Not Writers' Block, but Writers' Rest. You get that, I know.

Back to normal after the whirlwind of the holidays, right? Well, not me. I thought I'd immediately get back to Summer Must End, but I haven't. I've been incredibly lazy, mentally - lolling about on the couch watching daytime (!) TV, playing computer games, browsing on eBay, dabbling in the kitchen, sewing, crocheting. For Pete's sake, this is a writer's life? Surely not! It must stop, this literary idleness. My poor characters are still stuck at Christmas morning, where they were when I left them on December 1.

I repeat that I don't have Writers' Block. What I have is Writers' Rest.  This is a new term I'm coining to illustrate that period in a writer's life when the story is rich and rewarding, and absolutely ready, but in no particular hurry to emerge. It can only be better when it does appear. It will be like soaking fruit in sweet rum or brandy (Rumtopf) for a long, long time, and each day it gains a more intense flavor, more richness, when you finally pluck it out to savor.  Well, that's what I tell myself anyway.

So enough about the novel. I just heard from a friend I haven't seen or spoken to in fifteen years. What a delight that was. My usual weekly or monthly emails to friends are more or less the same content, as nothing huge happens during the down time - except when you pick up an agent here, you buy an antique there, sell the odd painting... But leave it for a decade or so, and you have real news! This initial contact just touched the tip of the iceberg and there'll be a great deal of catching up to do, but this first one was amazing. I had checked her "Message Source" first, because I thought she was one of those very polite Somalian or Nigerian emailers who use the subject of "Dearest Frances, Remember Me?" or stuff like that. (I avoid opening things with such overly-affectionate references.)

My friend Googled me! What a wonderful system of friend-recovery we have with search engines, especially if we're prolific with online words. I belong to Facebook, but it's never done much for me, as I use it only to stay in touch with a handful of friends and my children, and it's not open to the public. Sometimes I consider cancelling it (not as straightforward as you think), but it's not hurting anyone, that little page of mine. My blogs are posted there, so perhaps one of my kids will look at one out of the blue. The world is full of surprises.

In my current Writers' Rest period, emails and blogs are okay for me. I am in idle mode, warming the engine before I begin the final journey with this current novel.  I have no doubt at all that you understand exactly what I'm saying, so I'm not even going to ask what you think. I know you all so well, and I know you get that.

From now on, I'll be mentioning TWO long-distance friends who've been there for me over the years, through thick and thin - my friend in New Zealand, along with my friend in Oz. I'm not even going to mention how long I've known them. We girls have to maintain some mystery.

Have a good one. Give your friend a hug. You've no idea how lucky you are.

Deal with your Limitations, and Have a Happy New Year!

I was going to write some kind of inspirational piece of my own, about resolutions, steadfastness, courage, and self-belief, for this stimulating new decade, but I more or less try to do this throughout the year, either for my own or your benefit, so it seemed redundant. In fact, your own words in response to many of mine have helped me enormously, so here is a good place to thank you for spurring me on.

Instead of my usual blog, I'm quoting Delia Quigley this morning. She quickly gave me permission to reproduce her fine article on Limitations, which I read on Care2 yesterday. It moved me to examine my own feelings, and I thought you might enjoy it, too.

"The New Year is upon us and if you are a goal setting kind of person then you know that just saying you will make changes does not necessarily mean it will happen. There are all kinds of things that can get in the way of our good intentions, most of all our mental excuses. Change in life is inevitable; actually it is the only thing we can guarantee to happen other than dying. The question is, do you shape your life according to your dreams and desires or do you just let life happen, like a free fall through time, dreaming of what you shoulda, coulda, woulda done, if only?

Making resolutions, setting goals, and making commitments are easy to do, but it is the ability to see them through to completion that is difficult and tests our human nature. The fact that self-sacrifice is called for is what makes overcoming our limitations and manifesting our dreams so challenging. It requires that we give up our comforts, our fears, and our long-standing habits, even the ones that are painful or threaten our well being in some ways. At least we know what to expect from them, but stepping out into the unknown? Sheeze, now that’s a scary place.

Limitations are not always visible to the eye at first glance. They take some investigation, like hidden chambers or weak character flaws that need to be confronted and coaxed out into the light. They begin in our mind as thoughts and translate into actions that hold us back from achieving our potential. Instead we settle for a kind of uncomfortable mediocrity, knowing in our hearts that if I could just take that first step…

1. Identify your limitations.

This requires coming to know yourself by observing your thoughts with integrity and scrutiny. By watching your thoughts you begin to notice, say, a tendency to procrastinate, to judge yourself harshly, to belittle yourself or to ignore what is best for you. Sitting in meditation helps with this process, as does writing thoughts down in a journal for future reference.

2. Recognize your limitations.

Now the work begins, because you have to stay present to how that mental limitation can show up over and over again. In A New Earth, Awakening to Your Life’s Purpose, Eckhart Tolle refers to these limitations as a negative state of thoughts that are easily overlooked, precisely because they are so common, so normal. You live with these negative thoughts without even knowing you are thinking them. Paying attention to what and how you are thinking allows you to counteract the thought or action before it can manifest.

3. Accept your limitations.

Rather than lash out in anger and do battle with yourself, accept that this is the person you have become, and these are the thoughts your ego has created as a means of survival. Think of the mind as a computer where your thoughts are made up of random input from past experience, images, conversations, instructions, and interactions. You must first accept whatever and whomever you have become in order to begin changing that person.

4. Honor your limitations.

This may be the most important task of the four steps and, for some, the most difficult. To honor life’s lessons introduces them as worthy opponents. If we are, as some say, spiritual beings having a human experience, then confronting our limitations should be done with the understanding that these challenges are what help us to grow beyond the ordinary and away from mediocrity. To honor these lessons is to take them on with a courage we may think is impossible, but is within each and everyone of us, just waiting to be called into action."

Delia Quigley is the Director of StillPoint Schoolhouse, where she teaches a holistic lifestyle based on her 28 years of study, experience and practice. She is the creator of the Body Rejuvenation Cleanse, Cooking the Basics, and Broken Bodies Yoga. Delia's credentials include author, holistic health counselor, natural foods chef, yoga instructor, energy therapist and public speaker. Follow Delia's blogs at  Body Rejuvenation Cleanse and Broken Bodies Yoga, and her website, Delia Quigley


I'm good at sticking at things, once I've decided what they are, but there are some I must do battle with, despite my determination. It's that mental negativity that comes in, and Delia understands that. Helpful in quitting smoking, there is an evil little character (used in a no-smoking product commercial) I use as a visual. He has form and substance to him, so that I can rant and rave when he appears, and it does work. With other things, deciding where I want to live, for instance, I allow negativity to creep in, because I've developed doubts about my own decision-making. When I consider returning to Oz, which I long to do, I find myself suddenly thinking of huge Huntsmen spiders! Well, that sure as heck doesn't help! I need to maintain a prettier representation - hibiscus blooming, the smell of eucalyptus, balmy (for me) winters, the company of family and friends.

Despite my resolve, when it comes to the idea of actually publishing my books, I've developed a new pessimism. What if my name becomes known, even a tiny bit? Will there be television interviews? Will the Walrus want to do a full page feature? All of this terrifies me! I need a warm, fuzzy view of success - able to support myself from my writing, living in a house I own and love, throwing impromptu get-togethers with other artists and writers. And, most importantly, lucky enough to protect both anonymity and peaceful locale from curious eyes. Of course - and here's that negativity again - the kind of fame I fear is unlikely to happen anyway, so why worry?

So I'm not writing out my list of things to achieve this decade. Writing them down doesn't guarantee anything. Instead I will quietly work on getting them right, honing them to things of beauty. One of them is facing the fact that I have a huge birthday this year. It's been depressing me somewhat, the idea of it. How can I, Fran Caldwell, be that old? My new resolve will be to joyously celebrate it. After all, the alternative to aging is pretty nasty. Let the battle begin!

So thanks, Delia, for opening my eyes. Of course, it's not really new to me, your philosophy. I just chose NOT to think about it.

Have a wonderful New Year, dear friends. You all work so hard, with few grumbles, really. I wish for you all what I wish for myself: to complete the finest work we hope for ourselves, have the best agent, and find a top publisher, all done with a modicum of privacy, unless you long for the limelight.

Remind yourself that you have one of the greatest gifts, with this abiity to write. Whatever happens in your life, you will always have that.

“I’d rather be a failure at something I enjoy than be a success at something I hate.” — George Burns

T'was the Night Before Christmas - News Editor's Copy

T’was the night before Christmas,  So not politically correct - suggest

"It was the eve of the celebration of the winter solstice holiday"

 when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Can we back up this claim?

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.  Don’t back into it. Be positive.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

What does this mean? Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St Nick. Verified?

Faster More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, If it’s reindeer, let’s say reindeer!

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! On, Cupid! On Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!

Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!" ←Too many dashes.

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, There’s that word again.

With the sleigh full of toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, Not pc -  try "fur-like apparel"

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack. Let’s say “Sales Associate”

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! This needs work - “sparkling eyes”, “a merry dimple”, stuff like that. Just keep it simple.

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight, Archaic. Use “Before”

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" Bold Face Caps, and stet the "Christmas" this one time.

Clement Clarke Moore, 1779-1863

Finally, here's a silly video of me and my cats...it takes a minute to open, but hang in there. It's fun, and you can make your own.

Have a wonderful, delightfully-caloried holiday, everyone.

Trying to Live a Good and Simple Life - We Are All Maldivians

I've been very grumpy this week. All this talk of the fiasco of Copenhagen, our Canadian leaders' truly shameful attitude (and, yes, I did email the Prime Minister), the sheer nonsense that comes up in TV news analyses - it's enough to make a vegetarian humanist weep. I wonder what Helen and Scott Nearing would have to say about it all?

I think of myself as unconventional. I've never followed the crowd. I question everything. I hate rules, despise conformity, baulk at authority, and generally consider myself politically left of center. This, despite the fact that my daughter once accused me of being too conservative. (What was she thinking?) I am painfully aware of the environment and very uncomfortable with people who aren't. I try do everything in the Greenest way possible. I pursue all these ideas acutely aware that I could be perceived as a crank, if I say too much. Naturally, I prefer to live around like-minded people.

How, then, have I survived two years in what appears to be a very ecologically insensitive town and how did I get here? Was I hoodwinked by the country setting? Did I assume I had found my rural idyll?  Sadly, this place seems to be filling up with affluent retirees who've brought their city thinking with them. Now wonderful old country houses are being pulled down and replaced with brick, center-hall, four bedroom, rather ugly buildings, complete with granite-countertops in the kitchens, and with monstrous-sized SUVs - usually two - parked in the driveway, which are used for the five minute walk to the supermarket. I wasn't expecting people to be using horse and buggy here, of course, but the vehicles are preposterous.

The new people aren't friendly, either. They've brought that city reserve with them. Don't make eye contact with strangers, and certainly don't smile or speak to them. Fear traits, right? I have become more restrained myself, after being snubbed a few times, and am now somewhat surprised when an original local greets me on the street as if he or she knows me. I can't believe this place is changing me for the worst.

The first year I was here, the local council shot down the suggestion of permitting wind turbines in the area. Too noisy. Too ugly. I started to rethink my move about then.

If I came here to experience a Greener, more simple way of life, I've failed miserably. I could just as well be living in the heart of a rich neighborhood in any major city, but without the benefit of museums and art galleries.

I could look for another town here where undoubtedly there are people more sensitive to the global mess around us, but I'm beginning to think it's time for the Grand Tour again. I mentioned this to a neighbour, who almost sniffed as she commented that I must be a Gypsy. Perhaps I am. I think Gypsies are probably very Green. I'm pretty sure they don't live in new-brick, center-hall, over-sized houses, with granite-top counters in their kitchens, and SUVs in their driveways.

When I first moved here I was overwhelmed by the prettiness of the countryside, the fine old houses, the diminutive proportions of our shopping area, the friendliness of the people. Could this have changed so much in two years?

Sadly, I think it has.

Look, I'm not opting for some off-the-grid settlement somewhere in the back country where folks can grow their own weed without fear of reprisal. I just long for a town that prefers a simple, sustainable life, away from urban grandiosity, where they're proud of the fact that they don't have a mall or a fast food franchise in their driving vicinity, and where I can say that I don't own a car and not have eyebrows raised. I'd like to live where people know and care about what's going on in the world.

All this leads me to confess that I'm planning to move again. It will take a while. I'm a slow, methodical planner when it comes to my relocations. It could be Australia. Pretty laid back in Australia, in more ways than one, and actively trying to be Greener. I'll have to be responsible for an inordinate amount of carbon emissions to achieve this, but I'll try to make up for it in other ways.

Not that it matters where we live, really, in the long run. Unless we're very young, which I'm not, we won't be greatly affected here in the developed world by continuing ignorance. We'll see the rest of the world's problems on the nightly news, tut-tut, perhaps, when we hear that the Maldives has sunk beneath the ocean. And we'll regularly be reminded, if we really listen, that our children and grandchildren are in for a very rough time in a few decades. As the President of the Maldives said in his speech at Copenhagen, in the end, "...We are all Maldivians..."

I could say so much more, but won't. I'll just repeat what I often say to fellow struggling writers: We're all in this together.

I'll try to be less irritable next week. I prefer to be more uplifting with my blog. But, oh, Copenhagen? What a cop out...

Post Script: received Saturday morning -

"On behalf of the Prime Minister, thank you for your correspondence regarding the Government's climate change strategy. The Government of Canada fully appreciates that Canadians are eager to share their suggestions and opinions on this issue. You may be assured that your message has been carefully reviewed. As the Honourable Jim Prentice, Minister of the Environment, will also appreciate being made aware of your views, I have taken the liberty of forwarding a copy of your message to the Minister. Once again, thank you for taking the time to write."

P. Monteith, Executive Correspondence Officer for the Prime Minister's Office.

What a relief! Now everything will be fine...

A Break from the Novel and a Sculpture of My Gran

No writing in a week, and I'm not apologetic. It's been a hunkering down time, watching old movies, reading, messing around with polymer clay. What? Polymer clay?

I finally did a sculpture of Gran. This is Gran in one of my early paintings of her, and below that is the three-dimensional 6.5 inch (16 cm) sculpture I finished yesterday.

I knew I needed a break from writing. I don't have a block about it at all - I know exactly what's coming next - but I simply wanted to step back and take a breather. I've been writing this current novel very quickly - 2/3 completed in three months. So I can afford to relax for the holiday season, I think. I'll putter, do some more sculptures, write when it's imperative, but I won't be sitting down each day for the sole purpose of finishing the book. My friend, Judy, who's read all seventeen chapters to date, will just have to wait. Hope she doesn't forget the plot.

Have a great weekend and stay warm, guys, if you're in this Hemisphere. Relax indoors with hot chocolate or a nice Scotch. Remind yourself that it's not officially winter for another ten days. Then reach for the Scotch again...

Too Many Creative Ideas. Can You Commit to More Than One?

It's snowing today in my corner of Ontario. We broke a two-hundred-year-old record last month by having no snow at all. People were golfing. It couldn't last.

It's odd how much we are delighted by the first snowfall of the season, like children, as if we've never quite seen it before. I'm happy to see it, but in six weeks I'll be back to my usual bored and grumpy state. I rather like the idea of Sydney, and Vancouver, where you can go to the snows in the mountains if you like that kind of thing, have a bit of fun, and come home again, leaving it all behind. We don't have that choice here. Naturally we have less rain, and it's usually spectacularly sunny, brighter because of the reflection of the snow.  But today is gray, the sky colorless, the bare trees dramatically stark against it.  No wonder there are so many poets in the Northern Hemisphere. You gotta do something in response.

I've been tweaking Summer Must End this past week, with little new work. Two-thirds through now, so time to back track and see if it's properly coming together.  I have to admit that I did some more outline work on my new idea, too, tentatively called Uncharacteristic Behavior. I'm not fickle about my writing usually, devoting myself to one book at a time, but this story keeps coming to me, and I have to get the ideas down as they present themselves. It's a psychological, paranormal, thriller, it seems. It certainly is heading that way. The ending hasn't come to me yet, and that's a good thing, because then it would be impossible to put to one side, as the characters would begin babbling at me. As it is, I have a rough draft of an outline, and pretty well know where the plot is going. I have some characters, but not defined yet. It's like painting. You sketch out that first idea, with a vague idea of what you want to produce, but it's not until you lay down the paint that the image comes alive. So, I'm "sketching" right now, in between work on the current book, and will begin "laying down paint" next year.

I've asked the question before, but it's worth repeating. Do you involve yourself in more than one project at a time? Do story ideas buzz around in your head that have nothing to do with the work-in-progress? Would you put aside one novel, to work on the second?

For me, this surprising arrival of new ideas has to do with the number of years when I wasn't devoting myself to writing. It was all in there, waiting to come out, but I busied myself with painting, and travelling, and making a living, and it all became locked up in my brain. I can't help wondering how many other plots are waiting to emerge, now that I'm writing full time.

On top of that, I'm suddenly keen to do some small sculptured clay figures. I've ordered the supplies already. I guess that physical creative me is feeling neglected. I'll put up a picture of my first one - my Gran character, I think - when it's done.

And so I'm a total bore in all other aspects of my life. I'm spending little time checking in with my blogger friends, and I miss them. I stare into space a lot, can't be bothered with people because they interrupt my flow, and I'm generally antisocial.  I'm reasonably extroverted when I'm not creating, so this hermit life can't continue indefinitely. I think I'll just hole up here for the winter and do what I must, so that in the spring that livelier me will be back.

I certainly wouldn't want to be so self-absorbed and contemplative for the long-term. I haven't quite outgrown partying yet.

One Year of Blogging...thanks for hanging out with me.

It's exactly one year since my first writing blog post. Since then, I've blogged about three works-in-progress, completed two, chased agents,  and moaned about that a lot, secured a contract with an agent for the first book, and a "we'll see" for the second, from the same agent. My gut feeling is that they want to find a publisher for Hafan Deg before they consider Strachan's Attic. The agent wasn't sure about Strachan for the first three chapters, set in modern day Toronto, but then decided it was okay once the World War ll England chapters unfolded. They haven't said they love it, as they did with Hafan Deg, but they haven't rejected it out of hand, either. No news is...etc.

Meanwhile, I'm bowling along with Summer Must End, and can't help wondering how many books I'll finish before I publish. I will publish, you know - it's just a question of when, and whether it will be posthumous or not. I'm a very fast writer, and work as quickly as any of those one- or two-books-a-year novelists out there - Jonathan Kellerman, for instance. After years of writing, I no longer slog over the words. I'm getting a handle on how to map out the structure, and almost understand the the rules of the game. In an article in the Guardian by Darrah McManus on November 16, celebrating Margaret Atwood's 70th birthday, the following caught my eye:

"I believe that most writers get better as they get older. Unlike, say, rock musicians, exploding in a star-burst of youthful inspiration, novelists take their time. They grow into and with the act of writing; over decades, over thousands of hours and millions of words."

Well, it's certainly been decades, although I'm not certain how many words I've written in total, but I have a large box that contains everything I've done, and it looks rather a lot. Averaging 100,000 words each for the full length books, plus dozens of poems, short stories, plays, and novellas, I'm guessing I've done at least a million words. Perhaps they weren't particularly brilliant words, and this could still be true. Can we ever really know when we've reached excellence? There's so much doubt, often eclipsed by enormous certainty;  I'm somewhat bi-polar, figuratively speaking, about my writing. Is it really any good?  Have I found my unique style, my true voice? I only decided to find that out for sure last year, when I figured it was now or never to publish, and it was time to announce that I was ready. But publishing was never a real goal. I was simply having fun with words and enjoying the process.  But this year, I need to know if anyone gives a toss.

It's been a fantastic year, sharing all of my thoughts on writing with you. I've made so many real friends, people I know I can count on when I'm down, people who lift me up, and spur me on, regardless of where their own journey is taking them.  In a crazy fantasy, I imagine us all sitting down one day, face to face, in a comfortable living room somewhere, sharing some wine, perhaps, and able to voice those ideas that were so difficult to express in emails, despite the fact that we think of ourselves as good writers. Whoever gets rich from their writing first can arrange it. Which is why it's a fantasy. Getting rich can never be a goal.

I've been reading a first novel by Jonathan Bennett, a Canadian with Australian ties, like me, who writes lyrically about Sydney and Toronto, and whose words spurred me to email him. I've mentioned many times how generous published writers have been in responding. I think of dear SarahBeth Purcell, and Martha Moody, Ben Nightingale, Bonnie Kozek, Darcy Pattison, all of whom have shared their thoughts on the process of being published and were unstinting with their time.

Now here's Jonathan Bennett.

I only wrote to say how much I like his book, After Battersea Park, and certainly expecting nothing in return from  him. And now he's looked at my sample chapters at my website, offered solid feedback on them, and even made nice noises about my paintings! I got his permission to print the following, the last paragraph in his first email (we've exchanged several since):

"Good luck with your own work. I wouldn't worry about the agent and publishing part. Getting a book into print might feel good, but it isn't sustaining. The writing must be all that matters. ABP, for example, is long out of print. For all I know you'll be its only reader this year. So, if not for the deep importance of the act of writing to my sense of self, I can't say I'd bother. There are simpler ways to punish oneself!"

And then this, later:

"If publishing is important, then sure, pursue it with the zeal it requires...my last paragraph was just a caution, that, well, a book is just a book. It's not some kind of metaphysical deliverance. I think I once thought it would be. I think many writers who want to get published think that too."

Jonathan's second highly-received novel is available: "Entitlement: A Novel".  Take a look at the reviews, both here and at the Jonathan Bennett website.


Thanks for hanging out with me this past year. Writing is a solitary occupation, yet I never feel entirely alone.  I imagine you all out there, creating your own precious words, and we are like a closely-knit club, a small,  exclusive network, and able to reach out for support at the touch of a few keys. How has blogging or communicating with other bloggers affected you? For me, it's been inspirational.

Late, but wonderful news: SarahBeth has received enough financial help to get that treatment for Willow Fern. Perfect Thanksgiving message to receive.

On Writing a Canadian Novel - Are We So Different to the States?

Summer Must End is at the 63% point now, a big jump from two weeks ago. I've been writing and editing every day, and I'm happy with where the story is going. This is the first time I've written something set in one place, in this case, my local area, here in south eastern Ontario.  I tend to incorporate a couple of countries in my books because I personally enjoy the change of venue, but I wanted to explore what makes Canada - particularly Ontario - unique, in this novel.

In fact, I could be writing about New England, when you get right down to it.  Our terrains and weather are the same, our people have much the same accents, we love coffee and doughnuts, drive on the right side of the road. You watch a movie set in Chicago, or New York, and, if you're very astute, you could well discover it was made in Toronto.  If you were plonked down in some unidentified small town in the north, the only way you'd know which nation you were in is by the flag flying on the public buildings. The restaurants and superstores will look much the same, although there could be some unfamiliar supermarkets. And the guy who was responsible for the design of those 1900s houses with the front porches was just as prolific here as in Buffalo, Detroit, and Baltimore, et al.

Only that arbitrary line, drawn by surveyors without the benefit of today's technology when our nations formed, dictated that this is Canada, and, a couple of inches over, that is the United States. There is a town in Quebec which is evenly divided right through its center, so that even the public library has a line painted across its floor to indicate it's an international border.  People exiting from the wrong door are technically liable to be charged as illegal immigrants! Before the border clampdown, this was one village, and now it's divided, with metal gates manned by border agents.  It's a microcosm of Berlin in the 60s. And there are other towns like this sprinkled along our shared border, including four airports!

They say Canadians don't stand out in any memorable way when they travel overseas because they sound American, so they're lumped in as coming from one of the fifty US states, unless they're questioned more closely. That's okay, I guess, because we're a low-key, modest bunch, most of the time, and comfortable with who we are. On the whole, Canadians are softer-spoken, reserved rather than conservative, unconventional in many ways, and less hung up on money than most Americans, but this will barely be seen in a casual meeting. We're statistically much less violent here, so we make up for it by playing ice hockey, where almost anything goes. It's also a secular nation, with less emphasis on church-inspired doctrines.

Of course, there are other clear constitutional and philosophical differences between the countries, and I'm certainly not going there in this blog, although it would make very interesting reading, were I that clever. But the point I'm getting at is that it's difficult to write the all-Canadian novel. I could toss in a few 'eh?'s in some dialogue, and mention the Toronto Maple Leafs, but that doesn't do it. Instead, in creating my Ontario characters, I'm writing about our North American sameness, our common flora and fauna, our weather, the human experience.

And so I'm left trying to make sense of all of this through my characters. As I said, it's not easy, really, and perhaps that's the point. We are so alike.

If I wanted to snag that New York agent, I would be wise to set this whole thing somewhere north of Boston, say, instead of Belleville. But I can't. This is my tribute to Canada. It's perhaps not the Great Canadian Novel, but it will be my small offering.


Please check out SarahBeth's blog again. She's doing all right with her Art Sales for Willow campaign, but she's not there yet, around $400 short. She has less than a month to pull this veterinary expense together to save her dear cat-baby. I know you'll want to help.

Have a great weekend. Oh, and enjoy a fine American Thanksgiving on Thursday. There's one of our differences. We celebrated ours on October 12.  Give a poor turkey a break, if you can.

The Publishing World Is Cruel, But Kinder Than Broadway

Since my list of grumbles a couple of week's back, I've written another 10% of Summer Must End, and I'm over that awkward spot and past the 50% mark. It's flowing nicely, the characters are solid, and I believe I know where the plot is heading. I say 'I believe' because we just never know. An impulsive piece of dialogue, a character suddenly shoving forward to take precedence, could cause the navigation to fail, and I'll end up somewhere entirely unexpected, which isn't the end of the world, but I like to have some control. This is one of the frustrations and joys of writing fiction, of course - the surprise of it - and I'm not complaining.

I'm confident enough with this first half of the book to send it to my friend in Australia for her comments; until now, I wasn't sure if other changes would be necessary. I know she won't care for this book. It's not her genre. But this doesn't matter, because she's a great reader, appreciates good writing, and will look at it as a lot of agents would - with the cold, hard eye of practicality.  In other words, she will see (I hope) that it's good, regardless of her own personal preferences, and she'll undoubtedly pick up some absurdity that I missed. This is good. I am indebted to her, once again, for reading something she otherwise wouldn't consider.

Already I have another plot bouncing around in my head. I so wanted to attempt a humorous book next time, just for a change, but, sad to say, this new idea is steeped in mystery, shadows, and a fair chunk of the supernatural. Instead of falling asleep at night thinking about the book I'm working on, I've been running through this new one. Is this crazy?  It's one thing to have more than one painting on the go, but fiction?  But what do I know? Perhaps it's more common than I realize. It really makes sense, when the writing is going slowly on one, that you could switch to the other for a while. Have any of you done this? Anyway, I'm itching to get to it, after I've finished the current one, and, after that one, then I'll tackle the humor.  That's a really tough genre, in case you didn't know, and a huge challenge. I think I can be funny, but can I write it?

SarahBeth Purcell has been receiving some help with her art sales and other fund-raising, I'm happy to tell you. I'm not assuming my blogs had anything to do with this, because she's been hugely active herself in raising the money she desperately needs to treat her poor, sick cat, Willow Fern. The fantastic news is that the treatment has tentatively been booked for December 15, and could be slightly less expensive than the original quote. How amazing is that? It's so rewarding to be a part of this, and I'm keeping a close eye on the little meter SarahBeth has put up on her blog page.  She's almost at the half-way mark, based on the new cost, and it's only a week since she started, I think. If you missed her plea for help, take a look at her link above, and my blog last Friday.

I've had a number of doubts, fears, and questions about my current agented book, Hafan Deg. I blythely tell you guys about the patience needed in snaring an agent, and the excruciating time they can take in finding a publisher. But, naturally, I don't listen to myself.  The truth is, I've been really frustrated because it's four months since I found my agent and nothing has happened yet. So I wrote to SarahBeth, who's been through all of this more than once, and with British agents.  She set me straight with a wealth of information, but essentially she said I should hang in. (For a little while longer, at least.) I knew it would be a hard slog - I told you that, didn't I? Physician heal thyself.

I was going to remind you how tough this writing business is (as if you didn't know), but I watched a documentary the other night on the production torments of Broadway shows  - how hard they work, the preview process, refining the script, re-writing music and lyrics, the stress of First Night and the ultimate bete noire - the critic. The odds of failing are astronomical. Imagine the heartbreak - for everyone in the company - to be forced to close after a couple of months, a couple of weeks, or even one night. Makes me feel a lot better about my choice of artistic endeavor.

I'm not using my Boadicea avatar here today, because I'm not in battle mode, and I don't need Edna either, as I'm feeling quite sane, for a change. I am doggedly resolute and no-nonsense, in fact, and just need to get on with things. This granny image says it all.

Have a good weekend (definitely soup weather) and be kind to one another.

Writer and Artist SarahBeth Purcell Really Needs Our Help

I featured SarahBeth Purcell on my writing blog some time back. She is a young, published writer of enormous talent, who deals with heart-rending emotional issues that many of us wouldn't have the courage to tackle.  Her books are available at Amazon, and their page alone is so worth reading. 

But SarahBeth, like me, also paints. She's going through a rough time right now, and in desperation is now offering discounts on her paintings, in a last ditch effort to raise some cash to save her beloved cat's life.

It takes humility and guts to reach out like this, but she has been coping with huge expense because of her ailing baby, Willow Fern, for months, even selling her car, but has now run out of funds.  Another book is in the works, but won't bear fruit for ages.  (We all know about that part of the business.) She has nowhere else to turn but to her followers and kindhearted strangers. Now, perhaps you don't know SarahBeth, but I do. She would never ask for help like this unless she was at her wit's end. This lady is usually out there donating time and money to other animal care agencies.

If you're in a position to help, please go to SarahBeth's art page and check out her paintings. They are usually quite pricey, but she's now offering the largest at $100, and the price goes down relative to size. This is not only a great opportunity to own a piece of highly-collectible art, but to do some real good.

Alternatively, as sensitive, caring people - and don't most artists and writers fit this category? -consider donating a small amount of $5, $10 or $20 to help her through this.  The cost of healing her cat once and for all, using a specialized Radioactive IodineTherapy,  is around $1500.  Seventy-five people donating $20 each would cover this. Anyway, this is my route. $20 is small change these days - coffee and muffins for a very few guys at the office, a paperback, whatever. And if $20 is too much, consider $5 or $10. SarahBeth and Willow Fern will be so grateful.

Like SarahBeth, I have no modesty when it comes to helping animals.  And this little animal is part of the family - our collective art and writing family. Please try to help.

You can purchase SarahBeth's art, or simply donate, through PayPal (citing her email address), or you can arrange an alternative method, by emailing SarahBeth here.

I'd like to think that we all could expect support from our fellow blogger friends if we were in a similar situation. This is a reminder that we are all in this together, and should never be shy about reaching out for help when we need it.

Have a good weekend, guys. See you next week. (I did achieve some writing this week, by the way.)