"...Stay Drunk on Writing So Reality Cannot Destroy You."

Ray Bradbury said that, and I like it.

I do get drunk on writing. Painting isn't the same. I become a bit starchy, and frown a lot more, especially when my little treasures don't sell. Writing transports me. I resist returning to reality.

So I believe I will have to get back to that fifth book in the New Year. Which leads me to wonder why anyone else would be interested in that.

Before we all became so jaded about the publishing industry, there was such a sense of belonging and excitement reading writers' blogs. I was hungry to hear how others were doing, what their feelings were. (I also made a few new friends I've come to count on, some of whom are actually published.) But I believe there's been a distinct shift in thinking. It's tedious to hear, once more, that an agent hasn't been found, or that an agent was found but is finding the book a bit of a hard-sell. To sum up: nothing is happening. Who wants to read that on a regular basis? Masochists most of us are, but why make things worse?

People are split into two camps, it seems, judging by comments on other sites:

Those who love uplifting blogs, where the writer has just sold their first novel, and there's a mention of foreign rights, a TV movie, perhaps. And we know this blogger, don't we? Followed her all last year, didn't we? And now we can share in a little of the triumph.

And there are those who frankly enjoy a bit of misery. Hearing how terribly so-and-so was rejected, and how bitter he is about the whole process. Never going to write again. (Or worse, he's going to self-publish.) People so like reading this sort of thing, and it makes them feel less alone with their own frustrations, and possibly a whole lot better.

But blogs that are neither triumphant nor terribly, terribly poignant are just plain blah, let's face it.  And that's where mine is now. The only new thing  is that my agent (who has been in poor health) wrote that she is 'ready to get back in step and get this book (The Place of Dreams) sold, for heaven's sake!'

And so, in this last week of 2011, I wanted to let you know where my head is. I wanted to thank you for your readership and your comments over the past three years, despite the blahs. Oh, I've been gung-ho and rhapsodic at times, but Reality kicked in and now I need to re-immerse myself in the writing so that it can't destroy me.

My wish for all of us in 2012 is that we all get drunk together on our writing. And screw reality.

Thanks for the tip, Mr. Bradbury.

Christopher Buckley's Homage to Christopher Hitchens

Insightful and moving. Christopher Hitchens might have written it for himself.

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/newsdesk/2011/12/postscript-christopher-hitchens.html

Christopher Eric Hitchens (13 April 1949 – 15 December 2011)

Goodbye, Christopher.


We’ll miss you.



“We are all atheists about most of the gods humanity has ever believed in. Some of us just go one god further.”

- Richard Dawkins (1941-)

Why I'm Not Writing the Fifth Novel

Most of you know by now that I also paint. I've bored you often enough with the little frustrations that brings - I call it Creative Duality - but it was once far more than that.

When I was much younger, I wanted to be a serious jazz singer, and performed professionally a number of times, mostly in down-at-heel pubs. I didn't care for the road trips, or my audiences, for that matter. (And my mother wasn't too pleased with my career choice.) Perhaps if I had found that perfect little club, things would have been different. In any case, I am far too private to have enjoyed that life. My thought that I quite liked the idea of being an actor was also nipped in the bud around then. Public scrutiny isn't something I long for. (I've mentioned that before.) I can handle a blog, or one of  my books in a book store, but standing on a stage? Oh, my...very scary stuff.They say most of us fear public speaking (for me, just standing) almost more than death itself. When you're very young, you're supremely brave - witness my stint at singing. These days, I'm a total wallflower. I really don't want it any other way.

Then I decided it would be great to actually play jazz, and took up the flute. (I would be part of a group, and could hide behind the trombonist, couldn't I?) I wanted so much to be a professional musician, to be part of that life, both classical and jazz. Musicians are fascinating people, truly doing what they love. That only lasted until I ran out of money and couldn't pay my rent, so pawned the flute. I have another one now (after many years) but still can't play much on it, having forgotten the Haydn that I perfected at the conservatorium. Still I promised myself that I would dedicate a regular amount of my time to practice. So why does the flute case look so dusty?

But I always kept up with my painting and writing, dividing my time fairly equally. Now I find I can't do both. It occurs to me that when I paint, I create characters and scenes just as I do with my fiction. I have the bare bones of an idea as I sit down, and then let the thing develop. Exactly the way I am with my novel-writing.

I'm told that my syndrome (because along with the arts, I'm also obsessed with the environment, history, philosophy and world affairs) is called Polymathy. It's an ugly word. A classic Polymath is extremely clever, probably qualified in all the sciences, as well as able to compose and play memorable music, write poetry...possibly turning out the odd oil painting or two when he or she has a spare hour. So not having quite that much talent, or formal education, I guess I am a Generalist with Polymath leanings.

So this is an apology of sorts. I have done no writing. Painting almost a picture a day these last few weeks means I've no inclination to switch to the novel. I jump out of bed with the same excitement I usually have when I'm deep in a book, of course. Otherwise I'd stop doing it.

I have sold a painting. One lone painting. That's okay. That's one more than I've done with any of my books. (I've heard nothing from my agent for a couple of months.)

Just wanted to stop by. You know where I am. You can always check out my art blog link if you want to know what I'm up to.

Taking a Vacation from Writing. The Painting Urge is Back.

I'm feeling so much better about being here now. It took a long time to adjust. I did a lot of moaning and whining to my friends, who had absolutely no sympathy at all. Certainly the writing muse left me (although the protagonist from the next book continues to hint at possible situations, if I listen carefully during quiet moments), but it seems the painting genie is reemerging after a long absence. (Painting and Writing are close siblings after all, although perhaps yours is an only child.) I've bought a bunch of canvases and will be working on those this weekend. I felt the old excitement as I carried the canvases home from the store. What will the subject be? What will emerge? -- Much the same questions I ask myself when I begin a new book, really.

I know I am a better writer than painter. My artwork is naive, colorful, usually fun, but it doesn't have the spontaneity and assurance of my writing, and certainly doesn't require deep emotional intensity. Novels can be so gut-wrenching to write, can't they? I smile over my paintings, and laugh and cry over my novels.  If I were forced to choose, the writing would win.


It's spring here today. Odd, isn't it, if you're reading this in the Northern Hemisphere? I've been waiting for it just as restlessly as if I were back in Ontario, where I would watch for the first crocuses. Sadly, there are no crocuses in this garden, but swags of bottle brush blooms are about to burst forth and the Rainbow Lorikeets are eyeing them wistfully and smacking their beaks.

Perhaps -- where you are -- autumn is on its way. I envy you that. Fall truly is my favorite season. In the meantime, I'll enjoy this Aussie spring, knowing it will be quite unbearably hot in a matter of weeks. There, I'm still whining!

See you next time.

Space Shuttle Almanac

I don't often promote books. Of course, I publicize artists on my art blog, but I think this is a first in my writing notebook.

This mammoth, 1400-page, final edition of the Space Shuttle Almanac is co-authored by my son, Lee, so I'm allowed to be indulgent. I'm incredibly proud.

This is the description from the book, a twenty-year collaboration, I might add:

INTRODUCTION TO THE SPACE SHUTTLE ALMANAC

When the final sonic boom startled this author at KSC's Shuttle Landing Facility on 21 July 2011, and the orbiter Atlantis settled onto Runway 15 for the last time, the Space Shuttle Era quietly came to an end. With the final 'wheels stop' call, the magnificent orbiting machines would fly no more, sadly consigned to museums at KSC, Los Angeles and the Smithsonian.

As the saying goes, all good things come to an end - 'flames to dust' the shuttles are now permanently grounded. Critics have argued that the shuttle retirement was premature, that it should have continued in operation until commercial companies are able to pick up the slack of carrying cargo (and eventually astronaut crews) to the International Space Station. The arguments fell on deaf ears in Congress and in the Obama Administration, and the shuttle's fate was sealed.

The Final Edition of the Space Shuttle Almanac, on the other hand, is a celebration of 39 years of shuttle operational history as much as it is a final compilation of mission facts and figures, dates and times. Primary author Lee Brandon-Cremer has added an outstanding collection of images for every mission and every section to enhance the readers experience.

The Almanac's format is a digital version available as a download or on CD. This enhances the utility of the Almanac as a research tool and as a historical overview of three decades of shuttle flight operations. For the authors, the Space Shuttle Almanac has been a labour of love. It has been a 20 year commitment to document the large and small details of shuttle flights that always seemed to 'fall through the cracks' in standard shuttle histories and accounts. The authors hope that this Edition of the Space Shuttle Almanac will serve as a worthy tribute to the magnificent shuttle program.

Joel W. Powell & Lee Brandon-Cremer

August, 2011

The Incredible Patience of Writers

It takes a huge amount of patience to be a writer. It's a good thing, because those with less strength of commitment, less drive, simply won't finish a book in the first place, permitting a tiny window of opportunity for those of us who persevere.

But, along with the teeth-grinding, the frowning, the cursing, and the occasional weeping with sadness and joy --- the actual day-in, day-out writing -- you need patience for a whole lot more.  Finishing a book is almost easy in comparison with what's ahead.

I've already covered the research part of finding an agent. I've written dozens (a lot discarded) of queries, synopses, blurbs, and made sure I was personal enough with my emails to touch the heart of even the toughest agent. Stupidly, I now understand, I even thanked them when they sent me sharp, rote, rejections.

Getting an agent is a stupendous task. I don't care what you've read about it, that so-and-so found someone through a friend of a friend, or met someone at a writers' conference (I've never even been to one of those...), or had three frenzied agents plying a contract. In real life, in my life, it doesn't happen that way. It took me two years to find a good one.

But you plod on, try to stay optimistic, start on another book. Tell yourself that it will all come out right in the end. You have supreme patience. What choice do you have, after all?

I've heard from my agent at last. She tells me that The Place of Dreams is doing the rounds of editors as I write this. I'm grateful, of course, and a little awed by the idea, but I should be terribly excited too, shouldn't I? It's just that I've grown so used to the time involved in every aspect of this journey. I control the urge to whoop and holler about this new phase because each time I've even whispered a low 'Hurrah!" under my breath, I've had to wait so long for something else to happen. Had I been receiving a salary for the amount of hours I put in just on the agent-chase alone, I would be able to make a downpayment on a little cottage somewhere.

If an enthusiastic editor is found, the next hurdle will be the publisher's editorial board. How scary does that sound? I wonder how long they take? Finally, if they find it print-worthy, a book will be produced. I think this process could be upwards of a year or more.

I read somewhere that it takes, on average, three times the amount of time to publish a novel, as it takes to write it. My first manuscript was hanging around for a decade, but the time I spent on it -- the actual writing - was probably under two years. Therefore, if the above is true, it should take up to six years to get it published, assuming it has any sort of literary merit. Hmm. I finished the total re-write for it back in 2008. I still have another three years to go.

So, there, I've finished today's rant. I know you guys can take it. You're dedicated writers, right?

Remember that old song, 'Life Gets Tedious, Don't It?'  (The full lyrics are here. and Carson Robison sings it here. It's really, really old.)

Hound dog howling so forlorn
Laziest dawg that ever was born
He's howlin' 'cause he's settin' on a thorn
Just too tired to move over.

Well, I'm a bit like that dog. Life does get tedious, but I'm darned if I'm going to move off this painful thorn called Writing. I'll put up with it, but it's not from laziness; I simply have no choice. And I'll remain as patient as ever, even if I grumble about it from time to time.

Talk to you soon. Oh, and sorry for the forlorn howling.

With My Writing, It's Always About Place

It's been five months since I completed Uncharacteristic Behavior. It came as a rather a shock to me when I did the calculation. I honestly thought I would take a few weeks off and get straight into the next book, but it didn't happen. All I have are the opening few pages, a fairly strong outline, a clearly defined protagonist, but, critically, at least for me, no ending, and I don't even know where I'll set the story. Without these, it's impossible for me to be drawn deep into the work. I try to picture my heroine somewhere. Where? I peer throught the mists of my inadequate (at present) imagination to what? -- Canada? Wales (again)? Until I have the geography right, I have nothing to provide the backdrop. They say great actors don't find their characters until they are in costume. For me, with my writing, it's always about place.

It's an odd feeling. Perhaps you'll recognize it. I spend a lot of time thinking about the idea of the book as if I were trying to recapture a memory which doesn't quite reveal itself. It will come, I know. I just don't know when.

No news from my agent, and I'm sad about this now. She seems recovered and bright enough on her blog, but I'm too timid to ask again what's happening to The Place of Dreams.  Fancy that. Me.Timid. In everything else in my life I am certainly not that. Yet agents have this effect on me. So much for my little Boadicea avatar that I pop in here from time to time. What a sham that is. Of course, were I published, I'd be brandishing my figurative spear in quite a confrontational manner. I would, really.

So hang in there, if you're also experiencing the same kind of down time. We're such a resilient, patient lot, we writers. Who knows what August will bring?

In the meantime, there's so much real-life (if it were fiction, the script would be laughable) political drama out there. Once again, I've become a TV news junkie. And I never miss Jon Stewart. Got to keep it in perspective.

Oh, and I didn't get any magic dust so far, but tomorrow's another day.