Radioland Book Launch!

Also coming up in November, if you’re going to be in Toronto on November 2nd, I’m inviting you to the book launch for Radioland. It’s happening at Burdock Brewery, 1184 Bloor St. W (a few steps away from Dufferin subway) and I’ll be joined by fellow authors A.G. Pasquella (launching his novella collection, Welcome to the Weird America) and Amber McMillan (launching her poetry collection This is a Stickup).

The three books that are being launched are showcased.
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Story: Wesley Evonshire

Today I have a new short story in the world, which I’m very happy to announce is now available in Fusion Fragment issue #7 (a seriously well-done anthology). This leans more heavily toward speculative fiction (in this case, horror and sci-fi), Wesley Evonshire was one of four stories I began working on a few years ago when I was taking a break from revisions to my upcoming novel, Radioland. They each share a link involving something that fell to earth which has a deleterious effect on those who come across its remnants.

I’m grateful to have any works published, but I’m distinctly happy with this one, not only because I’m proud of it, but that it was also used as inspiration for the cover art of the issue. It is available both as a digital download and hardcopy (my contributor’s copy is pictured below). Other contributors include Tiffany Morris, C.J. Lavigne, and Calgary’s own Heather Clitheroe.

Your patronage is much appreciated (also, the digital version is basically free, so now you have no excuse).

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Writing Adv*ce: Revising

Revising is one of the most important aspects of writing. It’s also the most unsexy, and the hardest to explain (and by explain I mean “gain sympathy”).

You have your first draft done. Could be your second. Could be your fifth. Every project is different, every format is different, every writer is different. No one’s judging here. The thing is, you know it’s missing stuff, or, the stuff that’s there that isn’t missing is maybe not as well communicated as could be. Or it’s out of order. Or confusing.

So, you hit ⌘-P and print that bastard out (preferably on recycled paper, if possible). You grab a pen and go through line by line and find all the guilty suspects — the lazy punctuation, the nebulous internalized dialogue, the parts that should sing but don’t — and you mark it up, complete with thoughts/notes/feelings for future reference.A stylistic photograph of a writing desk, with laptop, notebook, and print outs

The next step is sitting down and implementing those revision notes into the current draft on your computer. Some people might just use the marked up print out as their Bible. I go one step further and re-read from scratch, making changes on my laptop as I go *and then* check the printed copy to see if I’ve missed anything. It’s tedious as fuck (especially on on a novel FML) but it tends to balance, for lack of a better way of putting it, the zealotry that can come with revising on paper. It’s easy to sit with a print out and a pen and go revisit this and skip that. The truth is that sometimes our sentiment during that process can be impatient and ill-judged, which is why I like to re-read and see whether I decide to leave things in that have a way of justifying their existence on second glance.

When you’re revising you’re having a dialogue with yourself. It’s a little different than the dialogue you have when writing new stuff. New stuff is new. It’s sexy and glows and makes us feel good, and we’re happy when we’re able to empty it onto the page, so volume — even if it’s garbled — always feels like striking a gold mine. When we’re revising we step back and attempt to look at what we’ve written within the context of the whole project. The hardest part of revising, for me, is the trifocal quality of how we are reading the text — approaching it as the ideal reader, approaching it as the editor, approaching it as a total stranger. Does it hold our attention? Does the paragraph work within the chapter or am I just trying to shoehorn a smart-sounding insight that simply isn’t meant for this particular project.

Sometimes we don’t know. Sometimes it’s something we’ve been working on for years and we feel like we’ve lost perspective. Does it rock? Does it suck? Does it read like I’ve shoved my head up my ass? It can be difficult to tell when we’re too close. Add some insecurity to that and revising can feel interminable. This is when you take a break (I’m talking days if not weeks).

But here’s the thing: revising is where your piece finds both its soul and its feet on the ground. Greatness is made in the revision process. First drafts are necessary evils. If you are starting out and feel that your first draft is perfect, you’re likely going to need to adjust your perspective. And it’s hard, right, because it’s so easy to construe the weaknesses that an editor or reader might find in our work with the insecurities we might have with ourselves.

If writing was just that — literally just writing new material — then things would be much different. They would be worse. We wouldn’t learn what our bad habits are, we wouldn’t have that opportunity, when we feel we’ve hit a wall during revisions on a particularly hard chapter, to realize how we might alter things so that it finally works the way we originally wanted it to.

Revising is learning. And again, it is a dialogue with yourself. Be supportive. Don’t forget to mark up the stuff you like! Don’t forget to tell yourself what’s funny, or what’s particularly poignant. In many ways, revising mirrors the relationship we have with ourselves, so watch the trash talk. Accept that you are fallible. Everyone’s first draft looks like dog food. Be patient.

Just some thoughts.

(And kindly note a couple of things: I’m speaking specifically about fiction and creative non-fiction; other formats might require other approaches or appreciate different philosophies. And a golden rule: what works best for you is what’s most important.)

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Man Alone (Can’t Stop The Fadin’), by Tindersticks

I’m in heavy novel revision mode at the moment. In fact, as I write this I’m at Artscape Gibraltar Point. It’s day 2 for me. Only a handful of artists here, given the lockdown conditions, which, as a writer, I don’t mind at all. I’m here to work. And eat like a 12yr old.

I’m very happy to have happened onto Tindersticks awhile back. This is from their newest:

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December

There’s no way to summarize this year, so I won’t start.

Stripping things down to studs, I’m thankful for my health, no matter that I still sometimes push myself too hard because of stubborn habits; that said, 2020 was largely injury free, which I mostly attribute to taking core exercises seriously. My running times have markedly improved, as well as my ability to be patient with myself (e.g. anxiety about my ability to finish whatever running circuit I’ve chosen, no matter that I almost always finish them). I blame/thank guitar lessons, which have forced me to find patience with myself, that is if I was ever going to continue with them (with thanks to my instructor, Michael, who recognized this and talked me down from getting frustrated with myself on a couple of occasions). I wish the process of being patient was as simple as allowing myself to expect long-term as opposed to short-term results — easy, right? But, with me at least, it can also be a frustration with myself on a deeper level. So, with guitar, to find a way to come to terms with that in an intentional way that incorporates regular practice (which means good days, bad days, ugly days — all of which are ok and inevitable, right?) is a gift and a privilege as much as it is also, in every sense of the word, work. I don’t do gratitude posts, but I am grateful to have had, in this year of years, the ability to pay my bills and still have the time (and ability) to write and, less successfully (at least with fiction) read.

It can be weird to acknowledge one’s growth in a year during which there has been so much death and ignorance, and so much terrible news, while so many of our elected leaders are more focused on the next election rather than the human cost of the pandemic in front of them. I wrote earlier in the year about paying attention to the precedents that the pandemic ushers in, and I feel it’s still important, though increasingly the precedents seem retrograde rather than progressive or humanitarian. All I can do is stay informed and continue to support those who put the the general good before the economy.

2020 made me think closely about volunteering time and money, both of which I did widely, whereas in the past my efforts were typically cause-specific. It made me think about why in the past it’s been easier for me to donate to large, recognized charities which issue me a tax receipt at the end of the year than, say, the GoFundMe drive for something smaller yet no less important (like 1492 Landback Lane) which, because the latter is community driven, stays off the radar of those who would otherwise donate if the same tax relief applied. I understand there are many reasons for this, but 2020 made me want to support local initiatives (involved with food scarcity, shelter, etc), and the advantages of larger/mega charities who can hire PR teams to write altruistic ad copy suddenly seems a baked-in advantage, as the WE scandal showed. In other words, it’s not fair, morally speaking equitable.

I wrote a lot this year, and I managed to land at least two publication deals for short stories. My next novel, Radioland, looks to be finding a home shortly — look for an announcement in January. And yet nearly all of my writing this year has been related to my 3rd novel, which, owing to the pandemic and how it affected as much where as how I wrote, allowed me to get out of my areas of comfort. As a result I ended up writing more, substantially more, in each of my writing sessions (though I still give myself a break if I’m at an impasse and just need to freeform/sketch some stuff). I would love to have a complete(ish) first draft of novel #3 done before I go into heavy revisions on Radioland, but I’m thinking that’s a bit of a pipe dream. We’ll see.

My work as a psychotherapist was exhausting, and yet I probably did some of my best work with clients this year. This as my practice was indirectly affected by the economic effects of the initial lockdown and ensuing health measures. I lost (at least temporarily) a decent chunk of my business. That said, I’m grateful to be able to cover my expenses. Working virtually with clients became more necessary, and while my ability to engage virtually with clients for prolonged hours of the day improved as the weeks proceeded after lockdown, I still feel that in-person talk therapy is the gold standard, albeit one that many aren’t able to partake in at the moment, due to health concerns or financial disruption. And if I read one more Is The Future of Therapy Online? thinkpiece I will put my fist through a wall. In 2020 I increased my involvement in raising awareness of how white psychotherapy in Toronto is, and how it needs to (literally) make room for financially disadvantaged and racialized individuals, so that the BIPOC community may see themselves better reflected when they are seeking help. I wish to push that one harder in 2021.

Oh, and I turned 50. It’s the new 40, apparently. Yes, I would’ve preferred a 50th blow out party at a favourite bar with friends. I still had a grand, if isolated, time in PEC with my partner, Ingrid.

I don’t know who comes to this blog. What I write is diverse, sometimes niche, often somewhat politicized, so I imagine my readership reflects this. Though it may sound odd when applied to any other, I hope you had a steady year, and I hope 2021 gives us the opportunity to be with those we love once we’re all vaccinated.

Be well.

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Reading Fiction

One casualty of the COVID-19 lockdown has been the fact that I can’t read fiction. The good news is that this doesn’t affect my ability to read/revise my own writing, however any plans I’d had to finish or start something transportive I’ve had to set aside.

My assumption is that this is a product of low-level fight/flight/freeze instinct at play. Once again, there’s a very real danger out there, after all. A lot of very real deaths out there, too, which has in turn halted the world’s economies. Mass layoffs, and entire industries staring into the mirror, wondering what awaits them around the corner. Fast-forward two endless months, and each province, state, and country is playing a game of How Much Do We Open, some more cagily than others. And still the thrills and chills — commercial real estate as we know it may be undergoing a paradigm change — continue.

Whatever the reason, I just don’t have the space for fiction at the moment. I have enough room in my head to be able to navigate the world (as well as the fictional ones I’ve created) and that’s about it. And, believe me reader, I would love nothing more than to finish Ludmila Ulitskaya’s The Big Green Tent, which is a lovingly told novel about the lives of a trio of young men (and by extension their loved ones and colleagues) in post-Stalinist USSR. I suppose the good news is that I get to savour it?

As for non-fiction? I’m mainlining that shit. And I’m so thankful for my subscriptions to the Literary Review of Canada, and (a Christmas 2019 gift) the London Review of Books. Yes, make of this what you will, but though I don’t have room in my head for fiction, I have more than enough for reading essays about books (some of which are fiction).

I’m also thankful that I’d started learning a musical instrument last year — being able to practice guitar (and, more importantly, relearn a lot of music theory I’d abandoned decades ago) allows me to appreciate music in a fuller way than I have previously as just a listener/devotee.

So, perhaps it bears repeating: there are no awards being handed out when this is all over, because the “all over” will neither be soon, nor easily measurable because it stands to happen very gradually (and I’m not placing any bets on the “all” part). A lot of us who have had our self-development routines halted — going to the gym, dance class, recreational team sports, for instance — are looking for ways to perform (on a basic level at least) so that we feel some sense of personal progress. And the truth is that I think we will all be left on our own to make sense of this, in our own ways — which is perhaps the equivalent of a participation badge rather than an award.

Just make the best of it. Don’t expect a lot, because this is a crisis. Take whatever you can find in terms of growth and accept that for what it is. Routines will come, but later. Relaxation will come, but later. Reading fiction (for me, at least) will come, but later.

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