Category: writing

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Getting Better: Take It Outside

Writing programs, whether they be of the one-day or the week-long-getaway variety, can be good or bad things. In particular, I think anyone who is a closeted writer (ie. short stories and poetry hidden on your computer like pornography) and feels the need to affirm (or reaffirm) their direction should consider – at least as an option – a writing program. Provided you do some research and find a good course, a writing program allows you to unload your craft in front of others, receive honest feedback, and illuminate your shortcomings as well as your strengths.

Of course, there are always risks. Your teacher/mentor may not get along with you at all, for stylistic or personality-related reasons. You could be a poet in a room full of prose writers. You may find your peers to be full of themselves. You may find yourself an unintentional participant in a Self-Congratulations Society, where no one will accept or voice constructive criticism.

I lucked out, to put it briefly

Many years ago, I hooked up with a Toronto-based group, headed by someone who ran a web-based forum for local writers. It was ok. It wasn’t what I wanted then, though of course I can articulate it perfectly now. The person coordinating the meeting I attended (and as an aside, being someone who coordinates a couple of groups now, it can be a thankless, dispiriting job) was not, at least on the surface, someone focused on the art or spirit of writing. She seemed more interested in writing events (contests and the like) rather than writing itself. This, I contend, is not wrong, but rather – being the sensitive philosophical type I am – it simply didn’t jive with what I wanted. But even this is good, because the more you investigate the more you learn about what you need versus want. As a result of trial-by-error, your desires become less metaphysical and more concrete.

Fast-forward years later…my then-fiancée, Ingrid, who works in publishing, recommended the Humber College School for Writers’ Summer Workshop. I had a novel. I didn’t know whether it was good or bad, and it wasn’t helped that I had no writer friends to bounce it off of for feedback. I looked into the program and decided to attend (financed by American Express). I ended up spending a week in a classroom of eight, with poet/novelist DM Thomas (The White Hotel) as our mentor. It was perfect. I could not have asked for a more seminal experience. Everything clicked. I walked away at the end, having attended seminars, Q&A’s, and forums, with a much more evolved viewpoint of both the art and business of writing.

That week I learned to love and respect the art of revising/editing, something I’d always treated like poison. I met some great people who, for the first time, I could actually talk to about writing without having to explain what writing was in order to help them understand me. I was publicly confronted with a then-serious illness (habitually using it’s when I should’ve been using its). I was flattered by the positive feedback I received but not stung or made sullen by honest critiques either.

As a result of that single week, my outlook, philosophy, and activity in writing was immensely deepened. I started a monthly writers’ group – the very same sort of group I was searching for in vain before – which carries on successfully to this day (we celebrate our 3rd “birthaversary” this summer, in fact). The novel which had consumed so much of my time back then has since been shelved, having realised that it needed so much work that it was better for me to start from scratch and return to it later (under the axiom, “if you love someone set them free”). Now, of course, I have a new novel which I’m very happy with (along with a nice collection of short stories).

I write this because sometimes – particularly when you are an artist, alone, in an environment seemingly bereft of people who can empathize with what you do – it’s important to look outside for that next important step: getting involved so as to help yourself. As writers, we can’t allow ourselves to fall into the trap of thinking we are failures if we do not wake up at 5am, complete four chapters by lunch, followed by spending the afternoon staring solemnly out of our 3rd storey “writing nook” windows while we wait for the absinthe to kick in. That’s mythology.

I should also mention an extremely good (short) book, called Art & Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking, by David Bayles and Ted Orland [ISBN: 0961454733]. I recommend it to anyone from any artistic background who is looking for some objective advice, written by people who truly understand. Lastly, even though I mention this book and provide a link to the Humber College course previously, it’s just as important for people to discover what’s right for themselves – there are many options out there. Please do your research.

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Writing on Writing

I would like to say that I’ve been prolific in my writing over the last few weeks, but that would be a lie.

My first focus has been the novel. It is complete (in the sense that I don’t believe it requires anything new to be added: chapters, characters, story arcs, etc..), yet requires a good revision to smooth over the parts which were put in place (not unlike a temporary glue or kludges) so that I could carry on telling the story without getting bogged down with detail work. Thankfully, the amendable bits are easy to recognize and not too draining for me to clarify.

A few weeks back, my tangential focus was on submitting two stories to two separate entities (one a contest, another a lit mag). Again, revisions were needed, as I don’t think it’s very safe to blindly submit something, even if you were perfectly happy with it previously.

In other words, the novel’s coming along very well, submissions are submitted (and the inevitable lottery entered). There’s just not a hell of a lot of “new” writing happening these days, which bugs me.

It would bug me more if it wasn’t for the fact that I seem to be in a “research” period. Quite involuntarily, I find that I’m following leads which present themselves to me without my seeking them: clues, ideas, conjectures. Most influential, at least currently, is Karl Popper, whose “Unended Quest” I have been devouring for the last while. His insights into the theory of knowledge and its application across the spectrum of art, science, and politics is – if anything – thought provoking. The goal of philosophy, I am reminded when reading someone who understands exactly what he or she is talking about, is not to blindly adopt beliefs because they sound good, but to digest them. To try them on like a pair of garish sunglasses and look at the world through them; rarely will even the most profound philosophy not require adjustments made to it in order for you to still be and think like you, and not someone else.

I’m reminded of Hesse’s Siddhartha, where the protagonist, upon meeting the Gotama Buddha, rejects his offer for Siddhartha to join his group, stating that the Buddha himself came to his wisdom not by following others, but through making the necessary mistakes needed to attain wisdom.

Somewhere, far away, I am *this* close to something.

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Update – July 7th

A slightly bitter-tasting but substantial smörgåsbord for you today, dear reader…

  1. The last week and-a-bit has been a little hard on me. Found out over a week ago that a good work-friend I hadn’t been in touch with for a couple of years had passed away in his sleep. By the time I’d found out, the memorial had already happened. Everything that could be done or said had been done and said. And so, one has no choice in this situation but to simply accept the fact that, like it or not, sad or happy, the last chapter in a sub-plot has been written without my consent or input. I think the thing which upsets me most about sudden deaths is the lack of control. I’ve had relatives who have died of cancer or carried on weakly after a stroke, and it was clear to everyone that the pen nib of fate was scratching out the last bits of their narrative; as the living bereaved, we had time to digest what was happening in our own way. With Trent – my friend and workmate – I was left with nothing but the unavoidable metric truth of his death.


  2. Foolishly, perhaps owing to my Chinese astrological tendencies (Dog), I’ve been patiently waiting for a response from a Toronto lit mag to get back to me on a short fiction submission I’d mailed to them almost a year ago. Owing to fatigue, I finally emailed the editor last week, only to find out from his response that “We would have responded to that a very long time ago, so I’m assuming it got lost in the mail/E-mail. I’m also assuming it was our response that got lost, and not your submission, as the title sounds familiar. “. So, in other words, I’d wasted a year not submitting the (admittedly solid) piece elsewhere. This upset me to no end. Nobody likes to be rejected – something I’ve accustomed myself to – but in this case I was left wondering whether they’d actually bothered to send anything out. I don’t lose incoming mail, nor is my email spam filter so prejudiced as to reject anything addressed directly to me (unless of course they put something like “rejection letter for Cialis” in the subject header). I drank a lot that night and complained bitterly to friends who consoled me, particularly those who caught my Facebook status message: “Matt wonders what could be worse than finding out a form rejection letter with your name on it got lost in the mail.”


  3. Not willing to let “the shit” (he says, in the collective sense) get me down, I continued to revise the novel, having finished going through to the (current) ending, thus completing my first full pass on the book as a whole. I immediately went back to the beginning, which I’d barely looked at in months, and started full-revision #2. I think it’s coming together nicely, and the feedback I’ve received on excerpts given to my peers in the writing group I run have been very positive. I just wish there was someone I could bribe in order to get one of my short fiction pieces published, because it’s a bit of a hindrance approaching an editor with a novel having a big fat “0” in the previously-published department. I’m also looking at doing more story submissions to non-Canadian publishers, as I find the atmosphere in this country a little stifling. Make of that what you will.


  4. A good tonic for these doldrums was to be had when my wife and I took a drive through the Niagara peninsula (after an absurdist trip to Niagara Falls – don’t bother asking – thankfully, we had two good friends to help us drink away the memories). We both love wine, and as firm supporters of Canadian wineries it was great to get out (only an hour’s drive from the city) and see the vinyards, the countryside, and quaff vast amounts of the best vino North America has to offer. So much so, in fact, that I’ve considered starting a new blog specifically geared towards Canadian wine. We shall see.
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May (pt. 3: Revision)

I took a train to Montréal for the second-last weekend in May.

I love the city, in particular its colour, zest, and architecture. There are also some great bands coming from there. However, to be fair, taking the train was a substantial part of the reason; four hours each way with which I could exclusively devote to reading War and Peace and, most importantly, working on the novel.

So, it was a work/reflect/relax sort of trip – the sort of thing to help tie up some loose threads in my head while occasionally practising my French. I caught a couple of bands at a cool venue called Zoo Bizarre, went to the Museum of Contemporary Art, ate, slept, drank, and mostly walked around with the aimless ambition of understanding how the city is laid-out.

As I write this, the novel is in good shape. The ending is almost complete and I’m beginning to see it more clearly in my head from beginning-to-end (as opposed to visualizing it as a bunch of sorted chapters). I also managed to get through a good chunk of War and Peace – such a good book, yet so heavy on the everyday details.

I wish I could say that I entered June with revelations and wisdom, but those are two things you can’t just extract from the ether. I still have a lot of things rolling around my head that need figuring out, creatively-speaking. For me, sometimes it’s better having several balls to juggle rather than one to contemplate soley. I know, from previous experience, that (to paraphrase the witches from Shakespeare’s Macbeth) doors open for those who decide to knock.

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“I said, ‘Saul, I am a novelist, and many of my friends are novelists and good ones, but when we talk I keep feeling we are in two very different businesses. What makes me feel that way?’

Six seconds passed, and then he said, ‘It’s very simple. There are two sorts of artists, one not being in the least superior to the other. But one responds to the history of his or her art so far, and the other responds to life itself.'”

– Kurt Vonnegut, from A Man Without A Country
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Science Fiction, or, Children of a Lesser Genre

I caught an entry on the popular literary blog/magazine Book Ninja, highlighting an article by writer Clive Thompson, revealingly titled “Why Sci-Fi Is the Last Bastion of Philosophical Writing“. I wanted to respond on Book Ninja, but I realised that I wasn’t responding to the article so much as forking the argument in an unrelated direction. That, and, well, when I tried posting my response the bloody “security phrase” was wrong and when I clicked the Back button on my browser my eloquent, finely-crafted response was gone. Consider this a means of channelling my sorrow.

Thompson contends that the strength of science fiction over so-called “literary fiction” is that the latter, in regards to ideas, has become so mired in everyday realism that it’s become less interesting as a result.

While that is debatable, there’s a bit which I thought contentious:

“So, then, why does sci-fi, the inheritor of this intellectual tradition, get short shrift among serious adult readers? Probably because the genre tolerates execrable prose stylists. Plus, many of sci-fi’s most famous authors — like Robert Heinlein and Philip K. Dick — have positively deranged notions about the inner lives of women.”

Firstly, let me get the following off my chest: I hate the term “science fiction”. [Note: Thompson rubs salt in this irritation by including dragons into the mix. Dragons? Methinks he has his genres confused]. “Science fiction” is a left-brained label which conjures 50’s-era Youth Adventure stories with rocket ships and lasers. In other words, the connotation of “science fiction” is that it is a lesser, more utilitarian form of fiction than the hallowed halls of “literary fiction”. Nothing could be further from the truth. Of course, you can’t blame people for thinking this when they step into the Science Fiction section of their neighbourhood Book Behemoth. Row upon row of monochromatic, serialised “space and laser” stories. Blame the capitalists, I say. If you’re a publisher and you know that 16-year old kids will devour clichés so long as they involve space travel, you won’t care about quality.

However, to directly address Thompson’s contention, I would like to know how “execrable prose” and “deranged notions of women” are the sole providence of science fiction? Are we talking about a genetic disorder from which our precious “literary fiction” is immune? Are you telling me that one is cleaner than the other – do you really want to go there, Thompson? Eh?

I do stand in agreement though: science fiction (for lack of a better term) historically represents the bleeding edge of philosophy. What people who shun the genre don’t realise is that it often transpires without a space ship, laser, or tight-pantaloon’d woman in sight. Need I mention the likes of Stanislaw Lem, Eugene Zamiatin, or the Strugatsky Brothers? Some of the greatest sci-fi writers produced their best-known work under political tyranny (it should be stated: the one convenient thing about writing in a genre that the establishment doesn’t take seriously is that one can communicate vast, revolutionary ideas without getting caught).

What bugs me is that when authors of “literary fiction” dip into the conceits of science fiction, there is often praise for their bold move (as if they were writing in a foreign language), yet – outside the likes of William Gibson – there is scant recognition for the science fiction author who transcends the confines (or expectations) of his or her genre.

In truth, as a writer, I’m torn between the gravitational pulls of both “literary fiction” and “science fiction”. I think an otherworldliness can make the everyday more captivating for the reader, but it takes skill to balance both so that you’re neither stretching believability nor betraying the wonder of the other by miring it in mundanity. I respect both strains of fiction yet I consider it tragic that so many good books and stories remain unread because of nothing more than a problem in perception.

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State of the Nation

It would seem that the world is going through some disruption lately. Both the microscopic world that is my creative life and the world-at-large.

The novel is coming along, but I found I’d written as much as I could. It couldn’t get any further in its current draft without a “state of the nation” – the necessary point at which the writer must ask tough questions before proceeding. So, I decided to distill each chapter into cue card format, with the thought of posting them on a corkboard – the main idea was to be able to glaze over the thing and look at it objectively; this is something that’s impossible to do when you’re building the thing chapter by chapter. After completing the summary of the last-written chapter of the current draft, I realised that the draft was anaemic.

This was no surprise – or rather , it shouldn’t have been a surprise. The whole purpose of summarizing the novel into cue card form was for the fact I couldn’t see the forest for the trees anymore (pardon the cliché). You find yourself telling a story filled with characters and ideas, yet at times it ends up being a bunch of ideas posing as a story – at worst, neither…just a bunch of semi-articulated characters talking in order to necessarily further the plot so that the fucking thing can keep moving forward the way you thought it would.

In any case, justified or not, I was disappointed.

The next day, I took a long walk – the saving grace for the creative mind. I rolled the book’s problems and inefficiencies around my head like rocks in a laundry dryer. I then found myself sitting in a familiar coffee shop and proceeded to spend a couple of hours writing down the resulting thoughts from my medicative stroll. In the end, it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. While not every individual issue got solved, I found myself with a solution or two which addressed my doubts. However, the long road seems longer – there’s still a lot of work to be done before I can consider the current draft complete.

And the rest of the world, you ask? What of that macroverse you’ve avoided telling us about? Well, one bastard got kicked out of office. Another promises to step down. One did everything possible to halt any significant movement on climate change. Another continued to arrest anyone who questioned his hand-picked successor’s path to election.

The moral of the story lies in the immortal words of Charles Bukowski: perseverance is greater than strength.

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A call for local writers

Hello all. For the last two years, I’ve been an organizer and participant of a Toronto-based writers group, called “Carpe DM”. We are poets and prose writers: we come from different backgrounds and disciplines. As of late, due to various natural circumstances (school, life, work), our membership has dwindled down from 12 to 6 active participants.

We’re looking for new Toronto-based writers to join our group.

If you’re interested, here are some take-a-look-in-the-mirror recommendations:

1) We are only interested in people who are serious about writing (in that writing is an ongoing process, which involves labour and dedication).

2) We are not interested in writers who are looking solely for congratulations on their work, but who instead desire honest, constructive feedback. On this note, you will be expected to provide the same for the other members.

3) We are looking for people who can attend monthly meetings (it’s in a bar, so it’s not like we’re stuffy or anything).

4) You are over the age of 25.

5) We are not a star chamber; we do not encourage preciousness, though to be brutally honest we also believe in meritocracy. We are good writers who want to become better writers. Adding poor writers is not something we are interested in.

Still there? Good. If this sounds like something you’re interested in, please leave a comment or drop me a line (by removing the word “NOSPAM” from this address): apostata@NOSPAMrogers.com.

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You cannot write anything about yourself that is more truthful than you yourself are. That is the difference between writing about yourself and writing about external objects. You write about yourself from your own height. You don’t stand on stilts or on a ladder but on your bare feet.

– Ludwig Wittgenstein (manuscript note, 1937)

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