Carol Anne Shaw

FRANKLY SPEAKING - Rockin' the Short Story

2011-10-27T20:18:00.000-07:00

Has nothing to do with FRANK,
but hey, it's an Armadillo!

Our writer’s group, (dubbed “Frank” because none of us could come up with a clever name) is a merry band of five: two men and three women, the youngest, twenty-six, and the oldest, fifty-seven. We’re newly formed, just a few months old and have been meeting twice a month (although there’s talk of making this a weekly thing) on Wednesday evenings.

Marmite Scones count as fine dining...just sayin'

It’s awesome. We meet in a local bookstore (the owner is part of our group) where we hide out in the back of the store under nice subdued lighting. We enjoy fine culinary creations, red wine more often than not, and settle into seriously comfy chairs. We even have an infuser, which means that lovely smells of lavender or bergamot waft around the room in foggy awesomeness. It’s all very civilized, except for the occasional swearing. I’ll get to that in a minute.

Cheddar "bunny" crackers
are also culinary delights.

At the end of each 2-3 hour session, we come up with a challenge to share the next time we meet. So far they’ve been great. We’ve written an atmospheric bathroom scene, a stream-of-consciousness trialogue (three voices), a break-up in a restaurant, “fear”, a humorous piece on failure, and most recently, a 1,200 – 1,500 word short story that we will ultimately submit to CBC’s Canada Writes literary contest.

This has been the most challenging, and most fun assignment to date! I haven’t written a serious short story since high school. All my writing is channeled into my books, the occasional blog piece, wordy posts on Facebook (yes, I’m a bit of a social media junkie), and highly detailed “to do” lists (which I almost always lose, or forget, or ignore, but I like writing them anyway – they make me feel like an organized and clearly “together” individual.)

Cam (apres rant...smiling!)

Kristine (also apres rant)

Last night we gathered to read our stories to the rest of the group. I don’t know if there was a full moon or something, but everyone was pretty wired. Cam, normally soft-spoken and surrounded by an air of calm and serenity, was pissed off! He and his wife have a small hobby farm in the valley, and they’d been up half the night trying to run off a band of rogue raccoons that had killed his best laying hens. We let him rant.

Then, Kristine arrived, also pissed off. She'd had a verbal altercation with an inconsiderate driver on the Malahat. She retold the tale for us, complete with very colourful expletives and a lot of eqully colourful finger gesturing. We let her rant, too!

Serene Selinde

I wasn’t pissed off about anything, oh, except that my dog has a leaky anal gland (I know. TMI!) and my car smells a little on the fishy side. A bit of a nuisance, I didn’t think it worthy of a full-fledged rant.

Selinde wasn’t pissed off either. She’d just had her hair cut and is going to Japan in a few days so she was actually quite content. She was delegated to being a “listener” as well.

Dan...the quiet man.

And Dan? Well, Dan is quiet. Really quiet. Really quiet and really observant. A man of few, carefully chosen words. He could have been pissed off, but none of us would know, because, well…he’s really quiet.

Anyway, none of this has anything to do with our short story, but maybe you have a better idea of what FRANK is like.

We read our stories; each one was brilliant, and no two similar. As I listened, and then read my own, I realized how valuable this exercise had been. The same ingredients that go into a compelling novel are necessary in a compelling short story as well: character, desire, conflict, change, and tight, precise writing. And when you only tell your tale in a few pages, instead of a few hundred, you are forced to examine, examine, examine! Is this sentence necessary? Is this character necessary? Does the story move forward? Is this description too much? Is there a punch? What about the ending?

So you go over it and over it and over it, losing chunks, shaping paragraphs, substituting one word for another, getting rid of words altogether. You are ruthless! Paring your story right down to the bones, and then carefully reconstructing a body from the ground up.

I think we all nailed it. And I think our stories rock. A couple of hours ago I logged onto to the CBC Canada Writes site, uploaded my story, paid my fee, and hit “send.” Placing in the contest would be wonderful, but this whole process has been such a valuable exercise, I’m happy just to have done it. I now feel ready to return to my sequel writing with a finely tuned antennae and a much more discerning eye.

So, thanks Frank, and good luck fellow wordsmiths! And…can we have that California Apothic red again next time?

NEAR & DEER - My "Ink" story

2011-09-03T16:08:00.000-07:00

When Hannah & the Spindle Whorl was published, I wanted to do something memorable to mark the moment. I’d always been curious about tattoos, particularly about the stories behind them. My son has been down the inky road, and I’ve learned a lot about them through his experience.

I procrastinated for a long time, even though I knew what I wanted months ago: a deer. I eventually decided on this sleeping fawn. It stems from my obsession with the original “BAMBI” – a big, fat novel (not the Walt Disney sanitized version) that was first published in 1923 by Austrian author, Felix Salten. I must have read this book fifteen times between the ages of ten and thirteen. It’s the book that made me want to become a writer. I would get lost in it over and over again.

(http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:5PxD755fCEsJ:en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bambi,_A_Life_in_the_Woods+bambi+felix+salten&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=ca&client=safari)

But my fascination with deer doesn’t end with that classic story. I was kind of an awkward kid: braces, horrific acne, a loner, too sensitive for my own good, and shy to boot. My mother, despite the stress of dealing with her marriage to my father ending, used to take me up into the north shore mountains on numerous epic drives, in search of the elusive deer. We’d head out at twilight in her tiny green Austin Mini Minor, with a dinner of cold cheese sandwiches and the Kodak Instamatic, returning home to our apartment building long after sundown. Sometimes we’d see some but most often we wouldn’t. It didn’t’ really matter. I loved those drives – away from mean kids at school, away from the sometimes depressing environment at home. Just me and my mum. The road ahead was full of promise and adventure! These were the times when I felt completely "me."

Just after my book was released, I decided I would try to hunt down a volume of Felix Salten’s Bambi, for nostalgic purposes. I asked after it here and there, with no luck. When you mention “Bambi,” most people think of Walt’s sweet, big-eyed animated deer, skating innocently around a frozen forest pond with an equally big-eyed and kind-hearted baby rabbit named “Thumper.” A lot of people hadn’t even heard of the original book. I wasn't in a rush. I figured it would show up eventually.

This past year, while I was browsing in one of my favourite Victoria used bookstores (Russell’s books), I asked a clerk about it. She hadn’t heard of it either, but wrote it down and promised to call me should she dig up any information about it. As I thanked her for her time and prepared to walk away, she suddenly asked another employee approaching if he had heard of the book. He went a bit pale and said, “You mean this one?” He was holding up THE book in his right hand. He explained that he had just picked it up out of a box in the back room and didn’t really know why he was taking it out into the store! Not only was it the right book, it was the same edition I’d had as a kid. Ten bucks later, it was mine. As I came out of that store months ago, not only was I gobsmacked, but I also knew what my tattoo was going to feature.

So here it is. I love it. I had wanted the image to be evocative of an older, lithographic-style illustration, like the ones in the original book. Although it was a challenging image, Mike Richards, of Pair O Dice Tattoo in Market Square did a phenomenal job!

It’s kind of ironic that I now live on a couple of acres in an area where deer are as common as crows, and seen as “pests” to many avid gardeners and farmers. They have valid complaints, and the population is definitely out of control here, but I never tire of their gracefulness and gentle presence outside my windows. Naïve? Maybe. But you know what? I’m okay with that.

BIG MAC ATTACK, or "HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES?"

2011-07-22T23:11:00.000-07:00

I recently had a big Mac attack. It's not what you're thinking. I didn't find myself drooling under the golden arches, craving psuedo-meat on a plastic bun. No, my big Mac attack had to do with my computer. Despite good daily habits, my laptop suffered Central Processor arrest, failing to supply adequate circulation to it's hard drive muscle and surrounding bits and bytes.

It happened, as these things tend to do, quite suddenly. I had been sitting in front of my screen, wasting valuable writing minutes by watching a particularly hilarious youtube video posted by a fellow writer (who shall remain nameless. Thanks, Susan Juby...oops...) when my screen flatlined and turned grey. I did all the usual things. Logged off. Logged on. Hard crashed. Rebooted, and performed CPR (Cussed. Panicked. Ranted) Alas, no pulse. This was bad. My first draft was on there, and, like the moron I am, I had not been backing it up on a regular basis. Truth be known, I had not backed it up at all. I know! (I have no excuses so I'm not discussing that particular issue here.)

Now, I'm not exactly a luddite – I can find my way around most computers – but I am by no means comfortable with their guts. Even the terminology freaks me out: ram and motherboards and firewalls. These words sound aggressive to me. I prefer software over hardware. Software is fun, and...well, softer. There are no sharp bits or angry bytes, plus, software comes in attractive cases with cool graphics on the front. Enough said.

After I had appeased my terrified self with some stale Carr's water biscuits and some generic peanut butter, I packed up my still-grey MacBook in it's funky little blue bag, and delivered it to my friendly neighbourhood Mac store. They'd fix it up. After all, Macs are Macs. Besides, those Mac guys are the shiz. They're all 23-years-old and they know everything, plus, they actually dress like that cool Mac dude on the commercials so you know they're good.

After talking with them, I felt much better. So much so that I went to the farmer's market and bought a lot of fresh vegetables and tofu and organic cranberry juice, not to mention a nice bit of soy cheese. (My Mac attack started me thinking about my own ticker...better safe than sorry.) However, my peaceful shopping excursion ended once I got home. Once I got home, I received “the call.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Shaw...” his voice was grave, solemn, yet somewhat sympathetic, “there's nothing we could do.”

“What are you saying?” My hands began to sweat.

“We tried everything we could, but...we just couldn't save it. I'm afraid your hard drive is unmountable.”

Silence.

“Mrs. Shaw?”

“Yes, yes I'm here. I think I need to sit down.”

“I know this is a great loss for you, but -”

“I must ask you,” I interrupted.

“Yes?”

“Please. Can I see it? Can I see my hard drive?”

“Yes, of course. We've installed a new one in your laptop, but your old one is here. You can pick it up anytime you like.”

“Thank you. I'd...I'd just like to have it.”

“Of course. We understand.”

“Perhaps one day, when I'm an extremely rich and famous author, I will be able to enlist the help of a very expensive data recovery service, and get my manuscript back.”

“We can only hope, Mrs. Shaw. We can only hope.”

“Thank you for trying to save my laptop. I am very grateful.”

“It's our job. It's what we do.”

I realize now, that in the few days that followed, I experienced the classic five stages of grief: Denial (those Mac guys are dumb. They're barely out of diapers. I'll just take my sick little hard drive somewhere else. Some place where the tekkies tuck their shirts in and know who “The Cure” is!) Anger (I hate *#&*;$@* computers! Writing is for idiots! I'm quitting this gig altogether and I'm going to go get a real job!), Bargaining (Come on, O Patron Saint of Laptopia...just restore my machine and I promise I'll never write a novel without a real outline or an in-depth character study ever again.), Depression (Why isn't there any REAL cheese in this house!? And who bought all these stupid vegetables?) ,and finally Acceptance...which is what this blog post is really all about.

It's funny, losing quite a few thousand words of what I thought was a really good first draft was daunting, to say the least, but at the risk of sounding like one of the Walton's, I have actually come through it kind of, okay. In fact, better than okay. I think (dare I say this?) this whole thing may have been a blessing in disguise. In retrospect, I think I may have been tackling that draft with more panic, than passion. My goal had been to finish by the end of August, before school starts up again, and I was getting a little weird (and a little smug) about the pace I was traveling at. Having all those words disappear into cyberspace forced me to address that. Hmmm....

So I did. And the conclusion that I have come to is this: writing a book takes as long as it takes. If you're writing with the end in sight, your beginning and middle bits are going to be sub-par. If you're not in the moment, enjoying the process, writing with an open mind and an open heart, I don't think you're going to have a very good time. And I don't think your book is going to be a very good read.

So I started again. From scratch. And yes, this time I kind of have an outline and I know my characters like the back of my hand. And you know what else? This draft, already 13,000 words along (but who's counting!) is already a million times better than “that” draft. And what's more? I'm not thinking about the end of August, or the end of next week, or even about the end of the day. I'm just thinking about the story in my head, and writing from my gut, and it feels really, really good.

So thanks, Universe, for the wake-up call. As for my expired hard drive? May you rest in peace. And now if you'll excuse me, I have some writing to back-up. G'nite.

GREAT POWER BALLS OF FIRE!

2011-07-04T21:15:00.000-07:00

Lately I’ve had a lot of questions fired at me about my current obsession with…Power Balls. When I recently posted (or tweeted…I can’t really remember. This social media stuff gets complicated) that I’d made a whole mess of them first thing in the morning, I was bombarded with people asking me: “Power Balls? What the…?” “What ARE they?” “What have you gotten yourself into?” “Power Balls first thing in the morning? Who has time for that!“ and similar comments. I figure enough is enough. It's time to solve the mystery for everyone.

Power balls, sometimes referred to as “Energy Balls”, are little calorie-bombs that serve to fuel you along in your busy, active lives. I’m pretty sure that one innocuous little power ball could probably keep a 180 lb man alive for days! Needless to say, they are a staple in our household – home to a family of hard-core bicycle enthusiasts. (Well, I’m not hard-core. I just like to peddle, but I’m a power ball fan just the same.)

Power Balls are easy to make (require no baking…just stick ‘em in the fridge), are chock full of protein, good carbs, iron, fibre and delightfully tasty awesomeness. But these little babies are not for amateurs – they’re dense, and a few in your pocket will have you thinking they’re made from depleted uranium, not simply dates and oatmeal and other harmless goodies.

Behold....the Power Ball. Proceed with caution.

But 'nuff said. Here are the deets for the treats:

POWER BALLS

(Food for the Invincible)

· A couple of good wallups of peanut butter (crunchy or smooth. No matter)

· A spallunk of Nutella (if you have some on hand. If not, no worries)

· A couple dollops of blackstrap molasses (I know. Ew. But trust me. Iron is good for you.)

· A small handful of brown sugar or a good drizzle of liquid honey

· Another small handful of flax seeds

· A sprinkling of quick cook oats

· A good couple handfuls of skim milk powder (Protein, baby. Protein)

· Chopped up dates

· A bunch of teenie currants

Sunflower seeds

· Unsweetened coconut (enough to make the whole mess the right consistency to roll into golf ball-sized “balls”)

· Roll the balls in more coconut, for a festive touch. (I’ve always wanted to say that. It’s so Martha Stewart.)

· Store in airtight container in the fridge.

As you can see, my way of measuring when I cook is pretty relaxed. Handfuls. Dollops. Sprinklings. Drizzles. But I actually do own a measuring cup. At the moment, it's sitting on the sideboard and has a couple of loonies inside it as well as a bottle of multi-vitamins and a Gold Rush scratch and win ticket (I scratched but didn't win.) My point is, just experiment. Your hand may be a different size than mine. You may like more of this and a lot less of that. The key is to get the consistency right. Anything goes. Be creative. But remember, these yummies pack a hefty punch on the old calorie scale, so if you eat more than one, you’d better go out pretty darn quick and move a couple of mountains or at the very least, indulge in a little extreme laundry.

Power to you!

BAGOLOGY: What's in(side) it for me?

2011-06-18T23:45:00.000-07:00

I am a bag lady. I have been for years. It’s what I do. I collect bags.

I like this purse. It's small and practical, and not
"foo-foo" at all. Women with social consciences
and low-maintenance Labradors carry purses
like this.

This may look pretty, but
I feel ridiculous carrying
around a tiny purse like
this! Where do you put the dog
biscuits? (P.S. The dress is pretty
hot though, don't you think?)

It’s not so odd, really. Lots of people collect things. Some collect shoes (my sister has a separate closet for all of hers), while others collect stamps, or ceramic cows, or first edition books, or beetle specimans, or wine bottles…the list goes on.

Now, I’m no girly-girl. I like snakes and bugs and I wear (mostly) practical shoes and pretty boring underwear, but…I like bags. Purses: things to carry “stuff” in, which is weird, because I didn’t think I carried a lot of “stuff” around with me. When I go shopping, I usually just rely on my pockets, or I park the car and grab my wallet from whatever “the purse of the day” happens to be, and go. So, what’s the deal with this? These purses. What does this say about my inner psyche?

This is probably the best "bag" I own. My MEC
dog-walking, biking and/or hiking vessel.
It's green, which is never a bad thing, and
I feel much more physically fit than
I actually am when I carry this bag.

“Bagology” is an actual science: the study of the handbag. I’m not kidding. Apparently, the type of purse you carry and the way you carry it says a whole lot about your general character and temperament. I get this. Sort of. But what about the CONTENTS of your bag slash purse? Surely that would be a more interesting study?

This purse really is dreadful. I think I bought
it originally because I thought the blue was
pretty.In reality, it is huge and looks
like a pizza warmer.

I know from personal experience, that the insides of my bags have a mind of their own. I can begin each day placing the usual necessary and practical items inside them. Things like: my cellphone, hairbrush, wallet, iPod, apple, gum, keys, notebook (I never go anywhere without my little green writing notebooks), and my Burt’s Bees lip balm (I’m addicted). Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Sure. So, tell me. How is it that at the end of the day, the inside of my bag is full of strange and foreign objects that I have no business being there? Things like chocolate bar wrappers, random notes-to-self that appear to be written in my hand, yet have clearly been planted by an imposter to cause me great confusion. Other things show up, too. Pencils, twist ties, flyers advertising case-lot sales at Costco, (I’ve only been in Costco once in my entire life and it was a terrifying experience) old caramels, sport socks, those crappy “cheater” eyeglasses you can get at the dollar store – they show up in my bags a lot, usually with a lens missing, CD’s with no covers (who listens to CD’s anymore?), water bottles, rolls of masking tape, elastic bands, scissors, newspaper clippings (these have to come from my mother), and/or matches (I don’t smoke).

I like this bag. It appeals to my"Inner
Boho." But inside there lurks a dark,
bottomless abyss. This bag
is not for amateurs.

Sometimes I find bizarre items. The other day I found a small, pliable pink plastic pig in the corner of my bag. It was a bit dog-hairy, and I discovered that when you squeezed it, it defecated. Plastic poop. HOW DID I COME TO HAVE THIS IS MY PURSE?

And finally, nine times out of ten I end up
grabbing a cloth shopping bag, because
they are all over my house and easy to
find. Plus, I wanted to include this photo
because it's the best one of the lot!

I guess I am just a pack-rat, which is probably why I feel the need to cart these dumb bags around. Perhaps instead of trying to analyze purse styles or purse contents, I should be more concerned with my hoarding disorder. But that doesn’t sound like any fun at all.So instead, I’ve included some photos of some of my more distinctive “bags,” with a bit of a blurb about each one.

(Don’t leave! Come on! This is interesting stuff!)

The Write Way

2011-06-14T22:44:00.000-07:00

There's a lot of talk among writers these days, and I mean that literally. Lots of writers... talk.

I had always assumed that the full-time novelist spent umpteen hours a day holed up in a musty basement suite or a drafty garret, seldom leaving the comfort of their confines, except to buy things like toilet paper or more Mr. Noodle. And when they did, they would dress in a slovenly manner and be rude to shopkeepers and lecture children to quit riding their bikes on the sidewalk.

This is simply not true. The writers I know seem to spend a whole lot of time being very social indeed. Tweeting, facebooking, blogging, getting "Linked In," skyping, holding contests and stirring it up weekly on writer's forums. They also seem to get out of their sweatpants quite regularly, and face people in real time as well. They busy themselves with school visits, author interviews, book signings, readings, and get out there with gusto all in the name of promotion. It's all very daunting. I know this because I've watched them. They are all terribly articulate, and lovely, and quote a lot of famous dead people, and are often very funny. And to make matters worse, the vast majority of them have good hair and tweezed brows and nice shoes. When did this happen? Who changed the rules? What about the perpetual bed head and the spaghetti stains on the politically incorrect t-shirts? What about stream of consciousness babbling? I got into this whole thing believing that it was perfectly acceptable for writers to hide out and have fairly questionable social skills. I thought this was common knowledge. Apparently I was wrong.

However, if I want to embrace this whole writer schtick, I must get with the program. I have decided that, from this moment on, I must brush the crumpet crumbs off my pajamas, stand up straight, and face the music. Does this mean I'll have to invest in clothing that matches and have my hair cut by someone other than myself? Hmmmm...maybe not. Maybe I'll be like Anne Lamott, and wear dreadlocks and ripped jeans to public engagements?

Or, maybe this isn't an issue at all. Maybe I should just shut up and get back to work. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's what I ought to be doing. My books aren't going to write themselves.

So, until next time, I'm taking my odd-socked feet and going back to my corner.

Ciao for now.

PAWS FOR THOUGHT

2011-06-06T23:20:00.000-07:00

They say that after a while, dogs begin to look like their owners. We’ve all seen those pictures. The ones featuring a lanky dude with a ‘fro, posing beside a black standard poodle sporting a similar “do.” Or how about the tatt-covered guy and his pit bull? Both wearing spiked collars and leather, muscles everywhere? The photos are sort of cute, but really…come on. We’re humans. They’re dogs.

But it got me thinking about our dogs, and you know something? They’re may be some truth to the whole thing. Dixie, our Bluetick Coonhound, is Richard’s dog. This is what I deduced…it’s a bit eerie:

Dixie, freaked out by a little cement garden dog-gnome!

(1) Dixie is athletic, rangy, and looks like she’s held together with safety pins. (I’ve often said the same thing about Richard.)

(2) Dixie is picky about what she eats – not too spicy, not too bland. (And Richard? Um…gluten intolerance. Bread is a risky proposition.)

(3) Dixie can go all day, power nap for a nano second, and then do it all over again with gusto. (The husband has a very physical job and gets by on way less sleep than he should.)

(4) Dixie is very territorial about her window seat. (Richard is the same way about his coffee mug and his (imagine!) toothbrush.

Dixie and Richard...lanky legs

So yeah, I’d have to say that those two are cut from the same cloth. Except for the noise thing. Dixie loves to make noise. She’s a hound, so howling is her favourite. Richard, on the other hand, is pretty quiet. A man of few words and all that. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him come close to howling. Off topic, but mildly interesting, perhaps.

Moving on to Eddie.

Eddie is mine. A beagle. Hmmm…this is going to be tougher. I have to compare myself to an overweight beagle with allergy issues.

(1) Eddie is a bit portly. (I’m not doing too badly yet, although I do seem to be developing bingo wings. Ew.)

(2) Eddie is going gray. (Me? Natural Instincts #46. “Suede”)

(3) Eddie stinks. (I think I smell nice most of the time, except for that day about two weeks ago when I had an unfortunate, um, garlic incident. I don’t want to talk about it.)

(4) Eddie is allergic to life, and is medicated most of the time. (I am allergic to my grade 8 students (especially today), and self-medicate with good wine (especially today)

Eddie likes to sleep

(5) Eddie can sleep 20 hours out of 24. (So could I if given the chance)

(6) Eddie has a big and very sensitive probiscus. (So do I. ‘Nuff said.)

(7) Eddie has a bit of a wandering eye. (I have a bit of a wandering mind)

(8) We will both roll over and beg for pizza crusts.

(9) Eddie has wide, substantial paws shaped like compact garlic bulbs. (I have wide, substantial hands shaped like saucepan lids.)

And...so do I.

(10) Eddie has a favourite tartan collar. (I have a favourite tartan work shirt)

Eddie also snores like a freight train and is chronically flatulent.

Nope. Not me. Not yet.

ADVENTURES OF A MEDIOCRE GARDENER.

2011-04-23T22:12:00.000-07:00

This year, Earth Day happened to fall on the first REALLY sunny, and REALLY warm weekend we’ve had in eleventy-billion weeks. Well, a slight exaggeration perhaps. I’ve been looking out my window for some time now, thinking that as a responsible homeowner, I should get my butt out there and pull some weeds. You know, don the gumboots and roll up my sleeves and get some good old-fashioned dirt under my fingernails.

I have a few friends who live to garden. Seriously. They have shelves full of books about all things green and growing. It’s quite the science. And the terminology can be daunting. “Acid vs. Alkaline, groundcovers and grafting, pruning perennials and potting up.” It’s all very intimidating.

When we first bought our two acres in Cobble Hill, I had grandiose illusions of growing two green thumbs in order to produce a fully functional, organically superior garden that would be the envy of all who came to visit. I would compost, and rotate crops, and know plants by their Latin names, and preserve, and can, and make wonderful earthy dyes from flower heads. Right.

Actually, I was pretty good for a few years when my boys were little. I grew peas and carrots and raspberries and the kids would go out every morning in the summer and “graze” like young deer. I think I made a pie once, too. Oh. And Jam. I definitely made jam.

But the boys grew up and I became busier and the farmer’s market rocks and is only ten minutes away. My vegetable plots grew over, and I went back to having marmite on my toast instead of jam.

My "wild beast" of a garden...the "before" picture.

But I digress….

Today I decided that, because of the sun, and it’s positive effect on my deflated serotonin receptors, I would see if I could tame the wild beast that had become my garden.

And like all things daunting, thinking about the task is usually harder than actually doing it. This proved to be true in this particular case as well. Once I planted my feet firmly in the middle of my disheveled perennial bed and pulled up the first few handfuls of dandelions, I kind of got into it. I moved from one end to the other with what could only be described of as a sort of "green fervor.” I was ruthless, stabbing the unsuspecting soil with my trusty pitchfork, ripping stray bramble runners from the depths with one swift yank, and transporting newly exposed earthworms to a kinder, more “shovel-friendly” zone.

After I while, I began feel my back unkink and the crease between my eyebrows let go. I became aware of a multitude of serene Saturday sounds: a lawnmower in the distance. A blackbird calling from the wetland down the road. A dog barking. A bunch of Harleys’ pulling out of the Black Swan Pub and….no. Wait a minute. That sound isn’t actually one of my favourites.

My "after" shot...not too shabby!

As I stood back hours later to survey my handiwork, I had to admit, it looked pretty good. I’m not one for manicured lawns, matching patio furniture or Noma lights, but it was kind of nice to actually be able to SEE the plants growing in the beds on the property, not to mention having a place to sit on the rock walls.

As I sat in my favourite spot on my favourite rock wall, I planned my next move. Hmmmm…the compost pile looks a little shoddy and there are still a whole lot of cedar boughs down from the last windstorm scattered about. But Rome, as they say, wasn’t built in a day. Spring has only just been sprung, and there will be more warm days ahead. (Did I just say that out loud?)

A little Pagan-ish nourishment for the hungry gardener!

Becoming reacquainted with my garden was a great way to celebrate Easter and Earth Day. And I expended enough energy to feel completely justified in biting the head off a dark chocolate bunny with no remorse. Being a pagan wench at heart, it seemed a fitting end to a dirty, earth-centered day. (Bunnies are, after all, leftover from the pagan festival of Eostre, a great northern goddess whose symbol was a rabbit or hare. Add the fact that we have just begun the Year of the Rabbit - all the more reason to chow down.

So, to all you hit-and-miss weed pullers out there, as well as you rubber-clog wearing elite veterans of all things seedy & soily (you know who you are!) may I wish you a happy Spring (and a whole lot of chocolate!)

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a book to finish writing, and some more bunny parts to polish off.

SARDINES AND SILVER LININGS

2011-02-21T21:29:00.000-08:00

Today was a loud day. Well, maybe it only seemed loud because it’s Monday, and yesterday was fairly quiet. At least it was for me. In any case, today I found my classroom of grade nine students to be a full on auditory assault!

Grade nine girls like to screech. They do this when they are happy, and they do this when they aren’t. I don’t remember ever doing this. Did I? (Maybe I’m just old. Maybe I’ve forgotten.)

It’s not just the screeching that makes me wince. There’s the music. Okay, maybe I’m REALLY beginning to sound ancient, but what’s with the constant angry rap? Eff bombs and Mo-Fo’s and b*tches, so of course, I have to step in and bust them and tell them to plug in someone else’s iPod (although I do kinda like Eminem). Five minutes later I have to do it again, even though they think they can fool me by coughing (or screeching) to cover up the eff-bombs. I think I need a full time assistant to stand by the iPod dock and perform damage control.

This doesn’t happen in my other classes. The grade eight’s like that poppish American Idol stuff – riffs and female vocalists who belt out singable songs about unrequited love and rain and crying on buses.

The grade tens like the old classics: Stones, Supertramp, Queen, and all the stuff I listened to when I was in high school. And the grade elevens and twelves have great taste. I learn a lot about new music from them, and enjoy annoying them by jacking their iPod playlists for future reference on a pretty regular basis.

It’s just those dang grade nines…

Nevermind. I got through the day, even though my ears were pretty much done in. I consoled myself on my walk home with the knowledge that I had the whole evening stretching in front of me with a clean desk and a chapter outline all ready to work from. Soon the crowded, noisy art room would be a thing of the past. Yesterday’s news.

However, once I found myself seated at said desk, in front of my computer, nothing happened. Really.

Not.

One.

Word.

At least not one word that was worthy of keeping. My “delete” key got a workout tonight. Why? It got crowded and noisy again, only this time in a much smaller space. My dogs decided they would play a rousing game of "bark tag" that went into overtime. My sons (definitely not creatures of burning intellect tonight) chose to viscously slay hoards of marauding zombies on the Xbox with a moment by moment (and loud) running commentary, and my spouse decided to pick tonight to conduct a full post mortem of his side of the closet. This happens about once a year. This closet is also located directly next to my writing desk.

Sometimes our house seems way too small for four people and two rambunctious dogs…

So…no words of wisdom are forthcoming this evening. But, there is a silver lining. There is always….doodling!

What’s that old adage? “A picture is worth a thousand words?”

SYNCHRONICITY, SHOELACES & SOUP

2011-02-17T14:03:00.001-08:00

So I decided to take a break from the manuscript/s (I’m working on two simultaneously…I know, I know…A.D.D. writer here. I’m the first to admit it!) and tackle a painting. My goal was to start and complete it in one weekend, just to see if I could. Well, I did. Eleven hours straight. Fueled by great music, great coffee, a bit of wine, some cheese and jalapeno pepper bread, and a crackling fire in the woodstove. All things highly conducive to creativity, at least in my world.

It began as a landscape – an African-ish plains scene, all umbers and ochres and siennas. It didn’t last long at all, probably because it didn’t evoke an emotional response from me. I’ve never been to Africa.

I wanted to paint something meaningful. Something that depicted my life at this present time. So I thought to myself, “what’s in my life right now?” Easy to answer. Synchronicity. Lots of it. I think I’ve already talked about that before. What else? Shoelaces! Mine! They’ve been coming untied for months, even though I’m something of a double-knotter. What’s with that? And finally? Soup. I’ve been living on it all winter. Making hearty pots of split pea with ham, potato chowder, spicy chicken and garbanzo. Yum. It’s one of the high points of winter for me. And finally? Crows and ravens. I just like ‘em. ‘Nuff said.
Oh yes, then there’s the reference to Grenache and Syrah, my favourite wines. I was drinking a delightful blend of the two while I painted. ‘Nuff said, again.

So, my eleven-hour blitz ended with a painting that I kind of like. I doubt it will evoke the same emotional response from anyone else, but this one works for me.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some onions and garlic to chop. Black Bean soup is on the menu this evening.

DREAM CATCHING

2011-01-15T18:24:00.000-08:00

We’ve all heard it said before: “Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it!” At the time we tend to think, “What a dumb thing to say. If our wish comes true that’s a good thing. That’s the point!”

However, answered wishes can be a little unnerving. They imply action, and responsibility. Okay. You’ve got your wish. So, NOW what are you going to do? No more sitting around.

Regardless of what you call then -wishes or prayers - they do get answered. More than you'd think. The more dogmatic among us see the synchronicities that often occur when we trust our instincts and follow the path that we’re meant to follow, as acts of God. The less spiritual might call them mere coincidences. When I experience moments of serendipity I see them as an affirmation from the universe that yes, I am on the right track. I am being true to my authentic self, and I just need to keep moving forward.

Since I made the decision to write seriously a couple of years ago, I’ve experienced a lot of these kinds of moments. Finding a rare book from my childhood out of the blue, locating bits of information I needed from an unexpected source, spontaneously connecting with people who have been unbelievably helpful in my creative journey, and just “being in the right place at the right time.” It’s very cool. I’ve come to expect moments like these and no longer question why or how they happen. Instead, I feel an overwhelming sense of calm, and a little more confidence to aid me with the next few steps.

It can be difficult sometimes – this choosing to follow your heart stuff. The world is full of naysayers, buzz killers, and they will try to discourage you at every turn. They’ll tell you that you need to be “more realistic.” That you need to be more practical, or the worst one of all, that you need to “get your head out of the clouds.” Ignore them. Smile politely (if you like), then change the subject and get away from those people. They can deflate you in a matter of seconds and getting your wind back can be tough. Surround yourself with like-minded souls. People who will encourage, support, love, help, and get excited about your dreams. People like that are a tonic for your soul. Play with them a lot.

So make a commitment and take those first few steps toward your dream, and then watch what happens. Ready? Okay then, fasten your seat belt. It’s a great ride.

“Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake. ”

- Henry David Thoreau

The Beginnings of a Book: How "HANNAH" came to be.

2011-01-02T13:04:00.000-08:00

2011 has arrived, and with it, a whole bunch of new goals. First and foremost, of course, is finishing “Hannah book #2” (which has become its official working title.)

While I work steadily on the first draft, I am having so much fun becoming reacquainted with some old characters: Max, Sabrina (ew!), Aunt Maddie, Chuck, Riley and Nell, while creating some new ones (sorry, “mum’s the word” for now.)

Yesterday, on my New Year’s Day walk, I found myself in Cowichan Bay – the setting for “Hannah and the Spindle Whorl.” The sun was brilliant. The air crisp, and I thought it would be a good idea to snap off a few photos so that I could share my inspiration with you readers. So, that’s what I did, and here they are:

Here’s a shot of a cluster of house boats (or “float homes” as they are technically called) that sit near to the shore.

When I first got the idea for the story, I knew that Hannah and her father would live in one of these funky abodes! No question.

The Rock Cod Café has been an icon of Cowichan Bay village for a long, long time. I’ve been going there for over fifteen years. If you want good fish and chips in an authentic, down to earth, unpretentious atmosphere, then The Rock Cod should be at the top of your list. I had to have this restaurant in my book. I didn’t change a thing, except the name of course.
In my book, it's called, “The Salty Dog Café.”

The Toad-in-the-Hole Bakery is one of Hannah’s favourite places. It’s a sanctuary of sorts, where “Nell”, kindred spirit and bagel maker Goddess creates her magic. There is a similar place in Cowichan Bay. It goes by the name of “True Grain Bakery,” one of the funkiest, most delicious, and unique little haunts in the village. Could you walk by this most intriguing exterior without venturing through the door?

“Udderly Wonderful” is the ice cream parlour in the book, inspired by the equally wonderful “The Udder Guys” ice cream pit stop in the heart of Cowichan Bay village. A place where the homemade ice cream is like none other, and where the rum n’ raisin is so potent that it has an actual parental advisory disclaimer.

Hannah Anderson’s front door of her houseboat was pretty much a direct steal from my own front door at home. Our door came from a wreckers – solid fir and in desperate need of a lot of TLC in the form of stripping, sanding, and then more stripping, and of course, more sanding. The yellow cedar lintels were carved by my talented husband, and nothing much is different in the book - just a bit of creative license here and there.
A young fourteen-year old friend of ours created the stained glass window in the centre, and the whole thing is my favourite part of our house. I had to put it in the book.

So, there you have it. A little visual tour of the place that inspired me to write my book. It’s hard not to be when you live in such a beautiful and unspoiled part of the world. The Cowichan Valley, on Vancouver Island. A little piece of paradise.

CHAMPAGNE AND FLANNEL: To Party, or Not to Party...

2011-01-01T09:04:00.000-08:00

PARTY (def):

A party is a gathering of people who have been invited by a host for the purposes of socializing, conversation, or recreation. A party will typically feature food and beverages, and often music and dancing as well.

Some parties are held in honor of a specific person, day, or event (e.g., a birthday party, a Super Bowl party, or a St. Patrick’s Day party). Parties of this kind are often called celebrations.

Last night was New Year’s Eve – one of the biggest party nights of the entire year. It’s a night of serious eating, drinking, merriment, and shiny sparkly clothes! Oh, and don't forget the kissing. There's a lot of kissing. Sometimes you even kiss the person you went to the party with.
People stress a bit about New Year’s. Where’s the party? Which one should we go to? Should we throw one? What if we don’t get an invite? What if we’re stuck at home watching Dick Clark in our sweatpants eating a bag of Doritos? Isn’t that a fate worse than death? Or, what about this? The very worst – what if you actually go to bed before midnight? Do that, and you’re old. Washed up.

BIG.

FAT.

LOSER.

I didn’t party this year. Instead, my significant other and I opted to stay in, treat ourselves to a selection of delectable appies, and partake in a little champagne and star gazing outside at the midnight hour. So, I guess that makes me old, washed up, and a big, fat loser. Only, I don’t feel like any of those things.

As I look back over 2010, I feel anything but, and it seems only fitting that a New Year’s day blog post should be forthcoming. There was a lot of stuff going on in 2010, and I have so much to be grateful for.

Let’s see. The year began with my turning FIFTY! It wasn’t a somber occasion. I liked the idea. Fifty is a cool number. I know lots of people in their 50’s who are having the most wonderful time of their lives. I plan to be one of them. All the ingredients are in place. My kids are grown, functional, and happy. My health is good. I don’t worry about the stupid things I used to worry about a couple of decades ago. I have hobbies. I have some amazing friends. I love getting up and I’m excited by what the day holds out to me. I don’t get bored. I think I’m on the right track.

The other big 2010 event in my life was my book’s release in August! I actually did it. Published a book! A lifelong dream. And how lucky am I? The second publishing house I approached said, “yes.” (Thank you Ronsdale Press) I learned so much about writing, the publishing industry, and the whole process overall. It wasn’t always easy but I wouldn’t trade a moment of the ride. And then, just a couple of weeks ago, I learned that “Hannah and the Spindle Whorl” is #3 on the ABPBC’s bestseller children’s book list! (Okay, pinch me. Hard!)

Book two is almost written, and book #3 - Hannah (book #2) is on the home stretch, too. This pleases me!

Yes, the year has flown by, but it has given me unforgettable moments all along the way. It wasn’t just the Sockeye that got a good run this year.

So, I don’t feel badly that I didn’t get dressed up in sparkles and dance until dawn, or kiss a bunch of people that I wouldn't kiss in a sober state of mind. I saw the new year in wearing my new flannel pajamas, (the champagne tasted just as good) I shared some good conversation with Richard (who was also in his pajama pants) and those I've kissed lately I would definitely kiss again. Then I wrote, reflected, and realized how very fortunate I am for all the good stuff in my life.

2011 is going to rock, for a whole bunch of different reasons. I can feel it.

So as I sit here with my morning coffee, watching my dogs sleep by the woodstove while the sun begins to light up the morning, I feel pretty damn good.

And to all of you out there? May YOUR 2011 be the year you want it to be.

Make it happen.

***

Mud, Mountain Bikes, and Mistletoe: A Christmas Poem

2010-12-26T20:33:00.000-08:00

THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS

(at the Shaw Shack)

T’was the day before Christmas

And all through my house

Were signs of my offspring,

my dogs

and my spouse

Wet socks were hung by the woodstove with care

and bike parts were literally

EVERYWHERE

Helmets and jackets and things that they wore

were covering every part of the floor

And I with my tea, my carrots and dip

had just settled down with the ‘ol manuscript

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

I rose from my chair to see what was the matter

Away to the window I flew for a look

(Would I ever just sit still and work on my book?)

My eyes opened wide with surprise and then fright

as I looked at six guys, all muddy, with bikes

Then what to my wondering eyes should appear?

More men (and one, was carrying beer.)

Among the big group was my youngest son, Nick

the flashiest rider – so lively and quick.

Up the front steps young Nick came with a bound

“Hey Mom!” he cried, “We practically drowned!”

“It’s raining so hard. We had to come back.”

We’ve got lots of beer but we need some good snacks.”

As I let out a sigh and was turning around

I was greeted by Dixie, our mud soaked coonhound.

She raced up the steps and ran through the door

leaving big muddy pawprints all over the floor.

Then my husband appeared, with blood on his knees

“I bailed,” he informed, “right into a tree.”

“He hit that big jump!” my older son said

“He fell off so hard. He should probly be dead!”

“But he tackled the skinny,” another voice piped

“Your old man is gnarly! Your old man is psyched!”

I looked at my husband who said with a smile,

“I know we were s’posed to be gone for a while.”

“I know that I promised we’d be out all day.

“But its really gross out. I hope that’s okay.”

“Come on in,” I said the group of now twelve..

And I laughed at the guys, in spite of myself.

Ten minutes later, all laid out to dry

were camelpacks, jerseys, bike socks and guys!

The TV clicked on and amidst all the grime

“Crankworks” played for the ninety-ninth time.

And giving a nod, to my back room I went.

No longer feeling the need for a vent.

I think I’m much cooler than other guy’s wives

for biking and mud is just part of our lives.

As for writing, I do it regardless of men

who make enough laundry for a family of ten

I’ll finish my book despite mud and the noise

I’ll finish my book while surrounded by boys.

But right now its time to finish this verse

and deal with the mud. It can’t get much worse.

So from my house to yours may your Christmas be fine

and if YOU live with bikes, have that third glass of wine!

CURE FOR NOVEMBER...

2010-11-30T22:38:00.000-08:00

November is a cruel month, and this one has been no exception. We’ve seen it all. Rain, wind, snow, ice, and day after day of various shades of grey.

Signs of the 11^th month are everywhere: deep driveway puddles, muddy paw prints on floors, mud-crusted hiking boots inside the door, umbrellas outside of it, and most obvious, the permeating scent of “wet dog” that seems to hang in the air for weeks on end.

I’ve come to accept that this is an inevitable part of winter on this part of Vancouver island. We live, after all, in a rainforest. Rain, therefore, is a given. It’s ultimately a good thing. It’s why our forests are so outstanding, and…well, you know how it goes.

But winters on the west coast kind of get to me. And winters in the sticks can make me feel a bit like a caged rat. There. I’ve said it. I never thought I would. I always thought I was a country mouse, through and through: a l’il ol hayseed more at home in my gumboots than I ever was in my stilettos (I think I’ve worn stilettos only twice in my entire life).

I think this is probably true while I raised my sons. This little piece of rural paradise was a great place for my boys to grow up in. We spent numerous summers swimming in the lake, hiking and biking the trails, beachcombing, camping, building treeforts, catching snakes, stargazing, and enjoying tomatoes and peas from our humble little vegetable garden. All wholesome, character building stuff and I believe my kids are living proof that this environment did them good.

But it still rains. A lot. And today, on the last day of November, I keep double checking to see if I have moss growing between my toes.

However, I have discovered a temporary fix for the doldrums of November. It’s called - Town. “Town” is my therapy. “Town” is full of colours, and noises, and smells and people, and corners and nooks and crannies, and I swear, even in the rain, it doesn’t drip as much. A “town” day by myself is my own easily attainable form of Prozac. There are bookstores to get lost in, over-priced coffees containing far too many calories to consume, photographs to take, art galleries to peruse, bakeries to sample, and…um…did I already mention bookstores?

After a day in town, I feel somewhat sated – as though I’ve had a really, really good dinner. Vitamins for the psyche. I can return back home to the dripping cedars and mud holes and wet hound dogs with a few more visuals in my mind to pull out when the grey skies threaten to smother me altogether.
I think my husband thinks I'm insane. He would rather gouge out his eyes than spend more than an hour or two "in the city." He's more at home walking for hours in the dark on the back 40 with his head lamp and hound dog. He talks to trees. Neighbourhood cats like him. (Cats like me too, but the trees and I haven't had a meaningful conversation to date that I'm aware of.)

So, even though November is now pretty much toast, we’ve got at least another four months more of rain to look forward to.

I suppose if I was a real west coaster, I would simply embrace the rain. I would wear yellow gumboots, and splash out on Goretex jackets and rugged MEC outdoor wear and kayak though the mist and fog, fueled by trail mix and granola bars.

Well, I have a nice MEC jacket, and my gumboots are pretty cool, but even still…there are going to be a lot more “town” days in the forecast for this country bumpkin.

PRESENT FOR THE PROCESS

2010-11-25T17:16:00.001-08:00

Being a teenager today is pretty exciting. Never before have there been so many ways to stay informed. These days, we all have iPhones, iPods, blackberries and digital cameras, X boxes and play stations, Youtube, and wireless Internet at our fingertips. We can log on almost anywhere and become instantly informed, connected, and entertained.

There’s no question that these wonders of modern technology definitely have their place, having simplified our lives in many useful ways, but I can’t help but wonder at what cost.

Ours is an instant society. We want information NOW. If we have to wait, it makes us frustrated and downright cranky. Because we don’t like to stand in line-ups anymore, we zip through drive –thru’s to obtain our fast food, we transfer money and pay our bills online so we don’t have to make a trip to the bank. We avoid holiday crowds by Christmas shopping via eBay and Amazon, using our “plastic” money because we don’t want to wait until we’ve saved enough actual cash to make the purchase.

However, as a high school art teacher, I like to think that if we want it, we can have the best of both worlds. While most schools embrace all that the world of technology offers and many teachers utilize these tools in the classroom in unique and creative ways, we art teachers pride ourselves on our commitment to providing students with a balanced approach with which to manage their lives.

One way that this is reflected is through a varied and ever changing arts program – one where students have ample opportunities to explore their creativity in a myriad of different ways.

Fine arts such as painting, illustration, woodwork, pottery, fabric arts, textiles and sculpture can be particularly satisfying for many students. There are no short cuts where these activities are concerned. No “free apps” to download to make the process easier or hurry it along. All you need is an interest, a willing attitude, and a little (or a lot, depending on your activity) of patience. The “P” word is particularly important. The old adage, “Rome wasn’t built in a day” springs to mind, and for the most part, this is true of most creative projects – you just have to put in the time.

So many of us reach the end of our day exhausted from work, but with nothing tangible to show for our efforts. Picture the sense of satisfaction and accomplishment that young people can experience when they are able to proudly display the sculpture that took them two months to complete or that one-of-a-kind rocking chair they diligently worked on for the better part of the year. Not only have they created a beautiful piece of artwork, but they have experienced the magic of slowing down, taken time for reflection, learned about technique, and most importantly, been present for the process.

I don’t think there’s a button you can push for all that quite yet.

WIN A COPY OF HANNAH & THE SPINDLE WHORL!

2010-11-24T17:38:00.000-08:00

Enter to win a copy of HANNAH & THE SPINDLE WHORL!

HANNAH & THE SPINDLE WHORL is the story of a twelve-year-old Vancouver Island girl who suddenly finds herself in a Coast Salish village in 1862! With the help of a mysterious raven, and her new friend, Yisella, Hannah embarks on an adventure of a lifetime! When the arrival of the HMS Hecate appears in Cowichan Bay, Hannah and Yisella must contend with sailors in pursuit, a terrifying sasquatch, and a horrible sickness that is swallowing up the village.

In the end, Hannah finishes her adventure with a better understanding of the history of her island, and a heart that is finally able to mend from her own recent loss.

To win a copy of my book, simply leave a comment here and tell me where you would time travel to and why! I will pick the winner on Sunday, November 28^th!

Have fun!

ONCE IN A BLUE MOON

2010-11-21T20:38:00.000-08:00

I’m a bit obsessed with word play, which I suppose isn’t really that remarkable for a writer. Still, I have a real thing for idioms. I love them. Can’t get enough of them. I roll them over in my head when I’m sitting in boring meetings, the dentist chair, or killing time at traffic lights. How did they originate? What do they really mean? What could I use them for?

The other day, as I was drinking a glass of particularly wonderful Shiraz, I began thinking about idioms as potential names for wine. Think of it! The possibilities are endless! Imagine selecting a beautiful red wine off the shelf, aptly named, “Paint the town Red!” Or a nice chilled rose, called “Tickled Pink!”

But the idiom for today, however is “Once in a blue moon.” Inspired by the fact that the full moon tonight is, in fact, a blue one. A term given to the rare(ish) event of a second full moon occurring during the same calendar month.

So, I started to think about things that happen “once in a blue moon.” Serendipitous moments, or, for the more linear thinking among you, strange coincidences. I have had quite a few of them in the past few months. So much so, that I’ve begun to write them down. At first I was incredulous. But now I almost expect them. For me they are not so much coincidences, as blatant confirmation that I am walking along the “write” path, so to speak. All this good stuff, handed to me on a platter, compliments of the universe, began to come my way as soon as I started to take my writing seriously.

Funny, when you muster the courage to walk through a particular door, it isn't uncommon for a whole bunch of other ones to open in quick succession to beckon you through. It’s taking that initial leap of faith through that first door that requires the seemingly mammoth effort.

I suppose there are lots of things that prevent us from making that first momentous move. Fear of failure. Fear of ridicule. Fear of success. Fear of the unknown. Sometimes we choose to stay in that less-than perfect job, relationship, or environment, because it’s familiar. There’s a certain safety in familiarity, even though, as they say, it can breed contempt. Plus, making a change requires effort. Energy. Momentum. Sometimes those things are hard to pull out of a hat at the end of a long day. It’s easier to crash on the couch with the clicker and a bag of Doritos.

But if you’re impatient, (as I believe I am), you get restless. Antsy. And that's when you stir things up. For me, making the decision to put on the writer had for real this time, came overnight. And to be honest, I’ve worn a lot of hats in the past few decades. I’ve taught pre-school, operated a mobile bookmobile for a bookstore, driven a front-end loader, taught cooking on a budget to pregnant teens (I hate to cook. The irony is not lost on me), received a couple of grants in order to produce a children’s naturalist publication for a few years, tree planted, been a secretary, waitressed. Maybe that’s why I think I’m destined for a life as a writer. I’m just not all that employable over the long run. ADD, OCD, or some other acronymous affliction, I guess. Which is why writing works. You can write about something different every ten minutes or so. You can jump around. Fiction one day. Non-fiction the next. First person, third person, present tense. The list goes on.

But I digress. We were talking about blue moons, right? Things that don’t happen very often. As I read back over this post, I’m not sure there is a point, or if my personal story even relates to blue moons in any way, shape or form. But wait a second! It does. Because I did actually experience a “blue moon” moment that set me on this path I’m on now. It happened a couple of years ago, when I was half-heartedly scratching away at Hannah and the Spindle Whorl, as I had been doing for years. While at a dinner party, a friends’ husband said to me, quite out of the blue (you see? There’s the reference!) “You know? When are you going to just DO this? You’ve been standing on the pier for years now, with one foot on the dock and the other on the boat. Sooner or later you’re going to have to move one of your feet.” I remember going home and thinking about those words. If not now, when? So I jumped with both feet, onto a moving boat. So far, I’ve experienced choppy waves, flat calm, balmy breezes, and the occasional storm. But it sure beats standing still.

And on that note, I will wrap this up so I can go outside and ponder the blue moon outside my door. Maybe even make a wish or two, (because I have a couple of doozies up my sleeve.)

SOMETHING TO CROW ABOUT

2010-11-04T23:27:00.000-07:00

Today I took a day off from “NaNoWriMo-ing.” I’ll probably regret this tomorrow morning when I wake up and see that my word count widget hasn’t moved in the last twenty-four hours, but I decided to throw caution to the wind and play hooky anyway. (I’ll let you know if it was worth it…well…tomorrow.)

I did some chores, took my mother shopping, enjoyed a nice lunch out, bought a great purple scarf (purple seems to be my colour of the moment, by the way. Last month it was orange. Weird how that works) drooled over the sexiest boots I’ve ever seen that I can’t afford, dropped my Mom off, and then headed for home.

On the way up Cameron Taggart Avenue – a rural farm road that cuts through two actual working dairy farms (yes, they do exist), I was amazed to see about six million crows all hanging out in a now dormant hay field - a kind of manic crow rave going on right in front of me in broad daylight. They were squawking and carrying on and definitely disturbing the peace and tranquility of the pastoral landscape that I just happened to be traveling through. It was awesome!

I have always loved crows. They have attitude. They don’t take any crap. They’re like the mafia of the bird world – little black-billed Robert DeNiro’s, strutting around in oversized trenchcoats, looking for a free lunch. In literary terms, the collective noun for a group of crows is a “murder” which seems pretty fitting for a mafia bird.

So, why were they there? A practical explanation might be that there was fresh fertilizer on the fields. Or maybe it was a great day for road kill on Cameron Taggart. Or maybe a transport truck had gone into the ditch, releasing a pet store sized load of baby hamsters and other desensitized rodentia into the wilds?

"Crow in Boots" by Rudi Hurzlmeier

My spiritually minded friend, however, might say that I was meant to come across those crows. That perhaps it is a sign. Okay. I’ll bite. A sign of what? (This is why Google is the best thing since Marmite) Apparently, crows will manifest in a persons life when somethin’ is a cookin’. Supposedly, they are harbingers of change: spiritual, emotional, and mental. They are supposed to give you strength and show you how to maneuver in insights and intuitions. Wow. All that in a little black bird!

Well, all I know was that it was a memorable sight: all those badass black birds in the field on the side of the road, and me without my camera.

I don’t know much about omens, good or bad, but if they really did have a message for me, I’m all ears. And who am I to scoff? A few years back, I saw owls everywhere I went. Night and day, in town, and right here at home in the sticks. One even watched me from a tree near the house for the better part of a whole day.

The story goes, that owls will manifest in your life when you are being deceived, or not seeing something that you really need to be taking notice of. In retrospect, it was kind of true, and in retrospect, more than kind of eerie.

The books say that seeing large groups of crows is a powerful omen. It means that you are supposed to walk your talk… be prepared to let go of your old thinking and embrace a new way of viewing yourself and the world.

Sure. I can do that. But, can I embrace a new way of viewing myself in those boots I saw this morning? I think I’d make a much more memorable impression.

MONKEY BUSINESS

2010-10-29T22:55:00.000-07:00

You know? I pride myself on being low maintenance. Really. I am. Most of the time, I’m pretty even-tempered, I don’t really like shopping for clothes, and I’m not picky about the things that I eat. (Except for overcooked brussel sprouts. I hate overcooked brussel sprouts.) I don’t get twisted about things like bicycles in my livingroom, matching furniture, or deer who think my flower garden is their own personal salad bar. Yep. Easy-going, that’s me.

However…

There is one thing that I want. A lot.

A sock monkey.

Everytime I see one, my heart skips a beat and I think about buying it, which is weird, because I’m 50, and should probably do more useful things with my money, like buy seatcovers for my car, or hypoallergenic shampoo for my needy beagle, or quality toilet paper in bulk when its on sale.

But I’ll come across a lonely little stuffed monkey at a craft fair or market and marvel at the work-sockish wonderfulness. His trademarked red-heeled mouth, his brown salt and peppery body, the vapid and gormless expression on his little face, and I’ll feel a tug at my heartstrings.

Sock monkeys are a perfect blend of whimsy and something a little more disturbing, although I can’t quite put my finger on what that is. There’s something a little twisted about them, which is perhaps part of their charm. Or maybe it’s part of mine, if I have any. Sure, that’s it. We're kindred spirits! (Although I look dreadful in bright red lipstick, much to my chagrin.)

Maybe I just appreciate their longevity. They’ve been around for a good, long time – 1932 to be exact, and were made from the classic Rockford red-heeled work socks that were originally manufactured by the Nelson Knitting Company in Rockford, Illinois.

Or, maybe it’s because we have a lot of woolly work socks in our house. They are familiar to me. I wash a lot of them. And you can always make a respectable pair, no matter how many get jacked by the laundry fairies in the middle of the night.

Whatever the reason, I think it’s time to come clean about my obsession. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. There are plenty of others out there who share my appreciation of these timeless carefully crafted, woolly primates. Why, in Rockford they’ve been holding a “Sock Monkey Madness Festival” for five years running now. I think they’re definitely worth having if they have a festival in their honour every year.

So, I’ve said it. I want a sock monkey. Big or small. Doesn’t matter. But when I get him, I’ll put him on my bookshelf and give him a good, honest name like “Will,” or maybe “Ben.”

(I’d take a sock monkey over toilet paper any day.)

IN THE DARK

2010-10-01T19:10:00.000-07:00

As an artist, I have always thought the idea of staying up half the night creating while the rest of the world sleeps to be very romantic, not to mention, cool. Isn’t that what “real” artists do? They drink wine, and listen to late night jazz, and smoke Gitanes (ew) all the while making the bags under their eyes seem fashionable. It is the price they pay for producing that great novel, painting, piece of music or choreography, or phenomenal culinary masterpiece. Because of these late night habits, these artists are forgiven when they are cranky to waitresses (but not really. I hate that. I really do. Probably because I used to be one for many years….), unsociable at dinner parties, or outspoken at what would often be considered, inappropriate moments.

I tried it a couple of times. Staying up all night in front of my easel or laptop, but despite my good intentions, I never had much success. Most times I just got carried away drinking the wine and listening to music, only to emerge the next morning bleary-eyed and dehydrated, with Louis Armstrong’s voice stuck in my head.

If left to my natural body clock, I’m asleep by 11:00 and up at 6:00. Same on weekends. And it isn’t so bad. Being the only one awake in my house for a couple of hours as the morning slowly expands is very nice. I also get a lot done during those couple of hours. But it isn’t that romantic, and it definitely isn’t cool.

You know that old adage, “Be careful what you wish for?” Well, for the past 5 days I can now fully comprehend the significance of that seemingly innocuous statement. Because, like it or not, I am now a member of that VIP club. The club “whose members creep around in the silent watches of the night.”

I don’t know how this happened. Wait. Maybe I do. I went to the big city and stayed up for 40 hours straight last weekend (which, by the way, was an awesome weekend and deserves a blog post of its own) and then came home hitting the ground running. Art classes to teach, a family to run, two books writing themselves in my head, a book launch to plan, and just, well, life in the food chain.

I haven’t been able to get back in the game. I’m what you would call, “temporarily derailed”, puffing along on half a track – my wheels spinning more than they ought to. It sucks, because it’s foreign territory for me and I have no coping skills. I’m used to sleeping like a dead person. I sleep through ridiculously loud noises. When my boys were infants, I was often shoved awake by my long-suffering spousal unit, who would gently (most of the time) inform me that “the baby is crying and you need to feed him.” (I hate to think what would have happened if I’d been a single mother back then…)

Occasionally I’ll have a few days of bad sleep. Usually I’m cooking a creative project of some sort, or excited about something. You know, “kid on Christmas Eve syndrome”, but this time I’m a bit stumped. It’s been six days. That’s a long time not to sleep. Life is good. Exciting. The future looks shiny. Neat things are happening and I feel a burst of energy that is hard to contain. I think it’s the universe telling me I’m on the right path. That’s a good thing, but it’s also a tiring thing.

It’s funny the stuff that goes through your mind when you’re lying in bed staring out the window at two o’clock in the morning. Nothing profound, mind you. More leaning toward the ridiculous. Last night, thoughts like, “I really should clean out the vegetable crisper”, and “did I give Eddie (the beagle) his steroid pill?” and, “I wonder what my odometer reading on the jeep is?" kept me from indulging in any rapid-eye movement.

But after a couple hours of that, I got restless, and had to get up and do something. It’s irritating lying next to someone who is in a deep sleep when you’re feel as though you’ve chugged 6 monster energy drinks and your eyes have been removed and rolled in kitty litter. So, that’s what I did last night - I got up, ate a big bowl of cranberry crunch granola and yogurt, cleaned the bathtub, and worked on my new novel outline. After that I went back to bed and stared out the window in hopes of seeing a meteor or two. A couple of free wishes would have gone down pretty well, but it was not to be.

Twenty minutes later I was bored, and still awake. Maybe the couch would do the trick. It’s a nice couch. Old. Brown. Leather. Warm. Soft. I settled down, buried inside the old spare quilt, feeling…what was this feeling? Relaxed? Why yes, I think that was what it was. But alas, it was short-lived. (Have you ever tried drifting off to la-la land only feet away from an allergic beagle whose favourite pastime is chewing on his extremities and licking his nether regions? Yeah, I rest my case.)

Back to bed I went and I think I fell asleep at 5:30, which would have been great except for the fact that my alarm went off at 6:30, right on schedule.

I dragged myself up again with zero enthusiasm (and a few colourful expletives to boot), and got to stare at an unrecognizable face in the bathroom mirror. (I looked remarkably like Keith Richards. After a two-week bender.)

What do those stupid women’s magazines say to do when you look tired? Right. Wear pink. Hair up. Light pink lip-gloss. I did all those things, but in the end I just looked like Keith Richards in drag. Charming.

This restlessness can’t go on forever, can it? Surely sooner or later my body will scream, “ENOUGH!” and I’ll be back to sleeping the sleep of the comatose. In the meantime, I guess I'll just have to ride it out. I don’t really have a choice, and as I’m feeling kind of introspective lately, maybe this is the way it's supposed to be for now.

I slow-motioned through my day today, and this evening my house is filled with my sons and their friends and girlfriend's and a bunch of DVD’s, beer, and pizza. My husband has disappeared to his sanctuary, his workshop on the far side of the property, to do man things. As for me, I am far from the madding crowd (figuratively speaking, anyway.) I have some wonderful Argentinean Malbec at my side, an itchy beagle for company, a comfortable corner in my room, my ugly hairy sweater, and a book to write. If this insomnia thing goes on for much longer, I may have it finished a lot sooner than I’d anticipated.

Silver linings, people. Silver linings.

A LITTLE WHITE LIE - Chapter One

2010-09-13T23:32:00.000-07:00

Being a witch isn’t as cool as you might think. There are no boiling cauldrons, newt’s eyes or breaking the sound barrier above on 500 horsepower broomsticks – that is the stuff of made-for-TV movies and lame Halloween stories. If I had to sum it up, I guess I’d have to say I can’t. There are so many different kinds of us out there that I’m not exactly sure what “type”, if any, we are.

Sure, there are the badass ones that mess around with questionable things but we don’t ever associate with them. We don’t even talk about them. For us, it’s pretty standard. The earth and animals and moon phases and the like.

The whole mother earth thing is solely responsible for my mother naming us all after climbing plants, inspired by the fact that her maiden name is “Vine.” I’m Ivy. I know, lame, right? Who calls their kid Ivy? Bryony got off better than me (at least her name doesn’t conjure up the image of a seventy-eight year old woman with gout) and last but not least is Glory, as in Morning Glory, but she’s only ten and wouldn’t give a fat rat’s ass if she was called Wisteria Day Dewdra (which she almost was).

So I’m Ivy White, which is better than Ivy Vine I suppose, although the “white witch” jokes we get from the others gets a trifle old after a while.

Our coven is called Frank. No lie. I have no idea how the name started, or who started it, but as far as I can tell, it’s always been Frank. Mom tried to have it changed to The Indigo Moon Circle when she was first initiated, but everyone pretty much laughed in her face. (Mom has a thing for names, like I said.)

Dumb name aside, Frank is pretty cool. We meet once a month, at the Back Pocket Book Shop in the village, under the very believable guise that we are a well-read, committed group of literary enthusiasts. Not that we get up to no good. Far from it. Usually there’s a spell work update, a few cleansing rituals, old business, new business, and a lesson or inspirational message from the High Priestess’s Book of Shadows – that sort of thing.

I know what you’re probably thinking; that the High Priestess is some six-foot tall woman with blood red lips and a scepter who wears a whole lot of Patchouli. Not so with ours. Ours is Daisy Archibald - a sixty-four year old multi-media artist who pretty much lives in spandex bike shorts (although I can’t for the life of me fathom why), Wal-mart runners and politically incorrect T-shirts. The only thing I ever smell on her is gin, and while she looks like the village eccentric (and if fact, she is) she is a force to be reckoned with (if you’ll pardon the pun) and everybody who is part of Frank has a lot of respect for her.

So all in all, Frank is okay, and for the most part, no one in Bridgeman Lake gives us a second thought, except Margery Abbot, the leader of the Bridgeman Lake Quilting Collective (known to the locals as Marg’s Stitch n’ Bitch).

She is convinced that the Back Pocket Book Club is a cover up for something unsavoury and most certainly illegal. We like that. It’s so far from what Frank is about.

I knew when I got home that Bryony had beat me to it. The wrought iron gate at the end of our gravel drive was hanging open and Monty and Jax, the cats, were wandering in and out of the rose bushes even though they aren’t supposed to go anywhere near the perennial gardens. That meant Bryony had left the door open. (Typical). It also meant that she’d probably already ratted to Mom about me – about how I’d broken the trust, stepped outside the safe circle and acted in a…how does she put it? A self-serving and manipulative way. (Suck up) I was going to get nailed, of that much I knew, but I wasn’t the least bit sorry for the little upset I’d created at school.

I’d crossed the line a few other times, but no one knows about it, and the way I figure it, I had just been doing damage control. It’s always been to save my mother from herself. Mom, is a sub par witch. She has good intentions and all, but somewhere along the line she’d lost all of her natural psychic ability and any thought projection skills she may have once had when doing spell work are pretty much toast now.

My father thinks that the process of childbirth did something to her, and while this is a stupid thing to say, it’s no surprise that my father, Warren White - O great patriarch - said it. Whatever, it’s not like he’d ever come to Mom’s rescue.

During the last heat wave, she’d gone off into her gazebo at the back of the property and attempted a water flow spell to keep our prized rhodos hydrated, but she ended up drying up the well by instead, and got a wicked sunburn in the process.

Fortunately, with a bit of back peddling, some sage, and a little trick of the divining rods, I got the water flowing again, but I totally let Mom have the cred. When her skin started to peel on her narrow shoulders, at least she got to feel as though it had been worth it. She meant well, but…that was the thing. She always meant well.

Like the time she made the killer love potion for Steve Myers down at Myers & Tate Autobody & Detailing in the village, even though you’re not supposed to mess around with the affections of the human heart unless you know what you’re doing. Every witch knows that, but you don’t know my mother. Matchmaking is her thing, and I think she has something to prove, although I’m not sure what.

The whole Steve Myers thing had been pretty weird and I had to step in and fix things, as was par for the course. It wasn’t like I’d committed an evil act or anything, and I should clarify straight off that real witches don’t “do” evil. That would be a serious no-no. Do any of that hocus pocus mumbo-jumbo and you could just start counting the minutes until you got it right back in your face, full circle, times three. We all knew that karma was alive and well among us.

Anyway, Mom had gone ahead and created some potent love tea made with rose petals and mint and this and that, not to mention three drops of blood from Dexter, our goat. Then she solar brewed it for seven days under the pyramid in our greenhouse. On day seven, she waited until it was dark, took the glass bowl outside and walked a circle around our concrete Canadian Tire bird bath, chanting: By light of Moon Waxing, I brew this Tea, to help Liesel Doberlin desire our Steve.

The next morning she asked Steve over on the pretense of having him look under the hood of our 1965 Volvo wagon. She served him the cooled and mint sprigged beverage under the London Plane trees on our front lawn, and when he’d left (scratching his head because it was plainly obvious there was absolutely nothing wrong with Maisie, our car), she’d been so full of hope and wild-eyed excitement.

“Mom?” I said, “Can I see your potion recipe? You know, just in case…”

“Doubt your mother, Ivy?” She stopped dancing around the kitchen and just stared at me through her cool blue eyes. Damn. I was so transparent. Figuratively speaking of course. Well, most of the time.

“No, Mom. It’s just…” I stalled.

“Not a chance. You know the rules. You’re not 18 yet.”
I pretended to sulk, but when she went off with Dexter to find clover up on the ridge behind our house, I snuck a look in her Book of Shadows. She always kept it on the kitchen shelf, hidden neatly inside an faded and crudely hollowed out volume of “Joyful Cooking,” which, by the way, is the biggest oxymoron ever.

It was a no brainer figuring out which spell she’d used. The first thing I noticed when I lifted the book down was a dog-eared page, still partially creased, and a distinct greenish smear that smelled like spearmint near the top of the page. I read through the recipe that had been circled in black sharpie, and two seconds later my heart began to hammer in my chest like a crazed woodpecker. The fifth ingredient… three drops of blood from a virgin he-goat.

Virgin?

God, Dexter was the biggest Billy-goat-slut in all of Bridgeman Lake. Last year he’d been threatened with a tire iron when he’d found his way into the paddock of Axle Jespersen’s Angora hobby farm over at Piper Station. It wasn’t so much that Axle took offence to our goat’s impromptu midnight visit – it was more that Dexter had had his way with a couple of up-for-some-rebellious-goat-nookie nanny does who’d been out late chewing their cuds, all come-hither in the moonlight. You couldn’t really blame Dexter. He was just young and horny and those Angora girls did have those crazy dreds going on and some serious personality to boot.

But Axle Jesperson was pissed, and after that, my mom kept Dexter tethered near the chickens and fed him only soy foods in an attempt to keep his testosterone levels down.

I knew a mistake like this could mean real trouble, and by the time I’d run down to Myers and Tate Autobody, Steve was looking completely freaked out while the Diesel, the 140 pound black Doberman from the supposed grow-op up behind the recycling depot, had him cornered behind the cash register, a lovesick expression on his giant, slobbering face.

This was definitely Mom’s doing, and as usual, she hadn’t got it quite right. It wasn’t Leisel Doberlin lusting after Steve, but instead, Diesel the Doberman, who appeared to be totally down for the task.

It had taken some quick thinking, not to mention Steve’s truck keys, a yank of Diesel’s fur, a handful of needles off the yew tree near the police station in the village, and some day-old bread crumbs, but I managed to put things right. Time is of the essence with love potions. If I’d showed up a half hour later than I had, Steve would surely have ended up a slave to a life of perpetual drool and a graveyard of marrowbones behind his one-bedroom rancher.

After I’d sent Diesel home and tricked Steve into thinking I’d stopped by because he’d accidentally carried Jax home in the back of his truck (those kind of spells were child’s play – making our cats appear and disappear when convenient) I rushed over to Second Hand Rose’s to see if Liesel Doberlin was okay. She looked up from a pile of donated clothes – mainly terrycloth baby sleepers and still-white onsies – and grunted.

Not gonna lie, Liesel Doberlin is a pill. She’s thirty-nine, sullen, and has bad skin and an unhealthy attachment to the colour beige. It’s no wonder that she’s never been in love.

I scanned the shop, saw nothing out-of-order, and booked it back home with a pissed-off Jax under one arm. Mom had never suspected a thing, although she was pretty disappointed when Steve and Liesel never made any attempt to hook up.

“Must have been the petals,” she deduced. “The roses are pathetic this year.”

I let her have that. No good ever came of upsetting my mom. She’d go into a funk for days and stop cooking, and then we’d starve because we were all completely incompetent in the kitchen. True fact.

Pure and Not So Simple...

2010-09-12T17:45:00.000-07:00

About twice a year I get the urge to tidy up. This may not sound like such a big deal to the average person, but to a die-hard slob, it most certainly is.

Wait a minute; maybe “slob” is too harsh a word. Slob conjures up nasty images. Pictures of those hoarders featured on TV come to mind. People who leave half-eaten pastrami sandwiches on their living room windowsills to become fuzzy green food fairs for white, shapeless insects. Folks who live with fossilized cat turds strewn throughout their house. That’s not me. I wash my dishes and my floors and I actually like vacuuming and doing laundry. It’s just that I’m…er…kind of messy. Clutter is my nemesis. It follows me around, despite my repeated attempts to conquer it on a regular basis.

It always starts out well, with multitudes of garbage bags that suddenly appear, bursting with clothes (seldom worn) destined for the Sally Ann. My shredder works overtime and smokes in protest. Closets are purged. CD’s, DVD’s, books and papers are sorted, organized, boxed, and labeled.

The home office gets a facelift too, emerging resplendent with bright yellow file folders, new spiffy electric blue labels from Staples, alphabetized slots, and a dazzling new accordion-style file box (this year’s is lime green. Very trendy.)

It doesn’t stop there. I move on to the bulletin boards. We have three: one in the kitchen, one in the den, and one in a corner of the bedroom where I work, reserved for writing-related stuff. But when I check said boards, all three are salt and peppered to death with colourful pushpins attached to completely irrelevant junk – an old menu from a Chinese take-out in Vancouver that we never went to. A sale on lawnmowers from October 2009. An article about Stockwell Day (Please. This must be a joke) A voucher for Nutri-Max dog food (expired). A set of keys with a rubber pirate head fob that doesn’t belong to anyone in our house. A strip of postage stamps (without any stamps left) A Pink Floyd sticker (pretty cool, actually. I’ll save that). Some high school notices and newsletters about grade 11 course selection (my son graduated in June). And…well, you get the picture.

Just how does this happen? Everything goes so well for weeks, and then a month or two goes by and it’s back to same old, same old. Me, spending three and half days looking for my bike helmet. Or me, unable to find my dollar store glasses…AGAIN, even though I own about thirty pairs of the damn things.

I used to laugh and say, “Oh, being scatterbrained is the sign of a creative mind.” In actual fact, I think that being scatterbrained is a sign of someone who spends too much time inside his or her own head. It gets crowded in there. Even so, the self-involved should still be able to get out of their own way, shouldn’t they? There are numerous books and articles written about this but they haven't helped me yet.

I’ve never been one to buy a lot of womens' magazines but occasionally the clean, uncluttered and mesmerizing power of the covers of “Real Simple” suck me in. They are beautiful, with soft background colours of cornflower blue, mint green, early morning coral, Sahara gold. I try to ignore them as I wait in line with my groceries the same way someone else might fight the temptation to crack a tabloid to read about the latest celebrity’s battle with cellulite. (Although, sometimes I’ll sneak a peak at those, too. I mean, how satisfying is it to see someone like Jennifer Aniston walking away from the camera with a whole lotta CCA* going on! Hello?)

But those Real Simple mags? Well, as I load my foodstuffs onto the conveyer belt and gaze at the image on this month’s cover (a utilitarian, white painted stool sitting in a shaft of morning sunlight - a few feet away, a basket of cut sunflowers resting on a scrubbed wide-plank fir floor – a sleeping Calico cat inches away), I have an overwhelming desire to wear unbleached cotton skirts, grow my hair and let it go gray, paint my kitchen floor ox-blood red, and change my name to something understated and honest, like “Ruth.”

So, occasionally I’ll buy the magazine, and afterward I will make a pact to simplify my life. I’ll talk slower. Move slower. Say “no” more. Eat porridge habitually. Drink water from a cut crystal glass. Listen to less rock and more Chopin (while wearing the unbleached cotton skirt and drinking water).

It’s a nice fantasy. For about three minutes I might even believe it. But in all honestly, in the end I’m just left with more magazines to recycle during my bi-annual clutter-purge.

Maybe I shouldn’t worry about it so much. I’m half a century old. Can you really teach an old dog, new tricks? And in the grand scheme of things, just how important is this tidy thing?

When I come to the end of this life, will I really give a fat rat’s ass if all my books were alphabetized by author? If the things in my bathroom sat in designated spots in pretty little white wicker baskets? I think not.

There. I feel better. Time to walk the dogs.

But...um...there’s the problem of Eddie’s leash. The only things on the “dog” hook by the door these days, are a pair of socks, a broken bungee cord and a set of keys to the car we sold four months ago.

Sigh.

( *cottage cheese ass)

The Best Way to Roast a Jack Russell...

2010-09-05T23:52:00.000-07:00

I don’t cook. In fact, I suck in the kitchen. Sure, I’m full of good intentions but the truth of the matter is that if I lived alone, I’d probably just eat grilled cheese sandwiches or marmite and toast for every meal.

Now that I’m the ripe old age of way over thirty-five, I have come to accept this fact and even embrace it.

“I don’t cook,” I tell people proudly. “I have Teriyaki Joe’s take-out on speed dial.”

This is not to say that I don’t enjoy a wonderful meal lovingly prepared by one of my “foodie” friends. I can appreciate the care and work and time that goes into putting together such meals and I also appreciate the passion from which it springs. Everybody needs a thing, and a life devoid of passion is a pretty beige one.

But, come on, have you ever been a fly on the wall when foodies get together to talk about all things culinary? It’s like being on another planet. Their voices get louder and their eyes take on a slightly manic sparkle as the conversation turns to the latest state-of-the-art stockpot.

“Oh my God!” exclaims foodie #1. “I got one of those for Christmas! I tell you, the stock I make in that sucker – you know, my famous oyster and portabella mushroom one? With the sherry and red pepper?”

“ How could I forget?” says foodie #2 (somewhat begrudgingly, I might add.)

“Well, I’m convinced that pot works miracles. It must be the three-ply stainless-steel layers that sandwich the pure aluminum core. You know, for even heating,” says Foodie #1.

“Duh,” says Foodie #2, “of course.”

But it’s not all gadgetry and Iron Chef gossip. Sometimes an argument ensues. Over pie. Over the best way to make meringue. Baking powder versus cream of tartar? Best to stay out of that one. No one ever wins. And trying to break up the fight with seemingly innocuous comments such as, “Guys! It’s not worth fighting over. You can get kick-ass lemon meringue pies at Country Grocer - two for five bucks this week!” is not recommended. Trust me.

Just last week I was at a friend’s house for a dinner party. It was a going away bash for a dear friend of ours who is (has!) moving (has moved!) to Ontario. (I miss her, but that’s another blog post)
Anyway, Sue, the hostess, speaks kitchen fluently. She has all sorts of beautiful high-end kitcheny accoutrements – things you use to shred, grate, peel, dissect, puree, chop, mash and otherwise manipulate food to make it do specific stuff. (By the way, did you know that you can bake muffins in half a scooped out orange instead of using muffin cups? Who knew?)

When I arrived, my friend was half inside her oven, tending to a lovely giant roast pork, spooning a delicious-smelling blueberry (freshly picked of course) sauce over the top of the meat.

“Oh, that smells so good!” I exclaimed. “And would you look at the shape of that meat? It sort of looks a bit like a roasting Jack Russell, don’t you think?”

All through dinner, we kept it up, with people saying things like, “No more for me, thanks. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.” Or, “You don’t know Jack!” or, “Could you please pass the Russell? Just one more slice.”

On our way home, Richard said, “I think you pissed Sue off.”

“I did? Why?!”

“The whole Jack Russell thing.”

“But I was kidding!” I argued, “She knows I think she’s a kitchen Goddess!”

“But we’re British,” Richard went on, "we were weaned on sarcasm.” (It’s true. In England calling someone a daft cow or a sodding wanker can be proclamation of undying love. I should not need to be reminded of this.)

“Do you think I need to apologize?” I asked him.

“Nah, probably not,” he advised. “But it'll be interesting to see if we're ever invited to Sue’s for dinner again."

A couple of days later I stopped by her house on my way home to pick up a hat I’d left there during the party. Even though I was pretty sure we’d all had a good time, Richard did have a point – she had been a little cranky. And she did take her cooking pretty seriously. I hated to think that I’d hurt her feelings.

She came out onto her porch as soon as I pulled up. Much to my relief, she didn’t chase me off the property wielding a meat cleaver, nor did she withhold my hat.

When I brought up the whole Jack Russell thing, she laughed. Turns out she’d been a bit moody because her youngest child had just left for university the day before. Her nest was now officially empty.

But before I could think of something comforting to say, she began to talk faster and louder - her eyes taking on that familiar wild and slightly manic stare.

I knew what that meant. Food talk.

“I’m going to drop off a care package to Jenna next week,” she said. “Just some baked goods. You know, cookies. A couple of blackberry pies. Maybe some ciabatta.”

“Some Cia whatta?” I blurted. (Too late.)

“Oh my God!” she said, rolling her eyes. “You don't know ciabatta? You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted my ciabatta! I have this amazing recipe that I got when I was backpacking around Tuscany in ’87, from this woman who was related to King Victor Emmanual…”

I should have known better, but hey…passion is passion.

Boomer is Back!

2010-08-28T23:29:00.000-07:00

Boomer is back. I know this because our compost bin was severed in half this morning, and the grass around it littered with apple cores, peach pits, cornhusks and onionskins.

He didn’t just stop there. He went on a bit of a yahoo-garbage-bender during the night. This was plainly obvious by all the orphaned trash can lids and empty chip bags lying in neighbour's driveways.

We live on a dead end road, with our house sitting pretty much at the “end” part. We are fortunate to have 300 acres of wild space just across the road - prime dog-walking country and a haven for blackberries, salmonberries, huckleberries, and other seasonal yummies.

If you turn around and travel one kilometer in the other direction, you’ll find “the other people.” The “other people” live in really big brand new houses with tasteful perennial gardens and shiny black SUV’s that are driven too fast by women with expensive looking haircuts and Wisteria Lane sunglasses.

It’s a little more relaxed down here at the wrong end of the road. Down here you’ll find beat up twenty-year-old trucks and clotheslines. But the best part is the wildlife that we are privileged to see from time to time. We have nesting owls on our property, too many deer to count, eagles, turkey vultures, raccoons, rednecks on ATV’s (oh wait…they’re lower down on the food chain), the occasional cougar, and yes…bears. More specifically…Boomer.

Boomer is big, and black. He’s the grand pappy of black bears and he’s been a regular fixture in these here parts for a long, long time. Usually, you get to spot him a couple of times a year, most often in the fall when the wild apples are turning to cider on the gnarly trees across the road. But this year he’s really come out of hiding (and into our back yards) He gets chased off most of the time, by a fist-shaking human, or an overly-enthusiastic coonhound with a point to prove (um…yeah…that would be our Dixie), but sometimes he just ignores us and ambles off when he’s no longer entertained or feels the urge to explore some other sucker’s garbage cans. He always comes back though – now more than ever. That’s why I’ve dubbed him “Boomer” – like the Boomerang.

I’m don’t really mind. He seems like a pretty benign bear, although I have to say I am a little curious about whether or not he might have a main squeeze lurking about somewhere. A main squeeze with little Boomerites in tow. (Rumour has it there have been cubs about.) Hmmmmm….a big black bear with a wife and kids. A big black bear with no fear of humans. And finally, a big black bear with a lust for people food. Bad combination.

I wish I spoke bear. If I did, I would tell Boomer that it isn’t safe for him to hang out here anymore. There’s just too many of us dumb two-legged folks around. Too many cars. Too much garbage. I’d tell him to pack up the fam and head for the hills. If he goes on too many more midnight walkabouts, someone’s going to get really pissed and call in the big guns. Or worse, somebody will “deal” with it themselves.

It makes me sad, because guys like Boomer were here first. And really, you can’t blame an old bear for engaging in a little dumpster diving. His feet probably hurt, and standing up to reach for those big berries is probably hard on his back, too.
I guess garbage is just a whole lot easier.

But if I could speak bear…

MY YOUNGEST IS INKED!

2010-08-03T15:58:00.000-07:00

Last week my son Nick (18) graduated! He was a couple of weeks late, and had to attend summer school to clean up a course (Math. Sorry son, you take after your mother)

We are so proud of him - he struggled for many years in school. He's a very right-brained kind of guy. Brilliant at art and language, but sciences, etc? Not so much.

Richard and I wanted to celebrate his graduation by giving him something special. For a couple of years now, Nick has wanted a tattoo, but was reluctant to go ahead until he had something meaningful to display. Something that he would still like to have on his body when he's a 65-year-old man!

This is what he came up with. The SHAW clan crest with latin motto ("Fide et Fortitudine", meaning: "Faith and Fortitude" - how cool is that?) It's a beautiful design and we're proud that he wants to wear the family name on his back for all the world to see. *Sniff*

P.S. Did I mention that I quite possibly have the most wonderful sons in the world?

MY BOOKS HAVE ARRIVED!

2010-06-24T06:51:00.000-07:00

Look what arrived in my mailbox today!

I had to take a picture of the books in the mailbox at the end of our road! (The man beside me thought I was insane. I could tell...)

The most difficult part was holding on to the box until my family got home. I wanted to open it with them. I had to wait FOUR hours! But it was so worth it. Even the dogs were excited. (Although, I have since concluded that this may have been due to the fact that I had 5 peanut butter dog biscuits in my pants pocket -- I ALWAYS have peanut butter dog biscuits in my pockets, it seems.)

Anyway, it's kind of surreal. I keep wandering over to my little box of books to stare at them. And then I walk away. And then I come back. Walk away...come back...walk away...come back.

"HANNAH & THE SPINDLE WHORL" - Chapter One

2010-06-15T11:21:00.000-07:00

I thought it might be cool to post up the first chapter of
HANNAH AND THE SPINDLE WHORL,

my MG historical fiction that will be on shelves August 15th!

******************************************************************

CHAPTER ONE

COWICHAN BAY

I live on a houseboat. We’re the third one down on the left on dock five. I like the sea, so I don’t mind falling asleep to the sound of the waves slapping against the side of our houseboat. I sleep in a loft above my father’s writing room. There’s only room for my bed, my dresser, and a small table that I use for drawing and homework – stuff like that – but that’s okay. It’s cosy and sunny, and when I lie on my stomach on my bed, I have a perfect view of Cowichan Bay and all the neighbouring boats. I like the view best in the early morning, just as the sun is beginning to come up. The water is usually still, and smells of coffee and hot muffins often drift over from the Toad in the Hole bakery that sits on the shore. Skinny cats slink down the docks, looking for boat decks to nap on after a long night of prowling behind the restaurants and bait shops. The first few cars begin to appear on the old road that snakes in front of the shops, headed for the larger cities of Duncan or Nanaimo.

       Our houseboat is made of scraps. Really. But it looks pretty cool. The cedar shakes were split from some logs that came off my dad’s friend’s property and the windows were salvaged from a restaurant just before it was torn down. That’s why the one in my bedroom says “Bird’s Nest” on it. That was the name of the restaurant. The rest of our houseboat was built using odd bits of lumber that Dad got from an old sawmill and Mr. Petersen’s barn. We have a woodburning stove in the front room, and there’s a funky winding staircase that goes up to my sleeping loft that Dad built out of twisted bits of driftwood. But the front door is definitely the best part. It's made of maple and has a stained glass window showing ferns and periwinkle that my Aunt Maddie made. My dad carved posts and a lintel at the top of the door out of some clear yellow cedar. It took him almost a year to finish it. It’s full of the kind of living things that you find around Cowichan Bay: sea stars, gulls, anemones, crabs, you name it. If you can find it on our beach, it’s probably carved into our doorway. My favourite part is the little river otter at the top left that’s lying on his back, floating in a bed of kelp. Sometimes in the mornings when I’m watching out of my Bird’s Nest window, I've seen an otter just like the one on our door. He often floats between dock six and seven on his back, and he’s always curious about Ben North’s fishing boat.

     I could stay watching for a long time, wrapped up in my quilt, but then Dad usually bangs on the stair railing with a wooden spoon and yells, “Come on, Hannah, you’ll miss the bus!” He says this almost every school morning, and of course I always remind him that I never do.

     The school bus stops just outside the Toad in the Hole bakery, so if I’m organized and ahead of time, I run down the dock and up the stairs and push through the screen door of “The Toad” where Nel is baking the last of the day’s bread. I love Nel. She’s pretty old, at least fifty. And she has this crinkly face and wild grey hair. She makes the best bagels I’ve ever had, and if I’m really lucky she’ll push a hot cinnamon one straight into my hand before the bus comes.

     The bus ride takes about twenty minutes and I usually sit at the back because I’m one of the first on. No one talks to me that much. I know that lots of kids think I’m kind of weird – probably because I live on a homemade houseboat with a father who writes in his sweatpants all day. Or maybe it's because my favourite shoes are boys’ Wal-Mart black-and-white basketball high tops, and everybody knows it isn’t cool to wear those when you’re a twelve-year-old girl. But I don’t care. Not that much, anyway. My running shoes are my favourite things, along with the lime-green knitted slippers that Mom made me just before the accident. They’re pretty ratty now and have tons of holes in them, but I wear them all the time because they remind me of her. I did have a best friend a while back called Gwyneth. She was great. She’d make these amazing electronic gizmos and was a total science geek, and she never once made fun of my shoes! But she moved to Ontario six months ago so right now I’m kind of without a best friend. Michael and Wesley live two docks over on a big fancy houseboat, but they’re more into fighting with sticks and playing zombie video games than exploring the woods like me.

     I have the feeling when I get up this morning that it’s going to be a different kind of a day. Not an ordinary, go-to-school, come-home, eat-supper, do-homework, go-to-bed kind of day. Nope, I feel like something is going to happen. Don’t ask me why. I just get these feelings sometimes. Dad says I’m “clairvoyant” like Aunt Maddie. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I think it has something to do with being a vegetarian and wearing sandals in the winter.

     But this is different. Like when I look out my window, everything looks really clear and blue and sharp. What’s even more strange is that I don't feel like lying in bed until the last minute, or writing one single word in my journal. And that's not normal for me. I get up right away, get dressed, and leap down the stairs to the kitchen where my dad is hanging over the counter, staring intently into the coffeepot.

     “What are you looking at?” I ask him.

     “The elixir of life,” he tells me, scratching his head.

     "Huh?”

   My dad is always saying bizarre stuff like that and quoting famous dead people.

     “The elixir,” he goes on. “The tonic, the stuff of life, the ambrosia of the modern world, the – “

     “Oh. Coffee. Got it. Are there any waffles?” I cut him off.

      “Waffles? Oh really? Her ladyship desires waffles, does she? On a school day no less. Whole grain with fruit? Freshly squeezed juice to accompany your meal, madam?” he asks me.

     I get the message and reach for the cheerios and milk. I decide that I’ll visit Nel on the way to the bus and see if she’s feeling particularly generous with the tomato-basil bagels. I’m just about through my cereal when Chuck, our orange tabby, jumps onto the table and starts in on what’s left in my bowl. I don’t really mind. Neither does Dad. I know some people who would totally freak out to have an animal on the kitchen table eating out of a bowl. Sometimes, when we have company, Dad goes into his “proper parent mode” and says things like, “Shooo! Chuck! What the devil are you doing, you crazy animal?” But more often than not, he’ll give me a wink when no one’s looking. Actually, for a parent, he’s pretty cool. He does a lot of “wrong” stuff. Like sometimes he lets me stay up late on a school night and read his work and eat chocolate chips straight out of the bag. And once, we had a food fight with spaghetti, and tomato sauce ended up on the ceiling. And he doesn’t care about stuff like mud on your shoes or grass stains on your clothes.

     But Chuck is crazy. For a cat, anyway. He’ll eat anything. Cereal. Cold tea. Carrot sticks. Even cold mashed potatoes. And then he’ll go to sleep in the laundry basket on his back with his legs in the air. This morning I only have to fling him off the table once before he gets the message and retreats to the laundry room.

***

WHY DO I HEART MUSCLE CARS?

2010-06-06T16:42:00.000-07:00

I have a strange obsession. Muscle cars. I don't own one (I drive a Jeep) and I've never had one. In fact, my "dream" car is a 1966 Morris Minor Woody Wagon, or a VW bug. Or a nice old restored Volvo. So, why do my ears prick and my eyes narrow when I see a nice 1967 mustang convertible, with a gorgeous red exterior, white top, black interior, 289 V-8 new valve...ahem...

The Muscle car is a term used to refer to a variety of high performance automobiles. At its most widely accepted the term refers to American 2-door rear wheel drive mid-size cars of the late 1960s and early 1970s equipped with large, powerful V8s, and sold at an affordable price for street use and drag racing, formally and informally.

That is Wikipedia's definition. So, in a nutshell, a muscle car is noisy, powerful, and built for speed. So, why do I like them? I've been pondering this for a while.

Okay, it gets weirder. I have this little OCD thing that I do every week. When I go grocery shopping, I treat myself to a shiny new $1.49 Hot Wheels muscle car. Then, when I've put the food away, given the dogs their marrow bones, I unwrap my car, and put it on the shelf near my desk where I write. I have lots. There probably aren't any more left to buy. I've become such a car nerd, that trying to locate a 1971 Mercury Cyclone (the car that stars in my latest YA contemporary) has jumped up the priority scale on my "to do" list. It's right up there with "plant vegetable garden", "pay property taxes" and "buy new underwear."

My husband shakes his head. He hates cars. He prefers bicycles instead. My 21 year old thinks I'm immature, and my 18 year old jacks my cars when I'm not looking.

Thing is, I'm anything but noisy, powerful, or built for speed. I'm a bit of a loner a lot of the time, and while I like a good hike and even the occasional run, I'm anything but a Speedy Gonzales. (In my first 10 k race, I ran the entire way, but crossed the finish line with a 75 year old woman and a blind guy. We had a great time.) I'm not a fan of leaving a giant carbon footprint in my wake either. Hmmmm. Maybe it's because I went to high school in the late 1970's. My guy friends all had Firebirds, Mustangs, Delta Customs and Plymouth Dusters. (There were Pintos and Gremlins too, but we vowed never to speak of this...)

So, am I clinging to lost youth? Do I secretly yen to be bigger, louder, and more streamlined? Is there a dysfunctional psychological connection to my car lust? Well, I'd love to chat about this more, but the cupboard's looking a bit bare and there isn't really anything for dinner. Me thinks a grocery shop is in order.

Kurt's Dad's (Burt Hummel) Speech GLEE

2010-05-27T13:27:00.000-07:00

One of my online writing pals posted this video on her facebook page, and after seeing it I knew I'd have to post it in my blog. One of the best TV speeches I've heard in a while. I see homophobia around me everyday. (I teach at a high school) While (thankfull) tons of kids are very accepting of gay people, lots aren't. I can't believe these attitudes still exist, in 2010. Sometimes I wonder how we humans ever came to sit at the top of the food chain. Sigh.
Enjoy!

COVER LOVE!

2010-05-06T13:08:00.000-07:00

Here it is...ready to post. How fantastic is this cover!!

Welcome, Whistling Dixie!

2010-03-23T19:54:00.000-07:00

Another four-legged friend has landed on the doorstep. She is just a year old, VERY puppyish and goofy, and already a real member of the family. She's a Blue Tick Coonhound, from a rescue organization, and had a bit of a separation anxiety problem when we first got her. All is well now. She knows when it's "work" time, and just chills on the couch with Eddie when we're getting ready to leave.
She's a riot. She can run like the wind, loves running with the mountain bikes, decapitating stuffed animals, eating people food when she thinks no one is watching, annoying Eddie, whistling (yes, she actually does), sleeping on OUR bed, and playing with anyone or anything that moves.
So, meet Dixie, a real southern belle. (Not really, but seein' as how she's a coonhound from Louisiana and all, it seemed fitting. We thought about Belle, or Bella, but..well, you know. It's been done.)

Chewing Fingernails vs. Paint-by-Number art

2010-03-03T21:23:00.000-08:00

iI think I may begin chewing my fingernails. It's either that, or I'll cut my hair. Maybe knitting? Or how about paint -by-numbers? Something mindless and time consuming. I have never been known for my stellar displays of unwavering patience. I'm not good at waiting in lines, and as far as meditation? Nah...too slow. So, waiting to hear about my YA manuscript is a challenge, to be sure.

I really feel very lucky. I sent my completed ms to my dream agent in NYC, and got a bite. A real, live, honest-to-goodness bite. With teeth. A request for a full, and then an email 3 days later with detailed notes and suggestions, and an invitation to resubmit. So....a month later, re-submit I have. And now, the wait. What if? Seriously? I've been researching agents, following tweets, reading blogs, listening to my writing buddies on the forums, and I would die to work with this particular agent. She is capital "K" kick ass. I love the way she thinks, and she knows the biz inside out and upside down. Here's hoping.

On another exciting note, my debut novel's cover is in the works. I saw the mock ups earlier this week and it's going to be absolutely beautiful. I'm so pleased that they are including me in the process, and I'm surprised and happy to have been given a bit of creative control as well. I'm waiting to see the final result. More waiting...

So, yeah...like I said. Knitting? Or maybe the paint-by-number project. A really lame one. Maybe a nice New England scene featuring a nice romantic barn and a bit of new snow.

Good-bye, Copper.

2010-01-15T20:39:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, we lost our good friend, Copper. She was a 9 year old Boxer/Pointer cross, with a heart as big as a lion. It was sudden: she succumbed to "bloat" (ever seen Marley n' Me? Remember how Marley met his end? Same deal.) We rushed her to the vet, but opted to end her suffering rather than put her through surgery, as she had already gone into shock, and her chances of surviving were slim.
My husband and I were with her to the end, our heads down beside her as she passed over. Even at the end, despite her discomfort, she managed a few feeble thumps of her tail. It broke our hearts. My husband took it the worst. She was his constant companion on the running trails,or beside him when he rode his mountain bike. You'd have to know Richard to understand the depth of his sadness. He is not prone to public displays of emotion. He's British. Stiff upper lip and all that rot. He was not stoic in the week that followed Copper's death. "I know she was just a dog. I know I need to get perspective," he said. But I beg to differ. Love is love. When the thing/person/rat/dog/home/etc. you love is gone, you miss it, and there's a little hole that's left in your heart. It's that simple.
We buried Copper in a spot on our property where she used to sit and wait for Richard's truck to come home. It seemed fitting. My sons helped us bury her. It was a bittersweet moment, but after a few days, we were able to talk and laugh about the silly things she used to do.
I've said goodbye to a few dogs now. It never gets easier. There was Molly, the dog that raised my boys. She is buried on the property too - in a space where she used to sunbathe on her back with her legs in the air.

I will always love my dogs. They are loyal, and constant, and brave and good friends.

We're gonna miss you, Monkey Ears. Rest in Peace.

Nature Deficit Disorder

2009-11-10T21:37:00.001-08:00

AFFLICTED WITH N.D.D.

I am pretty sure that I have N.D.D. Nature Deficit Disorder. Due in part, to the fact that I've been cloistered away in my home, revising my middle grade novel manuscript like a woman possessed, for four days straight. For the most part, it was easy. It rained for three of the four days. A lot. So writing in a back room, with a pot of tea and my ugly orange crocheted slippers, while I listened to the rapid fire assault of raindrops on our tin roof, was kind of romantic and cool. But there were two occasions when the sun broke through, and my dogs looked at me in that pathetic way that only dogs can. Big brown eyes and floppy ears and tails wagging oh so hopefully. And you know what? I ignored them both. And the sun? I even pulled the blind down. Because, well, I was on a mission and I had to go back to teaching school today. So, I don't think I went out at all, except to fly up to the store for toilet paper and cheese.
I went to school today, smug in the knowledge that my revision is complete (or, I hope it is!) and wondering if the cramp in my leg was a symptom of a life-threatening blood clot that formed due to my four days of inactivity.

It wasn't the best day. While my intentions were good, my students weren't. They were rude, and unfocused, and careless, and oh…just bad. I lost my temper -- something I don't normally do. And the euphoric sense of satisfaction that I'd left the house with in the morning was quickly replaced by one of futility. How can teaching art be such a creativity-slaying experience? The irony is not lost on me. However, my last post here was a bit of a downer, and I don't like the looks of where this one is going! But hang on. There's a point. It's coming.
So, at the end of the day, I jumped into my car, deposited a cheque at the bank, dropped something off at a friend's house, and then drove back home. I was still frustrated by my day and I think I was probably driving too fast.
When I turned down our narrow dead end road, I came to a full stop about half a kilometre in. There, on the side of the road, was a mama doe and twin fawns. Little ones with spots. The three of them looked at me, and I sat there in my car and looked at them. Then I burst into tears.
I don't think they were all that sympathetic to the basket case in the mocha-coloured Santa Fe. They wandered off a moment or two later. And I drove the rest of the way home.
As I made myself a cup of tea, I wondered why the sight of them had triggered such an emotional response in me. And then I got it. For four days I'd lived entirely inside my own head, not to mention the back room. And I'd spent the better part of the day with a bunch of fifteen-year-olds who were way more interested in their iphones than they were in Impressionism. Seeing those deer made me realize what I'd been missing. The real stuff. The stuff that really matters to me. The beauty that sits right outside my front door. Ever changing. Always breathtaking.
Now that's art.

Thanks, Bambi.

Carol Anne and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day!

2009-09-24T18:27:00.001-07:00

The say some days are just like this...

I wake up, put my foot on the floor and and feel it s-l-i-d-e while listening to that distinctly familiar "squishing" noise that I've come to hate. Dog vomit. And not the frothy kind that contains the odd blade of grass...it's the the smelly, chunky beef stew kind.

After cleaning up said mess, I make a beeline for the kitchen. A cup of coffee will fix everything. Only we are out of coffee. Even the emergency jar of instant. I have tea instead. Tea does not work in the morning. It just doesn't. (Deep breath. Get some perspective, Carol Anne.)
Minutes later, I progress to waking up 17 year old son for the fourth time since alarm went off. 17 year old son emerges from dark room wearing grim reaper expression. 17 year old son is not a fan of early mornings. When he opens the fridge for some milk, the shelf thingy on the inside of the door gives way and condiments clatter to the floor. 17 year old cranky son reacts by kicking full plastic bottle of mustard across kitchen floor. Full bottle of mustard explodes. Kitchen is suddenly more colourful...both visually and audibly.

I retreat to the shower, leaving drama-queen-son to deal with mustard nightmare. Hot water smack in face feels good. I reach for shampoo. The herbal essence is gone. Why do we have 4 bottles of conditioner, but no shampoo? Using language more fitting for trucker, I snatch towel and stomp to kitchen for solution. I return to shower and wash my hair in Ultra-Palmolive Anit-bacterial grapefruit scented dishwashing liquid.

More moments pass and I realize I am late for work. Yell generic goodbye-I-love-you to spousal unit who is hiding in bedroom. (Strong language scares him.) and run out the side door. Am greeted by neighbour's dog who has been enjoying a sticky garbage feast on front lawn...having ripped open large bag of garbage that we forgot to take the extra 20 feet to the bins the night before. Neighbour's dog looks happy to see me, but is far more enthusiastic about spreading the shredded and soiled baby diapers from infant with stellar digestion who visited the night before, across my perennial garden. I want to cry. I don't. I clean up mess instead, possibly scaring my neighbours as well (again, the colourful language)

I proceed to car and throw tote bag and laptop case angrily on front seat. Hear audible "crunch". What's this? Why, it's my almost new pair of Ryder sunglasses, snapped in half. Charming. Now have to wear icky cheap "Wisteria Lane Desperate Housewife" sunglasses that I hate, instead.

Get to school late for assembly and sit in back of room amidst 400 odd students. Hard to hear what is being said over coughing, hacking, sneezing etc. Have I failed to mention that H1N1 has hit our school? We were even on the news. We have the plague and we're famous. At least I am sitting by open door...that is, until grey-matter challenged colleague chooses to close door on account of the crows outside making a bit of noise. I am sure the crows are laughing at me.

First class is my grade 8 class. They engage in high spirited paint war when I leave classroom for 2 minutes to hunt for glue sticks. When I return, four students are barefoot and wringing out wet socks into recycling can. (Breathe in, breathe out.)

At least I have a short day. I am finished at 1:30 pm. I can go home and work on WIP! Before I leave my office, I decide to save writing I did over lunch hour on USB stick. Wait. Where has USB stick gone? Fast forward - 90 minutes later. Office has been turned upside down. Colleage in office beside me avoids me with concerned expression on face. Entire life is on USB stick, and my books. I have not saved latest 9,000 words to home computer hard drive yet because I am an idiot.

Seriously considering committing act of random violence but then discover USB stick sitting behind teapot against wall. Drop to knees and make solemn vow to organize my life more carefully in future. Leave school as fast as legs can take me. Go to Wal-Mart and buy fifteen glue sticks (and 6 pairs of sensible underwear, in keeping with new resolve to become more...sensible.)

When I get home, there is no sign of dog vomit anywhere. But there is a very nice bottle of French wine on the hutch. I'd been saving it for a special occasion. To (word censored) with it. Special is overrated.

Like Jimmy Buffet says, it's 5 o'clock somewhere.

Outside the Box

2009-08-25T19:15:00.000-07:00

When I was seven, I wanted to be a writer. I would spend hours - days, at the old family Underwood typewriter, producing numerous stories about horses and heroines. They were usually about girls my age, who did extraordinary things and they all had one thing in common: they had a hard time fitting inside the box. They were different, and nine times out of ten, the other kids didn't understand them. They made fun of them or they ostracized them. At the end of the stories, the girls had usually achieved some remarkable thing all on their own, all to the amazement and disbelief of their peers. They had affected some sort of change, bucked the system, or performed "the impossible". "That'll be me!" I would tell myself.

By the time I hit seventh grade, I was definitely hanging around outside of the box. My clothes were lame and my hair was never right and I was a stick insect without any hint of the figure that the popular girls seemed to have returned to school with in September. And you definitely needed that visible bra strap if you were going to sit on the top rung of the social ladder at Pauline Johnson Elementary. Boobage was a pre-requisite.

So, I wrote. I'd spend whole weekends writing about those amazing horses and those even more amazing girls. Money from my paper route paid for my riding lessons, not the Levis and North Star runners that everyone HAD to have in 1972. The other girls in my grade seven class thought I was capital "W" weird. Did it bother me? Sure, sometimes, I was twelve! Did I want to be like them? Nah.

So years passed. Marriage and babies came. But along with my loving family came nasty adult responsibilities. Things like a mortgage, car payments, and the infamous, awful, dreaded orthodontist ($10,000 for two kids! *Note to self* - In my next life, I will check the teeth of the person I choose to breed with.) Dreams I'd had a s a kid of being a famous writer, well-- I chalked them up to just that. Dreams. Didn't all kids have silly fantasies? About being cowboys, and ballet dancers, and firemen, and astronauts and chartered accountants? (kidding about that one, no offense to the number crunchers of the world. God knows I need you) I'd gone to art school for a few years, but I wasn't foolish enough to think that I could make it as a writer/artist and still put braces on our son's teeth. I guess I'd finally grown up.

Over the next decade, my half finished manuscripts and illos found their way into the bottom drawer of my desk. Instead of carrying characters around in my head, and a notebook around in my pocket, I got down to the business of making ends meet. Making a living. (Think about that expression for a minute. Yeah. I know.) I told myself that the dental plan and the pension plan made up for the mind numbing experience of sitting behind a desk all day staring at a computer screen. After 8 hours at the Xerox machine, I would try not to complain. When co-workers got gossipy, I'd go for a run. It was stupid to not be happy. I was lucky! This is what grown ups did. They went to jobs they hated, paid their bills on time, and lived for the two week holiday.

The turning point for me came about five ago. I was standing at the Xerox machine, mindlessly pushing buttons and staring mindlessly out the window. Thinking...how did I get to be in my 40's and end up so far from where I thought I'd be? Just when had I traded my sense of wonder for 80 words a minute?
Later that day, after I'd managed to throw together a hurried dinner for the boys, my youngest said to me as I sat down to eat, "Mom? How come you aren't any fun anymore?" Ouch. The truth hurts.

And that's all it took. One innocent comment from a twelve year old kid. I started to write again. And that's not all I did. I quit my job, and found another one, teaching art part-time to high school kids. I spend a good chunk of my day in my tie-dye apron - a welcome change from the days of nylons and real hairstyles, and I write during school holidays and in the evenings.

Fast forward five years? I have my first book coming out in the fall of 2010, two more in the works, and my easel and paints have claimed ownership to a permanent space in the corner of my kitchen. I feel like a little kid again (even though I'm pushing 50). I feel the same way I used to feel, when I'd sit down at that crappy old Underwood, fingers itching to go. It's a great feeling.

Sometimes even now, I think about some of those girls in grade seven. I wonder what my life would be like now if I'd been a little more comfortable inside the box back then. But we are who we are. I still have dumb hair, and I still dress funny, although along the way I did (sort of) get boobage.

LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE

2009-06-09T13:17:00.001-07:00

" Dog not Included "

I've become a reader of generic disclaimers. I even have an internet list of 64o of them, and this one was number 385.

Which made me think of what sort of things one might purchase that don't include "the dog". I've got three, so I really don't need anymore anyway. Eddie, Sadie, and Copper. Two beagles and a boxer/pointer cross. Copper is the grand dame, Sadie is the high maintenance princess, and Eddie is very chill. It's Eddie that I admire the most. He is a prime example of how to live an authentic life. He plays hard, is loyal, is always up for new things, shares his stuff, and doesn't do anything that he really doesn't want to do. Most importantly, he really knows how to relax.

I've decided that Eddie is my hero.

Am I Socially Inept?

2009-04-11T20:38:00.000-07:00

I was surfing the blueboards earlier today, when I came across an older blurb from an anonymous poster. He/she was lonely, and somewhat of a recluse, and feeling bad about that. It got me thinking. Specifically about my own introverted ways. It's true. I am a closet introvert. Although I interact by day in a school with 600 staff and students, I secretly think I would make a great hermit. I fantasize about living in a rustic shack in the mountains without any neighbours. With only feral cats and songbirds for company. This is a ridiculous notion, because I am quite afraid of the dark. And bears. And I don't really like being cold. Which I think would happen a fair bit in a rustic cabin in the far north somewhere. Maybe I am a closet romantic as well as a closet introvert. But here I am, on a Saturday night, at my writing desk, working on my MG WIP, with a nice glass of Chilean Shiraz at the ready. It is quiet, and I have my favourite socks on. This has contributed to make it a perfect Saturday night. Am I pathetically boring? Or just really low maintenance. The two are entirely different things. Maybe I'm just a bit drunk from the wine? In any case, I thought it was food for thought. Yes, I go out. Yes, I like (most) people. But is it a crime to love my writing desk and my socks and prefer the frog song in the swamp down the road, to canned music from the Black Swan Pub in the other direction? Jesus, I'm going to become one of those weird old women who live alone and have dying plant cuttings in old mason jars full of green slimy water on the windowsill. Hmmm. Maybe I'd better call a couple of friends and go out.

BOOK TRAILER FOR "HANNAH & THE SPINDLE WHORL"

2009-03-25T12:13:00.000-07:00

Ok. Now that I've sold my book - I made a few revisions to the trailer and I think it flows a little more smoothly.

My Sanctuary

2009-02-08T10:43:00.000-08:00

The studio/writing room is in the works...framing starts in a few weeks. I'm really excited about it. It's going to be pretty small, but really private, and far from the Madding Crowd...so to speak (ie: teenagers, Xbox, Television, barking dogs...) It will face onto the back of the property...so I'll have a view of the cedars, the trail down to the railroad, the resident woodpeckers, and of course...the visiting deer. In the meantime, I hide away (as best I can), in a corner of my bedroom, plunking away at the keyboard. I'm pretty lucky. It's a very lovely space. Thought I'd throw in a pic too. It really is my sanctuary...despite the clutter.

My attempt at a book trailer...

2009-01-30T19:24:00.001-08:00

I've been checking out a lot of book trailers the past two weeks, and I decided that I had to find a way to do this too. (Not that my book is published yet, but there's nothing like thinking positive.) I'm not particularly tech-saavy, but I did manage to slog my way through Windows movie maker to piece together something that ended up being kind of cool! So...here's the trailer I made for my MG historical fiction novel, entitled, "Hannah and the Spindle Whorl." I was obsessive compulsive for a couple of days, but I learned a lot. Can I even post this? I'm probably committing some copyright crime here, but ignorance is bliss. In the meantime, my manuscript has been sitting with Ronsdale Press a while now. I haven't heard anything as yet - but one can only hope. Ronsdale seems like it would be such a great fit. They publish a lot of YA/MG historical fiction...some very beautiful beautiful books.

Twisted Fingers...

2009-01-26T19:08:00.001-08:00

Wow. I haven't written here for far too long. But, I have a reason. I haven't written, because I've been writing. A lot! My WIP has morphed yet again. Funny, I was 20k into three separate YA stories...and lost steam with all of them. I had somehow lost my characters...they weren't ringing true to me. I had to stop. So I did. ANd then I started again, but this time I morphed all three stories into one. And I'm happy to say that I'm a bloody whirling dervish. I'm 25k into book 4? Or is it book 1. Whatever it is, I'm likin' it. This story has drama. Heart. And I love my MC. I find myself thinking about her when I'm at work. When I;m supposed to be teaching. Ooops. But you have to make hay while the sun shines. And I've got a lot of bales to show for this past weekend, I hafta say. I've never completed a real novel outline before. Usually I just wing it from the seat of my pants, hoping that my overactive imagination will see me through. But THIS time, I actually made an aesthetically pleasing Word Grid...with neat little colums and a nice readable font. I outlined 25 chapters...getting quite specific with each one. So...now I get to just write it up. I'm hoping this burst of energy will continue until I can break the back of this one. The only downside is...I'm gonna get fat. I'm sitting too much. My treadmill has dust bunnies underneath it, and has evolved into a large and cumbersome clothes horse/ towel dryer. Ahem...
But I DID think about going for a run. My intentions are entirely good. So I figure that has to account for something. Must. Keep. On. Keeping. On

NANOWRIMO WILL BE ON TIME-O

2008-11-11T20:28:00.000-08:00

Or...me thinks so at this point. Wow...the detours and side routes this book has taken. Here I am, at the 21,000 wd mark. Two novel ideas have morphed into one. MC has changed names twice. the end is now the beginning, and I'm kind of making it up as I go along. It's exactly the way I paint! Interesting, that.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words...

2008-11-09T18:02:00.000-08:00

...Funny. I figured I needed to give my nano-weary brain a bit of a break today, and do some mindless chores with my significant other. Things like groceries, hardware store, good coffee run, and running the dogs on the trails. There were too many words, not-quite-developed characters, and partial scenes swirling around in my head. I was looking forward to the "auto-pilot" mind set of doing errands.
At one point, while Richard ran into the hardware store, I stayed in the car, in the parking lot. People watching. It's funny the stuff you see when those you see don't know you are watching (or don't care...it could be the latter).
A big chevy Silverado pulled in beside our car, and an elderly man got out, leaving his "ample" female companion in the passenger seat. I gave her a quick glance, vowing secretly to myself that no matter what, I will never succumb to one of those $20 short ball of curl perms and an orange dye job. Never. And then,I got to watch this woman make a very weird face, a grimace, and then spit out a full set of dentures into her coat sleeve. Then, she horked all over them and rubbed them "clean" with her other sleeve. Eww.

But come on...I HAVE to use that in a story at some point in the future.

(She then calmly popped the chompers back in her mouth, lit a cigarette, and opened up a copy of Reader's Digest. Wow. )

MUST. GO. TO. BED.

2008-11-03T22:04:00.001-08:00

NaNoWriMo is proving to be a really fun and kind of addictive activity. Only I feel like a bit of a criminal at work...rushing back to my office between my classes, throwing in another line or two, making a note about a character before my brain has to switch gear again in order to manage another classroom of pubescent not-always-enthusiastic-about-art Grade 8's. But I guess it's the rebel in me...I kind of like it. Makes me feel much more interesting than I probably am. Maybe tomorrow I'll have CHOCOLATE covered digestive biscuits, instead of the plain ones. Life is full of peril when you live on the edge.
But right now, I can see the edge of my bed, and it is definitely calling to me. Yeah...horizontal seems like a good thing to be.

I'm in!!

2008-10-28T17:53:00.000-07:00

This makes it official..

I am officially committed now to whipping off a 50,000 wd. novel in the space of 30 days. November. A perfect month to do such a thing. I'm not lover of November. I refer to this month on the west coast, as "The Big Wet Dark". Maybe that should be the title for this book that I will attempt to write. How fitting. Of course, my plot at present is a bit sketchy, but hey, with a title like that, the possibilities are endless. Guess I'll be stocking up on good French Roast, good Shiraz, stoned wheat thins and of course, marmite. I'm so goddam predictable.

On beagles, blackberries, and bears...

2008-10-27T21:26:00.000-07:00

I am a country bumpkin. Seriously. When I'm not at the school, in teacher mode, you can find me looking quite slovenly, in my gumboots and my crappy grey U of Arizona sweatshirt. Come to think of it, when I'm teaching, I seldom make a fashion statement of any real significance either. Unless you count my shoes. One of my students came up to me not long ago and said, "Mrs. Shaw! You have the worst shoes of any teacher here!" (Sorry, but I'm not going to wear a pair of Kenneth Cole slingbacks in the art room. Duh...)

Anyway, my point is that I sort of like being a hick. A kind of artsy redneck. I'm not afraid of bugs, or snakes, or mud, or small boys lobbing stink bombs or dried cow patties. Doesn't phase me. I like chopping wood, and turning compost piles and being woken at dawn by red-winged blackbirds in spring. (I hear there are people who want to kill these birds in March...)

So, when our notoriously mischievious pair of beagles got loose last week and decided to piss us off by spending a few hours tracking the scent of some innocent rodentia in the woods beside our house, we decided to let them run out of steam. They'd come back when they'd been outrun and/or outwitted. But, the thing is...they're noisy. REALLY noisy. If you aren't familiar with hounds, then suffice it to say that when they are in full pursuit of some tasty little creature, they can sound like they are having their legs removed. Or their ears cutoff. They can sound bloody awful.

Our neighbours were away for the evening, so we tried to tune them out. But when a neighbour across the field called to say that they were having trouble putting their daughter to bed, due to the noise, it was time to be responsible pet owners and set out after them. In the dark. In the woods. With nothing but a crappy little LED flashlight to light our way (because neither my husband or I had remembered to charge up our super-mega-steroid-extreme flashlights. But, I am Polly Pioneer. I read the farmer's almanac and grow herbs among my flowers. What's a little bush wacking in the dark?

Well, it's scary. Try blazing your own trail through broom and blackberry brambles, with no light except the slowly diminishing ray that you can sort of see 30 feet off in the bush...because your husband somehow shoddied the light source (kind of like the remote). I could hear Eddie and Sadie (the beagles) in the not too far distance. They sounded like they had cornered a sasquatch and were about to go in for the kill. My husband cursed from somewhere off in the other direction, lost in a tangle of unforgiving thorns. I had found myself a small clearing (at least it felt like a small clearing) - a few square feet of nothingness in the inky....nothingness. And then there was a noise. A big noise. A noise that sounded like a washing machine rolling toward me in the bush to my right. The light from my husband's wimpy flashlight chose that particular moment to expire completely, leaving me to do nothing but stand there blindly like some kind of polar fleece covered target. And then the washing machine burst from the bush, rolled by me, and crashed into the bush on my left. Only the washing machine wasn't a washing machine. It was a bear. A fat one. And it missed me by about 8 inches.

And then he was gone. The chase over, Eddie and Sadie returned to me, panting and ready to go and take up residence at home by the woodstove for a good 13 or 14 hours. Game over. My husband untangled himself and navigated his way back to us, and we walked the 500 metres back to our property.

Ok. So maybe I'm not Frontier Annie after all. Maybe I can't skin a cougar in the dark. And maybe the "close encounter with the bear" DID scare the crap out of me. I can still imitate a raven's call, and I still look pretty damn hot in my gumboots.

Over and out...(and I couldn't resist taking a pic (the next morning) of the bear poop that my lumbering friend deposited near our meeting place. I'm surprised it wasn't mine.)

Recent works from the Kitchen Table...

2008-10-24T21:45:00.000-07:00

More Creations from the Kitchen Table...

2008-10-24T21:40:00.000-07:00

2008-10-24T21:37:00.000-07:00

Entering the World of Blogdom...

2008-10-24T21:05:00.000-07:00

Okay...I'm completely new to this blogging thing, but I figure it's time. So...this evening I read some tips and tricks on my writer's forum for newbie blogging idiots like myself, and away I go. Best not to think too much...I'll just dive right in. Here goes...

As long as I can remember, I have always loved to doodle, and write. As a kid, I found school confining, and math class sheer torture. I was forever being reprimanded for drawing in my textbooks, or writing bits of very bad horse stories on scraps of paper (which often featured my least favourite teachers as particularly souless and horrible characters.)

In my early 20’s, after a few years in art school, I was determined to make it as a writer/artist, ideally as an creator of children’s books. I found myself doing everything from teaching pre-school, to operating a bookmobile, to driving a front-end loader, to bartending, to working on a dude ranch, to doing what I do now: teaching art to teenagers...in a rather posh private school! (The irony is not lost on me…)

When I'm not teaching, I'm either in the woods with my dogs, making a killer spaghetti so spicy it would make your ears bleed, or writing in a corner of my bedroom, in my favorite sweats and one of my son's hoodies. I like red wine. Wood fires. Marmite. Preferably all at the same time.

As I march right through this 4th decade of my life, I would like to think that I have learned, above all else, not to take myself too seriously. To appreciate each day for what it holds out to me. And to forgive myself for past mistakes. I'm only human, after all.

Do what you have to do, but follow your heart. If you aren't being authentic, you'll never find any peace.

Write on.

Oh...the pic is a painting I recently finished, inspired by the most epic elephant ride that I was fortunate enough to experience in northern Thailand this past March - I went as a co-leader with a colleague and a group of 12 students from the school.