Looking for some rejection letters

Slightly over two years ago I finished my first creative writing class.  I really wanted to take it earlier than that -- like in my first or second year of university, but the prospect of submitting work to try to get into the class intimidated me.  Also, the idea of workshopping my own stories if I got into the class scared me.  Anyway, I have loved every creative writing class, and at the end I have always wanted to submit some of my work to literary magazines or something.  In the first and second classes I took we never focused on publishing, but last semester in 485 poetry (or whatever the title was) we did.  We actually had an assignment to study some literary magazines and choose one that we would send our work to.  I did the assignment, and I really wanted to send my work off.  By the end of the semester I even felt like I might be able to get some of my poems published.  Sometime in the summer I even emailed Medrie and asked her about what to put in a cover letter, and she graciously sent me an old one of hers to help me out.  Then all summer I got busy with social events, and new writing, and family obligations.  When I was alone at my cabin I would think I really need to get my own cover letter done.  They're not long at all and I imagine take only like ten minutes.  Still, now its December and I haven't finished, or started it.  I am not even worried that my work would be rejected.  That would be fine.  At this point it would feel good just to know that someone in charge of reading poetry or short stories for a literary magazine read my work.  Anyway, I feel like I am letting myself down (and my creative writing professors) by not even trying to get any of this work published.  So, I am promising myself (and the versions of them that are in my head) that this Christmas break I will finish cover letters for my poetry and one or two short stories, and I will send them out.  Any advice from anyone on good ways to do this, or good places to send work would be awesome.

David Sedaris: How Do You Get Away With It?

I was recently looking at David Sedaris' website, trying to find something to blog about.  In all honesty, the website is not great.  It is maintained by his agency and the only interesting things on it are the links to other websites that have interviews with him or reviews of his work.  Most of these interviews are a little old, but he is hilarious and refreshingly honest about himself -- although I guess considering he writes creative nonfiction he has to be comfortable having people know a lot about him.  Anyway, here is one of the quotes from an interview where he discusses his book Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk.  He says, "I wanted to write about aspects of human behavior that sicken me, but I never had to look further than myself. I just thought, 'What do I hate about myself today?' I'm constantly selling out my friends in order to get somebody's approval, or I'm blaming sick people for being sick, or I'm stabbing somebody in the back, or I'm lying… I'm a horrible person."  Although I can't be sure what he means by selling out friends, I feel like he might be talking about his use of friends and family in his stories (which although he admits are not always 100% true, are marketed as creative nonfiction and do use his siblings and parents as main characters sometimes).  

I know even when I write fiction, if I base a character on someone I actually know, I am a little nervous about it.  I question whether my portrayal is accurate enough, or whether that matters (because in most cases these people won't know it is them and probably no one who reads it will).  My final project this semester (wait for it, because this will be a shocker for everyone in my fiction class -- not) is closer to creative nonfiction than most of the work that I usually write.  And although I am fine with this, I blame the poetry class from last semester because that is the first time in years that I wrote from a more personal, less fictional place.  Because of this I am a little worried about letting certain people read it.  Some of the characters are pretty much just the people I know, but thats mostly because they are very minor characters.  Others, are more fictional, but still based on some elements of reality.  I think it would be hard for my mother to read and not think of herself as the mother.  I don't think she would be flattered by the comparison and would probably be angry that people in my class read this story, even though she doesn't know any of them and they don't know her.  Is it necessary to paint these people in the most positive light as character?  I don't think it is possible.  It would be too fake.  Obviously, the main character, while not entirely me, is largely me -- and I don't think that I've painted him in the most flattering light.  But I am fine with that.  I am fine with finding my inner David Sedaris at times and straight up saying, "I am a horrible person." and I would stand by my story, but I don't know if I can show it to my parents.  If I were to have it published, they obviously could read it (much like David Sedaris' family probably reads his stories about them) but I don't really want them to.  I am trying to put myself on the other side, as the person who someone else based a character on, and I am starting to think that I owe it to them to allow them to read it.  But is that all I owe them? If any of these people said "that didn't happen" or "I didn't say that" or "I want you to change this" would I owe it to them to? cause I really wouldn't want to.

Time To Pretend: Writing as a Writer

I was recently on Margaret Atwood's website (see link under websites I like) and read some advice she has for writers.  One thing that stuck with me is when she talks about what makes a writer, not necessarily ever coming to a conclusion, but anyway, she first talks of others suggesting that all you have to do is write something down and you are a writer, but she uses the analogy, "everyone can dig a hole in a cemetery, but not everyone is a grave-digger."  I had already been thinking about this, again, after all the writer/author talk from before.  This time I'm not really thinking about what makes a writer, but what makes me a writer? (or what doesn't)  Sometimes I don't feel like a writer, or even someone who practices the art of writing, but more like someone who pretends the art of writing.  I feel like a fraud who is just pretending to have something to say, so that I don't have to study engineering or something.  Quite awhile ago now one of my friends told me that I was her favourite writer.  I take this as a great compliment (even though I know it is 100% biased, in part because we are friends, and in part because she has never read anything that I have written) but at the same time it makes me feel like more of a fraud, like I can create this persona of being a writer.  I can con people into believing that, but there's really no substance behind this writer mask.  


I love writing, but I rarely write for anything other than assignments.  Sure, I start stories.  I write down ideas for stories, but I don't finish them.  Some of my friends (who are involved in film and theatre) and I sometimes talk about our desire to create, usually when we are drinking.  We talk about how this desire is a part of us, that even if we can't make any money at our individual crafts.  If we are forced into some sort of office jobs, or choose other career paths that we will still create.  I'm not always so sure I would.  I want to be a person that would, but the last couple summers I have taken off, in part because I just didn't want to get a boring job or wake up at 7 or 8 in the morning, but also to work on my writing.  And I did some of that, but I also got caught up in summer projects, in summer parties, and in general socializing.  Sometimes I think I would be better off if I didn't like people so much.  True, there are probably a lot of people that I don't like at all, but when I find people I like, all I want to do is hang out with them.  And over the years I have accumulated quite a good group of people that I would gladly waste my life away, just hanging out for eternity with.  The summer that MGMT's 'Time to Pretend' came out my Dad said, "listen to this song.  It reminds me of you and your friends."  Now first of all, although yes my Dad is often the embarrassing, annoying father (just like everyone else's?) he does often have good taste in music and movies (a bit of a hint that he was once, probably, a cool person).  Second of all, I hope that he never meant all of the heroine and cocaine and choking on vomit and dying parts were what he sees happening for me, or my friends.  But, I don't want to get a job in an office, and I think I might be fated to pretend, but at the same time, I don't know if that can continue.  How much pretending do I have to do before it counts for something?  Cause I don't plan on stopping.

Here's the song in case anyone wants to listen to it.

This Guy Blows My Mind

David Lynch, at age 65, recently released his debut album,Crazy Clown Time, (which he wrote and sings!?).  I have been a big fan of his for almost as long as I have had the ability to appreciate any form of art (mostly meaning films that are not completely generic and 'hollywood').  Even though I know what is going to happen in Lost Highway, it never loses its ability to scare me completely.  I have appreciated him as a director and a writer for years, but I never knew about all the other work he does (other than selling coffee and giving weather forecasts for LA, which I did hear about).  But in a recent article in the Guardian, David Lynch and Xan Brooks discuss his work.  They mention that "he's been working on his lithos, on his painting, and on his music, too. He's been designing a nightclub (Silencio), across the river, and he has been waiting to catch the idea for his next feature film."  The whole interview is really interesting, but more than anything I just took away that I should try to do more in different artistic mediums.  I will never be a singer (the most I ever sing is in a group at Karaoke after a few drinks, or alone in my car so as not to damage anyone's ears) but I have dabbled in painting, and I should try more.  Also, some time in the summer a couple of friends asked me about trying to write them some song lyrics, and I immediately thought 'no way at all.  I can't'.  But after reading Lynch's opinion about it, I think I should try.

"Writing a song is much the same as writing a film, he explains. It's all about chasing ideas; about telling a story or letting the story tell you. And this, it turns out, is about as far as he is prepared to go in discussing his working method. "Because none of the things are yourself, not really. The ideas come from someplace else. It's like fish," he says.

What's like fish? "The ideas," says Lynch. "You didn't make the fish. You caught the fish. Now you can cook it in a good way or a bad way, but that's as far as it goes. The fish came from someplace else. And sometimes …" His eyes take on a faraway look. "Sometimes it talks back to you. Tells you how it wants to be cooked.""

So, probably not til this semester is over, and even then maybe not right away, but sometime I will try to catch a fish and try to cook it with paint, lyrics, or some other form of writing.

Musical Inspiration

I've been listening to Christmas music all day -- which I usually start listening to at the beginning of November -- classics like Otis Redding, Burl Ives, Brenda Lee, Nat King Cole and Dinah Washington, mixed with newer versions by the likes of Kristin Chenoweth, and the one that I have been waiting for this year, the one that inspired this post, and no it's not whatever annoying album Justin Beiber put out, its A Very She & Him Christmas, by the band She & Him (Zooey Deschanel and M. Ward).  This album had me repeating it day after day since its release before Halloween, so, here's a little clip.  Also, let me know what your favourite Christmas album or song is if you feel like it.  I am always happy to add to my annual list.  This one is probably not my favourite from the album, but I do love how they have reversed the roles in it.

Christmas Inspiration

I love Christmas time.  When I was a kid a lot of it might have been about the presents (or at the time I thought it was) but as I grew up I realized I didn't remember the presents; I have memories of the people 

and events.  I will always remember Christmases at my Grandma's house in North Battleford with almost all my aunts and uncles and cousins.  My brother, sister and I would sleep in a room in the attic right next to the chimney and my sister would convince my brother and I that we could hear Santa sliding down the chimney (I'm still not sure if she actually thought she did too or if she was messing with us).  Once she even said that after we went to sleep she snuck downstairs and saw him.  We usually didn't fall asleep til quite late.  We would go to bed and spend hours talking about how excited we were and wishing we could just fall asleep so that morning would come faster.  Usually I would end up talking and asking a question, only to realize that I was the only one still awake.  Then time moved even slower.  Our stockings were always laid out by our feet in the morning (the one present we were allowed to open before everyone else woke up).  

The only present I remember from anytime in elementary school or before was a stuffed rudolph the red-nosed reindeer whose nose lights up.  I remember him especially because I got him on Boxing Day and not Christmas.  I loved Rudolph and really wanted him for Christmas, but I was too excited to even realize I didn't get him and then on Boxing Day my parents said that they thought I had missed a present from Santa and that I should look around the front room for it.  Behind a large armchair by the fireplace I found Rudolph and I don't think I could have been more excited.  I still have him.  Much later I learned that there was a lot of panic and anger on my parents part when on Christmas they realized they somehow forgot to wrap Rudolph(after almost failing to get him when he was apparently sold out) and thought that they may have forgotten him in Regina only to find him later in a suitcase or under a seat in the car or something.  The last few Christmases I have gotten other Rudolph stuffed animals as well.  One of them is just a stuffy whose nose lights up and can sing, but when you cover his nose he says "I don't wanna cover my nose" The other is a stuffed toy and a game of hot potato.  Music plays and when you are holding him and the music stops and his nose goes off , you lose.  I have had a lot of fun with this game but I love it and hate it at the same time because the entire message behind the show is that you should accept people for who they are and that Rudolph's nose should be celebrated instead of ridiculed or hidden, and in this game it is once again a negative symbol. (I know taking Rudolph too seriously is kind of ridiculous, if not totally, but I have watched rudolph at least twice a year for as long as I can remember).  But I guess it is kind of like Santa in this whole movie. Why is Santa such a dick in this movie?  He honestly tells Rudolph's parents that they need to hide his nose from everyone, and only accepts him when he can use his nose to guide his sleigh.  Still though, I love the 'Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer' stop-motion animated special from 1964, more than any other Christmas movie.  Even more than 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town', where Mrs. Claus goes on some sort of acid trip and climbs into the town square fountain despite the fact that it's winter -- crazy, and awesome.  

I have great memories of Christmas, and I probably start writing more stories about Christmas, or set around Christmas than any other time.  Some of them are more creative non-fiction than stories, and I think that I have only ever finished one of these stories (and in that one I killed Santa Claus, or a mall Santa -- in front of a little kid).  I was proud of that story, but I did worry that people would take it as a commentary on Christmas or Santa.  I guess maybe he deserves it for being such a dick to Rudolph, but I can't stay mad at him.  Usually he is nice.  Anyway, it is getting to be wintery and close to Christmas and the only way that I know how to accept the cold and snow is to get into the Christmas spirit.  This year I am going to try to finish some of my Christmas stories because I don't want to just be the dick that killed Santa.  So, in the spirit of Christmas I want to know what Christmas stories, movies, or traditions inspire everyone.  I already watch a lot of movies, make Christmas muffins, and literally just spend hours daydreaming about Christmases to come, and ones past -- I can never sleep when Christmas is near (I guess maybe it's not daydreaming if its at night, but I am not actually sleeping so, I don't think I can just call it dreaming).  Anyway (for the second time) I would like to add some new movies, stories, and traditions in the hope that these might help me actually finish a story, rather than ignore them all when I get my Christmas adrenaline rush, which will be any day now.  Any suggestions?

This Post is for Medrie: regarding Assignments #1 and #2

I meant to address this earlier, but anyway.  You asked whether my character of Dave was the same character in Assignment #1 and #2 (which is a very valid question considering they have the same name).  The answer is not at all.  Apparently I isolate each story to such an extent that I did not even realize they had the same name until I saw that question on the page.  Even then, I at first thought 'why would the character be the same in these stories?', then turning through them I realized I used the same name.  I then mentally went through my catalogue of stories and apparently I use the name Dave or David in like 50% or more of my stories.  Why? No idea.

Nonfiction, Fiction, and Some Hybrid of the Two: Isn't Everything?

Recently Farron posted (Based on a True Story: How Truthful Are We?) on his blog some ideas and questions about the acceptable amount of fiction in stories or films that are marketed as nonfiction or 'based on a true story'.  Then today, while once again searching for something to talk about from one of my literary magazine links, I found "PRISM TALKS TO NONFICTION CONTEST JUDGE AMBER DAWN ABOUT TRUTH, FORM, & THE POWER OF NONFICTION".  I didn't really know who Amber Dawn was, and I still don't really, other than simple facts like she wrote a novel entitled Sub Rosa -- I found the last two questions specifically interesting because they talk about nonfiction as a form.

Dawn says that, "nonfiction gives the reader permission to explore how they themselves are connected to the content." I think this is often true.  Farron's post about James Frey's novel illustrates this perfectly.  I remember hearing about people who said his book helped them overcome drug and alcohol addictions.  I have never read his book, so I'm not exactly sure how. But somehow they found a connection with his book, and many of them seemed to feel cheated when they found out it wasn't exactly true.  In Film 100, my professor declared the 'based on a true story' tag a cheap ploy, and I think I agree, but at the same time, sometimes I want to know this information.  For me it has nothing to do with the connection to the story or the art, in fact it often creates distance for me, because I can't stop wondering what is true and what's not.  I believe that the majority of people have the opposite reaction, but I often sympathize and empathize with characters I know to be fictional easier than I do with ones that are not (often even more than I do with actual people).  I'm not really sure why, but unless it's just because I am an awful or psychologically unstable person, I think/hope it is because I am a practitioner of the art of writing.  I don't know how anyone else writes, but I have never written a story that isn't at least partially based on me or my life.  Often these aspects have nothing to do with the plot.  Usually they involve insignificant details that help me flesh out a character; even in my drag queen story (although I do not want to be a drag queen and have never been a real part of that world) the main character was kind of me, in a way.  I did perform to Grease Lightning in an airband in elementary school and my group was disqualified for inappropriate language (even though the song had been approved beforehand), but more than this one fact of my life, this character and I share so much more.  Some of my stories are practically nonfiction, some might even be, and I guess as the writer it makes a bit of a difference to me, but does it to others?  Should I 'market' my nonfiction as such.  If I write a poem entirely based on reality (the only kind of poem I really know how to write) is that nonfiction? or does the fact that it is poetry void it from this possibility?  Does this classification matter to people as readers/viewers or as writers?

Animated Poetry

I recently have started to try to focus on the different mediums stories can be told in and trying to decide which one works best for ideas I have and stories that I have already written.  I have also been looking at the literary magazine sites that I have linked on my blog, hoping to find something to write about.  I have been watching many short films on Wholphin's (a short film quarterly magazine that I subscribe to) website.  While most of them do not live up to the fantastic work that can be found within their magazine or dvd or whatever you want to call it, they had this film entitled ' Film: The Country', which is really just an animated poem by Billy Collins.  I had never read the poem before, but it is funny and whimsical, and so is the animation.  I think it is the perfect medium for this particular poem. (You can check it out in the link above, and let me know what you think.)

Being John Malkovich

For anyone who read my earlier post and hasn't seen "Being John Malkovich" here is a trailer (in video and link.)

Writing Tips (from Charlie Kaufman)

Charlie Kaufman is one of my favourite writers and I recently came across an article on the Guardian website (Kaufman article) where he discusses why he wrote "Being John Malkovich" and also gives a lot of good writing advice.  First he talks about writing in your own voice, adding that "the major obstacle to this is your deeply seated belief that 'you' is not interesting". He definitely doesn't mean that you should only write from your own life experiences (if you have ever seen any of his movies it is obvious that he does not), but I think that it is all about finding your own style -- telling a story in your own unique way.  I think the hardest part about this is not necessarily even thinking that 'you' is not interesting at all, but that it is not as interesting as those who have written before you, or maybe even at the same time as you. I think its about not just trying to imitate those voices, who you admire or think or superior to you, because then the best you will be is an imitation of something better, whereas if you write as yourself you can be something more.  


When he talks about writing "Being John Malkovich" he says, "I had this idea that someone finds a portal into someone's head, and I had another idea that somebody has a story about someone having an affair with a co-worker.  And neither one was going anywhere, so I just decided to combine them."  I love this idea.  I have never done this with any of my story ideas even though I often have ideas that I write down and then am never able to or inspired to really make anything out of them. My favourite stories, especially in films, are usually ones that have synopses that sound at the same time amazing and potentially awful.  I think that the possibility of failure is positively correlated to the possibility of creative success; not to say that the more likely you are to fail, the more likely you are to succeed because that makes no sense at all -- but that the story ideas that are more risky, that have more of a chance of failing, also have more potential. If executed properly they can be so much more creatively fulfilled than the safe ideas.  Since, combining stories likely increases the possibility of failure, hopefully it can increase the possibility for real success.  I will definitely experiment with this because of this idea, but also because Charlie Kaufman suggested it, and I love "Being John Malkovich".  


The last main point that he discusses is that "it's very important that what you do is specific to the medium in which you're doing it, and that you utilise what is specific about that medium to do the work. And if you can't think about why it should be done this way, then it doesn't need to be done."  He states this in relation to a story he tells about a man that he passes jogging in the morning -- a man who says the exact same thing every time they pass, and as a result Charlie's ideas about this man change drastically from 'here's this funny guy' to "I am not jogging at this time anymore because I want to avoid that guy'.  It's a great example of a story that cannot be told in all artistic mediums, but the overall idea is more complicated than his story lets on.  At the same time, I agree with him.  Although stories can be told through poetry, short stories, novels, and films (among others, but I am not going to list them all) and many times a singular story that begins in one format is told in another.  Short stories and novels are often made into films.  People often say that the stories are  better (they often are) but I think this is also partly because the transition ends with a different product.  The story cannot be the same, but on film because the medium is so different.  Even the short story as a medium is so different from the novel.  I usually don't pay much attention to the medium I work in, but I think I should.  It's important to answer why a story is in a certain medium.  Why is it a short story instead of a poem, what does the medium bring to the story, or allow you to bring to the story?  I often think about trying to write my stories as scripts or lengthening them into novellas, or potentially novels, but his words have scared me slightly.  They haven't deterred me, but made me think that I need to examine these mediums more and to really understand what changing the medium will add to or detract from these stories.  Right now I don't know if I can answer these questions, but the process of trying feels like I am making progress as a person who participates in the act of writing.

Collaborative Characters + Questionable Content = FUN

Like Cassidy, I had a great time in class today.  Although it's always a good class I think the collaborative freewrite added some fun energy.  I never really collaborate with anyone in writing projects, other than getting some feedback from the class or friends, and although I wouldn't say that David's and mine's character will be appearing in any of my stories, he has inspired a lot of ideas that may.  More importantly than that, the process of creating him reinvigorated an intense appreciation for the creative process.  Sometimes trying to write can be difficult, especially when attempting to write within parameters of assignments that fifteen other people have and trying to be totally unique at the same time.  At times writing is frustrating and at times I hate it (though only ever for a short while).  And now whenever I feel that, I can remember this freewrite assignment -- this man who only wants to be a good dad, but won't give up his valley girl speech, while having guests to his house, all the while fearing that he is an incompetent lover and that he may one day face an actual sea snake, which somehow might be explained by the fact that he was once caught playing doctor by himself!?? and whether he is a dynamic, realistic, or in any way a good character or not, I believe he will always remind me how much I love writing.

Scary Movies

This post has nothing to do with writing, although I guess it may inspire some later. I want to know what people's favourite scary movies are, maybe not even favourite, but what movies they think are the scariest.  Its not for a project, but just because I want to watch some really scary movies. I will be watching them with a small group of people in a fairly secluded cabin after going to what is supposed to be a very good haunted house production in Strasbourg.  Keeping that in mind, anything that would make us paranoid into thinking a slasher was outside might be good, but anything scary should work and suggestions are much appreciated.

writers, Writers, authors, and Authors . . . oh my

Natasha recently posted in her blog, "The Frazzled Ant", an entry questioning the definition of writer and her own feelings about herself as one.  She said, "I just think of myself as a person who participates in the act of writing", and suggested that a writer perhaps has to be published to gain the title of writer, just as her professor said a painter, sculptor, or photographer must have their work curated and exhibited before they can be called an artist. I understand this notion, especially when questioning or deciding if you, yourself can be called a writer (at least when the you = me) but this idea strikes me as very capitalist and anti-artistic.  I was once in a class all about the Author; in that class we discussed the difference between writers, Writers, authors, and Authors.  I don't remember if we ever came up with clear definitions.  I'm not sure that there can be any, but I do recall that the difference between the author and Author that was most commonly referred to was quality.  The Authors wrote works of literary significance, whereas the author wrote low quality popular fiction -- a very prominent author referred to in this class was Stephenie Meyer.  I don't think we discussed the writer as much as author, but if there is a need to differentiate between (which I am some times pretentious enough to think that there is) I like the idea that a writer is someone who writes, but is unpublished, an author is a published writer, and the capitalization distinguishes between the quality of there work.  Obviously this last aspect is completely subjective, but I think that with such any abstract idea, subjectivity is necessary.  At the same time, I really like Natasha's quote.  I know she meant it to be modest, but I don't think that being "a person who participates in the act of writing" is less important than being a writer, in fact I like the idea that although there are social and monetary differences between writers and authors, and even people who write, but don't consider themselves either, they are all connected by the act of writing -- and the need, desire, and ability to write.

Short Story Inspiration

My short story, currently titled 'Glamazon', was largely inspired by Raven (a drag queen from season 2 of Rupaul's Drag Race, as well as a professor on Rupaul's Drag U).  If anyone is interested in watching one of her performances, here is the one that is partially described within the story.  Also, as a side note, during the workshop a few people mentioned being unsure what 'fish' meant and when I got to talk I forgot to clarify.  If a drag queen is fish, they look like a real woman, or what they might refer to as a biological woman.  Anyway, here is the video.

Considering, Describing, and Writing 'The Moment'

I often choose to write in images.  It seems to work for short stories.  I don't necessarily have much plot. I get basic ideas and I start. I might even finish without realizing that my story doesn't really have a plot -- sometimes I don't even realize this until somebody else tells me.  Even then, I often think they are wrong at first.  When I discovered this I became too focused on plot.  I realize that there needs to be some purpose behind the descriptions of a specific moment, behind the colours and smells, but reading David's post (http://www.8secondsofawesome.com/post/10758325575/i-will-be-working-on-the-basis-of-the-small-units) reassured me that writing in this manner is a good thing.  Whether I need to go back and reconsider or add responses and reactions from my characters or not, stories can begin and end within small units -- a short story can be contained within a singular moment.  I hadn't finished a complete short story in about a year because I think I lost sight of this.  I was always concerned with the plot, and could never get back to writing the details, to exploring the 'space and time'.  Rediscovering this allowed me to write again.  I even started writing my latest short story with the words 'The moment . . .' because that is what I want to focus on -- it's what I want to write about. 

Writer's Block (it's so bad I couldn't even come up with a better title)

Every time that I write anything the story always begins as the perfect story within my imagination.  Whether it is based on my own life or totally unrelated, it begins as a perfect story and with every sentence I write this perfect story becomes more and more damaged.  I am fine with this; I feel like as a writer my job is to try to do the least amount of damage possible, but some damage is inevitable.  Usually the perfect story consists of totally opposing ideas and situations that cannot exist simultaneously, but in my mind they can.  I never have to choose between them.  It's only when I write them down that I choose.  This semester I haven't been able to.  I think that I have sat comfortably with some of these stories in my head for too long.  Even before summer started, I had the idea for a character based on a real person; this character is the inspiration for both assignments one and two in my creative writing class, and I can't seem to write her at all.  I have seen her as a real person and I keep feeling that to write her would be to ruin her.  I can't write her in a way that does her justice.  In these stories I can only think of fragments; I write notes and ideas, but they don't seem to connect at any point. This post is a downer. Sorry.

Photo Walk

        I started the photo-walk from the comfort of my house.  I didn't really think that stepping out the door I could find ten things to take a picture of without going on a two-hour long walk.  My neighbourhood doesn't have the charm of the older neighbourhoods.  Large, old trees don't make canopied arches over the streets.  The houses don't have obvious charm, and they all look fairly similar.  Walking down the main street you can see the dividing lines between three different neighbourhoods, each one forcing its way further into the farmer's field.  Our house is stuck in the middle.  The first neighbourhood has older looking houses -- one-story buildings with aged white stucco and dark wooden accents, but without garages, and fewer driveways.  Our crescent was formed in 1994.  The houses are quite similar to the ones just a block further.  They are mostly stucco, with garages, some have second stories, but they were all built before the above-the-garage bonus room, and the colours aren't quite as dark, or earth-toned.  Before this third section was built, our house was right at the edge of the field. 

            Every winter a few mice would invade our house because we were the last to invade theirs.  I often wonder if the mice have moved on to the newer houses.  Three winters ago, one lone mouse made it into my basement.  We hadn't had any mice in the house for almost five years, so it surprised me.  I was lounging in the basement, watching The Cooler when all of a sudden a tiny (or perhaps regular-sized, since they are all quite small) brown mouse ran out from the corner.  I turned and stared into his eyes.  He stared at me, frozen, like a deer caught in headlights.  Then he turned around and ran straight back into the under-the-stairs room.  I liked him.  I didn't want to kill him, and I was a little disappointed when he ended up in a mousetrap -- dead.  My dad bought some of the glue kind, but I always flipped them over or put the paper top onto the glue base because I didn't want to walk into the basement to see a mouse trapped on one.  I knew I couldn't squish him.  I liked this mouse. 

            It was kind of like a wild pet, like the fox out at our   cabin that would always sit in our yard or our neighbours yard.    They had a large birdhouse set atop a giant pole at the bottom of a hill and the fox would sit on the hill, waiting to catch a bird.  The first time I saw him do this, I was down at the lake.  Climbing up the stairs I saw him just sitting there.  He startled me when he turned in my direction.  He was only about ten feet away. I pictured him lunging at my neck, but as I stopped and then slowly began to walk up again, he just turned back to the birds.  He could have been a she, but I seem to picture animals as male most of the time, and I always referred to him as the Fantastic Mr. Fox.  He wasn't around this year.  I assume he died, but I hope not.  These little connections with nature are so rare, even at the edge of the city, but when I stepped out the door I decided to try to get into nature as much as I could on a brief walk.

     I left the comfort of my own space (my bedroom, basement, and bathroom); the places that I brainstorm and think in.  I always feel calm and relaxed in my room -- perhaps because if I am in there, I am usually lying in bed, day dreaming, actually dreaming, or writing cross-legged on my bed hunched over my laptop, which sits on my stool.  I have an old school chair, salvaged from the school my grandpa used to teach at, and then salvaged from the woodpile at my grandmas cabin.  It has initials carved in the seat, and it creaks when you shift your weight in it -- the exact kind of character that I love.  This chair sits at my desk, but is never used.  I use this desk to display my Nightmare Before Christmas lunch boxes, globe, cups, and water bottles.  It’s adorned with a magnet, which reads BRÜGGE, a souvenir from my friends European trip and a reminder of one of my favourite films, In Bruges.  I choose items and decorate my room quite carefully, but I usually could care less what it looks like.  My hair clippers sit on the desk top, hiding the books that sit there -- a Edgar Allan Poe anthology, below a beautiful, fabric-covered copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass (It looks old, but its not. I bought it last summer when I decided to finally read the book, since I love the old disney film so much), above that sits a colourfully illustrated copy of Winnie-the-Pooh, and lastly Tim Burtons poetry collection -- The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy & Other Stories.  Other items that mean something to me -- like my Sweeney Todd straight-edge razor blade replicas (bought for a Halloween costume, but too special to ever put away) sit among the pile of dvd's I took to and from the cabin at least six times this summer, a Rubbermaid jug that my friend forgot at this years annual garden party, as well as more books that I should probably read, a melted facial spa, and a couple bottles of rum I haven't bothered to put away.  The clutter doesn't bother me.  I keep it contained to my bedroom, and at times it even inspires me.  More than anything, the bright colours, and contrasts give me a sense of life, even the crisp white of my stool, or uncovered duvet seem brighter than the drab neighbourhood that exists just outside my door.  

            I wish I lived in the world of Pushing Daisies, where all the colours were just a little brighter.  

    

The basement I often write in.

The bathroom, where I paint pictures of cartoons. (Also referred to as the Sistine Chapel)

Unfortunately on my walk the world just looked grey.  It was cloudy and looked even more drab than usual.  The dull browns and washed out greys that characterize much of these photos seem to exist somewhere between a black and white and a sepia colour.  They remind me of old photos and convey my nostalgia for this place that used to feel like a part of my sphere, but no longer does. This park is a block from my house.  When I was little we spent a lot of time there.  It used to have a playground made of treated lumber that always threatened to give you slivers as it tickled the bare soles of your feet.  I don't even know when they replaced it with this new one.  I think I was there last summer with my younger cousins, and it was still the same old playground, but I can't be sure.  Now they have swings (which is nice) but they seem shorter than ones that were built before and when I was a kid.  They don't swing near as high.

  (Note: It is hard to swing while trying to take a picture.  I hope no one was watching.)    

This road beyond the park used to end right here.  Well, maybe not right here.  The crack across the road works as a great visual of the perceptible line between the old and the new, but in reality there was a large circular dead end.  I remember my friend who lived at the end of this street used to say that it was a nice place to live because they could never build houses further -- the road ended there and thick, wooden posts were cemented around the edges to stop cars from driving into the field.  Even then we kind of laughed at the idea that they couldn't pull out the posts and extend the road. 

This used to be where a small dirt road curved behind the houses, sitting beside the straight, sharp lines of the railroad.  Now it is filled in with houses, thats main characteristic is that they back onto a train track.  

The only living creatures I saw on my walk -- this ladybug and an ant on the same branch that you probably can't see in this picture.   

(Note: I didn't)

It almost looks like a small town from here, but it lacks the charm.  We used to walk along this road and further into the field almost everyday.  There was almost no traffic and we could let our dog run without worry as us kids picked up bottles and cans.  

Tracks always make me think of travel, even though it's far easier to travel by road.  I think I have a romantic view of train tracks, but not trains.  I've only ever been to Europe once and travelling on the train seemed like such an adventure.  Seeing the trains that travel this track ruins my vision of travelling train cars.  The cars are ugly and windowless, usually covered in graffiti, probably by kids and not true artists, like those who covered the Berlin wall or even those street artists who paint walls in downtown Regina. 

Now even these rocks remind me of the cobblestone streets in France and Prague.  

From far enough away this distant hill looks pleasant; maybe a nice place to toboggan or just to look out at the vast flatness that is the prairie landscape.  In reality it’s just the garbage dump.  

From certain angles this back-road looks like a nice field, perhaps a good place for a picnic, but the signs of the city and pollution are only a quick turn of the head or opening of the eyes.  

I had hoped to see some type of little animal scurry out of this hole.  

I even stuck the camera lens down the hole.  I didn't think I would see anything, and I didn't.  

I don't know why this pile of rotting apples is here, but I kind of liked it.  

 

 

At the edge of the grassy field, more signs of humanity.  It seems like no one walks beside these tracks anymore.  They just park at the edge of the paved road and throw out trash.  I thought the reflection of the glass against the green and straw-yellow of the wild grass actually looked nice.  The trash bags and condom wrappers however, were just dirty.  After this my camera died, but it was quite a short walk home.  I really don't think that I would have taken pictures of anything anyway.  Where the trash stopped the street began -- once again with the characterless houses and the lack of trees.  I think that this neighbourhoods lack of beauty, character, and charm forces me to look for it in tiny aspects.  It forces me to create my own inspirational spaces, or simply to imagine something different, and possibly write about it.  When I get home from my walk I am glad to be home and while at the time I didn't feel inspired, and although this is definitely nothing spectacular, I am glad to write it.