As I mentioned in the first of today’s (not-so) quickies, I was in Chatham this week.
The place I stayed in was an amazing hotel called the Retro Suites. If you’re ever in Chatham, I’d recommend it, just for the fabulous quirk factor.
The owner restored classic cars for years and you can see a lot of that material has made its way into the hotel. Fenders turned into benches, tools turned into sculpture and art.
A “school” of vice-grips 🙂
An assemblage of dispirate art and antiques
The owner is a massive collector as well. Throughout the suites, framed classic movie posters, old microphones (including one from Elvis and one from the Voice of America) and radios, vintage furniture, tables made out of the tail-pieces of WWII bombs, authentic Turkish samovars, and paintings by one of the owners’ family members grace the walls. He even has a couple of the FAO Schwartz tin soldiers in there. You can spend hours just wandering around the joint.
A pair of FAO Schwartz tin soldiers with automotive-part furniture
Each suite is decorated in theme. My suite was the “Chrom-e-delic.” I’m sure you can see the mod 70s influence 🙂 Go to the site (linked above) and see some of the other suites for yourselves.
The hotel is actually a block of converted and renovated buildings. It’s a wonderful maze in there and inspired an idea for my third (of thirteen) original short stories for Kasie Whitener’s Just Write: 2013 Short Story Challenge.
I was struck by Valente’s lyrical style of writing. It reminded me of a couple of other books I’ve read: Kathryn Davis’s The Thin Place, and Richard Grant’s Views from the Oldest House. I’m not sure why I associate them, but I think that, once again, it has to be the quirk factor.
This too, is feeding into my new story 🙂
Dreams as inspiration
I’ve often mentioned that I, like many other authors, draw inspiration from my dreams. I’ve had a couple this week that I’m going to keep in the idea file.
One, though I think I’m going to play with the particulars a bit, is about a family of vampires (hence the playing, I don’t think another book about vampires could be published any time in the next few decades), who hire a human investigator to discover why their fellow creatures want to kill them.
The dream was more detailed, of course, but this is just to give you the basics.
The second dream is a little more bizarre. A group of refugees (what they’re running from was not clear in the dream) take refuge in what looks like the ruins of a castle, but turns out to be sentient. Not only that, but as they explore the castle, they come across indications that at least one of them has travelled to the past, and left messages for them to find around the castle.
1 a: a divine influence or action on a person believed to qualify him or her to receive and communicate sacred revelation b: the action or power of moving the intellect or emotions c: the act of influencing or suggesting opinions
2 : the act of drawing in; specifically: the drawing of air into the lungs
3 a: the quality or state of being inspired b: something that is inspired <a scheme that was pure inspiration>
This past week, I travelled to Chatham to deliver yet one more session of Business Writing Made Easy. The critical difference this time? I was assessed for my trainer certification. Eeps!
An omen?
What started my week was the journey to Chatham, some six and a half hours away. Phil dropped me off at the car rental place at 8 am (we only have the one car). Past experience taught me that I’d be in and out in less than 15 minutes, back home to load up my luggage and boxes, and on the road by 8:30 am.
When I walked in, there were four people waiting, one of them had an insurance claim to deal with due to a dent in the rental, and another was returning a car from another rental company. The rental location was two employees short-staffed, and I settled in for a wait.
The first car I was given had some issues. I couldn’t afford to wait any longer, so gratefully accepted an upgrade and was finally on the road shortly after 9 am.
The loveliness of the ETR
The journey itself was great. For the first time, I used the 407 express toll route (ETR). In the time it would have normally taken me to reach the hotel near our regional headquarters from the ETR on-ramp, I was exiting at Halton Hills, not far away from Guelph.
The ETR saved me precious time and allowed me to reach Chatham before the end of the day.
Lusting after the Zzzzz’s
I quickly checked into my hotel (more about that in another caturday quickie to come) and toted my boxes to the office, arriving just before 4 pm. I spent the next several hours setting up the training room with my co-facilitator, Carole. About 8 pm, we gave up for the night, Carole checked into the hotel, and we enjoyed a late supper at the hotel’s rather excellent restaurant.
I rarely sleep well when I’m on the road, but that first night was especially challenging. I don’t know whether it was nerves, the trains that passed by periodically all night, or something else, but from 2:25 am on, I couldn’t sleep. I’d gone to be just after 11 pm, and there’s no way I can function properly with only three hours’ sleep.
Despite that, I met up with Carole for breakfast the next morning, we finished setting up the room and our activities, I met my assessors, and class got underway.
The assessment
Really, I’m trying not to think about it much, because every time I do, I start thinking of all the things I did wrong, all of the technical difficulties I encountered, and all of the other things that could potentially have done me in so far as certification went.
I started asking closed questions. My SMART Board activity bombed. Toward the end of the second morning, I was exhausted and running on instinct rather than cultivating the Zen awareness critical to my success. I curtailed a couple of side bar conversations clumsily. I forgot participant names. What’s the expression? I sucked so hard …
The assessors were very kind. I’d actually worked with one of them before, delivering workshops in Cornwall a few years ago, but their job is to make sure that I can facilitate in a participant-centered manner in accordance with a set of 18 competencies. They assessed me for a full day, 1 pm to 4:30 pm the first afternoon, and again from 8:30 am to noon the second day. I had to facilitate the class solo.
At the end of the first afternoon, the assessors asked me a series of questions about the competencies that weren’t clearly visible in my facilitation and presentation skills. Things like the room set up, placement of visuals, the joining instructions, utilization of pre-course assignment materials, continuing professional development, and so forth.
At noon the next day, I bid them farewell and was advised that I would be informed of the outcome of the assessment within a couple of weeks.
I’m kind of dreading it. I think that having to go through the assessment again would be a little bit more than I can handle moving into the new fiscal year. Thus the avoidance tactics 🙂
The good parts
My co-facilitator bought me a wee gift. Isn’t it lovely?
I tried not to tell her she was counting my chickens before they were hatched and just appreciated the gesture. Carole also asked me to focus on all the things I had done well in the class. Though I was able to list several things, my mind quickly gravitated toward the negative and I returned to avoidance.
The final day of class, with Carole at my side, went well, and by the end of it, several of the participants not only told us how much they enjoyed the class, and what good resources they got out of it, but also told us that their colleagues were asking how they could get on the list to attend the course.
That kind of validation warms a facilitator’s heart 🙂
After class, we packed everything up, and had an hour or so to enjoy Chatham and some of the quaint shops in the area.
At breakfast on Friday morning, Carole asked me some very helpful questions about the certification process. She has an interest in pursuing it, and was curious about what might be next for me given her expectations for my success.
It was another very helpful way of keeping my mind from dwelling on all of my short-comings.
I dropped the set of posters I’d borrowed for the delivery of the course back at regional headquarters on my way through Toronto, and was home by 4:30 pm.
At home, Phil reminded me that my focus on the negative wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Being conscious of what I did wrong means that I’ll be less likely to repeat those errors since I am, as always, my toughest critic. I get so embarrassed about it that I determine never to fall into the same trap again.
It’s all about doubt, something that plagues me in both spheres of my professional life (training and writing). I constantly question the value of what I do, regardless of the evidence to the contrary.
So … the next you’ll hear about this is whether I have, in fact, been successful or not.
Have you been assessed, or tested recently? How did you feel about the process? What did it teach you about yourself?
Last week: A near-death experience thanks to a narsty case of tonsillitis and some ripped stitches.
And now …
Friend wars
I had some friends before school, through Sunday School and swimming lessons, but they lived farther away from me than my mom would let me walk on my own, so I never got to see them outside certain structured activities.
There were also the children of my parents’ friends, but they moved away before I could develop much of an attachment, or hold any memories of them. For a brief time, the family across the street had children my age, but they too, soon moved away. Kindergarten was a bit of a blur, but I do remember some of the children I met there: Ronnie-Moe, whose Dad was a fireman, Mytie (I think that was how she spelled it), Paul, and a few others, but these were classmates, not friends per se.
For the most part, I was a happy child. I was socially inept though. Not really good at making friends or keeping them. I compensated for this by being a little different. I lived in my head a lot. My teachers called it daydreaming and distraction.
I was also a giggle-puss. I laughed at the drop of a hat, not only when I found something funny, but also when anything embarrassed me, frightened me, or made me angry. Laughter was my catch-all reaction, because if other kids thought I was making some kind of joke, usually at my own expense and not theirs, they wouldn’t hate me outright. They all thought I was weird though, and that didn’t earn me any friends.
My worst childhood crime was being a story-teller (read liar). For show and tell, I’d make things up. There was one particularly embarrassing stretch where I was really into cats and desperately wished I could have one. I couldn’t though, so I made up stray cats that I’d take in and care of for a few days before they ran away.
Often, I wish this inclination had been harnessed earlier, that some kind teacher would have recognized in me the storyteller (not the story-teller, teller of tales, or liar) and helped me turn it in a different direction, but that didn’t happen until grade three.
Sir Ken Robinson (Photo credit: eschipul)
I was just a creative kid with insufficient outlet within class to exercise my (even then) considerable abilities. Last year, I discovered Sir Ken Robinson’s incredible TED Talk, “Do Schools Kill Creativity?” It validated much of what I’d already figured out on my own.
So I was happy. But lonely.
Then a young mother with twins (fraternal-brother and sister) my age moved into the apartment up the road from me. When she saw that I walked to school, she asked my mom if we could all walk to school together. So the girl, let’s call her Diana, became my first “friend.”
Soon, another young pedestrian joined our little gaggle. She lived a few blocks further on, but we were all heading in the same direction, so I figured it was fine for her to join us. Let’s call her Mary. Diana got territorial, though. I was her friend first.
Mary was small and thin. I’m not sure why, but nobody much liked her in grade one. I was her friend though, and when Diana started acting up, it became problematic. Diana got physical and she had a temper. She’d scream and push and punch.
Her behaviour toward Mary bothered me, and at one recess, as Diana was wailing away at me, rather ineffectually, after having pushed Mary down, I had enough. I grabbed her arms and pinned her against the wall of the school so she couldn’t punch anymore.
I like to think I said something clever like “You don’t own me,” or “I don’t belong to you,” but I probably squeaked out a lame “I’m not your friend,” or just “stop it.”
Diana was in tears, frustrated that she couldn’t bully her way out of the situation. I wasn’t small, or weak. I think a teacher intervened, but the outcome was that Diana wasn’t my friend anymore. She stopped walking to school with me, but Mary was now my BFF. I’d defended her. We became inseparable.
Mary was pretty much my only friend through grades one and two. We’d walk to and from school every day. Mary came over to play and we went to each other’s birthday parties.
I defended her again one winter from the attentions of a boy. Of course, I had no clue that his shoving her around and making her cry meant that he liked her. I just saw him as another bully, so I got into my first fist fight. He clocked me good on the jaw, but I got my own licks in. He didn’t bother Mary in front of me again, though.
Mary continued to be a small, thin child, and so to exert her power, she got devious. She’d argue with me over nothing, routinely “breaking up” with me and then making up the next day as a means of keeping “drama” in our friendship. When she came over to play at marbles, she decided to make things interesting, no longer content with claiming pretty marbles, by having each of us put up toys as a wager. She liked to bend the rules in her favour too. I was content to let her win when the stakes weren’t high but that stopped once I started losing toys.
First, I stopped playing marbles with her, then eventually, I stopped having her over to play altogether. Mary’s friendship was exhausting.
In grade three, another single mother moved into the apartment up the street. She had a daughter named Margaret. No pseudonyms here. Margaret’s still my BFF though she lives several hours away and most of our conversations are held over FB chat or by email.
While Margaret lived up the street, there was another girl who was interested in putting on talent shows and the like. There were implications of bullying there too, but nothing that I witnessed. Also, the other girl was much larger than I and I wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it, but things blew over before long.
Margaret’s Mom moved into a duplex, but it was still within walking distance. Margaret was fun and funny. We went to movies together, at first with parents in tow. She had budgies and a hamster. Margaret was also a big reader, something I hadn’t latched onto yet.
Mary got a little jealous at that point, but because I was already in the process of separating myself from her, the drama wasn’t as bad as it could have been.
In grade three, my parents got me my first pet, a dog I named Friskey because of her behaviour. The dog book said to name your puppy according to what it did. I did what the book said 🙂 I was so excited about my new pet, that I wrote a one-page report about her. It wasn’t required for class, but when my teacher learned that I’d done it, she encouraged me to read it aloud.
That was the year I started reading and writing.
It was also the first year that cliques developed in the class. Margaret was popular. Me, not so much. I was a tag-along at best.
Grade four was worse. Years later, when I saw the movie “Heathers,” I could so relate.
Cover via Amazon
The Heathers of our school had other names, but they were no less manipulative or cruel, even though they were in elementary school. I got into trouble a lot that year because of the drama between the cliques. I think that was the summer I was grounded from seeing Margaret.
I also wrote a play for the Christmas pageant that year. That didn’t help my popularity either.
Being alone wasn’t a problem for me. I enjoyed being alone. Envy was an issue, though. Without thinking about why, I wanted to be in a clique. I wanted to be popular. Failing that, I wanted Margaret to be my friend to the exclusion of others. When my desires were thwarted, I started to take my frustration out on Margaret, as Diana had on me. Though it was to a much lesser degree (not that it excuses anything), I’d become the bully I’d previously defended others against.
In grade five, I was the first girl to hit puberty, or at least that’s the way it felt. My growing breasts became a topic of discussion and ridicule in the change room as were my hairy legs.
The traits I exhibited in grade one had developed and changed over the years. I now cultivated an air of “weirdo.” To combat the change room taunting, I tried to claim my glorious boobage, a difficult thing to do when I felt that it was one of the things that made me a freak in the eyes of others. It only served to cement my strange reputation.
Since grade three, I’d been writing little stories and I kept them in exercise books. I had wild dreams and shared them with Margaret at recess. I was a terrible storyteller, though, all rambling and out of order. I know there were days when Margaret just wanted me to shut up or to get to the point, but I only realized the relative quality of my verbal diarrhoea after the fact. Sorry Margaret.
When grade six arrived, the friend wars had settled down to a large extent, but there were still a few hard feelings that had to be resolved.
Mary, who’d still been in my life, but to a much lesser extent, made overtures to “bury the hatchet” between us. She behaved like a real friend for the first time in years and when, after a short while, she asked to see my notebook of stories, I lent it to her.
She used most of a bottle of White-Out on it to obliterate my words.
After that, with the exception of Margaret, I was almost happy to be otherwise friendless. New cliques formed, included Margaret, and I was again a hanger-on, just so I could remain in Margaret’s circle. We were still BFFs, but we were also growing up, and apart.
The other members of the clique didn’t like me, and no wonder. My laugh had become a hyena’s, and I routinely introduced myself in the following manner: Hi, I’m Mel. I’m weird. Just to get that out of the way.
I didn’t want any more friends. Except for Margaret, I’d learned that friends just wanted to prove that they were better than you, to hurt you, and take you down in some way. It wasn’t a problem with Margaret because she was always the better person in our friendship. At least I stopped hitting her. Sorry again, my friend.
Though I stopped sharing my stories even with Margaret, my creativity continued to be an albatross. This might have been the skewed way I saw things in those days, but it felt true.
Following the friend wars, my self-confidence was shot. Even in grade three, an off-hand comment could reduce me to tears. I fled from conflict. What happened to the girl who held Diana flailing arms and told her to stop? I couldn’t stand up for anyone anymore, least of all myself.
These were the seeds sown that in later years would take root as depression.
If you haven’t yet, watch Shane Koyczan’s excellent “To this Day.”
And last week, I saw an awesome documentary on Global’s Currents. It’s from 2007, but it’s still relevant. Erin Thomson’s The Bully’s Mark.
Did you have friend wars in the past? Were you in a clique, or a hanger-on? Were you a victim of bullying, or a bully? Both? How did it shape the person you would become? How did it affect your creative development? What lessons did you take away from the experience? This is an important issue. Please share if you feel you can.
Next week: Tummy troubles: Appendicitis and my second brush with death.
Vikki Thompson nominated me for the Very Inspiring Blog Award!
It’s so nice to be recognized by your peers!
So without further ado, here are my seven deadlies:
I’m a scorpio.
I was born on Hallowe’en. Yes, you can say it … I’m a witch 🙂
I received my Master of Arts in English Literature and Creative Writing in 1999 from the University of Windsor. Certain of my professors are probably cringing right now!
I play the lottery in the vain hope of winning one day and being able to retire early. I did say it was a vain hope, didn’t I?
I used to play MMO’s (massively multi-player online role-playing games, for those of you not in the know). In reverse order: Champions, WOW, Free Realms, Atlantica, City of Heroes/Villains, EverQuest, Asheron’s Call, Ultima Online. Never hard core.
Similarly, I used to play pen and paper RPG’s, but though the experience may have fed my creativity, I would never write a book based on any of my gaming sessions.
I listen to music when I write, from Kate Bush to Lacuna Coil, Crosby, stills, Nash, and Young to 3 Doors Down. Occasionally, I pull out the Eddas, Berlioz, or the Carmina Burana 😉
I know some of you have been nominated before, so you don’t have to go through the process if you don’t want to. Just want you wonder ladies to know how your online efforts inspire me 🙂
Tomorrow: A life sentence with mortal punctuation continues with … the friends wars!
Since the last time I blogged about my dear Nuala, we’ve had two veterinary appointments. The first was on February 14, a month after the surgery. I ferried Nu out to the Valley for her appointment with Dr. Hoscheit.
At that time, I was informed that Nu was doing well and that I could begin to walk her again. Ten minutes, twice a day to start, graduating to twenty minutes, twice a day, then thirty, then a return to full activity.
Well, since she started having her difficulties, I’d cut Nu’s activity to a single twenty minute walk in the morning. So I figured I’d just return to that activity and that we’d gradually reintroduce her to the stairs at my mom’s place, and hopping up of the bed and couch again.
We also started adding glucosamine to her food. It’s stinky (green-lipped mussel extract) and she loves it. Isn’t it funny/sad/wonderful how our pets can disappoint us so, just by being themselves?
I’ve always thought it odd that while dogs have these amazing olfactory powers, that it makes the smelly stuff more attractive (barf, poo, dead animals, unidentifiable fungus, other disgusting stuff).
It’s a dog rule, I guess. Stinky = yum! And I love Nu, even if she occasionally has poo-mouth. I just don’t let her kiss me 😛
This past week, Phil and I took our pup to her regular vet, Dr. Wilkinson. Dr. Hoscheit retired from his practice at the end of February. We were lucky to get Nu in before he left.
So post-operative blood work was ordered, the sample taken, and we decided to take Nu off the Metacam to see how she would manage. She has a lot of arthritis in her knee. A lot. So we’re going to wait and see.
So basically, life is kind of back to normal at the Marttila-Minaker household.
We’re happy to have our girl back to her usual antics.
When I originally indicated that I was going to change my blogging schedule to weekends only, one of my online writing friends commented on how wonderful the idea was of a ‘flurry of posts’ on the weekend.
I’ve been posting fairly consistently on the weekends since, but I realized that I have a few things to catch up on. So this weekend, though the weather is sunny and cold here in the Sudz, I’m creating my own mini storm of blog posts.
Susan McMaster is a past-president of the League of Canadian Poets, poet, and spoken word artist. She’s given a workshop in the north before, and this time, I decided to partake.
The Sudbury Writers’ Guild had enough funds in its coffers to pay Susan’s fee for the afternoon workshop and to secure space at the newly rebuilt south end branch of the Sudbury Public Library.
The theme of the workshop was Writing through the Emotions.
Susan gave a brief introduction and offered up a couple of samples of her work and the work of other poets to illustrate. Breath and space seemed to be the key elements to evoking emotion in poetry, and so, when Susan gave us our writing assignment, I was expecting something a little different.
For the first part, we weren’t to write a single word. Instead, we were to map out what we were going to write in terms of beats. Long, flowing sentences would be represented by lines and short, curt sentences and breaths by carets.
Though I think several of us (fiction writers, in particular) struggled with the concept, we all dove in with enthusiasm and gave it our best.
Afterward, we had the opportunity to read from either our work of the afternoon, or something that we had brought with us.
Though only two and a half hours, the workshop was interesting and gave me a different way to look at my writing that I hadn’t considered before.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to Timmins to deliver the second of three sessions of Business Writing Made Easy.
The first delivery was back in November and in the much warmer Toronto. At that time, I was observed by the person who designed the course and who was, at the time, one of the leads in the trainers certification program.
Then, my hope was to certify in Timmins. My observer told me, point blank, that I wouldn’t pass. We then made plans for another delivery of BWME. Timmins would be a practice run, to let me become more familiar with the material and more practiced in my participant-centered training delivery methods and techniques.
My mentor was unable to continue coaching with me and my observer volunteered to take over. An opportunity arose for me to co-facilitate Introduction to Participant-Centered Training Delivery in January, further cementing my skills. My co-facilitator, a recently certified trainer herself, said that I was ready.
In February, however, things began to devolve. My observer-turned-mentor was assigned a project and could not continue to coach me. No one would be able to take over. In a final meeting, we whizzed through the remaining material we had to cover. I was again told that I was ready for assessment.
My own workload did not lessen and as I started to prepare for my delivery in Timmins, I realized that I was within the six-week deadline to arrange my observation.
Frantically, I contacted the certification program lead. I had to complete an assignment on the 18 trainer competencies, showing how I’d been working to develop each one, and complete a pre-evaluation interview to ensure that I was, in fact, ready. She felt confident that I was.
While I worked on Joining Instructions, pre-course assignments, and prep for the delivery, I waited on pins and needles to find out if assessors could be located for my certification run. Just before I left for Timmins, I was informed that I had one more assignment to complete. I did, and was propmtly introduced to my certification team.
The drive up to Timmins was lovely. It was a bright, brisk, winter day and we made excellent time. We set up the room and started organizing the activities.
That night, the weather grew stormy. 10 cm of snow, followed by another 20 or so the next day. Then the deep freeze descended and for the rest of the week was less than pleasant.
The training went well, thankfully. There were a few rocky places, but there always are. No training ever goes perfectly. I firmly subscribe to the good enough theory of life, the universe, and everything. I wonder if good enough = 42 😉
The weather improved for our journey back to Sudbury on Friday.
Sunrise over downtown Timmins, Ontario, Canada (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
This week, I strove to catch up on my regular work and still conserve some time to prep for next week’s delivery. The certification program lead emailed me to once again offer a few words of support, and here I am, with a skimpy weekend between me, a six and a half hour journey, hasty room and activity set up, and a full 8 hours of solo assessment of my facilitation skills.
My main goal? To remain mindful in the moment. Yes, training is a Zen kind of thing.
Will let you know how the certification attempt goes, but I won’t know anything for a while after. The earliest I can have my debrief is April 4 (!) While the report should be released within a couple of weeks, I’m not certain if they’ll give me a definitive ‘yes’ or ‘no’ before the debrief can happen.
Brian Braden is a retired military officer and has been a corporate executive, an intelligence officer, a combat helicopter pilot, and a freelance columnist. His articles have been featured in a variety of defense magazines and websites. He is also a founder, editor and writer for Underground Book Reviews. His debut novel, Black Sea Gods, is the first installment of an epic fantasy series.
Welcome to Writerly Goodness, Brian! I’m so happy to have you here to celebrate the launch your new book, Black Sea Gods: Chronicle of Fu Xion February 18, 2013.
We first met on Author Salon just over a year ago, in the then-beginning Epic Fantasy group. Since then, your work has changed and grown, and I feel privileged to have been one of your beta-readers.
Congratulations on sharing BSG with the world 🙂
WG: How long have you been writing, Brian? When did the bug first bite, and when did you know that writing was what you wanted to do?
BLB: First, thanks for inviting me to Writerly Goodness. Back in 2008 I wrote a letter to a major US defense magazine on a military topic. The editor actually called me and asked me to turn the letter into a column and he’d pay me. Paid for my opinion? I was in heaven. Then I did another column and then another. Well, one day editors changed and my columnist days were over. But I was fully bit by the writing bug by then. I wanted to write, so I switched to fiction. I published a little novelette called Carson’s Love to test the self-publishing waters and never looked back
WG: I know you’ve written about this many times, but what was the idea that became BSG and where did it come from?
BLB: It came from several inspirations, but primarily from a photo of an ancient mummy dug-up in a faraway land. The man’s face was amazingly preserved, as was his clothing. I wanted to know more about this person, but archeologist knew very little about him. I imagined who he was and what his life was like. After a while I decided to write his story, but I needed a cultural mythology to build upon. That’s when I stumbled upon Dr. John Colarusso’s book Nart Sagas From the Caucasus, a compilation of myths almost lost to history. I put the myths to the man and combined it with some related Chinese mythology and BLACK SEA GODS was born.
WG: I love process! Can you give my readers any insight into yours over the course of writing BSG?
BLB: The short answer: My core process is I start with a climax and a character and build the rest of the story around those two elements. My long answer: I started out on a website called Review Fuse, where other writers could read my chapters as I posted them. Not long after I started posting chapters I began collaborating with Amy Biddle, who was working on her first novel The Atheist Prayer (due out soon by Perfect Edge Books). We joined forces and started critiquing each other’s books one chapter at a time. We soon expanded our circle to two other talented writers – Katie French (The Breeders) and Kimberly Shurshen (Itsy Bitsy Spider and Hush). Over a year, one chapter at a time, we dissected each other work until we had complete novels. I liked this approach because it made each chapter a tighter package. That was phase one. Then I spent another year or so with writers at Author Salon doing deep edits, mostly involving shortening the book and reworking it using a six-act/two goal writing template. Then I sent it to an editor, who was a tremendous help. Finally, I involved beta-readers, most of who came to me from fantasy author Michael Manning’s pool of devoted fans. So, it was a four-stage process spanning almost three years: one-at-a time chapter builds with external critiques from trusted colleagues, deep “whole manuscript” edits from other writers, a professional editor, and finally, beta-readers.
WG: What have you learned from writing BSG, and how has it changed you as a writer?
BLB: It taught me I can write a novel. Hey, that’s something, right? It taught me to trust my gut and don’t let the idea of become a writer get in the way of being a writer. This past year taught me how to organize my manuscript and how to structure it.
WG: When you started writing BSG, you had your eyes on traditional publishing. When did that change and why did you opt for Amazon?
BLB: My decision didn’t come all at once, but was influenced by several factors. First, as a writer for Underground Book Reviews I’ve read amazing indie books and saw indie authors build huge readerships. I kept seeing friends, talented authors, succeed in the wild west of indie publication. If they can do it, I can do it. Second, as I’ve learned more about the traditional publishing industry the more I realized how highly unlikely Black Sea Gods was going to be picked up. It’s too far out of what industry professionals are looking for, what they consider “hot,” or “marketable.” The feedback I received from several agents and publishers was they liked the story but didn’t know where BSG would fit in their line. My only real hope would be to warp the story into something more compatible with the current market, and therefore make it something unrecognizable. I wanted to tell the story my way. I’m comfortable with that.
I went with Amazon’s Kindle Direct exclusively for the first 90 days to initially keep things simple, take advantage of their marketing leverage, and incorporate a “rolling debut.” In three months I’ll debut on Nook, and then Smashswords, etc. Each debut is a marketing opportunity, a chance to burst fresh on the scene and carry the accolades/reviews from the previous tier forward.
WG: I know you started your personal blog in the last year as well. What has your experience in blogging been like and how do you think it will contribute to your success as an author?
BLB: Blogging … I haven’t cracked that nut yet. As it stands now, I have very little faith in my personal blog to sustain or launch my writing career. Blogs are jealous creatures, they demand gobs of time and attention in order to love you back just a little bit. I’m afraid I haven’t given my blog enough of that TLC; however, I’ve developed a small, but loyal following and, over the next 90 days, I’ll be offering free copies of BSG from time to time as part of my marketing campaign. The first promotion started yesterday and ran for 24 hours.
If there has been one platform that has been good to me it’s Underground Book Reviews. The response to the indie book e-zine has been overwhelming. I would not have been as well positioned as I am now to launch an indie writing career without it.
Tonsillitis is hell. The true infection, the one that leaves your four-year-old self screaming, the monster pain in your ears reaching back into your brain, your throat, latching on with needle-like claws, and shredding.
I remember that.
I remember trying to lie still on my side on the couch while Mom administered oil-based ear medication into my ears, one after the other. This would hopefully happen before the screaming started, was intended to pre-empt it. I’d squirm and whine while the medication slowly dripped into my ears, swallowed doses of liquid antibiotics and Tempra (a liquid painkiller for children).
I remember once heading out in the car with my parents and maternal grandparents. I’m not sure whether it was just for a picnic, or if it was a day trip to a camp site, but it was a ways out of town. Mom hadn’t thought to bring my medication and just to spite her, my tonsillitis decided to act up. Big time.
Mom and Nanny (I had to have a different name for this other older lady who wasn’t the same as Grandma, my paternal grandmother) tried to calm me down in the back seat, but I was howling by the time we reached our destination and we couldn’t stay. I had to be returned home and dosed.
It quickly became apparent that surgery was in order. Though this was the time during which doctors tried not to perform tonsillectomies, my situation was serious enough that everyone felt there was no other choice.
I don’t remember anything about the surgery itself. I believe it went off without a hitch. After the operation, all seemed well, and I returned home enjoying ice cream, popsicles, and TLC.
In the middle of the night, I woke, coughing, had trouble breathing, the air moving in and out of me with a rattling slurp, the sound of milk bubbling through a straw. The next cough shot a black spatter onto my pyjamas and sheets. I couldn’t summon the breath to call for my mom right away, my first attempt emerged a thready burble.
Each stuttering breath and cough produced a little more noise, until I was shouting, “Mom!”
The light switch flicked on, momentarily blinding me, but one look at the blood and I yelled again, despite the jagged burning in my throat, tried to crawl back from it, but it followed. I was covered in blood.
My stitches had burst.
A frantic ride to the hospital and the doctor ordered me back into surgery and my parents were ordered out of the examination room, the male nurse assuring them that he could handle getting the intravenous inserted.
He sent Mom away. It was abandonment, pure and simple. A four-year old doesn’t distinguish between her parents leaving her and her parents being forced to leave her.
Worse, the nurse tried to stab me. I showed him.
Mom and Dad were brought back in, allowed to hold my hand, held my legs down, while the newly bandaged nurse taped my arm to a block of wood and did his worst. In the moment, I hated my parents for that, for letting the nurse hurt me.
I didn’t die, but I came close.
I don’t remember any of the iconic images typical of near-death experiences (NDEs). No long tunnels. No doorways of brilliant light. No voices of lost loved ones calling to me. No angels; no voice of God.
The road back from that second surgery was a long one. I’d ingested so much blood, I became incontinent in the most embarrassing way, my family doctor plucked clots of blood out of my ears, and nothing, not even ice cream, tasted good for weeks. More courses of liquid antibiotics followed, which stained my teeth indelibly and made me self-conscious for years.
I have a picture of myself right after the surgery, pale, skinny. It was Christmas, but I couldn’t smile.
Mellie after the operation
What’s stayed with me the most was the dream.
My first night home after the second surgery, I dreamed of my bed, empty. The cheery yellow and white striped flannel sheets, the blue wool blanket turned down, the dark wood frame with the toy cupboard built in. Just the bed in a kind of spot light, the rest of the room dark. The image of the bed receded into the darkness and finally disappeared.
The feeling that I woke up with was that I had died, not that I really understood what that meant, but that I had ceased to exist and that the world I woke up in was a new one. I had a new life, too. A second chance.
Now, I’d say that I dreamed of one of those moments at which the infinite iterations of parallel universes converge. I turned left. The sensation was profound.
I started to have nightmares about falling, or being abandoned, that troubled me for years,
Deutsch: Engel holt die Seele eines Sterbenden (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
and am firmly convinced that I had spontaneous out-of-body experiences (OBEs) at night. During the latter, I felt like a helium balloon in a wind storm, flung, sometimes painfully, to the furthest reaches of my tether but always yanked back. The ‘string’ was attached to my navel.
Try an experiment for me. Poke your finger into your belly-button. Press in hard and wriggle it around. That will give you some idea what having a string attached to it and being hauled around by it feels like.
I’ve heard that the navel is supposed to be an erogenous zone (thanks for that one, Dr. Oz). Sadly, I’ve never found that to be true. It’s always been a slightly disturbing feeling for me. I figure that’s just me. My wiring isn’t quite what other people might feel is normal. I’m cool with that.
I’ve written a short story about this experience for my thesis called “Tonsillitis Blues.” I’ve written short fiction and poetry about it.
This experience is still in me and claws its way out from time to time, like it has today.
Next week, I’ll be delving into the period of my life that I refer to as ‘friend wars.’ These were my first experiences of bullying. I think I did pretty well, even though I had no idea what it was I was dealing with. This was also the period when I developed my first defenses against bullying, several of which resulted in my further isolation, and one of which meant that I became a bully myself.
I see the ‘friend war’ years as the time when my predisposition to depression was first anchored in my psyche. It destroyed my self-confidence.
Have any of you had a non-traditional near-death experience? A youthful trauma that resulted in years of nightmares? How about out-of-body experiences? When were you able to understand what happened to you and how it affected you? What creativity has emerged from these experiences?
I’ll be posting my interview with Brian Braden shortly.
Always Looking Up 