At the end of February, I got sick (i.e. fever, chills) for the first time in over a decade! Spent a solid week sleeping. By Friday, the local print shop’s bookkeeper rang. Due to some twisted financial dilemma, my service was “no longer required.”

Translation? Lay-off.

My reaction? HYSTERICS! O.o

House-mates and friends found me mad for my fit of laughter. I’d just lost my only source of income, and I’m a college graduate aching to repay loans. Why so giddy?

Freedom! Adventure! The battle cries of a crazy writer.

Fate brought me to the doorstep of wild fantasy: pack up and leave. With nothing left to tie me down, I might as well swallow my fears and do what all my supportive friends constantly remind me writers are required to do–explore the world, collect backlogs of stories. I’ve toyed with the idea before; even set it up as the ultimate goal for one of my main characters. But my own cling to responsibility always held me back. I had no way to survive when I got wherever I would go.

So what?

Hell, I’ve spent the past few years making several great friends across the globe. Grab a tank-full of fuel and hit the road! First stop: Rochester, NY.

Unfamiliar sights, limited support, potential gold mine for jobs. So far, the latter’s been slow and somewhat discouraging. I set up my laptop in the local Borders (of course!–where else?) and work. Cover letters, applications, novels, scripts. Same old story, same old song.

But wait! That horn comes not from my iTunes library…I turn, discover a brass quintet warming up for an evening performance!

My mood switches from drowsy to giddy.

The group not only performed Bach’s “Little Fugue” (one of my favourites), but reminded me why I love to travel. To be in the centre of action, always on guard for the latest exposure to things that tickle my muse. The reason I embrace the path I’m on.

As their sole attentive audience member (does no one appreciate good music?), I listened intently, applauded from my corner of the cafe. My only regret is that I didn’t have my camera on hand (note to self: always carry camera!) to film anything for show, but I did snap a phone-shot of the group. Afterwards, I approached to thank them for the night and caught the ensemble’s name: The Chameleon Brass Quintet, out of UR’s Eastman School of Music. Bravo! Encore!

…I am now nostalgic for the trumpet I left behind XD

Given recent discussions on a new edition’s removal of the word nigger from Mark Twain’s ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN, I’d like to share my own thoughts on the matter. As a writer, I have strong opinions on censorship and banned books, to a point where I wholeheartedly strive to join the Greats (L’Engle, Bradbury, Twain, etc.) and achieve status on the Banned Book List.

Why the desire to be considered controversial? These are the stories that make a difference in society! The successful tales that express truth and open people’s minds to possibilities beyond the ‘comfort’ realm. The exact reasons they’re considered for censorship are the foundation of why they MUST be read and studied.

Book censorship has long been part of the American society. What’s caused the uproar this time? A “simple” switch of the words nigger and injun to slave and Indian. The hope? Removal of Twain’s classic from the Banned shelf. I’m game for more access to a treasured story, but at what cost?

The New York Times article opens: What’s the harm? Does one word alter the whole story?  YES! Many people deny this, believing the switch is good because, politically, it cancels any negative connotations.

Really???

Think about it: how does “slave” or “Indian” hurt less when used in the derogatory sense? I could make spaghetti snotface sound derogatory if I worked the right context. There’s the trick, isn’t it? Context, perspectives, and interpretations shape everything.

In every writing class I’ve ever taken–literary analysis, poetry, fiction, whatever–one lesson remains constant: word choice is crucial and therefore must be considered wisely.

A writer’s diction drives the impact her piece has on readers, especially in light of varying perspectives.

Katie ran down the street, away from her pursuer, Chuck.

What does that image convey? The language leaves the sentence open to interpretation. Readers will conjure their own ideas on how they view running. But if I want to express a specific tone with the image, I’d choose words that fit:

Katie rushed down the street, away from her pursuer, Chuck.

In the example above, what comes to mind (at least for me) is somewhat negative. Panic. Fear. Katie doesn’t want Chuck chasing her. She’s racing away. Readers can surmise she has a frown on her face. Wide eyes, maybe some tears. Let’s try again with a different word:

Katie skipped down the street, away from her pursuer, Chuck.

Now, readers can envision a smile on Katie’s face. Perhaps she’s laughing because the guy she likes is chasing her as part of a game. Positive tone.

Language means everything.

Mark Twain himself said: “the difference between the right and wrong word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.” <–BEAUTIFUL image, that is. Lightning is bright, obnoxious, and scary to many people. But a lightning bug? Small insect = less threatening.

Twain knew what he was doing. He chose words to express certain ideas. Nigger and Injun were vernacular in Huck Finn’s time. Huck didn’t realise the offence in them; he spoke how he was taught. Changing that alters the story because it removes the tone Twain meant for his story to have: the historical accuracy of the period!

@JimmyMakDaddy tweeted: “By taking the racism out of “Huckleberry Finn,” that means it never happened! Soon, we’ll fix history so that whites never F’d up.” Censoring literature invalidates the truest records we have of our history. Through fiction, truth prevails. Denying that to literature is just another way to control what people know about human history.

Racism happened. It sucks, it’s wretched, and it forever dominates how people interact with one another. Unless we educate ourselves. Use literature as a device from which to teach and learn about society and cultures.

Some folks feel we must protect ourselves and our children from certain values or beliefs, as if sheltering them means the world’s negativity doesn’t exist. For that reason, censorship is seen as righteous.

But consider the wise words of one of my favourite fictional characters from the 1990′s–

Colorado Springs discovered “evil horrors” that lie within their new library’s pages. Books about selling one’s soul to the devil (Faust) or an unwed mother (The Scarlet Letter)–OUTRAGEOUS, especially given the time period.

But I adore Michaela’s response to the town’s close-minded desires to censor their literary exposure. She approaches the church with “A book that tells of a father who sacrificed his own daughter. A book that tells of a man who was married to more than one woman at the same time. This book even has a passage in it describing how God accepted a bet from the devil.” The townspeople cringe and gasp while the Reverend praises Dr. Mike for her new insight and agreement that such a book without a doubt, MUST be banned.

Then she hands the book to the Reverend and his face turns sour. The townsfolk ask what book could host such ‘evil.’ Dr. Mike turns to them and says: “The Holy Bible.”

But I didn’t ditch homework this year, because I’m a ‘College Graduate.’ Instead of homework and finals, I have work, which is a lot harder to flake on, especially when you depend on that weekly cheque for food and gasoline.

A fine line exists among priorities for a writer. On the one hand, work is crucial–any work, as long as it pays the bills. On the other hand, for careerist writers like myself, lack of sufficient time to focus on the craft is one of the biggest stressors imaginable. Writing consumes my mind to a point where I break down if I don’t get in a daily or weekly quota.

The result? November has come and gone, but I don’t feel recovered. The balance between work and craft still fights to be found. It’s tough to have writing as a priority when it’s not a reliable source of income.

I don’t, despite the insanity, because it’s the one time a year when I get any real work accomplished [or so it seems]. But this year differs because I’ve gone the rebellious route–in lieu of a novel, my 2010 project will link several short memoir pieces under a common theme: Side Effects. It will represent the ripples created throughout my life and how they shape who I’ve become, where I’m headed, etc.

Preparation is hailed as the most important factor in achieving NaNoWriMo success. Not the biggest problem for folks venturing a fictitious realm, but what of us memoir rebels? Memoir is [based on] fact. Tales of a person’s life, told as truthfully as memory allows. Preparation, then, is an effortless task. It’s all stored in the mind for easy access and has limited possibilities.

Wrong.

Preparation for memoir, I find, requires more time than fiction. Fiction opens opportunity to go somewhere unexpected with the story. Non-fiction has its foundation in reality, yet anyone could easily write on forever without a guide. That’s the goal of free-association. But each of my stories should have a purpose. A direction and theme toward which they must drive. That deems it necessary to plan what to include.

So when I sat down [yesterday] to begin my preparation, my first step was relevancy. Would I like to write about how I had a blast getting lost at Blizzard Beach? Of course! So much potential. Is it relevant to my ‘ripples’ theme? Maaaybe if I stretched it far and wide. With 30 days to answer to, I’d rather not waste my time cherishing something that is sure to get cut by the next draft.

The brilliant thing about memoir, though, is if there are tiny bits here and there that fit the larger theme, the Judgment of Creativity law states a writer can merge those ideas into one.  Did I have many people throughout my childhood actively supporting my writer-career decision?

…actually, no. We’re all equally poor.

But if I did, I could merge those names into one character, et voilà! Magical miracle: a montage-esque memoir.

Another benefit of the creativity license is changing names, switching traits for certain characters. Simple ways to avoid that always-dreadful comment from rellies–you know, the one that resembles “This is how you think I am?!” and is unfortunately harder to avoid answering excuse in memoir v. fiction.

It’s important to stay true to a story and not fixate on how readers will take it. Some will love it, others resent it. As with everything else in the world.

If you’re like me, you’ll milk creativity dry. It’s memoir, not biography. It’s my POV, no one else’s. I can refer to my characters however I want because it’s my story to tell.

BUT, for sanity’s sake, names will stay as is until after November. No use making a list of changes from [my] reality now, after all. November is challenging enough!

On that note, guess what: We’ve made it! One year of [almost] consistent blogging and still alive. A milestone worthy of celebration, especially given how difficult it is to maintain a routine writing schedule. But where to go from here? With so many ways to handle a blog, I’m only starting to get a feel for what works on my end. One thing I have planned is more analysis-type posts. They’re enjoyable, interactive, and essentially required when studying the craft of writing (regardless of genre).

Send along your ideas, too–what “new” blogging stuff should I venture now that I’ve mastered the art of discipline?

(my proudest project to-date)

The weekend resulted in the final steps of a now- finished project…

…in terms of sewing.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s great news! I love the thrill that accompanies the final stages of a work-in-progress. But that’s the thing–the thrill holds hands with my sewing and my knitting. Notsomuch my writing.

Theory–
I’m highly visual. That allows me to see physical progress on craft-type WIPs. What exists on paper for novels is instead woven in fabric/yarn and as it takes shape, my soul is uplifted. Once a project’s finished, that’s it. Stitches are bound off, or tied together, wearable or usable depending on what’s been made.

Harvesting giddiness out of writing is an imaginative challenge. Writing is [typically] black letters on white background. In that sense, yes, it’s visual. Context, however, requires endless hours of grot’s work.

Resolve plot holes, make a character’s motivations likeable. There’s no definitive end outside a writer’s judgment that said piece is ready, or her decision to abandon more revisions.

Conclusion–
Fiction’s lack of visual shaping explains my lack of a progressive “high.”

Other ways to channel energy into writing exist. Sifting unnecessary words and scenes, shifting sequential events, adding flavourful characters. Read through older writing after weeks, months, years, etc. illustrates a story’s transformation.

Despite all that, I continue to feel I get more accomplished in terms of fibre than I do writing. Who has the remedy?

Supposedly.

The past few weeks remind me why it’s best to leave the genie alone and not request a “normal, busy” lifestyle.  For a hypersensitive, needing space to relax and be alone is a necessity. Denied that, the soul grows weak. Brain function fails. Eyes droop and drool dribbles down to the desk from which I’m currently typing.

Despite my mood, the moment I get back from work, the one and only thing on my mind is urgency. Not mere desire, but obligation to write/revise at least a few hundred words of “Weekend Funeral” before crashing. No questions, nothing else matters. The day is incomplete without that quota.

Then I wonder:

October awakens and the National Novel Writing Month‘s boards reset for another year. Excitement builds, writer families start their month-long reunions.

Does my sudden motivation steam from the atmosphere? Perhaps. On some level, though, I believe the answer is exhaustion itself. Everyone must work; it’s how bills get paid. True writers get their extra, unpaid work accomplished in the bits of spare time picked up around day jobs. Down time, social lives–wait, what’s that mean?–typically crucial elements of life get put on hold for the sake of revising last week’s chapter, or crossing the 20k line. We all do it as we race against the clock. Sleep waits till December because hell, we have a deadline that MUST be met.

I’m not a slacker. What I seek out, I achieve. I played the quitter card as a child, but I’m over that. Excuses are juvenile in the face of reality. People make time for the things they need. I need writing. Creativity. They’re my blood. The energy that pumps through my veins, fuelling my life.

Is sleep deprivation, then, the secret to NaNoWriMo success? Should it be channelled into a regular routine outside the month of November? At what cost?

Terrifying way to introduce a lecture on television scripting. By the end of the seminar, we had a grand set up involving the main character, Sophia, successfully achieving paparazzi pictures of Sean Penn’s ruined wedding ceremony ^.^

My pursuit of screen-writing has only been active just under a year, but I’ve learnt a few things along the way. This seminar allowed me to understand why television is structured with seven acts and taught me the five crucial elements needed to create effective, marketable teleplays.

So what’s the “big secret” to television? The five crucial elements (drum-roll, please):

I. protagonist
II. protagonist’s need
III. stakes in protagonist’s way
IV. antagonist
V. opposite need of protagonist

Okay–not too shocking, if you know anything about writing. Every good story requires these elements.

Alan Zatkow, the guest-speaker, noted repeatedly that with all the scripts out there, agencies look for reasons to disqualify you without a single read. If script-readers find your story lacking an element, or parts of it, for whatever reason, you’re gone (eek! watch out for typos!)

With each day in my screen-writing studies, I find it easier and entertaining to dissect the shows I watch. For this reason, even though a lot of what the seminar taught seems like one big DUH, the discussion on the “Seven-Act” structure fascinates me the most.

Television shows, as a rule, have three story-lines per episode (A, B, C). Each story must have the typical beginning/middle/end structure. Yes, math geeks (and I use that term with endearment, of course), that adds up to nine, not seven. Here’s where Zatkow’s explanation fuels my dissection hobby:

The final acts for A and B are meant to collide, creating controlled chaos. In other words, chaos planned by the author–a concept I love to employ!

The more an author combines stories in an episode (this includes A, B, and C), the more brilliant her talents appear to script readers.

Very cool.

Aside from networking and doubling my motivation for graduate school, Saturday’s seminar has added a new layer to my telly-watching radar.

Zatkow’s emphasis on structure creates a strong parallel between television writing and music composition: Structure MUST exist, but when an author combines the right amounts of complexity and originality to that structure, it disappears in the action. The story drives emotions, reels in the audience, and passes time. Makes studying shows somewhat of a treasure hunt with distractions, but I’m up for the challenge!

Besides, rules are “more like guidelines,” anyway

She wakes before dawn, stacks her kayak on the car. Once satisfied the boat’s strapped and secure, she crawls behind the wheel and pulls out onto the road. Ten, fifteen minutes. A familiar over-pass comes into sight. The car slows as she turns into the gravelled parking lot. One car greets her. Probably an older couple out for a brisk stroll around the preserve. Or perhaps another solo-explorer, hiking with her dog.

Providing company to she who hath none.

A yawn stretches across her face. Why am I here so early, and alone? she wonders. The kayak splashes as it’s placed against the river, waiting amongst the rocks while she packs her bag and snaps the paddle in together. Shoes stuffed snug behind the seat. She pushes from shore and climbs in, lowering herself inside the cockpit. The chilled water dribbles down, forming a puddle by her toes.

Tranquillity envelopes her.

Nature’s morning show broadcasts: Insects buzz through overgrown vegetation. Ahead, the beaver glides through the gentle river.  He spots her and freezes, still as a rock. The kayak floats closer. She holds the paddle still in her lap, but her presence disturbs the rodent. With a tail-slap, he dives under.

The dam blocks her entrance to the lake. As she collides with stacks of woven twigs, the kayak stops. The impact pushes her away, but she climbs out and drags the boat over. It dips into the other side and she reaches out to stop its escape.

A breeze greets her as she flows onto the lake. Open water, surrounded by trees. No hums or cheerful screams; too dark for motor-boats. She follows the shore line, paddling against the wind. It holds her back–challenges her strength.

Naught but wind rips past her ears. A deep inhalation brings satisfaction. Joy. Paced to her standards, not a race against another.

Solitude. A communing, easeful circumstance.

“You must be Derrick,” she said, stretching for the back of her chair.

The extended arm was ignored. Instead, the boy jumped into a professional performance–one hard to consider seriously with him garbed in baggy jeans and a tee.

“I hear you’re the woman to get me started as a writer.”

“You heard correctly.”

“Okay then. Get me started.”

Blank stare, cue the sound effects. “You know the difficulties of being a writer, yes?”

“Writing is easy,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You sit around on your computer all day doing nothing.”

Mix in some dynamite, stir till explosion. “There’s more to writing than sitting at a computer all day. You have to produce words.”

Derrick shrugged. “Do that all the time. E-mails, instant chat, message boards.”

Bettina pursed her lips. “Your daily quota must add and relate to an actual story.” She didn’t bother to open the folder. The boy didn’t have a grasp on the hardships of writers; no way could she hire him to the team.

“Not a problem.”

“Oh, really.” She dug out a blank sheet of paper and pencil, placed it in front of him. “Prove it.”

Derrick shrank in his seat. “Prove it?”

She nodded, repeating her command, then plopped into her chair and watched the boy. Her arms crossed over her chest and a smile stretched across her face. “Write me a story.”

Derrick’s eyes darted back and forth as he stared at a void. “About what?”

“You tell me. You’re the one who wants to be a writer.”

“But you’re the Man Behind the Curtain. You’re supposed to provide the inspiration. How can I write without a direction?”

“Guess you’ll have to make something up. According to you, it’s easy.”

The pencil scratched across Derrick’s paper without enthusiasm. Bettina peaked over and saw a hangman stick-figure. The clock read nine-oh-five. Derrick caught her eye and sat straighter. He flipped the sheet over and drew words. A pause, pencil tip against his lip. More words. Scratching became his soundtrack, a steady rhythm. Scratch, scratch. Pause. Scratch, scratch. Pause.

The clock read five-oh-three.

“Day’s over.” Bettina sipped her coffee and lowered her paper just enough to see Derrick’s reaction.

“Over?!” He leapt to his feet, pencil still in hand. “I spent the day writing one page!”

“A page. Impressive.”

“How is that impressive?” His voice squeaked as it reached its high register. “I’ve been sitting here killing my brain and all I got is one lame page.”

Bettina picked up the pages. “There’s two here.”

“No, that one–that’s rubbish. None of it’s really useful. Just a bunch of free-write.”

“A day in the life, Derrick.” His face drooped. “Still want to be a writer?”

He tossed the sheets at Bettina and turned to leave.

“Wait.” She handed them back. “Take this home and read over it.”

“Whatever.” His tone was dry, but he took the sheets and walked out.

“See you tomorrow,” she whispered and leaned back in her chair.

“Cut!”

Bettina strolled in, waving her hand through the stale air. Smoke trailed from her fingers and a faint glow emanated from the tip of her cigarette. “This is all wrong,” she said, settling into her routine pace of panic.

I huddled near the corner. “Um…” I cleared my scratchy voice and spoke a bit louder. “What’s all wrong?”

“This!” Bettina carried on with her gestural sign-language, as if the answer couldn’t be clearer. “Writers, coffee. Coffee, writers. They go hand-in-hand, darling. God sent out the memo years ago.”

I lifted a brow. “God,” I said with heavy emphasis, “insists that writers drink coffee.”

Bettina chuckled. “Insists? No.” She uncrossed one leg from the other and splayed her arms on the conference table. Her head dropped to the marble surface with a tap. “Honey, it’s top priority in the Writers’ Commandments.”

I lowered myself in the seat next to her and grabbed at my bottom lip. A sigh passed over my teeth. Writers’ Commandments. “Bumped ahead of what?”

“Oh, the usual. Punctuation. Style. Routines.” Bettina counted off her fingers, listing anything and everything related to writing. I felt a yawn stretch out and peaked at my watch. 23:47.

A fist pounded down in front of me. My chair wheeled back as I jerked. “You know,” I said, pulling back to the table, “most people are tucked in warm blankets by now. Heads supported by soft, welcoming pillows.” Speech slurred at the thought of sleep. Dreams awaiting my unconscious to fill them with adventure. Eyelids drooped. I tried to lift them, but someone had stuck cement inside, topped with a layer of bricks. I tossed my head, but even that failed to open my eyes.

“Most people have normal jobs. Writing consumes you, rots your organs when you disobey. That’s why we invented coffee. It’s the only poison weapon strong enough to penetrate your bones, meld with your bloodstream for a rush that’s just long enough to MEET YOUR QUOTA!” Bettina pressed a megaphone against my ear.

I leapt to attention, too scared to risk the chair again.

“So what are we going to do now?”

“Plug in a coffee IV, ma’am!”

“Good girl. Now: One more thing, before you go.” Bettina tucked the megaphone under her armpit. “Arms up, like so.” She grabbed my arms and extended them out until they were positioned parallel with the floor, zombie-style. She pulled back and clasped her hands together, admiring her artwork. “Perfect.” A huge grin curled across her lips, reminiscent of the Grinch after his decision to rob Christmas from the Who-villes. Then, in a calm, quiet tone, she whispered: “Dismissed.”

“Must. Have. Coffee,” I said and staggered away in search of motivation.