You Can't Always Get What You Want

I'm going to start this post with the dreaded rhetorical question: Did you ever set out to do one thing, and find yourself taking a completely different path? One you didn't think you wanted? One that led to self-fulfilment and satisfaction?

That old Stones tune struck a chord with me last week. I looked back at all the goals I had set when I was a fresh young newbie in the big bad world. I thought I was going to be the next Robert Bateman (except a girl). That dream was dashed when I discovered it wasn't easy to get a job after graduation painting stuff. So I chose Graphic Arts. That was a bust -- medical problems forced me to drop out halfway through my second semester.

I looked at my options the next year and entered a Visual Arts Instructor Training course at my local community college. This introduced me to photography, and I ended up working at a camera store after graduation.

After years of selling film and taking in photofinishing, the boss moved me upstairs to assemble the store's newspaper ads.

Full circle. I now work for a newspaper, making ads.

I recently realized this theme runs through the novel I'm currently subbing. The main character has a serious crush on a boy, but in her efforts to get his attention she distances herself from her volatile home life. She then finds the courage to return home and becomes closer than ever to her mother.

The same thing can be said for the author. A new writer might set out to win the Booker Prize, but it may not be in the cards. Who knows, he or she might end up as a best selling mystery or romance writer, with sales quadrupling any literary author's. 

Is your path straight, or did it take a few left turns? Are you happy where you ended up or will you peek around the next corner?

You can't always get what you want, but you might get what you need.

Comic Cons Aren't Just For Comics

Last weekend I decided at the last moment to accompany my daughter, an avid animator and fan of everything pop culture, to Fan Expo in Toronto.

My intention was to connect with a couple of author pals and support their books. I expected an expanse of booths and hundreds of people milling around, but nothing prepared me for what I experienced.

We took the subway to Union Station and followed the signs that led to the Metro Toronto Convention Centre. Several Expo volunteers were already on hand to direct us to the area where we could buy tickets. I expected a lineup at a ticket window just outside the venue, but we were asked to proceed down Simcoe Street, along the side of the Centre, and into a parking garage.

As the crowd got thicker and the temperature rose, I couldn't help but feel were being herded onto some mysterious intergalactic vessel, never to be seen again.

We finally got inside, and boy oh boy... was it huge!

Exhibitors from Warner Brothers, Disney, TeleToons, Space Channel... I could go on but you get the picture... as well as dozens of comic book and collectible retailers took up the centre of the huge building. Along the edges I found Artists Ally, booths rented by local artists who specialized in comic books, fan art and Anime. I almost bought a Tardis air freshener, but it was ten bucks. I did, however, score a Montreal ComicCon poster from a Quebec comic book retailer who didn't intend to sell the posters.

I was pleased to see several independent/small presses represented, as well as Canadian divisions of big publishers like Penguin and Harper Collins, hawking books from the SFF and Paranormal genres. Champagne's new imprint, Burst, would feel right at home.

There, I met up with my friend Lesley Livingston and had my ARC of Once Every Never signed.



In the lobby and upstairs, I saw Ghost Busters, Steampunk Society aficionados, and Star Wars 501st Regiment Storm Troopers. I met up with Adrienne Kress at the Steampunk Society booth, where she displayed her bestselling children's books Alex and the Ironic Gentleman, and Timothy and the Dragon's Gate.

Later, I sat in on a panel about world building. A tall adolescent with fluffy hair obscured my view of the panel which included Lesley Livingston, Rob Weston, Ed Greenwood  (my DnD son would have loved to meet him!) and Violette Malan, a fantasy author. They kicked ass and made us laugh while giving great advice on writing.

And lastly, I must comment on... THE COSTUMES! They were incredible. I couldn't stop staring at the amazing effort fans put into their favourite characters.

There was too much to take in during one day. I can see now why people buy passes for all four days. Maybe I'll go back next year and just walk around... in a COSTUME...? Maybe. We'll see.

The 501st, ready to fall out.

The Steampunk Society had lots of really swell gadgets.

These guys freeze framed for a while before starting to hand out posters.

I expected Yakko, Wacko and Dot to pop out of this thing. 

Your Life in 150 Words

Today, I saw a Reader's Digest contest that asks for your life story in 150 words or less. I jumped all over that, and quickly opened a word file before I lost my nerve.
When I copied my 149 words and went to the site, I was disappointed to learn the contest is only open to U.S. Citizens.

Oh, well.

Anyway, I decided to throw my entry up here.

At three years old, I caught fireflies in Trinidad. At four, I drew my first horse in Thunder Bay.

At seven, I watched whales frolic in Chaleur Bay from the top of a snow bank. When I was ten, Kenny and I protested the impending demise of a weeping willow in Pierrefonds by climbing into its branches and refusing to come down.

At sixteen, I spent a year at an international school in Mallorca and learned that I wasn’t so special, yet I was unique. At seventeen, I rode a Berber mare in Algeria. She took the bit and led me on a wild ride before depositing me on my feet with my arms still wrapped around her neck.

At twenty-four, I married the love of my life and had two talented children.

At forty-seven, I wrote my first novel. At fifty-two, I’m still painting, writing, learning... and married.

What's your life story in 150 words?

Perfect Moments

Do you ever have those days when you want to freeze a moment and hold it forever? Maybe you’re having a bad day and everything seems to be going wrong. Maybe you’re tired of rejection and want to give up.

Rather than dwell on disappointment, why not reach into the back of your mind and pluck out one of those perfect moments when all seems right with the world.

Some of my perfect moments:

Sitting back with a cold drink after I’ve mowed the back lawn. As the rapidly melting ice chirps in my glass, I look at the evenly cut blades of grass, inviting a picnic on its temporarily pristine surface. I never get around to the picnic, but the prospect is pleasing.

Late afternoon light when the breeze carries those little fluffy seeds. They look like backlit faeries dancing just for my enjoyment. I don't think of the weedy aftermath.

The beach – laughing children and the keening of gulls mingled with the smell of sunscreen. My toes push under the hot sand, finding a cool spot beneath.

That feeling when a plane accelerates on the tarmac and my head pushes against the back of my seat. The turbine engines roar, then their pitch rises to a “wheeeee,” as they carry me away to some exciting destination.

The warmth of the sun on huge slab of granite at the edge of a clear lake. I gaze at multicoloured lichen radiating from the cracks, and pick blueberries while a loon calls in the distance.

The first gentle snowfall, hopefully before Christmas. Light sparkles on it, reminding me of my childhood for some reason.

Taking out my grandmother’s rosary and watching the light bounce off the facets of its beads.

There. I feel much better now.

The Fun Side of Research

Remember a couple of years ago when I told you about a super opening for a polo mystery? Well, I'm about 10K words into my WIP. It's been a slow process, probably because my confidence in my writing has been sagging lately.

But I'm not here to whine. I wanted to share my experience while researching for the setting of my book. I'd been to several charity polo matches nearby (thanks to my employer), but nothing compared to the events of the past year.

You see, my girlfriend met a millionaire, and they soon started dating. He had taken up polo a few years ago and plays in Florida and here in Ontario. After meeting him, I was pulled into the world of the rich - massive estates, horses by the gross and handsome people. You'd think they'd be snobby like in the movies, but they aren't. They're all wonderful and warm.

I attended matches at the polo club, watched my girlfriend taking lessons and went to some really great parties. They weren't wild parties - it seems horse lovers are just like me - lovers of animals, good food, music and conversation.

Recently my girlfriend and the millionaire parted ways (amicably) and are still good friends. I ran into him at this year's charity event (he and my girlfriend both volunteered on the committee) and we exchanged warm greetings. I'll always admire his easygoing openness and generosity. Because of him, my novel has taken on a new level of authenticity.

Here are a few of the events that kept me from blogging (and sometimes writing) the past few months:

Nacho Figueras, six-goaler and Ralph Lauren model, tearing up the pitch at Pace Polo For Heart 2011. I didn't meet him, but he seemed nice.

Me on Maya, a gift to my girlfriend. A sweet pony - I hope I didn't confuse her too much.

Me with Princess Diya Kumari of Jaipur. Her husband was on the Royal Jaipur Polo Club team, invited to this year's Polo For Heart.

And finally, my own sister's brush with royalty on Monday. Cathy Elliott is musical director of The Talking Stick, the first all-Aboriginal original musical at this year's Charlottetown Festival. Her troupe performed for the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and got to meet the newlyweds. I'm so proud of my sis!

I hope to "get back on the writing horse" with more regularity this summer. I might no longer be in the inner circles of the rich, but I was sure to take notes!

A Mother's Love

So many things have been said about mothers, and I'm not sure if I have anything new. Every mother is unique. Some are strict, others are 'best friends' and some are not meant to be mothers at all.

We are often told we'll grow up to be our mothers as if it's some sort of revenge for sins committed when we were wayward teens. We sometimes view this prospect with horror, and other times are thankful we treat our children like our mothers treated us. When my kids tell me I'm cool, I think it's because of my mom.

My mom was born during the waning years of the Great Depression, in a region rife with unemployment at the best of times. She did her best to help her mother with cleaning up after three brothers and a not so perfect father.

She also coped with moving a lot with three kids and a husband who spent a lot of time on business trips. We could have turned out to be real head cases, being teenagers in the Seventies, but I think we turned out pretty good.

Mom talked to us. She joked with us. She opened her door to our friends. We cared for her and she cared for us in return, which might seem like a back asswards situation, but it was.

Mom was excruciatingly shy. She didn't like to leave the house, and didn't want anyone to see her. But when we had visitors or when she was at the grocery store, she lit up the place. Her sense of humour put everyone at ease, and I think laughter helped us achieve success with our relationships and our children.

She sang oldies all the time. Sometimes, I find myself belting out Isn't It Romantic while doing the dishes, just like she did when I was a kid.

Mom is a thousand miles away, back in her home town of Saint John, New Brunswick. I miss her and I love her. I hope to see her soon.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Of course, you and I know that Mother's Day is Every Day.

I Love That Little Bird

No, not Angry Birds (hubby is obsessed with them). I love the Twitter Machine.

While on Staycation last week I came across a tweet from Wanda Bookalicious (not her real name), a book-loving blogger affiliated with the Yummy Mummy Club, a popular site here in the Toronto area. It was a contest to win a free ticket to Jodi Picoult's book event. I thought, what the heck, and participated.

Imagine my surprise when Wanda messaged me to say I'd won. Not only a seat at the reading, but a free copy of Jodi's latest book, Sing You Home. 

I drove to Toronto on a rainy Thursday night and joined the throng of enthusiastic fans. A sweet little couple in front of me in line had driven 4 1/2 hours from Sudbury to be part of the event. They looked like sisters, with baseball caps and sneakers. One of them lamented missing the Leaf game, and the other thanked her for making such a big sacrifice. :)

I'm telling Jodi about my sister. That's my boob there on the right...

Jodi's reading had me hooked right away, but the thing that set this one apart was the music. Sing You Home comes with a CD with lyrics written by Ms. Picoult, and music by her long-time friend Ellen Wilber. Ellen performed three songs live, songs written to accompany specific chapters in the book.

After the performance, Jodi answered questions. Some were typical - who were your favourite characters and such, but one sweet girl stood out. She piped up in her childlike voice, "Hi, I'm thirteen and I really love you. All my friends at school talk about Justin Bieber, but I just talk about you."

As the book signing portion approached, I began to worry because I didn't know where I was going to get my free book. The organizer told me Wanda had the books, but we couldn't locate her. As my row of seats took their places in line, the representative tracked down a book for me from the green room. She didn't have to do that, and I'm forever grateful for her kindness.

I had the book signed while explaining to Jodi how her MC's story was so similar to my sister's.

As I was preparing to leave, Wanda finally spotted me and we embraced. I told her I received a copy, and she promptly gave me another one. I joined the line again, so now I have an extra!

I love meeting people in person after interacting on Twitter. This morning I finally met a local independent grocer who is like a rock star in these parts LOL.

And just to give you all a laugh, here's a picture of me and my girlfriends during our most recent Bitches Night Out:

Everyone Has Dreams

I went to my brother's surprise 50th Birthday dinner at a nice, trendy restaurant in Toronto. Frankly, I thought my husband and I were going to be the only diners at the table for ten. A half hour later, one of my brother's old friends finally arrived, then another couple. Okay, this was going to be a party!

When my brother showed up, he was genuinely surprised. He reached across the table to embrace my husband, who promptly knocked over the drink I'd just received. Being a mom, I instinctively grabbed for it, but it shattered in my hand. Luckily, it didn't pierce the skin.

After we cleaned up and ordered dinner, I sat back to listen to my brother and his friends reminisce about the old music scene in Toronto. They talked about who had the best sound mixing boards, who was with what band these days, and the clubs they played in. That night, I found out my brother actually performed at El Mocambo, an iconic tavern on Spadina.

He worked as a janitor for the building. Once, late at night, he stood in the middle of the empty stage where the Rolling Stones and Elvis Costello performed, and he visualized himself playing guitar there. A few years later, he did.

At 50, he plays a mean guitar, keyboards, bass and mandolin with the best of them. He teaches music for a living, but I believe someday he'll realize his dream of making a living playing music.

I feel the same way about writing. With every rejection, with every turn of phrase, with every nice email from a happy reader, I know I'm going to make it. Well, most of the time. Well... sometimes.

I hope my children will realize their dreams at an earlier age, but if they don't, it's no big deal. Sometimes the journey is as exciting as the destination.

I can still dream, can't I?

Here's the gift I made for little Bro, suitable for a Toronto boy living in Buffalo

My Brain is so Frazzled I Can't Even Think of a Title

I don't think I've experienced writer's block before, so I'm not sure I'd recognize it if I saw it. Is it that feeling everything you write is crap? Is it the brick wall you face when you're supposed to be writing a story? Is it opening your Twitter account instead of your WIP?

Or is it lack of confidence, second-guessing every word you type, backspacing and starting over about a hundred times? To me, it feels like neglecting a house until the paint peels and the windows are broken. The muse needs a coat of paint and a little TLC, but the job seems overwhelming.

The last several months have been... interesting. I had two WIPs on the go, and had to decide which to finish. One was literary women's fiction and the other was an up-market thriller with a premise that changed every time I looked at the world news.

After consulting my writerly pals, I decided to finish the women's fiction and started querying almost exactly a year ago. I had enough requests to keep me going. One agent requested revisions and I complied. It was close, but no cigar. I don't regret the exchange with the agent - she was so encouraging and made me feel like I was creating something worthwhile. In the end, she passed, but I have a cleaner, leaner and meaner book in hand.

Others offered similar feedback which compelled me to chop the manuscript in pieces and convert it into a YA novel. Now I'm starting a second round with the new title in hand, and there is still a lot of nibbling going on, but no real bites... yet.

All the while, I was asking myself, "Why am I doing this? Why don't I quit and do something else?" Everyone says an author should be working on the next book while querying.

After all, we don't wait until one kid is in college before having another one, do we?

It's like waiting to see if my first kid is going to be a ballet dancer or a rock star. After all, it's easier to hand down a set of drums than to buy a whole new set. I could continue with character-driven novels or switch gears and write a romantic suspense. I enjoy both, but I don't know if my future agent will.

While I'm mulling it over, I'll tell you about my first experience with a polo pony. How's that for switching gears?

My best friend had been taking polo lessons all summer and her boyfriend presented her with a polo pony. The pony's name is Maya and she's white with little brown freckles all over her. The first thing my friend did was commission me to paint a portrait of her, which I did. I'm posting a copy over there with my other paintings.

Maya was a rescue horse and hadn't been ridden for a while. She had become a bit "green" and needed to be brought up to speed with careful training. Much like my WIP *laughs*.

Earlier this winter, I had a chance to ride her.

Polo tack is a nightmare to put on a horse. There are so many straps and buckles, you need a diagram to remember it all. Maya stood patiently while I fiddled with her bridle and almost put the bit up her nostrils.

I hadn't ridden in five years, so when I got on her, I felt like I was going to slide off. I walked her around the arena while three youngsters zoomed circles around me in preparation for an upcoming indoor game. My friend, still a novice polo player, watched and laughed from the viewing room. I wasn't doing a very good job of warming up her horse.

Polo ponies are ridden in a different style from Western and English. There are two reins, and you hold them in your left hand only, even if you're right handed. The right hand is supposed to be for the mallet, but I wasn't holding one. The horse is trained to follow the ball, much like a cutting horse is trained to follow a dodging steer. Thus, steering isn't as much of an issue. Just stay on!

The stable owner's son, who was about ten years old, sidled up beside me on his bay mount. Our legs gently bumped together as he explained how to make the horse go faster. I guess he was tired of watching me playing it safe while he booted around at top speed.

He leaned forward and guided my rein hand up Maya's neck. "Its okay to canter, ya know. Just put your hand up here, behind her ears."

I laughed. "Trust me; you don't want to see me canter. I'm so out of shape my legs already feel like rubber. I'd fall off."

"Suit yourself," he responded with a shrug. He shouted, "Hyah!" and kicked his horse into a hard run while his mother shouted at him to slow down.

I nudged Maya to a trot, but when she speeded up I lost my nerve and slowed her down again. She must have thought I was some old fuddy-duddy.

I enjoyed my ride, but it was before Christmas and I haven't had a chance to visit again. I was given permission to ride Maya anytime, but I'd like my busy friend to be present to help saddle her because I still haven't figured out all those leather straps.

Thanks for listening to my rant. I promise to whip my flagging confidence in the butt and to get cracking with my writing again.  I'd already started a polo mystery, but now I wonder if it should feature a teen protagonist. There I go... second-guessing again.

It's time to canter.

Bucket List

Yesterday I saw something for the first time. I saw two deer in my brother's backyard, and actually got a picture of them.

Some people might think, "That's no big deal," but it was pretty important to me.

I haven't had a chance to really sit down and compose my own bucket list. Many things are probably unattainable, and my tendency to be practical prevents me from making such a list.

However, I think I've had a few experiences that were special to me. Some may seem trivial. Some might be on your bucket list.

I rode a Berber horse in North Africa.
I dove into the Mediterranean.
I rode in a limousine.
I watched a Toronto Maple Leaf hockey game from the Platinum seats.
I rode in a propeller plane with only 18 passengers.
I saw the Rocky Mountains.
I drank wine in the Napa Valley.
Unlike Bugs Bunny, I actually stood on Pismo Beach.
I saw a bullfight.
I held a wild bird in my hand. And it lived!
I rappelled down a 300 foot cliff.
Saw a comet.
Saw the Northern Lights.
I wrote a book. Or two.

What would I add to a bucket list? This isn't carved in stone, but some of the things I'd like:

To go to New York City.
Ride a hot air balloon.
Drive a Porsche.
Build a treehouse.
Take a picture of a really, really awesome sunset.
Sail a boat.
Attend the Oscars.
Have my very own writing room, decorated my way.
I want a pony.
... and yes, I would like an agent, please.

What's on your bucket list?

Paintings, Plotting and Pantsting

While submitting my completed novel, I'm working sporadically on another. They're different in more ways than one.

The novel under submission is a carefully plotted, quiet and sweet women's fiction. It tugs at the heartstrings, dealing with issues some might not find comfortable. I had been working on this book for a few years, sharpening my writing skills before attempting to finish it.

My work in progress is a fast paced mystery with a diverse cast of characters. I have a vague idea where the plot is going, but I'm basically closing my eyes and seeing where it takes me. Some characters jump into the spotlight, screaming for attention and others wait behind the curtain, hesitant to be revealed. Who will be the bad guy? Who will save the day? I dunno...

Compare writing to painting. You have your living room that needs to be prepped before you paint. Carefully fill in and sand all the nail holes, prime the surface and then choose your colour. Test it in all lighting to make sure it's not going to look like puke in the morning light. Tape off the edges and paint the edges in a straight line before using the roller for the middle areas. Roll in a W shape to prevent thin spots.

Excruciating, huh? But the end result will keep you satisfied for years to come. With the right accessories and window treatments, you'll have a serene haven in which to sip your green tea and contemplate the finer aspects of life.

Then there's the other kind of painting. Fill your palette with colours and stand before a blank canvas. You see something in your mind's eye, and you let fly the paint. Use brushes, spatulas and sponges to mix texture and colour in a way that brings out an image that only a few can see.

You step back and study the painting. Yes, there's something there. But a few elements are missing. You can't put your finger on it, but you lovingly add a tweak and a dash here and there. 

Eventually, you have a work of art that brings some to tears and others to question your sanity. But it's yours and you love it.

If you had to compare your novel to a painting, what would it be?

The Vault

I've been spending a lot of time over at Twitterland, not only to goof around with author friends and spy on celebrities, but also to research agents while seeking representation for my latest novel.

I find that reading about their lives outside the office and interacting with them helps me to understand how they think. Yeah, I know... that sounds like I'm some kind of anthropologist doing a study, but it's a great way to discover whether our personalities mesh. And that's important, right?

Not surprisingly, many agents have become fast online friends. Not all of them represent the kind of books I write, but I still enjoy our online conversations about kids, shopping, the weather and such.

Some have requested my work through Twitter, which is an unexpected bonus. Some have passed on my work but we remain friendly online. We still have our share of cyber laughs over cyber pops.

This new author/agent dynamic can be thrilling. "Wow! Agent A likes me as a real person!" We feel like we've been given a free pass into another world.

But we can't let ourselves get carried away with the exhilaration of online friendship. It's too easy to let slip a tidbit or personal remark that was meant to be private. For us writers, making an agent uncomfortable or angry can feel like a shunning. Our new-found bond of trust can easily be broken and rarely repaired.

When participating in Twitter or Facebook conversations, or even commenting on a blog, I strongly suggest that we think twice before sharing our private correspondence with agents. Sometimes you have to lock your lips and throw away the key.