Cupcakes for everyone!

A few times a week I’ll receive emails from the women on the Humber mailing group I belong to. Recently the chatter has been a little more exciting than usual. For instance:

- This is a biggie: our very own Darcie Friesen Hossack, author of Mennonites Don’t Dance, was just nominated for the 2011 Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for best first book. She’s up there with Giller nominees, guys. You may remember Darcie on this site from our uninterview in August. We have the second uninterview forthcoming (which we did the evening before the nomination when Darcie had absolutely no idea what she’d wake up to the next morning). Kim, another member of the email group, recently wrote a fantastic review of the book on her blog.

- Lisa McGonigle, who’s from Ireland, currently living in New Zealand, but a Canadian ski bum at heart, just published her first book, Snowdrift, a memoir about her time in the Kootenays in BC. I’m eagerly waiting for my signed copy to arrive in the mail. I can’t wait to see Lisa’s warmth and hilariousness translated into book form. I wish I could’ve gone to her book launches out west, which involved lots of drinking, live bands in bookstores and general revelry.

- Susan Toy does an amazing job promoting books, and recently shared her wisdom at a talk at the Calgary Public Library. For those of us who couldn’t attend, she was kind enough to post the text to “Marketing Yourself and Your Work”. Read and learn!

- Susan Calder will release her first book, Deadly Fall, very soon, and was recently namedropped in the latest Quill & Quire in an article about the increasing popularity of mystery fiction.

- Oh hey, some of us (Vicky, Carin, moi) have taken on “literary voyeur” roles for Seen Reading. So, Montreal/Ottawa/GTA, don’t be alarmed if you see someone looking over your shoulder and taking notes about what you’re reading and what you look like. Okay, maybe be a little alarmed, but this is for a good cause.

Not too shabby, and I’m sure I’m forgetting some accomplishments. Also, this doesn’t even convey the general enthusiasm and support we provide each other. I have to say I’m quite proud – go ladies!

Rejection letters are par for the course for any writer. I go through phases of being consistent and systematic with my submissions, dutifully keeping track of every story in an Excel spreadsheet. (It’s a good way to know how many months have elapsed between submissions, and also to track which stories I’ve sent out to multiple magazines.) (Yes, I am one of those people who blatantly ignores the “NO SIMULTANEOUS SUBMISSIONS, PLEASE. EVER. SERIOUSLY. THANK YOU.” rule. I’m thoughtful and careful about it, though, promise!)

Recently I’ve fallen behind on submissions, mostly because many of the stories I would send out are going in Bats or Swallows, and my pool of submission-ready stories has therefore dwindled, but there are still a few floating out there in the literary magazine ether. Every so often I’m reminded of them when I see my own handwriting on an envelope in the mail (god, I can’t wait until the day SASE’s are no longer so prevalent) or get an email in my inbox. At this point I’ve received enough rejection letters to not feel so stung by their arrival – usually enough months have passed since my submission that I comfort myself with a “I’m a much better writer now!” thought, and then I promptly trash the email or letter. I’m not the type who files them away as motivation; I have better things to wallpaper my walls with. But every so often I get a nice rejection letter. And while nice rejection letters can’t be listed on a CV, I’m still always grateful for them. This afternoon while I was wallowing in the mid-afternoon blues that have the tendency to hit you when you’re working your office day job, I idly checked my email and saw that I had received one of those nice rejection letters. The email had exclamation points, encouragement and compliments, and I felt a puffed up “maybe this is kinda worth it?” hopefulness.

Even though the ultimate decision was a no, it definitely made me feel better than a rejection letter I received years ago where the editor mailed me back my story and simply wrote across the top, “Sorry, no.” Pfft. I’m a much better writer now, anyway.

I started this entry a few months ago when I was thinking about how much I enjoyed reading books about writing. I tend to eat them up, almost guiltily, like I’m cheating or something, like I should be learning about writing by actually writing or by reading the classics, not by reading these silly books that often amount to nothing more than self-help. Obviously the craft of writing cannot be condensed into a how-to manual, but listen – I didn’t take English literature in school. I work a regular 9-5 day job, and I’ve been doing so for the past eight years. So, I sometimes feel a little starved of the act of thinking analytically about writing. Writing books help my brain engage in a way I’m not accustomed to. So, here are a few of my favourites:

How to Become a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead: Your Words in Print and Your Name in Lights – Ariel Gore: This book is cheeky and practical-helpful and doesn’t shy away from zines and DIY as a way to get your writing out there. It’s because Ariel understands the purpose and limitations of zines – she founded Hip Mama, after all. She also sagely advises beginning writers to submit to anthologies. She was so right about this. My “real book” publication credits are all thanks to anthologies.

A Writers Journal – Virginia Woolf: I love diaries, and I especially love diaries about writing. I couldn’t imagine analyzing my writing the same way Woolf does (How could I? My story about a teenaged girl kissing a boy for the first time does not have the same richness as “The Waves”, unfortunately).

The Narrative Craft – Madison Smart Bell: This book is great because Madison takes an entire short story and then describes why it works, usually within the context of a particular subject (narrative arc, character, etc). The best part is that he chose fantastic stories. It was through this book that I read Mary Gaitskill’s “Daisy’s Valentine” from her collection “Bad Behaviour” (which includes the story “Secretary” is based on).

The Elements of Style – Strunk and White: There’s been some Strunk & White backlash recently, but I find this slim tome reassuring. It might not have the right answers, but it has answers, and sometimes that’s all I need to get going. Plus, I have the gorgeous illustrated version – red hardcover, silky pages, whimsical watercolour photos by Maira Kalman – which makes it even more of a pleasure to read.

As for the “famous” writing books: I liked “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott enough, and really liked the advice about the importance of shitty first drafts. I remind myself of that a lot when I’m writing, and it helps me get over the fear that what I’m writing is crappy because why shouldn’t it be? It’s a first draft! “Writing Down the Bones” was good when I first read it (at the time, her advice that writing should be something that you practice, like exercise, really struck a chord), but sometimes feels a little too new age-y or something when I reread it now. I think it’s best for very beginning writers. And I liked Stephen King’s “On Writing” for the same reasons everyone else likes it: good, no-nonsense advice, comforting because he says that good writers can be made into great writers with practice, and it’s Stephen King and he rules.

Just came home with a bushy cherry tomato plant that I hope I won’t kill and my first pint of Quebec strawberries. It’s summertime and my wintertime discipline is melting slowly away, kind of like the pile of snow sitting in Turcot Yard. My preoccupations have been more of the practical kind: trying to find a place to live in the fall, eating fresh produce, etc, etc.

All signs point towards writing, though. I was in Calgary over the weekend (for a fellow writer and dear friend’s wedding) and was struck by the beauty and hugeness of a big, blue prairie sky. It’s the kind of majestic thing that makes you feel all reflective and, for lack of something less cheesy, “infinite”. I was describing the feeling to a friend of mine and, not quite getting the feeling she said, “that must be really helpful for writing.” Huh. I was sort of thinking that it was better for living, but sure, writing too.

One of my favourite things about taking planes is going to the airport bookstore and buying an issue of The New Yorker. When it’s an especially good issue I take it as a good omen for the trip. The issue I read didn’t let me down at all: summer fiction issue! Including fun things like the first unreleased Nabokov short story (honestly? I didn’t love it), the most depressing story ever by Annie Proulx (dead babies, abandoned children, loss of limbs via bombs, massive brain damage… and more!), and, the most fascinating piece for me, Haruki Murukami discussing running and writing. Murukami will soon release “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running“, a memoir about running and starting a jazz club and writing books. The essay in the New Yorker concentrates on his early days, when he just started taking up running and becoming a novelist. He breaks down each process into satisfying, manageable pieces. He sits down and writes and writes. He puts on running shoes and runs and runs. Eventually the writing becomes a novel and the running becomes a marathon. It’s so simple! Thank you, Haruki.

This week I also read Zadie Smith’s lecture in the latest issue of The Believer about the craft of writing. I am such a sucker for these “how to do what I do” essays, and hers is funny and non-pretentious and helpful. The biggest piece of advice she gives (which she acknowledges she never follows and doesn’t believe anyone else actually will) is to put your writing away when you’re done. Hide the manuscript in a drawer for a few months, and then pull it out for editing. The distance will make you a better, more objective editor. Very good advice, but very hard to follow, although perhaps I can take my own writing dry spell as a good excuse to gain some of that distance from the writing I started when it was a little colder.