About ten years ago someone gave my mother an old upright piano. This act inspired her to take lessons, something she had wanted to do since she was a child. The lessons made her realize that learning to play the piano at a certain age isn’t the easiest thing to do. That old piano was used sparingly over the years, never getting a chance to really flourish…until this past holiday season.
My parents had a couple of Japanese students staying with them for Christmas. It was billed overseas as “Christmas in Canada” and children aged ten to sixteen had flocked to the Fraser Valley to get a taste of our indulgent Canadian-centric festivities. The two girls my parents took in were 14 and 15 years old. And the younger of the two girls was a bit of a piano prodigy, having started playing when she was two.
Because the girls could barely speak English (and because they were both probably quite nervous), they were drawn to the old piano. The piano may have been out of tune and a few of the keys may have played softer than the rest, but when the younger girl placed her fingers on the keys and began to play, you would never have known what state the piano was in. As she played, the richest, most beautiful music filled my parents’ home. It sounded like a recording it was so perfect. It made us laugh. It made us well up. It made us all wish we had sucked it up and learned to play an instrument when we were younger.
But it’s not like my parents didn’t try.
They pleaded with the six-year-old me to play the piano, or the guitar, or the saxophone. But the six-year-old me wanted nothing to do with sounds that weren’t made by firecrackers or pucks being hit against sticks. Four years later I threw them a bone and joined band class. My weapon of choice: the trombone. My adventure with the trombone lasted exactly eight months. It was an awkward instrument and I was heading into that awkward phase in a boy’s life. Too many awkwards meant a lot of screaming and yelling and hating everything…including the trombone.
It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I realized what I had lost by not learning to play an instrument. It was the same realization I had had about not learning another language. Music, like language, is a form of communication. The more forms of communication we have, the richer our lives are. The richness comes from our ability to interact and connect with more people. I write, because it is one of the few ways I can connect with the world outside of my small world here in Vancouver.
When I was in my twenties I was given an old computer filled with music production software. A lot of loop-based programs and drum sampler thingamajigs and what not. I got a kick out of playing around with them. And that playing around eventually turned into an all-encompassing obsession. When I wasn’t working, or in school, I was “composing.” But the static loops and in-program instruments I was using to compose my “masterpieces” quickly got boring. So I bought a beat-up electric keyboard at Value Village and I got a microphone and I began to teach myself to play the piano so I could incorporate original music samples into my “compositions.”
At the time I was listening to a lot of MOBY and BOARDS OF CANADA and APHEX TWIN and THE ORB. I wanted to make music just like them. I couldn’t read a note of music, but that didn’t stop me. I have a bit of an ear for sound, so I made up my own notes and chords and began placing my recordings into my computer. Over the next four years I “composed” hundreds of original tracks. Some of the tracks could even be listened to more than once. One of those tracks was called THE DYING WEED.
Before YouTube and iTunes, there was a progressive and brilliant website/television program here in Canada produced by the CBC called ZeD. The concept behind Zed was that artists of every discipline could upload their creations to the ZeD website and potentially have their creations seen by a national audience. You see, the late-night TV show would acquire its content from those submissions. I uploaded my track THE DYING WEED on a whim and to my surprise they aired it as part of an ambient mix, and they even paid me for it. It was the first time I was ever paid for something I had created. Of course, it also made me believe I was a better musician than I actually was.
When I finally realized music wasn’t my forte, I wasn’t sad to let the “composing” go. What I couldn’t let go of was that yearning to properly play an instrument. I’ve been at parties where someone sits down at a piano, or pulls out a guitar and starts playing. It is a magical thing. People stop what they’re doing and pay attention. They get invested. They get moved. I still wanted another way to move people. A couple of years ago I took the plunge and bought a real piano and began taking lessons. But I, too, quickly found out just how difficult it is learning to play an instrument as an adult. The frustration of my clumsy fingers and my slow adult brain made me neglect the practice needed to progress. And eventually, made me neglect my piano altogether…until I heard the little Japanese girl play my mother’s piano over the holidays.
I knew I had to go back and give my piano the attention it deserved. I’m never going to be a rock star, but I know there’s a musician somewhere inside of me dying to get out. And even if I’m the only one who ever hears this musician, he deserves to be heard.
Here are a couple of my more accessible “compositions.
Opals
Pori
Saturday, 29 December 2012
Wednesday, 31 October 2012
Why I Grow My Mo
One look at me and you'd think I was the spawn of a werewolf. Or a Sasquatch. Yeah, I'm a pretty hairy fellow. When I was younger, I was super sensitive about my body hair...even embarrassed by it. But now, it's just a part of my character. And when November rolls around, I don't just appreciate my body hair...
I take full advantage of it.
Yes, it is Movember and for the second year I will be growing my moustache to raise money for men's health awareness, particularly prostate cancer.
Prostate cancer has impacted my life directly, taking a grandfather from me when I was very young. I was lucky enough to remember my grandfather and create a few good memories. But I wish there were more...
I don't want anyone else to lose a loved one to prostate cancer, so for the next month I will grow the biggest, bushiest moustache in the hopes that you will donate something (anything) to this great cause.
To donate to my moustache, please click the link: www.mobro.co/millinstacheattack
To learn more about Movember and where the raised money goes, please click the link: http://ca.movember.com/about/
Last year's progress:
My moustache thanks you.
I take full advantage of it.
Yes, it is Movember and for the second year I will be growing my moustache to raise money for men's health awareness, particularly prostate cancer.
Prostate cancer has impacted my life directly, taking a grandfather from me when I was very young. I was lucky enough to remember my grandfather and create a few good memories. But I wish there were more...
I don't want anyone else to lose a loved one to prostate cancer, so for the next month I will grow the biggest, bushiest moustache in the hopes that you will donate something (anything) to this great cause.
To donate to my moustache, please click the link: www.mobro.co/millinstacheattack
To learn more about Movember and where the raised money goes, please click the link: http://ca.movember.com/about/
Last year's progress:
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| Day 1 |
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| Day 20 |
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| Day 30 |
Thursday, 27 September 2012
My New York State of Mind
When I was fifteen I created a (sort of) Bucket List of countries and cities I wanted to visit before I died. It wasn't a grand list, because even at that young age, I wasn't interested in hot places, but it was a list nonetheless. And in some small way, that list that I made when I was fifteen contributed to the path I took in life.
My first great journey happened a couple years after making the list when I moved to Finland for a year. While I was there I was fortunate enough to see parts of Sweden and Russia, knocking three countries off my list.
Almost twenty years later I had seen every country/place on my list except for two. Until a couple of weeks ago.
Even at a young age New York seemed like a magical place to me. It seemed BIG and bright and creative and inspiring. As a want-to-be writer, it also seemed like the place I needed to be to make it. If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere, right? And besides, all the big publishing houses and literary agents were (and mostly still are) in New York. So when my girlfriend Jane suggested we save up and take a trip to New York in September, I knew I couldn't say no. I had been letting my problems and concerns (my everyday life) get in the way of this trip for way too long.
During our week in New York, we stayed in an apartment in Greenwich Village. Every time we walked out onto Bedford Street and into the Village, I felt like I was walking onto a movie set of every New York-centric movie I had ever seen (at least, the less grittier ones). I felt safe and alive. So many restaurants. So many bakeries and bars. So many people... So much history.
New York was everything I hoped it would be and more. I only spent a week there, but I knew coming home that I'd be back again. I crammed as much as I possibly could into the week, but I never got out of Manhattan (except for a jaunt over the Brooklyn Bridge into Brooklyn for about thirty minutes). And even then, the time I spent at the museums/parks/bookstores/libraries I went to, wasn't near enough time to adequately take them all in.
So how can I not go back?
I HEART New York!
My first great journey happened a couple years after making the list when I moved to Finland for a year. While I was there I was fortunate enough to see parts of Sweden and Russia, knocking three countries off my list.
Almost twenty years later I had seen every country/place on my list except for two. Until a couple of weeks ago.
Even at a young age New York seemed like a magical place to me. It seemed BIG and bright and creative and inspiring. As a want-to-be writer, it also seemed like the place I needed to be to make it. If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere, right? And besides, all the big publishing houses and literary agents were (and mostly still are) in New York. So when my girlfriend Jane suggested we save up and take a trip to New York in September, I knew I couldn't say no. I had been letting my problems and concerns (my everyday life) get in the way of this trip for way too long.
During our week in New York, we stayed in an apartment in Greenwich Village. Every time we walked out onto Bedford Street and into the Village, I felt like I was walking onto a movie set of every New York-centric movie I had ever seen (at least, the less grittier ones). I felt safe and alive. So many restaurants. So many bakeries and bars. So many people... So much history.
New York was everything I hoped it would be and more. I only spent a week there, but I knew coming home that I'd be back again. I crammed as much as I possibly could into the week, but I never got out of Manhattan (except for a jaunt over the Brooklyn Bridge into Brooklyn for about thirty minutes). And even then, the time I spent at the museums/parks/bookstores/libraries I went to, wasn't near enough time to adequately take them all in.
So how can I not go back?
I HEART New York!
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| View from ferry to Liberty Island |
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| New World Trade Center Building |
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| Part of the 9/11 Memorial |
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| Pianist in Washington Square Park |
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| Brooklyn Bridge |
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| Beautiful architecture seen from Brooklyn Bridge |
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| Beautiful and grand buildings everywhere |
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| Reflection off the MoMA |
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| Seen from the High Line |
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| Seen from the High Line |
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| Beautiful architecture seen in the financial district |
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| Jane and I in Central Park |
Tuesday, 28 August 2012
Something Far Worse Than A Mosquito Bite
During my Crow Toes Quarterly days, along with publishing the magazine I wrote a complimentary blog (under the guise of The Narrator) that told the stories in-between the publication of each issue. Because my staff was fictional, these stories were as fantastic and terrifying as any of the stories in the magazine. I tried to write a new story every week, but I quickly found my creative well empty. After suffering from an intense bout of writer's block for almost three weeks I tried something different...I tried writing a story about my writer's block and how I would make myself get through it. As I seem to be suffering from a wee bit o' the block now, I thought I'd return to that piece I wrote...and share it with you, just in case you're looking for a little inspiration.
I am suffering from something far worse than the flu...far worse than a pounding headache, or multiple mosquito bites. I am suffering from an extremely uncomfortable case of writer’s block. It is now going on three weeks and I’m afraid I’m never going to get rid of it. It is...my worst nightmare come to life.
The symptoms of writer’s block aren’t hard to miss: excessive tapping of fingers, gnashing teeth, constant yowls of, “ohhhhh”, walking in circles, opening and closing fridge doors, loss of hair (from pulling it too much), an inability to focus, finger cramps from hitting the delete/backspace button too much, brain cramps and persistent daydreaming.
To prove to you just how bad my writer’s block is, the two paragraphs above this one took me two weeks to write. I can’t imagine how long the rest of this blog entry is going to take. I better brew me another pot of coffee and heat up some cream of broccoli soup, because I’m not leaving this office until I’m done.
By all accounts, I should be a fountain of creativity right now. The Meddlesome Monster crew is gone and to thank us for our "hospitality" they’ve loaded up our office with great props (like a fifteen-foot laser cannon made out of balsa wood and modeling clay and a twelve-foot long rubber tentacle covered in plastic suction cups). The Fifteenth Issue is finally available and is one of our most creative issues ever. And if that isn’t enough, Christopher has been regaling us with dozens of amazing stories from this year’s Word on the Street in Vancouver, BC.
Words should be pouring out of my fingers and brain as easily as water pours out of a tap. But they aren’t.
My big concern (other than not being able to write without great difficulty) is where I caught this writer’s block from and whether or not I’m contagious. I would hate for Poinsettia to catch it, especially now when she’s so deep into her story about the Jersey Devil. Will wearing a mask and locking myself away in my office keep everyone else safe? I just don’t know.
If there was a pill or magic elixir that would make it all go away I would buy it no matter how much it cost. But alas, no one has been able to invent such a pill or elixir. It looks like the thousands of websites devoted to beating writer’s block are my only option. They are filled with great ideas (which are kind of like pills, but in word form), which fills me with hope. So I will push on, trying out a few of these ideas and hopefully I will bust that block into a billion tiny pieces. Hopefully...
Idea #1: Write! Write! Write! It doesn’t matter if it makes sense. Just start tapping away on that keyboard or writing away with that pen about anything and everything that comes to your head. Some folks call it stream of consciousness writing. I call it literary gobbeldygoop. The idea is relatable to pouring drain cleaner down a clogged drain. The stuff smells funny and burns the eyes slightly, but its purpose is to loosen up all that gunk in there and get the good stuff flowing again.
Write! Write! Write! Alright...there is a little spider crawling along the top of my keyboard right now. He has seven legs, which leads me to believe he had some sort of accident. Maybe a faulty web sent him tumbling to the floor. Maybe he fell into the crease between the F11 key and the F10 key and his leg was left behind. Just this morning on my walk to work I was stuck behind two large dogs walking a man. My favourite hot dog condiment is a mixture of melted cheese and salsa. If I ever clear this writer’s block I think I’ll make the CTQ Staff hot dogs. Well now, I don’t know if my writer’s block is gone, but I sure am hungry all of a sudden.
Idea #2: Pick an object or emotion that you are excited about and write a paragraph about it. This focuses your thoughts and gives you a solid, achievable goal. It shouldn’t be hard to write about something that excites me. Right?
If I had to tell you about all the things I like on this planet, we’d be here all day listing things off. I could tell you about root beer or pencil shavings or those ice-cream treats that are shaped like ghosts and have gumballs as mouths. I could tell you about porcupines or pine cones or conifer trees. I could even tell you about that funny sound the refrigerator makes when it thinks nobody is listening, because that sound is one of my favourite things, too. But I think I’ll tell you about something you’ve probably never heard of before. It’s called ozimby and it is a fruit grown on ERzoG-8’s home planet. It is shaped like a corn cob and even has a husk like a cob of corn, but it is nothing like corn. It is soft like a banana and tastes like a cross between a cantaloupe and a sweet potato. I’m sure that sounds a little repulsive to you, but take my word for it...it is delicious, especially when eaten with whipped cream and melted marshmallows. Ozimby only grows during a two-week period in what is equivalent to our Fall and it has to have precise atmospheric conditions for it to grow. Sometimes farmers go years without growing ozimby, because the wind wasn’t blowing the right way or the temperature was a quarter of a degree colder than it should have been. Because ozimby is so hard to grow, it is also very expensive...which makes it even more desirable.
Thinking about ozimby is making my mouth water and my stomach rumble. Maybe I should move on to the next idea.
Idea #3: Ask a friend or coworker to tell you a story about something unusual or interesting that happened to them that day, and after they’re finished talking, write down their story from memory filling in the blanks with your own ideas. Even the smallest idea can be expanded into something great and sometimes it is just that idea the brain needs to clear the block.
Ogilvy has a tendency to walk with his head pointing up at the clouds and his mouth wide open. This has lead to many strange things ending up in his mouth: water balloons, leaves, paper airplanes, roof shingles and even flies. This morning, he walked to work the same way he does every morning: head up, mouth open. He was looking up at a cloud shaped like a toaster oven when he felt something crash against the back of his mouth. At first he thought it was a large ball of hail, but then he heard a revving sound in his mouth and tasted burning smoke. He stuck his grubby fingers in his mouth and felt something that was the size and shape of a walnut. He clamped onto it with his thumb and index finger and he pulled, but the thing would not move. And the harder he pulled, the more it hurt him. Whatever was in his mouth was stuck. He quickly ran to the nearest public washroom and looked in the mirror. When he opened wide and looked inside he saw a most amazing sight. It was a tiny spaceship and its landing gear was caught between his back two molars.
Hmmm...this actually has the potential to be a pretty good story. I think it deserves a whole blog post to itself. Don’t you? Maybe I’ll hold onto it for later when I am completely healed. One more spoonful of literary medicine should do it.
Idea #4: Reread the work of your favourite author. The hope is that their creative and clever words, which have meant so much to you in the past, will inspire you again to pick up a pen or sit down at your computer and write.
It has been two days since I wrote the paragraph above and I have reread all thirteen books in A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS by Lemony Snicket. I’ve also reread my three favourite Roald Dahl books and my two favourite books in THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA by C.S. Lewis. My eyes hurt. I’m running on little sleep and I’m confusing Buckets with Baudelaires.
But I think all the hard work has paid off. I am suddenly inspired to tell you about our adventure to the costume shop to pick out our Halloween costumes. It is the story I meant to tell before I was struck with writer’s block. It is a story about mistaken identities, hairless werewolves and confused ravens that caw, “Always more! Always more!” It is a story that is clawing at my brain trying to get out. And I am so ready to free it.
So without further ado...
Excerpt from CROW TOES QUARTERLY: TALES FROM A PLAYFULLY DARK WORLD available on iTunes, Kobo, Barnes & Noble and all those other great places you can get eBooks.
*****
I am suffering from something far worse than the flu...far worse than a pounding headache, or multiple mosquito bites. I am suffering from an extremely uncomfortable case of writer’s block. It is now going on three weeks and I’m afraid I’m never going to get rid of it. It is...my worst nightmare come to life.
The symptoms of writer’s block aren’t hard to miss: excessive tapping of fingers, gnashing teeth, constant yowls of, “ohhhhh”, walking in circles, opening and closing fridge doors, loss of hair (from pulling it too much), an inability to focus, finger cramps from hitting the delete/backspace button too much, brain cramps and persistent daydreaming.
To prove to you just how bad my writer’s block is, the two paragraphs above this one took me two weeks to write. I can’t imagine how long the rest of this blog entry is going to take. I better brew me another pot of coffee and heat up some cream of broccoli soup, because I’m not leaving this office until I’m done.
By all accounts, I should be a fountain of creativity right now. The Meddlesome Monster crew is gone and to thank us for our "hospitality" they’ve loaded up our office with great props (like a fifteen-foot laser cannon made out of balsa wood and modeling clay and a twelve-foot long rubber tentacle covered in plastic suction cups). The Fifteenth Issue is finally available and is one of our most creative issues ever. And if that isn’t enough, Christopher has been regaling us with dozens of amazing stories from this year’s Word on the Street in Vancouver, BC.
Words should be pouring out of my fingers and brain as easily as water pours out of a tap. But they aren’t.
My big concern (other than not being able to write without great difficulty) is where I caught this writer’s block from and whether or not I’m contagious. I would hate for Poinsettia to catch it, especially now when she’s so deep into her story about the Jersey Devil. Will wearing a mask and locking myself away in my office keep everyone else safe? I just don’t know.
If there was a pill or magic elixir that would make it all go away I would buy it no matter how much it cost. But alas, no one has been able to invent such a pill or elixir. It looks like the thousands of websites devoted to beating writer’s block are my only option. They are filled with great ideas (which are kind of like pills, but in word form), which fills me with hope. So I will push on, trying out a few of these ideas and hopefully I will bust that block into a billion tiny pieces. Hopefully...
Idea #1: Write! Write! Write! It doesn’t matter if it makes sense. Just start tapping away on that keyboard or writing away with that pen about anything and everything that comes to your head. Some folks call it stream of consciousness writing. I call it literary gobbeldygoop. The idea is relatable to pouring drain cleaner down a clogged drain. The stuff smells funny and burns the eyes slightly, but its purpose is to loosen up all that gunk in there and get the good stuff flowing again.
Write! Write! Write! Alright...there is a little spider crawling along the top of my keyboard right now. He has seven legs, which leads me to believe he had some sort of accident. Maybe a faulty web sent him tumbling to the floor. Maybe he fell into the crease between the F11 key and the F10 key and his leg was left behind. Just this morning on my walk to work I was stuck behind two large dogs walking a man. My favourite hot dog condiment is a mixture of melted cheese and salsa. If I ever clear this writer’s block I think I’ll make the CTQ Staff hot dogs. Well now, I don’t know if my writer’s block is gone, but I sure am hungry all of a sudden.
Idea #2: Pick an object or emotion that you are excited about and write a paragraph about it. This focuses your thoughts and gives you a solid, achievable goal. It shouldn’t be hard to write about something that excites me. Right?
If I had to tell you about all the things I like on this planet, we’d be here all day listing things off. I could tell you about root beer or pencil shavings or those ice-cream treats that are shaped like ghosts and have gumballs as mouths. I could tell you about porcupines or pine cones or conifer trees. I could even tell you about that funny sound the refrigerator makes when it thinks nobody is listening, because that sound is one of my favourite things, too. But I think I’ll tell you about something you’ve probably never heard of before. It’s called ozimby and it is a fruit grown on ERzoG-8’s home planet. It is shaped like a corn cob and even has a husk like a cob of corn, but it is nothing like corn. It is soft like a banana and tastes like a cross between a cantaloupe and a sweet potato. I’m sure that sounds a little repulsive to you, but take my word for it...it is delicious, especially when eaten with whipped cream and melted marshmallows. Ozimby only grows during a two-week period in what is equivalent to our Fall and it has to have precise atmospheric conditions for it to grow. Sometimes farmers go years without growing ozimby, because the wind wasn’t blowing the right way or the temperature was a quarter of a degree colder than it should have been. Because ozimby is so hard to grow, it is also very expensive...which makes it even more desirable.
Thinking about ozimby is making my mouth water and my stomach rumble. Maybe I should move on to the next idea.
Idea #3: Ask a friend or coworker to tell you a story about something unusual or interesting that happened to them that day, and after they’re finished talking, write down their story from memory filling in the blanks with your own ideas. Even the smallest idea can be expanded into something great and sometimes it is just that idea the brain needs to clear the block.
Ogilvy has a tendency to walk with his head pointing up at the clouds and his mouth wide open. This has lead to many strange things ending up in his mouth: water balloons, leaves, paper airplanes, roof shingles and even flies. This morning, he walked to work the same way he does every morning: head up, mouth open. He was looking up at a cloud shaped like a toaster oven when he felt something crash against the back of his mouth. At first he thought it was a large ball of hail, but then he heard a revving sound in his mouth and tasted burning smoke. He stuck his grubby fingers in his mouth and felt something that was the size and shape of a walnut. He clamped onto it with his thumb and index finger and he pulled, but the thing would not move. And the harder he pulled, the more it hurt him. Whatever was in his mouth was stuck. He quickly ran to the nearest public washroom and looked in the mirror. When he opened wide and looked inside he saw a most amazing sight. It was a tiny spaceship and its landing gear was caught between his back two molars.
Hmmm...this actually has the potential to be a pretty good story. I think it deserves a whole blog post to itself. Don’t you? Maybe I’ll hold onto it for later when I am completely healed. One more spoonful of literary medicine should do it.
Idea #4: Reread the work of your favourite author. The hope is that their creative and clever words, which have meant so much to you in the past, will inspire you again to pick up a pen or sit down at your computer and write.
It has been two days since I wrote the paragraph above and I have reread all thirteen books in A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS by Lemony Snicket. I’ve also reread my three favourite Roald Dahl books and my two favourite books in THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA by C.S. Lewis. My eyes hurt. I’m running on little sleep and I’m confusing Buckets with Baudelaires.
But I think all the hard work has paid off. I am suddenly inspired to tell you about our adventure to the costume shop to pick out our Halloween costumes. It is the story I meant to tell before I was struck with writer’s block. It is a story about mistaken identities, hairless werewolves and confused ravens that caw, “Always more! Always more!” It is a story that is clawing at my brain trying to get out. And I am so ready to free it.
So without further ado...
Excerpt from CROW TOES QUARTERLY: TALES FROM A PLAYFULLY DARK WORLD available on iTunes, Kobo, Barnes & Noble and all those other great places you can get eBooks.
Saturday, 18 August 2012
When I Say Cheese, You Say Brains - Vancouver Zombie Walk 2012
For a few hours the streets of Vancouver, BC, were overrun with zombies...and there was nothing anyone could do about it. I say it's time we let zombies run free! It seems so unfair that for the rest of the year they are hunted down and destroyed. Inside, they're just like you and me...minus the living part. Here's a few pictures I shot at the walk.
Saturday, 30 June 2012
"The Balthazar Experiment" Experiment
One of my goals as a writer was to write a middle-grade science fiction novel. I've always loved sci-fi. I love the idea of SPACE and I love robots and hoverboards and phasers set to stun and all of that techie goodness. But I had no idea of the intricacies of these things. Therefore, I knew writing a sci-fi novel for kids would be a great challenge for me.
As I was writing my series of books called THE HOLE STORIES, in the back of my mind I kept seeing this robotic finger running down the cheek of a very young boy. The boy was looking up with adoration and love in his eyes. What I was seeing had nothing to do with what I was writing, so I stored it away.
When I stepped away from THE HOLE STORIES for a while, I decided to pursue the story behind the strange, touching image locked away inside of me. I spent several months researching robotics and space exploration and climate change and I cobbled together several dozen pages of notes (and facts) I would use in my story. I outlined my first six chapters in detail and began to write.
I like to think I have an organic style of writing. Usually, I have an idea in my head as to where I want my characters to end up, but how they get to that end can change from day to day depending on how I am feeling. I had never outlined any of my chapters before, so when my story started to take on a life of its own, moving in and out of my outline, I was thrown for a bit of a loop. After writing my first few chapters, I was actually getting frustrated with the lack of control I had over the novel (which is strange, because it is that organic, lack of control I usually love). This frustration quickly turned into writer's block. Like so many other novels before it, my just begun sci-fi story for kids ended up in my DEAD STORY FOLDER. It was easier, at the time, to move on to something else than to pull all of my hair out trying to break through the wall I had inadvertently built in front of me.
When my adventure with THE HOLE STORIES finally ended, I was looking for something new to write. My book of ideas was full of potential, but nothing was grabbing my attention...making me want to invest. And then one night a few weeks back that image appeared in my head again...that robotic finger running down a young boy's cheek. Because I had fleshed this scene out a couple of years back, I knew a bit of the back story behind it. I also knew I was being told (by my characters...my subconscious) to finish the book. I printed out a copy of what I had written to date and I read it and I couldn't believe how gripped I was by what I had written.
Writers are usually quite humble about what they have written (at least I am). I'm usually happy with what I write, but I will always tell people that I could have written it better. I was suddenly very excited about what I had written and a new feeling was welling up inside of me: anticipation. I couldn't wait to see how the story was going to end. Unfortunately, I was still suffering from that darned thing called "writer's block." Maybe you've heard of it.
When I decided how I wanted my "writing career" to move forward, and the stress of trying to get published again and making money from my words disappeared, I opened myself up to a whole new way of writing...a whole new enjoyment. And because my motivation to write had changed, I decided to do a little literary experiment to try to finish my first work of science fiction. I decided to put a little healthy pressure on myself (for I have always worked best under pressure) and write it as an online serial novel. That way, when I get to the point where I am stuck, timeliness (and hopefully, your interest) will help me move it forward.
The novel is called THE BALTHAZAR EXPERIMENT and beginning Monday, July 2nd, 2012, I will upload a new chapter every Monday until the book comes to a proper conclusion. Right now, a conclusion is in my mind, but as I said above, how we get to it is all up to fate, my fluctuating emotions and constructive comments from my readers.
So put on your helmets, strap on your jetpacks and join me, if you will...in the stars.
www.thebalthazarexperiment.com
As I was writing my series of books called THE HOLE STORIES, in the back of my mind I kept seeing this robotic finger running down the cheek of a very young boy. The boy was looking up with adoration and love in his eyes. What I was seeing had nothing to do with what I was writing, so I stored it away.
When I stepped away from THE HOLE STORIES for a while, I decided to pursue the story behind the strange, touching image locked away inside of me. I spent several months researching robotics and space exploration and climate change and I cobbled together several dozen pages of notes (and facts) I would use in my story. I outlined my first six chapters in detail and began to write.
I like to think I have an organic style of writing. Usually, I have an idea in my head as to where I want my characters to end up, but how they get to that end can change from day to day depending on how I am feeling. I had never outlined any of my chapters before, so when my story started to take on a life of its own, moving in and out of my outline, I was thrown for a bit of a loop. After writing my first few chapters, I was actually getting frustrated with the lack of control I had over the novel (which is strange, because it is that organic, lack of control I usually love). This frustration quickly turned into writer's block. Like so many other novels before it, my just begun sci-fi story for kids ended up in my DEAD STORY FOLDER. It was easier, at the time, to move on to something else than to pull all of my hair out trying to break through the wall I had inadvertently built in front of me.
When my adventure with THE HOLE STORIES finally ended, I was looking for something new to write. My book of ideas was full of potential, but nothing was grabbing my attention...making me want to invest. And then one night a few weeks back that image appeared in my head again...that robotic finger running down a young boy's cheek. Because I had fleshed this scene out a couple of years back, I knew a bit of the back story behind it. I also knew I was being told (by my characters...my subconscious) to finish the book. I printed out a copy of what I had written to date and I read it and I couldn't believe how gripped I was by what I had written.
Writers are usually quite humble about what they have written (at least I am). I'm usually happy with what I write, but I will always tell people that I could have written it better. I was suddenly very excited about what I had written and a new feeling was welling up inside of me: anticipation. I couldn't wait to see how the story was going to end. Unfortunately, I was still suffering from that darned thing called "writer's block." Maybe you've heard of it.
When I decided how I wanted my "writing career" to move forward, and the stress of trying to get published again and making money from my words disappeared, I opened myself up to a whole new way of writing...a whole new enjoyment. And because my motivation to write had changed, I decided to do a little literary experiment to try to finish my first work of science fiction. I decided to put a little healthy pressure on myself (for I have always worked best under pressure) and write it as an online serial novel. That way, when I get to the point where I am stuck, timeliness (and hopefully, your interest) will help me move it forward.
The novel is called THE BALTHAZAR EXPERIMENT and beginning Monday, July 2nd, 2012, I will upload a new chapter every Monday until the book comes to a proper conclusion. Right now, a conclusion is in my mind, but as I said above, how we get to it is all up to fate, my fluctuating emotions and constructive comments from my readers.
So put on your helmets, strap on your jetpacks and join me, if you will...in the stars.
www.thebalthazarexperiment.com
Saturday, 16 June 2012
Waiting for a Swine... I Mean a Sign
Book One of my planned five-book middle-grade series THE HOLE STORIES was published in May 2007 by Thistledown Press. As the years passed by, my five-book series became a trilogy and I began to play a waiting game for the sequel to be published. FOWL, SWINE AND THINGS THAT SEND SHIVERS DOWN YOUR SPINE was written and ready for the world, but I couldn't get an answer from anyone as to whether it would ever see the world. After five years of waiting, I decided I would have to be the one to deliver it. The people who had read the first book wanted to know what happens next. They wanted to know about the strange swans alluded to at the end of the first book.
When I opened the box of books (that arrived by mail only a day ago) and flipped through the pages, I realized I had made the right choice doing it my way. The book looks and reads beautifully. And even though FOWL, SWINE AND THINGS THAT SEND SHIVERS DOWN YOUR SPINE has been available as an eBook for the past seven months, there is something new and exciting about reading it in paperback form.
These very special, very limited paperback editions of FOWL, SWINE AND THINGS THAT SEND SHIVERS DOWN YOUR SPINE are only available through my online store. Get your copy now! And for a short time, you can also purchase signed copies of my first novel THE KING OF ARUGULA.
Excerpt from
And when Onus woke, the sun was warming his forehead.
He turned to see Twig’s eyes fluttering.
“How long have we been sleeping?” Twig asked when he noticed Onus looking at him.
“I don’t know,” Onus said. “Oh wait. I’ve got the watch Fang left me last night.”
He dug around in his pocket and pulled out the watch. “That’s odd,” he said.
“What’s odd?” Twig said.
“The watch must be broken, because it has the same time on it as when I looked at it last night. 11:49.”
“Well maybe it’s that time now. Just a.m. instead of p.m.”
“Nope,” Onus said. “The watch says 11:49 p.m.”
But the time no longer concerned Twig. “Where…where are we?” he asked.
The sidecar had stopped rocking. It had stopped floating. It had stopped. It was buried in the dirt and sand along a muddy beach. It was a muddy beach that stretched for miles and miles along what the boys could now see was a river. Water from the river lapped up against the back of the sidecar, like it was trying to spit the sidecar even further up on the beach, like the sidecar tasted bitter, or it was just too big to swallow.
“We fell asleep, Twig. Who knows how far we floated,” Onus said. “We have to find a phone.”
“Shouldn’t we find out where we are first?” Twig asked.
Onus jumped out of the sidecar. His feet sunk into the mud, but with a little effort he was able to pull one out. It made a funny suction sound, kind of like the sound Twig made after he ate too many beans. “Phooot.” He pulled the other foot out and it made the same sound. “Phooot.” Slowly, he walked towards a big hill of rocks just up the beach from where the sidecar had beached itself.
Phooot. Phooot. Phooot. Phooot.
“Hey, Onus,” Twig said. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to find out where we are and then I’m going to find a phone.”
Twig took off his helmet and jumped out of the sidecar. His feet sunk as well. His feet sunk even deeper than Onus’s feet. His feet had sunk so deep that he couldn’t pull them out like Onus had. He couldn’t make them make that funny suction sound that Onus’s feet were making.
“Onus, I’m stuck.”
“Use your hands,” Onus said.
“What do you mean?”
“Wrap your hands around your knee and use the strength of your arms to lift your foot out of the mud.”
“Of course,” Twig said.
He grabbed under his knee and using all his strength he pulled upwards.
Phhhhoooooooooooottttt.
“I got it!” Twig yelled. He put his hands underneath his other knee and lifted upwards.
Phhhhoooooooooooottttt.
Each step he took, it seemed his feet sunk a little deeper. “How come your feet aren’t sinking as deep as mine, Onus?”
Onus looked back at Twig. “I guess you weigh more than me. Heavier objects are naturally going to sink deeper.”
But Twig couldn’t figure out how he could weigh more than Onus. Twig essentially was a twig. Even though he was older than Onus, he was skinnier and he had a smaller shoe size than Onus. By the time Twig met Onus at the bottom of the hill of rocks he was exhausted. What would have taken less than a few seconds on paved ground, took him a whole five minutes. It was five minutes of lifting one leg and then lifting the other. Lifting one leg, then lifting the other. Lifting one leg, then lifting the other. You get the point. And as I’m sure you know, a leg weighs quite a bit, even if it’s just made of flesh and bone.
The rock hill was as high as a basketball hoop, an easy enough climb if you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes lifting your legs out of the mud they had been continuously sinking into. “I need to rest for a second, Onus.”
“That’s odd, Twig. I really thought I weighed more than you,” Onus said.
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
“I should have sunk just as deep, if not deeper than you had.”
“You should have sunk just as deep, if not deeper than I had.”
Something near the river breathed a deep breath. The boys stopped talking. They both looked down near the river where the sidecar was stuck. The muddy beach began to move. It caved in and they heard the breathing sound again. Then the beach filled back up with mud and sand. It was like the ground below them had begun to breath. Up and down it moved, like your chest when you are breathing. Up down. Up down. The sidecar was moving now, rocking back and forth. Rocking back and forth. And with each breath the beach took, the sidecar sunk a little. Sinking. Sinking. Sinking. And within seconds it was gone, swallowed up, breathed in, nowhere to be seen.
“We’ve got to climb the rocks now,” Onus yelled.
“But I’m so tired,” Twig said.
All along the river’s beach things were being swallowed up. Driftwood went under. Piles of stones went under. The skeletons of large fish went under. The beach was eating up everything it could…everything that was lying on top of it.
“If we don’t climb the rocks now the beach is going to eat us, too,” Onus said.
He grabbed a hold of a rock and started to climb. The rocks were sharp and rough, but the slight pain in his hands was a lot better than the extreme pain of being swallowed by a beach that seemed to have a taste for everything. If it could eat a motorcycle’s sidecar, it could surely eat a ten-year-old boy.
He climbed half way up the hill and looked back to see Twig still catching his breath. A large tree branch just beyond Twig disappeared under the ground. “Twig, hurry up and climb!” Onus yelled.
Twig turned just in time to see the end of the branch go under. The time he had to catch his breath was now officially over. If he waited any longer he would end up like the tree branch. Gone. He grabbed a rock and tried to start climbing, but he was stuck. The beach had a hold of his left foot. It swallowed his foot and began swallowing his whole leg.
“It’s got me, Onus! Help!”
©Christopher Millin 2012
When I opened the box of books (that arrived by mail only a day ago) and flipped through the pages, I realized I had made the right choice doing it my way. The book looks and reads beautifully. And even though FOWL, SWINE AND THINGS THAT SEND SHIVERS DOWN YOUR SPINE has been available as an eBook for the past seven months, there is something new and exciting about reading it in paperback form.
These very special, very limited paperback editions of FOWL, SWINE AND THINGS THAT SEND SHIVERS DOWN YOUR SPINE are only available through my online store. Get your copy now! And for a short time, you can also purchase signed copies of my first novel THE KING OF ARUGULA.
Fowl, Swine and Things That Send Shivers Down Your Spine
(Very Limited) Paperback Edition
Only Available At
Excerpt from
FOWL, SWINE AND THINGS THAT SEND SHIVERS DOWN YOUR SPINE
By Christopher MillinAnd when Onus woke, the sun was warming his forehead.
He turned to see Twig’s eyes fluttering.
“How long have we been sleeping?” Twig asked when he noticed Onus looking at him.
“I don’t know,” Onus said. “Oh wait. I’ve got the watch Fang left me last night.”
He dug around in his pocket and pulled out the watch. “That’s odd,” he said.
“What’s odd?” Twig said.
“The watch must be broken, because it has the same time on it as when I looked at it last night. 11:49.”
“Well maybe it’s that time now. Just a.m. instead of p.m.”
“Nope,” Onus said. “The watch says 11:49 p.m.”
But the time no longer concerned Twig. “Where…where are we?” he asked.
The sidecar had stopped rocking. It had stopped floating. It had stopped. It was buried in the dirt and sand along a muddy beach. It was a muddy beach that stretched for miles and miles along what the boys could now see was a river. Water from the river lapped up against the back of the sidecar, like it was trying to spit the sidecar even further up on the beach, like the sidecar tasted bitter, or it was just too big to swallow.
“We fell asleep, Twig. Who knows how far we floated,” Onus said. “We have to find a phone.”
“Shouldn’t we find out where we are first?” Twig asked.
Onus jumped out of the sidecar. His feet sunk into the mud, but with a little effort he was able to pull one out. It made a funny suction sound, kind of like the sound Twig made after he ate too many beans. “Phooot.” He pulled the other foot out and it made the same sound. “Phooot.” Slowly, he walked towards a big hill of rocks just up the beach from where the sidecar had beached itself.
Phooot. Phooot. Phooot. Phooot.
“Hey, Onus,” Twig said. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to find out where we are and then I’m going to find a phone.”
Twig took off his helmet and jumped out of the sidecar. His feet sunk as well. His feet sunk even deeper than Onus’s feet. His feet had sunk so deep that he couldn’t pull them out like Onus had. He couldn’t make them make that funny suction sound that Onus’s feet were making.
“Onus, I’m stuck.”
“Use your hands,” Onus said.
“What do you mean?”
“Wrap your hands around your knee and use the strength of your arms to lift your foot out of the mud.”
“Of course,” Twig said.
He grabbed under his knee and using all his strength he pulled upwards.
Phhhhoooooooooooottttt.
“I got it!” Twig yelled. He put his hands underneath his other knee and lifted upwards.
Phhhhoooooooooooottttt.
Each step he took, it seemed his feet sunk a little deeper. “How come your feet aren’t sinking as deep as mine, Onus?”
Onus looked back at Twig. “I guess you weigh more than me. Heavier objects are naturally going to sink deeper.”
But Twig couldn’t figure out how he could weigh more than Onus. Twig essentially was a twig. Even though he was older than Onus, he was skinnier and he had a smaller shoe size than Onus. By the time Twig met Onus at the bottom of the hill of rocks he was exhausted. What would have taken less than a few seconds on paved ground, took him a whole five minutes. It was five minutes of lifting one leg and then lifting the other. Lifting one leg, then lifting the other. Lifting one leg, then lifting the other. You get the point. And as I’m sure you know, a leg weighs quite a bit, even if it’s just made of flesh and bone.
The rock hill was as high as a basketball hoop, an easy enough climb if you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes lifting your legs out of the mud they had been continuously sinking into. “I need to rest for a second, Onus.”
“That’s odd, Twig. I really thought I weighed more than you,” Onus said.
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
“I should have sunk just as deep, if not deeper than you had.”
“You should have sunk just as deep, if not deeper than I had.”
Something near the river breathed a deep breath. The boys stopped talking. They both looked down near the river where the sidecar was stuck. The muddy beach began to move. It caved in and they heard the breathing sound again. Then the beach filled back up with mud and sand. It was like the ground below them had begun to breath. Up and down it moved, like your chest when you are breathing. Up down. Up down. The sidecar was moving now, rocking back and forth. Rocking back and forth. And with each breath the beach took, the sidecar sunk a little. Sinking. Sinking. Sinking. And within seconds it was gone, swallowed up, breathed in, nowhere to be seen.
“We’ve got to climb the rocks now,” Onus yelled.
“But I’m so tired,” Twig said.
All along the river’s beach things were being swallowed up. Driftwood went under. Piles of stones went under. The skeletons of large fish went under. The beach was eating up everything it could…everything that was lying on top of it.
“If we don’t climb the rocks now the beach is going to eat us, too,” Onus said.
He grabbed a hold of a rock and started to climb. The rocks were sharp and rough, but the slight pain in his hands was a lot better than the extreme pain of being swallowed by a beach that seemed to have a taste for everything. If it could eat a motorcycle’s sidecar, it could surely eat a ten-year-old boy.
He climbed half way up the hill and looked back to see Twig still catching his breath. A large tree branch just beyond Twig disappeared under the ground. “Twig, hurry up and climb!” Onus yelled.
Twig turned just in time to see the end of the branch go under. The time he had to catch his breath was now officially over. If he waited any longer he would end up like the tree branch. Gone. He grabbed a rock and tried to start climbing, but he was stuck. The beach had a hold of his left foot. It swallowed his foot and began swallowing his whole leg.
“It’s got me, Onus! Help!”
©Christopher Millin 2012
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