Enroute to Newfoundland

18 08 2013

I’m off to our oldest/newest province today, a place I’ve never seen before except in a series of award-winning television ads that make it look like paradise.

I’m sure the reality will be slightly different, but I am already charmed about the experience because every single expat Newfoundlander I’ve met has been so fun, funny, and sweet. Surely a province full of such people and the natural glory of the landscape will be astonishing.
Toss in a few whales (figuratively speaking, one hopes), some puffins, Gros Morne, St. John’s, Trinity and Twillingate (they alliteratively remind me of Tweedledee and Tweedledum) and I am prepared for another wonderland.

I’ve been saving for this trip for a while, financially and physically. I’m travelling alone, joining a tour. I’ve never done a tour before. It’s been awhile since I travelled alone, except on the way to meet up with people. In fact, I think the last time was a trip to the Bloody Words conference and even then I knew people there. This will all be fresh, new, different.

I’m going to grow myself into the experience and deny myself technology, spend the time instead BEING THERE, instead of leaving one foot at home. That will be hard, too. As a person with MS who spends a great deal of time at home, technology has been my connection. But I need a break.

So off I go, radio silence soon, and just me and some newbies and a fair number of folks from all over to meet. Puffins ho!

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Monkeyminding

29 04 2012

ImageMy brain is busy. I went to a workshop at the excellent Writer’s federation this week and learned I should rewrite my novel from the beginning to make it sing. I’m blanking out a bit with horror at the thought as I’ve over 80,000 words invested already and I feel sad about sending them to perdition, a bit afraid that they may be insulted and never return.

I remember a story from my childhood where all the letters talked and had personalities. I still remember the illustrations, but can’t remember the title anymore. I even tried to poach it for a high school essay, but I’m sure mine wasn’t as mentally sticky as I can’t remember it at all. What I do recall is the idea that words had a life of their own, filled with opinions and prejudices and preferences. I wonder how they feel about the animosity toward adverbs, for example. Are adverbs the embarrassing relatives of the word family? Do they tell inappropriate jokes and pick their teeth at the table?

In any case, I think about them ganging up on me in my sleep and telling me off for wasting them. It’s a scary thought. Plus my fingers are already tired thinking about it, and my computer is in the shop.  

But, it has to be done. I need to wrestle the novel to the ground and minute revisions aren’t doing it. 

Meanwhile, in another portion of my brain, I’m revisiting an excellent book launch and having for the first time a wee fantasy about having one of my own.

But then my brain slides over to my trip to Newfoundland, and chatters about that for a bit. Or spring calls from outside the window. And time skitters away.

The letters are mumbling, though. They want me to get at them. Time to stop dreaming and get to work.





Monkeyminding

29 04 2012

ImageMy brain is busy. I went to a workshop at the excellent Writer’s federation this week and learned I should rewrite my novel from the beginning to make it sing. I’m blanking out a bit with horror at the thought as I’ve over 80,000 words invested already and I feel sad about sending them to perdition, a bit afraid that they may be insulted and never return.

I remember a story from my childhood where all the letters talked and had personalities. I still remember the illustrations, but can’t remember the title anymore. I even tried to poach it for a high school essay, but I’m sure mine wasn’t as mentally sticky as I can’t remember it at all. What I do recall is the idea that words had a life of their own, filled with opinions and prejudices and preferences. I wonder how they feel about the animosity toward adverbs, for example. Are adverbs the embarrassing relatives of the word family? Do they tell inappropriate jokes and pick their teeth at the table?

In any case, I think about them ganging up on me in my sleep and telling me off for wasting them. It’s a scary thought. Plus my fingers are already tired thinking about it, and my computer is in the shop.  

But, it has to be done. I need to wrestle the novel to the ground and minute revisions aren’t doing it. 

Meanwhile, in another portion of my brain, I’m revisiting an excellent book launch and having for the first time a wee fantasy about having one of my own.

But then my brain slides over to my trip to Newfoundland, and chatters about that for a bit. Or spring calls from outside the window. And time skitters away.

The letters are mumbling, though. They want me to get at them. Time to stop dreaming and get to work.








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