In Which Cocaine was Smoked (Allegedly)

I'm Canadian. I like my country. We've had our bad moments (Treatment of Natives, Government, etc.) and we've had our good moments (Are you all ready for some HOOOCKEEEEY?) We have a rich history as a culture that is a mosaic as opposed to the more common melting pot of the United States of Freedom Fighting Obesity. We're not the land of opportunity, we're the land of 'You like your culture? We've got you covered in whatever major city you move to!'. We've got rocks and trees and trees and rocks and rocks and trees and trees and rocks and water. We also have bands like The Arrogant Worms, who have taught us both geography (Canada is Really Big) and history (The War of 1812).  All in all, Canada is pretty awesome.

But we have our difficulties right now, both on a municipal and National scale. For instance, a friend of mine recently posted on Facebook "Boy, sens sucks right now." To which I replied

You see, there's been a bit of a rumble regarding Senator housing expenses, and why it isn't fair for them to (allegedly) claim they are living outside of the Ottawa region during Senate time (Senate Season? The Time of the Senate?) when they are, in fact, living just across from Parliament Hill (allegedly).  So much rumbling, actually, that some of the senators have excused themselves from the Conservative caucus while the matter is looked into by whoever's job it is to make sure this doesn't happen in the first place. I can only assume that said individual was fired years ago for doing a crappy job, which is why the senators got away with it in the first place.

This, in turn, led to another scandal where a senator was (allegedly) given 90k to pay off his (alleged) expenses. Then someone had to resign, our Prime Minister ran away with his (alleged) tail between his legs, and as Canadians we all shook our heads in unison and sighed. "Oh, Prime Minister..."

But now even more scandal is brewing in the mystical land of Toronto. Drug Dealers have come forth stating that they (allegedly) have a video of Mayor and Toronto Local Laughing Stock Rob Ford smoking crack cocaine (allegedly). Ford has, of course, rejected these allegations, but for the rest of us we can't help but wonder. Ford is notorious for his antis, including walking into camera, placing magnets on cars, and falling over. He falls over a lot (allegedly). Just this passed year there was a court case to determine whether or not he had used his position as Mayor to seek funding for a local football team that he coached (a position which he lost two days ago. I can't imagine why) or something like that. Honestly, it's nearly impossible to keep up with Rob Ford's antics. You can't make up this sort of stuff, it's outrageous.

All the denial of this and the refusal of that from the members of our political force gives rise to not only speculation, but imagination. What would happen if Rob Ford was a drug addict? What would happen if the Conservative Party fell apart because of this expense scandal? How far can our imaginations take the downfalls of others? How can we use these pieces of alleged speculation to our benefit as writers? It wouldn't take much effort to turn even a pinch of one of these scandals into a story about the downfall of a government, but then again, I don't think anyone would believe you. After all, who would honestly believe that a man was capable of running face first into a camera?

Allegedly.

In which the rain falls, falls, falls

I love the rain. Who in their right mind wouldn't (to which you answer, people with a paralyzing fear of water, Kathleen.) I love the rain because of the sounds that come along with it. All the swishes from cars barreling through the puddles that collect in overflowing gutters. The smack! of boots along the sidewalk as they hit the puddles with satisfying force. There are drips and drops and dribbles. The sounds of water as it spills from the gutters and through the eaves troughs, into the grass at the bottom of the garden. The squish of the flooded earth as you walk barefoot through grass. And worms. Squishy worms between your toes. All gooey and... Sorry, what was I saying?

And the puddle jumping. Oh lord, how I love puddle jumping! My now-fiance thought I was mad when we were in the early days of our courtship, spring in Southern Alberta, we would walk to McDonald's to get a thing of fries and an Oreo McFlurry. There were always puddles along the pathway and despite my shoes, open-toed or full of holes, I had to splash in them. Keep in mind, I was already nearly 22 at the time. I still love puddle jumping. The best part is that every so often he lets go and puddle jumps with me like a boss.

There's something wonderful about the rain. I've always loved it. Even when I was a little girl, I was all over escaping out into the rain when the weather was miserable. Our home was tucked in a mountain, so the heavy cloud layer created this mist all throughout the woods that we would play in as kids. It was magical in the rain. The smell of the damp earth and pine needles is still the single greatest thing I can breathe in. In so many ways,  feel closer to the earth. It's a spiritual feeling that the rain brings out in you.

And then, and then your imagination takes over. And while you're breathing deep and feeling your body become one with nature, you remember that urban legend about the kid that inhaled the pine needle and then six months later developed a serious chest infection and when they took the x-ray the doctor discovered a small pine tree sprouting out of their lung tissue.

That might ruin the mood a bit, but let's face it, the beauty of the rain, melded with the awesomeness of having a pine tree growing in your lung would certainly more than make up for the intensive hospital stay and weeks of rehabilitation.

Ghosts come out in the rain. Ghosts of little girls and boys who puddle splashed in better days. Ghosts of gumboots and yellow rain jackets. Ghosts love the rain as much as I do, because in the rain they take shape; they find place in the mist and fill the voids left by the living. The living don't go out in the rain and the mist. There is no place for them, being so close to god and earth. The living can't handle the pressure of it all.

And in the days of rain, where there are no breaks in clouds or wind, and the gutters spill forth the contents of their bowels, all discarded Big Gulp cups and old straws, that is when the ghosts retreat. They see the way they flood the world with their memories. Memories are better left to the early days of rain, paper boats instead of arks; raincoats instead of life jackets.  There is no room for ghosts in the storms, even if they love the clouds and puddles.

No room for ghosts here.

In which I learn how to Internet with Social Media

I came to a very important conclusion the other day. I want to self-publish. Maybe I'm lazy, or tired of waiting, or maybe my education in the Communication field has just made me that much more aware of the limits and difficulties of traditional publishing. Whatever the case, there are a few things I have to be aware of.

1) If you're going to self-publish, you can't self-edit. 

2) If you're going to self-publish, you need to be contract smart.

3) If you're going to self-publish, you're going to self-market.

Hiring an editor takes money and a complete manuscript that you're relatively happy with. Okay, I can deal with that. My manuscript isn't close to being ready, ergo I have lots of time to raise the pennies (oh for the day when some young Canadian asks me what a penny is...) needed for hiring an editor. 

Contracts are another matter, and it always helps to have someone in the industry you can turn to who can break down the complicated rhetoric that can appear in various contracts.

But Social Media, oh, Social Media. My Kingdom for a witty tweet! To Facebook or not to Facebook? If Tumblr be the food of success, then subscribe on! And so on and so forth.

There is no denying it, without a strong social media presence, a self-published author is probably hooped. Sites like Youtube give professionals and amateurs alike the opportunity to speak directly to the audience. Twitter forces you to capture and contain your audience in 140 characters. Tumblr does... tumbling I assume. I'm not actually sure. Seems to me it's like a combination of all social media put together, plus a place where you can show comical pictures that you have drawn, such as a fancy giraffe trying to deal with the difficulties that arise with using an elevator. 

Then there is Instagram. You too can show off your latest meal with a sepia air about it! Does your friend duck face? Duck face them in walden! On the other hand, you can also get pictures of cats that like to stretch way too much.

Or maybe even that crazy beer/cider combo you had when you were out with your friends the other night!

Wow! I feel like I interact with myself on a whole new personal level to me! I must love hanging with my friends and taking pictures of my cat!  (Okay, yes, I do like taking pictures of the cat, but that's irrelevant.)

When it comes to Twitter, you can follow all the updates of your favorite people, and on the off-chance that they reply to you, suddenly you feel super special. Like the drink pictured above. Then you link your Twitter to your Facebook and hell, that just eliminates the whole Facebook step right there. And Apparently I can link my Tumblr (God dammit, 'Tumbler'. Why the hell did you leave out the 'e'? What was the point of that? Do you tumble less when it is spelled properly? Does the 'e' somehow slow down the rest of the tumbling? Tell me!)

The point is, when you become hooked into social media as a way to create an online presence for yourself, you can't half-ass it. So the Blogger posts will also get posted on Tumbler (I won't bow to your spelling mistakes.) But, Tumbler will get comical drawings, a more personal examination of my life. Because, you know, that is fascinating to everyone around me. 

So you want to self-publish and still make a bakwillion dollars? Social Media it up. Tweet your Facebook status updates on Tumblr, then blog about the results and do a video response on Youtube. Then take a picture of your dinner and post it on Instagram. There will always be people wanting to see what you're eating for dinner.

Always.

In which the Wordy Writer is a bit of a moron

I've loved writing since I was eleven years old. There's no accounting for it really. It just gave me something to do. Now, despite that, and high English grades in middle- and high-school, I still don't know the basics.  Periods? I can handle that. Commas? Sure, why not. I can even rock a semi-colon or two.

So how, how did I miss the lecture on Point of View? Or, I don't know, dialogue tags? I'm sure I wasn't sleeping during that class (granted, I was actually probably trying to finish the daily crossword puzzle before my English teacher because, hey, that's what we did. Everyone else reads for thirty minutes. We did crossword challenges.)

Now, fortunately for me once these little issues are brought to my attention, it becomes a quick fix to ensure that they aren't repeated. But still, don't I feel like a ding-dong? It's intimidating, to say the least, to look over my writing and then consider how many conferences and classes various acquaintances have taken, helping them master these little issues throughout the years. Then there's me. I can put words in a sentence! Look! I made you a macaroni picture of my dog! Put it up on the fridge! Love it!

Okay, I have a measure of incompetence in this, I'll admit that. Did I pay attention to verbs and nouns and pronouns? Pft, no, I bullshitted my way through that. Let me tell you, if it's not a person, a place, or a thing, I'll never be able to figure it out. So yes, perhaps the technical aspects of writing continue to elude me (dialogue tags. Dialogue tags.) But with all things, such as mentally reminding yourself that 'because' is Baby-Eats-Candy-Apples-Until-She-Explodes and 'it's = it is', it becomes a matter of memorization and application. I think. I hope.

It's always a little depressing to realize that you've been creating what is, arguably, a simple mistake for so long.

But there is always a silver lining to any story, a redemption for our protagonist, who needs it at this point, let me tell you.

You see, while I take part in writing forums and communities and read blog posts and try to take away as much as I can from them, there is one things about myself that I can't get over. I don't get stuck. Or at least, I haven't so far. Every once in a while there will be a comment. Help, I am at this point and it could go like this or this and I don't know what to do. Or I hate my story, I want to stop, what do I do?

I love my story. I know which way to go. I've got a map that's revealing itself to me as I go. Maybe I don't know what step I'll take in two weeks, but the minute I get there, I'll know what I need to do. It's not meant to be a gloat (although I am proud of what I have created and how intricate it is in my mind.) It's just pure, damn luck that, while not necessarily technically-wise, at least I've got a bit of a creative leg up (maybe? Who knows. I don't. Whatever, man. I don't even...)