Doubt

There are moments of self-doubt that creep in throughout the writing process. Am I unique enough? Observant enough? Talented enough? These moments, at least for me, tend to occur most often during the re-writing process, which, by the way, I'm in the thick of.

Yep. I'm revising the first novel. Again. It's a good thing, mostly. I think I've figured out how to make the reader connect better with the main character -- an issue that several editors have flagged.

It was going great for the first few weeks, smooth sailing. I cut 20,000 words and didn't think twice about it. And then the doubt. It didn't so much creep in as run me over. I was sitting in Starbucks typing away and then -- SLAM. "WTF do you know?" it growled. "You're a f&*%ing princess."

It had the voice of a trucker, this doubt, deep, gravelly and southern. Mississippi, maybe? Hard to tell because I move in Canadian circles. But I could smell the cigarettes and BBQ on its breath.

I was re-working a highly-charged emotional scene -- the breakdown of a relationship that's been holding my main character together -- and I didn't know how to write it. Instead of the usual doubts, I wondered "Am I deep enough? Complex enough? Have I experienced enough?"

It felt like I was pulling from clichés and shit I've seen on TV, putting that scene together, like all of my words were coming from an artificial place. I thought that no matter how much imagination and empathy I poured into that page that the emotions would never ring true. The trucker was right, I realized. WTF did I know about this kind of gut-wrenching pain? I AM a f&*%ing princess.

Maybe I'm jinxing myself here, but despite a few bumps along the road, I've lived a pretty charmed life. I've had relationships break down, sure, but I've never been in crisis over it like my main character, and I've never really struggled like she's struggling, or rather, like I want to make her.

Do I have the emotional depth required? The raw resources to draw from? Right now, it sure doesn't feel like it.

I know this too shall pass; I've been doing this long enough, after all. But I am feeling the doubt particularly intensely during this revision.

I suppose I should feel grateful for the doubt. At least it's a feeling. Without it I think the emptiness, the numbness of revising what I've already revised 50 times before would take over and there I'd be, wading through a pool of room-temperature water, my princess gown floating in the waves.

Marriage has nothing to do with writing (except EVERYTHING)

I got married on Saturday and, of course, the only photo that I have from the wedding is of me on the verge of making out with a bowl of French fries.

I'm cheating on my blog...

... With another blog!

http://theblabbermouthblog.com/2013/04/19/guest-post-when-writing-your-second-novel/

The Elusive Authorwannabeus: A David Attenborough Special

"Look look! We've spotted her! The elusive 'Emily' -- a member of the bespectacled Authorwannabeus species! She was tagged months ago by a research team from the Iowa Writers' Workshop but has eluded detection ever since! Hurrah!

My guide has just informed me that 'Emily' is at work on novel #2 and is preparing to enter a self-imposed literary hibernation. She's already been noticeably absent from her favourite brunch habitats, apparently, and her blog, barring a whiny rant now and then, has been all but abandoned. Goodness me! Aren't we lucky to catch a glimpse!

Now let's try to get a bit closer. Careful now. We don't want to scare her off. Authorwannabeuses are notoriously skittish, not to mention highly defensive when it comes to their work.

Oh my -- look at those haunches! She's already put on the excess weight she believes is required to get her through the long, hard, lonely months ahead. Interesting fact: Unlike the brown bear (Ursus arctos), the Authorwannabeus eats throughout her period of hibernation. In fact, she consumes rather a lot, often binging on corn chips and generic Swedish Berries. Simply fascinating creature.

Wait, what's this? She's doing something! She's... No! Could we really be so lucky? She is! She is banging her head against the keyboard! This is the stuff of Authorwannabeus legend -- a tall tale told by barristas and librarians, but never before documented on film! What a day this has been for science!"

The Matrix vs. Tron and WTF this has to do with writing

It's so easy to erase some things. Yesterday, for instance, I accidentally deleted a blog post. I published the thing, went to edit it later when I noticed a typo and -- oops -- hit "delete" instead of "edit." And it was gone. Instantly. Like it never existed.

And then today. And this is going to be a bit gross so read on at your own peril. Today I got a mole removed. Two hours in my dermatologist's office and that fleshy chocolate chip that's been annoying me since I could wear a bra was excised from my back.

I wish it was that easy with my creative turmoil; that all the emotional baggage I'm holding onto over my work could get lopped off or deleted and be sent far away to some mole lab or the Matrix or wherever deleted blog posts go.... The Grid maybe? Hell, I don't know. Hey Keanu! Why don't you and that guy, that Tron actor guy, fight it out and get back to me?

What's that, Keanu? Thanks to me you'll never be able to eat a chocolate chip cookie ever again? Puh-leese. Aren't you The One or whatever? Shouldn't you be able to like BE a chocolate chip?

I've seen the future...

I'm feeling a bit desperate to be read, loved and published these days. It's a phase I swing in and out of, one that's often accompanied by some sort of mildly irrational behaviour. (See here, here, here, here and here.)

It was that state of mind that, last night, pushed me all the way to Cabbagetown and down a dark sidewalk to the creaky front door of a psychic. Actually, he doesn't like to call himself a "psychic," but he reads cards and tells me what's going to happen to me in the future so....

I'd never met the man before, but I'd heard stories, incredible stories, and he did not disappoint. He was a force of nature; oozing personality and attitude and LIFE. He had an ancient dog who farted as if on cue and enormous, looming antiques that made me feel claustrophobic. He burrowed into my eyes with his, reading me more than the cards, and got to business. He told me there was travel in my future, that this was a year of immense change and that the Canadian economy was going to be in the absolute shitter. Then he said something about Jupiter in retrograde, Martha Stewart, Genghis Khan, his day spent fabric shopping and I mentally checked out. I pictured his rococo armoire reaching out, its ornate handles as hands, digging into my pocket for his $65 fee.

He won me back quickly, though, because he is breathtakingly good at what he does. I am creative, he said, and my soul is on fire. I have an innate talent and it needs to sing. He said something about my "physicality" that freaked me the f#$% out because he was dead on. Then he had me shuffle a new deck, split it in three and that's when he said the big IT. It would all work out, he told me, my book, my writing career. Not without struggle, of course, but it would happen. By July or October of this year, he said. I was taken aback -- I wasn't expecting, like, dates and stuff. My stomach jumped into my throat and if the dog hadn't farted again, I just might have.

I felt so special in that room. He made me feel like my dreams were going to come true; that they were, in fact, already in the process of coming true. As I walked out of his home and headed towards the streetcar, my engagement ring still in my pocket, I let myself believe -- I embraced his reading as prophecy.

Today, now that the magic of his showmanship has faded, my belief has weakened. But the dream hasn't. And for me, the dream is enough.

High hopes and new Popes

Not much to report as of late, hence the radio silence. I've also been really busy writing. I recently finished a short story called "The Year of Falling Glass" and submitted it to the Toronto Star's short story contest -- one of the best short fiction contests I've ever come across in terms of prizes and mainstream exposure. Can you imagine making $5000 for a short story? That's unheard of, at least in Canadian literary circles where prizes are either

a) a congratulatory snowball (freezer-shipped to you at your expense),

b) clippings from Michael Ondaatje's beard, or 

c) an empty promise of a moose and/or aurora borealis sighting 

If you're eligible, I highly suggest you toss your hat in the Toronto Star's ring. (Is it just me or did that sound vaguely sexual?) The deadline is February 24. And get this: there's no entry fee. 

Anyways, I hope all is well with your writing/reading/living and that your pick for Pope gets the nod. Here's mine: