Dead Tired of Deadlines

I got this encouraging note by email yesterday: "I went to Leta's book signing at 'Footprints on the Shore' bookstore yesterday and thought of being there for you one day, Brenda, receiving a signed copy of your new book!" I felt buoyed by the encouragement of a friend and reader of my blog, encouragement that whets my parched enthusiasm for writing.

I've pushed my writing aside for the usual work busyness that is the month of January and into February. My blog, my writing sketchpad, lies mostly forgotten and overlooked. The only writing I will do is to ask for an extension on my writing assignment that is due February 6th. I can't do it any justice this next week. I have no reserves for creativity. It is seldom that I ask for an extension on a deadline. I pride myself on meeting deadlines - but my deadlines don't usually involve creative energy and thought.

Last month I resigned from my monthly writing gig for a local newspaper. I had to create more space in my life. A writing friend filled the gap beautifully. I read her article in this month's edition of the paper and felt the relief of not having that deadline to meet.

In the mornings I awake with thoughts of work and a list of to-dos stirring in my head: where is that form; don't forget to make that request to such-and-such; call this person; leave a message for that person; touch base with so-and-so; post that blog you wrote two weeks ago; meet all those deadlines, phone home ...

I feel the rush in my chest - particularly on a Monday morning. I want to hide, escape, run away, soar on a breath of fresh rushing air before I burn to the ground.

Writing a Story, Simply

I mutter to myself, "Fiction, fiction, I have to write a piece of fiction." I look in the mirror as if into a crystal ball.

M sticks his head around the bathroom door, "What's that? Are you talking to me?"

"No," I say, "I'm talking to myself. My next piece for my writing course is a piece of fiction, a short story. And I don't know what to write."

"When's it due?" M asks.

"Early February."

"Ah, in two weeks."

Yes, I have two weeks to write a believable, interesting piece that never really happened.

A short story has structure and bare bones. I've been reading up on the bare bones part but it is giving life to those bones, surrounding them with muscle and tissue and providing blood to course through the veins that has me coming up dry.

I need to write a piece that reveals something about the character to the reader. It needs conflict and a resolution which the main character discovers for herself. Or will it be himself? What is the character's problem? Where will the complication come in or the conflict arise? How will it be resolved? These are the quality questions of a story. Questions that lie unanswered in my writer's mind.

My story needs a touch of urgency and drama. It needs to lead somewhere and have a purpose. The reader will want to come along for the narrative ride out of concern for my character (or will it be characters?) eager to see how things will turn out. And, of course, I learnt this in Grade 3; my story needs a beginning, middle and an end. Three sections to hold the three elements of my story: problem, complication, solution.

Okay, I think I've got that. Now how to get there? How will I colour it in? What will the meat be on these bones? I reach for Jon Franklin's book on the craft secrets of "Writing for Story". I flip to the chapter on how to stalk a short story. I stumble where he says that knowing the anatomy of a story won't make me a writer. Hardly helpful when right now I don't feel like a writer and the formula is all I seem to have a handle on.

My eyes flit through the pages which unlock secrets of story writing. Start with the complication; it's the easiest place to begin. Be on the lookout for a complication, stalk it in real-life, and ask a myraid of questions. Like an artist sketches on a pad, a writer sketches her stories on 3 x 5 cards or on a computer: moving scenarios around, adding in new ones, scratching out, deleting or removing poor fitting ones, all within the anatomy of the story.

A short story of 1,500 words doesn't give much creative room. It's got to be sharp and succinct. Simple, right?

I agree with Jon Franklin - Simplicity is deceptive.

Brooks One, Two, Three

Here's a quick update on the busiest member of our household: Busy Brooks. She's one busy bird with oodles of action stored in her wings - and her beak. But quite apart from her busyness and in-bred naughtiness, we're happy to report that she's trained in a few things.

She knows just what M means when he orders "Off" after she's landed on an out of bounds picture frame. Just because she understands it doesn't mean she likes it. After complying with a flutter of wings and an angry squawk, she'll land on M's head and knock her beak three times on his head, woodpecker-style, just so he knows what she thought of that instruction.

I, in turn, have trained her to go into her cage without too much fanfare. Admittedly, it needs to be timed with when she's a little hungry. I place her on the rope perch outside her cage, put her favourite treat - a raw cashew - in her dish and knock on her dish a few times to draw attention to it. Then I say, "Brooks, go eat" in my most soothing voice. With just a little bit of coaxing, she moves from the perch to the door of her cage. One, two, three and she's in her cage. As soon as she's at her dish enjoying her treat, the door goes closed. Easy peasy.

And certainly, the best news of all is that Busy Brooks is coming along with her toilet training. But more of that in the next blog about Busy Brooks!

Brisbane Under Water

I walk in the door refreshed from my first yoga class in months.
M greets me with, "Brisbane is under water."
What? Oh no!
"We must call my brother," I say.

But first, M pulls up a video clip on Youtube. "Look at this," he says. "Watch how a small stream in Toowoomba turns into a torrent of water and washes cars away." We watch the clip and share in the lives and agony of strangers.

When the flooding started in Queensland, we tracked the floods on the internet keeping an eye on their proximity to Brisbane. And now the flood waters have reached the city and the swollen Brisbane River will not be contained. The meandering river we had cruised on the Brisbane City Cat was now a raging toxic torrent rising six metres above its banks, flooding the city and its neighbourhoods.

We skype Brisbane. My sister-in-law answers.
"How are you?" we ask. "Are you going to be okay?"
"We're fine," she says. "We're outside of the flood zone. But I'm prepared with an overnight bag for each of us in case we have to be evacuated. As you know, we're only 20 minutes from the city."

My brother is still at work in Brisbane and she's hoping that he can get home considering that some of the bridges are being shut down.
"When he went to work this morning he called to say that SouthBank was already under water," she says.

Southbank - beautiful lovely Southbank! When M and I visited Australia, Southbank impressed us. "We could live here," we both said, man-made as it is. We loved the beaches that had been created along the banks of the Brisbane River and the swimming pools set back from the beach. The palm trees, the restaurants and cafés, the bougainvillea lined paths and the view of the city across the river enticed us. On my brother's birthday, we had enjoyed lunch there on the shaded patio of a Greek restaurant.

We commiserate with my sister-in-law about the awfulness of it all and send love across cyberspace. Relieved that they are fine, back on the internet, we follow the difficult stories of other lives impacted by the floods. In amongst the tragedy, I find this nugget of Aussie straightforwardness: the mayor of Ipswich warns would-be looters that anyone found looting in their city will be used as tide-markers.

Good for him! Sometimes, especially at times like these, we've just got to say it as it is.

Sock Hop

Ronnie and Jean threw a 1950s sock hop at their place to say hello to 2011. A sock hop: what a great way to see the New Year in. Sign me up!

As a kid I grew up listening to my parents' music and so music from the fifties and sixties is quite familiar to me. And as a teenager, my younger brother and I would move the coffee table out of the way and dance.

Dancing is happy. And dancing to fifties and sixties music is especially happy! Get me on a dance floor with good music and I can stay there all night.

M likes to dance too. Two summers ago when the movie Mamma Mia hit the theatres, M and I put our ABBA CD on at home one night and we danced through it all.

Oh happy days! What a happy way to see in a happy new year!