Michelangelo and the Artist’s Vision

Should we continually adapt, adapt, adapt to suit someone else’s vision?

Michelangelo was an arrogant fellow. He had his own vision for his artwork, and it certainly didn’t coincide with the artists of the day.

Years ago, shortly after I completed my university degree (although it wasn’t in art or art history) I travelled to Europe, student-style, and visited the standard castle-cathedral-museum train of must-see spectacles in the tourist brochure. Of course there’s obvious aesthetic and cultural reasons these particular stops are included on the list, but as a science major, they often didn’t have the same appeal and eventually you grow weary of yet-another-church, of yet-another-museum, of yet-another-vineyard-where-you-must-stop-and-sample-the-wine (well, maybe not that one).

We stopped in Paris and visited the Louvre where I saw Mona carefully cushioned within her bullet-proof display case, viewable but untouchable, and still smiling—would you believe it? We wandered through the south of France, tried our hand at | the | slot | machines | in | Monte Carlo and wound our way through the

                                 terraced

                                                      hills

                                                               of Italy, where we dropped by Florence. I’ll never forget Florence. And in case I would, I took photos.

I'm in this one. Bet you can't find me.

The thing that struck me the most about Florence was the architecture, the vistas, the friendly Italians, the David.

Before we could breathe, or even begin to absorb the flavour of Italy, both Renaissance and Twentieth Century, or watch the street artists capture the vitality of the city with broad brush strokes from the Ponte Vecchio, we were whisked off to Rome.

The most magnificent feature of Rome was The Colliseum, The Forum, The Trevi Fountain (where yes, I threw in a coin, and no, I haven’t returned yet) The Sistine Chapel. I’m sure many of you would disagree with this assessment, and it was particularly odd for someone so philistine, so unschooled in the arts, (and not Catholic) to be enraptured blown away by Mike’s achievements.

As I flip through my photo album, I see everything Mike.

How did that get in there?
When in München, do as the Munchkins.

My daughter is taking visual art and art history in school now. She’s educating me on all things artsy. I’m learning to appreciate abstract art. I’ve come to understand modern conceptual art-modern conceptual art (although not appreciate it—a brick is still a brick in my opinion) (and don’t get me started on urinals). I now know a  Baroque  from a Renaissance from an Impressionist painting. She didn’t know the word for bust and I had to educate her—sometimes it feels good to one-up the expert ;)

It shouldn’t surprise you, though, that the first book on art that I chose to read was one called Michelangelo. I didn’t simply discover more about the art, I discovered the artist. Mike was temperamental, stubborn, worked on his own model of perfection, disregarded the critics of the day and grumbled, grumbled, grumbled about having to paint for various popes when he preferred sculpting. Mike became an expert on human anatomy, studying corpses and revealing humans in twisted, flexible poses rather than the rigid norm. Mike worked reluctantly on the Sistine Chapel, but he achieved something no other human being ever has, in four years time. He didn’t want to paint; he was forced required to, but heck if he wasn’t going to paint his own vision of the Bible, human beings and the world.

I often wonder if we’ve stepped away from writer as artist. I know genre writers aren’t given credit as artists—we’re the poster producers of the art world. But since we’re mixing our own paints, choosing to
                   s p l a t t e r,
                                                  d
                                                   r
                                                   i
                                                   p,  sponge, or 

                                      b r u s h 
on the texture of our novel world, since we choose our canvas (be it science fiction, thriller, or literary), and then spend months, if not years, improving the image, should we not be allowed to create our own vision?

I’ve sat through a number of agent- or editor-author critique sessions with my manuscripts, and I kid you not, every single agent or editor has a different vision for your work. They often want you to change it to match what they think will sell, or take on the appearance of what they have a particular affinity for. They won’t insist you change the canvas, but everything else, every brush stroke, every tenderly rendered expression, every unusual curvature has to be altered. They’d like to tear down the Sistine Chapel and rebuild it in their own image.

The ideal agent/editor is the one who sees your vision, and loves it. They only want to help you perfect it.

It’s very difficult, if not impossible to be Mike. But it is possible to strive to become the best you can be, and once you think you’ve reached that pinnacle, don’t compromise. Be the artist. Because if you’ve put in the time and used your incredible unique imagination, some readers are bound to “get” your vision.

The Forgivable Lapse

Are you In It for the Long Haul?

It probably doesn’t surprise you that I enjoy watching sci-fi and paranormal television shows: Fringe, Grimm, Supernatural, The River. I also watch medical shows like House and Grey’s Anatomy, but that’s beside the point—and has to do with my background and expertise rather than my fascination/obsession.

The other day I was watching Supernatural. I know, the stories are often silly, but it’s the silliness, the sentimentality, the downright goofiness that often makes it endearing. In the beginning the characters drew me in as slickly as the supernatural component: two brothers (and hunters) who rely on each other to survive; who are polar opposites in disposition and skill (one college-educated with a knack for doing research and a preference for health food, while the other is adept at Samarai sword-fighting or rock salt rifle-shooting and would rather drown in booze and hamburgers); and they  have quirks like adopting the names of elderly rock stars for their aliases as FBI agents, or drinking demon blood. But more than the characters, it’s the episodic nature of the series, along with tongue-in-cheek humour, that make it appealing (for me).

I know this particular brand of writing is likely more difficult to write—coming up with a new concept every week—than simply continuing with an ongoing storyline. But I found when the writers decided to be lazy, focus on a single dramatic storyline, the show began to deteriorate. If you’re familiar with the program, you’re familiar with the extended plot:  a battle between heaven and hell, demons and angels. There’s very little room for comedy or goofiness in such a battle. The characters soon became worn, guilt-plagued, dreary and the added characters of angels and demons were universally arrogant, self-centred and greedy. There’s only so much back-stabbing, gut-clawing or incised brows that you can take. Even so, even wringing my hands with irritation, I continued to watch it, but my husband strayed. I kept hoping the writers would return to their original format, and I loved the characters enough to allow for this lapse. This season, the writers finally clued in; undoubtedly they lost a number of viewers, like my husband, when they lost their sense of humour.

I’m sure the same thing happens to you with novels. If authors create beguiling/arresting characters, you will keep reading the next book, even if their plot occasionally stumbles and becomes less than captivating. George R. R. Martin has invented several interesting and surprisingly human/flawed characters in his epic story, with just the hint of magic or supernatural activities to lend to the label of fantasy. Even the wretches have perfectly reasonable reasons for their wretched behaviour. But in Book Two, A Clash of Kings, the plot dragged and I found my mind wandering. Still I returned for another dose of fantasy-fulfillment with Book Three, A Storm of Swords. He’d set the tone so well at the beginning with these wonderfully relatable characters that readers were willing to forgive a lapse in intrigue in the hopes that the author would slingshot back to what drew them to the series in the first place.

Supernatural, in this season, has returned to its roots. Episodic, humourous, goofy but in a good way, intriguing in that a new situation arises every week. I love it! I’m smiling again. :)

A Storm of Swords pulled me under as only a vortex can with the same tense character situations, totally surprising plot twists that don’t balk at killing off some of the most appealing protagonists or devilish antagonists, and the throwing together of unusual characters at every turn. I’m smiling again. :)

Yes, if you’re a real fan of the style, the characters, the talent of writers to create this otherworld that you adore, then you’re willing to forgive the occasional lapse. It happens. Of course we’re all human, and writers can be lazy tired, cranky frustrated, occasionally dreary uninspired, blocked unproductive or lacking in depth unable to tap the surface. Sometimes fresh material eludes them for a while. And sometimes their brilliance re-emerges. I’m willing to wait, one year, two, one book, two—sometimes even more—because I’m in it for the long haul.

Update on the Time Meddlers Series

All good things must come to an end, but sometimes you can end bad things on your own.

I know I promised Time Meddlers fans a March release of the latest book in the series but, as you can see, March is almost over and no release. This forced me to step over the threshold of making a major decision for the series. I decided to pull it from the current publisher before the release of the third book.

The focus of this publisher has been increasingly geared toward books that are not kid-friendly, and it’s become an inappropriate atmosphere for a children’s book series. I’ve felt my ire grow as the books were often pushed aside or nestled side-by-side with adult romance or “other  adult” books. Not that there’s anything wrong with  “other adult” books, they just don’t belong with kidlit. I also encountered several problems within the organization that I won’t go into any detail about,  but which impelled me to  pull the series. This decision has been costly for me (to break a contract always is); I didn’t make it on the spur of the moment and without a great deal of pain and trepidation. It’s very difficult to find a new home for a previously published series.

I apologize to my fans. I know you were looking forward to the release of this book, as was I, but I’m hoping in the long run you’ll have better access to the books and no further delays when a release date is announced. I'll do my best to make it up to you as I search for another publisher.

If you haven’t read Mars Maze, I have that available for free on my blog—a tongue-in-cheek mini-adventure based on Time Meddlers. (The premise is rather silly compared to the other books, but the point of it is simply to laugh and enjoy.) For those of you who haven’t read Ice Tomb, message me and I’ll give you a code to obtain a free copy. If you’re interested, I might release a few chapters of Time Meddlers on the Nile over the next few weeks.

I currently have two other unpublished manuscripts that I’m working on, so once this mess is sorted out, I hope to provide you with a great deal of reading material :)

Feel free to ask me anything you like regarding this decision. I welcome your thoughts and concerns.

The Reluctant Reader/The Defiant Child

For the Love of Reading

Irony is a part of life.

I am a writer (in case you weren’t aware.) I love reading (in case you think I could possibly contemplate writing books without reading them.)

I have two children, a boy and a girl (oh, yes, the perfect family.)

I have ONE reader in the family, besides myself.


This is how it works, or how it worked for me. My first child was born, a girl, and she loved books. It stands to reason that a mother who absolutely adores reading will pass on that passion to her child.

She never liked dolls, or Lego, or fuzzy stuffed animals. She loved books. She used to go to sleep surrounded by her favourites: Curious George and Dr. Seuss, Charlotte’s Web and The Berenstain Bears. (We’ll miss you Jan.)

As she grew older, the stacks migrated from the protective wall around her body (I don’t know how she ever woke up without creases and striations all over her skin) to the night table, but the stacks never diminished. She eventually took a literary arts specialty in high school, and although her true passion is now visual art, she will never grow out of her love for books.

Four years after my daughter was born we had another child, a boy.

Now don’t think that I agree with the gender bias that suggests non-readers are all male; this is just a fact in my life.

The boy didn’t like books. In fact the boy didn’t like hockey either, or skiing or anything his parents adored.

My husband is crazy about hockey; well, he’s a Canuck, so what else do you expect. So . . . my son was required to learn this exciting, demanding sport as soon as his feet could properly support him on a single blade, not two. At four we enrolled him in the Mite Hockey League. He stood on his skates, quite well. And that’s all he did. Stand in the middle of the ice like an obstinate rock while the ebb and flow of four-year-old hockey magic zipped around him. (They stumble-skated back and forth on the ice and managed to flip a few pucks beside the net.) He would not move.

Next we tried skiing. I’d developed a passion for this sport in my university years and thought, what kid wouldn’t love racing down the slopes with wind in his face and gravity doing all the work? The sense of freedom and exhilaration, the blistering speed. What kid wouldn’t? My daughter did.

Every Saturday we’d truss him up, beg, borrow and steal (well, not really steal) ski equipment and set him up with lessons for an hour with the option of a full day of free skiing after that. One hour  later, when the eager-to-escape ski instructor returned our son to us, the whining would begin and wouldn’t end until we stripped off the skis and fled the slopes.

I don’t think my son hated hockey or skiing. He was simply determined to loathe anything we loved. We had bred a defiant child.

When it came to reading, though, the refusal just wasn’t acceptable. My son had to learn how to read—literacy is essential to success in this very difficult world. Plus, I was a writer. How could I explain an illiterate child? I had to ignite in him a passion for reading, if I did nothing else.

Thus began the endless parade of books.

This isn`t endless, because we`ve donated most of books to the school library, but I`m sure you get my point.

My son will never love reading. I came to accept that after a number of years, although it was painful for me. His teachers would chuckle at me kindly, at my hopeless efforts with full understanding and sympathy. Eventually he did learn to read, although never to love it, and that’s a reason to rejoice in itself.

This is what worked for him:

Hugo Cabret—a book that tells a story through illustration rather than simply text.

Nonfiction titles of topics he’s passionate about: gardening, plants, the universe and planets, rocks and minerals.

Wimpy Kid—not my favourite, but a Best Book of the Decade according to a children`s survey. Basically comics and graphic novels. If your reluctant readers like humour, try to interest them in a Wimpy Kid style of book, if they enjoy adventure and movies, furnish them with graphic novels.

I failed to entice my reluctant reader into the world of books, but he does love movies. We don’t share many passions, but at least we both appreciate stories (in whatever format), and we’re avid gardeners and amateur geologists too. I’m not a failure and neither is he; we’re just somewhat different and that’s okay. Not everyone can be a reader.

If you`ve had similar struggles, I invite you to share them. If something drew your reluctant reader to books, let me know. If you're a former reluctant reader and now adore books, what ignited your passion? I’d like to assemble a list of helpful advice and potential books, if not to create an avid reader then at least to awaken a spark and keep kids literate.

An Arduous Journey

Announcement: Ice Tomb is now available as an eBook.

Since I’m re-releasing Ice Tomb, solo this time, I thought it only fair to provide an explanation. It’s been eight years since the book’s publication, an arduous journey for me, a learning experience. When I first received notice that Ice Tomb would be published I immediately popped the cork on a bottle of champagne. I’d devoted a year to the project, researching like a mad woman, diving into challenging topics like rocket proposals for a moon mission, a potential science station and quantum physics. I’m never one to shy away from difficult topics even if they’re extremely technical or analytical – and not exactly my cup of tea, although I find the theories of the universe intriguing to the say the least.

Little did I know that the publisher, although happy to publish my book and very pleasant in other ways, wasn’t everything I’d hoped for. They released the book without a decent round of editing and, after numerous attempts to persuade the business manager to join the eBook revolution, he refused. Marketing was non-existent, which is par for the course in small presses, but something I was unaware of at the time.

So I obtained a publicist, but I did most of the sales and promotional work myself, sending out press releases and submitting my book for review.

Some critics gave the book a great review. Other less-than-enthusiastic critics treated it to a sound thrashing.

Great reviews:

Top Pick

“Ice Tomb is set in the near future, and the science in the fiction is very plausible. A fast-paced story with plenty of twists, this book reads like a classic sci-fi tale. The characters are well drawn, the action plentiful and the outcome surprising.”

– RT BOOKclub Magazine

Editor’s Pick

“She may be a new kid on the science fiction block, but Ottawa writer Deborah Jackson could well rank up there one day with the likes of Isaac Asimov or Arthur C. Clarke.”

“Ice Tomb is surprising not just for its entirely believable plot and well-crafted suspense, but because it has all the earmarks of a tale written by a sci-fi master.”

– Mike Gillespie, The Ottawa Citizen

BTW, even though I live in Ottawa, I had no association with this editor whatsoever. He actually liked it without any persuasion on my part.

Not-so-great reviews: Jonathon Cowie, Concatenation

With Ice Tomb she has moved her target readership upwards to young teenagers, (reviewed after the release of Time Meddlers) (intended for adults) and for them has produced a gripping adventure that also makes for a reasonable (so-called) 'young adult' SF read. Older readers will find some of her (fortunately occasional) turn of phrase facile...(Sob) The plotting is also very contrived, (it was/is) but this will probably not matter a jot to young teenagers, especially as the rest of her writing style conveys the story with fluidity.

He uses some harsher words that I couldn’t even print. Then he goes on to bash the publisher, which I won’t include either, since I’ve said enough above and I truly do appreciate their acceptance of the book.

The review continues:

Publisher issues aside, were I back at school I would probably welcome Ice Tomb. Indeed as an adult when it comes to the science, I really can't seriously fault this. It was reasonably researched. In fact I wondered whether she had read Blankenship et al., (1993) Active volcanism beneath the West Antarctic Ice Sheet. Nature 361, 526-9? Big Brownie points here even if I have ice sheet stability problems with a part subterranean Antarctic base. Ditto personal problems with an episode of geological timing mentioned which was (northern hemisphere dominated Younger Dryas aside) one of climatic and ice sheet change as we were coming out of the last glacial, but your average SF reader (even if a scientist other than one into climatology of biosphere science) simply would not know this. Ditto the iridium record.

Which wasn’t so bad.

So I did my homework, but I wasn’t a literary genius and my plot was very contrived, probably because I watch too many movies, and let’s face it, nearly every thriller/adventure/horror film has a contrived plot.

This was the beginning of my journey from naïveté in thinking my publisher would help me produce a pristine product and underestimating the brutal world of criticism, albeit justified. I realized I desperately needed a critique group to spare me some of the humiliation by catching my mistakes before they hit the editorial desk.

Yet some people, like the kind reviewers above, loved Ice Tomb, despite all its failings. I even had questions from parents of Time Meddlers fans asking if their kids could read Ice Tomb. “No!” I insisted. “Too much adult content.”

Ice Tomb needed to be revamped and made more kid-friendly before I’d give it one more chance in the eBook world. Since readers of Time Meddlers were interested in it, I thought it deserved that chance.

But how do you revamp an aging book? I liken it to old bread. You can scrape off the mold, you can sprinkle some spices on a slice or two, but it will never be fresh bread. I tried . . . valiantly. I did remove the offensive chapter and rewrote it entirely. I tried to rework some of the passive writing and delete the clichés. One or two totally illogical sections I ripped out and replaced. I like to think of it as a reupholstered story that still retains the original thrills and science that some people actually loved and removed the most offensive aspects that some people really hated.

Of course revising an old manuscript can lead to some technical problems. I will repeat one of Jonathon Cowie’s statements: “her writing style conveys the story with fluidity.” When I write a first draft, it inevitably flows along like a rippleless river. Where I might fail in other aspects of writing, I think I have this inherent sense of rhythm and flow. When you begin ripping out this word and replacing that “facile” phrase with something more dynamic or interesting, you inevitably mess with the flow—a flow that was established years ago. So in my valiant attempt I undoubtedly threw rocks into the river and produced a few rapids, and where it would make for a rafting nightmare, I desisted.

If you’ve never read one of my books, it might be a strange journey at first. To avoid any misconceptions, let me tell you exactly what I write:

Thrillers/Modern-day adventure stories/Science fiction with some near future speculation/Mysteries . . .

. . . that often blend in historical or mythological components . . .

. . . and include a romantic subplot more often than not.

And how I write: Fast-paced, over-the-top, tongue-in-cheek (but in a fluid way ;))

If this type of story interests you, then follow the links below. I have every intention of publishing the next thriller, Sinkhole, in the near future—eight years and three middle grade time travel adventures later. Sinkhole is also kid-friendly, but not a children’s book.

Kindle

Kobo

Nook

Smashwords

If you have an iPad or iPhone, Smashwords sells copies in every format. You can also get the Kindle app for free on these devices.

Please feel free to ask me about my journey. Believe me, life is never what you expect, particularly in the writing world.

Lost in Translation

I suppose it was a couple of years ago when I was confronted with another dilemma: To read or not to read and simply watch the movie. If you haven’t noticed yet, from previous blogs, my house is virtually bursting at the seams with books, not only read, savoured and hoarded, but stacks on my “to read” list as well. When word finally reached my less-than-attuned ears that Stieg Larsson’s books were worth a read, I was already knee-deep in kidlit and YA and opted to rent the Swedish subtitled versions of the movies instead.

Being the lovely (North) Americanized “please spoon-feed me” type of person, I wasn’t overly enthusiastic about reading my movie. Don’t get me wrong, I adore reading, but when it comes to movies I like to “experience” them visually, with the necessary auditory component that doesn’t require distraction through reading – just like I don’t like to watch my books. I believe the iPad may have something to say about that in the future, though.

I was fully prepared to be annoyed.

But that didn’t happen. First of all, I know a little Dutch, and Swedish has some similarities. Secondly, I didn’t mind reading the subtitles, because the story was so engaging and the acting phenomenal. And the message was all too clear.

Last week, a friend mentioned on Facebook she was reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and the English translation left much to be desired. Another FB entity chimed in and mentioned he’d recently watched the English version of the movie and found it filled with graphic and “pointless” violence.

Pointless violence?

How much has been lost in translation, I wondered?

I clearly understood through the Swedish movies that violence is the point, “violence against women.” Perhaps this would have been crystal if the original title hadn’t been changed from Män som hatar kvinnor - “Men Who Hate Women.”

Lisbeth Salander was, to me, the embodiment of “women finally striking back,” wielding power over abusive men for so many women who are defenseless. I’ve seen the results of rape and abuse, although I’ve been lucky not to have been touched by it personally. Most women are psychologically afflicted and often incapable of leading a normal life, let alone striking back. Lisbeth was never a realistic character to me, but she was the personification of hope and retribution for these women.

I fail to see how this wasn’t clear in the English movie. I wonder if sloppy translation made it less than obvious in the books. But I found it disturbing that people didn’t understand Stieg Larsson.

I later learned why he wrote the books. It was to atone for the guilt he felt over witnessing a gang rape years ago and doing nothing to help the girl. The story is more than the character and plot. The story is the author and the girl.

Sometimes a fiction story is simply a moment’s entertainment in our lives. Sometimes, it’s a great deal more. (And should never be linked to a clothing line.)

Please, let’s translate it correctly.

How I Came to Love Twitter

It was unexpected. It began as a chore.

You must promote! As a writer you’re hammered with this notion incessantly, even though you despise self-promotion. At least I do. I write because I can’t imagine not writing, but once the book is published, all the other tasks that accompany it are tedious. And in the back of my mind, I think I’ll never measure up to the literary geniuses, so how can I promote myself?

Despite my distaste, I gritted my teeth and I joined.

Over a period of time the duty became a joyful experience, one I rush toward every morning and at various hours during the day.

The joy began when I realized that Twitter was more than a vehicle for sales. In fact it was the quite the opposite.

A universe opened up to me – a universe of information at my fingertips, breathtaking photographs and art, but above all people. These people had incredible insight, generosity and gift of the gab – in 140 characters or less. Immediately I realized that I would not self-promote, but I would take in and I would give back. When I began to do that, friendships developed – extraordinary friendships over vast distances that could never be bridged except in the cyber world.

Twitter emerged as something quite different from Facebook – more than “I know you from somewhere, so let’s connect.” Instead the connection occurred because of shared interests and passion, the way we sometimes make lifelong friends at conferences. For me it wasn’t just writerly people, but those interested in science, photography, art, archaeology – other passions of mine. It opened up an astounding world of fascinating, comical and complex human beings.

Another thing occurred to me as I observed and explored this strange and wonderful network.

Twitter was another manner of writing. A vehicle of expression, albeit a raw, ragged, sloppy one, minus the rewrites and editing. I could play around with language, something I love to do. Usually I express my thoughts, through characters and situations, of course, in 90,000 words. It’s a long, very self-involved process which I call “creative mode.” The purpose of writing is often personal – to transfer what the author is passionate about into a comprehensive tale while exploring various characters - weaving mulicoloured patterns into the tapestry, then trying on different outfits and diving through the mesh - but there’s also that desire to connect with readers. The problem with novel writing is that, for so many years, the author has been distanced from the reader.

Twitter allows you to connect directly. You can’t tell a tale, but you can inject personality and, because you’re constrained by the number of characters, it forces you to become creative.

I love the hashtag. Not to promote an idea or subject across the Twitterverse, but to add a splash of humour or contradict my own statement. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s me.

I like to comment on scientific discoveries or photographic enticements or rocks. Yes, rocks! But most of all, I like to smile, wink or chuckle with Twitterpals.

If you’re into Twitter simply to sell something, then I think you’ll become disillusioned rather quickly. Nobody wants to hear a sales pitch. But most people, if you really listen, have something valuable to say. And if you’re willing to give of yourself, your return will be more than you imagined.

If you smile at someone and they smile back at you, it’s worth more than all the gold in the ground.

The Toy Graveyard

Has your basement, attic, spare bedroom or cupboard under the stairs become a toy graveyard? Do remnant Thomas the Train tracks or cabooses litter the visible carpet? Have Beanie Babies been tossed in obscure corners, collecting dust bunnies on their silken fur? Do you have to slalom through Polly Pockets and headless Barbies to get to the laundry?

Yes, sometimes our kids accumulate too many toys. What do I blame for that, besides myself? Christmas!

For some reason gold, frankincense and myrrh have transformed into heaps of toys, neglected and hardly used. The joy of giving has become the act of spoiling. Initially our kids squeal in excitement on Christmas morning, but even they start tossing the multiple toys aside after a while with barely a glance. And after spending all that money, we haven’t the heart to dispose of that perfect toy too quickly—especially after wracking our brains trying to come up with something different.

My kids have reached their teen years, so the gifts are fewer, but more expensive. Electronic gadgets—cell phones, iPods, Wii Games, but at least most of them are used until they’re out-of-date. For my younger great-nieces and nephews, I purchase books, but their parents have suggested a moratorium even on those. Too many books.

How can you have too many books?

Okay, so I have too many books. I have a bookshelf of unread books. I have a Kobo full of partially read classics. I have books on the floor, books on shelves in the living room, books on the shelf going down into the basement, books on several shelves in the basement and books on my night table and shelves above my bed. So yes, you can have too many books.

But I’m still convinced that books are the best gifts for kids. If you’re going to give your kids more gifts for Christmas, think of everything a book can do that the toys in the graveyard can’t seem to match (which is why they end up in the graveyard). A new world, an exquisite combination of colours and artwork to dazzle or amuse—if it’s a picture book—a laugh when it’s a sad day, a story that let’s your child know that he’s not alone with the problems he faces at each challenging age, a place to escape the pressures of this world (and let’s face it, kids have enormous pressure these days), an expanding vocabulary, the ability to focus—something multitasking and reduced physical activity (required to expend energy) have removed—the wonders of a different society or culture, lessons subtly incorporated to give them a moral grounding and the strength to face difficult choices, the magic of words so skillfully combined they’re musical to the ear and a future that only literacy can bring. There’s many more, but I’ll stop here so you can breathe.

My daughter once said on FB: I think that there are more books in my house than the average person can read in a lifetime... let's hope I'm not an average person. (I intend to dig into them all... if they're interesting.)

Why would she say that? Because she loves to read. And that is the best gift I could give her.

The Real Me--A Look at the Books I Read and Treasure

If you ever want to get to know a writer, all you have to do is take a look at their bookshelves. The past few days I've been diligently organizing my shelves, taking the stacks off the floor, so you won't be able to judge how chaotic my life really is, but you will understand me better by the books I preserve.

I have two shelves on the main level, which is also my office. I have no living room, or rather I live among the books.


This is my reference shelf, for the most part.

From the top:

The top is a mixed bag, because I ran out of room. From archeology, which has always fascinated me, to China to WWII and a few classics.

Next shelf: Writing references, including Hemingway and Stephen King, my favourites. I know, I'm weird.

Egypt, geology (bet you don't know many people turned on by rocks), the Fodor's Guides, you know, the essentials.

Going down:



 More geology, geography, some haunts from my past that come in handy--Essential Human Anatomy and Medical Microbiology--Egypt, caves and NASA. If you noticed the sticky notes, I thrive on them. You'll also see the Idiot's Guides. If you're a writer, never be without the Idiot's Guides. (This is not a comment on our profession.)

The shelf below contains a few of my favourite modern novels: The Bartimaeus Trilogy, of which there is only one, because another avid reader in my family appropriates and lends them out--never to be seen again. The Hunger Games--Book One repurchased as a paperback--and, of course, Wilbur Smith classics, Cryptonomicon--one of the bulging tomes I thoroughly enjoyed (let's not discuss Ann Rand) and The Historian--vampire or not, it was excellent.

Continuing on:

This is my larger volumes' reference shelf, mostly WWII and Egypt. Are you beginning to understand where my obsession lies? And yes, it continues onto the floor. My larger volumes tend to accumulate beyond the capacity of one shelf.

The next shelving unit has a few different books. We'll start with the literary...

Wall of Shame

The left side has the books I've read, for the most part. Shakespeare, Poe, Hemingway, a Giller Prize winner, but the right side has classics I fully intend to read, someday. 

Next are my classic favourites:

Ann of Green Gables, Lord of the Rings, Anne Frank, C.S. Lewis, Dickens! and a few modern favourites: Kenneth Oppel's Airborn series, The Book Thief, The Giver. Now how did Agassi get in there? Avid tennis fan, I'll admit it.

On the bottom:

A mixed bag: The Ice stands out--for those Antarctica novels--biographies, more WWII. You might have even seen Scaredy Squirrel. Your eyes have not deceived you. On the bottom shelf: pirates, Florida and National Parks. Adventurer/romantic, that's me.

On the way to the basement: Recognize these? 

And a close up:

Remember The Secret of the Old Clock? This was my first series as a child, purchased second-hand by my parents. Can't part with it.

In the basement, beside the hockey sticks: The Adult Fiction Shelf

Do I really need to explain this one?

And across the room:

Middle Grade, Young Adult, Fantasy.

Need I say more?

Yes, you do see Twilight there. Ignore it.

My delightful magazines are on the table, the few I don't have in DVD:

I haven't found a home for them yet.

And last, but not least, the "to read" stacks, the short version:

But I'm starting a new library now.

And this is what it usually says.

Well, that's it. You might think I'm rich with all these books, but honestly, I have no furniture. Hand-me-downs. Priorities, you see. I live for story and story lives on through me, I think.

Remember . . . the courage, the commitment, the sacrifice.

In light of Remembrance Day, to honour our veterans and fallen soldiers, the best tribute is to learn their stories. I thought I’d recommend some books and movies that exemplify the trials and sacrifice, the courage of so many during one of the darkest periods in our history.

Band of Brothers.

One of the most impressive series Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks ever produced. The story of the 101st Airborne, the paratrooper division that opened the area behind the lines on D-day for the Allies to push through, were the first to begin the liberation of Holland and discovered one of Germany’s “Final Solution” concentration camps.

The Pacific is also worth looking at, but Band of Brothers is as revealing of the personalities of the soldiers and the missions they had to endure. It captures their courage and their weaknesses without emphasizing the depressive nature of war. Although it’s necessary to understand the misery and hardships, I found Pacific dragged me down too much. I want to understand, but I can’t relive.

Between Silk and Cyanide, by Leo Marks

A Codemaker’s War, 1941 -1945

In 1942, Leo Marks left his father’s famous London bookshop and went off to fight the war. He was recognized as a cryptographer of genius, he became head of communications at the Special Operations Executive, where he revolutionized the codemaking techniques of the Allies and trained some of the most famous agents dropped into occupied Europe, including Violet Szabo.


One of the most mesmerizing accounts of the Special Operations Executive and the ingenious codemakers of World War II. Not only is Marks a spellbinding narrator, he translates coding for the layman and has a delightful sense of humour. Not many events that occurred in the war were humourous, and his gift at wry wit in no way diminishes the reality, the tragedies and the blunders. I read this to do research for Time Meddlers Undercover, but I continue to pull out examples of great writing for my students.

The Diary of Anne Frank

In 1942, with Nazis occupying Holland, a thirteen-year-old Jewish girl and her family fled their home in Amsterdam and went into hiding. For the next two years, until their whereabouts were betrayed to the Gestapo, they and another family lived cloistered in the “Secret Annexe” of an old office building.

There will never be a more moving testament to the struggles the Jewish people faced during the Nazi occupation. The passion, the small joys, the constant irritation of living in close quarters and coming of age in a horrific situation, this book explores the reality of war from a persecuted young person’s perspective. It’s my hope that everyone will take the time to read this at some point in their life.

The Great Escape

In 1943, the Germans opened Stalag Luft III, a maximum security prisoner-of-war camp designed to hold even the craftiest escape artists. In doing so, however, the Nazis unwittingly assembled the finest escape team in military history, brilliantly portrayed by Steve McQueen, James Garner, Charles Bronson and James Coburn. They worked on what became the largest prison breakout ever attempted.

This is my all-time favourite. It reveals the determination and ingenuity of the Allied prisoners, but doesn’t shy away from their actual fate—some were recaptured and shot. This is no Hogan’s Heroes, but it’s still light enough not to disturb you for days on end. I think that we, kids and adults alike, should be aware of the reality of war, but still come away with some admiration for the heroism.

This a short list, but I think a comprehensive one for a week of remembrance. We have the soldiers, the spies and codemakers, the persecuted and occupied, and the captured. I could list several others, but I selected these because they aren’t designed to make you relive the horrors, only realize them. And I think that’s all we should do in this day and age. To relive is to become traumatized all over again, and I worry that our own traumas are just over the horizon.

Shoot the Writer

What could I possibly mean? Who would want to shoot a writer?

Well, I could think of a few examples, but I’m referring to an experience I had a few years ago, or perhaps it was many years ago, but I won’t let you do the math.

Many years ago, on a planet far far away, or at least I was on an existential plane that was as remote as such a planet (in other words, I was a newbie to the whole author/now-you-must-be-a-speaker way of life), I was invited to do a school visit at a local high school.

Wrestling with my inner demons and some outer ones (yes, you know who you are) I agreed and spent days in preparation, creating a riveting PowerPoint presentation, with the inevitable stick man animations (which I use to this day), flexing my vocal muscles which were rather flaccid and pathetic (and still give me trouble when I spend too many days chatting internally and ignoring the husband and kids), and sifting through my mountain of props—mostly books.

Yes, I was prepared.

Yes, I was terrified.

But I could do this. I’d written the books, now I could talk about them and talk about writing.

I entered the school, a little damp, a little quivery—picture a pale version of Scaredy Squirrel—shook hands with the teacher and followed her dutifully down a kilometre-long hallway and up the stairs to the library, sagging under the weight of my laptop and props. There she smiled and set me up with the computer and projector, and I inserted my disc (stop doing the math) and took a deep breath.

In filed the students, eager, passionate potential writers, and a few students who’d look for any opportunity to skip class. They assembled in front of me and I began.

I explained the exciting process of brainstorming, character development, research—including some examples of volcanology, NASA proposals for a moon base and the mysterious lake with unspecified life beneath Vostok research station in Antarctica. I explained how my science fiction stories were based on hard science, including the bane of my existence—quantum physics—and how essential the Idiot’s Guides were to writing (at least as a baseline). I was passionate, so I don’t imagine they noticed that I was paler than usual or that my voice cracked occasionally. Amazing. They looked . . . interested.

Then it happened. Bells ringing, loudspeakers blaring, students stampeding into the library. A lockdown.

I stopped, of course, as the students were ushered into the back of the room and thrust behind the shelves that blocked them from any view through the glass windows at the front. The doors were subsequently locked.

The teacher then smiled, shushed the students as best she could, and gestured for me to proceed. Are you kidding me? So yes, I continued, but I kept glancing at the doors and began to consider that all the students and staff were handily protected from potential gunshots, but I was chatting away in full view of any shooter who might decide to wander our way.

Might as well put out a welcome mat: shoot the writer. Or, at least, shoot the writer first.

I wasn’t shot. The shooters or whatever they were never even made it into the school. And nervous Nelly finished her speech in front of a hundred students instead of thirty, despite constant interruptions over the loudspeaker. But it always made me wonder.

Why did they not think to move me? Is it because writers are dispensable? A novelty, a bauble to place on a tree once a year, but if it shatters, oh well, there will always be others.

Sometimes we’re subjected to acid reviews when we strike the wrong chord, and once again it’s time to shoot the writer, in a little less dramatic fashion. Often people forget that there’s a human being behind that book they’ve trashed.

If you prick us, do we not bleed?

If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison

us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not

revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will

resemble you in that.

That Shakespeare Guy

I know the staff at this school made no conscious effort to put me in the line of fire (and I have no wish for revenge). Protecting the kids was paramount and I understood that. And if one good thing emerged from the experience, I discovered I could speak through anything. They even invited me back this year and I had a wonderful experience.

I just ask that if there is a next time, perhaps they usher me behind a desk too.



The Reluctant Muse and NaNoWriMo

Everyone’s so excited about NaNoWriMo. Are you ready? Gear up and start writing.

Uh huh. Right.

Why am I not excited? Because I know that I will not write a book in a month. I didn’t say I couldn’t. I could. And it would be exciting, full of the energy of slap-dash writing, bursting at the seams with stream-of-consciousness chatter. In other words, it would be atrocious and I’d have to completely re-write it.

I know there’s all kinds of help out there. I read on an agent’s blog about plot formulas and (of course) a great e-book you can buy that will guide you through the process. How wonderful. And your plot will be . . . formulaic.

Almost anyone can write a book in a month. Almost no one can write a “good” book in a month. Ask how many “years” the prize winners took. Plain Kate, one of my all time favourites, took about six years to inject all the nuances of character, to place the perfect word on the page, to refine plot, etc. What about all the preliminary research? What about character development? And pacing?

Do your original words sing off the page, or do they cough and sputter? Do they need a tune-up after writing?

I imagine you might be able to do it, and it might be a brilliant book. I’d have to bow at your feet, because you’re a genius.

I know, I know. Sometimes it’s just a method of forcing that reluctant muse to work. Banishing the procrastinator.

But my muse can’t be forced. It has to be coaxed. My ideas only develop over time and a few sleepless nights, and I know I’m not alone. If I force myself to write on a topic I have no passion for, even for a blog, it needs to be tossed or rewritten. That’s why I’m writing this blog. Because I passionately feel that NaNoWriMo is a waste of time.

Say you have this seed of an idea. Let it grow, nourish it over time with research that will send up more shoots, process it through your creative soul, develop memorable characters who will make that idea flourish, then write and focus on scenes, chapters, expansion. After the approximate time for a full length novel first draft, three or four months minimum, let it sit and stew for another three months. Then look it over, rework, revise, flesh it out or strip it down. Do this again and again until it shines from the inside out.

Or flush it out of your system in a month. You can do it. But you might just want to keep on flushing.

Standing OUT in the Crowd

You’re a small voice in a stadium full of people, screaming to be heard. Screaming doesn’t work, because everybody is screaming.

Buy my book, look at my product, pay attention to me!

If you get in my face, to deliver your message, I will turn away. It’s annoying. And the screaming is like the constant drone of machinery, chipping away at my cochlea, numbing me to any message you might deliver.

If you have something meaningful to say, through your book, or you have a quality product to sell, I first have to trust you. If you can build a relationship with me, give me something of value first, or talk quietly, but with substance, I will look your way. And if you show me you’re a real human being, I’ll like you even more.

I recently joined a writing community of teens and teen writers, because I’ve written a teen book and I would like opinions from readers and writers of the same genre. It’s a critiquing community of which there are thousands of members. How do you get a reciprocal trade of opinions when there is so much choice? I noticed that one of the “Top Critics” has flitted around from manuscript to manuscript, giving each a cursory glance—one chapter—writing a critique and getting points for evaluation. She’s spread herself thinly through the community and thus gained the top billing. However, I don’t think she’s well liked, because her critiques lack genuine involvement or care in developing these young writers.

Comments like: “She doesn’t really look at the pitches.” Or her own comments: “Thank goodness, an adult to talk to . . .” I won’t continue. Suffice it to say, she writes for teens, but I wonder if she cares for teens.

I know I can’t spread myself so thinly. Nor do I want to. I joined the community, I picked manuscripts that were along the lines with what I write or offered my advice when requested. I became deeply involved with three manuscripts because that’s all I’m capable of managing at one time, and I’d rather go deep than wide. I like to make connections with readers, with children, with teens—that’s why I write for them. But I know a surface connection in a critiquing capacity is useless to me and to the teen writer.

The same goes for Twitter. You can’t bond with 14,000,000 people. You can only talk at them. But if I connect with a few people deeply, and I like what they have to say, then I’ll probably like what they have to sell—at least I’ll have a look at it. And I’m sure they’ll do the same for me.

An iron link between two people is stronger than a thousand tiny threads.