The Biblio Files, Part Two: Ex Libris Donna Carrick

All this week at the Den we’ll be exploring our love affair with reading through various contributors. I’ve asked a diverse group of people what their thoughts are on books, and how they’ve inspired us.

Without further ado, I am happy to present author Donna Carrick ...



Why Do I Love (Reading and Writing) Books?
by Donna Carrick

Whew – this is a loaded question!

When Twitter pal and fellow book-lover David Hunter (known to his friends as @TheWritersDen) asked me to participate in this week’s discussion, I jumped at the chance. After all, I’m a bibliophile, right? Surely, with the exception of family, there can be no greater love than the one I feel for the stories I harbour in my memory.

Then I re-read David’s request. Took a second look, so to speak. Realised the crux of the question was not ‘whether’, ‘how’ or ‘how much’ I love books, but WHY I love them. Oooh – that’s a tough one…

Books have always played a central role in my life. I’ve never considered existing without them. The thought is terrifying. From the moment I learned to read, I’ve always had a book in my hand, purse, or on my nightstand. I don’t know what it’s like not to be part way through a book, with another waiting to be read.

On top of that, I’ve published three mysteries and I’m married to a writer! (Insurance, perhaps, against the fear of having nothing to read?)

My parents were not big readers. My father grew up during the Great Depression and was lucky to have achieved a grade eight education. My mother surpassed him with her grade eleven, but was forced to leave high school prior to graduation to care for her mother.

They could both read quite well, but I don’t recall ever seeing them do so for pleasure. Their primary printed resource was the T. Eaton’s Catalogue, hardly the literary playground of princely imaginations.

After their deaths I discovered boxes filled with reams of curled up pages wrapped lovingly in satin ribbons – letters from my father to my mother written in the early days of their relationship. Thousands of pages, composed by a young man separated from his sweetheart, an expression of his yearning and isolation, crafted in places as lonesome and unreachable as Moisie, Quebec and Cold Lake, Alberta.

As a child I read constantly. Even now, if I listen closely, I can hear my mother calling, “Get your nose out of that book, Donna, and come to dinner!”

Why the intense passion for writing? Was it merely an extension of my love for reading? Or was it some innate driving force passed down by my father?

I wasn’t aware of it then, but my love for books was a clichéd desire for escape. My family was not a happy one. There are parts of my childhood that I still find impossible to speak about. Books carried me away to other lands, to other families, to times of nobility and beauty and grace. Times of heroism and even of simple respect.

That explains my love of reading. I can still recall the power those words lent to a frightened child – still hear the rush of freedom in my ears as I was transported by those stories.

I suppose I write the stories I used to read, the stories that explain who I am, why I am and what is to become of me. Of course, I do so through the convenient vehicle we call characters – each one possessing his share of nobility and his own tenuous understanding of the human condition.

In the end, for me at least, the reasons I write are quite separate from my love for reading. I read for the thrill of escape, to be swept away from the everyday routines into the greater landscape of ‘imagination’.

When I write, though, I am often keenly aware of the lost child within. I become someone else, someone with greater courage and the will to battle the wrongs of this world.

I write, quite simply, to say the things I cannot say aloud.



Donna Carrick is the author of three literary mysteries: The First Excellence, Gold And Fishes and The Noon God. Donna's books are available through Amazon.com or at her Website: www.donnacarrick.com .

You can Tweet with Donna @Donna_Carrick or join me on FaceBook.

Donna Carrick
www.donnacarrick.com

The Biblio Files: Part One

Ex Libris: A Bookish Love Affair
All this week at the Den we’ll be exploring our love affair with reading through various contributors. I’ve asked a diverse group of people what their thoughts are on books, why they mean so much, and how they’ve inspired us.
A Boy and his Book
by David Hunter

A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it ~ Edward P. Morgan
When I was 12 my mother took us to a Shelter for Abused Women. My father, a violent alcoholic, had finally forced her to leave after coming home drunk and destroying the house in a blind rage. And by forced, I mean literally fleeing out the door at 3 am on a cold October night, two children in hand, nowhere to go.

The shelter was a warm and safe haven. We arrived in the rain soaking wet at the front door and they took us in and fed us. While my mother talked to the counselors, they gave me and my little sister a room and we fell asleep. I was 12, and scared; we had left everything behind; toys, friends, books; our whole life.

I wasn’t a big reader of novels as a kid; I read the usual stuff -- Spider-man and Archie comics -- I read a lot of Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume too, Including a very racy copy of Wifey that my mom had left lying around (The image of Frank the Plumber doing the nasty with Wifey still haunts my memories) but there in the confines of the Shelter was a large reading room, complete with about 4 million books. It was warm there, even though you could see the cold autumn day through the large bay widow. I spent hours wandering through those books – there were so many. I finally picked up this one book that had an illustrated cover of an explosion – It was called The Monkey Wrench Gang, by some guy named Edward Abbey.

This book was a revelation for me!

It had curse words!

I must admit, I didn’t understand the sub-text; it was far too dense and mature for my age level. Plus, one of the counselors kept taking it away from me. But I kept going back for it. Sometimes I’d sit and stare at that cover, and at that name, Edward Abbey. I’d wonder who he was. I had this impression that he was from England or something; I guess when you’re twelve, logic takes long hikes and forgets to come home. When I finally had access to this thing called Internet, long about 2001, I searched for him, and finally found out who he was. I was more than a little sad to find he had passed away in 1989. It was kind of like a friend had died, without me knowing.

That book had me mesmerized though; I loved the pages, the words, the paragraphs, the peculiar algorithm of the spaces, and I instantly wanted to write a book too. When I spotted the electric Olivetti typewriter in one of the offices I asked if I could use it to write stories. They were very encouraging; they let me sit in there for hours, typing away to my heart’s desire. It was my escape. Something was illuminated when I played with words. And all that other stuff just melted away.

When we left the shelter weeks later, after my Mother had found a place, I liberated that book. I snuck it out with me, inside my jacket.

It wasn’t until High School a few years later that I found it again amongst all my things, and I read it for the first time, REALLY read it; I was slightly more literate and able to understand it. This time there was no mistaking the sub-text; Phrases jumped out at me, ideas, inspirations. This book made me want to write. And every time I read it, I get the same tingling sensation; the need to grab a pen and start scribbling.

Edward Abbey may not have written a great classic, but for me, it saved my immortal soul. Probably too dramatic, and I wish I were talking about something with a little more Americana to it, like The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn or The Grapes of Wrath, but this is my story Jack, and I’m sticking to it.

I’m proud to say I still have this book. Its a little care worn; the cover isn’t doing too well, and page 231 is now a loose leaf. I had to buy a back up copy because it’s now too fragile to carry around with me to the beaches and coffee shops I frequently haunt (okay, I have TWO back-up copies!) It’s sitting beside me right now as I write this, like an old friend seeing me through the recollections, keeping me company. Our 30 year friendship continues.

The crux of this post is, why do we love books?

Stephen King says he reads to study the craft, but he also reads because he enjoys reading.

Me? I can only answer as a writer; my desire to create my own worlds and characters is overwhelming, and I take pleasure in the works of others, a kind of voyeuristic pleasure. I like to see what other writers are up to, and when I find those rare sorts of books that resonate with me, they make me want to create. But if I were to answer as a plain old reader, the answer would be simple; sometimes I just want to be whisked away, to go gallivanting through the pages of history with the many characters that I’ve come to love and admire. I read because writing is hard enough without that back-knowledge of literature; Huck Finn, Jay Gatsby, Holden Caulfield, The Joads – all have been goods friends to me, gotten me through some tough times.

They all stand at my back as I write for the future.





I am enormously grateful to have a wonderful line-up of guests at the Den this week. Today I’m happy to present Joseph Lane’s ruminations on his love of books, and what they mean to him. Hope you enjoy! I know I did.



Isaac Asimov and Beyond
by Joseph Lane

'Happiness is doing it rotten your own way.' ~ Isaac Asimov



I wasn't always a bibliophile. When I was in high school I rarely read the literature the English teacher assigned. It seemed like work. I hated the idea that I was expected to consume something that I didn't yet yearn for. That, and well, I was lazy. I had a knack for writing essays high on bullshit and light on content. I still have that skill, hell it's become my life's work... but where was I? Oh yes, books. I didn't become an avid reader until the summer after I graduated from high school. I was a late bloomer. My English teachers weren't to blame. They exposed me to 1984, Animal Farm, Lord of the Flies, The Old Man and The Sea, lots of Shakespeare. I was not spared the opportunity, I just hadn't found the intellectual drive to read yet.

The summer after my graduation I got a job working with a nonprofit arts organization. They operated in the basement of a small defunct church. The job had me doing a lot of office administration stuff. There was photocopying, stamp licking, letter mailing; I once had to book plane tickets and accommodations for Farley Mowat. Fun. I spent most of my time, however, reading sci-fi and organizing used books which we sold out of the basement. My love for books grew, I believe, because I was surrounded by them. I can still smell those musty old books. There were boxes and boxes of them. I bet I touched and thumbed through each and every one of them, even the Reader's Digest Condensed Books, The Harlequin Romances, and the Louis L'Amours, all of which seemed to be in infinite supply.

I was hooked on sci-fi at first. I read every little bit I could find. I found sci-fi easy to read, I could go through a book every day or so. Along the way I bumped into Vonnegut, who at my tender age of 18, seemed to me to be egomaniacal and prickish. Hey, I was young, we all go through stages. Isaac Asimov was my favorite. My father was also a fan. I recognized his name from books that were found in the bathrooms and on bookshelves of my youth.

I quickly outgrew sci-fi: by midsummer I had moved on to physics, spirituality, and comparative religion. Big jump? Nah, they are not all that different in theme or content than sci-fi. They were all chasing the same ghost. I found Buddhism, I found Ginsberg. I read Howl, the gateway to the Beats. Ginsberg lead to Kerouac, Kerouac to Burroughs, Burroughs to Kesey, Kesey to Hesse, Hesse to Dostoevsky, Dostoevsky to Camus, etc, etc. Hunter S. Thompson arrived as if through osmosis. Vonnegut was rediscovered.

The purist in me would love to proclaim that I became the reader and the writer I am now because of an early run with Holden Caulfield, or perhaps the tragic story of Piggy and his broken glasses, but that would be a lie. My love of books started with Isaac Asimov. It quickly grew from there, but it was his stories, and those of his 50¢ a paperback colleagues, that gave me the itch. I have been scratching myself raw ever since. Thank you Mr. Asimov.

My First Year on Twitter - Confessions of a Crazy Writer

@TheWritersDen ~ Writers, need a place to share inspiration, info and tips? Come join @TheWritersDen, the more the merrier 7:07 PM May 31st, 2009 via web


That was my first innocuous Tweet.

May 31st, 2009. One year, 13,711 Tweets.

I’ve picked fights with PETA, talked to Tony Robbins, and been constantly ignored by Alyssa Milano.

I’ve been followed, un-followed, cursed at, ignored, praised, loved, hated; the whole nine yards.

But what has Twitter meant to me?

I started out on Twitter as a lark. I had this vague notion that I’d meet some writers and share information; tips on writing, things like that, and that would be it. It took me a month to figure out how to reply to people, and switching between my Profile, Home and Mention page was a minor catastrophe. And who were all those people following me? Or was I following them?

I sometimes got rambunctious. I tweeted too much. I think I lost 50 followers one day. And I learned that people can get touchy if you behave like an ass.

In all, Tweeting is not the simple thing people make it out to be; there’s nuances, rhythms, beats. There’s a way to do it. Just don’t ask me how! I’d never be able to articulate it.

I’ve met so many wonderful people; editors, writers, artists, sheep herders, degenerates, nut jobs, bad spellers, geniuses, losers, goofballs and a crazy contingent of Aussies and Brits; I truly have loved you all. Even the one's who've gone to oblivion. Some have even passed away. Also, For those of you that don’t know, I fashion my twitter feed for a very eclectic mix. I mean, writers are crazy and they entertain me endlessly with the nutty stuff they come up with, but I also have a few celebs (shame, I know) and the odd person outside the literary circle. Mostly it's a crazy stewpot of characters. Also, I’ve had followers who’ve had no discernible motive for being on Twitter; then out of the blue I’d get a message from them saying that I’ve motivated them to start writing again after giving it up.

I find that very inspirational, and I feel honored by that.

I never thought I would have as many followers as I do. More impressive: I have some of the best followers on Twitter. Most of my originals are still hanging around. They Tweet less than they did a year ago, but as they say, life gets in the way. I know the feeling. I once had a love affair of sorts with one of my Twitter people, and it didn’t end well (maybe it did; we’re still great friends) and I had to take a break from it all. It’s funny, I’ve been accused of taking Twitter so seriously, but in the final analysis we’re still dealing with human beings, emotions, feelings. Yes Tweets are only text messages flashed across my Stream, but those words come from real people. If you’re asking me to be cold and unemotional about it, forget it. I love people, it’s just my way. I don’t care if I’m face to face with them, or just messaging them from 3000 miles away. That’s just how I roll, to paraphrase the hip-hopsters.

Our Twitter has been equated to a giant online cocktail party. The writers, our little island on the net, are probably the most ideal people for this type of medium: we yap a lot, have our heads full of useless information, and we can talk ad nauseum about our craft. The hard part is keeping it at 140 characters. This is something that is antithetical to writers! Which brings me to the quotes…

Yes, I post a lot of quotes. In the beginning I followed a few people whose tweet stream was based on posting quotes on various subjects. Then they started getting repetitive, and I mean re-posting the same shit over and over. Naturally I un-followed after a while (Something I don’t normally do. You have to be really nasty for me to un-follow, and even then you’d probably un-follow me first) I started posting quotes on writing, among others. I suppose I’ve gotten a reputation for it. Here’s a secret: I have thousand of quotes about literature, from movies, television, any unlikely source, all on a word doc ready to Tweet at a moments notice. I really put my heart in to it. Someone pointed out that I was using quotes as a proxy for my inner feelings. So If I was feeling sad, I’d post something sad. Happy? I’d post something happy. I was doing it unconsciously. I tend to run on intuition.

So now, after a year, I continue to reinvent myself. Twitter, according to stats, is mostly a broadcast medium (I disagree) where the majority of people tend to just tweet without interaction. I find that limits the potential of such a wonderful social tool. I know intuitively that people are social animals – and if you reach out to them they’ll respond. And I have met some wonderful people. Maybe it’s my goofy nature that disarms them.

So what does it all mean?

This may sound dramatic, but Twitter has changed my life. As a writer it has become a daily need. If I need a beta reader, someone’s there for me; someone to read my blog post? Someone to talk to when I’m feeling blue, and my writing is sucking bigger then a vintage Hoover vacuum? Someone’s there for me. And for a writer, that’s the most important thing; that instant interaction, that instant gratification! I’m in a happy place now where I’m more motivated than ever to write because I know that there’s always someone willing to read my stuff. Without Twitter I was kind of lost. I don’t know about you, but I don’t meet writers going to the grocery store, or bump into them in the men’s room very often. You meet them on Twitter. You get to know them. You become friends. And it’s been one of the best experiences of my life.

Here’s to another year of fun and writing. Huzzah!


Related Madness: Tweeversary Reflections: Celebrating One Year on Twitter http://bit.ly/9lrfnK (via @addthis) by my Good Friend @ggSpirit

Also, if you're so inclined, I have archived all my tweets since January (the rest are in oblivion) on my site Project Hunter

Addendum: This post was inspired by @ggSpirit, who, amazingly, started on Twitter the same day I did. I recommend her post above; her thoughts on a year of Tweeting.

You Might be Addicted to Writing if ….

…You find typos in newspapers, books, magazine articles, bus stop advertisements, hell anywhere at all, and they send you into cataclysmic, apoplectic and phonetic swoons.

…You look around nervously because you can’t resist sticking your nose into a book because you like the smell of new ink and musty old tomes.

…When people are telling you tales of woe, confiding in you about what a hell their life is, and you’re not really listening; you’re trying to figure out a way to use it in a story without any litigious ramifications.

…You have a pen collection the size of the national debt, and you never use them.

…Libraries and book stores turn you into a drooling zombie-like creature oblivious to man or beast, and only a slap upside the head will awaken you from this trance.

…You flip through empty notebooks in stationary stores for no good reason.

…Everything’s a story.

…Thoughts fly! Ideas sear your brain! You search madly for a pen and a scrap of paper to jot this masterpiece down! (You can only find a bus transfer, but use it anyway)

…You stare at your page, write a sentence, scrutinize it, and then go for some ice cream.

…Your idea of fun is spending a sunny afternoon with your nose in a copy of Catch 22, under an Elm, or buried in your dimly lit room with the 40 watt bulb giggling to yourself.

…You find yourself sneering at friends who’ve never heard of Proust or Moliere.

…Your friends say things like “Cumulous Nimbi? You mean clouds, right?”

…You correct not only your friend’s grammar, but the guy on CNN who just mispronounced Uzbekistan and Eyjafjallajökull.

…You can’t help but take those interesting looking pens lying around on people’s desks at work.

…Your idea of light reading is a Webster’s Dictionary, and sometimes the phone book.

…When oddly enough, no one without a College degree in ancient English knows what the hell you’re talking about.

…You gotta buy that old No. 2 Underwood which has no ribbon, no hope of ever working, but would look great in your study.

…You love the smell of fresh newspaper ink in the morning.

Do you have any crazy writer habits and peccadilloes you'd like to share? Leave a comment, and I'll get back to you!

Related Madness: @ZiggyKinsella ~ The 9 unsavory character traits of real authors - match them to yours http://fecklessgoblin.blogspot.com/

Le Friday Funny

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer

A writer and nothing else; alone in a room with the English language, trying to get human feelings right. ~ John K. Hutchens

Recently it occurred to me that I’d been neglecting my blog, letting it get moldy, cobwebs in the corners. It’s not that I don’t love this space, I do. And I love that people want to read my words, things I write and think about. The ability to write, it’s a gift; but it gets lonely. When we stare into that blank abyss and the cursor demands action, there are no proxies, it’s only us and our thoughts. How lonely is that?

This is the profession we’ve chosen; to write, and to create. Sometimes it’s a burden, sometimes we just don’t feel like it, sometimes we’re out of sync with those creative synapses, sometimes we feel pressured (and like a child who is told to do something, we balk) and sometimes we plain don’t give a shit. It’s just writing, who cares? I can wait another day or three to start that chapter or novel or whatever. I think sometimes we forget that time is finite. It takes time to write a novel, years even, so wouldn’t it be prudent to get the old ass in gear as soon as possible? So why don’t we feel the fire as often as we should? I’ve talked to dozens of writers who really got a flame lit under their butts and manage to produce astonishing word counts daily, and sometimes I feel shame when I realize what an amazing opportunity I have in this era of 24/7 internet blogging traffic – where I can reach hundreds or thousands of people with one tweet or update; Instant feedback and gratification not afforded a Hemingway or a Steinbeck. And yet we squander it as though it were an infinite resource, like drops of water in the ocean.

The reason for this line of thought is partly because a writer-friend of mine named Wendy (AKA @quillfeather on Twitter) playfully asked me why I was mucking about on twitter and not working on something, like my book, or updating my blog, or something. And another part of it is Donnell Epperson, a follower of mine on Twitter. You see, she wanted to be a writer, really worked at it, even when she was having chemotherapy treatment for her cancer. She was blogging, writing, using her gift, because she realized that if you want to be a writer, you have to write, even if you have the big C, even when time is of the essence. Even when you suspect you may never live long enough to finish. Sadly, she disappeared from Twitter sometime last November, and I found out through a third party that she had passed away in February.

Now and then I sit and stare at her blog, how every day it gets older, like a yellowing newspaper, knowing it will never be updated. Knowing that I’m alive and kicking and that I waste time like it’s meaningless. There’s still blood coursing through these veins; my eyes still see, my mind still thinks, and conjures; images and stories and endless varieties of characters. I am able-bodied, and isn’t it a shame? Poor Donnell, who was fighting the good fight, and lost, was taking up her precious time to work on a book. It shouldn’t come to that, but sometimes it’s the kick in the ass we need. If Donnell left us nothing else but this lesson, we should thank her.

Yeah, writing is a lonely business. It’s just us and the page, hand to brain combat. There’s no one else to turn to; no one’s gonna write the stuff for us; it’s our story, our characters. And time, that fleeting flittering finite bitch, feel it bite your backside. It’s tough, but it’s the business we’ve chosen. If nothing else, do it because you can.

~ David Hunter

~ This post is dedicated to Donnell Epperson AKA ~ @donnellepperson

Wednesday Funny

Courtesy of Johnny Ancich from his blog Past Expiry

The Write Space

Note: That is NOT my writing space. Just thought I'd put that out there ------->


When I moved into this charming little apartment in the heart of Toronto, I had visions of a great literary outburst; after all, the streets here are filled with artists, writers, college kids, artsy types – a real SoHo/Village kinda place. I can see downtown Toronto from the eight floor of my balcony, which is large and spacious and is shady in the afternoons, and where I expect to spend the long summer days writing. It’s nice, I must tell you, very writerly.

How important is a writing space?

For most of the winter months I had a small desk tucked away in one corner of the apartment; it was cozy, and I was very productive there, but you know how artists are - never satisfied. I thought I would move over near the large window where the sun would shine through in the mornings. It LOOKED nice, at least. It turned out to be a mistake. Writing became a rather laborious affair, and I wish I could tell you why. It was probably the television always distracting me, or the dearth of sensory input – too much to look at! Whenever my mind would go blank and that empty page stared back at me I’d naturally avert my eyes; I’d see the TV, maybe turn it on. I’d see the kitchen; start getting the tummy-grumbles. Not good! Once the ass is off the seat, problems arise.

A writing space may be more about the meta-physical then the actual physical though; if you find a good productive spot, lord, don’t change it unless you have to! This particular spot did me no good; I went more than a month without any significant writing progress – it was time to move. Anything to get me writing again! Even if it meant eliminating that toxic writing environment; Dante’s, or David’s, eighth circle of bad writing spaces had to go.

It is interesting how and where famous authors managed to write. Stephen King wrote in the basement of his rented place, beside a boiler. Lord knows how he managed that. John Cheever used to put on his only suit to go to his studio to write, and then he’d promptly take it off and write in his underwear. Ernest Hemingway, while living in Key West, would awake at dawn and walk to his pool house where he kept to a strict writing regimen; 500 words a day, sitting at an old wooden desk, and in the afternoon he’d set off to Sloppy Joe’s Bar to meet his friends. Stan Lee, famed Marvel Comics founder and creator of Spider-Man, would place his typewriter on top of a high table near his pool and type standing up. Whatever works, right? Chuck Jones, while not technically a “writer”, had a workspace kinda like mine; jammed into a corner, packed with books and shelves and pens. Pens, although no longer used in the “composition” phase for me, are still a vital optic; they look rather cool sitting in bunches on top of my desk. Old habits.


I finally tired of sitting near the window; the spot was just not working for me. I promptly took my little desk and brought it into my bedroom beside my bookshelf. It felt right, mostly because I’m slightly isolated from the rest of the apartment. Is isolation the key? I guess it works for me. I suppose it worked for Edward Abbey too, that desert anarchist and brilliant writer that I love so much.

As I’m fond of re-telling, Edward Abbey was a Fire-Look out at Numa Ridge for years, isolated for months at a time (occasionally he’d sneak his wife up there with him..) and in the absence of a telephone, or internet (hadn’t been invented yet, and I’m sure Edward had no inkling of this technology way back in 1975) and yet, sitting isolated with his Underwood typewriter, he’d pound out his work. I guess he had no choice; we writers often have no choice. I’m sure he had a writing space somewhere, one that he called his own in a place he occasionally called Wolfe Hole Arizona, but from what I gathered he wrote in Bars a lot (Especially Nelson’s Marine Bar in Hoboken, although that may have been in jest) and since he was a writer of the mostly “Nature” and “Outdoors” variety, I gather he wrote in the great outdoors a lot, in tents late at night, or under the stars sitting by a river, that sort of thing.

I’ve tried the “wandering writer” bit; coffee shops, libraries, parks; it all sounds very bohemian and very artsy, but here’s the trouble; I’m a natural observer. If there’s motion and activity anywhere, I get distracted. I’m not one of those people who can easily zone out in public; I guess it’s the old gun-fighter in me; I always sit with my back to the wall so I can see everything. It is part of the writer mythos to want to carry around a note book and a pen and be able to write anywhere at any time, but the reality is, most of the time, I can’t do it! I have to be crammed into my cozy little nook, with my books and references and pens close at hand. Truth be told, I’d be lost without my laptop and all my papers. I’ve become a slave to my writing space. It’s my “office” and my “secret place”, and here, I’m in control, even if sometimes it seems I’m out of control. Take me away from it, and I’m dead in the water.

Given the circumstances though, I could probably manage to write whilst being isolated for months atop a fire-lookout. But if my penchant for Internet and Microsoft Word is any indication, it would be tough. I needs my technology! I’m plugged in; can’t help it. I’d need to unplug and de-compress for a long while if I were to ever be a wandering writer and sit at a park bench beside a homeless guy and scribble sweet somethings.


So here I am, sitting in my new writing space, happy as a clam. And as I said, I haven’t yet figured out why this space works better than the other, but it may be more meta-physical then physical; the spot just feels right, the writing spirits, and yes, the writing aura, are optimal here. Sure I’m crammed in; I’m surrounded by book shelves, and I have my art desk just beside me, almost bumping my elbows. The radio is tuned to a jazz station. It’s nice. The dreaded brain-eating TV is off, and will stay off as long as I’m in here writing. Which could be a while, ‘cause I like it in here.

-David Hunter – Keep scribbling!

Related Posts:

Out Of Office: More Writing Space Debate by Mina Zaher at Journey of a Screenwriter

Write Now...a Mother's Musings: Space of my Own

Addendum:
I’d be interested to know what your writing space looks like, and did you ever have a bad writing space? If so, why? ; leave a comment and let me know.


Edward Abbey pecking away at his typewriter atop the Numa Ridge Fire-Lookout, circa 1975

Op-Ed in the Head: The Dark Side of Blogging ...

"Blogging is a necessary evil..."

























Lately I have been experiencing a catharsis (Which, according to psychoanalysis, pertains to the purging of the body by the use of a cathartic to stimulate evacuation of the bowels, which is not the catharsis I am speaking of), more accurately, it's the purging of emotional tensions; or still more accurately, a purifying or figurative cleansing of the emotions, especially pity and fear, described by Aristotle as an effect of tragic drama on its audience. I don't know what Aristotle was on about, but pity and fear have been dogging me the past few months like June bugs on a porch light; it's the book I fear won't get written, and the pity I feel about it. I've narrowed the problem down some: too much concentration focused on blogging, and not enough on the book.

I've been long neglecting the prose writing process, and haven't been giving it it's proper respect. Writing is a profession, a job, an art form, and that has to be respected, and that means putting in the time and work to get the words down, and to get things finished. I'm afraid I stretched myself a little thin by blogging too much, a sentiment that is rapidly going viral among the many writers I know.

Blogging is still a vital tool; it limbers up the mind, the fingers, the imagination and the creativity, but I've encountered "Prose Re-Lapse", the switching of gears between Op-Ed writing, which is in essence "free-style" composition, and "Prose" writing. As anyone knows, writing a blog post is relatively easy, you pick a topic and riff on it, like throwing your fate to the wind.

Try that with a novel! Unless you're Jack Kerouac, that's not happening.

There are indeed two sides to the writing brain; the journalistic side, and the authorial side, and never the twain shall meet. Writing a novel requires a different level of discipline; characters must be fleshed out, story arcs developed; prose must be considerably less journalistic and clipped. In other words, it takes practice, and the whole time you're blogging you are practicing the wrong thing.

I've found it to be a difficult transition, but maybe that's just me.

Some of you may find the swing between blogging and prose writing easy. Just don't fall into the trap; after blogging for a while you may feel that writing a book is just as easy; it's not.

There is also a time factor involved; while I love blogging, I should be writing chapters for my book instead, and blogging too much just stops that flow. Ultimately, finishing the book will benefit me more in the long run. Priorities.

Blogging is a necessary evil; it's still an integral part of a writer's skill-set. It should not be abolished completely. Balance is the key; if you have a good flow of words happening on your manuscript and time isn't an issue, blog till your heart's content. Remember though, the book is the master, it may deliver you from obscurity, from poverty, from a creative abyss, or from having the title "blogger" permanently tattooed on your ass.

That said, I still love my blog. I love all my readers, and I love the interaction with them. I don't plan on abandoning this site anytime soon; it's just a shift in perspective. Please don't think I've become anti-blog or anything!

Addendum:
So, what's new? I have chosen to whittle down the bunch of blogs I have accumulated, and concentrate on the Writer's Den. New features include a poetry page called Den Poetica, where you can find an assortment of poetry (requests are welcome), and a page called "Lit Bits" which features historical bits of info on literature and famous writers. This week spotlights Jack Kerouac, that reluctant Canadian cum Beatnik, and a story about the Poe Toaster, the mysterious person who leaves a bottle of Cognac and a rose on the grave of Edgar Allen Poe every year on the anniversary of his death.

Keep scribbling!

- David Hunter


Related Posts -

The Art of Not Doing: By Jessica Maybury at her wonderful blog Perfect Fourth

The wonderful Samantha Hunter, her blog "Life's a Beach", and her post "The New Acronym: JOTF"

Ten Rules for Writing Fiction

At page two of the Writer's Den I posted this great article, it's stuffed with interesting tips on writing by legendary authors like Elmore Leonard:

Ten Rules for Writing Fiction

Courtesy of The guardian.co.UK




Also, you might want to check out this post:

10 Reasons Why People Aren't Commenting on Your Blog ~ Writing and Illustrating

The Pic as a Prompt

This morning something dramatic happened.

I’d been in the throes of a writer’s block of some kind, although I generally refuse to acknowledge the term “writer’s block”, I can find no other way to describe it except that I’ve been unproductive.

Then the dawn arose.

I took a photo of an imminent sunrise.

This got me thinking about the possibilities of photo-prompts.

Can pictures yield good writing?

I’d never tried it before, or even thought about it. I’m sure someone , somewhere, has thought of this. I suppose it’s natural; a photo is visual, physical, aesthetically stimulating, and any other adjective you can think of. Sometimes we even READ for inspiration. So why not photos?

However, if you follow the Marshall McLuhan school of thought, a photo could be called “Hot Media”…


The hot media are those which have a large influence on humans and their sense perception. According to McLuhan, these media even possess a "destructive strength". The pioneer of the media ranks writing, the phonetic alphabet, the book, the photograph and also the radio among this kind of medium. These objects of communication place much data and detailed information at the users disposal, which mainly concentrate on one sense of the recipient.

It is affected by this, but remains rather passive in the behavior. The cold media have a small influential strength on humans. The reason for this is that they offer little details and information, and are not optically delightful for humans.

After watching television my brain turns to mush: too much thinking is done for me, and when it gets time to start creating in that highly cognitive endeavor called writing I find the functions are a tad off-center. This is an extreme example of course; and an obvious one; we all know that Television turns our brains to mush. But what about the photograph? Can a photograph have the same effect?

Doubtful.

When we write we are essentially putting into words the pictures in our heads anyway, aren’t we? But have you noticed that after a brisk walk when ideas start floating around in the old transom and creativity starts to peak that you race back home to put these things down and…

That blank page just stares back, doesn’t it?

Stephen King bought a radio station years ago because he loves music, and because he loves radio. He grew up on it, listening to music, and Radio Theater. He attempted to write a play to be performed on air a few years ago, but he found that what he’d written just sounded like people talking. He said that the art of Radio theater relied on creating certain visual cues in people’s heads as a means of communicating, an art form which has since been lost to the advent of Television. We have all become very visual, which does not bode well for writers in particular. We can still get by, for the most part, but have you ever noticed how great the pre-television authors were? The pictures they painted, the images they put in our heads?

But I digress.

Take a camera, go out and take photos. See where it leads you. I just started a photo site called Photo Genesis that I hope will prompt me to write new things, in new ways.

After all, I’ll try anything, if it’s creative!

David Hunter, over and out.

The Photo in Question: Photo Genesis

I’d like to thank Denise Robins AKA @dkrobbins on Twitter for starting the discussion about writing prompts ~ Visit her site, Denise Robbins Blog http://deniserobbins.blogspot.com/

Note: Anyone noticing errors in this post, feel free to let me know! Catch me on Twitter too, and don't hesitate to tell me your thoughts.

The Magic Box

There’s always a lot of talk about writer’s block when the creativity dries up. For me personally, it’s not about creativity, or even subject matter, its “what the hell do I work on?” which can be just as debilitating.

I gotta clarify this, of course; I have millions of ideas, and they all just want my attention. For instance, as of this writing I have about 6 blog post ideas that I’ve wanted to work on, and wouldn’t you know it, this Magic Box post wasn’t of them?

The Magic Box? Yeah, sounds kinda loopy. It’s a small cardboard file box that I found at work. I brought it home and started putting all my notes in it.

What a treasure trove it’s turned into!

At my job, my mind tries to work off the tedium by coming up with cool ideas and characters, scenes, short stories, novel titles, blog posts, and anything that happens to skip through my transom. I don’t carry a Blackberry or anything like that, so I take pieces of paper and fold them up so they fit in my pocket. I write all kinds of things on them, because I know I’ll forget them as soon as humanly possible.

Case in point: A lost novel Idea.

I had this fabulous character; a rich kid who is pulled out of Harvard because his father dies. He has to come home and deal with the family, the funeral, all that. This character is unimpressed by his family’s wealth and the way they put on airs; he’s humble, easy going, rather un-ambitious, except for his love of art and writing, and he’s likable. He’s obviously the black sheep of the family. He decides to take off in his father’s favorite car, to parts unknown, so he can sort things out. I immediately loved this character.

I forgot his name!

And it was integral to the story. His name was great; it instantly conjured up his demeanor and personality. Also, I had a great title for the book, which was part of an old poem I had read. I had quickly jotted it down, and have never seen that bit of paper since.

Soon after, I found this box. The Magic Box.

No, it didn’t have the kids name in it (To my chagrin).

But since then I have made it a habit of dropping all my notes in this box.
It’s a great writing prompt; I just search through the pieces of paper when I’m stuck and voila! If I had something in mind and forgot it, it’s always there in the box. And If I’m feeling “blocked” I just reach inside it and pull out some idea I had jotted down.

Not all ideas are usable, mind you. Some of these things are written at odd hours, or when I’m busy with something else. Some don’t even make sense, and some remain a mystery; I found an entire 800 word blog post on Perez Hilton stuffed at the bottom; I must have been pissed at him for something. Why I wrote it is baffling.
Searching through the Magic Box, I find notes on the Beatles, Generational Differences, Paper Airplanes, something called Edi-Writing, and a few pages of notes about my days as a high school reporter at the old Johnson Journal (which is now prompting me to finish it!)

My point is, Ideas are hard to come by, and when you get them, write them down, throw them in a box (You can name yours Pandora if you like...) unless you have a photographic memory. In the latter case, forget the whole thing! I bet if you wrote down some of the things you think about during the average day you’d never be stuck for ideas. That’s halfway to beating that Basterd Writer’s Block.

This may not work for you. Sometimes it doesn’t work for ME! But we need to keep trying; we need to keep positive.

And a Magic Box is never a bad thing, is it?

David Hunter, over and out.

David Hunter Interviewed

Natasha Hollerup of Twitter fame (@FrayedMuse) interviewed me recently. Check it out at her site, The Melting Pot

Here's to a new year; may all your writing be happy writing.

- David

Letters Home

Huzzah, finally I have internet!

Been in Calgary for a few days now and have gotten online at last. Don’t know what it is with Calgarian Internet service but I wasn’t able to log on until late last night…after countless attempts…

I hate flying.

After eating Christmas dinner with family on Christmas day, my folks drove me to Pearson International for my 8:30 flight. It had started raining; not a good sign when you’re about to take to the skies, or if you’re a bad flyer like me. I kept remembering “Nightmare at 20,000 feet”, that old Twilight Zone episode…

I hate flying, but I hate takeoffs even more. I always feel the plane and its tonnage struggling to get up there. But once we were sky-bound I was fine; it was a smooth flight. My travel buddy, Alex, had his laptop on, watching Curb Your Enthusiasm, and offered to let me partake, but I begged off. I was busy studying every bump and change in the plane’s path. Through the nearest port hole I watched a bright star for a while; its fixed position rising and falling due to the plane’s movements. Half the time the Airbus’s turns would have gone unnoticed if not for that bright star’s vigil and unmoving essence…It made me feel a whole lot better for some reason. I fell asleep watching it.

When I woke up I was startled to see that the star was gone, but the flight attendant had goodies! Ginger Ale, Apple Juice (ugh to apple juice) and assorted free cookies and snacks. Normally my frugal nature (hah!) would demand I take as much free loot as possible, but this time I demurred; one pack of cookies and a Ginger Ale was enough for me.

Oh yeah, the girl.

She was a real Chatty Cathy (a reference so old, it voted for Lincoln) but extremely nice. Alex had chided me about her, telling me to go talk to her, so I did. We talked for hours, it seemed. She was on her way to Vancouver and parts unknown. Nothing like engaging in a conversation with a stranger on a Christmas Day flight…especially a cute one; she was utterly engaging and unfettered, and she had a great laugh; I imagine we entertained some people on board with our lively chatter. Ships in the night, though. We were heading in different paths, but she gave me her number anyway. Ah potential love, it comes in all shapes and sizes, doesn’t it?

Currently I’m looking out the window at a clear blue sky. Deceptive; I know it’s cold enough to freeze my socks off out there. The cat, Jinxie, a stray that my friend Clair brought in from the cold a few days ago, is quietly mewing, looking for food or something. She is so malnourished that I can feel her bones, but she’s convalescing nicely (Must buy her some food later) Anyway, I’m fine as wine here; the others are asleep, and I felt words calling me, so here I am.

Don’t know what we got planned, but we got a car, we got our friendship, and we got time. The mountains, I want to see the mountains! Them old Rocky Mountains that I’ve only ever seen from 40,000 feet on a flight to Frisco…the land…the sights…

Day’s just beginning.

(More later…)

Love, David

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

MERRY CHRISTMAS, and thanks for following the Writer's Den...I wish you all a great 2010!

Madman, Architect, Carpenter, Judge: Roles and the Writing Process

by Betty S. Flowers


(Here's an interesting article on writing that I came across while leafing through the Harbrace College Handbook for Canadian Writers, and I thought I'd share it with you all - hope you like it.)


"What's the hardest part of writing?" I ask on the first day of class.

"Getting started," someone offers, groaning.

"No, it's not getting started," a voice in the back of the room corrects. "It's keeping on once you do get started. I can always write a sentence or two-but then I get stuck."

"Why?" I ask.

"I don't know. I am writing along, and all of a sudden I realize how awful it is, and I tear it up. Then I start over again, and after two sentences, the same thing happens."

"Let me suggest something which might help," I say. Turning to the board, I write four words: "madman," "architect," "carpenter," "judge."

Then I explain:

"What happens when you get stuck is that two competing energies are locked horn to horn, pushing against each other. One is the energy of what I'll call your 'madman.' He is full of ideas, writes crazily and perhaps rather sloppily, gets carried away by enthusiasm or anger, and if really let loose, could turn out ten pages an hour.

"The second is a kind of critical energy-what I'll call the 'judge.' He's been educated and knows a sentence fragment when he sees one. He peers over your shoulder and says, 'That's trash!' with such
authority that the madman loses his crazy confidence and shrivels up. You know the judge is right-after all, he speaks with the voice of your most imperious English teacher. But for all his sharpness of eye, he can't create anything.

"So you're stuck. Every time your madman starts to write, your judge pounces on him.

"Of course this is to over-dramatize the writing process-but not entirely. Writing is so complex, involves so many skills of heart, mind and eye, that sitting down to a fresh sheet of paper can sometime seem
like 'the hardest work among those not impossible,' as Yeats put it.

Whatever joy there is in the writing process can come only when the energies are flowing freely-when you're not stuck.

"And the trick to not getting stuck involves separating the energies. If you let the judge with his intimidating carping come too close to the madman and his playful, creative energies, the ideas which
form the basis for your writing will never have a chance to surface. But you can't simply throw out the judge. The subjective personal outpourings of your madman must be balanced by the objective, impersonal vision of the educated critic within you. Writing is not just self-expression; it is communication as well.

"So start by promising your judge that you'll get around to asking his opinion, but not now. And then let the madman energy flow. Find what interests you in the topic, the question or emotion that it raises in you, and respond as you might to a friend-or an enemy. Talk on paper, page after page, and don't stop to judge or correct sentences. Then, after a set amount of time, perhaps, stop and gather the paper up and wait a day.

"The next morning, ask your 'architect' to enter. She will read the wild scribblings saved from the night before and pick out maybe a tenth of the jottings as relevant or interesting. (You can see immediately
that the architect is not sentimental about what the madman wrote; she is not going to save every crumb for posterity.) Her job is simply to select large chunks of material and to arrange them in a pattern that might form an argument. The thinking here is large, organizational, paragraph level thinking-the architect doesn't worry about sentence structure.

"No, the sentence structure is left for the 'carpenter' who enters after the essay has been hewn into large chunks of related ideas. The carpenter nails these ideas together in a logical sequence, making sure each sentence is clearly written, contributes to the argument of the paragraph, and leads logically and gracefully to the next sentence. When the carpenter finishes, the essay should be smooth and watertight.

"And then the judge comes around to inspect. Punctuation, spelling, grammar, tone-all the details which result in a polished essay become important only in this last stage. These details are not the concern of the madman who's come up with them, or the architect who's organized them, or the carpenter who's nailed the ideas together, sentence by sentence. Save details for the judge.

Christmas!

Hi everyone! I just wanted to let you know that I'm opening up the Campfire Pages for Christmas Stories. You can reach me on Twitter, at @TheWritersDen of course, and I'll get back to you.

This is my very favorite time of year and I hope we can have lots of holiday cheer. I won't put a word limit on submissions, because most of you know not to send 10,000 word dissertations!

So if you want to participate, let me know! Cheers!

Moving! Follow the New Page..

To all my followers: We have moved to a new page. You'll still get all the articles published on the new site, but I encourage you to re-follow...Thank you so much!

Merry Christmas!

Ten Editing Tips, for Your Fiction Mss.

As Posted by Margaret Atwood, at her wonderful site: The Year of the Flood

Speaking of writing, which we did a lot in Tofino: I put these together for a friend, but maybe someone out there could also use them…

TEN EDITING TIPS: FOR NOVELS, NON-“EXPERIMENTAL”

1.The beginning. This is the key signature of the book. Sets the tone, introduces the leitmotifs. Are the people in it main characters? If not, how much do the readers need to know about them?

2. Charles Dickens said, “Make ‘em laugh, make ‘em cry, make ‘em wait.” He put “wait” at the end because it was crucial. (In any series of three, the third is the most important.) In terms I’ve picked up by playing with the boys: Drop the hankie early, but make ‘em wait for the opening of the kimono. Are you telling too much too soon? (Suspense: a good thing, if not done too obviously. Who is this guy? What happens next? Don’t signal too much, too far ahead.)

3. Verbs shall agree with subjects (singular, plural). That is, unless it’s dialogue or third-person inside-the-character point of view, and the author wishes to indicate that the character has a weak grasp of this principle.

4. Verb tenses. This is tricky. But in general: if something is always true, use the present tense. If it was always true once, use the past, or “would” plus past tense to indicate continuous action in the past. (“Every day, he’d go to the laundromat.”) . If it’s something happening before the time we’re in, use the past perfect (“He’d gone.”) Only the author knows the time flow – an editor can query, but the author must decide. If tenses are disjunct, there should be a very good reason. (Maybe the character is having a breakdown.) See also the use of the historical present. (“So, he goes, “What’re you doing?” and I go, “Butt out,” and he … etc.) Elmore Leonard is an expert at this kind of thing, and at informal dialogue in general.

5. The gerund mistake. A common one. “Walking along the beach, a pair of boots was seen.” Means that the boots were doing the walking, not the observer. Correct: “Walking along the beach, he saw a pair of boots.”

6. Readers are readers. They are good at reading. They are also post-film, and are used to swift cuts. They will fill in quite a lot. At any point, are you telling/filling in too much? The author needs to walk through the moves in his/her head – like practicing a dance or a military exercise – so that no actual tactical mistakes are made – the character doesn’t go out the door before he’s put his pants on, unless intended — but then the planning steps, the connect-the-dots steps, are pruned out so that what the reader gets is a graceful, fluid execution. We hope.

7. Dialogue. How do people actually talk? Too much for prose fiction, as it turns out. Dialogue in a novel should: give the illusion of real speech; indicate character; not tell us stuff we can assume or don’t need to know, unless the point is that the character is boring; advance the plot; be funny if intended; not sound too wooden. Look at contractions: it’s, he’s, shouldn’t. Look at use of “that”—in speech, we rarely put it in. ‘The tree I saw,” not “The tree that I saw.”

8. Point of view. Whose eyes are we looking through? A character’s? The author’s? Is the author intruding too much on the character? Does it sound like Character Bob, or like Author Phil/Phyllis? We know characters in the following ways: What they say. What they think. What third-person narration says about them. What other characters say/think about them. What they do. What they say they do. What they see when they look in the mirror. The tone of the prose about/surrounding them.

9. The second person problem. Applies to letters and journals, for instance when one character is communicating to another or writing a diary or journal. If a letter, A shouldn’t tell B something we already know B knows. If a journal –who is it for? Is it to be found after the character’s death – “Look what a clever boy I was”? Or is it for her to enjoy in private in a gloating or meditative or My Secret Life sort of way? For a sampling of diaries/journals, see the excellent anthology, The Assassin’s Cloak.

10. The ending. Open or closed. Fitting in tone. Makes us say Wow, or I want more. Or it sums things up, or provides a coda. It is, in any case, the last word. For now. Ask: is this how you want to sign off?

Changes: A Winter’s Monologue

Up here in the Great White North it’s been anything but Great, or White. We’ve seen nary a breath of snow this season; a record for us Canucks who are used to being buried in the stuff by mid October. But as I sit here, the wind is blustering outside my 8th floor apartment...More at the New Writer's Den...