A Writer's Guide

Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way. 

 —E.L. Doctorow

I've been writing a lot lately, which makes me feel like a freaking superhero. Sometimes, I do my best work when I'm not really paying attention to it—in fact, when I actively avoid thinking about it—because then my brain doesn't get in the way of my work. It's not that I enter some sort of fugue state or anything, just that, if I'm thinking about the work, the work starts taking on this mythic quality—it becomes The Work—and I then crumble under my self-imposed pressure.

But things have been different recently. I spend a lot of time thinking about what I'm writing, not just daydreaming about how JJ Abrams is going to option my book and turn it into a movie and then kids are going to read the comic based and people will cosplay it at conventions and I will be so, so rich. I'm trying to figure out plot arcs, get to know my characters (would she go to a dance by herself? No, but she might go if a friend went with her!), and build up their world so that, when I'm writing, I can flow effortlessly from a tense meeting written from one character's perspective, to a bit of dialect that marks another character as being Of Interest, to a description of a hot afternoon in the middle of a field. It's like brain yoga: I can feel the story's muscles sliding around on my body.

Dudes, it is so much fun.

But I'm not an expert at this. And while I'm trying to honour my beginner's mind (TM), I'm also well aware that I have some pretty wide knowledge gaps. I need some guides.

I'm partial to Anne Lamott's Bird By Bird, a writing guide that is equal parts snark, Christian forgiveness, and actual useful tips. It's amazing, filled with great quotes from other writers and creative types, and it offers clear-eyed compassion for people who feel compelled to make or tell stories. "Often when you sit down to write," she says, "what you have in mind is an autobiographical novel about your childhood, or a play about the immigrant experience, or a history of—oh, say—say women." This make me laugh uproariously in high school, when the combination of low stakes and deadlines allowed me to churn out nice writing; it still makes me laugh now, because occasionally I discover that I've spent the last few hours daydreaming about an epic history of co-operative housing. She also introduced me to this incredible poem, which still takes my breath away.

So I turn to you: what writing resources have you unearthed that have changed your methods or outlook? Are there books or blogs, writers or poets, who have told you something true and useful about the process of writing? A great and pithy quote? A magazine you turn to occasionally? I'm looking for some new signposts, not to lead the way, but to help me stay on track.

Trans Metropolitan

Let me start this post by making it clear that I come from a place of privilege. I won't list all the ways that I'm well-placed in this world - some of them are accidents of my birth, some of them are things I've achieved - but suffice it to say this: I'm a straight, white, able-bodied, cis woman. For me to be aware of specific types of suffering (homophobia, transphobia, racism, etc.) is to know it about through second- or third-hand accounts of other people's experience. That's not to say I can't be empathetic or helpful, but I can't know someone's lived experience of their own body.

So when I attend an event like Pride, I do it in a way that makes me feel...weird, to be honest. I feel touristy. A gaggle of friends and I went down on Saturday night last weekend to check out the DJ stages and go dancing. The street part was in full swing with lots of different kinds of people: leather daddies wearing assless chaps; sobbing boys wrapped in feather boas; college girls in rainbow-printed teeshirts and collars; drag queens; muscular dudes with matching tattoos who waited for each other outside the PortaPotties; moms with infants strapped to their chest; clean-cut dudes in newsboy hats; girls in fetish wear, and more. It's estimated that, over Pride's ten-day run, over a million people come and make the scene.

Now, straight up: I'm a misanthropist jerk who hates crowds. I told my boyfriend that it was every man for himself as we shoved our way up to Wellesley, which was maybe not the most thoughtful thing I could have said/done. Part of it has to do with that touristy feeling; treating the party as a spectacle made it feel like an LGBTQ petting zoo. Which is complicated by the fact that some folks obviously party with a look-at-me vibe (exhibit A: the seven-foot tall drag queen in a silver lame bikini and stiletto heels), and some folks are there to be among "people like me," whatever that means to each specific person, and some people are there to tap into just the party and couldn't give a shit about the sexual politics of the event.

It was especially confusing after I read Nicki Ward's excellent critique of Pride's decision to exclude the Trans March, now among the largest in the world, from their official programming. No, not just exclude it: to actively work against it, to confound the Trans March organizers and the people who wanted to march with them. I say this will full knowledge of my privilege, with full acknowledgement of the discomfort parades and huge, drunken street parties make me feel: that is some grade-A bullshit right there.

In Toronto, Pride grew from protests following a bathhouse crackdown (imaginatively code-named "Operation Soap," which, like...really?) that saw 300 men arrested and 3,000 people take to the streets in protest. These days, over thirty years later, significant strides have been made in LGBTQ civil rights. Gay men and women can marry, and can adopt kids. Their jobs are protected. They can serve openly in the military. Many of these rights have been consecrated since the bathhouse raids, and Canada has an active and vocal queer community that has made huge strides in equality. Pride is a huge and important part of that: the tourism dollar are a boon to Toronto and Ontario's economy, there is a massive spike in queer visibility through media coverage, and politicians, prominent businesspeople, and other community leaders have made it a point to participate (although some choose to stay away).

So why shut out trans people? What about that particular group, which already suffers from employment discrimination and family rejection, provokes an "Oh no, not you" response in the rainbow community? It's discrimination, plain and simple. It's a powerful group using its power to undermine a less powerful community.

I'm not naive enough to think that transgender issues and gay/lesbian issues overlap 100%, or even 50%. But I don't think that matters; Pride has some serious work to do on this area of inclusion, and no valid reason not to. I understand there are risks; to change the delicate ecosystem of rights and power and visibility is a tricky thing, and fully embracing and accepting the trans population and beginning to care about their needs and motivations could carry some risks. But Pride organizers can no longer work actively against the trans people in their midst. They're not going anywhere. They're hear to stay. The largest Trans March in the world deserves more than radio silence and obfuscation, and I have hunch that they'll continue to take to the streets to get it. As they should.

Solstice Bonfire of the Vanities

Solstice has become one of my favourite days of the year. I'm not one of those hippie-pagan neo-faeries who wear wings to drug-free raves and live in "love constellations," although, you know, if you are: namaste, weirdo.

As much as I poop on the hemp-wearing citizens of this little blue marble, I'm taking teeny baby steps in that direction myself. It's deeply embarrassing; I used to be cool. Now, the highlight of my day is the moment when my boyfriend walks in the door. I'm getting off on the interpersonal connection, and man, it's groovy. I've traded Coke Zero for sparkling water (who am I?) and have taken up Nia and yoga. I use words like "yang" and "hara." I went to the used bookstore last week and fruitlessly searched for a book on chakras.

I am a skeptic by nature. I am distrustful of optimists and people who claim that they're "lucky" in any area of their lives; this goes double for people who get good jobs, publish high-profile writing, or get knocked up on their first try. I generally want to know what they're eating and what side of the body they sleep on and if they're listening to any particular music genre and if they're using a special cream or something. And, in addition to being skeptical, I'm also kind of dark. I tend to focus on the negative things (my apartment is messy! I'm a fattie! I'm unemployed!) while scanning past the good stuff (I live with an awesome partner! I've beaten an eating disorder! I have a ton of free time!). Long story short: I can be kind of a bummer.

So this sidestep into hippie-dom is good for me, I think. Focusing on the light in my life leaves me with less time to be a little raincloud, all pouty and whining, "When is it my turn?" when friends embark on exciting adventures like international travel or engagements. And it forces me to pay attention to my own awesome life. Yesterday, I made a floral crown and watched three hours of Top Gear. On Wednesday, I danced in the park with a dear friend and made friendship bracelets. Today, I'm writing and dancing in a museum. All three of those days, I was healthy of brain and of body; the people I loved were a short bike ride or phone call away; I had clean clothes and a good-smelling body wash; there were fresh figs and iced tea in my fridge. Etcetera.

The trick will be if I can translate that focus on the "small & good" into the "big & not necessarily on the track I want it to be on." Exhibit A: my professional life is a little bit...even typing the words "my professional life" made me sigh out loud, so maybe I should just leave it at that. But while job hunting is bone-meltingly tedious, unemployment allows me to dance a lot, make a lot of home-cooked food, get stuff done around our apartment, and think big-picture thoughts. Not owning a house = no mortgage payments, plenty of flexibility if we want to move, and nothing tying me to a lifestyle I don't necessarily want to maintain. No wedding? I'm not paying off a one-day party two years later. No kids means my waist, hips, sleep schedule, and bank account are staying right where I've parked them. And so on. It's loosening my tight little envy knots.

The solstice is a good day to do this kind of stock-taking work. It can be tough to drill down and let the sunshine in to our dark places, but the day is long and full of light. Traditionally, there are bonfires to bring luck and ward off spirits; now, we usually celebrate with patio drinks. It's all part of the wheel of time, which is a good image to hold in my mind when I'm feeling rather squashed by that particular wheel. Everything runs in cycles: me, the seasons, the world, and the people in it. Let's fill ourselves up with light today.

The Kings of Summer

The Kings of Summer is being marketed as the kind of comedic jam that follows in the footsteps of indie gems like Napoleon Dynamite, but its true spiritual and artistic uncles are gauzy, montage-heavy cinema pieces like Like Crazy, which might be kind of a bummer for kids heading to the multiplex in search of raucous weirdness.

Not that this is a bad thing. The Kings of Summer is an exploration of growing up and getting out of the house - in the most literal way possible, it should be said - but it's also a sweet look at male friendship at the crossroads between childhood and adulthood. These characters are old enough to scavenge for building materials for the woodsy shelter and wield a machete without anyone getting killed, but young enough that they still ask God to give them an omen (i.e. an escape route) when faced with scary things they don't want to do. They're in the sweet spot when girls matter about as much as parents do, where bikes are the only way to get around town, and where death can be willed away if only you can just get calm enough.

Not a lot actually happens in The Kings of Summer - seriously, the movie is like 70% montage - and while the characters have cell phones and go to keggers, the movie seems to be set in some timeless Small Town Universe where has changed since 1963. One of the characters goes to a library, for pete's sake. As if Wikipedia hadn't been invented yet. Whatever!

I think it's part of wave of nostalgia for Before The Internet. Two more teen-oriented movies are coming out this summer set in times (The To-Do List in 1993) or places (The Way Way Back at a cottage) where cell phone reception is spotty at best. They're times and places where people talk to each other instead of texting and where swimming in the lake take precedence over The Sims.

As more and more human interaction is mediated by technology - texts, gchat, Skype, and what-have-you - I think culture producers are going to have a tougher time dramatizing stories about daily human lived experiences. As so, while the reality is that many of spend a lot of time alone, in front of screens, "with" our friends, that makes for an awfully boring movie. Setting things in a timeless forest, or 1993, or during the apocalypse after the internet's been wiped out, or in a superheroing cadre that doesn't need the internet, is a good way of mitigating that alone/screen/"with" storytelling dynamic.

As a result, we'll see fewer and fewer of our stories onscreen. More magical realism, more superheroes, more period pieces, but far fewer movies made about the human experience in 2013. This is, I think, a loss: for films to be art, they need to show us something about our humanity that we can't know any other way. And films can't do that if they're side-stepping the way we actually live in favour of stories that are simply easier to tell.

So: The Kings of Summer. Not terrible, not exceptional - the shooting style is very Instagram - but notable for it being the first of the summer movies to get outside the computer box. It won't be the last.

Zero Coke Zero

So I'm giving up alcohol and Coke Zero for six months, a move that has prompted at least two people to furrow their eyebrows at me and say, "Are you trying to get pregnant or something?" (Cue an eye roll so big it can be seen from space, y'all.) The truth is that I'm fulfilling more of my self-imposed challenges (visiting Iceland got a big ole checkmark last summer, while getting married isn't going to happen before my deadline of July 14, 2014), not trying to clean out the babymaking factory floor, and I'm looking forward to the chance to maybe feel a little more wholesome.

I think Coke Zero will be the actual challenge; I gave up alcohol for a month in the winter, and, some late-night sleepiness notwithstanding, I had a pretty good time. Swearing off booze gave me a break from the late night/early morning/wasted day cycle of hangovers and spared me the next-day sads, both of which were great for feeling like I'm actually doing something with my life. Besides, summer is a great time to run around and stay up late, and, despite not having a boozy social lubricant, I'm sure karaoke/island bike rides/late night porch parties will be just as swingin' without a manhattan in my hand. And I'm not planning on being evangelical about it: special occasions will merit a glass of wine, as they always have, and likely always will, future pregnancy possibilities included.

But Coke Zero! Love of my life! Beacon of my delight! Since being introduced in 2005, I don't know if I've skipped a day for the last eight years, and the whole multi-sensory experience - the crisp pop of the tab, the effervescence of the first sip, the slight haze of excited carbonation floating on top for the first few seconds - is a ritualized glory. I rely on it as a morning and mid-afternoon pick-me-up, to keep me going through the late night party train, and a general go-to taste experience. It's a signature of mine, as much my big curls, my black tank tops, or my blogs. And to set it on the shelf for six whole months, purely as an exercise in self control? Well...shit.

I like a challenge, though! And what I've sworn off is, specifically, diet colas: aspartame-filled Fresca is still a green flag, as are a myriad full-sugar pops, sparkling water options, club sodas, kombuchas, juices, and smoothies. Will any of them match what is, in my mind, a near-perfect beverage? Likely not. Sugar pops make my mouth feel furry, kombucha bloats me out, and smoothies are a for the yogis and organic moms, not crabby little weirdos like me.

But I do relish the challenge. I want to be totally vice-free: not smoking or doing drugs opens the door for self-control in a number of areas, from big-ticket items (alcohol), to the foot soldiers in the vice armies: pop, sugar, processed foods, not being physically active, too much screen time...all the little things that add up to tight shoulders, glazed eyes, and crummy moods. Who wouldn't want to clear a little more space in their life for feeling good? Or at least experiment with ways of trying to capture that good feeling? It's possible that avoiding Coke Zero will be a failed experiment, and that I'll return to its crisp, familiar embrace with a satisfying tsss of a pop-tab being popped. But even if that happens, I'll be paying attention, not just mindlessly guzzling a product without knowing what it's like to live without it. I think that, in clearing and cleansing, my life will become fuller.

I also think that the next few weeks are going to be m'f'ing tough. So be nice to me, and if I seem grumpy, bring me a sparkling water and a high-five, okay? Okay??

Another Open Letter to Rob Fod

Dear Rob Ford.

What more is there to say? I know that it can't be easy filling your shoes these days, but I'm so annoyed by your constant lack of respect for me.

Yeah, I'm taking this personally. If you claim to stand for the taxpayer, for the voter, for the average Torontonian, well baby, I'm right here. It's me that you're not addressing when you spout nonsensical comebacks to reporters. It's me you're avoiding when your statement on whether or not you smoked crack, and whether or not that was captured on video, fails to materialize. It's me who feels rebuffed when you send your brother to comment on the crack scandal in your stead.

You have long prided yourself on being The People's Mayor, despite raised eyebrows and guffaws from many of The People. You were like Toronto's suburban dad: tight with money, constantly threatening to take us out of swimming lessons and cut off our computer time; a genial football coach who could lead his team to the finals but sometimes slipped up on the field; visibly uncomfortable when dealing with arty weirdos like our cyclist friend or our LGBTQ buddy; who didn't understand how saying Asian-Canadians "worked like dogs" wasn't a compliment. You are no doubt embarrassing, but I could see how you meant well.

But as your term has progressed, you've slowly transformed from "affable dad" to "unpredictable, scary-eyed guy behind me in line at Walmart." Your transgressions have become international news stories, as they rightly should be: when politicians are accused of smoking crack, that makes headlines. The incident file that St. Joseph's Media has compiled lists forty-six different incidents since you took office on December 1, 2010. That is, on average, about one every 20 days.

While the incidents themselves aren't always hashtag-worthy events, they have one unifying theme: they distract you and us from your job of running the city of Toronto. There are 2.5 million people living in this city (or, about 57,000 people per incident - that's one embarrassed North Bay-sized city every three weeks) who rely on you and your council. Important city decisions have been knocked off-kilter by your personal shenanigans, leaving council members to scramble in their wake. And while it's true that your mayoralty has been scrutinized to an unprecedented degree, you continue to necessitate the scrutiny by being erratic, rude, volatile, uncaring of the safety of others, dismissive of serious allegations, and a poor council member.

It's hard not to take that personally, Rob. People not so different from me still believe in you; you have let them down.

I hope you can transition from "scary Walmart stranger" to something more befitting of a mayor: "uncle who has seen some crazy shit" might be okay, as would "cousin who started 12-stepping a few months ago and won't shut about his higher power." I hope you get the help you need, whether it's addictions counseling, media training, or simply someone whose job it is to stand beside you every moment of the day and prevent you from face-planting. The people who elected you deserve that from their mayor, as do the rest of us.

Sincerely,
Kaitlyn

Blessed

The last couple days have been a whirlwind of getting things done - work! gigs! job interviews! - and as a result, I feel like a piece of Kentucky Fried Chicken with a bite out of it.

However, I do want to take a breather and just reflect, for a moment, on the amazing relationships in my life. From the boyfriend who, this morning, texted me "READ THE NEWS" (he was talking about this news story, which 1. Blech and 2. I'll probably talk about that next week, because I have  thoughts on RoFo and his leadership "skills"), to my generous and thoughtful parents, to the best gal who went careening through No Thrills with me in a grocery shopping spree for ten people that included a lot of tortilla chips, to the sister to walked me halfway home last night and with whom I got to giggle over New Girl's excellent season finale, I am, for lack of a better word, blessed.

I tend to shy away from the blessed descriptor because it can feel like I've gone into a belief system that I don't subscribe to - Mormon housewives (and the blogs that parody them) and Christians hipsters often spout about blessed they are. To which I reply: yay for you, I guess. But if there's no benevolent deity in the sky, smiling down on me and granting me these little life moments, where does that leave me?

I've been reading Anne Lamott's new book Help Thanks Wow, and in her introduction, she stresses that her readers don't need to feel connected to, say, Jesus in order to feel blessed. She reminds us that feeling blessed can emanate from pretty much anywhere we choose we want to call it - for a while, she called blessing-giver Phil, after a street vendor failed to finish a bracelet with her favourite Philippians quote, but we can call ours whatever we want. Higher Power? Maybe HP for short? Sure. The Goddess? Okay! Even "the great unnameable force that acts for goodness in the world," although that handle is a bit unwieldy.

I don't know what I would call mine, but I do know that I feel blessed when I get to see the buds on the trees burst forth over a single, green weekend. I feel blessed when I get a card in the mail from a friend who's just checking in. I feel blessed when I see my siblings and my parents, and for the relationship that we've worked so hard to make good. I feel blessed when I look in the mirror at my belly and don't automatically make an "ugh" face. I feel blessed when the lilacs bloom, when my inbox holds a job offer, and when my freezing cold feet finally warm under the covers. And I feel blessed because I know that these things are a mixture of luck, hard work, paying attention, and, you know, some great unnameable force that acts for goodness in the world. Phil for short.