It was a Dark and Stormy Night - The Madeleine L'Engel Effect and Time with Dad

"I believe that good questions are more important than answers, and the best children's books ask questions, and make the readers ask questions. And every new question is going to disturb someone's universe."

- Madeleine L'Engle

Madeleine L’Engle died.

She passed away on September 6, 2007. The New York Times obituary summed up the 88 year-old as an author “whose childhood fables, religious meditations and fanciful science fiction transcended both genre and generation,” joining many news agencies and journalists in pigeonholing her as a children’s author when she was so much more.

L’Engle herself disliked the label, insisting that she did not write down to children. She famously declared in a 1993 Associated Press interview, quoted here by the Washington Post:

"In my dreams, I never have an age," she said. "I never write for any age group in mind. ... When you underestimate your audience, you're cutting yourself off from your best work."

The article suggests her literary output, which included poetry, plays, books on religion and prayer and autobiographical works were all “deeply, quixotically personal” then quotes Marygail G. Parker from the Dictionary of Literary Biography, who described “a peculiar splendor” to L’Engle’s work.

Quixotic? Hardly. Though L’Engle often implied her subconscious was in control of the writing of her most successful works and she was compelled to write them, few authors had a voice so uniquely personal and such command of poetic simplicity.

Like so many, I discovered L’Engle’s work as child through her much celebrated novel, A Wrinkle in Time. Her skillful blend of fantastic adventure, family drama, Einstein’s theory of relativity, Planck’s quantum theory, and human emotion reached me on so many levels at once, the book fairly vibrated with harmonic energy. For many, she was our first introduction to such high concepts.

In her 1998 acceptance speech upon receiving the Margaret Edwards Award (The American Library Association’s Lifetime Achievement Award for Writing in the Field of Young Adult Literature) L’Engle addressed some of the controversy attached to her young adult work.

It is still amazing to me that A WRINKLE IN TIME was considered too difficult for children. My children were seven, ten, and twelve while I was writing it, and they understood it. The problem is not that it's too difficult for children, but that it's too difficult for grown ups. Much of the world view of Einstein's thinking wasn't being taught when the grown ups were in school, but the children were comfortably familiar with it.

MEET THE AUSTINS (the book which preceded WRINKLE) took two years to find a publisher—largely because it begins with a family's reaction to the death of a beloved uncle, and children were not supposed to know about death. Largely, I suspect, because it upset their parents).

But again I was writing out of my own experience, and how my family accepted grief and loss and death. I think it made my children stronger than if we had gone placidly along with no traumas to work through.

Madeleine L’Engle had faith. Faith in God. Faith in humanity. She had little time for dogma and that made her difficult to live with for those who preferred using doctrine to control and shame others into conforming to their limited world view. In an interview on Religion and Ethics Newsweekly, L’Engle admitted she considers religion and science to be linked.

Religion and science? One and the same. I don't have any trouble with it. A lot of people do. They have to put one here and one there. And I think they're much more like that, each one informing the other… Religion is less accepting than science. Science knows things move and change, and religion doesn't want that. So, I am more comfortable with science. At the same time, I am not throwing God out the window.

I respect that world view and the strength it sometimes takes to stand by it when under heavy criticism. As a writer for children, I have often been confronted by parents telling me what their children don’t like about a show. Inevitably, they share something that disturbs them, not their children. L’Engle never wrote down to children but rather, wrote up to their humanity and search for knowledge, posing questions that encourage them to find their own answers and seek out new questions.

Producers and broadcasters constantly instruct me to avoid big ideas and concepts, use small words rather than ”language.” It’s a constant struggle to expand the worlds of children even as we’re asked to make it smaller and smaller. Horizons aren't meant to be reached by stretching out your hands. They’re meant to instill desire and they’re meant to be harder to get to. How mundane must we make the dreams of children?

For the rest of the world, Madeleine L’engle died on September 6, 2007.

For me, Madeleine L’Engle died the following year, in July 2008.

She passed the moment I stumbled across that uninspired New York Times obituary. Though much of the world had already mourned her passing. I was experiencing the first shock of grief – an emptiness in my heart where L’Engle’s place had been. A space I didn’t realize was there.

L’Engle was the first one to teach me that time is fluid. It depends so much on perception. It flies when we’re having fun. It drags when we are scared or worried. It stops when we are at the lightning edge of new revelation. In addition to a pervading sense of loss, I experienced one of those revelations when L’Engle died the second time.. I realized that I had often measured the truth of my words against hers and found my work wanting.

I witnessed L'Engle's death again months later when I told a friend who loves sci-fi about the author's passing. For my friend, the devastating news was new and fresh. Despite the actual death occuring more than a year earlier, her grief was very much happening right now. As I watched her suffer I was carried back on the wave of her anguish to my own moment of loss.

But if our experience of death of someone meaningful to us could happen multiple times, then so too could our experience of that person’s life. Every time I pick up one of L'Engle's books I re-experience the emotions they had first stirred in me, almost as if reliving that first time. The writing touched me in a place I can reconnect with instantly, proving that time, or at least our perception of it (And aren't time and perception of time the same ting really?) is not linear.

Time is not linear. Madeleine L’Engle told me this and Madeleine L’Engle showed me this.

We generally experience time as a linear series of events so we can all communicate and feel we are going in the same direction. That shared perception of moving forward through experience is one of the things that unites us all. But at any given moment we may find ourselves out of sync, be stuck in the past or anticipating the future. Like right now, for me.

Several weeks ago I lost my father and I have been unstuck in time ever since.

I’m thankful that over the past few years my father and I have both made an effort to get to know each other better as individuals and not just as father and son. A great deal of the credit for this transformation to our relationship is due to my wife, whose love for family seems truly unlimited, despite the pain that sometimes brings.

Though Dad’s health had been declining for many months and he and his wife kept us more or less informed as to the details of his ailments, I can’t help but feel they kept the true depths of his decline to themselves as they quietly prepared. Perhaps I was not in touch enough to properly track events. Quite possibly I simply wasn't eager to know.

I now have all the more reason to cherish a surprise visit my wife and I made to my Dad and his wife, Marlene, to spend a day driving in the countryside outside of London, Ontario. Though he was unable to walk very far, he enjoyed being our chauffeur, parking the car and watching through the windshield as Marlene took us through a lavender farm and various roadside attractions. We then ate an early dinner in a lovely, nearly deserted café. My attempts to sit in the car with Dad and chat as Marlene and Jill shopped were gently refused. Dad was eager to see us all enjoying ourselves. In retrospect, is it possible he was subtly preparing us all to move on and enjoy life without him, for the day when his spirit would be watching from a greater distance?

It’s the natural order. No parent wants to outlive their children. They want to know their family will be strong and move on in life, never forgetting but never regretting. It’s part of our growth as people, a growth that will never truly be fulfilled until we experience and survive their passing, taking strength from their memory.

Upon hearing about my father’s passing, a friend pointed out another side to the experience in this way, “Now you get to start a whole new relationship with him.” I suppose that I already have started a new relationship with my father, though where it takes me will only be revealed in time. It certainly worked that way when my Mom passed away while I was in university. I stumbled along and as I learned more about my mother she became more than just a Mom. She grew into a person in my head.

It takes a long time to acclimatize yourself to losing a parent at a young age but I suppose I found it all the more difficult due to the suddenness of her departure. She simply winked out of my life. No warning. No drama. She was there and then she wasn’t. I like to imagine she tessered across the galaxies to spend eternity in the company of Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who and Mrs. Which, who, along with Aunt Beast, represented the many facets of familial love in A Wrinkle In Time. With time I grew accustomed to this new relationship and I know in my head that I will develop a similar new relationship with my father. Some time. Just not yet.

Because time is not linear.

We can experience an intense reverse déjà vu (vuja de?) of a future we haven’t been to yet, but we know is coming. Even now I can catch momentary glimpses of my future self, who’s already processed this so the pain is not so fresh and therefore finds everything a little bit easier. Senses can take us back in time. A smell, a song, a taste, or a touch can catapult us backward. And sometimes time holds us in two places at once. Our minds or spirits can be trapped in the past as our present selves go forward, making coffee or reading the paper or getting back to work.

I remember anticipating the premier of Deep Space Nine after a particularly good season of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I found myself surprised at the heady mixture of speculative fiction, political intrigue, the true difficulties in fostering community and the emotional turmoil of DS9’s Commander, Benjamin Sisko played by Avery Brooks. Sisko is a reluctant leader, raising his teenage son as he struggles with the loss of his beloved wife.

The Deep Space Nine space station is on the edge of a wormhole in space occupied by quantum beings that do not exist in linear time. Sisko’s inability to escape the memories of his wife’s tragic, final moments proves to be a point of communication between himself and the aliens. As they exist simultaneously in the then, the now and the future, so he exists in the past and present. Sisko constant flashbacks to that moment belie his attempts to explain mankind’s linear existence.

I can remember being deeply moved by DS9’s two-hour premiere and Avery Brook’s charged performance. His willingness to embrace the humanity of his character made me feel less alone in dealing with my mother’s passing years earlier. My memories of Benjamin Sisko will always center on his immense sadness in the pilot and his throaty laughter in subsequent seasons, embracing two extremes of human experience.

A week after Dad's death I found myself at Toronto's Fan Expo, Canada's largest sci-fi, comicbook, anime, horror and gaming convention. I saw Avery Brooks signing autographs and greeting convention goers at Toronto’s Fan Expo and found myself remembering that Deep Space Nine pilot. Somehow, his ability to embrace the entire spectrum of humanity in his role with joy and such joie de vive helped normalize my grief. And the memories of Sisko’s passage through his own grief made me feel less alone in my time loop.

I couldn’t resist the opportunity to tell him how he helped me with my mother’s passing and now with my father’s. The poor man seemed at a loss for words (not surprisingly). Then he extended both hands to grasp my own and that gentle, generous smile crossed his face. Avery looked at me with his gentle eyes and said… I have no idea what. Something, something in his whole career, something, head nod, something. Couldn’t hear a word he said. I thought he was theatrically trained for God’s sake but he wasn’t projecting at all.

But the connection was precious in that moment and I’ll never forget it.

Like Benjamin Sisko, I have been caught in time loop of my own, reliving my father’s last day as I move through the days and night that have followed. My body types away at my scripts, takes notes at meetings, and tries to sleep but my mind has, well, a mind of its own lately. It gives no warning as it takes me through that last minute call to rush out of town to Dad’s bedside. I relive the near sleepless overnight shift at his bedside, first with my sister and eventually, all alone. Returning after a few hours sleep to relieve Dad’s wife and holding his hand and talking to him after his pain moans turned to steady breathing, which soon would gradually slow to nothing.

Each time I am hijacked in this way, I feel suspended in utter stillness then I find myself right back in that room. I can look around the room and see what time of the day or night it is. I can smell the hospital’s hand disinfectant and hear the steady chug of the oxygen, emitting its gentle mist to reduce the drying effect of pure CO2 on Dad’s throat and lungs. But mostly I hear his breaths grow short and the gap between his final gasps lengthen. I wait, relieved each time a new breath comes and look in his eyes, hold his hand (Jill holds the other) and talk to him about his family, and where each loved one was at that moment, his wife, his children and his grandchildren.

And then, the space between breaths become all there is and he is gone.

A smaller percentage of the time I spend in the past takes place in the hours immediately following Dad’s death. I spent them contacting the family and waiting for my brothers and sisters to have their final time in the room with our father. I suspect they are all experiencing their own time loops. I know my oldest brother is. After a conflicted relationship with my Dad he likely has many things left unsaid. And I know to some extent, his feelings and judgments regarding those old wounds are locked in the mindset of the child who first experienced them. I hope he finds his way out.

Though I am spending extensive time in that final day, I am grateful I’m not alone in those concluding moments. Though I never take my eyes away from my father’s (these instants are too precious), I know that I have but to glance to my left and I will see my beloved wife holding Dad’s other hand as she sends her considerable reserves of love to Dad and for me. But I don’t ever look at her. If I look I may break down, overwhelmed by the unending depths of her love and support and unable to cope with the intense reality we’re facing. I look into my father’s eyes and he looks back, ready to move on and knowing his family is ready for him to go.

I look into my father’s eyes and he looks into mine until he'd no longer there to look.

His eyes see nothing anymore. And where there once were the sounds of his final breaths, now there is silence. I relive that twenty-four hour period over and over in real time. The only bright spot in the day is the knowledge that if I glance to my left I will see my wife. But thankfully, whatever force drags me back there allows me a second of pure transcendence...

Jill and I exit the hospital, the storm of the day (which brewed up a tornado north of Toronto in a masterfully timed example of pathetic fallacy) is over and the sun streams through the clouds like the climax of some widescreen, Technicolor, biblical epic. We breathe in fresh air.

I live this wonderful moment over and over too. And where every other part of the day leaves me with remarkably ambivalent feelings, this instant makes my heart soar. A smiling Jill takes my arm as we walk across the parking lot and after deep breath declares…

“There’s your Dad, shining down all around us.”

And just like that I’m back in the present. My wife is my anchor in the now. Just as Dad’s wife, Marlene, allowed him to live a longer and happier life, so too does mine. Life and death go on as always.

Eventually I will spend less time in that room and more time enjoying the memories of my Dad when he was hale and hearty, young and robust. But if I must be trapped in that final day a little while longer, I am grateful that I am not there alone.

I love you, Jill.

I love you, Dad.

Live the adventure.

Master the Formula! - Wycliffe A. Hill begat McKee, Field and Truby

When the work piles up, deadlines loom and second act woes howl at the door, I long for those long-promised future days where we all fly to work in saucers, learn from glowing boxes and eat out of squeeze tubes and pills (okay we're already in some of that future).

But what I really need is my robotic screenwriter.

I'm not talking about plot software. I'm talking about "Shakespeare's Ghost", the honest-to-God, rivet-covered, robotic writing machine promised by the February, 1931 issue of Popular Mechanics:

SCENARIO WRITER HAS PLOT MAKING ROBOT
A mechanical robot that turns out plots for brain-fagged authors is the invention of Wycliffe A. Hill, Los Angeles scenario writer. Christened “Shakespeare’s ghost, “ this device is said to produce a complete outline of a fiction story in twenty minutes, to an accompaniment of whirring gears. It selects background, characters and dramatic situations from a series tapes.

Heh heh... brain-fagged. That's definitely my new favourite term for the fog that descends after several hours of straight work past the point where your brain has checked out but you're still typing away.

SG (whom I would dub "Sir Tippy Tappy" or "Shakesy G"), could take meetings with my producers and networks and record exactly what they want (within pre-programmed parameters) and he'd be a lot cooler about changes or cuts made with no thought to plot or character. Those times when he did lose his cool all that exasperated heat could be piped out through his metal, stovepipe, chimney head.

The astounding story is detailed by Paul Collins over at Slate Magazine's Summer Movies Special issues.


Most excellent by Design Crux's John
Soellner shows off his retrofuturistic touch.

SG was one of many variations on Hill's sales pitch for ease of scriptwriting. If only he had used it for his own career, which apparently stopped pretty much dead by the 1920's. But the "profoundly obscure" writer of silent cinema, along with French critic Georges Polti, laid the groundwork for an entire industry built on the promise to reveal the secret formulas of dramatic writing. Formulas that would allow every journeyman, hack , and desperate wannabe scribes to create stories that would touch the widest audience possible.

Yup. We have Wycliffe A. Hill to thank for Syd Field, Robert McKee, John Truby and even Linda Seger. Let us hope that their lives don't follow the same destructive path Hill's did. Though his formulas, delivered in the form of books, board games and good ole' SG sold, none of his later screenplays did. He grew so desperate he got involved in trying to locate a San Quentin convict's hidden stash of stolen loot and attempted to sue the man for breach of contract when he couldn't find it.

I'm sure I'd find Hill's robot writer charming for awhile but soon I'd be all chuffed up to create my own work again. Inspiration, creativity and a grudging work ethic will do that to a screenwriter. I'd place SG in a closet and cover hm carefully with a cloth, wondering if I have the time to organize a yard sale someday soon to give him a new home. And then I'd get down to work.

Oh darn, my office door is open and the television in the next room is distracting me.

If only I had a door-closing robot to help me with that.



Thank you, my dear Dr. Dippy Door.

Live the adventure.

Summer Reading: The 30-Second Commute

I've been reading "The 30-Second Commute", by Toronto writer critic and culture writer Stephanie Dickison (Writerscramp, The Knack, PanMagazine) . It's an overview of the daily life of a freelance writer and although Dickison writes non-fiction and articles for countless magazines and on-line publications and I write for television, her vision of a day spent trying to keep all your writing, research, follow-up, invoicing, pitching and deadline plates spinning rings universally true.

It's a gentle, funny read and a nice compliment to Michelle Goodman's "My So-Called Freelance Life", which has valuable, no-nonsense advice for anyone considering jumping free of the 9 to 5 for the grind of the 24-7.

Michelle tells you how to survive and Stephanie will help you understand how you'll feel in funny, gentle way.

Read those before you take the plunge so you can do it with your eyes wide open.

Live the adventure.

Tokyo Red Eye - What we can learn from a night flight to Japan

Years ago, when I was more readily able to fly around the world at the drop of a hat (not that I took advantage of it very often), I flew to Japan to visit two friends who were teaching English. One friend was in the heart of Tokyo, and the other was living a somewhat lonelier existence farther south in Marugame, Kagawa, the home of most of Japan’s fan (uchiwa) production and the tastiest soba noodles I have ever encountered.

In order to add a visit with a friend teaching in England on my way back, I had to fly the same route both ways, starting with an Atlantic crossing from Toronto’s Pearson Airport to Heathrow airport, in London, England. The second leg consisted of an overnight flight across Europe and Asia to Narita Airport, near downtown Tokyo.

My trip came upon me much faster than I’d intended, lost as I was in the flurry of activity required to meet a story-board deadline… which I didn’t quite make, sadly. I’m not sure the director has ever forgiven me. But the result of all this work was a number of late-night work fests and a final all-nighter, right before I was due to leave. I hadn’t left my apartment yet but after being up for about 36 hours straight I had taken care of that nasty jet lag all on my own!

I dropped off my board, then rushed home, threw clothes in a suitcase and hurried to the airport to catch my plane. By the time I got through customs and checked my bags I had pretty used up any reserves of energy I had left after my extended deadline push of the days preceding my trip.

The flight to England was about eight hours, and I tried to roll up a jacket for a headrest and push my seat back to get some shuteye. It was then that I discovered the main drawback to British Airways’ vaunted service… it never stops. I was seated on the aisle and was consistently interrupted with offers of tea (always yes), snacks (always no) , meals, magazines, blankets and headphones. And when the hyper efficient staff wasn’t offering me yet another creature comfort, the other people in my aisle were squeezing past me to use the facilities.

Suffice to say, I got very little sleep in my up and down, upright position and was one groggy, bleary-eyed world traveler as we touched down at Heathrow for my five- hour stopover. It was then that I discovered that Heathrow is, indeed, the world’s most expensive airport. A single cup of coffee and a scone cost me over13 pounds! Holy %$#!!!

So I was 46 hours awake and dead on my feet when I finally boarded my night flight to Tokyo, which was to take something like 11 hours. Thank heavens this flight seemed more conducive to napping. There was some actual legroom to stretch out my gams, and they had dimmed the lights to create a pleasantly soothing, sleep-supporting atmosphere for me and all the Japanese travelers surrounding me. I managed to score two blankets so I could roll one up to support my neck.

Sadly, I had officially passed exhaustion and was well into my “too tired to shut my brain off” stage. So I simply closed my eyes and tried to fool my whirling brain into thinking it might actually be drifting into slumber. The wonderful thing about the flight to Japan was the fact that a number of the meal options were delicious Bento boxes, much like those available on the Shinkansin bullet trains that link Japan’s islands at super speed.

My body was thrilled to be facing real food as opposed to the vacuum-packed muffins and plains sandwiches at Heathrow. By now I had not only crossed several time zones, I had passed the 50-hours-awake mark, and I needed all the nutrition I could get. I was lost in the pleasant stupor of dinnertime, smelling the aromas and thinking about, well… not thinking at all, actually. That’s a polite way of saying I was completely exhausted and my brain was pretty much flat-lining by now.

As I sat with my dinner in front of me I felt a tug at my sleeve.

Across the aisle and one row back, a Japanese man was holding out his plastic-wrapped knife, fork and napkin combination with a supportive smile on his face. "Mistah! Hey Mistah! You use!" He smiled at me and shook the utensils.

I smiled and shook my head back, thinking, "He must think I'm some kind of silly Gaijin who can't use chopsticks." But the man, and his wife beside him, kept trying to foist their spare utensils on me. After all, what did they need with silly Western knives and forks?

As the pair continued to plead with me to take their cutlery I felt myself growing more insulted. It was pretty rude of them to assume I couldn't handle chopsticks on my own just because I'm not Japanese. I smiled as graciously as I could muster and shook my head "No" a final time. Then I indignantly turned back in my seat. Seriously, the nerve of those two, right? After much shifting in my chair in a losing effort to make myself more comfortable, I finally settled down with my meal.

Then I looked down at my tray…. and at my hands.

And all was revealed.

I suddenly realized that while I had picked up the chopsticks I had not yet taken a bite. And all this time, my slack fingers, barely holding the chopsticks upright, had been listlessly dragging the chopsticks back and forth across my plate. Back and forth. Back and forth. Baaaaack and forth. It was quite hypnotic to watch, actually.

I had not picked up a single grain of rice.

I had not lifted a single morsel of teriyaki salmon to my mouth.

It had been not doing all of that utterly independent of my conscious brain.

Back and forth. Back and forth. It was still happening.

And I had no idea how long I've been doing this.

That poor man and his wife had been watching me fail to take a single bite of my much-needed nourishment for who knows how long until they were finally driven to their cross-cultural mission of mercy! Would no one give this poor, idiot, western man a knife and fork?

I surreptitiously placed my fingertips on my food, taking a quick temperature to help me determine how long my hands had been making a fool of the rest of me. The food was still lukewarm, which meant, thank God, that I likely had not been making my sweeping motion for more than, oh, ten minutes or so.

For some unknown reason, that gave me a feeling of quiet dignity.

I gathered myself, mustering all the willpower at my command and stared at my hands, ordering them to clench around the damn chopsticks. With intense effort I managed to steady my hand somewhat and position my fingers correctly. Shakily, I directed my wooden utensils toward the salmon. Picking up rice would have been too much to ask of my poor extremities just yet.

Narita Airport, Japan.

It was amazing how difficult it was to do something I do without thinking any other time. The stress of the moment, and some of my embarrassment, faded away as I lifted the teriyaki salmon to my mouth. I quickly took the bite, worried that somehow it would explode out of my quivering hands if I didn’t act right then. My mouth full of the delicious salmon at last, I turned and smiled broadly at my Good Samaritans.

Determined to complete my return from the depths of embarrassment and restore my tarnished dignity, I held up the chopsticks clicking them triumphantly in a salute to my would-be benefactors and displayed the international symbol for yummy by rubbing my tummy in a circular motion.

The man and his wife smiled back, evidently relieved that I would neither starve nor force them to watch me disgrace chopsticks any longer. They joined together in silent round of applause for the big, stupid Gaijin learning how to eat. Their job was done.

If you teach a man to fish and use chopsticks he will always have food.

There are several morals to this little story.

One. Just because you think you’re doing something right, doesn’t mean you aren’t fucking it up.

Two. If someone offers you help, guidance, or even a little constructive criticism, they could be seeing something you’re too close to see.


Live the adventure.

Responsibity to Ourselves

"Every one of my books has killed me a little bit more."
-Norman Mailer

As I mentioned in my last post, I've been in a responsibility frame of mind. I've talked about fan expectations. This time let's discuss self-expectations.

A Facebook friend recently sent the link to Eat Pray Love author Elizabeth Gilbert's TED.com talk on a different way to think about Creativity. Gilbert suggests that before the Renaissance creators and artists felt that the spark of all their creative ideas came from the heavens. This idea, suggests Gilbert, spared them the pain of fearing failure and the danger of getting a swelled head from any success they acquired.

Elizabeth Gilbert and her best-selling memoir.

The Greeks called these Muses daemons and the Romans called them genius. Not a brilliant person... but rather a spirit guide. This allowed for the artist to have a distance from their work.

The Renaissance gave rise to the idea that the artist is the sole creator of the work. "Let's put the human being at the centre of all creation." This resulted in artists being put on a pedestal as the sole vessel of the creation. Gilbert goes on to say this is the first time we begin to see the modern usage of genius and she thinks this is a bad idea.

"It completely warps and distorts egos and creates all these unmanageable expectations about performance. And I think the pressure of that has been killing off our artists for the last 500 years."

The idea that an artist requires distanc e from their work to do the work seems valid. There is a point where you need to immerse yourself in creation and let the it flow. But holding something too close, or being too deep in it removes perspective. Every time I see someone bristle at criticism or get defensive about comments, I know they're in too deep to see the comments for what they usually are: genuine interest and potential insight into the work.

But while we do need to dive deep into the waters of creation to explore an idea thoroughly, we also need toperiodically come up for air. By doing so we, we remove ourselves from the creative process briefly to eye the work as a whole. That critical distance helps us to shape and hone the final product.

As Gilbert points out, that's tough on the psyche when it's just not working and you have no one but yourself to blame. And even if you do succeed, you may have to confront the fear you will never create anything as good again. In other words, if your first book is the Catcher in the Rye, your ego is screwed tyring to live up to it for the rest of your life.

If the inspiration came from God or the universe, then you have someone to share the blame with with. "I have a lame Muse." or "My Muse was hungover that day." On the other hand, you can't get a swelled head if your book is a bestseller or your painting launches a bidding war between art galleries. "Your Muse was working overtime tht day."

Gilbert suggests a return to thinking the way the ancients did because it's as accurate a description of the maddening capriciousness of the creative process as anything. Sometimes it can feel "downright paranormal".

Many of my artist friends found Gilbert's talk extremely inspiring. It seemed to encapsulate how they felt about their artistic process. But the magic of Ted.com is less about the presenters themselves but rather about conversations they create in those watching. That's why I got more out of the comments section below Gilbert's chat.

Ruth Anne Harnish was "comforted, encouraged, educated, and inspired by the content of this talk." Others feel the metaphorical nature of the talk is useful but people taking it literally is dangerous. But that's up to the viewer, not to Gilbert. She's expressing a theory. How people use it up to them.

Gilbert is not suggesting an artist should be absolved of responsibility for thier work. She's saying, this is a way of reclaiming the slight distance from a work that you need to stay stable and focused without raking your psyche over the coals. "Don't be afraid. Just do your job. Show up and do your part. If you dance... dance."

Oddly, by letting go of a small piece of the responsibilty for creation to the universe, collective unconsciousness, Allah or whatever you refer to a higher power as, Gilbert is not saying you absolve yourself of responsibility. She's telling you to take responsibility for your own self. Your physical and psychic health. On her website's Thoughts on Writing page, Gilbert suggests that discipline is less important for a writer than self-forgiveness.

As for discipline – it’s important, but sort of over-rated. The more important virtue for a writer, I believe, is self-forgiveness. Because your writing will always disappoint you. Your laziness will always disappoint you. You will make vows: “I’m going to write for an hour every day,” and then you won’t do it. You will think: “I suck, I’m such a failure. I’m washed-up.” Continuing to write after that heartache of disappointment doesn’t take only discipline, but also self-forgiveness (which comes from a place of kind and encouraging and motherly love). The other thing to realize is that all writers think they suck. When I was writing “Eat, Pray, Love”, I had just as a strong a mantra of THIS SUCKS ringing through my head as anyone does when they write anything. But I had a clarion moment of truth during the process of that book. One day, when I was agonizing over how utterly bad my writing felt, I realized: “That’s actually not my problem.” The point I realized was this – I never promised the universe that I would write brilliantly; I only promised the universe that I would write. So I put my head down and sweated through it, as per my vows.

We can't create if we ignore our bodies needs to eat and sleep and relax and have. We have nothing to draw from if we don't explore our world and share friendships and experience family. You owe it to your art not to work all the time, to read about things you know nothing about, to have experiences and unexpected moments of confrontation or bliss.

Werner Herzog.

Gilbert's web essay goes on to tell of a independant filmmaker friend who wrote to his hero, director Werner Herzog, when he was feeling defeated. Herzog's reply is priceless.

Herzog wrote back a personal letter to my friend that essentially ran along these lines: “Quit your complaining. It’s not the world’s fault that you wanted to be an artist. It’s not the world’s job to enjoy the films you make, and it’s certainly not the world’s obligation to pay for your dreams. Nobody wants to hear it. Steal a camera if you have to, but stop whining and get back to work.”

Gilbert takes as much inspiration those words as her friend did.

I repeat those words back to myself whenever I start to feel resentful, entitled, competitive or unappreciated with regard to my writing: “It’s not the world’s fault that you want to be an artist…now get back to work.” Always, at the end of the day, the important thing is only and always that: Get back to work. This is a path for the courageous and the faithful. You must find another reason to work, other than the desire for success or recognition. It must come from another place.

You owe it to yourself a chance to recharge and gain perspective. ou owe that to your art. You don't have to acknowledge a higher power to do that if you think that's ethereal and artsy fartsy. But you do have to find a way to step back and forgive yourself.

Then get back to work.

Live the adventure.

Responsibilty to the Audience

My new laptop is up and running and I'm in the slow process of digging through old file back-ups to restore myself to my fomer disorganized glory. So intermittent posting returns at last to StarkRavingAdventure.com and hopefully, my other blogs. So here goes...

My recent online reading has put me in a responsibility frame of mind. There are many levels of responsibility writers and creators come up against in their.

Let's start with Neil Gaiman, author of DC Comics highly successful Vertigo Sandman comic series and books like American Gods and Coraline, the source for this season's animated, 3-D movie.

Author Neil Gaiman.

Gaiman is one of those writers who manages to maintain an impressive web presence for his readers while still getting an incredible amount of work done. But being available to your fans can be a messy business. It's difficult not to get drawn into discussions and try to convince people why a choice you made or the show required is right and their bad or worse, dismissive, opinion of it is wrong!

That's a no-win situation. For every question you answer, a host of accusations and follow-up questions are hurled at you. Often with a increasing level of invective and blame.

For every creator like Greg Beeman, a director and producer on Heroes who's behind the scenes blog was a popular destination for fans of the show until he was.. er, let go, there are twenty creators who avoid being drawn into discussions of the work. It often ends up with writers feeling like they have to defend things the fans don't like, even though there are likely dozens of story and production reasons things went the way they did.

You don't win those conversations. Blogcritics had a terrific post by Diane Kristine Wild last year that explored the problem from the perspective of showrunners at the Banff Television special.

Martin Wood, currently executive producing and directing the upcoming science fiction show Sanctuary, reflected on the number of fansites and social networks his previous series, Stargate SG-1 and Stargate: Atlantis, spawned. "You learn that the majority of your audience is not responding on those things," he warned in our interview. "So a relatively small number of people are being very loud about what they want. If you respond to it the way you think you should, it's not necessarily the best thing for the show."

House writer David Hoselton echoed those comments during his festival session on the craft of writing in response to an audience member question. "(House creator) David Shore doesn't care about what people say on the Internet. He doesn't want to hear it; he doesn't want to know about it. He doesn't want to pander to that audience, whatever it is. The idea is that out of an audience of 20 million, I don't know what that represents, half a million or something like that? He wants nothing to do with it."

However, Hoselton confessed he has to browse forum comments the day after his own episodes air, sifting through the "three pages on Chase's pants" to find the insightful ones... until he has to back away when they turn into online fights. Still, "there are these incredibly intelligent, observant people who catch every mistake you could possibly make," he laughed.

I love it. Hoselton embodies that need to please all writers have and the creative confidence (or arrogance) we require to do our job when he admits to avoiding the discussion but still trolling the forum for feedback and praise.

In his recent post, Entitlement Issues..., Gaiman responds to Gareth, a fan of writer George R. R. Martin's Song of Ice and Fire books who is annoyed to find Martin blogging while he's waiting breathlessly for the next book. Gareth asks Gaiman...

1) Does an author have a greater responsibility to write his book than blog and well, have a life?

2) What responsibility does Martin to a reader to finish his dang story. Is it unrealistic to think Martin is letting his reader's down?

Gaiman's response is priceless.

My opinion....

1) No.

2) Yes, it's unrealistic of you to think George is "letting you down".

Look, this may not be palatable, Gareth, and I keep trying to come up with a better way to put it, but the simplicity of things, at least from my perspective is this:

George R.R. Martin is not your bitch.

This is a useful thing to know, perhaps a useful thing to point out when you find yourself thinking that possibly George is, indeed, your bitch, and should be out there typing what you want to read right now.

Gaiman goes on to state that Martin has met his commitment by producing the Song of Ice and Fire books that are already out. Gareth paid his money for those books and got his money's worth. He liked the books enough to want more. While he waits and hopes for the next book to appear, he should essentially "get a life".

A Song of Ice and Fire images from
geekshow.us

In short, readers, viewers and fans need to take responsibility for themselves. They can chat up the show and hope for more or disagree with directions. But ultimately, getting to watch a show that engages them so much is the extent of their contract with the creators. Anything else is gravy, and completely up to the people involved.

Similar posts pop up from time to time on television writer Denis McGrath's blog, Dead Things On Sticks. The most notorious are insightful posts on fan fiction (as well as an interview about his views on CBC Radio's blogcast, Spark. Download it here.) and his must-read Emily Post's Guide to Save Our Show Campaigns.

The fans who comprise Hardcore Nerdity seem to keep the conversation on a level of appreciation and real discussion. They are one of my main stops for Sci-Fi news and geek speak now. They take responsibility for what they post and are generally an intelligent, polite, if extremely opinionated bunch.

In return, writers take responsibility to write the best freakin' script or book they can under whatever the circumstances happen to be. That means, you write the best thing you can, while taking into account producer notes, budget, time constraints and story requirements, et al.

That's the only true contract between artist and fans.

Next time we get a bit more personal with responsibility to ourselves and to our art.

Live the adventure.

System Crash

Captain's Log. Stardate: Waaaaauuuugh!

A hard drive has rendered data inaccessible and posting unlikely for the next week or two. the crew has rallied and jury-rigged life (and career) support systems are in place. No fatalities and no deadlines missed thus far.

Air.. running low. Blogging chances are about to, gasp, black out. Recommend citations for all bridge... club, I mean, crew.

New computer on horizon. But will it arrive in time?

Gasp! Gurk!

Thanks for your patience.

Live the adventure.

The Perils Of Screenwriting: A century later, Jack London's thoughts on screenwriting still resonate

"I have written some novels of adventure in my time, but never, in all of the many of them, have I perpetrated a totality of action equal to what is contained in 'Hearts of Three'." - Jack London.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

In looking through Jack London's writings on a recent research jaunt I happened upon the forward for his escapist, Indiana Jones-esque adventure, Hearts Of Three. In it, Jack, with comic deliberation, discusses the various strengths and weakness between authors of literary fiction such as himself and those upstart scenario writers for that newfangled silent film phenomenon taking the planet by storm.

According to London, the 'scenario writers' bring to the table relentless speed and breathless excitement, whereas he brings only deliberate pacing and unhelpful things such as description and fullness of character. Such speed and deft illogic of plotting was necessary since the relentless grind of cinema was chewing through the world's entire history of plots at a brakneck pace and must be continually fed like a steam engine hungry for coal.

According to London, Hearts Of Three was a collaboration between himself and one of the early writing superstars of the cinema, none other than Charles Goddard. Goddard was a noted playwright who adapted many of his works for the new medium but will forever be remembered as the writer, er, scenarist, of The Perils of Pauline. Goddard also gets props from me for penning the plays that Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis' funny Scared Stiff and Bob Hope's The Ghost Breakers were based on.

London's hilarious description of how he wrestled with the demands of the two mediums to produce an imminently filmable novel is a joy to read, even today.

If only it still didn't resonate so painfully!

I HOPE the reader will forgive me for beginning this foreword with a brag. In truth, this yarn is a celebration. By its completion I celebrate my fortieth birthday, my fiftieth book, my sixteenth year in the writing game, and a new departure. " Hearts of Three " is a new departure. I have certainly never done anything like it before; I am pretty certain never to do anything like it again. And I haven't the least bit of reticence in proclaiming my pride in having done it. And now, for the reader who likes action, I advise him to skip the rest of this brag and foreword, and plunge into the narrative, and tell me if it just doesn't read along.

For the more curious let me explain a bit further. With the rise of moving pictures into the overwhelmingly most popular form of amusement in the entire world, the stock of plots and stories in the world's fiction fund began rapidly to be exhausted. In a year a single producing company, with a score of directors, is capable of filming the entire literary output of the entire lives of Shakespeare, Balzac, Dickens, Scott, Zola, Tolstoy, and of dozens of less voluminous writers. And since there are hundreds of moving pictures producing companies, it can be readily grasped how quickly they found themselves face to face with a shortage of the raw material of which moving pictures are fashioned.

The film rights in all novels, short stories, and plays that were still covered by copyright, were bought or contracted for, while all similar raw material on which copyright had expiredwas being screened as swiftly as sailors on a placer beach would pick up nuggets. Thousands of scenario writers literally tens of thousands, for no man, nor woman, nor child was too mean not to write scenarios tens of thousands of scenario writers pirated through all literature (copyright or otherwise), and snatched the magazines hot from the press to steal any new scene or plot or story hit upon by their writing brethren.

In passing, it is only fair to point out that, though only the other day, it was in the days ere scenario writers became respectable, in the days when they worked overtime for rough-neck directors for fifteen and twenty a week or freelanced their wares for from ten to twenty dollars per scenario and half the time were beaten out of the due payment, or had their stolen goods stolen from them by their equally graceless and shameless fellows who slaved by the week. But to-day, which is only a day since the other day, I know scenario writers who keep their three. machines, their two chauffeurs, send their children to the most exclusive prep schools, and maintain an unwavering solvency.

It was largely because of the shortage in raw material that scenario writers appreciated in value and esteem. They found themselves in demand, treated with respect, better remunerated, and, in return, expected to deliver a higher grade of commodity. One phase of this new quest for material was the attempt to enlist Jmown authors in the work. But because a man had written a score of novels was no guarantee that he could write a good scenario. Quite to the contrary, it was quickly discovered that the surest guarantee of failure was a previous record of success in novel writing.

But the moving pictures producers were not to be denied. Division of labor was the thing. Allying themselves with powerful newspaper organisations, or, in the case of "Hearts of Three," the very reverse, they had highly-skilled writers of scenario (who couldn't write novels to save themselves) make scenarios, which, in turn, were translated into novels by novel-writers (who couldn't, to save themselves, write scenarios).

Comes now Mr. Charles Goddard to one, Jack London, saying: " The time, the place, and the men are met; the moving pictures producers, the newspapers, and the capital, are ready: let us get together." And we got "Hearts of Three." When I state that Mr. Goddard has been responsible for " The Perils of Pauline," " The Exploits of Elaine," " The Goddess," the " Get Rich Quick Wallingford " series, etc., no question of his skilled fitness can be raised. Also, the name of the present heroine, Leoncia, is of his own devising.



On the ranch, in the Valley of the Moon, he wrote his first several episodes. But he wrote faster than I, and was done with his fifteen episodes weeks ahead of me. Do not be misled by the word " episode." The first episode covers three thousand feet of film. The succeeding fourteen episodes cover each two thousand feet of film. And each episode contains about ninety scenes, which makes a total of some thirteen hundred scenes. Nevertheless, we worked simultaneously at our respective tasks. I could not build for what was going to happen next or a dozen chapters away, because I did not know. Neither did Mr. Goddard know. The inevitable result was that "Hearts of Three" may not be very vertebrate, although it is certainly consecutive.

Imagine my surprise, down here in Hawaii and toiling at the novelization of the tenth episode, to receive by mail from Mr. Goddard in New York the scenario of the fourteenth episode, and glancing therein, to find my hero married to the wrong woman! and with only one more episode in which to get rid of the wrong woman and duly tie my hero up with the right and only woman. For all of wilich (sic) please see last chapter of fifteenth episode. Trust Mr. Goddard to show me how.

For Mr. Goddard is the master of action and lord of speed. Action doesn't bother him at all. " Register," he calmly says in a film direction to the moving picture actor. Evidently the actor registers, for Mr. Goddard goes right on with more action. " Register grief," he commands, or “sorrow," or " anger," or " melting sympathy," or “homicidal intent," or "suicidal tendency." That's all. It has to be all, or how else would he ever accomplish the whole thirteen hundred scenes?

But imagine the poor devil of a me, who can't utter the talismanic " register " but who must describe, and at some length inevitably, these moods and modes so airily created in passing by Mr. Goddard ! Why, Dickens thought nothing of consuming a thousand words or so in describing and subtly characterizing the particular grief of a particular person. But Mr. Goddard says, " Register," and the slaves of the camera obey.

And action! I have written some novels of adventure in my time, but never, in all of the many of them, have I perpetrated a totality of action equal to what is contained in "Hearts of Three." But I know, now, why moving pictures are popular. I know, now, why Messrs. "Barnes of New York" and "Potter of Texas" sold by the millions of copies. I know, now, why one stump speech of high-falutin' is a more efficient vote-getter than a finest and highest act or thought of statesmanship. It has been an interesting experience, this novelization by me of Mr. Goddard's scenario; and it has been instructive. It has given me high lights, foundation lines, cross-bearings, and illumination on my anciently founded sociological generalizations. I have come, by this adventure in writing, to understand the mass mind of the people more thoroughly than I thought I had understood it before, and to realize, more fully than ever, the graphic entertainment delivered by the demagogue who wins the vote of the mass out of his mastery of its mind. I should be surprised if this book does not have a large sale. (" Register surprise," Mr. Goddard would say; or " Register large sale ").

If this adventure of " Hearts of Three " be collaboration, I am transported by it. But alack ! I fear me Mr. Goddard must then be the one collaborator in a million. We have never had a word, an argument, nor a discussion. But then, I must be a jewel of a collaborator myself. Have I not, without whisper or whimper of complaint, let him " register " through fifteen episodes of scenario, through thirteen hundred scenes and thirty-one thousand feet of film, through one hundred and eleven thousand words of novelization? Just the same, having completed the task, I wish I'd never written it for the reason that I'd like to read it myself to see if it reads along. I am curious to know. I am curious to know.

JACK LONDON.

Waikiki, Hawaii,

March 23, 1916.


MILLS & BOON, LIMITED
49 RUPERT STREET
LONDON, W.

Copyright in the United States of America by Jack London.

Live the adventure.

Novel Approach - They say everyone has a book in them. But do they have to hurt so much coming out?

It seems like everybody's writing a book nowadays.




I have a copy of my friend Scott Alberts's book, Below The Line, written with John McFetridge, on order from Amazon.ca right now. The 30 Second Commute, Stephanie Dickison's nonfiction comedy about working from home, is available for pre-order.

Just in stores and available to order directly from Groundwood Books is Earthgirl, fellow TV scribe Jenn Cowan's first book from House of Anansi Press.

Hardcore Nerdity principal Lesley Livingston's Wondrous Strange is selling like hotcakes and has already spent time as one of Amazon's top youth sellers. So wake up, Twilight fans.



Actress and author Adrienne Kress, another Hardcore Nerdite, has a second book out, Timothy And The Dragon's Gate. Both of Kress and Livingston's fantasy works are garnering excellent reviews, like this one in the Globe and Mail.

And pals like actor Stephen Adams are taking matters into their own hands and self-publishing, like his first novel, Suit On The Run.

Sure, this post is partially a chance to shill for my friends and acquaintances, but the whole idea of putting a book into the world seems more possible thanks to the efforts of these colleagues. But it seems like writing a novel is becoming more and more common. The people above are some of the authors I know who are getting out there and getting it done.

Last November I posted about Chris Baty's National Novel Writing Month (NaNoMo Yes Or No?). I was tempted by the idea because of the power of a deadline to make the impossible happen. The NanoWrimo site's description of how it works is full of inspiration:

National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30.

Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved.

Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly.

Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.

As you spend November writing, you can draw comfort from the fact that, all around the world, other National Novel Writing Month participants are going through the same joys and sorrows of producing the Great Frantic Novel. Wrimos meet throughout the month to offer encouragement, commiseration, and—when the thing is done—the kind of raucous celebrations that tend to frighten animals and small children.

In 2007, we had over 100,000 participants. More than 15,000 of them crossed the 50k finish line by the midnight deadline, entering into the annals of NaNoWriMo superstardom forever. They started the month as auto mechanics, out-of-work actors, and middle school English teachers. They walked away novelists.

The amazing thing about it is that it's all true. This sucker really works!

I never believed I had a novel in me but about three days before National Novel Writing Month was to begin the germ of a possible idea wormed it way into my head. And as the clock ticked down to the start, I threw caution to the winds and began. I found it invigorating and challenging and soon the need to achieve each day's page count burned in my heart.

Then I had to stop.

It soon became apparent that I had so much paid writing to do I could not do both projects without my "day job" suffering. It took a little while to see if I could actually reschedule my time to make room for work and NanoWrimo (NaNoMo, How many different short forms does National Novel Writing Month have anyway?) It turned out it was possible, with the support of a very understanding wife, and so I was the rest of the month went well.

I was surprised by some of the twists that flowed from my flying fingers. I was seeing the idea expand and grow despite never having enough time to explore each digression and character that arose. I knew the draft would be far from perfect but if I kept to schedule I knew it would be complete enough to really work with . Writing is all in the editing.

It was fast and furious creation. The fingers really had to fly across the keyboards too make up for a lost week's worth of word count. By coincidence, this year's month ended on a Sunday Night, allowing for a full weekend of laptop bashing. At sometime around ten I had passed the 50, 000 word minimum but it wouldn't be official until I fed it into the official online counter. Normally, I would just see my count rise by much less than I'd hoped. But I knew this would be different. A sense of triumph hung in the air. I hit ENTER and was greeted with...

Through storm and sun, you traversed the noveling seas. Pitted against a merciless deadline and fighting hordes of distractions, you persevered. You launched yourself bravely into Week One, sailed through the churning waters of Week Two, skirted the mutinous shoals of Weeks Three and Four, and now have landed, victorious, in a place that few adventurers ever see.

We congratulate you on your hard work, salute your discipline and follow-through, and celebrate your imagination.

You did something amazing this month, novelist. We couldn't be prouder.

I can't tell you what a heady experience it was to see that logo flash across the screen. And the congratulatory write-up does not exaggerate that feeling. I was a viking! A master of throwing words at a page in some semblance of readable order! I was unstoppable!

So why didn't I slap this all over the Blog when I reached my lofty goal? For one, simple reason.

I wasn't finished the damn thing.

According to NaNoWrimo founder Chris Baty, the last word you type really should be "The" and "End". There will be a lot of crap in between but you'll have something complete to edit with and you can begin the arduous process of polishing up a prose gem. But my last two words weren't "The End". My last two words weren't my last two words at all. I was far from finished. I figured at the rate of 1600 words a day or so I was over a week away from having a finished first draft.

I got down on myself. I'm a professional writer. Why didn't I pace out my story to end at the right point. But then I did some calculations and realized I was pacing myself... for thirty days. But with two or three days away from the novel for family functions and a week lost to paying assignments and reworking my schedule, I had only written on twenty of the thirty days allotted! I was still ten days away from "The End".

Baty warns you to finish quickly if you still have work to do. The energy of the deadline disappears fast and the longer you wait to return to the first draft, the less likely you are to return to it at all. And when you do, your head will be in a different space and you might have difficulty recapturing the original mindset.

Sadly, that bastard is absolutely right.

The Winner's Seal has been mocking me for months. There has been so much work and so many things to balance in my day to day life that I still have yet to write those final ten days worth of novel. I'd like to do it in one go so I can be as close as possible to that state of automatic writing I achieved in November. So after, script deliveries, after Easter and after preparing my taxes, maybe I can finally, truly feel like I've earned that Winner Seal.

Compared to that, editing will be easy. Right?

Sigh.

Live the adventure.