Don't start your story with the weather. But this isn't a story and sometimes the weather get things started. I don't know why.

This morning I looked out the window at the low ceiling of clouds. Dark and tender, a sky full of contusions. Light rain grew heavy as I poured my coffee and stared at the battered funeral program on my fridge front.

You would have been a year old today. Except that's not quite right. Not quite true. I knew you'd never be a year old. I knew, even before I held you, taped into my arms with all your tubes and lines and other rigging safely secured over my shoulder. I knew. Maybe you were too awesome for this world, too special, too pure. Maybe. Definitely, you were too sick. 

It might be harder if I'd ever imagined you toddling after your big brother, or crowding around the iPad with my kids watching Minecraft videos. But I didn't, and you didn't, and it's still hard enough. You changed our family, kiddo. Made us stronger, sadder, closer, and more grateful.

This morning I sipped my coffee and thumbed out a text to your dad (my brother) and your Granny (my mom). Thinking of you... Because what else do you say? I walked out the door without an umbrella. My mascara was already ruined, and I wanted to feel the rain.

Happy birthday, Ben. I'm thinking of you.

The above title is actually a comment I left on a writer friend's post after she declined an opportunity because the organizers would not pay an honorarium for her contribution to their event. The implication being that exposure is compensation enough.

As writers, we'd love to be paid for our work, but ultimately we want our stuff out there. Too often this means giving our words away. For some it's a matter of wanting to build up a CV, for others it's frustration over fierce competition within the shrinking pool of semi-pro and pro paying markets. It's all perfectly understandable, but let's be honest. Exposure is not payment, my friends.


I have a giggle-snort when markets list EXPOSURE!!! as their dazzling form of compensation. As if exposure will fill your bowl with Kraft Dinner. The last time I went to the supermarket and tried to pay for my groceries with exposure they asked me very nicely to put my tits back in my shirt. So trust me guys, the only thing you can buy with exposure is your name on a list.


Teachers, plumbers, and helicopter pilots are not expected to work for free. The work of creatives is no less valuable. Don't give yourself away. If they are words worth writing, if it's art worth creating, then anyone who wants to publish it owes you more than EXPOSURE!!! and a pdf contributor's copy.


S.

By which I don't mean that I never watch, only that I often forget about it as an entertainment option. I have a TV. Hell, I've got three of them. Sometimes I watch stuff on my three televisions. I like The Mindy Project (sniff, cancelled), Nashville (I want to nest in Connie Britton's hair), Vampire Diaries (what, you don't think I want to stop?), and I will devour absolutely anything with Eva Green. As you can see, I'm no snob, I veg out with the best of them...when I remember that I can. When I'm not running, or pooped from running, or writing, or reading, or interneting. The kids also hog the tv a lot, what with their Spongebobs, Ultimate Spidermans, and Diamond Minecart videos.


My sporadic viewing habits mean I'm about two years behind on everything. It's cool though. By the time I catch up on Game of Thrones, I will have forgotten about the spoilers I stumbled on today.


I also like to watch a lot at once, plough through a whole season in a weekend. Netflix seems to take a dim view of this practice (ARE YOU STILL WATCHING?), but I'm not sure I would have enjoyed Breaking Bad as much if I'd had to wait a week between episodes.

Sometimes the binge watching experience works against me and I'll end up liking a show less. I'll watch a whole pile of Walking Dead and it will become remarkably apparent how uneven the quality of the writing is and then I'll be shocked to learn that while I'm two years behind, this more often than not boring show is still on and the ratings are higher than ever. I'm sorry, but as much as I love Carol and Darryl, it's not enough. I faced the same tough decision with The Killing. Break ups are hard.

In the last few months I've averaged maybe an hour of tv a week. Now I'm craving it. There are so many great shows out there. I ran a 50km ultra marathon this past Sunday and after all that training and hard work, I plan to spend the upcoming weekend basically couch-locked. I've got Sons of Anarchy, Ray Donovan, Downton Abbey, and I'm open to recommendations.

What were your favourite shows two years ago?


S.

It's been a busy month for many reasons but one of those reasons is a really cool project I've been working on with AWCS and Find It for the Reading Town Canada event happening in Calgary, May 2-9.

One page of my story 'Thank You For Playing' will be displayed at each stop along a self-guided walking tour of Inglewood and Ramsay. Follow the mystery through Calgary's oldest neighbourhood.


Welcome to the neighborhood. I’ve lived here a while. Perhaps you’ve passed my house once or twice, cutting through Ramsay on your way into Stampede Park. Maybe you’ve seen me strolling by in the morning while you sit on the patio at Gravity, drinking espresso and reading the paper. Or it could have been you that I saw, staggering out of the Ironwood at midnight and wandering with your friends down the sidewalk in search of a taxi. You see a lot of pedestrians in this area. And why not? These old streets have stories. They have secrets.

Walk with me, and I’ll tell you mine. 

  
Click the link for more info http://www.finditcalgary.ca/thank-you-for-playing.html

Read on, intrepid explorers!

S.

May 31, 2015. That's the day. The day I will be running a 50km ultra marathon race...for the second time.

I know, I know, I have problems in my brain.

Actually, the reason I am doing this for the second time is because I run with my dad, and have done so for many years. It's a perfect partnership because I'm kind of slow and he's sort of old (notreallysorrydad). Anyway...

We'd run several marathons together, but last year Dad and I signed up for the Calgary Marathon's 50th Anniversary 50km ultra marathon. Training was a disaster. An injury/flu/pneumonia trifecta sidelined me for two months, and by the time I was a functioning human being again, the race was only a few weeks away. To sum up, let me say this...

I should not have been able to finish that race. But I did.

My dad didn't.

He had a cold and a sinus infection. He pushed as hard as he could, but that day he just didn't have it. He had to drop out. I kept going, albeit with a giant crack in my heart. If you're thinking this is an exaggeration, I assure you it's not. When you've dedicated years of your life to your sport, run thousands of miles, lost dozens of toenails, and turned into a total weirdo, guarding your sleep with homicidal zeal, and alienating those dearest to you with incessant wailing over your fucked up IT band...well, you understand how having it all fall apart on race day might destroy you just a bit.

After more than five hours of running, I crossed that finish line. I dimly remember someone throwing a medal over my head and shoving a commemorative beer stein into my hands. I didn't care. I just wanted to find my dad. I shoved my way to the back of the finishing area, through the crush of half-dead runners and wonderful volunteers, and there he was, like I knew he would be. I fell into his arms and lost it. I mean there's the ugly cry, and then there's the UGLY CRY. A few hours later I drank gin out of my stein.


Nearly a year later, Dad and I are gearing up to try again. My IT band is acting up a little, but I've got a good feeling about this race. Nothing left to do but run.


S.

I didn't sell a single story in 2014. It wasn't for lack of trying, in fact the number of rejections I piled up would indicate that I tried rather hard. But this isn't about bitterness or my basement full of empties. It's about the different ways writers can be rejected and how it might be funny to talk about types of rejection. After some time spent sorting through memory and email, I came up with five. Check it out.


The P.F.O.

This is your standard boiler plate. A form email thanking you for your submission, announcing that they've decided to pass, and wishing you luck placing the piece elsewhere. The P.F.O. is professional, timely, and easily shrugged off. The majority of rejections will come in the form of a P.F.O.

The Boomerang

The rejection you get two hours, or twenty minutes, after submitting. It's good because you don't have a chance to get anxious and eat a pack of Twizzlers. It's bad because you know they didn't read your entire story, and since no one expects a rejection that soon, it probably hit you in the ear.

The Not So Golden Silence

... *twiddles thumbs*...

The Skin Thickener, aka Rejectasaurus Rex

Sometimes an editor loathes your story so, so much that they take many minutes out of their slush filled day to compose a withering email denouncing your narrative voice, your characterization, your pacing, and your geology (true story, this dude really didn't like shale). At best you feel like a hack, and at worst you're left questioning several life choices that aren't even writing related. The maddening part is that at least some of the criticism, while harsh, usually has merit and once you finish licking your wounds* you will use it to improve your piece.
* Coping pro tip:  Twizzlers are paired remarkably well with a 12 year-old Balvenie single malt.

The Tailwind

The best rejection you can get. Most editors are overburdened with reading, so it means something when they take the time to reject in a personal and positive way. They'll tell you they loved your characters even if the story isn't right for them, or that the language is beautiful but it's slow to develop. These are the unexpected but welcome writerly hugs that encourage us to keep going. These editors also tend to be the kind who are fantastic to work with if they do accept your work.


So, my fellow rejects, there you have it. If you've experienced a form of rejection I haven't discussed, I invite you to share in the comments. Meanwhile, I'm off to the bottle depot.

S.

When my sibs and I were young, my mom would get it in her head every few years to celebrate one of the lesser holidays like Valentine's Day, or in this case, St. Patrick's. And when I say celebrate, I mean use a terrifying amount of food dye to paint our supper the shade of the Emerald Isle.

That night she prepared meatloaf, boiled potatoes, peas, and 'gravy' made from that great Lutheran binder, condensed cream of mushroom soup. A fully delicious meal, and one which anybody who grew up in a large/religious family is likely familiar. Now view that starchy economical feast through a shamrock green lens.

The peas were fine, being untampered with. The potatoes? Well, the dye wasn't distributed uniformly so our spuds appeared to be afflicted with blight of some kind. The meatloaf was the worst, appearing for all the world to be the ground remains of Oscar the Grouch. It tasted good but looked like hell. Of course any kid knows what to do in this situation. Smother the offending food item in gravy, right? Wrong. Green mushroom soup...yeah.

If memory serves, we had a splendid time, laughing over our verdant meal, making faces and gagging noises, some theatrical, some not. I think Dad ate a second helping to be supportive, and Mom was a good sport, admitting that it was all sort of nauseating.

I'm tempted to inflict this same experience on my own larvae...


Happy St. Patrick's Day!


S.

I just finished my yoga practice. Normally Mondays are running days, but because a new blizzard seems to be blowing past my window every ten minutes or so, I decided to switch my yoga and running days.

Is this a big deal? To a rational mind, no. But I have, on occasion, been accused of rigidity. That doesn't mean I can't ever switch up my routine, only that I prefer not to. 

Anyway, I made the decision to switch, quelled the resulting low-grade panic with muscle melting yoga, and I feel all right now.

Yoga is good for a 'rigid' person like me. It's something you have to do properly though. Be in the moment, move with the breath, set an intention, honour your body etc. I have a confession. Last Friday I found myself texting in the midst of my practice. When I say 'found myself' what I mean is that I couldn't remember how the phone got into my hand. I was at home so at least I wasn't disrespecting other people, but it seems the phone reach is programmed into my muscle memory. It's kind of appalling. I mean, I make fun of people wearing those silly fucking Fit Bits, but I'm no better. 

Yoga is a good teacher. It's a good reminder. In the last few days yoga brought three important things to my attention.

1. I am more flexible than I think I am
2. I need to make a concerted effort to regularly unplug
3. I am a hypocrite and shouldn't be so judgey regarding Fit Bits

Moving on...

I love noir. I love the hardboiled cheesiness, the grit, the grime, and the dark sexual energy. The first short story I ever wrote was in the noir genre and now I'm working on a novel. It's a crime thriller I started  several years ago and then put away after I shared the first few pages with some writer friends. The reactions weren't exactly positive.

"Were you on crack when you wrote this?"

"That's a whole lotta cussing."

"Your protagonist is a terrible person."

At the time I was a newbie writer and this feedback discouraged me. Years later I understand that noir is like cilantro. You either love it, or it tastes like soap.

So...I'm back to work on a grim story where even the good guys are foul-mouthed reprobates and I'm having so much fun.







 

We need the first to survive the second. Gods, it's an episode of hoarders in here...