Pirating

I was driving in rush hour traffic on the DVP in Toronto the other day when a line from The Art of Racing in the Rain came to me. "The hands go where the eyes go." I couldn't remember if the quote was your hands/eyes or the hands/eyes so I looked for the book when I got home. Couldn't find it anywhere. I must have lent it to someone. I loved that book and shared it with everyone who expressed an interest. I work at a library. Lending books is something I do.

My nephew maintains that burning music is the same thing.I'm fairly rigid about copyright law. I don't want my stuff stolen so why would I steal? Karma pretty much rules my life. Burning music and movies is not the same as sharing a book. I've had many a debate with friends and family on the subject of pirating. The word "pirating" doesn't say it all?

In the case of books, either the library or I have bought and paid for those books,CDs and movies. In several cases, we've paid for a special license in order to share them. When you rip a file onto your computer, the artist/publisher/studio wasn't reimbursed for that property. And if everyone pirates and no one pays then the artist/publisher/studio will go bankrupt. In that scenario there are no more books/music/movies. It's a simplified black and white equation. There have been many arguments made for pirating. I just don't buy any of them.

I am constantly amazed at the number of artists/performers/writers who pirate other people's work. I don't understand it. If you really don't want to pay for that article, then go take it out of the library. Don't steal it off the Internet. If you want to share it with someone then tell them where to get it or buy it for them as a gift.

Is pirating different from taping/TiVoing/DVRing your favourite television show? Those shows aren't for sale. Revenue isn't being lost, unless you count the fact that people zip through the commercials. Is the primary difference borrowing versus keeping?

The sale of Intellectual Property, is hotly debated by people far smarter than I. Computers and the Internet make everything so accessible. That doesn't make it right to take. Educate yourself.

Jumping down off today's soapbox. Kinda high. Anyone want to sell a ladder?

After writing the above I went surfing and stumbled across this post that explained it all from an author's perspective. Piracy sunk a series.

Unexpected sources

One of the things this week has reminded me of is the fact that the more frequently you write, the more productive you are. Not just because obviously you're increasing your output by sheer persistence but also because you gain momentum.

That said, I've just spent a significant portion of the day outside trying to repair my pond. It's leaking but darned if I can find the source of it. In an effort to see all four sides of the structure, I ripped out some weeds, a giant pumpkin plant that had migrated from who knows where and long vines of honeysuckle that trailed into the pond.

I don't wear gardening gloves. I love the feel of dirt squishing between my fingers and beneath my nails. I like separating roots by feel rather than tugging til they snap. I enjoy the green stain from crushed leaves and the way my skin carries that aroma long past a thorough scrubbing with soap and water. There are disadvantages to that practice.

Today I learned that honeysuckle is stronger than I thought. It sliced across my fingertips and my palm when I tried tugging one tender young vine from the ground. Holy smokes, it was tough. You could make rope out of it. Or use it to garrote someone(I'm reading Jeffrey Deaver novel at the moment). My fingers are screaming at me.

Because I've been in writing mode (diligently making my goal every night before bed, if not sooner) I wondered about other plants and how they could be used as weapons. While Bracken and Bryna have been shoved to the background, I couldn't help but think of the world they inhabit and how they would use the resources at hand. But if the plants are living things, would the H/H sacrifice the vegetation to stop their enemy?

Shoot. I did not want to get sucked into their story. I've been doing great this week with Casey's. But I love when one unrelated activity leads me back to writing.

I just spent a great twenty-four hours with my friend Elen. We talked about writing, drank wine, ate real stovetop popcorn and brainstormed. One of the things I enjoy most about her company is Elen's word choices. She used reciprocity in a sentence in such a way that I rolled that word around in my head all morning long. She inspires me to step up my game and stretch my vocabulary. She renews my faith in humanity, in writers, in the industry. She reminds me that writers are some of the most prolific readers as well and that if we can entertain each other we're doing well.

I showed her my spindle and Icelandic fleece. We discussed the sweater book in detail as well as the way I'm being pulled in at least three different directions. Elen had some great suggestions for how to deal with that. I'll explore those over the next few days and see how viable they all are.

We also spent a considerable amount of time poring over each other's vacation photos as well as Jon Gustaffson's photography. He's quite talented and should update his website more often. Regardless, his creativity never fails to ignite mine.

All of that combined to send me home with a renewed enthusiasm and purpose for writing. I have several different avenues to explore as well as a concrete plan and some goals.

Maggie Shayne is writing a book in forty days - and blogging about the process. You all know how much I love a writing challenge. She's doing a great job of meeting her daily goal. So I'm going to play along at home. From now until Maggie reaches her goal, I'm going to write, or edit, five pages a day. Once in a writing regimen, it will be easier to stay on track.

It begins tomorrow. Anyone else want to join in?

Write what you know

For the past fifteen years, I've been trying to think of how to write bout an interesting four month period in my life. One of my concerns was libel but if I only told my part of the story I might be able to avoid that. I've never be sure where to start. Chronological makes the most sense but isn't necessarily the most interesting. I tried fictionalizing it once but got frustrated when what really happened messed with my plot, or vice versa. So I turned it into a great ice-breaker conversation at parties or with people that intimidated me.

For reasons beyond my control, and against any sane rational arguments, I had lions and a tiger living in the garage where I lived. It was a very bad idea, and poorly managed but the cats and I did our best with what we had. I'm not sure if it was the sound of my voice, the companionship or the subject material but they would listen intently every night, gathering to the ends of the pen where I sat on the haystack reading Outlander by Diana Gabaldon.

This week I lost my last tangible link to that time frame. Hera, the tiny little Tabby cat that taught me everything I know about felines, succumbed to kidney failure. That's her in the header when she was about a week away from giving birth to four kittens. Seriously. She was always tiny.

She was a stray living in my neighbour's barn when she first crawled beneath my garage door. Fortunately, I was in there tending to the lions. Unfortunately, I wasn't fast enough to scoop her up. One of the guys who was supposed to look after the big cats, grabbed the kitten and stuck her in front of the adolescent male lion's face. Zeus sniffed the kitten and she retaliated by popping him on the nose with her wee paw. He was horrified and jumped to the back of his pen.

Eventually I had to keep her in the house because she was fascinated by Zeus and his sister (that's his tail in the left of the picture) Sadly this is the only photograph that remains of the lions and Hera(who else had the temerity to face down the all mighty Zeus). When the lions moved on from their temporary hide-out, Hera remained with me.

She was a tough little spirit disguised in a tiny package. She had the heart of a lion, and more courage than Zeus. She reminded me every day that things are not always as they appear, that we're more resilient than we can imagine and that resilience comes from being flexible. Bend what you're given to make it work.

The other night I dreamt that she was curled beside Zeus's belly, the two of them sleeping, and I knew beyond a doubt that it was time to let her go. I'll miss her head butts.

Maybe some day I'll be able to tell the story of lions in the garage. Until then, I have some great memories about the kitten who punched the lion in the nose.

Symbols

For as long as I can remember I was looking for my special ring. I knew it was out there somewhere. I rooted through junk tables, flea markets and jewelry boxes. I didn't know what it looked like and assumed it was a ruby. Not sure why that stone other than its dark hue appealed to me.

Almost twenty years ago my mom's friend was sorting through necklaces, rings, bracelets and earrings. I don't remember what we were even talking about but she handed me a plain silver ring and suggested I try it on. It fit perfectly. I have ridiculously large man hands so that was no small feat that. The friend looked at me, looked at my hand and told me to keep the ring. It had been her grandmother's back when she worked at Balmoral Castle eighty years ago. Of course I refused to take it. It was this woman's family heirloom. But it looked like it belonged on my hand. It felt like it belonged. And I stopped searching for my ring because there it sat; no ruby but mine never-the-less.

I rarely take it off. For a variety of reasons, many of which I can't explain, that ring is part of my identity. There are times when it melts itself into my finger and I have to remove it for both of our sakes. It is almost a living symbol of endurance and persistence.

On Thursday it caught on a case of canned dog food while I was at work. Emotion swamped me. It took a couple of days for the injury to my hand to reveal itself but there was enough force in freeing the ring that this is what it now looks like...

My wrist is sprained as is my ring finger. I'm typing for the most part with one hand. I'm ambidextrous enough that my hand-writing and most other activities are passable. Driving is more difficult than I expected. I'm managing. It's only a sprain. But the split in the ring...it's quite likely it is repairable. It will be smaller which means it won't fit on my finger anymore.

I feel naked and vulnerable without it, emotionally as well as physically. I've tried wearing other rings but they don't feel right. I spent so much of my life looking for that one ring that it's irreplaceable. At some point, another ring will come along and forge a bond with me but not yet.

I'm reflecting not only on the way we found each other but the many stories this ring has told me over the years. Hopes lost and found, long journeys, multiple owners, star-crossed lovers, a link to the past, to other lifetimes, a pledge of loyalty and troth.

An inanimate object to you, a repository of my life.

Ring Update - the jewelry repair shop now has it. In ten days it will be back in my possession and on my finger. They are going to add silver to maintain the size. They suggested I reshank it but that reeks of a prison term to me so I declined. It actually means they replace the band that fits palm side on your finger and holds the decorative piece together. My finger and hand are a tad bruised and it's now been a week but thanks to an incredible massage and adjustment, I can type again. Whee! No excuse not to write. Except I'm taking Casey for a swim in the pool. So it's research. If you can call it that.

Progress

I was at a family reunion yesterday. When asked what I was writing now, I answered with my typical three projects. I really do like all three of them. Very much. That's why I bounce from one to the other to the other. I like the characters, I like their stories and the plots. When I get stuck because I need to do research on Iceland I play with the spinning wheel. Then I get all tangled up in fibre and go play with Casey. When he smacks me with his brace one too many times, or digs up my garden or knocks me to the ground in his enthusiasm, I go back to the nymphs. And so the cycle goes.

Yesterday though I noticed how my voice changed when I gave outlines of the three projects. We've had so much success with Casey lately that his is the story I'm telling the most often. I've got more pages written on it, although notes-wise all three projects are equal. His story also has the most photographs attached, and I do love playing with my camera. I've been playing with before and after shots of his leg for Niagara Dogfest. A couple members of Casey's healing team will be there. He's going to show off his progress.

While it's true that a picture paints a thousand words, it's my job to explain how, apart from learning how to focus, this
became this.


It's such a joy to write.

Excuses, excuses

My word count was low this week, as was my progress. I had planned to finish a read-through of Hell to Pay before passing it off to my critique partner. I had not planned on getting called into work a few extra shifts, two sleepless nights and a thorough mutiny of my brain cells.

Not much got done. But as I was walking out to my car last night after working twelve hours, my first thought was, "I can't wait to get home and write. Write? Who am I kidding?" I was hard-pressed to say my own name at that point. I'm not twenty years old any more. Those double shifts take more out of me than I'd like to admit.

Next week won't be much better. I'm hoping I get more sleep so that I can at least tolerate the work hours better. I have been carting a small notebook around with me so that any random writing thoughts get recorded. There's absolutely no way I'm trusting my memory at this point.

I don't even have the energy to drive past the Brooding Tree to get back into setting.


What do you do to keep the writing in the forefront when life tries to push it out of the way?

Options

Most of you will remember last summer when Stashaholic and I spent a crazy weekend watching documentaries, drinking wine and searching for Highland Cows.

I actually took this photograph in Scotland but we didn't travel that far

That was the weekend she became obsessed with a sweater and I with an Icelandic fleece. It was also the conception of two of my current projects and one big dilemma. As I've previously mentioned, I'm now spinning. Stashaholic completely enabled me with the gift of the lovely spindles in my header. Several weeks ago she introduced me to this lovely girl, who has yet to tell me her name but now that we live together I'm sure she'll tell me soon.


This is research. Honestly. I cannot write about spinning if I don't know how to spin. While the sweater book was intended to appease both of our obsessions. I did get to spindle some nice Icelandic fleece...

... but I still want to go to Iceland and pick up some fleece straight from the source.

I have a lot to learn about spinning. A lot. It's hard to write the experienced character's viewpoint when I haven't a clue what she's talking about. Filming that learning process could make for a good how-to video. The making of that video could be easily quite entertaining. Every time I watch this I think how much easier it is to fictionalize that whole process. Writing only requires pen, paper and my imagination. Film-making is a team effort. So far I haven't convinced any of the players to join the team. I'm not sure I should try.

Perhaps it's best to wait until the book is written before I worry about film options.

Priorities

Typically writers aren't the best housekeepers. It's a bit of a cliche but it's based on priorities. We focus on those things that require our personal attention. Anyone can clean our house, but we're the only ones who love our families in just that special way. Or write the stories that we do.

We are unique. Not just as writers or families but as human beings. And sometimes we have to make choices that encompass all of our individual characteristics, foibles and passions.

After a great night of good conversation with another creative friend, I realized that I've completely abandoned Hell to Pay. I finished the edit, put it aside to give to my critique partner then started on the three projects currently vying for my attention. Then life happened. I went to Scotland, started a library course and bought a spinning wheel(more about that in another post)

Hell to Pay needs to come out for another read-through before it's sent out to find an audience. Alex and Nea deserve at least that much. Playing with Bracken and Bryna has kept their story closer to my memory than if I was working with characters they'd never met. They're quite an interesting couple and their challenges were unusual. I had lived with Alex for so many years it was nice to focus on someone, anyone, else for a change.

It's time to give him back the attention he needs. Hell to Pay has moved to the top of the writing priorities. Just as soon as I clean the house. I need room to spread out the papers for editing. See, it's always about writing.

Summer Solstice

Writers are well aware of the importance of setting and time periods for their stories. Culture, climate and world events can add tension and drama to the simplest of stories. The subtext adds depth.

Energies are different throughout the year. Winter blahs can't compete to summer frolics. Spring is bursting with life, Autumn fades into winter. There is a reason we discuss life in terms of seasons. No matter how Goth some people look, they don't have the weight of life experience someone in their winter years carries on their stooped shoulders and lined faces.

There are other rhythms within the seasons; days, nights, weeks, weekends. They all give off different energies which can further be defined by the season of your life. There's so much going on in every moment that the context of time is interesting to me.

If you're a plant-based life form Summer Solstice holds great significance for you. You're at the height of your growing season, and power. If this is a novel about identity, Summer Solstice can be either a good beginning or fitting climax. Use the energy surrounding the longest day of the year to heighten the character's drama or increase the plot's tension.

Bracken is in the summer of his life. But he's failed to reach his full potential. While I'm easily influenced by the season outside my windows, it's important to nail down exactly what rhythms have the most influence on him. Regardless, he's a plant-based life form and the sun's strength is crucial to his growth. How would he survive without it?

Life, art and the whole ball of yarn

I need a writing challenge. While all three projects are progressing as far as research goes, words are not filling pages. Part of it has to do with the work load I came back to; part of it is lethargy that lingers from my throat infection; and part of it comes from other commitments. Not that I'm complaining; we make our priorities. Some are easier than others to meet.

One of the best things I've found to keep my mind on writing when my hands are otherwise occupied is to surround myself with objects, artifacts and photographs that remind me of the current wip. Casey is easy enough. I pet him every single day. And admire how well he walks with his new brace. In all likelihood that is the project I'll finish up first. I'm able to see the big picture on his story, and why it's one for me to tell(as opposed to other people who work in animal rehabilitation). I need to take some action photos of him playing in the yard.

As for the other two projects, Stashaholic is visiting for her college reunion. Many years ago, I hired her to work as my sound editor. Several of her classmates worked on that film in other capacities. It was a blast to meet up with them last night and realize how much I still love to tell stories. I simply use another medium now.

So does Stashaholic. Watching her spin fleece into wool, then knit it into a sweater is wonderful. Each fiber has its own story, can only be told in a specific way. Not all of it translates well into mittens or scarves. Some of it actually begs to be a lacy wrap or dressy sweater.

She brought her spinning wheel and several fibers with her as well as one sweater, a sock, and a shawl for me to work on. Reading through her spinning magazine is like walking into a buffet. There's almost too much to take in. Wheels, bobbins, fiber, twists, drumcarders and the list goes on. Fortunately, Callie has more to learn than I do, and so far the research is fun. There are a lot of textures to keep my mind on that story. I now have my own bag of Icelandic fleece to play with. Stashaholic finds it coarse. I like it. That probably says something about both of us. We haven't had a chance to play with the fleece I gathered from the field in Scotland. Soon.

Until I start a writing challenge that will brook no excuses, I pet the yarn, fondle the fern's leaves(Bracken considers it his due)and drool over the photos of an Icelandic summer.

I had the most incredible visit with my Great Grandpa in the town he emigrated from - Dunfermline. This is us at the train station. The experience was too personal to relate here. In fact, I'm still processing it a week later. I understand so much more about my life choices after that journey.

The entire trip was an eye-opener. It's not so much about how much I learned as much as it was the things that I had confirmed. Good research, anecdotal images and great intuition served me well for the Scottish scenes in Hell to Pay. What I didn't know is how prevalent Bracken fern is. It grows everywhere - with great tenacity.
It gave me some great insight into Bracken's character. I also bought a fossil of bracken fern. I was impressed with how much information I gathered for Rootless Trees.

In the Land of Sheep, the Sweater Book was never far from my mind. Fleece was littered all over the ground. I stuffed my pockets with as much as I could carry. That led to some research about how to clean it so that it would be safe to bring home. I might not have enough to actually do anything with but it will be fun to play with. It's interesting how soap and water changed the texture somewhat. Of course that was all research as Callie and Tess need to clean the fleece they get from the Icelandic sheep. It was a time consuming process but fascinated me. Water really loosened the fiber so that I could pick out debris. Drying loosened it further. I'm anxious to actually spin it and see what happens to the colour and consistency then.

Walking along the Royal Mile in Edinburgh a couple of days later, I found just the tool to try it with.

These are the sheep from whom that tuft came.

The trip to Scotland was a well-needed vacation with several friends. Who knew it would turn into an excellent fact-finding mission as well? Every moment there was a joy. 1900 pictures and I repeat last week's post but honestly these moments, and blog,are supposed to be writing related. The rest of it was was not as blatantly so but don't you think this guy's story would be interesting?



Thanks to Sheena, Tracey, Moira, Gordon and Theresa for being amazing hosts and showing me how incredible a country Scotland is

Celebrating Writers

It's refreshing to be in a country where writers are not only appreciated, but revered. Edinburgh, in particular, knows how to celebrate their rich history with wordsmiths. There's a Writer's Museum devoted to the lives and works of Robert Louis Stevenson, Walter Scott and Robbie Burns. Literary pub tours leave from the museum every day to explore the literary connection with a variety of pubs in the area. The sidewalk is engraved with quotes from many authors who have entertained in the years since these great men. The Elephant House was not only the alleged birthplace of Harry Potter. It is also frequented by Ian Rankin and Alexander McColl-Smith.

It's hard not to be inspired by the attention that writers attract around here. This may be a holiday but Bracken has really come alive for me here. I didn't get to his home just outside Dunkeld but a walk along Loch Lee gave me a great sense of his character. Bracken fern is prevalent along there, growing abundantly and with tenacity in some instances where it clung to the rocks. The stags we saw to the right of the trail were magnificent; not to mention the damage their hooves do to the young ferns.

What really made that day a writing experience was the fleece I found at the bottom of the keep. Every few steps there was another clump. After awhile I had stuffed my pockets as full as possible. I doubt there's enough to make a hat. As I desperately wanted to safely bring it home, I emailed Stashaholic and asked her how to clean it. There I was, in my friend's flat with buckets and soap and towels cleaning and washing the fleece. There was some interesting vegetation in there - and some other stuff I didn't examine too closely. I did make notes for the Sweater Book.

Do you think Walter Scott hid in the hills or went raiding in order to give authenticity to Rob Roy?

Roots

After some discussion with Kate my critique partner, Rootless Trees is moving locations. It actually increases the conflict to move from North Carolina to Niagara. The move was precipitated by my complete lack of knowledge regarding that state.

Brynja and Bracken started speaking to me once I made that decision. While his roots are in Scotland, Bracken's past is in Niagara. Brynja has no idea where her roots are. In the process of searching for her past, she's running away from all that is familiar.

While I can't trace my lineage back 800 years like some people, I have a good sense of who my people are. As you read this, I'm walking the land of my forefathers. I've taken a backpack and a suitcase in search of the start point for my Grandpa's trunk.

I plan to tromp all over Dunkeld, Dundee and Dunfirmline to explore Bracken's roots and my own. All these years after first hearing Grandpa Fenton's stories about his homeland, I'm experiencing it for myself.

HotDocs

HotDocs was an experience. I went up there as an audience member rather than as a participant. Part of my intention was to get a feel for the documentary film festival as it's the setting for the climax of one of my w-i-ps.

One of the things I discovered was that the industry people had better parties than the audiences. The website said no tickets required so my friend and I crashed it. I also learned that pitching at a film conference is the same as at a writer's conference; nerve-wracking and thought consuming, but with much better props.

HotDocs expanded my awareness on many levels. I had drinks and great conversation about the process of film-making with friends at various levels of experience in that business. I had some serious quality time with my nephew wandering through the streets of Toronto while discussing the variety and effectiveness of communication in this day and age.

I walk around with my eyes raised to the sky and as such tend to be oblivious to what's going on around me. I know there is corruption and injustice in the world. I know there are people who don't care who or what they hurt in their quest for power, wealth or status. I also realize that exposing those stories makes for interesting documentaries.

One of my favourite parts of HotDocs was listening to the filmmakers talk about their experiences, or reasons for making their films. After The Cove, Simon Hutchins said he'd never set out to be an activist. It was a natural progression from observing the destruction of the world's oceans.

I was still thinking about his words a few days later as I walked to work in my red shirt. I'm dedicated to being non-political but still have many issues I care about. I strive to teach through example, to show rather than tell. If I don't wear placards, protest or shout my opinion to the world, does that make my commitment any less?

How does all of this relate to writing? To a certain extent, we can only write that which we know; subjects about which we are passionate. Not all documentary film makers are activists. They aren't all part of the stories they document. What they are is driven - to illuminate and educate.

In fiction, message stories tend to alienate their readers. Entertainment is the goal. That's not to say you can't write with an opinion. Just don't let it become the story.

I'm juggling two works of fiction with one non. It's been hard to document Casey's story because I'm part of it. try taking a picture of a seventy pound pup getting cast for a new brace when you're lying on the floor holding him still. I'm not that talented. Or flexible. Because of my involvement and personal experience, I can wave the flag for alternative healing and commitment to animals in the forum of non-fiction.

HotDocs made me take a long hard look at the world in which I live; at the people who inhabit it; and what I'm willing to do to change things. It also clarified certain aspects of the wip that sent me there in the first place.

I'm writing a book about a sweater. A gorgeous sweater. And how one woman's obsession with that sweater affects her relationships. I'm sure there's a message in there but it will be subtle.

Unconventional Mother's Day Tribute

For those of you who find this day a painful reminder of the mother you've lost, or never had, this blog is dedicated to you.

A mother is a female who gives birth to a living being. I am not a mother. But I am a Mama Lion. For lots of reasons I won't go into here, my nephew and I have a closer than usual relationship. Even in utero he always responded to my voice. When he was a day old I sat with him and pointed out all the shapes and colours on his receiving blanket. Everyone thought I was nuts for conversing with him as if he was an adult. Just because he couldn't answer didn't mean he didn't understand me. One of his first words was blue, correctly identified on a giant bear at Sears.

He's always been curious about the world and the way it worked. One time I took my nephew into the bird barn to watch ostriches in the incubator. Five years old and asking questions about gestation periods, incubator temperature, wiring, power failures, how long chicks can survive inside the incubator once they hatch, how they adjust to room temperature. His attention to detail was incredible.

He wrote stories about his stuffed dog Pup in which they cured cancer, saved little children, traveled the world and conquered hunger. He was going to grow up to be a paleontologist/SPCA agent/rock star.

Due to space issues, his playpen was in front of the piano. A little protege, he would pull himself up and instead of pounding on the keys, he would touch them in a way that made music. As he got older he switched to my guitar. At two years old, he was plucking the strings in a way that sent all the adults searching the house for the musician. No one ever believed it was the baby.

As he's grown, we've continued to spend time together. Our conversations are merely advanced versions of the ones we had when he was five. We go to auto races and film festivals together. We discuss the esoteric and the practical. He has a sharp mind, a dry wit and a well of compassion so deep it humbles me.

I'm so proud of this kid who has weathered trauma, heartache and life storms with his heart and soul intact. He's been no different than any other teenager at times but that's never altered who he is at his core.

My lion cub has grown out his mane. Moved to the edges of the pride before he strikes out on his own. He's independent now. Able to fend for himself. I still watch with one eye peeled for danger in case he needs my help. One signal from him and I'll be in there with teeth bared.

He is my boy but he is not my son. I love him. I adore him. I will never leave him. And I understand that can never be enough. I'm not his mother but I couldn't love him any more than if I was.

How I spent my week

Hiking along the Niagara Gorge with my nephew...

*playing with puppies...

staring into these beautiful brown eyes...

and writing. Three more pages on one book and some really strong insight into character development on the other. It was a good week.

Today I'm off to HotDocs in Toronto. This documentary film festival is the setting for the climax of one of my projects. It's going to be a great week.

*To clarify - these are NOT my puppies. I am not keeping a puppy. I was merely visiting them. They were warm and soft and cuddley. They belong to other people. I already have my hands full with a puppy that does not belong to me. It is Casey's first birthday on the 14th, he gets his new splint on this Tuesday. Yes it really will be a great week.

All photos taken with my Blackberry Storm which I adore. Remember when phones were these big black clunky things with rotary dials and sat on a special table downstairs in the hallway? I do like convenience the Storm affords. And quality photographs.

Again with the perspective

Life is good. I don't have to trek overland through drought parched terrain for a drink of water. Or lose my footing and slide on my belly right into the sharp claws of a hungry cheetah. Why yes, I did go see Disney Earth at the movie theater last night. The cinematography was amazing. Absolutely stunning. There's just something about watching nature in all its tooth and claw on the big screen that makes me realize how easy my domesticated life actually is.

I have my health, mobility and all of my senses. A friend of mine is struggling with ALS, cancer and the stupidity of a drunk driver who punched him in the face last week. The driver almost ran down my friend who was crossing the intersection on his medical scooter. Harsh words were exchanged. Then one brutal punch. Who hits an old man in a wheelchair? Fortunately, the primary witness was a police officer.

I have friends and family, jobs I like, food, shelter and wonderful companions. I'm easily amused and entertained. I get out. Travel. Life is good.

It's not perfect. We all have our trials and frustrations. Watching my friends cope with the imperfections in their lives helps me get perspective on my own.

How many times as writers have we struggled with scenes or characters failing to do what's best for the story? Often, switching the point of view will strengthen it. Who has the most to lose? The most to gain? Who is altered most?

After tossing the impaired driver into the squad car, and taking care of first aid for my friend, the cop asked him,"What's your story?" And that made me think. No matter what angle you see something from, there's always another way to look at it. I'm looking forward to hearing the driver's version. Was it fear, guilt anger or relief that made him get out of his car in the first place? What was he thinking? I'm curious about his point-of-view.

Perspective keeps life, and good reads, interesting.

Rainy days are made for reading

It's finally a rainy day - perfect for reading. I am grossly unmotivated to do anything else. This past week has been a study in frustration as far as Casey's Journey to a Healthy Leg goes. Unlike my other writing projects, the non-fiction account of Casey's leg trials is ongoing, demanding and exhausting. Nor can it be put aside because I keep dropping the spindle, can't figure out genetics or how Iceland shapes the character of two protagonists.

We are running out of time. Casey will be a year old soon and his bones will start to set. Because of the atrophy in one of his shoulder muscles, he turns his leg at roughly a 35 degree angle. I'm swimming with him every other day, using a Pilates ball on alternate days and sending him out for daily walks and shoulder stretches. The brace keeps his leg straight but the boot does not. The consequences of walking him with the foot turning inside his boot are painful (yay, he has feeling in his foot;boo, it hurts)and damaging to tendons and ligaments. "It's always something."

SO, I'm trying to redesign the entire leg/foot support system.

Which is why I spent last night and today reading.
Travellers Iceland
Let's visit Iceland by I.O. Evans
Lucky Man by Michael J. Fox
Basket Case by Carl Hiassen
Save the Cat: The last book on screenwriting that you'll ever need by Blake Snyder
DK Eyewitness Scotland - Why do they not have one about Iceland???
Fool by Christopher Moore and finally
Men in Kilts by Katie McAlister.

Really. In the last 24 hours I've picked up, started or finished every single one of those books. Somewhere in there lies the answer to this current Casey riddle. Because thinking of it directly has failed to net any results. And Michael J. Fox makes me think I can accomplish anything. It's all attitude.
Truly.

Research, research, research

First of all - someone needs to write a really good travel guide to Iceland. I went down to Chapters the other day and looked at the only three books they had on that beautiful country. I bought one as the other two weren't that helpful. I ordered three more through the library. I'll let you know how useful they are but from the quick look I got at all of them, they are lacking.

Stashaholic was here for the weekend. We did the usual red wine, ChedaCorn and a movie. We crocheted our fingers to the bone to finish up a couple of comfortghans. I dropped the ball, or more accurately, ran out of balls, so that I had to do some shopping before we could finish the last one. It's almost done and spread out on the spare room bed.

We also played with fiber and her spinning wheel. Wow, that's a workout. I couldn't believe the pull in my calves, thighs and butt. Way better than Pilates. I reacquainted myself with my three spindles and looked at plenty of sheep. Stashaholic is a walking encyclopedia of knowledge on all of the above. I wish I'd taken notes. She's an invaluable resource.

We talked a lot about Sturla's Sweater; both the book and the actual article of clothing. So much of our own interactions, interests and activities are the basis for that book. We watched Wrath of Gods again and tried to freeze the DVD to get the perfect shot of that sweater. It was so like the opening scene that I'd already written, I couldn't help but laugh. No, I don't think he bought this sweater at WalMart.


Thanks to Jon Gustafsson for the still from Wrath of Gods