Gracesicle

Oh, poor blog. Who will update you when I freeze to death in my own home, abandoned by a landlord who doesn't live on site, doesn't pay the bills, and doesn't seem to care? Alas.

Honestly, though, the standards in New York seem atrocious. At a party on Friday night several of us wandered into the topic of apartments. Here I thought we must just have a terrible landlord, because how, how, HOW can it be normal for people to struggle to stay warm in one of the biggest, most fabulous cities in the world?! But no, it is the norm here to have landlords out to screw you of:
a) heat
b) hot water
c) heat AND hot water
d) your--always astronomically huge, I might add--damage deposit.
(And don't even think about breaking your lease, even if you are freezing to death. The landlord can sue you for the entire amount rent owed to him for the entirety of the remaining lease.) It seems criminal! (Not unlike the rents. And the very existence of cockroaches.)

Some things New York excels at: big-scale musicals, museums, parades, libraries. Other things need such a serious amount of work: acceptable levels of heat, true protection for the tenant and not just the landlord, the price per square foot of rental apartments.

And now what?

So, in spite of a series of major third week setbacks, I managed to finish my 50,000 words--with a day to spare! Of course the immediate rush of pride and accomplishment was followed by a numbing sense of... now what? Rationally I know I need to do several things, not the least of which is finish the manuscript! I even know what happens next, but for some reason the sitting down and doing part is really draining.

I know, I know, I need to take my own advice and at least do the ten minute magical power write.

I also need to finish that query letter, and start trying to get that first book published.

And I need to get the first issue of my online magazine up and running. This weekend.

Mostly I just want to sleep.

Ahh, yes, depression my old friend. You love to hang about when the days are short and dark and cold. You love to creep in when my defenses are down. You love to crawl into the dark space under the stairs of my brain and start whispering. Depression, you are a real asshole, you know?

For now, Depression, screw you. I am going to make myself some tea. I am going to put some slippers on my freezing feet and wrap myself in a cozy cocoon of sweaters and blankets and sweatpants. I am going to write all afternoon, where I will be transported to Paris and my two main characters will continue squabbling, and eventually they'll start to see eye to eye. Maybe I'll even get to write another surprise kiss.

Surprise kisses on Parisian foot-bridges under rose-petal sunsets make it all worthwhile. In the background someone is playing Yann Tiersen music on an accordion, and I will follow their example.

Do I hate the Sun?!?!?!?

I think I hate the sun. At least during the winter time.

I love the sun when the weather is warm, when I can throw on a strapless sun dress and drink beer on a patio in some fabulous place in Europe, when the only thing I have to think about is the present moment: how the cold beer feels against my lips when I take a sip, watching people pass, and engaging in great conversation, and most importantly, knowing that a trip to the art museum or beach is coming up.

But when it's cold....I want clouds and darkness. I want to wear sweaters and jeans, and I want overcast and grayness. And when the sun comes out in the middle of my damp and depressing wonderland, I, like a vampire squint, and get poopy and want my sad weather back to make me feel good. 

Weird? Maybe. According to the weather forecast, this winter will be the coldest one in Vancouver since 15 years ago. Give me until March--I'll be eating the words on this blog and longing for the sundress and beer.

It's funny--I have days where I feel like I'm walking on air, and then there are those days when my feet get stuck in the ground, movement in any direction takes all my energy, and I cannot see beyond the tip of my nose. Those days when you feel like: "There is nothing, NOTHING, to look forward too." Today I realize that this happens when two things lack--clarity and specificity.

Maybe they are pretty much both the same thing. When I look at the big picture of things I want to accomplish, I get overwhelmed and forget about all those little things--the little things that are possible--that I need to do to reach my goals. If  you think of the big picture as a puzzle, you have to pay attention to the small pieces that will help you get to where you need to go. When you have small, specific blocks to work on, it almost becomes easy. Well...almost.....

I'm a dreamer. I like to DO, as opposed to simply dream, but at the same time, trying to finish off a project o a plan can be painful because I will often lose that excitement and curiousity I had earlier. It' the "Crap, I need to get this all done now now NOW!!!" that screws me up. I suppose what I am saying to you all, or more for me than anyone, is that it's all about living one day at a time. Day by day, step by step. It will all get done.

Well, easier said than done, but I vow to try my own advice.

Dogs are Great

I can't sleep. I have no idea why, as I feel ridiculously tired and my bed is really really comfortable. I even called my boyfriend hoping he would come over because I usually fall asleep when he is around. Puke - how icky is that? Oh well.

Anyways, I put my head down on my uber-soft pillow, ready for a long winters nap but my brain WILL NOT SHUT OFF. And for some reason I start thinking about my dog who passed away earlier this year. Her name was Molly and she was a white fluffy dog with long legs. She resembled a muppet. I got her when I was 11, or was it 12? I think it was 12. Anyways, she clearly has been in my life for a really long time and I really really really miss her. How is it possible to miss an animal almost, if not more, than some human beings? Only non-pet people will not understand.

Dogs (or any pet I suppose) are great. Dogs are cute. They do funny things like spoon with you or sit on your lap when you are driving and they clearly need a cuddle. They are there when you are sad (or can't sleep) and are always happy. Their tails will tell you what kind of mood they are in (usually happy) and they are smart. Well sometimes, I have met a few cocker spaniels who are not smart. My dog was smart.

The last time I saw Molly was after Christmas. She was curled up in the backseat of my parent's car on her blanket. As they dropped me off at the airport I made sure to cuddle her one last time and bury by face in her fluffy whiteness and kiss her head. She barely acknowledged me, poor old lady.

Anyways, if you have ever thought about having a pet you really should get one. People who grew up without pets missed out on something great (my bf is one of these - he had no idea what to say when I was weeping over my dead dog.) Therefore, I urge you to go buy a dog. They rock, even though their paw print on your life is brief . . . .

Ease

I thrive on change. I really do. There are things where I love consistency, like good coffee at my favorite cafe, knowing that my favorite movies will make me laugh or cry, and waking up in the morning to know that I won't have a huge blemish somewhere on my face--these things, I like to know what's coming. But with work, travel, the people you meet the people you see, I must say I love the variety. But I am having, more often than not, these days where I have an epiphany, and something will suddenly make sense and make me realize why I am feeling the way I feel.

First off, I'm surprised how the past few days I am not stressing over the things that I have no control over. You know how they say the more you worry about money the less you have? It may be one of the teachings of "The Secret," but I have finally put that to work. I'm not used to 'not worrying.' In fact, those two words do not go together in my mind. Work is another one of those "Hey, don't worry--it will all fall into place" things. Funny, I have absolutely no problem saying that to my friends and believing it on their behalf. When friends come to me with worries, I really think all will be well and do not give it another thought. What if I apply this to myself?

I like my job. Well, the work I do I like. I like the people I work with. But.....what can I say? I double guess myself, do not get paid much, and find myself coasting and having a hard time focusing. Then I rationalize it by saying, well, I do not get paid much. I know that this is felt at work--sometimes it is very hard to hide your energy. And it is scary to think the work I decided I wanted to do is not fulfilling me the way I want. Is it the work? Is it me? Is it the environment? Am I a lazy bag? Or am I just beating myself up? One thing I have discovered is that your job, a job that you truly love, even if it may be stressful at times or high paced, should have some ease in it. Work and ease? Yup. At this point, I am willing to do something completely different. I have to admit I want to change my line of work for more money, but I am okay with that. I just want to find that ease.

I like the change. I have decided to embark on a new city overseas. A new environment. A new job. A new life. Everything will be different and new, from the way the money will look in my wallet to the way people speak and the side of the street they drive on. Instead of filling me will fear it gives me a sense of ease. There is something lovely about the notion of leaving one world behind to enter another. If one world is not working for you, even if you gave it a good shot, then go to the next world. I gave it a good shot here, and want to see how I'll work in another environment.

I the meantime...I look forward to finding out what what will fit in the suitcase and where that suitcase will end up.

Only Popping in for a Moment...

I've disappeared for most of the month while dedicating myself to my National Novel Writing Month challenge. I should probably have kept more careful track of the ups and downs (there have been an abundance of both!) but I rather suspect writing a book is like having a baby--for a long time you get big and fat and unwieldy and uncomfortable. Then you have the insane pain of giving birth. But after it's all over and you're holding that baby (or novel) in your arms, you completely forget all those times in the past year (nine months, whatever) where you said "I AM NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN" and you just think Oh, this is the best feeling in the WORLD!

Writing books is fun, but it is also stressful. It involves this strange blend of cockiness ('Well, of course someone will want to read this! It's brilliant!') and humility ('Will someone want to read this? Do I want to read this?')

In this blog entry, however, I want to share my new favourite thing: the magical ten-minute power-write. The magical ten-minute power-write has changed my life! I'm not kidding. Ten minutes--it's practically nothing. It's a third of a sitcom. Hell, it's the amount of time you spend watching commercials during a sitcom! (Give or take a minute or two.) My point is, everyone has ten minutes here and there. So, in order to plow through the last 10000 words of my 50000 word challenge, I knew I was going to do something drastic. Meandering through my day writing ten words here and there was not going to cut it. So I set the alarm on my cell phone for ten minutes, put my fingers to the keyboard, and did not allow myself to stop typing until the phone beeped at me.

First time out: 424 words. Followed by a second ten minutes: 440 words. Then 400, 477, 439, 404, 483, 505, 486 and 482.

That's right, my friends. 100 minutes and 4140 words. If you wrote an average of 450 words in ten minutes, and only spent ten minutes A DAY (do you realize how many ten minute blocks are in a day??!!) writing... you'd have an 80,000 word novel in less than six months. Imagine what you could do if you spent three ten minute blocks writing every day. Or six. Or ten. That's right, just imagine it. And that, my friends, is the magical ten-minute power-write.

Hey... you got ten minutes?

Snow please Snow!!

Yesterday snow fell on the north side of me, the east side of me, west of me and the south side of me. But not on me!!!! While the news showed idiot British Columbians who are terrified of snow talk about the traffic travesty I was deeply saddened that the weather outside my door was not frightful. I love snow!!! I am from the prairies where it SNOWS. And at this time of year I can't help but crave the fluffy white stuff.

When it is snowing outside, you get to cozy up in fluffy PJ's and slippers, the fire blazing (that's right, I turn my fire switch to ON), tea in a steaming mug, and a good book. Or a boyfriend. Or a movie. Or some pizza. Whatever, as long as you are inside. Watching the snow gently fall creating a soft light and a certain quietness on the city. You can snuggle and listen to Christmas carols. I just love snow.

My prairie family says about rain 'well at least you don't have to shovel it.' But this is no consolation as I live in a condo and don't shovel. Also, this city shuts down for a few days - no one goes to work but they play outside like kids after a blizzard. I remember one year it snowed after Christmas and the parks were full of snowmen and grown adults having snowball fights. I really really love snow.

The mountains were all glorious and glistening today under the crisp (and unusual) sunlight. I saw some cars with snow on their roofs and felt quite jealous. I have underground parking so I no longer have to scrape snow off my car.

Maybe the key to loving snow is living in a city that rarely gets it, and when they do everyone plays. The roads are shut down and everyone is forced to relax. I don't have to shovel nor do I have to scrape ice off of my car. And we also have the happy knowledge that the snow is temporary and that -30 weather is not right behind it. Maybe I have forgotten the five months of snow that seemed to drag forever. Nope. I even miss that crunch of snow underfoot you only get in really cold places when snow falls on snow falls on snow.

I can't say it enough: I LOVE SNOW!!

I Thought I'd Miss My Television More

Hours spent scrolling through channels all playing The Simpsons, Oprah, King of the Hill, American Idol, America's Next Top Model. Hours spent watching reruns of television shows I'd seen two, three, even four times (in the case of most Simpsons episodes) before. Hours spent not reading, not writing, not going for walks, not spending quality time with my husband or my friends. Oh, television, you ever-so-demanding mistress.

When we moved to New York, the television didn't come with us, and it wasn't a high priority item on the must-replace-or-I-will-die list (unlike the bed, say, or chairs.) We've been here almost three months now, and I've read more books than I can name, I've dedicated myself to writing, I've spent a great deal of time with my husband. (Still no word on the friends front, but eventually I imagine I'll make some. Hopefully.) Now, I'll be the first to admit I haven't quit TV cold turkey. One of the Internet perks in the USA is the existence of streaming video. I've learned I don't need to be at home, planted in front of my television, waiting with baited breath to hear what sarcastic witticisms Dr. House will spew before miraculously solving yet another mysterious illness. In fact, waiting until the next day (or even two or three days later! Heaven forfend!) to catch up with my television shows causes very little discomfort at all.

I was going to use this forum to comment about the Writers Guild of America strike, but honestly, I'm not sure I'm aware enough of both sides of the story. I am, however, aware enough to know that many, many of the individuals spouting off on the Internet about the strike ought to keep their mouths shut until they get caught up with all sides of the issue.

That said, it's important to note that unions still exist for a reason (antiquated or not) and an entire union doesn't choose to strike in order to cause harm and distress to others affected (in this case I mean the teamsters, actors, and assorted behind-the-scenes staff who are or will be out of a job if and when the stockpiled scripts dry up---not the person sitting at home jonesing for a new episode of their favourite sitcom)---a regular layperson spouting off about the greed of the ever-so-rich writers of Hollywood needs to...well, they need to stop, read some statistics about just how many members of the WGA are working at a given time, and just how much the median members of the WGA bring home in a year.

The WGA isn't striking to piss you off, random television viewer. They're striking because they feel let down and betrayed by the system they work for. Read up on it. Then come back and try to have a civilized conversation. Ranting, raving and frothing at the mouth about the wealthy Hollywood sons-of-bitches who are denying you your weekly Heroes fix isn't helpful, it isn't interesting and it isn't even accurate.

Until then? Read a book. I bet you'll find quite a few in your local library. Some of them are even as good as TV shows, no kidding! Go for a walk. Play Monopoly with your family. Take it from me--the world keeps on turning, even without weekly doses of Prison Break.

Procrastination is an UGLY beast

I have my computer open and raring to go. So what am I doing? Re-organizing my kitchen. I swear I often have the most organized and cleanest house in all the land. I stared at my screen for a while then decided I had nothing to write about so went to clean my kitchen. And being the Virgo that I am, once I start, I just can't stop!!!!! Double GAH! At this rate I will have to go to Ikea to buy all new furniture to deal with my newly organized kitchen and office and bedroom. Speaking of which, I need a desk. GAH!

But when I am writing I LOVE LOVE LOVE it - what is wrong with me? Why can't I just go straight to my computer? Good things happen when you do. For instance, I have been writing and developing a TV series for what seems like an eternity. In my mind I knew the computer was calling me, saying "write the character breakdowns, write the character breakdowns". It said this to me for about two months before I actually did. And you know what happened as soon as I finished this last piece of the puzzle? I got two major parties interested in reading the freaking script!!!! So clearly good things happen when you break past that procrastination elf on your shoulder and WRITE.

Okay, back to my kitchen. The knowledge that pots are sitting on my floor is driving me INSANE!

Even More Fun...

...than I thought it would be.

There is something truly freeing and gratifying about just writing for the sake of getting words on the page. Yes, realistically I know these are not the best words I've ever written. Yes, I can already imagine the great chunks that will eventually disappear beneath the wrath of my red pen. Yes, I am catching myself repeating words or phrases in the sheer rush of adrenaline necessary to get words out. It's a little sloppy, frankly. And I don't care.

I am writing. I am two and a half days, and nearly seven thousand words, into National Novel Writing Month which, for those playing the 1667 words-a-day home game, means I am more than a day ahead of schedule! The story is coming along steadily, the characters are starting to speak and unexpected things are starting to take shape.

Ahh, you beautiful, terrific rush of creativity. I missed you. Please don't go away on such a long vacation again.

6835 / 50000 words. 14% done!

Inspiration

I am taking a breather in day number two of the two days between visitors. Visitors explain, perhaps, why I haven't written in a week (though it's not a proper excuse...I'm sure I could have made time if I'd tried harder.)

Since my last entry was about writer's block, I think I'll continue a little along the same vein. Later that same day, I had a tremendous inspiration for the story I'm going to spin during my month-long NaNoWriMo challenge. As I sat on the subway, scribbling madly into a little notebook pitiful, complaining lines like "I just want to write! If I was Grace's brain, what would I write?" and along came a story, sprung into life as quickly as that! I'm not allowed to start writing until Thursday, but the story is still there, waiting, adding details to itself. I'm tremendously pleased with the concept, not the least because it will be quite different from anything else I've written. I hope, at least, it will be a little lighter, a little more sprightly, a little less concerned with the mechanics and questions inherent in attempting Great Fiction. The thirty day, 50,000 challenge encourages speed and output rather than quality, and for a change I think this may be exactly what I need. A month of bubbling over, rather than a month of delicately choosing just the right word to complete a sentence that's been bugging me for weeks.

Not to say I don't believe in quality: I certainly, certainly do. I've just allowed myself to become so bogged down by it in the past that all writing ceases full-stop. There will be time for tinkering and perfecting, but for now I shall be content to open up a new document and spill out words.

I need that sense of accomplishment right now.

Writer's Block

There are two parts of my writing brain. Writer Brain and Editor Brain. They don't get along. One constantly undermines the work of the other. I've been working with Editor Brain so long that Writer Brain, feeling neglected perhaps, seems to have taken a vacation.

I'll have a brief (emphasis on brief) inspiration, and then... fizzle. Nothing. Nada. Staring at the screen, tearing out my hair, crying into my tea, NOTHING.

I suffer from insomnia. The worst part of sleeplessness is knowing you really, really just want to sleep and the more you want to sleep, the less likely sleep is to arrive. One anxiety feeds on another until basically you're left staring at the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock, watching the numbers tick toward wake-up time.

Writer's block feels a lot like insomnia. I want to write. I'd give my left foot to write, right now. I've tried everything: little games, blogging, more sleep, less sleep, more food, less food, more exercise, more caffeine, less caffeine, writing on paper, writing on the computer... but here I am, drawing blanks. The shadows of stories in my mind refuse to spring to my fingertips and into reality.

Still signed up for NaNoWriMo, though. Hopefully something will kick start in my brain before November 1st.

Life Lessons

Sometimes you have to start over again.

I have decided that I'd like to learn French. I've always wanted to know how to speak the language, and took French classes starting in the second grade, all the way through to the end of high school. One might think that with ten years of instruction, a language would stick, right? One would think wrong, in my case. As much as I want to be able to speak French, and as much as I think I should have been able to maintain some knowledge of the language... I just don't know it. Not beyond a jumble of vocabulary (which are masculine and which are feminine? argh!) and verbs I don't really know how to conjugate. Don't even get me started on tenses.

So, sometimes, you have to start over again. Stop pretending you know what the hell you're doing, stop acting as though everything is perfect, just... stop. And press rewind. And start over.

It's hard for someone like me (read: perfectionist with ridiculously high expectations of herself, who literally falls into the pit of despair when those ridiculously high expectations are not met) to start over. Starting over, for me, never seems like a clean slate--it always seems like a failure.

When people talk about those silly job interview questions one always has to answer, the "what's your worst quality?" or "what's your biggest fault?" ones always come up. You're supposed to say something that sounds like a fault, but is really something positive, and people always use perfectionism (so much so that's it's become cliche and job interviewers hate to hear it, I'm told, because it's an obviously fake answer.) But what if perfectionism is your biggest fault? And it's really not positive? What if your perfectionistic tendencies actually become so debilitating you can't imagine sending novels out to agents, or going on auditions, or trying to make new friends? Because you're mortified, actually terrified--heart-poundingly, palms-sweatingly anxious of doing something....imperfect? That's perfectionism. Not the desire to do a job completely. Not the desire to put in extra hours. Not all those positive aspects a job interviewer is supposed to infer. True perfectionism is as crippling as true depression (sometimes they even go hand in hand!) or true paranoia or true anxiety or true panic attacks.

So, I've decided I want to learn French. Even if it means starting at the very beginning, with "Bonjour, madame" or "comment ca va?" or "je m'appelle Grace." It sounds like a back step, it feels like a failure, but unless I'm willing to let go of the perfectionist who holds me back at every turn, I will never know how to hold a conversation in a language I've always wanted to know.

C'est tout.

NaNoWriMo

For those not in the know, November is NaNoWriMo---National Novel Writing Month. This is a bit of a misnomer, however, since "national" novel writing month has been international for quite some time. The website of the organization can be found at nanowrimo.org

I've been making excuses not to participate for about four or five years, but this year, with no job, no pressure and--other than visitors in the first week of November--no time constraints, I really have no excuse. The goal is to complete 50,000 words of a novel between November 1-30. For those playing the home game, this is about 1,600 words per day, give or take a hundred here and there.

Ideally you're supposed to start a completely new project, but since I only have about 30,000 words of the Los Angeles novel, and my real problem with writing that book seems to be a tragic case of over thinking everything, I think using NaNoWriMo to completely throw caution to the wind and write, write, write, might be exactly what I need to silence Editor Brain for good--or, at least until I need her again.

I once participated in the Three Day Novel contest, over Labor Day Weekend, and managed to complete a 26,000 word novella in 72 hours. I'm hoping this bodes well for writing 50,000 words in thirty days. 50,000 words added to the 30,000 I already have would bring me very near completion.

Quite frankly, I'd just like to remember what it feels like to sit and crank out several thousand words in one day. So if I can get that feeling back? This little experiment will be well worth it.

Waiting

I'm waiting for the novel to start talking to me.

No one needs to call the psych ward; put down your phones. The thing with writing--and it's not just me; other writers talk about this phenomenon also--is that often it does sound a little as though the creative process is doing the tango with some kind of mental illness. (Maybe it is?)

For me, there is a magical moment in the process of writing a book where all of a sudden the book starts talking. The characters stand up, dust off their clothes, and start having conversations. What may have seemed like an agonizingly long wait is made completely worthwhile by the fact that the story has literally sprung to life. It takes on a life of its own. Careful notes and preparation are thrown to the wind, because these people know their stories, and damn aren't they going to start telling you about them.

It's a great moment. It's probably the moment that makes all writing worthwhile.

I have not reached that moment yet, with this current story. Almost. I've glimpsed the characters. They've whispered a few things in my ear. Like a recalcitrant child being dragged from the playground, I have been forced to stop and look and listen, since evidently my ideas are not always the same as the story's ideas.

The biggest issue for me, thus far, with Los Angeles book, is the question of the multiple point of view. I have (and I kid you not) gone through so many incarnations of this story, I hardly remember how it started. First it was only one character, as a 3rd person POV. Then that one character said 'Uh-uh. 1st Person.' First person the story became. Just as I was settling into this style, some of the other characters said, 'Hey, can we talk too?'

At first I said, 'Sure! Why not? The more the merrier!' I'm still not sure if this, artistically, was the right decision to make. Part of my symmetry-loving brain doesn't want to let these characters speak unless everyone gets approximately the same amount of POV-time. Problematic, since one of the characters only (at least so it seems to me) wants two chapters. They are a potent two chapters, and I'm loathe to lose them. But are two chapters enough? Is it going to cripple my audience if they only get to see inside this character's head for two chapters?

Because the fact I am forced to face is this one: other characters aside, there is still one character who is the main POV. It is, essentially, her story. Are the other POVs serving the story, or are they interlopers trying to distract me, the writer or you, the reader, from the main tale?

Why yes, I should be a member of OverThinkersAnonymous.

I have a feeling the book is never going to start talking if I don't let these questions go, at least for the time being. No one says I have to let anyone see the first draft, and, if I find at the end of it all the other character POVs are gratuitous--so be it, they will be banished.

Just write the damn story already, right? Right.

A Low Weekend

For many, the idea that an artistic temperament goes hand in hand with intense highs and lows is commonplace. This past weekend, for no particular reason, was one of those lows. The thing with mental issues is while being self-aware can act as a warning sign ('Oh, I know this feeling. Do something cheerful, now, now, now!') there are times when all the forewarning in the world can't and won't change what is about to happen.

And sometimes pretending to be cheerful just doesn't work. Because that's what it is: pretending. I abhor pretense. I actually hate pretending to be happy more than I hate living with being sad.

I do not confide in people often. And yet, I am a person to whom others confide. Most of the time I don't begrudge it. Helping others with their problems, even when those problems mirror my own, grants me clarity. It is, perhaps, a terrible shortcoming that I am able to give advice, but not take it.

Nevertheless, I miss having a network of (nearby) friends. I miss afternoons strolling down busy streets, window shopping and drinking cappuccinos. I miss sitting with someone face to face, speaking about my work, or theirs. I admit, I long for my artistic safety net, my contemporaries, the passing back and forth of interesting information related to creativity. The things that make us happy; the things that make us tick. The things that make the highs and lows worth bearing.

I miss being around people who understand the highs and lows; the weekends spent sad for no reason; the singular Wednesday afternoon spent high as a kite on nothing more potent than a great idea.

I have work to do today, even if, at present, this work has an effect on no one save myself. Low weekends pass, and one can always hope for a High Wednesday. Or, even better, an Even Keel Day, Week, even Month where every day a little more work is completed.

The Painful Oversimplification of Language

I just overheard (eavesdropped on) a conversation.

Two girls, probably in their early twenties, NYU students (not the easiest school in the world to get into, I'm told) meet in a coffee shop. They haven't seen each other in a while, and so the conversation immediately leaps into the realm of "So, what have you been doing lately?"

First of all, the prevalence of the word 'like' used in my place of 'um' or in order to hold one's place when the next words aren't forthcoming is so ugly. I say this knowing I use the word myself all the time. I don't have to like it, even if I am an offender myself. My first year acting professor was a violent hater of the word 'like' and tried (mostly through acts of humiliation) to beat it out of us. It didn't really work. I've read articles recently that claim 'like' is here to stay---our language has merely adapted and evolved to the point that like exists and like isn't going anywhere. Unfortunately.

The second thing I noticed was the distressing overuse of the words 'cool' and 'sucks' (usually accompanied by 'like'). Girl number one had spent the summer in Europe visiting such places as Florence, Spain, Paris. "The people there were...I don't know. I guess they were like, cool. Yeah, I went to Florence. It was like, cool. And like, pretty."

We have a vast vocabulary available to us. The English language is veritably swimming with words. There are, in fact, a plethora of words. (I particularly like plethora.) However, instead of using these words we say Florence is cool. Venice is cool. This thing sucks. That thing is, like, I don't know. Cool. We may not have a thousand words for snow (a myth, I might add) but we do have more options than 'cool' or 'sucks.'

Use them!

A List of Little Joys

I've been trying to think of a clever blogging topic all day, to no avail. Instead, I will share a completely random list of little things that bring me joy.

1. New Furniture
Everything about new furniture. How clean it is. How comfortable. How none of the cushions are squished out of shape, and none of the springs are poking you through a worn-down mattress. The smell. It's like new car smell, only better.
(Why yes, I did get new furniture today. Why do you ask?)

2. Good Stories
I don't care if these stories are told to me by a friend, written in a book, shown on television, read over the radio, sung in a song, projected at the movie theatre...I love stories. I admit I am not the most critical consumer of movies/TV/books/theatre because it takes something genuinely terrible to put me off the possibility of a new story.

3. A Pot of Tea
Black, green, white, oolong, rooibos, herbal, tisane. I love tea. I love the sacrament of preparation, of making sure the ingredients are added in the right order and the perfect ratio. Then, when it's all prepared, there is nothing quite like sitting down, inhaling that first hint of aroma, and tasting. I feel about tea the way I feel about wine, although I know more about tea, so that adds a layer of appreciation.

4. Good Drink
In the last year I was introduced to straight vodka--something I never imagined I would enjoy. Until I tried good vodka. Really, really good vodka. All of a sudden adding a mixer seemed like sacrilege. (I have since been introduced to really, really good gin and really, really good tequila. Anyone out there want to introduce me to really, really good rum? I have tried scotch, but I'm not quite...there yet.)

5. Good Food
This almost speaks for itself. My cuisine of choice is usually French---they know how to put together a palate-pleasing plate, that's for sure. But there's not much I don't enjoy. Except kiwis. I'll probably die if I eat kiwis, and that would definitely not make it on the 'life's little joys' list.

6. Good Company
With no slight meant to my husband, this is what I miss the most here in New York. I don't actually know anyone. And I am shy, so getting to know people is not as easy (for me) as sitting next to the same guy three days in a row at the tearoom (Hi, blondish dude with white Mac! How are you?) and striking up a conversation. And, much as it pains me to admit, talking to friends via email, chat and phone just doesn't feel the same. However, the positive side is---I now realize how much I appreciate good company! The funny thing with introversion (and I am, despite the arguments of several of my friends, an introvert) is that, for the most part, I don't need to be around people. But I want to. And I love each and every person who has ever shared some of the aforementioned good drink, good food or pots of tea with me.

Faith is a Motherfucker Part 2

It is crazy what a difference a week makes. One week you are in the depths of despair, and then the next week, you decide to take control.

We all have crap weeks where the light at the end of the tunnel fades like a distant memory and it's just easier to flip off the world and sulk. That is usually not my style, however after a very eventful three quarters of the year, I realize that I tend to react to things much more differently than I used to. I wondered where I lost my optimism. This week I realised that I let it escape me.

These are little reminders I found helpful this week, and for those of you who may read this, feel free to take these nuggets of almost wisdom for yourself:

1. Worrying about money is absolutely, ABSOLUTELY pointless: It is. All the people I know who have money--not that I know tons who have it at this point--are not totally reckless with money, but trust that it's coming and do not even think about it. There is tons of money in the world. It will find its way into your pocket. As long as you think positive, do things that will create the opportunity to make the money--I mean, don't sit on your ass an hope it comes to you---and think big. I have a friend that is going to write a book about making sock puppets--I know she'll love doing it and make some cash from it.

2. Take time to read. Really: Take time to sit down and read. Even when you are super busy. I have been really busy lately, but I'm taking at least 30 minutes to an hour to devote to the book.

3. Write--even if you have nothing to write about, write. Write about what you want and what makes you happy and the things that you are curious about. Don't write about the shit that sucks you down into the pits of hell. Don't. Just don't. Support yourself and be good to yourself--think about the things you want to do and accomplish.

4. If you are not happy with your job make steps to change it. Even if they are just baby steps. If you are just sending out one resume a week and researching places you would love to work, you are doing something. You are putting it out to the Universe that you want something, that you want change. Baby steps! Every week do something more and track it.

5. Do something nice for yourself everyday. I know if you have to save the pennies. I do. But it makes me happy to buy a nice latte every now and then or to buy myself a nice cup of tea while I read.So that's what I do. And every now and then, I buy a really good book. It keeps me going. Take care of yourself.

6. Dream. Dream. Dream. Your best ideas come from dreaming. Dream, write them down, and know that they are possible. Not wishing or hoping, but KNOWING that they are possible. There are people that are living their dreams and doing the unexpected. It's not a matter of 'if' it happens but 'when' it happens.

7. Faith. Yes. I know...it's back and I have reclaimed it. Have faith that it will all work out, because it will.

One Of Those Days

Yes, one of those days where I meant to get some serious writing done. Starting...now! No, wait, I'd better put dinner in the crock pot. Okay. Starting...I'm hungry/thirsty/bored/not listening to the right music/irritated/killing insects.

So. At least if I write a little entry here, I'll have made a start to my day. At 4:37pm. Better late than never.

I have a few projects on the go.

1. A basically finished novel, needing only a knock-your-socks-off query letter and some research into agencies I'd like to send it (and that damn letter) to.

2. A second novel (we'll call this LA Story.) The book will eventually be good. Until then, it continuously kicks my ass. It has gone through about eight thousand identity changes over the course of two or three years. Third person POV became 1st Person. One POV became multiple POVs became one POV became I-still-want-more-POVs. Currently this is the project I'm devoting the most time to. Sometimes I think I hate it and it hates me, but we are like lovers trapped in a bad relationship. Okay, that's a little melodramatic. I've just written myself into a corner where it appears all my characters hate each other, and I'm not certain how best to get myself out.

3. A screenplay. It needs more punch. I'm not sure how to give it more punch.

4. A third novel. Well, a fetus of a novel, really. This one is called Adultery Story (not from real life experience, thankyouverymuch.) I really only have about ten thousand words of this one, and it's not exactly ready to be written yet, but will one day be an interesting project.

5. A collection of interconnected short stories. As soon as I learn how to write short stories and not novels, I imagine this collection will be just fabulous. (I also have ideas for two or three other interconnected story collections... really, they are halfway between stories and novels, because I don't actually like short stories very much. I always want to know more. So why would I write something I don't like? I wouldn't. Except the LA Story. No!!! It's not that I don't like it...)

6. An online magazine. I'm editing this and writing for it, and I'd really like the first issue to go up on November 1st. Dammit.

7. A collection of poetry. Hmm. Poetry. I suspect my entire life's output will be one collection of decent poetry. Poems, for me, are more of a writing exercise/challenge.

Look how much work I have to do! Enough procrastination!

The Death of Jean-Paul

Jean-Paul is dead.

And I killed him.

Now, before anyone goes calling 911 and having me sent to prison (please don't) let me explain: Jean-Paul was the name I gave the cockroach in my bathroom. I'm not sure it's healthy to name one's insect pests, but there it is. For those keeping score: Georges lives in the kitchen. I haven't gotten him yet. And I don't think he's a roach. Maybe some kind of irritating beetle?

Bugs: yet another funny little 'New York thing' to get used to. Why it is we're so afraid of insects, anyway? Is it because they have tough little shells (not too tough to be destroyed by a cunning combination of cleaning spray and well-applied flip-flop, mind you)? Is it because they're faster than us? Because they have too many legs? Because they can get into (and out of) places we can't even imagine? Is it all of the above?

I hate insects. I don't like them in my home; I don't like them when I'm outside; I don't like them. For all of the above reasons, I don't like them. But why am I scared of them? Why do I shriek when I see one? Why do I have nightmares? Most of them don't even bite. Or carry disease. Or do anything except be in the wrong place at the wrong time looking ugly.

I mean, in the battle of woman versus insect... woman usually comes out on top. And insect ends up squished into the bottom of my shoe.

Still, it's a battle I'd rather not fight. That doesn't mean you're safe, Georges. If I see you, I will kill you. I'm paying the way-too-high rent in this apartment, and unless you pony up some cash, I'm considering you a squatter.

And in my house, squatters end up dead.

So Nice To See Sexism Alive And Well

After taking yesterday off to trek miles and miles (10) away via transit and free shuttle bus to IKEA in Elizabeth, New Jersey, I was going to write a clever little blog entry about the ubiquitousness of Swedish furniture and household products, and the sheer delight in the prospect of not only a bed but a sofa for my furniture-deprived home. It was going to be great.

Instead, I'm going to comment on this: http://www.deadlinehollywooddaily.com/warners-robinoff-gets-in-catfight-with-girls/

Please, go read that article. Open it in another tab. Then come back to this.

(In case you're just not tab-friendly, here's the sitch: basically Warner Bros. Big-wig Jeff Robinov has decided that because of the 'box office under-performance' of female-lead recent pictures The Invasion and The Brave One, he's done making movies with a female lead. Done. Forever. As in, 'Oh, sorry, you have boobs? Not going to have a lead in a WB picture. Ever.')

To tell you the truth, I don't even know where to start. Sure, sure, everyone knows Hollywood is where the boys play (hell, I'm even writing a novel about it) but let's get real--openly proclaiming such a blatantly, overtly, disgustingly sexist comment and not getting fired, like, yesterday?

My acting program started with 13 people: 11 women and 2 men. (By the time graduation rolled around three years later, we were 6 women and 1 man, but that, my friends, is another story. One with lots of blood, guts, tears and mayhem. Fun times!) The year before ours had something like 7 women in the graduating class and 0 men. This isn't Shakespeare's time any more, Mr. Rabinov. We don't dress little boys up in women's clothes. Women get to be politicians, doctors, CEOs. Maybe even Presidents of the United States. But not the leads in Warner Brother movies?

The acting world is already a joke for women. What do we have out there to be proud of? When we get started in the film/TV world we get several truly fabulous female-role-options:
1. Whore: this can take several forms IE: prostitute, drug-addicted prostitute, prostitute-with-a-child-to-feed...
2. Secretary: and I'm not talking Pam-on-The-Office here, either. I'm talking the one-liner woman who says, "Mr. Anderson, I've got Tom on the line."
3. Victim: yeah, just turn on your TV for ten minutes. You'll see her. She's probably dead. If she's lucky she got at least a line before she was offed.

Then, then when you get to be a really, really, really good actor you can get cast as:
1. Mother: she usually gets a few more lines
2. Token Female Lawyer: see also Token Female Cop or Token Female Doctor (not to be confused with the girls on Grey's Anatomy, though there is a fine line between Female Doctor and Whore these days...)
3. The Only Woman Who Gets Any Lines In A Major Hollywood Film Unless Apparently That Film Is Made By Warner Brothers.

And as a side note: why, why, why do women always have to get naked before men do? Sure, maybe Kate Winslet doesn't mind running around in the buff (she says she doesn't mind, anyway) but why does a budding actress always have to wrestle with the nudity clause issue? Constantly wondering whether she'll ever be able to make it if she sticks to her guns and, well, keeps her boobs under wraps? Men get all the best roles and they get to keep their clothes on. (They also get to be less physically attractive, and they're allowed to get fatter, more wrinkly and have less hair--on top--than women. Awesome. I love this new age of equality we live in.)

I mean, women make up at least (most figures say more than) half of the human population, and here we are, relegated to antiquated Madonna/Whore roles, scrabbling for a part that has at least enough lines to qualify us for more than just 'supporting' status, and an entire studio says, "Nahhh. Not gonna happen."

Thanks, Jeff. Thanks for setting women back in their place. We were starting to get so ... so uppity, what with wanting screen time and equality and, God help us, more than one of us cast in any given movie. I was so confused. I'm glad I know exactly where we stand, as far as WB is concerned.

But hey, while you're at it? Maybe we shouldn't be pointing fingers at Jodie Foster and Nicole Kidman. You ever think, just maybe, someone else might have a share of the blame? Like, say, the people who wrote the godawful scripts, or even worse: the jackasses who green-lit those scripts? Two words, asshole: KANGAROO JACK.

Oh, right. I'm just a woman. You don't have to listen to a single damn thing I say. But you know what? I can write about it, and I can boycott your films. Thanks for playing.

Faith is a Motherfucker

Faith. Faith. Faith.
I've been told to have faith, and to hold it in my heart. I've been told in person, over the phone, and most recently over email. I'm usually the one that likes to offer that advice as it calms, it makes you believe that all will end well, that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, that we all deserve happiness and most importantly, have a shot at it. And I try so hard to believe, but there are days when "Faith" is a motherfucker and it's as foreign to me as speaking Mandarin. I'm afraid that today is one of those days.

Sometimes you put yourself out there, and it's a risk, and you have faith that when you put yourself out there, whatever response you'll get will be good one way or the other--as long as you know what's happening and there is clarity, then you can move on. Or in my situation, you get really confused and wish that you never decided to open the laptop that day and say what you need to say. Sometimes the happy little world that I create in my head is alot grander than what's going on around me, which is pleasant in a way because there is always an escape, but sad in other ways because, well, that is pretty sad. You type the words that are supposed to express how you feel into an email, save the draft, give it 24 hours and go back, rewrite, cut and paste, until I'm thinking--OK, I got it. I'm going to get what i need from this email--it will anser EVERYTHING. Click and send. And wait. Wait, wait. Have faith that there will be a response and some stuff will get cleared up.

Nope, not me. Everything seems to be more.....confusing. There was this psychic I saw before a friend's wedding. I kind of want to flip her the finger now and ask for that $35 back. The first thing she told me in my reading was that it was time for happiness; the worst part was over, I have met the one I'm supposed to be with, I have to go for it, and to remeber to always believe in myself. OK, the last two, sound advice, but the other two........I know I have to give myself a huge jolt of faith for it to happen. But today, Faith is a motherfucker, and annoying bee buzzing around my caramel apple at the park, or a nagging voice at the back of my head, bothering me like when I know there is a task that needs to be completed but I keep procrastinating.

But then I make a discovery: As much as I love my friends, and really, I do, I can't tell them everything. There are some I can be completely honest with and know I will get support from (Thank you Grace), but there are others, who care alot, but plant this seed of doubt that ends up eating at me. There is a point when your people know too much. There is a point where I have to follow my heart and not let other people's judgement cloud mine no matter how much they care. Because, I later find out that I know more than what I think I know, and I do have a pretty good head on my shoulders. When faith can be a motherfucker, so can friends. For those friends, I love you but fuck off.

We all need to have faith. We do. Some say money makes the world go round--I can't say that that is not true, but the ones who live on the planet with happiness are the ones that have faith. The people that are optimistic and coach themselves through the rough spots and live for the moment have to have faith. To know that you'll get up tomorrow and all will be well takes faith. I think I have faith. I know I have faith. I know that faith is buried somewhere in my body. I'm not sure where it is exactly, but when it does come up it's a wonderful feeling that I can't even describe. When I have faith in my heart I feel like I can do anything. But when it slips away I feel so lost and tired that all I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep forever, not to be bothered by telephone rings and feelings of doubt and tears.

If I have faith for this one moment, this present moment in time, I know I'll find faith again. I know it exists somewhere, and I know it will come back. I'll need the presence of faith for the next while as I make major changes in my life; I know I'll need faith when I continue the string of courageous moves that I have begun this year.

And as I write this I do feel a little better. It's just a rough patch where I have to take a deep breath and not let the thoughts go out of control. Things have to rock about a little before the foundation gets more stable.

I suppose that 'faith' is not such a motherfucker---Breathe in breathe out. It will all get better.

An Ode to the Grandparent

It is Thanksgiving this weekend - and it will most likely be my last holiday in the house where my parents currently live. It is located in a small country town north of Calgary and near the farm where I was partly raised by my grandma. I did not grow up in this house but it has been my 'home' for eleven years now. And my last connection to the country and farm that I am proud to come from. Soon my parents will take roost in the city and besides my memories, there is nothing to show that I ever came from rural Alberta.

But I digress from the point of this entry. It is a holiday and my family is together. I mean my WHOLE family - my mum's side - which almost never happens. After several bottles of wine (I can finally drink with my uncles! - that is how long it has been!) we decide to put on an old family video marked 'Christmas 1991'. My cousin, who is now 16, was just nine months in the video. I was an awkward 12-year old. My mum had permed hair, my dad had hair period, my older cousins had mullets. Things got emotional when my dog, who died this year at 17, appears as just a fuzzy puppy. I actually can't get over how freaking adorable she was. My mum cried but I was happy to see her looking so vibrant and sweet. Then we hear a distinct Lancashire accent that hasn't been heard for five years and the camera pans to my grandpa. The grandpa I remember before he withered away with heart disease. The one with the silver hair and big brown glasses. With his hands so big and slightly awkward. Talking to me, a little girl. Even as I write this, tears are in my eyes when I realize just how much I have missed this man. My mum and my uncles were blown away by his accent. Not hearing him speak for so long, they JUST realized he had a thick accent. He said words lie 'oy' and 'ta' and 'love'. I am so fortunate to have a piece of my grandfather to watch - so that I can always hear his voice.

Then the screen scrambled and there was my grandma from my other side walking my dog. It is a short clip - just her in her toque and hundreds of layers. And I burst into tears.

These are two people who left this earth five years ago whom I love so deeply and miss nearly everyday. They were both so proud when I graduated high school (now that I know more history I understand this significance to them), and it pains me ever so slightly that they didn't see me graduate university. They will never meet my boyfriend who they would love and welcome whole-heartedly into the family. They don't know my cousins kids - who when they call me 'auntie' make my heart sing - I can only imagine what it must be like to hear 'great-grandpa/ma'.

I lost my other two grandparents at a young age: But I know they are there somewhere too. I have to believe that. I have short bursts of memories but I can just barely remember my grandfather's grunting farmer's voice, or the way my grandmother smelled of Oil of Olay and how her cheek was so smooth.

These four people are such a big part of me. Our grandparents are such a big part of us - yet only with us for such a brief part of our lives. They are the ones who raised our parents to be the people they are. They are the ones who baked apple pies and butter tarts and let you lick the spoon. They are the ones who tried to teach you to golf and fish - even if you were a girl who barely cared (I knew ice cream would come later, and having ice cream with him was the best). They were the ones who held out their arms as you raced to them. The ones who rubbed your back until you fell asleep. The ones who bought you an extra toy or book and told you not to tell your mum. They took you on tractors and taught you how to milk cows. They made dolls with you and paper masks. They threatened to throw you in the snow bank but tickled you instead. They were the ones who had something special that made you feel like the whole world.

Grandparents are the best - we love them and miss them. Think of your grandma or grandpa today - if they are alive call them and tell them you love them. And if not, believe that they can hear you whisper how much you miss them . . .

Coffee

As I've mentioned before, I'm really more of a tea girl. Coffee used to make my stomach upset (most things used to make my stomach upset; I've realized now, belatedly of course, that stress was the real stomach-ache-causing culprit.)

I have, however, learned to a) manage my stress and b) really enjoy coffee. And not just the frou-frou lattes and cappuccinos and caramel macchiatos of my past, oh no. I like regular coffee.

Every morning (give or take) my husband wakes up before me and prepares our daily coffee. He grinds the beans, preps the french press, pours just the right amount of cream and sugar into two mugs. He's got this down to a fine art by now, and it's one, for all my efforts, I just can't seem to reproduce. I can make a killer pot of tea--perfectly steeped, without the bitterness most people claim is attendant to tea, and the reason why they 'don't really like it'. I just can't get a handle on the coffee thing. I grind the beans too much (or not enough), leave the brew too long, never quite know the correct ratio of coffee to cream to sugar.

This is the reason, I suppose, why lifelong partnerships evolve. One has to know how to make the coffee for the morning, and the other has to know how to make the before-bed-relaxation tea.

Or the before-bed cocktail. I'm good at those, too.

Working Out

I don't mean reluctantly donning running shoes, dragging yourself to the gym, or sweating through an aerobics class. I mean sitting down every day and using the muscles that keep your mind limber. No one likes the sluggish, lazy, flabby feeling of heading back to the gym after a long absence. One might, in fact, be tempted never to go again, allowing the slow creep of weight and weakness win. Mental muscles, writing muscles, are not so very different. They atrophy just the same as physical muscles, if allowed to sit useless for too long.

I have never been a good diarist. My private diaries (and earlier attempts at online ones) show gaping holes, great long periods of time in which either nothing happened or, more likely, I just didn't write about it. I forget that scribbling a few words in my notebook, or onto the computer, is a tonic against the encroaching flabbiness of a mind left to fend for itself.

Like the girl who steps on the scale thinking, naively perhaps, she may have gained a pound or two only to realize she's gained ten or twenty, the writer's brain can grow thick with disuse. In my experience, many people are quick to exclaim, "Oh, I'd love to write a book someday!" or "I have a great idea for a novel!" or "I could totally do that!" These are, I fear, the same kind of people who say, "I can lose ten pounds, no problem," while stuffing their faces full of chocolate.

Saying it doesn't make it happen.

Claiming it doesn't make it truth.

The only thing that gets a novel written is sitting down and writing it. All the good intentions in the world are never going to get those words on the page or give those fabulous ideas form.

I'm sorry, do you hear crickets?

Oh, yes, it's just everyone I know saying, "Doesn't the same thing go for writing query letters, Grace? And sending them to agents? And getting all those years of hard work out there, in trade paperback format and preferably with a several-book deal?"

Yes. Yes, it does.

The subject of fear--fear of failure, fear of success--is probably a topic for another entry. Or two. Or eighty. Until then? Work out! Go to the mental gym and get those words on paper. As for me? I'm formulating query letters (I am!), writing blogs, and adding to a novel a little bit every day. It's better than sitting in front of the television eating potato chips! Though, a trip to the real gym might not be a bad idea, either...

The Airport

While many people despise and loath it, I have to say that the airport happens to be one of my most favorite places on the planet. Probably any airport. If I find myself in one, I'm usually heading off to a land where I have wanted to go, meeting up with old friends or new ones, or travelling by myself to enjoy the my own company. Where I'm welcoming someone or shedding tears, I crave it intensely. I am so devoted to the airport and airplanes, I dated a guy going to flight school for a couple of months too long so that I could pick his brain on the subject of flight.

Where did this all start? When did my love for travel begin? And for me, it's not just the destination I enjoy the most, it's the actual traveling---the buzz of all the different languages, the international gates, passport in hand, ticket, boarding the aircraft, and knowing it's going to take off, and soon enough I'll have my iPod plugged into my ears, a glass of red, and the excitement of finding out which movies will be played on board. I crave traveling with British Airways so I can have my own personal set in front of me--all the films I have been meaning to watch are magically in front of me, and I get to waste the next 7 to 9 hours watching whatever I want, and getting tipsy. This, for me, is heaven. Call me simple, but these are the pleasures that I enjoy.

Of course, there are the people you meet, that you keep in touch with, making plans to meet up again soon but with a different scenery. Will they be the same when you meet again? What adventures will happen this time around. You can never be completely sure.

Since the beginning of this year, I have travelled to Europe twice and discovered something very important. Usually, when I travel for a period of time, I'm always happy to come home. I'm always happy to land in the Vancouver International Airport, I'm pleased to see the mountains, and relieved to lie down in my own bed. Now.....when I arrive home, I feel a sense of hopelessness--I'm suddenly back to same old same old, and my experiences seem as faded as old wallpaper. I have never lived or worked overseas, but the yearning to do so starts to eat away at me. What would I be able to do for work? Where would I go? How can I do all of this? Will it work? It's all risk. But then I wonder what would I be risking the most: staying home where it is safe, and where I pretty much know what I'm going to get? That's alright if I try a new Starbucks that opened on another block, but there is something to be said about moving to a completely different environment, allowing the fear and excitement to enter, and not having the answers I would usually have if I were at home. I would risk comfort to hear accents around me, to be forced to learn another language, to take the plunge. There is nothing holding me back but me.

A few years ago, I decided that every couple of years had to sum up to an exciting chapter that will become my book of memoirs. I've spent many years reading about others and their exciting lives. Now I'm curious to see how my story will go when I pick up my own book in the years to come.

Bright Side

I am a pretty happy person. Very happy, I would say. I see the good in all things, and my friends often come to me for encouragement and a little bit of pep. The why the hell can't I do that for myself?

My good friend Grace was the first to bring it to my attention as I read through an email of a certain foreign gentleman that I fancy (like, really fancy) and for one reason or another, I did not get what I wanted out of the email. It was not a bad email. It was actually quite lovely. It's just that I found one thing--one teeny tiny thing that created doubt in my brain, and then all hell breaks loose at work. Am I going nuts? Nobody likes me everybody hates me? Am I destined to be Crazy Cat Woman and live in an attic drinking martinis before noon?

Grace put the facts straight in front of me--Where I'm a fabulous cheerleader for other people, I see the negative when it comes to my own stuff. "What?" I yelled at the computer (Grace is in NYC, I'm in Van City, so there you go) I've always prided myself as the one who always saw the light at the end of the tunnel, that had a good attitude, that was always positive, because really, if you throw the good stuff out there, the universe will respond. Bull--SHIT! Grace was right. Totally right. When wonderful and glorious things happen, I like to find the itty bitty things--the things that bring doubt--the "What if" and "This is too good to be true." Am I turning into a poopy pants? When will I ever look at the Bright Side? Did I ever look in that direction in the first place or was I just kidding myself?

Two nights ago--panic attack--one that my roommate witnessed and I sure as hell know that I freaked her out. And that feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if nothing would go right, and it was all over--at my 28th year. Scary. Very scary. Why do I do thins and how does this happen? I'm starting to piece together why and how, and I start actually looking at the Bright Side I thought escaped me. Baby steps. One foot at a time. Nothing is lost if I only dream big and believe. The bills will get paid, I will be loved, and I'll live overseas. It all works out. It's only my panic that gets in the way.

New York: It's Not All Sex and the City

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that women of a certain age, in possession of cable, or at least a DVD player, must be in want of a life like the ladies of HBO's Sex and the City.

Or at least that's how it seems to me.

I could not possibly count (or recount) the number of times my news of the imminent move to New York City was followed by one or the other of my girlfriends saying something along the lines of, "Oh, it'll be just like Sex and the City! I can so picture you there, Grace!"

My dear ladies, I am here to break some very bad news to you: there may be women in this city living like Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda, but I certainly am not one of them. And neither, I think, would most of you be. Upon signing my lease (including the writing of a check larger than any I had ever signed before in my life, except, perhaps for tuition payments at university) I was distressed and disappointed to realize the one (tiny) bedroom in Park Slope didn't include a wardrobe full of Prada bags, Laboutin pumps, or von Furstenburg wrap dresses! Hell, it didn't even include curtains! (I still don't have any.)

My husband recently told me about an article or essay he read in which New York was described something like this: In New York City the middle class feels as though it's barely hanging on (to comfort, stability, the dream of wealth) whereas the rich live like the middle class of basically every other major North American city. And then, of course, there are the Very, Very Rich: the movie stars, the media moguls, the CEOs, the top lawyers, the Old Money of the Upper East Side. Sound familiar?

Sex and the City, for all its charm, and all its sometimes frighteningly truthful and accurate depiction of relationships (who hasn't known a Mr. Big? or perhaps turned down an Aidan and always regretted it?) is about the Very, Very Rich. Carrie, as the token poor(er) friend still lives in a ridiculously large apartment, and owns a ridiculously large wardrobe.

The New York of Sex and the City is a dream, an ideal, a slice of reality made polished and pretty and perfect. The Real New York is a little (OK, sometimes a lot) dirty, noisy, frenetic, often rude. It is also the most inspiring, vibrant, culturally alive place I have ever been (except, perhaps, for Paris, but that is another story, another ideal.) When I sit in my coffee shops to work, I am surrounded, I know, by other artists--I can see them working away on their gorgeous Apple computers, designing clothes, studying scripts, or, like me, writing blogs and novels and screenplays and poetry.

My life may be nothing like Carrie's, except for the similarity of our work (I could never pull off those outfits anyway) and I, for one, will count myself lucky if I ever own but a single pair of Manolos. Until then? Payless really has some fabulous deals, and I am content knowing that I live and work in a city where a world of possibilities is out there waiting for me to find my niche!

Searching for Happiness . . . .

Every morning I wake up, brush my teeth, eat some yogurt, and then take two very important pink pills. Without these two pink pills the first three parts of my morning would be an incredibly difficult ordeal.

My name is Stella and I am depressed. On the outside no one would ever think that I was a depressed type. But that is the sneaky thing about depression - it hits those you wouldn't expect and it hits each of us differently. I am very open about my illness (and that is what it is) hoping to inspire others to open up, inspire others to not treat mental illness as taboo, and to inspire others to seek help.

I grew up in a lovely household with two parents who are still married. They were devoted to me and their marriage. We never lacked anything in my household. I had hot food on a cold day, a cozy bed, and plenty of toys. I saw the world before I was 20. I had a very good education and achieved high grades. I live in a pretty house with pretty things. I have lots of friends and a very loving boyfriend. All these things put together made my friends skeptical that I could ever be sad.

But I was, and still am from time to time. Depression sneaks up on you like a dark shadow on a blustery autumn night. At first it comes for short visits that leave you broken and shattered - but still strong enough to put back those pieces. Then it comes for more and more visits, and - like a nasty house guest - stays well past its welcome and eats all of your chocolate. And one day you wake up and depression is laying with you in bed. It gets up and brushes its teeth. It eats the yogurt. You try to outsmart it by appearing happy and together. This is exhausting - so that in private moments you can't move or with those you hold very very dear you start to unfold your true self.

One day I knew that when I threw a tantrum that left me huddled and sobbing in my shower, things were not normal. By this time I had gone to the therapy, talked with the friends, walked through the woods. So came my big decision, it was time for medication.

Medication is a bad word like mental illness. Once you fill that prescription you are admitting failure on some level. I could not take care of this with words or sounds, I could not rid this shadow from my body. That is what I thought. But walking through the city with a small piece of paper in my hands I suddenly felt liberated and free. When he handed over my bottle of pink (yes, they are pink) pills I held them with a knowledge that I would come back to myself.

Three weeks later I sat by a lake in the last days of summer. As I watched the sun dance on the water and heard the far off laughter and splashing of children I woke up. A fog that I was so used to that I could barely feel it, lifted. I saw life again and saw the beauty and the wonder. I felt like the girl before. The girl who went into hiding.

So I talk and tell this to people. Because there are lots of sad (or anxious or panicky) people out there who need help but are ashamed. I urge you to set yourself free.

The Art of the Coffeeshop (Or Tea Room)

Day Two: Entry Two. I'm on a roll.

For those not in the know, I have recently pulled up my roots on the West Coast of Canada and am in the process of attempting to set down new ones on the East Coast of the United States. One of the most difficult things to leave behind was--aside from friends and family and my precious cat, of course--my community of coffee shops and tea rooms. I know, I know, you're saying "Grace, there's a Starbucks on every corner of every major town--sometimes even two across the street from each other!" (Or perhaps that's just in the city I left behind: the kitty-corner Starbucks phenomenon.)

Let me just put this out there to get it all cleared up straightaway: all coffee shops are not created equal. Heck, even all Starbucks are not created equal. Why, for example, do some have a plethora of comfy chairs and sofas, while others offer only two or three painfully hard wooden chairs? Why do some have electrical outlets, and others only a barren landscape of unbroken taupe-y walls?

I like coffee, and my husband, bless him, makes me my daily cup in the morning. Every now and again, when I feel the urge, I'll partake of a cappuccino or a latte. But for the most part, I am a tea girl. Black, green, white; oolong, rooibos, fruit tisane: I'll take it all. (Another thing left behind was my vast stockpile of teas. I think there were about fifty of them. Now I have one sad little box of Tetley Orange Pekoe teabags in my house. Blech.)

Back to the art of the shop, however. Not for me the clean, sparse, zen-type-shop, oh no. I like comfy couches; dark wood; electrical outlets (I'm a writer. The coffee shop is my office!); tea served in teacups and teapots; milk and honey; as wide a variety of teas as can be kept fresh; quiet, unobtrusive music; an attitude of stay-as-long-as-you-want, here-have-some-more-hot-water; good scones (wanting Devonshire cream and jam to go with is just a pipe-dream, I know); warm colours; free wifi.

What? It's not like I asked for the moon on a string, is it?

To be fair, even though I've had a few favourite haunts, I'm still looking for this elusive and perfect spot. The place I'm sitting in right now really only misses the mark in terms of music (too loud) and as it's only our second "date" so I haven't learned the ropes of good-scones-more-hot-water. It's looking good so far, though. There will definitely be a date number three.

I still miss my Italian-style, classically-beautiful, fabulous chai, wonderful music coffee shop though...but I couldn't have written this blog entry there: they definitely fell down in the wifi department!

Slurpie Head

Woke up this morning under a pile of blankets all tucked in around me, toque on my head and only my little nose exposed to the elements. The cold smelled crisp. My cellphone alarm went off, and reluctantly I freed my arm from my warm cocoon and turned the alarm off. Checked the time. 7am.

It is so hard to convince oneself to get up when it's warm under the covers- and outside of the covers you can see your breath. I count to three and throw back the blankets- Then make a dash out of my bedroom, through my icy living room and into the practically frosted over bathroom to immediately throw the shower into a state of hot water and steam.

In half an hour the furnace installers would be here. Thank God.

It's 10:30 now- and two men (one of them 6'3") are in my low ceiling basement, banging and drilling away. I'm in my living room where I've lit a fire in the fireplace- and all the candles I have. It takes the edge off- but I still require two sweaters, fuzzy slippers, and a blanket. My computer provides warmth on my lap. I'm considering having some wine.

When my brain thaws, I'll think about what to write in a blog. For now- I'll just let the word "blog" slosh around in the slurpy inside my head. Blog. Blog. . . Blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog. Blog. . . That's a stupid word.

Writing and Procrastination: Why?

Writing is fun. I love writing. Sometimes I feel like I could write all day long. Hell, sometimes I do write all day long.

And then. It strikes. The P word. It's a disease. Insidious. Procrastination. When all of a sudden making a pot of tea (or two, or three, and hey, maybe I should make scones to go with this tea. Scones from scratch! But I need strawberry jam and Devonshire cream to go with them...I'd better run to the grocery store. Oh! And I was going to head to Sephora to buy that lip stuff from Stila. I should get some new foundation, too, since I'm almost out. What should I have for dinner? If I start right now I'm sure I could whip up some gourmet French Onion Soup, followed by a Mesclun Salad with Mango, and hey, how about Pork Chops with Onion and Apple Compote? I haven't even thought about dessert!) oh yes, making that pot of tea turns into an entire day spent away from the novel, the screenplay, the poem, the blog for goodness' sake.

And I like writing. I love writing. Writing makes my world go 'round.

I'm not sure I have an answer for this. If I had an answer, I'd probably be a lot further along in the novel I'm working on, or I'd have finally figured out the perfect way to open my far-too-overdue query letter for Novel That Is Finished Already.

But this leads me to this very humble beginning of a blog, because I know many other writers also plagued by the disease of procrastination and this is, in my own small way, an inoculation against it. It may be almost insignificant, it may not even (or ever, for that matter) have a readership, but it is a place I'm supposed to show up to every day.

Writers don't, for the most part, have offices. We don't get up and get ready for work. (90% of The Novel That Is Finished Already was written whilst in the most unflattering, huge and comfortable flannel PJ pants you've ever seen.) We don't--especially when we're starting out, and in the time before agents and editors--have anyone to hold us accountable. No bosses, no secretaries, nothing. Nada. So this is the office for my dear ladies of letters, my dear friends plagued by writer's block and procrastination. Here we stand (or sit), fingers at the keyboard, minds at the ready.

Sephora can wait until I've written a word or a paragraph or a page. It's not like they're selling out of foundation any time soon.