Clean and Elegant

Clean and Elegant
Showing posts with label book. Show all posts
Showing posts with label book. Show all posts

Sunday, 10 November 2013

The Exuberant Bodhisattva attends BookCamp Halifax 2013

 
This Saturday, I attended BookCamp Halifax 2013 at the Khyber Centre for the Arts. BookCamp Halifax is a so-called “un-conference” where all the strange and lovely book people in Halifax gather together to discuss book issues such as publishing, marketing, and of course, writing. The event was free and open to all kinds of book people of all calibres.

I started the morning with “Putting the 'Media' in Social Media." I had a vague inclination to live tweet the entire un-conference. Then former Chatelaine editor-in-chief Kim Pittaway reminded us that on Twitter, she doesn’t so much notice your absence as your irritable presence. Over the course of the day, my Twitter fans were privy to a few ingenious comments about a free macaroon, the colourful and delightful Khyber bathrooms, blue underwear and dinosaur porn, but that was about it. From the workshop, I gathered that social media is certainly helpful, however, it can quickly become a huge distraction and time suck. The most important thing about being a writer is how much you write, not how many Twitter followers you have. At the social media session, an audience member suggested brand new tweeters to follow the 2-2-2 rule: two tweets, two retweets, and two replies per day. This is supposed to help you accumulate followers over time.

(To retweet or to reply to my innovative and brilliant tweets, find me on @mypelvicfloor)

My next chosen session was “How to Make Headlines: Writing for Magazines and Newspapers.” The panelists were Halifax Magazine editor Trevor J. Adams, freelance writer Chris Benjamin, The Coast arts editor Stephanie Johns and fashion magazine publisher Amanda Kincaid.  I’ve always been a fan of Chris Benjamin’s writing in The Coast. When talking about freelancing, he said that when he first started, he was attached to a bunch of big ideas that he wanted to write about and change the world. Over time, he found he had to learn to hold these ideas a little less tightly and focus on the story that needed to be told, and the people. I thought that this was good advice. We also got advice from Trevor and Stephanie about writing pitches. Trevor gave the simple model of 3 paragraphs. One about why he should care, one about sources, and one about visual possibilities, something I’ve never really thought about. Overall, I found the session quite useful. Maybe someday I’ll write a pitch.

After lunch I went to Steven Laffoley’s session about Creative Non-fiction. I thought the presenter looked extremely familiar before realizing that he was the English teacher who stands in the Halifax Grammar School parking lot every day greeting students and parents. I walk by him every day on the way to the bus. My boyfriend Robbie, the Boatman, used to be his student. He said he was a wonderful teacher. And he runs like a madman. Apparently Stephen Laffoley also babysat Robbie when Robbie was seven. Wish I’d been around for that.

Mr. Laffoley, as the Boatman calls him, has written six books. His most recent one about boxer George Dixon. He sees creative non-fiction as a cinematic exercise of framing facts in the way that tells the best story, and turns the facts into timeless literature. He also said that writing is like coughing up a lung, which I appreciated. I guess creative non-fiction is selling pretty well these days, especially historical fiction in Nova Scotia where people are interested in their history and there are so many interesting stories from the past. Sounds like a good cure for pelvic obsessions and self-absorption. I may consider this.

The next session was How to Write a Novel in 30 Days, by Stephanie Domet, who hosts the CBC radio show Mainstreet and Atlantic Airways. The horrendous idea of composing a novel in 30 days comes from National Novel Writing Month, better known as NaNoWriMo, a worldwide network of writers who take a pact to write a 50 000 word novel during the 30 days of November. Stephanie hilariously and charmingly described how she haphazardly signed herself up for the trauma so she could report about it on the CBC radio show Definitely Not the Opera.  The month was a disaster of total procrastination. By Day 15, she had some vague ideas about a character who couldn’t leave the house, and a ghost at the Spring Garden Road Library. Over dinner, her friend joked that she might as well add pigeons to the mix. So she did. But by November 27, she had less than 20 000 words down. That meant more than 10 000 words per day. Still, she did not use her time wisely, and on the last day, ended up writing 20 000 words. Writing a novel in 30 days is about quantity, and not quality. People who have succeeded in the past say that it helps to have an outline of your characters wants, fears, the worst things that could happen to them, and how you could orchestrate that happening to them. You can follow this advice, or as Stephanie seems to have done, just write like hell. In either case, in the end you get a draft that you can surgically repair into something beautiful. Stephanie got a published book out of her 30-day novel Homing. And now she knows that if the shit ever again hits the fan, she is capable of writing 20 000 words in a day. But this is to be avoided.

I considered doing the 30-day novel month this year, but I thought that it would turn into an overly ambitious New Year’s Resolution. I suppose that there are still 20 days left…  That’s 2500 words a day. We’ll see.  When I started I Let Go, I vowed that it would be published on Amazon within three days. Most of it was done in three weeks. Not terrible, however, most people can read the entire thing in about 45 minutes. Oh well.

The final session of the day was where I learned about Dinosaur Porn.  In a fragmented skyped presentation, Sean Cranbury spoke about how the internet and digital media has opened up all sorts of possibilities in publication.  Putting publication in the hands of the creator has allowed for the unlikely rise of Dinosaur Erotica on Amazon.  After learning about self-publishing on Amazon, college students Alara Branwen and Christie Sims have taken it upon themselves to grace the literary world with tales of dinosaur boning and prehistoric lust.

I was immediately compelled to do further research on this. In a Huffington Post Interview between author Alaran Branwen and reporter Hilary Hansen, Branwen postulates that dinosaur erotica appeals to our more base, carnal natures. Some people also probably like the idea of a big, powerful, massive male roughly having sex with a smaller female. It’s like the ultimate sexual experience with an alpha male, which is something that we are all inherently wired to enjoy.”


At Halifax BookCamp, I unfortunately didn’t get to discuss this alpha dinosaur sex experience with any of the participants, but this is my only complaint about the event.  Otherwise, I had thoroughly satisfying day, filled with tips and inspiration that stemmed far beyond sex with pterodactyls.

Many, many thanks to the speakers, volunteers, and organizers.

The End.
After you're done with the T-Rex:
 
 

 
 

Thursday, 22 August 2013

Chuckie the Horse and the Day Jack Layton Died

Jack Layton died two years ago today. August 22nd, 2011. He was the leader of the New Democratic Party. One of the reasons I like him was because he ate granola and blueberries for breakfast. Stephen Harper the conservative prime minister apparently eats something much grosser. Despite the blueberries, Jack Layton died of prostate cancer. On August 22nd, 2011, I had been living with the Boatman for just over a month. During the afternoons, I often got drunk, tired of pretending I had something meaningful to do before the Boatman came home from work. The day Jack Layton died, I got drunk on gin and diet soda and I thought about Jack Layton and I thought about writing another book.


Jack Layton, our optimistic NDP leader. Source.

Jack Layton wrote a letter to Canadians and he told them to be loving, hopeful, and optimistic. Filled with gin and other carcinogens, I hardly felt any of these things. I felt mild despair. But Jack Layton said that optimism is better than despair. I should try to be optimistic. And change the world.

So I tried. I tried to write this story about Chuckie the Horse and the Day that Princess Diana died.

The first time I ever saw a horse’s dick was the day Princess Diana died. It was an enlarged version of my father’s and about one and a half times the size of the wooden rulers we used in math class. I was at the Perth fair, watching the equestrian competition with my friend Janine. Janine had long, thick blonde hair that went down to her waist. She’d gotten a ninety-nine percent average in grade seven and she was so good at the piano that she’d been the pianist in the school’s performance of The Pirates of Penzance. Janine used to ride horses too. She knew all the horses in the Perth Fair and we were allowed to go back into the stables to pat their heads and brush them with a shell-shaped comb. The horse show was two days before our first day of grade eight. I was eleven and Janine was twelve.

Chuckie was the horse’s name. Maybe he was a thoroughbread. His hair was dark brown and his back legs looked like enormous chicken drumsticks. I didn’t know much about horses because my family lived in town. Janine and I squeezed into either side of his stall.


Chuckie the Horse and his long dick looked something like this.  Source

Yes, Chuckie, yes,” Janine cooed, stroking his nose. It was my turn to use the shell-shaped comb to brush his mane.

I heard Princess Diana puked up her food,” I said.

That’s revolting,” said Janine. Chuckie snorted. Janine's always said that her stomach stuck out more than mine did, and that it was softer. I said that she was smart and beautiful she had long perfect blonde hair and so she beat me.

I think Princess Diana was beautiful.” I sucked in my stomach and rubbed Chuckie`s neck. During the school year, I swam two hours a day with the Perth swim team. In the summers, there was a break and I became intensely afraid of gaining weight. I spent my days walking our family dog around Perth’s perimeters, counting my steps and making sure I made it to at least 6000, or else I did not deserve lunch. While I stood still, I clenched and unclenched my buttocks, in the hopes that it would remain firm. Every night before bed, I performed 1000 abdominal exercises. I looked forward to the fall when swim practices would resume and someone else would have the responsibility of inflicting weight-management strategies upon me.

I miss riding you, Chuckie,” said Janine. “Good luck.” We walked toward the end of Chuckie’s stall to comb his belly. That’s when his dick went down. Or up, I suppose. I knew very little about dicks at the time. Chuckie’s dick was long. Wide for its length, but still wide. In nine years, a sixty-eight year old intellectually disabled Polish woman named Jadwiga would ask me, “Erica, why men have the long thing?” Alas, I never had no satisfactory response for Jadwiga. Or for me.

That’s really gross,” I said to Janine when I saw Chuckie the Horse’s dick. Grosser than Diana puking up her food. Much Grosser. Way Grosser. When Janine and I sat down on the bleachers, there were sixteen hours left if we wanted to die on the same day as Princess Diana. There were seven and a half years before I would touch a real cock. Eleven years, eight months until I would touch and suck and vaginally penetrate Simon’s.

The special thing about Simon’s dick was that he could cum from a blowjob and remain hard for a full blown session of intercourse. Shorter than Chuckie the Horse’s, but harder. Hard as wood. I was never thrilled about giving extensive blowjobs before sex. It took too long and by the time he came, I wouldn’t be in the mood anymore.
That’s as far as I got. I didn`t know what else to say. I wasn't in the mood anymore.
The End.


Oh, and here's Princess Diana. Source.
She died before Twitter even started.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on FacebookTwitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt


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