I’ve just finished Alice Munro’s collection of thirteen stories called “Something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” There was another book I read, inbetween Eggers and Munro, but I’ll be blogging on that later. I’m not exactly sure why it’s taken me so long to discover her writing, but it couldn’t have come at a better time. Munro writes about the ordinary; two sisters growing old with a story they both lived with, a woman’s life after her divorce, a grandmother’s view of herself in the eyes of a visiting granddaughter. And yet, it is so compelling, so human. Ben and I had a couple of arguments about books when we first moved in; I didn’t respect his love for fantasy and science fiction. I tried to explain why I held Salinger, DH Lawrence, Virgina Woolfe, Plath, Joyce and Steinbeck (I could go on) in such high regard and why I considered it “better.” It was difficult for me to answer, I just knew, in my soul that these writers are unique because they look into the real, the ordinary, the everyday and find something spectacular. Something so very human.

And so with Munro. The best story by far in the book was the first, with the same name as the book. And I loved it not only for it’s storytelling, or it’s simplicity. I loved it because it taught me something I’ve been struggling with in my own writing; how to make one character know that another one may not be telling the whole truth. In one simple sentence Munro lets us know that someone could be lying. Distrust — so very human.


Goodbye JD

29Jan10

Margaret Atwood wrote in Negotiating with the Dead that “all writing of the narrative kind, and perhaps all writing, is motivated, deep down, by a fear and fascination with mortality – by a desire to make the risky trip to the Underworld, and to bring something or someone back from the dead.” (p.156) Perhaps it is true that writers do write for the only reason that they fear their own death. I wondered today, in hearing the news of the death of my favourite author of all time, did JD Salinger write because he feared death? I’m sure his experience on the front line in World War II made him feel like he had no choice but to write. But as far as the world is concerned, the man stopped writing after the sixties. Or did he?

I was first introduced to Salinger by way of a university course called Religion and Literature at the University of Toronto. My professor introduced me to Franny & Zooey, which continues to be the most influential book in my life. My professor said that he half-hoped for the day Salinger would die, so that maybe his writing for the past fifty years would finally be available for us to read.

Sorry, my thoughts are a bit scattered with this post.

One day, in an attempt to save our relationship, my ex boyfriend presented me with the one thing I wanted most in this world – the no longer published writing of JD Salinger. The story goes that some man in Texas had a word document that contained transcribed versions of stolen pages from back issues of magazines that had once published the stories. They were in libraries in universities, scattered across America. Salinger refused to let them be reprinted. And after all the hype about the influence of his only novel The Catcher in the Rye it seems like Salinger had it with society, retreated to the mountains and refused to let anything else be published. The man in Texas had them in a digital format, and gave them to my ex to win me back. You might have figured out the end to the story.

But I have all his stories now (I think). And I love them. And I could read them again and again.

And like my professor I am waiting for the vault to open, to have more Salinger to read. Because I can’t get enough. This man changed my life, and made me want to become a writer. I am heartbroken that he is gone and that he had such a tormented existence.

My prof once said that Salinger regretted killing Seymour in A Perfect Day for a Bananafish. Seymour Glass was exactly what his name meant. He “sees” “through” society and the shit. But at the end of the story, Seymour kills himself because he can’t stand the superficiality. But the hero is the one who sees more, and should rise above it. He doesn’t kill himself. He dies, of natural causes, deep in the forest of the mountains of New Hampshire.

Thank you JD. You changed my life. I’m sad you are gone.


Holy Water

22Jan10

It’s no secret, I’m in love with Cate Blanchette. I pretty much hate anything related to celebrity including magazines, entertainment shows, you name it, but there is something about Cate that sets her apart from that mess. Cate is a role model of the best kind; she is intelligent, witty, charming, educated, talented, an advocate for arts funding, an honest and loving wife, a mother, and the most beautiful woman on the planet in the public eye (in my opinion). And while I’m no sucker for celebrity endorsements and advertising (being in the business myself), I believe Cate when it comes to the skincare line she promotes. I sincerely believe that she does use SK-II and while likely much of her beauty is genetic, her gorgeous skin is a result of a good product and a good skincare routine.  And since I believe being a successful woman has as much to do with what you read as it does with how to take care of yourself (and your skin) I started researching the product.

And then one day Ben opened my computer to find the homepage of SK-II. And being the sneaky surprise kind of guy he is, he bought me some samples for Christmas (yes people sell even the samples). I quickly became hooked so I put in an order for more. And today my package arrived from Saks. I have never spent more money on skincare in my life. But I think it was worth it. The facial treatment essence alone – otherwise dubbed “holy water” – is giant. I’m sure it will last me most of the year. But the best part about my package was my little gift from Saks – a travel bottle of Guerlain’s My Insolence which is funny enough, my other holy water. I laughed when I saw it, mostly out of the fear that either I had become a really obvious target market and/or life was just about to get a lot more expensive. Either way if my skin sags early in life I’ll at least know I did the best I could.

©


This is what my first interactive design looked like:


It was my portfolio which I used to apply for New Media Design at Sheridan College. The circles had words in them like photos, printmaking, painting, and design. You could click on them and they would bring you to pages of artwork. The design category was a fake – I had never really done design before, I just really wanted to get into the course so I mocked up some fake assignments. I think it actually might have been this exact size too – 400×600 which was at the time, a fairly standard browser size.

When I got into the course I realized that I was shit and everyone else was better than me. And so it became my mission to learn everything I could. I met my ex-boyfriend in class (of course at the time, he was my boyfriend), and since he had just graduated from three years of a real graphic design program, he knew infinitely more than I. And, just as you might suspect, he did what every good boyfriend should do — taught me everything he knew.

Over the year we both improved via friendly competition and by the end, I was producing work that looked a fair bit better.

I had to remind myself of this, because of my “recently finished story,” which is in fact not finished at all. I gave it to Ben to review over the weekend, and he provided me with good, if not cautious feedback. It hurt, regardless. You never create something hoping someone will tell you it’s just not working. I do this everyday to a very talented team of designers. It’s frustrating when all you really want is someone to read your work or look at your design and say “Genius!”

Ben didn’t fully get my story. He didn’t feel any tension, he didn’t understand certain characters, he didn’t get a sense of the place I was describing. And afterward, while he was out, I fell into a terrible slump. Maybe I was a shitty writer, I would never be good and should give up now and save the energy and time and frustration. Besides, doesn’t everyone want to be a writer?

But then I thought about that design, and how bad it was. And I may not be the best designer in the world today, but I hold my own. When I graduated my class I was the first to be offered a job – in fact I was offered three at two very well known agencies and a small studio. I chose the last and was happy for it.

And so for my writing, this story might be bad. Maybe no one will get it, maybe it has no tension, maybe I need to start over or ditch it completely. But I believe if I just keep at it, like I did with my design, one day my stories will be good. I got to where I am today by a lot of fucking hard work.

Like my dad always said – ten percent inspiration, ninety percent perspiration. So I continue.

And Ben, if you are reading, I’m going to kill off Charles. For a little tension. :)

©


Dear Paris,

Tonight I miss you. I’m not really sure why. Maybe it was because you came up in conversation a lot today. Maybe it’s also because I’m a wee bit drunk and remembering the good times and not the bad. I had such a wonderful time with you. I felt like I was living life large. And as much as I love Toronto, it’s cold here. Bitterly cold. And our public transportation system does not befit a cold city. I miss the crazy summer days, riding on scooters through your city lights, picnics in Parc Vilette, drinking on Pont Neuf, even if it was with the rats and the sex crazed hipsters.

I heard a song on my way home that reminded me of you. Of walking through your streets, eating freshly baked croissants and jacked up on one too many un express. I miss being there alone. Knowing you alone. Of being scared and excited at the same time. Of playing hide and seek in rich peoples apartments. Of photo exhibits and waking up across from the Louvre. Of confit de canard and cheap Chablis.

Every now and then memories flood back. Usually after a couple of glasses of red wine, when I’m out, alone, and tired of this cold working city.

Miss you.

Kisses.


I had dinner with my good friend Julie the other night. At someone else’s house. She’s been moving around, staying in the homes of different friends for a few weeks at a time as her own home is undergoing some massive renovations. I visited her at the most beautiful of homes, that belonged to a perfect couple who have great jobs, and recently had a lovely little boy. Julie and her husband were staying there because the family was vacationing in Mexico. The perfect life.

We agreed that this is what every girl wants. What they really want. And as much as I detest the man, maybe Kanye said it best:

What you about on that independent shit
Trade it all for a husband and some kids
You ever wonder what it all really mean
You wonder if you’ll ever find your dreams.

Sometimes I don’t know. Sometimes it’s all I want. Sometimes I fear the very thought of it. Julie and I agree: it’s could be a risky path to take. Your husband marries you for you; the independent, charming, intelligent, ball-busting girl you have become after years of fighting through the muck. Then you buy a house, have kids, give up your job and suddenly you are a different woman, a woman he no longer knows. And then, when you are middle aged — well, he leaves you for a younger, independent, charming, intelligent, ball-busting girl. Or worse, you continue a miserable existence together until you die.

It’s a story we’ve all heard before (Julie heard two such stories over her Christmas break).

It’s made me start rethinking things, especially with regards to my writing. In the midst of a great job, other business ideas, the potential of staying home and raising kids in the (somewhat) near future I think; I just want to write stories. It’s all I really want to do.

And I wonder if you know
What it means to find your dreams


Heartbreaking

03Jan10

I have just finished Dave Eggers first book A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (I know, how pathetically late am I?) I’ve started four new books already and I can’t seem to figure out which one is going to win out and get read first. I didn’t get nearly as much reading done over the holiday as I planned, partly due to the overwhelming number of family and social functions Ben and I attended, and partly from the new plan I have up my sleeve which I have been working out over the break.

But Egger’s A.H.W.O.S.G (as the book is referred to at the top of each page) was timely for me this season. Firstly it taught me how to write in the way that one thinks. Egger’s approach is very stream of consciousness and while I did find this a bit annoying after a while, I did really love the first few pages that got me into his brain.

I also learned a bit about writing dialogue which I’ve been struggling with a bit. Egger’s likes to write dialogue without the repetitive “he says” or “she remarks with a smile” which I found was always slowing me down and sounding really forced. Here’s an example (page 254):

“Hey, you can’t wear that hat.”
“What do you mean?” he says.
“We’re wearing the same hat. You have to take yours off.”
“No, you. My hair will look weirder.”
“No it won’t.”
“Yes it will. Your hair’s still straight. You know what I look like with hat-head.”
“Too bad.”
“What?”
“No.”
“C’mon. Please?”
“No.”
“Toph.”
“Fine.”
“Thanks.”
“Freak.”

——-

I don’t recall seeing dialogue written like this before. Maybe I have but the dialogue was longer, and I didn’t really notice. But I like this. It reads like a screenplay, like banter, like real human conversation.

But there is another reason this book had impact on me this season. A.H.W.O.S.G is about family who suddenly loses both of their parents to illness and their struggle to cope after the fact. Fittingly my father told me on Christmas Day that he has been diagnosed with Leukemia. And after leaving dinner that night and screaming tears at the windshield for five minutes sitting in an empty Tim Horton’s parking lot, I just felt a little lost. But this book was a bit of comfort after all of that, as most good books are. We turn bad into good and reach out to others, in blogs, in books, in art and music.

So I will keep writing.


I finished a story this weekend (say hooray!). It’s not the first but was the only one I really had solidified in my mind before I wrote it. In fact I have been working on it since August even though I have only been putting the words to paper for the past three weeks. That’s a record for me.

I once redesigned the entire joe.ca website in a week. And I was extremely happy with the results. When I talked to my boss about how quickly I did it she said to me: “You didn’t design that site in a week. You’ve been working on it for years.” And it was true. Ruminating in my head for years working on the brand I had known every little thing that the site needed and I when it came down to putting it all down it was easy. Deceptively effortless.

But interestingly enough, this is the kind of work for which we get the least amount of credit; from others or ourselves. We refuse to admit that it takes time to think and it’s the thinking and relaxing that bring great things about in writing, art, and music. I am constantly self-reprimanding for not writing enough, not reading enough, not doing enough – all of which can make me a little self-loathing once and awhile. We think that when we finally have a few free hours we should be able to sit down and write a masterpiece. And then we don’t and then we think that we are crap and should probably just stop trying, watch TV and have a baby instead. I’m being serious.

Ben and I are both struggling through this. He with his music and I with my writing. I am trying to teach him and myself in the process that it is okay to sit down for an hour or two and produce nothing. That in that nothing something will come eventually. That I will write twenty stories, and he twenty songs before there is only one that is good. Maybe a hundred. But the point is to not give up. Not give in to distraction. To movies and facebook and books and doing the dishes and planning dinner for Christmas Eve. Just write. Just play. If only for a few hours.

Something great has got to come from it eventually.


I have been writing on and off for about ten years. Yes. Ten. And for the most part, except for a few art and music reviews in the university newspaper, I’ve done nothing about it. I finally let Ben read a few of my stories the other night. The second time I’ve shared any of my fiction writing with anyone. So far the feedback is positive. But then, how could it not be? Would anyone who loves me say “You suck sweetie. Sorry, but you better stick to advertising”?  I hope they would. But I desperately believe them that I must keep going.

I made a decision a while back to not take any classes in writing. All classes are really good for is to give you deadlines, motivation, and have someone with some experience give you feedback. But as I learned in art school, I could get this by looking at paintings, copying (and changing) and being self-critical. I have made a successful career out of being an art director and designer in advertising. I’ve never taken a course in either.

But I do believe that there are resources that can help. I write, but fiction writing is a whole other beast (as is advertising copy, which I can’t do for the life of me). Characters, voices, narration, dialogue, scene, plot, chapters – it’s all a new way to write for me. I am used to essays, non-fiction, journal writing. All in the first person.

So I picked up a few notable books on writing. And for the would-be writers out there I would highly recommend Francine Prose’s “Reading like a Writer.” Believe it or not, I was so inspired by this book, that as I finished it, while waiting for the moving truck to arrive to move me in with my boyfriend, I cried.

As a writing teacher Ms. Prose grapples with this same conundrum: how to teach people how to write. But what she boils everything down to is reading. The more you read, the better you write. Every author has a different style, a different approach. The beauty is in the sentence, the paragraph, the right word. Read close. Re-read. And then read again. She pulls excerpts from some of the most unique and valuable books ever written, breaks them down, and makes sense of why they work so well. And why, your writing is probably crap and has to get better.

I wrote this excerpt in my journal after I finished the book:

“If we wanted to grow roses, we would want to visit rose gardens and try to see them the way a rose gardener would.”

Keep reading.


It’s a bit strange that my last two posts have been about the TV shows I’m watching; especially when I’m such a huge advocate of not watching TV. But there are a few shows I do watch, and one of my “brainless” shows is Desperate Housewives. I’ve only recently started watching it, now in it’s sixth season but I’ve found that aside from the silliness and casual manner around murder, suicide and adultery, there are a few issues that are relevant to my own life. The most current episodes have one very interesting subplot about women in the workplace.

Lynette, a very strong yet neurotic character (not unlike myself) finds herself in a very powerful position in her company, promoted and doing a great job when (ha ha!) she finds out she is pregnant. At 40. With twins. She hides the pregnancy from her boss (Carlos) so that she can take the promotion and continue to do her job. This goes on for a few episodes where she proves her value and lands a number of different big accounts. Then through a series of events he finds out she is pregnant, that she “lied” or misled him, and goes out of his way to force her to quit by giving her another promotion in another city, by forcing her to work in a small room in the basement, and by giving her loads of work she couldn’t possibly do in a timely manner.

So this is television drama, and for the most part is highly exaggerated. But it brings up an interesting issue of women in powerful positions who have children. Ben is constantly telling me that you can have it all. But really, I don’t think either of us know anything until it will actually happen. I see countless women leave advertising after they have their first child and most women who are creative directors don’t have any kids at all. The imbalance today for women is so extreme. A good friend of mine, a very smart and powerful woman has a child and is expecting another. She is trying desperately to juggle it all but something as simple as a delay in traffic can make or break her day in an instant. Five dollars a minute is what it costs if you pick up your kid late from daycare. For myself I can barely cope with the stress of work. I can’t even imagine what it is like with a child.

So here is the catch we all face. Women under thirty who focus on having families and no careers are seen by those of us who do as a bit sad. We are judgmental of them, that they don’t have their own careers or personal fulfillment. Yet the women who do have amazing careers find themselves often without time or energy to devote to relationships, never mind weddings, families or kids. Then these women find themselves at thirty-five and perhaps in a situation where they could consider children and then find out they cannot because they waited too long. And then again, we are sad for them. So somewhere between thirty (if hopefully you’ve nailed some awesome successful career) and thirty-five you have to get (married, hopefully) and pregnant. But even if you do, and all things are good, the chances are by the time you are back after a year of changing diapers, someone has taken your job, technology has changed and now (especially in advertising) you are no longer the one who can stay late for a big pitch, because you have to pick up the baby from daycare.

I have to believe there is a solution. Afterall I’m a “solutions-oriented person.” That’s what makes me good at my job. But it does make me wonder, if it’s all going to end at some point anyway, why in the world am I working so hard?