something a little off. Then I notice - on the back one of the review comments says "The Most Action Movie of the Year!" and later on it says "From the creator of Buffy and Angle". Clearly, I'd gotten a cheap knockoff. I put it in and watched the first five minutes of the movie, which worked alright. Unfortunately, the special features didn't transfer right and there were only a few minutes of deleted scenes (I've watched the real thing and there are some pretty groovy interviews and special features). So, I went on to eBay to complain and, lo and behold, Mr. Power Seller is no longer a registered user. I suppose he'd turned to bootlegs as of late, been discovered and gotten himself kicked off eBay. Argh! So, if anyone wants to get me a birthday present (and I know you all do), a real copy of the movie would be sweet.

What a game! Edmonton takes it on a goal with just two minutes left and claws their way back into the series. They're still down 2-1 in the series and their starting goaltender is still gone, but there's still hope for the Oilers to bring the Cup back to Canada.

I'm doing my happy dance right about now.

Considering that a pretty significant bulk of the science fiction on bookstore shelves these days is military SF, I've been rather surprised at how few military stories I've received for the anthology. Now, the genre might be one that doesn't translate itself so well into the short fiction, considering that a war must necessarily have a background (otherwise it's entirely pointless) and background requires a lot of infodumping, which you don't really have time for.

Still, I'd always assumed that many SF writers got started on the genre by Star Trek or Star Wars, or one of those TV shows with a starship meeting up with aliens. And, as Goodbye, Darwin is only offering a token payment, I assumed I'd attract a lot of writers who are just starting out. So, put the two assumptions together and I figured I'd end up with a lot of military SF. Wrong. In fact, if memory serves, I've only received one piece of military SF and only two or three more stories that were actually set in space. Of course, maybe I just have beginner writers pegged wrong. I don't feel any real sense of loss over it, though, since I'm not a big fan. Just curious, I suppose.

What I have been getting a lot of is science fiction humour. There's a lot of people out there who are trading in thought-provoking ideas for a series of gags, or just undercutting their own ideas by trying to pull off a joke instead. Now, humour SF has its place, and I've read some very good pieces. But didn't anyone ever hear that it's hardest to make someone laugh? Anyway, the vast majority of these don't even come close to cutting the mustard. (Hint: If you're reading this and planning to submit a piece like this, it might be best to reconsider.)

Two subgenres I wish I'd get more of are colonial stories and post-apocalyptic stuff. Both of these, I suppose, are about new human civilizations springing to life and that's something that's always fascinated me. I suppose both of these are viewed as having been beaten to death, though, because you don't see too much of it around anymore. I think I've gotten one post-apocalyptic story, but that's about it. (Hint: If you're reading this and planning to submit a piece like this, what are you waiting for?)

Anyhow, work on the anthology will, hopefully, be coming to a close soon. I'm looking for three more stories and then I'll be ready to get things moving on the production end.

Of all the protagonists I've come across, Money's John Self is quite possibly the most loathsome of them all. This novel by Martin Amis follows Self, who's about to direct his first major motion picture. He's busy schmoozing with the biggest stars and getting them ready to star in his film. The problem with John is that he's always drunk and never very nice. By "never very nice", I mean that he's the kind of guy everyone would like to punch in the face at some point - he's always looking for a fight, rude to the extreme to everyone who's not rich and male, and he's constantly having sex with every woman who'll sink low enough to get into bed with him. And, when no one will have sex with him, he doesn't mind trying the rape angle. I mean, the guy is a complete and utter bastard. And this is where Amis shines. Aside from all the other brilliant things he accomplishes in the novel, the most impressive is this: despite everything, you want everything to turn out alright for John Self in the end. This is because, at the very core of John Self there is a kernel of good.

This brings up the theme of the novel. The reason you've got to root for John is because it's made very clear that what's behind all of this evil in him is money. Money is all about the power money has to corrupt and we all want to see morality triumph over commerce. However, instead of writing some terribly sober account of the bad things money can do, Amis has constructed a pitch-perfect black comedy about bad things happening to bad people (and bad things happening to good people, for that matter). This one is an absolute must-read.

Hint #1: She was a child star.
Hint #2: In her most famous role, she starred opposite another famous child star.
Hint #3: That movie had a not-so-great sequel (which she also starred in).

Drawing a blank? Well, you saw this movie, right? Yep, that's right, she worked as a science fiction and fantasy editor after graduating from university. I was reading an article she wrote on her aspirations of getting back into acting which mentions that little nugget of SF/F info. A quick Google search told me that she'd worked for Eos, the SF/F branch of HarperCollins.

Huh. Who would've guessed it?

Aside from this blog, I haven't done any writing since last week's unfortunate Thursday. Nothing on the short stories or Mass Romantic. No brainstorming sessions for Archive. This got me thinking about something the founder of the first writing group I was in always used to say. Writing, for him, was an escape for his troubles.

It's never been that way for me. I've never been one for disappearing into my writing. No, I always need a good, clear head on my shoulders when I'm going to write. I need to be able to concentrate. Writing doesn't work as a way to blot out exterior distractions doesn't seem to work for me since they tend to end up manifesting themselves in whatever I'm working on. Sometimes, that can be a good thing, but a lot of the time it just doesn't fit.

I'm hoping that a little bit of structure will get me back on the wagon tomorrow. I'm going to set an hour and just sit and write for the duration - hopefully something coherent will emerge. Anyone else have any suggestions for returning after a layoff?

Well, first off, as Cavan makes his way on his quest, he's going to need lots of blogs to poke fun at, so if you're game let me know. Anyhow, in this exciting new installment Cavan is plunged into a new world, where he encounters danger, women in cowboy boots and a very heavy axe. And, as if that weren't enough, there's music! (well, near the end, anyway).

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Felix's story starts at a place called the Pet'n'Brew. Yup, that's right. The guy sold pets, pet supples and home brewing equipment. Now, either he had some funky ideas about what one should put in one's wine, or he got drunk on his own supply one night and decided to expand his business on an ill-advised whim. I was just shy of my ninth birthday back then (if I remember correctly - I'm not exactly sure what month it was) and had been without a cat since we'd moved across the country to Alberta the year before. As you can imagine (and what kid isn't when they're getting a new pet), I was excited. Initially, we had Felix's sister pegged as our selection, but when the day came to go pick her up, she was gone (hopefully to a cat-lover, and not an experimental drink maker, I can only hope). So, there was Felix. He was a scrawny thing, definitely the runt of the litter. But, all alone in his cage he mewled so sadly that it melted the then-innocent hearts of my brother and I. In the end, we took him home. All for the low, low price of $24.95 (seriously, I still remember that price stuck on his cage).

In his younger days Felix was a real scrapper. Unfortunately for him, I'm not sure that he was aware of his size (he remained the runt of the litter - I'm pretty confident that he never hit the ten pound mark in his life). So, he'd come home with various cuts and bruises from the claws of other cats and, for the first five or so years of life, spent a considerable amount of time with a cone of some sort attached to his neck. He was definitely an outdoor cat and even disappeared into a park close to our house for five days one year, in the middle of a pretty cold stretch. I remember our last-ditch walk through the park, after we'd pretty much given up all hope. I called his name and there he was, looking none the worse for wear.

After that first part of his life came the Strider period. Strider was cat number two and, suddenly, Felix's territory was being infringed upon. Of course, Strider was largely harmless, thanks to the fact that he didn't have much of a brain rolling around in his head (he used to stand in the middle of the street and, when cars came rushing at him, he'd simply stand his ground and meow at them until they slowed and went around). Felix spent most of that last year in Alberta hissing.

Then came the move to Ontario and the departure of Strider (after the move, he developed a fondness for taking dumps in various parts of the house, which got him quickly evicted from the house) and Felix became king of the castle. Older now, Felix settled into a more quiet groove and didn't tangle with any of the other neighbourhood cats. He did, however, like to race around the house and top speed in the middle of the night, skidding into walls and such. Oh, and the meowing. There was the midnight meowing that drove all of us crazy. Those two things he never grew out of.

After a couple years in Ottawa, I moved out to New Brunswick for my first year of university and, unfortunately, was separated from my runty kitten. The following year, though, I returned and eventually moved into my first apartment. Felix, who everyone admitted had always been "my" cat, came with me to my sixth floor bachelor apartment. It was a big adjustment for him, having always been an outdoor cat, so the prospect of living in a little space didn't do much for him. Still, he carved out his routine - racing around the apartment and meowing at night, sleeping while I was at work, and sitting on top of my monitor when I was on the computer or cuddling up with me while I read a book.

Finally, I can't forget the shedding. For such a tiny cat, he could really produce a massive amount of hair. My furniture is still coated in it. Funny, but right about now I'm not too sure I want to clean it up.

Bye, Felix. You'll be missed.

Sometimes, you have bad days - the weather's gloomy, your hair won't stay put, people eat your lunch out of the work fridge - that kind of day. Well, today, I had the mother of all bad days. If you'd like to skip a paragraph or so of me whining and complaining, and kill some time some other way, you can go here.

Anyway, I woke up to a rejection from Strange Horizons. All in all, I can handle that pretty easily (though I was a little unhappy that it was just a form letter), but it was just an omen of things to come. My cat hadn't eaten anything for the last three days, so I figured he was just being finicky about not having a perfectly clean bowl or something. Anyhow, I got him a clean bowl and gave him an additional bowl filled with some of his favourite treats to get him to start eating again. Then, I set off for work, and got wet in the rain, then spent eight and a half terribly boring hours at work (unfortunately for me, that's pretty typical). I got home and decided to check with my landlord to see if I'd get reduced pricing if I went back on a one-year lease. I've really been hurting for money lately, so I figured that having my rent reduced by $50 a month (like it was when I signed a lease in the first place) would be great. Well, she told me that they don't do that anymore. So, now I'm preparing to move. And I hate moving. I got home to see the cat acting completely lethargic (just laying on the kitchen floor, staring at his food), with the bowls of food and treats untouched. I poured him some milk, since that's something he gets about once a year and really enjoys. He sniffed it and then slumped over on the floor. So, a trip to the vet was in order. Unfortunately, I don't have a regular vet and, being a little bit concerned for my cat, I decided I'd take him to the Animal Emergency Clinic. I got there and was told that there was a $113 charge for emergency cases, which I paid a little unhappily. I then waited. And waited. For two hours. I talked with someone who had brought in a cat the previous night with the same symptoms as mine. She was back to find out the test results. She returned to the lobby in tears. Needless to say, this didn't exactly put me in good spirits during the wait. Anyhow, I finally got in to see the vet, who told me that she wasn't exactly sure what was wrong, except that my cat was pretty sick. It could be dehydration, or it could be kidney failure. She wasn't sure, but $600 worth of testing, plus $150 for every day he stays at the vet would figure it out. Now, all of this would have been painful enough, but of course my car had to break down in the vet's parking lot. I'm pretty confident that it's a problem with the transmission fluid (I had a similar breakdown about four years ago). I managed to get the car to the garage, though, so I'll have the word back on both my cat and car tomorrow.

So, not the best of days, I'm afraid.