Hi There. Here, Please Have a Small Piece of My Soul

Someone told me once that only 50% of the people who ever get a novel idea actually sit down to write it, and of those, 50% actually finish. The numbers of finishers who actually complete an edited draft is also half of those who start.

Do I have any evidence to back up these statistics? No. They are probably exaggerated, but they get the right idea. A lot more people start writing books than finish them, and a lot less than that actually edit them. This is why I have always been rather proud of my four completed first drafts, and part of the reason I push myself so hard on revisions. I want to take myself seriously as a writer, I would one day like someone to pay me for what is currently an obsessive hobby. I was very, very proud of myself when, over Christmas break, I finally finished the second draft I had been working on throughout 2015. I was proud of my work. I was proud of my accomplishment, and proud of my book. It had a real story arc that made sense, good characters and best of all it was finally the story I wanted to tell. I was eager to move onto the next step: finding beta readers.

All the writing books and blogs I have ever read talk about how important it is to choose people to review your work who will be honest and analytical. People who won’t be afraid to tell you when you suck and save you from sending thoroughly mediocre work into the publishing world. My first ever complete first draft I naively showed to all my friends to draw out their praise, but since then, no one has read my novels (save for my brother, he loves me so much he still maintains that my feverishly written, typo-riddled first drafts are brilliant). I keep these so private because I don’t need editing in my creation process. Shutting up my own inner editor is hard enough, so this group of beta readers were going to be the first people to read this novel. More importantly, they would be the people telling me if my refined work of art would make a marketable product and could be pitched to actual publishers.

I chose my betas carefully; friends from my writing group, a friend who runs a bookstore, a sprinkling of siblings and my self-published sister, the brilliant Jaima Fixsen. I have beta read and copy edited her three books so she owes me, and I knew I could count on her to rip my book apart if necessary. I went into this process coolly, having chosen a healthy mixture of those that would be analytical and honest and those who would tell me I’m fabulous to build me up after. I converted my novel to an epub file, and sent it off.

Here is the funny thing about sending your work to beta readers. As soon as you hit send, your loving and supportive friends, your darling siblings, even your adorable 14 year old niece and doting father turn into this in your mind's eye:

A little piece of you that you have held dear for so long is now out in the world, waiting in other peoples’ inboxes to be scrutinized. It’s like taking a newborn baby and handing it naked to a group of critics who are about to tell you that this beautiful child whom you have lovingly brought into existence actually is entirely defective. Maybe you should just cast it aside.

To make matters worse, my writing time, which previously had been dedicated solely to this project was now wide open. What should I work on? I couldn’t pick up another revision, that seemed too weird. Instead, I spent weeks picking away at forgotten fanfictions while thinking every time I opened my laptop; “someone could be reading my novel right now. RIGHT NOW they could be reading it and either laughing or wondering what the heck is Elena trying to say?”

After a few weeks I calmed down a bit, remembering some people would take a while to get started, and then my first review came in. Kate, who wrote it, sent me a text to say she’d sent it. I got said text while getting into the elevator at work to go for lunch. Never had I been more excited and scared to get back into a wifi zone.

My first review was the best possible kind of review; positive, with a few ideas of how to improve that didn’t dramatically alter my story.

Are there any words more sweet than “I liked your story”? I don’t think so.

I am thinking beta readers serve two purposes; to critique, and to test your nerves. How in the world do published writers feel when their books hit the shelves?

Echte Erwachsene . . . Irgendwie

Christmas comes but once a year, and it's so frenzied one forgets to actually write that actual thing one wants to tell the blogosphere. So here we are creeping up on February, but I still have something to say about  the long past (or so it seems) holiday season.

Of the years I have spent living away from the nest, I have had three Christmases where I have "lived away from home", and by that I mean three Christmases where I pack a suitcase and go to my family for Christmas rather than already living where everyone gathers. The first one I had just moved out a month ago and only lived five minutes away. The second was after I came up north, and I reasoned that as a working adult, I should get a Christmas tree of my very own, even if I was going south for all my time off. Naturally I procrastinated the idea until my then roommate unpacked her fake tree.

This year was going to be different. Not only did no one at my house have an easy to assemble tree sitting in a box somewhere, but I was determined. Christmas could not be Christmas without a tree to welcome me home each evening and curl up to with my oatmeal and stare at the lights each morning, and why have a manmade tree when you can have the real thing in your living room? In November I announced to my roommates (and everyone else) that I wanted a tree for the holidays. I even had a tree stand and a box of shatterproof ornaments ready to go.

I was met with small enthusiasm and plenty of questions. Weren't trees awfully expensive? Why did I want a real tree? Wasn't that a lot more work? Who would take care of the tree? Wasn't I planning to go to Fairmont for a week at Christmas anyways? What was the point of having a tree if none of us would be in town for Christmas anyway?

Well, because Christmas is more than one day of course!

Nevertheless, the constant comments from nearly everyone I mentioned it to began to wear me down. Why did I need a tree for Christmas? It certainly wasn't practical. Utterly despondent, I got on the phone to my sister, Neen. She is practical to a fault, and decorated a potted plant to put her presents under, so while she may not appear to be the best person to discuss such a concern with, she knows me well enough her response was that I should be my wonderfully impractical, romantic self and go get myself a fabulous tree because I want it.

I drive to the tree lot with a sense of empowerment and find a beautiful six foot Douglas fir for twenty-five dollars. As I carry it to my car, I giggle to myself. I bought my own Christmas tree! Look at me!

I sing "O Tannenbaum" the whole way home.

I decorate my tree with balls, curled ribbon, and dollar store lights. I improvise a tree skirt with a spare sheet and golden scarf. My roommates join and we all have a terrific time.

The morning after it's first decorated, I wake up and spend the early morning doing my writing my the light of my tree, my very first tree. This prickly, cumbersome, shedding ornament continues to make my little apartment and magical Christmas land until the end of December.

To some people, it still appears an unnecessary expense. Why do I need a Christmas tree? There's no practical reason for them. Because they make me happy, and what is Christmas if not a season of joy?

That seems practical enough.

Crazy? I Was Crazy Once . . .

It was called the NaNoWriMo Challenge.

A few months ago, Mik and I discovered that our mutual friend Meghan discovered we all had something in common; we all loved to write. So we did the most natural thing for a group of would-be-novelists; we formed a writer's support group.

Our credo was simple, we would get together to write, we would set up goals to help each other write, we would feed each other and play writing games. Pretty soon it became our weekly ritual. In October we added two new members, Alex and Adopted Roommate.

As a group of young professionals/students who love to write fiction, it also made sense for us to attempt to do the National Novel Writing Challenge. For those of you who don't know what that is, click here or here's the short version - write 50,000 words of a new novel draft in 30 days. As members of Cafe Chi (the name we gave our group) we decided to accept this challenge because, well we're crazy. Of course.

Trying to write the majority of a first draft was an incredible experience, I learned so much about myself as a writer and a person. Some of the favourite things I learned include:

-when you are doing such an all encompassing goal, good friends going through the same thing are a wonderful asset. We had many boot camps where we all sit in my living room and just focus on our writing together.

-sleep is something we should always be grateful for.

-eating vegetables is something not to forget.

-I read a quote once for which I can not remember the author, but he said being a writer was like having homework every night for the rest of your life. That is pretty accurate. I found that if I didn't apply myself everyday, catching up the next day was too much and I then I got exasperated.

-the best thing to know; stop giving yourself excuses, shut up and just write.

By some miracle, I actually ended up taking my own advice for once, and completed my goal in 28 days instead of 30! Isn't getting what you wanted the best feeling there is?

Whether we hit the 50,000 word mark or a revised goal, our whole group went out to celebrate on December 1. We all grew as writers, grew closer as friends, and then followed my favourite writing advice:

"Shut up, and keep writing!"

Let Us Give You a Clue

I have two roommates, one part-time roommate, and one adopted roommate. Part-Time Roommate lives around the corner and has our spare key. Adopted Roommate lives a ten minute walk away. Mik took in Part-Time Roommate when they realized they are basically the same person (and we needed a new spare key person) and I declared we were adopting our other extra when I decided that if I could have a little sister, I would choose Adopted Roommate.

As a result, both these girls have become part of our away-from-home family. They show up spontaneously, stay up all night talking with us, and are involved in some of our greatest adventures.

In August (before we adopted Adopted Roommate) Mik and Part-Time Roommate had the idea that they wanted to do a group costume for Halloween. We were discussing this on an IKEA trip with the our other roommate (the one who actually lives at our house for real) whom we will call the Serenader (more on that story later).

Part-Time Roommate and Mik discussed possibilities of what we should do as we stepped into the elevator. I thought of my favourite group costume, which my sister and her family did a number of years ago, and suggested we do the same thing. Everyone instantly liked the idea, and after recruiting the necessary guy friends and a few trips to Value Village, we arrived at the church Halloween dance like this:

Still no guesses? Let me give you a Clue; it was Miss Scarlett, in the church gym with the wrench. From left to right we have Mrs Peacock, Professor Plum, Miss Scarlett, Colonel Mustard, Mr Green Mrs White and in front, Serenader came as our murder victim, Mrs Body.

We ran around the whole night accusing each other of murder, it was great fun. Yet another reason to love Halloween!

Parting Gifts

I work for two lawyers. We will call them Boss Man A and Boss Man Z. Working for both makes me very happy, except for three weeks ago, when Boss Man A announced he was moving to another city and leaving. I was happy for him, but sad for me.

Last week was Boss Man A's last at our firm. He spent his last morning going through his office packing up personal belongings, sending the few possessions that actually belonged to others to their respective owners, and then figuring out to do with all the other stuff. As his assistant, I was the lucky recipient of many of his cast offs.

Boss Man A kept coming out of his office and saying things like:

"I got you a present. Have some extra Sign Here stickers. I hope you like them."

"I know I shouldn't have, but here are some notebooks."

"Okay, now I'm overdoing it, but have some envelopes. Don't you feel special?"

You can tell that Boss Man A and I are a good team because we both thought this exchange was hilarious. I responded with equal enthusiasm to all his extravagant presents and pretended to be incredibly flattered by the fact he gave me a stack of half used notepaper and more tabs than I will ever need.

A little later, I got up and used the photocopier, which is right next to my desk. While there, I looked up to see Boss Man A practically nose diving onto my desk. My cubicle has this little countertop that I call my takeout window. Both Boss Man A and Z like to dive over it when they need to steal a pen. However, it made absolutely no sense for A to be doing so on a day he was giving his stationary away. Then I noticed he was placing something on my desk.  It was green, and looked quite delicate because he was carefully trying to balance it as he set it next to my computer.

I walked over. He looked up and grinned. His only response this time was:

BMA: "It's cardboard. I can't pack it."


Me: "You got me a dragon? Awesome. Is there a story behind it?"

BMA: "No."

Me: "There is now."

BMA: "Well there you go. Enjoy."










Isn't it cute? I will have to name him. Coincidentally, I own the following erasers that already occupy my desk:

















All I need now is some of those plastic swords they use to hold together sandwiches and I can create fairytale or cool girl power scenes.

Thank you Boss Man A! Such a good parting gift.

My Tacky Alter Ego

You would think with five older ones I would have had my fill of sisters, but I have a few kindred spirits who have become honourary ones. At the forefront of those is my cousin Woozie, and no that is not her real name, but it might as well be. That, or Woozie Snitzel. Or just Schnitzel. Mik even called her Schnitz once, but that bore too much resemblance to her own sister's perma-nickname, Snit.

Woozie and I however have more to bond over besides our family's aversion to Christian names.  We both like eating weird things, reading book synopses in a dramatic fashion, and frozen yogurt, to name a few. Also, considering she is the youngest of her family, and her mom is my mom's sister, it's no wonder she's my bonus sister; we have been shoved together since we were babies.

On one such occasion, on a family camping trip as little girls, Woozie and I were bored, so we started reading aloud (in a dramatic fashion) the only reading material we had; an Archie comic. It was, like everything else we did together, hilarious. Our favourite was in a future comic, where Archie meets two characters named Gloria Gudluks and Vivian Vavoom. They were notable not only for their fabulous names, but because their outfits were so outlandish, they leapt off the comic strip. Naturally we quickly decided to branch away from our chosen names even further; Woozie became Gloria Gudluks, and I became Vivian Vavoom. We would call each other that whenever we felt especially silly.

I do not remember how long after this next instance was, but sometime later, Woozie and I were at Nordstrom Rack with our moms, and we were bored. Running in and out of the circular racks had lost it's appeal, so had playing hide and seek (we were about 11 and 13). The sugar rush we had gotten from Krispy Kreme beforehand was wearing off, and we were getting impatient. Imagine our chagrin when our mothers did not want to leave as soon as we stopped tearing apart the department store!

My sister, at the much older and wiser age of 15 came up with a better idea to stay entertained; why didn't we try and find items around the store to make an outfit for our gaudy alter egos? It caught on quickly, so much so that we built up Gloria and Vivian's wardrobes whenever we went out.

As we got older and began enjoying giant department store trips, Woozie and continued to play this game, even accumulating some Vivian/Gloria items for our own closets. We were in university in different countries, but I was still able to show her the Vivian coat my mom bought me (gold pleather) and she posted her Gloria coat on Facebook (faux leapord print fur).

Last spring, when I texted Wooz a picture of flourescent green wedge heels, a plan long overdue was hatched. Woozie would be in Edmonton for the summer, so we would  have to go thrifting, and that plus the Vivian/Gloria items already in our closet would finally allow us to dress up as our favourite tacky comic book characters.

Last weekend we finally got around to it. These are some of our favourite Value Village finds:

And at home, we played a little dressup. Meet Gloria Gudluks:

And Vivian Vavoom:

Despite the joke it was to us as kids, we've discovered everyone has a little Vivian/Gloria in them. The world needs a bit of bling!

"Your Nails are Painted? Who are You?"

I have never considered myself a girly-girl. Well, that may be less than accurate; as a little girl my room looked like the inside of a powder puff; pink walls and lacy ruffles to boot. Plus I wore dresses to school all the time.
But as I've grown older, I have never been one of those girls who always has immaculately done hair. I took Cosmetology in grade 10 and learned all the tricks, but despite this, I still remained a ponytail girl half the time. I have just never had the patience.

It should come as no surprise that my nails have never been that noteworthy. Again in Cosmo, I learned how to do really nice manicures and I have all the tools, but I never saw the point; they chip fast, they're distracting, my fingers weren't something I liked to draw attention to anyways. I didn't even like waering rings. When I started my job it seemed even more pointless. I type most of the day, what would be the point in doing my nails if they're going to get chipped everyday?

In May, my cousin Mik moved in. She is as much of a nail/hair person as me, except her mother never managed to convince her to take Cosmo. When she moved to Edmonton she started working at a jewellery manufacturer, which has started her on a few curious out-of-character habits:

1. She has a habit of taking people's rings off their fingers and scrutinizing them before lecturing on proper ring care. My dad bought me a gorgeous green saphire in Thailand a few years back which according to Mik I have done nothing but abuse since. When I told her I didn't take it off to wash my hair she actually cringed. My ring now sits safely on the counter every time I use shampoo.

2. Mik does her nails all the time.

I guess when you are holding rings under a magnifying glass to show people the glamour of a diamond, you want your nails to look equally fabulous, so Mik has taken to sitting down in the living room at least once a week to retouch her French tips, and becuase I live in the same house as her and hang out with her all the time, I took to joining her.

I got into it slowly; dipping my toes in so to speak by actually painting them. Then I ventured to my fingers. This past week, I went bold, and painted my fingers red. Midweek there was a few chips, so I repainted. The next day at work, I stopped by my friend Maddy's desk to borrow a hi-liter. As I reached to grab the marker, she stopped and exclaimed:

"Your nails are painted? What have you done? Who are you?"

Upon explanation, she just laughed.

I didn't realize how far I had come until I felt the need to do another touch up last night. I scanned my memory through all the times Mik have hung out at home: watch BBC miniseries and paint our nails, discuss writing and paint our nails, paint nails while lemon squares are baking, make my grocery list and paint my nails....

Have I become this person? I nicked my thumb nail while I was out today and corrected it as soon as I came home. Overwhelmingly, yes, I am that person.

Who would have thought.