Just Another Big Bang Theory...

Yesterday I looked at my workout schedule. A two hour bike ride. Crap.

It was hard to begin...so hard. Why? Because:

a) it's winter and sitting on a bike, in the basement, watching daytime television, is exactly as physically pleasant as plucking your own nose hairs;

b) simple physics. Newton's Second Law - An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted on by an unbalanced force. I was the object at rest. Oddly enough, I was also the unbalanced force that acted on my resting self. I think of this as some perverted form of multi-tasking;

c) finally, it was hard to begin because I know that once I begin, I will not stop until I've done what I set out to do. Beginning is an unspoken promise to complete the task. It's never the first step that's hard, it's knowing that I will have to take all the other steps, and some of those steps will hurt.

Rainer Maria Rilke said, "It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything."

Rainer Maria Rilke is the best name ever. If I get to name myself in a future life...I'm going to be Rainer Maria Rilke.

Rilke was a poet, a tad on the morose side... but he sure nailed it on the idea of beginnings.

Contrast Rilke with Lao Tzu, the "journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step" guy. People want to believe this single step notion because it's simple, peaceful and exquisitely rational.

But I'm with Rainer Rilke...and science backs me up. This whole show, the roots of our existence, the beginning of all beginnings - it didn't start with a step - it started with a big violent bang.

Races start the same way, the blast of a horn, or a gunshot. As the countdown begins the starting line becomes electric. The air takes on a particular odour; the ozone smell that precedes a lighting strike blends with low notes of fear, something that smells like lust, and the reek of the guy who's running in an unwashed "lucky" t-shirt. The crack of a pistol, the blast of an air horn...the runners explode forward, each one writing their own race. Bang.

...and a story, it never really begins with a single word, tapped softly on keys. The story begins with anguish, or a thought so terrible (or beautiful) that it's impossible not to think it again, a jealousy that brings burning bile to the throat, a passion that could breed violence, an act of violence that could spawn an impossible love...

Passion is the "bang" that starts art in motion.

"Bang" is the unbalanced force that precipitates action.

Perhaps that's why, when I ask politely for quiet, then come calmly to my desk, there's a good chance I'll spend a docile hour, checking out Facebook, on-line shopping and reading that pathetic drivel that passes for news on my homepage...and I will write nothing.

When I come to my desk on fire, that is when I write. On a good desk day I start by ripping off far more than I can chew, then I chew it anyway...I take more steps than I'm comfortable with.

"It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything."

We can only finish what we start.

To begin, begin.

Begin with a bang.

24 Random Thoughts

Hello:

I really have no big thoughts today, so here is a collection of small ones...

1. Everybody was a baby once, Arthur. Oh, sure, maybe not today, or even yesterday. But once. Babies, chum: tiny, dimpled, fleshy mirrors of our us-ness, that we parents hurl into the future, like leathery footballs of hope. And you've got to get a good spiral on that baby, or evil will make an interception.

The Tick said that, and no matter how times I hear it, it still makes me laugh.

2. I haven't decided if I hate Christmas, or if I love it in the way that you sometimes love things that are painful, like deep massage or a proper tooth cleaning.

3. I can't wait until Hannah Montana is done...not just for today...but FOREVER.

4. When you go to a pool to swim laps, don't swim in the fast lane if you are not fast. It makes the swimmers who ARE fast want to pull out your toenails.

5. When I write, my dog Bulky sits on my chair, behind me. Normally he's a bit of jerk - so this is his most endearing quality.

6. I don't tell the dog, but I actually like the hamster better. The hamster's name is Tuxedo and he's very handsome.

7. If we don't get a Chinook soon, I'll probably get arrested for committing some act of unprovoked aggression. Seriously, I nearly yelled at an old lady at the Safeway because she insisted on using the cart with the shakey wheel. Dammit - there was a whole fleet of perfectly good carts!

8. Women who think Dr. Oz is sexy give me the creeps. Really, ladies...doesn't he mostly look like he needs a bath?

9. ...and while we're on the subject of that genre, I can't wait until Orpra is finished...not just for today...but FOREVER.

10. If justice is something other than pipe dream, there is a special place in hell for people who spit in public.

11. Ignatius and Aloysius are funny names. Probably that's why nobody uses them any more.

12. I think the "Can't you see I'm eating a cookie?" response is pure genius. I can't believe no one thought of that one before.

13. Ikea. It's like Idea - but with a "k"...and meatballs.

14. My little girl is at the dentist right now. I bought her a donut at lunchtime but she wouldn't eat it because she was convinced the dentist would know and get mad. I wonder when she's going to stop being such a worrier.

15. I always judge a book by its cover. I find it saves time.

16. I've developed a peculiar relationship with my bicycle. I speak to it lovingly. I am worried if I don't it will abandon or fail me when I need it most. I didn't name it though - that would be weird.

17. I ate some President's Choice Baby Back Rib potato chips the other day (I know, don't judge me). The thing is, THEY TASTE LIKE REAL RIBS. It's unnatural. I think Galen Westin has taken concert with the devil. How else could such a thing be possible?

18. People who use the phrase "drink the Kool-Aid" really piss me off. 276 children died that day. Hardly an event that should be turned into a tag-line.

19. I wish I could keep an Ipod for longer than two months before I lose it. My last one was with me for ONE run.

20. If you don't think penguins are cute, you should keep that to yourself, because penguin lovers...they're a little nuts.

21. You can still buy Cracker Jack at Walmart, but the prizes are totally suckish.

22. Gingerbread houses are a colossal waste of food. The practice should be abandoned.

23. Bullies are just cowards turned inside out.

24. If you don't have one great idea, sometimes a tidy pile of little ideas will do.

Stay warm...

Be cool...

I'll never make THAT mistake again...

I have this friend, lets call her Lorraine.

She believes that mistakes happen for a reason, that they arrive to teach us something we wouldn't otherwise learn. She is adamant about this. I think Lorraine is wise.

I also think that there are two kinds of mistakes. There are polite mistakes. They drop off their little bundle of "chock it up to experience" and then depart leaving the mind informed and at peace. The rude mistakes take up permanent residence. They regularly reappear in the mind's eye to embarrass us anew, sometimes in the middle of the day, but more often at night, just as we are about to sleep.

This is a tale of two such mistakes.

Mistake #1:

My very first writing teacher offered the class this assignment: describe a single event from two points of view.

Despite being utterly unfamiliar with the situation, I chose to write about childbirth, from the mother's perspective and the doctor's.

It started like this:

"I have been wrapped in a shroud of pain..."

Really. Would anyone like a side of gag with their slab of melodrama?

I destroyed the paper copy of that piece decades ago, but that line still creeps into my head now and again, and each time it does, I wince."I have been wrapped in a shroud of pain..."

I know I wrote better lines for that prof, but I cannot recall a single one. I'm equally certain that that hideous sentence will follow me to the grave. In fact, those might be the last words I utter.

"I have been wrapped in a shroud of pain..."

Mistake #2

I ran the Last Chance half marathon on Sunday. It was a great day and a wonderful race. My tights didn't exactly fit they way they should. I should have tried those stretchy babies on a few days before the race and realized that I needed better fitting ones. That small mistake cost me a little chaffing in the nethers. In spite of that, I ran a personal best.

On Monday I went to the pool to lengthen those race-stressed muscles. It was a lovely swim, all loose and floppy, just the way my coach told me it should be.

...and afterwards a soak in the hot tub.

Of an early afternoon, the hot tub at the Y is often populated with retired gents who make their workouts as much a social occasion as a physical outing. They congregate in a group of 6-8, sit along the edge of the hot pool, feet dangling in the water and they shout at one another over the roar of the jets.

Yesterday, as I approached the hot tub, they fell silent. Their eyes seemed to take on some frantic life of their own, darting from place to place, but always returning, ever-so-briefly, to me.

As I stepped over the rim of the tub, I glanced down. The abrasions of the day before had reacted with the chlorinated water. Red patches graced my inner thighs, bright patches. They positively glowed, their size and shape - dead ringers for giant hickies.

The old men did not utter a single word the entire time I soaked in the hot water.

I guess I could have stood up and addressed them, explained that I was the victim of ill fitting pants, not debauchery...but I preferred to let them think whatever it was they were thinking.

It occurs to me that another person might have reacted differently, that being caught with hickey marked thighs might be humiliating, while writing a really bad sentence might slip on as easily as a favourite sweater.

I think that Lorraine is right, our mistakes do educate us, and tell us as much about who we are as they do about what we've done. They help us define ourselves, they shape our future.

Perhaps the mistakes that haunt us most are the ones we will have to make again.

Trying to get it right more often than I get it wrong...

Kari

Tripping Uptown

So...a brief vacation from writing due to illness and the busywork that follows being unable to do anything for a week. Hope I was missed. Here's my latest...

I lost the stomach for downtown a decade ago. When I retreated to the suburbs, I left behind at least a million unread words. Manuals on bookshelves, PowerPoint presentations, corporate newsletters, annual reports... unappreciated gifts of a stifled imagination.

Occasionally I return to the core, but only to shop, a project for which I am wholly ill-suited.

Unaccustomed to the train, I am a clumsy traveler. I forget to buy my ticket before I descend to the platform, then I forget where I put it. I touch the handrail on the staircase then discover I’m out of hand sanitizer.

I sit at the edge of my seat. I touch nobody, nothing. I am not fond of the smell.

Near the downtown station where I exit, an old man sits crumpled in a corner near a door, a hat laid in his lap.

I walk past him, then stop. I find my wallet easily enough, but when I try to unzip it, the paper money gets clenched in the teeth and the zipper stalls. I pull at the bills to free them, shreds of currency flutter to the greasy sidewalk. I am sweating by the time I liberate a twenty.

I put it in the old man’s hat. It takes a moment for him to notice, then he looks up and into my eyes. “God bless you,” he says.

I want to say, “he already has” but I cannot. I struggle with belief.

“Spend it like you found it,” I offer, and he smiles a dark, gummy smile.

“You’re an angel,” he tells me and I smile too.

The secret to being perfect, it seems, is to show up infrequently, with a gift, and say something that makes a little, but not too much sense.

Feeling the love without, and the love within,

Kari

A quick note to my adoring legions of fans...

Like all the best kinds of gratification, this week's blog is delayed.

I am ill. I am ill AND I sound like a Smurf, a profound manifestation of the notion of "adding insult to injury".

I'll get to YOU people as soon as I can - right now I've got little invaders to deal with. Heat the buttered rum!

Bed ridden - but not ridden with bedbugs...

Sometimes when we touch...

Last night my little family and I watched in wonder, breathing shallow breaths, as the first of the trapped Chilean miners made a slow, steady ascent to the earth's surface.

My cheeks were hot and my eyes damp with gratitude for his safe transport from out of the stone. We heard that the president of Chile had called for every church bell in that nation to ring out when the first miner came back into the light.

Our basement is a bit shy on church bells - or any other kind of bell for that matter -but we do have two drum kits. So, my little girl and I grabbed a good crash cymbal and a pair of heavy sticks. We took them out the front door and rang that cymbal like a bell for a full minute. It was good. Pissed of the neighbours...but it was good.

When we finished clanging, little V. was grinning, and my face was soaked with tears. Our joy reverberated off distant houses, faint echoes of our exuberance, a joyful sound resounding. No words required.

That same night, in front of the television again, we watched as the next miners emerged. In every case, the first thing each one did was grab hold of a loved one. Chest to chest, faces buried against throats.

The words came second. No "I love you" was spoken aloud into a space between between two people. It was always breathed into a neck, mumbled into warm skin.

Switch gears.

Today I had a massage. No "hot stones at the spa" affair. This hurts.

My therapist is brilliant. Her fingers find what's broken. They seek out the knots and divots in muscles - they press one into the other until I am smooth again, fluid again - and all without a word. Our relationship is professional - but when she is done with me, my life is different than before I arrived. I move freely. Her touch makes it possible for me to begin again, the process of breaking myself.

My training log says I have to swim 3000 meters tomorrow, five times the distance the miners were held captive under the earth. It will take me less than 12 minutes to swim the expanse that separated the men from the surface, 622 meters. Water is softer than stone - but when it comes to life and death, equally unforgiving. This instructs me. It is rarely about how far you must travel - but more what you must travel through.

My husband is traveling tonight - a business trip.

When he is home, we seldom speak to each other in the middle of the night. Our bed is small and there is a rhythm to our turns, into and away from each other, through the night, wakeful at times, but silent, pushing back against front, or front against back - bum to belly, belly to bum. It is a dance of sorts, accommodating the needs of the other's comfort. In summer we relish the cool side of each other, and in winter the warm one.

I've had a busy day, and although he's been in my mind a hundred times it won't be until tonight, between the hours of two and five, that I will miss him most. I will roll over to touch him and he won't be there. It will happen more than once, and each time I will be equally disappointed, equally alone, despite my ability to stretch long my aching back. I would rather the weight of his arm.

Ashleigh Brilliant once noted, "Words are a wonderful form of communication, but they will never replace kisses and punches." Ha, he's good, eh?

Words will never replace an "I love you" whispered close to an ear, the rapture of fingers dancing over skin, a naked baby sleeping on a bare chest, flying arms smashing out noise to celebrate freedom and safety, the tickle of chest hair against a naked back.

Words are not the same as touch...

Kisses and punches.

Words make it possible to share them. Write touch into your work.

Saying it best, when I say nothing at all...

Kari

What the Coffee Table Has to Say...

My coffee table is home to three vessels.

One is a small glazed piece made by a woman named Beatrice Wood. When she passed away in 1998, she was 105. She was quite a famous artist and she made love to many artists even more famous than herself. My first husband was in love with Beatrice Wood, he was an artist too - but I never really felt he was that good. He gave me the Beatrice piece of art when I graduated from University. That husband was a cad, but Beatrice Wood was a remarkable artist, so I keep the lustrous ceramic in view for her sake, but not his.

The second vessel is even older than Beatrice Wood. It is from China and the glaze is the color of an alpine lake during run off, a milky green. It was a gift to Ken (my now husband) and I. It reminds me of the mountains we've climbed, the valleys we wandered through. Sometimes I get thirsty just looking at it. I keep it on the table for us - so that we can remember the wanting.

The third piece is a glass vase that we received as a wedding gift. A little girl named Paige dropped a rock into it and broke open the side, a hole just slightly bigger than her clenched fist. Oddly, that hole made the vase at least twice as beautiful as it was before. Sometimes I place little objects inside it. The hole acts as a frame for small treasures.

The mother of the girl who broke the vase was one of my oldest and dearest friends. She bought us another vase by the same artist, to replace the broken one, but it is not nearly as lovely as the first. You can't see inside the new vase. Its shell hasn't been split open by curiosity.

A year and a half ago this friend, let's call her Susan, sent me an email explaining that, in order to save her marriage and keep her family together, she could not see or speak to me again.

I asked, several times, for an explanation but got no reply.

I keep that vase on the table because it prompts Ken and I to wonder. We peek inside that broken vase, looking for clues. We pose questions, imagine why, then we move on to happier subjects.

As beautiful or tragic as it is, you can only spend so much time talking about a hole - and there are other vessels to discuss.

Half empty AND half full...

Kari

In which I tell the tale of getting lost on a mountain...

Just got back from a lovely trip to Vermont. It's as pretty as they claim, maybe prettier, and very hilly.

I have a gouge on my left shin. I got it on a hike. We took the easy way up and came down a trail called "The Precipice".

"Why do you think they call it THAT," I asked my fearless husband. I'm not fond of exposure to open expanses of air. I like the idea of having at least two steps to regain my balance. This is not what "The Precipice" is about. "The Precipice" is about balancing on little edges, clinging to a line of heavy gauge wire put in place to prevent hikers from plummeting to their deaths.

We used the wire. We did not die.

Yay.

After the dangerous part was done, we got lost. Not serious lost...just confounded by the absence of trail. I'm sure the trail was there, under the blanket of bright leaves. Apparently they take their Fall pretty seriously in Vermont. They even go to the trouble of making it smell amazing.

As we wandered about we met a fellow from Boston - at least that's where he told us he was from. He was also lost. He was talking on his cellphone. I think his wife was trying to give him directions down.

Vermont has a lot of trees. You can't see through them for any distance. I kind of like that. The man from Boston did not share our enthusiasm for the fullness of the forest. He was afraid.

He was concerned that he hadn't worn any insect repellant. He was convinced the cellphone coverage would diminish as we descended. It became clear to Ken and I that he was feeling that he might die.

It was equally clear to us that if we simply headed down hill, by whatever route, we would come to the river and the river would lead us back to town. We told this to the man from Boston, but I think he had issues with the theory. His voice quavered, "Does this mean we're not really on a trail anymore?"

I laughed and I told him, "It's OK. We've been lost in places that count way more than this."

My husband is a gracious man, sometimes beyond measure, and so he was on this day. He calmly explained to Mr. Boston that we were from Canada, that once, on a three day backpack, we miscalculated a route through the Palliser Valley in the Rocky Mountains. He recounted our grizzly bear sightings and told the man how we'd been forced to spend the night in a tiny alpine meadow with a young moose outside the tent.

Oddly, this seemed to bring cheer to our companion.

You can tell, by my writing, that we survived. There was a little bushwhacking, a few small curses, and a scratch or two before we finally emerged from the forest and into the expansive back yard of a really lovely home. The yard had a pond...with ducks. I like ponds with ducks.

The three of us crept sheepishly though the immaculate yard. We walked toward town, amazed at how disoriented we had become on our short trek. Oddly, we emerged from the forest very close to Mr. Boston's hotel, no more than 500 meters. Our car was parked a good distance away.

I could tell, as we parted company, that the Bostonian wanted to give us something more than a thank-you, but his hands and pockets were empty save the cellphone. He was half way across the street when he turned and shouted back, "my wife and I are having dinner at the Simon Pearce tonight. It's supposed to be really good. It fills up quickly, so you need to make a reservation."

Here is what I learned from this experience:

Getting lost is easier than you think.

Our experiences define how we perceive danger.

Even if you've nothing else to give, you can always recommend a good restaurant.

Finally, I believe that somewhere, perhaps as I type this, there is a man in Boston telling the tale I have just told. He's telling it very differently because it is his story. It did not begin at "The Precipice" and it ended in a restaurant we did not visit. I'm sad I can't be there to hear it. I think I would like his version.

That is the glory of story.

Wandering, but not lost...

Kari

What if THIS is as famous as I ever get?

I've got a daughter who's cutting her social teeth in the era where everyone expects notoriety, in one form or another, at some point in their lives. Two years ago she was wearing shoes that fastened with Velcro and now she's convinced she's due her "Warhol's 15"... her moment on the stage.

"Famous? You mean like Justin Beiber?" I ask. The world's most famous teen is front page news as he tours Alberta, so he's top of my head.

"Yes, but not for singing."

"What do you want to be famous for?"

"Dunno." The little one skips off to do her hair (a talent she's cultivated with no guidance from me).

I follow her to the bathroom. "Maybe you could be a famous writer?"

She giggles as she stares at herself in the mirror. "Writers don't get famous, Mom."

"Some do." I open the door wide and watch her organize her locks with a selection of color co-ordinated clips. Damn, she's good.

"J.K. Rowling is famous."

"What book did he write?"

"She. She wrote all the Harry Potter books." The child puts down the last hair clip, gives me a look I didn't expect for another seven years.

"Harry Potter is movies, Mom. The movie is famous. TV stars are famous, and singers."

So, that's that.

As I watch my girl make order of her last errant strands my thoughts return to young Mr. Beiber. I recently watched a documentary on his rise to prominence. It included footage of an early concert where many of the Moms present were crying and screaming nearly as passionately as their daughters.

I kind of get it. I mean most of these women, in their thirties now, were deprived of decent boys to scream at during adolescence. They missed Donny Osmond, David Cassidy, the Bay City Rollers and all those lesser known yester-cuties currently making the rehab reality show circuit. Women, I feel your loss, but let me say this clearly - save your tears for a your pillow. Adult women screaming, swooning and weeping over a barely pubescent boy is just creepy.

But back to the subject of fame. In a later conversation, the little one asks what I want to be famous for.

I tell her I don't think that I want to be famous.

She looks at me as though I've just confessed that I eat fairies for breakfast. "Then what do you want to do?"

"My best," I tell her. Her gaze doesn't shift and I can feel my eyes brimming with tears, the way they do when I tell the myself an absolute truth. She shakes her head.

"That's not the same as famous."

"You're right, it's not. And I'm totally fine with that."

She grabs my hand. "Oh, don't cry, Mom."

"It's OK," I tell her. I want to explain that there are a thousand things more important than famous. Instead I kiss her head and murmur into her well-managed hair, "these are happy tears."

Happily flying under the radar,

Kari

No blog this week...most of what I had to say would have ended badly...for all of us.

Sippin' @ Starbucks: A Tragedy (Not Really)

I'm not a coffee snob. Seriously, I drink instant. Every day.

My glorious husband designates me "caffeine Philistine". He likes how that rolls off his tongue. I do too. My coffee habits drive him nuts. I do too.

On a given morning, I take my instant coffee with three ounces of that Hazelnut creamer that comes in vaguely phallic containers that you pick up in the dairy department at Safeway despite the fact that, as near as I can tell, they contain no dairy. None. Not a whiff.

I drink my instant coffee at my house.

Alone.

Except yesterday.

Yesterday there was work going on at the house. Noisy work. I had writing to do. I needed internet accesss, relative calm, and coffee.

So, may Tim Horton forgive me, I did it.

I went to the Chapters on McLeod, the one with the Starbucks, and the WiFi... Make no mistake, I'm not proud, but it was soooo easy. I abandoned my home office, my Taster's Choice, my Hazelnut in a penile decanter. I sat at a high table.

I don't really speak Starbucks - but I've discovered that if you order a "large chai latte", nothing bad happens. They don't make you order your size in code (tea people don't need to get it), they don't ask for a temperature, and there is no foam to contend with ("with which to contend" for you sticklers).

I picked a nice table by the window, opened my laptop, took a sip and before I knew it I was deep into the work. I was IN THE ZONE. I dropped quickly into that deep spot where all that exists is the stuff in my head and the way it starts to appear on the screen for me to read...only it's not so much reading as watching the story unfold in real time (well - sort of real time - I'm a pretty crappy typist).

Yesterday the writer in my head was cranked on a large shot of chai. She was on fire.

I had planned a few pages of comic interlude but the "chai lady" in my head made it clear that this was the day my main character, Chuck, would contend with the death of his family while he floated in a fishing boat with his best friend.

It's 9:30 a.m. I'm probably a bit crazy looking on account of "did I really leave the house without brushing my hair?" Oh yeah, I did. I'm typing madly, sitting alone, at Starbucks...and I'm crying.

Oh yes...I'm crying.

At Starbucks.

I can actually see people watching me as I type. I could stop writing to tell them that "it's...just a book...just a scene" but I don't. Chai Lady's on a roll. Besides, if I don't dry for my characters, who will?

So I type and type until, damn, I'm outta Chai. When I finally stop I note that the piped-in music is Cat Stevens singing "Wind of My Soul". My eyelids are swollen, I'm still leaking tears, and a guy in Armani who ordered "skinny" coffee is giving me the hairy eye. It just doesn't get any better than this.

I sit back and reread. I cry again.

There are a thousand ways in which writing is hard. Sometimes it's hard to imagine that I'm fully responsible for the tragedies that bend or break sweet boys like Chuck. I think of his parents and twin sisters, how I put them in a rusty ice fishing buggy and plunged them into the icy cold of Lake Manitoba. The girls were so young. I didn't even give them a chance.

Sometimes it makes me wonder if I...

Anyway, today I'm back in my office. I could cry if I wanted, and no one would see me.

But it's not that day. The Taster's Choice is going down smooth and I've written this.

Not so hard.

Don't text and drive,

Kari

AWCS 30th Anniversary Anthology, Call for Submissions

To celebrate its 30th anniversary, the Alexandra Writers Centre Society and Recliner Books will publish an anthology showcasing work by individuals with connections to the society. There will be a print edition and possibly an e-book. Submissions from current and past members, instructors, sponsors or others connected to AWCS are welcome.

1. Genre: Short stories, novel excerpts, poetry and creative non-fiction. We define creative nonfiction as "literary" or involving imaginative use of language. No academic papers or reports. No multiple submissions. Please submit work in one genre only.2. Maximum Length: Prose: 3000 words, Poetry: up to 5 poems (max. 100 lines)

3. How to Submit: E-mail submissions only as attachments in .rtf or .doc (please no .docx) File name must indicate your name, title and genre. Eg. steinbeckjselectedpoems.doc/.rtf or smith_summer_cnf.doc/.rtf. E-mail to pearlsanthology@gmail.com Do not submit work to the Alexandra Writers Centre Society. Any submissions received at the centre or its e-mail address will not be considered.

4. Submission Response: All submissions will receive a confirmation that work was received. Also, work will be accepted or declined by e-mail.

5. Work Chosen for Publication: You will be e-mailed a contract to be signed that has been agreed upon by AWCS and Recliner Books and stipulates details. Authors of selected material will receive a one-time payment of $75 plus 1 copy of the anthology. This covers the printed anthology and inclusion in a digital version.

6. Submissions Format:

- All Submissions: Include a cover page as first page or in body of e-mail with your name, full contact information, e-mail address, association with AWCS, bio of 50 words or less and title(s) of work. Simultaneous submissions are welcome, just let us know and notify us immediately if your piece is accepted elsewhere.
- Prose Submissions: double spaced, 1 inch margins, Courier or Times New Roman 12pt font only, use a header with your name/title/ and page number on each page. Eg. Munroe/Lives/46 or similar.
- Poetry Submissions: Single spaced, Courier or Times New Roman 12pt font only. Poems should appear in one document but on separate page(s). Use a header with your name, title and page number since one or two poem from your submission may be selected for publication. Eg. Winter by Jill Smith. Subsequent page header: Smith/Winter/p.2. or similar.

7. Rights: By submitting work, you agree that AWCS and Recliner Books may publish it in the upcoming anthology and has the right to publish it in digital format for up to three years after which all rights revert back to author.

8. Deadline: Submissions must be received by December 15, 2010.

Submission guidelines and other information available online. Please visit www.alexandrawriters.org

Catch

If nothing else, I could always play catch with my Dad.

It was never an easy time between he and I. Me and he...we had few ideas that either could really understand...but "catch" - a ball tossed back and forth - was an easy reminder that I was his daughter - for he to remember that I was his child.

He passed on a craft he knew well. I would never throw like a girl...and I was a good catcher. More than once I've fielded line drives that dislocated my knuckles or sprained a thumb, and I could always make a play from centre field to second base without strain.

Catch was a mark my Dad etched into me. I was happy to receive it. He offered many other lessons I did not so readily adopt. That is the way it is, I think, with daughters and Dads.

Catch is a beautiful pass-time. It has no purpose. No one ever lived or died for throwing and catching, and yet this game has the rhythm of passive pleasure, like waves on a lakeshore. Every throw an advance, every catch a victory. Unlike the games that employ catching to other ends - baseball, football, rugby...the simple act of throw and catch is civilizing, mesmerizing...complete.

This weekend I played catcher to tired bodies as they crossed the finish line at Ironman 2010 (Can THIS body catch THAT body comin' through the tape?). The Ironman people actually call it "Catching".

As the beaten bodies came at me I remembered my Dad's words:

Open your eyes - if you can't see it, you won't catch it.

Plant your feet. Don't get knocked down.

Stay still...put the glove up and trust yourself.

Those bodies at the finish line at Ironman, they are crusty with salt sweat, they smell of urine or puke, or worse. The minds atop the fit bodies are exhausted and incapable of completing the simplest of tasks. They are spent. The job is to lead them, catch by catch (here is your medal, here is your shirt, throw me your timing ship, catch this water, grab some food), to the place where a loved will carry them away.

If my Dad ever read a piece of fiction, I was not there to see it. He could read, I know, but he had no time for anything that was not instructive. It's unlikely he would have read anything I've written to date. If he had, it's unlikely that he would have enjoyed it.

But when I write he is always in my head. Writing is a game of catch I play with myself. I pelt words back and forth, from one side of my head to the other. I try to throw the words so that they travel in a smooth arc, not a wasteful lob. I try to be crisp. Accurate. When I am warmed up, I let fly with the hard shit, huck it. I pick a target, always aim carefully. I try to keep good form.

I plant my feet.

No one will knock me down.

When I'm tired, I trust someone will be there to catch me, guide me toward the thing I need.

I am a body, comin' though the rye.

Catch.

Keep catching as catch can...

Kari

Let 'em Say What They Want to Say

So, I'm having a chat with my lovely Mom, Dora May.

Her old mp3 played died and she bought a new one - she wants me to load it up with her favorites; the Four Tops, the Four Lads, Tom Jones, and some dude known simply as... Mantovani.

I know - makes me a bit itchy just saying it.

Anyway...Mom bought the cheap sort of MP3 player and the ear buds look like a medieval torture device.

"Oh, I won't use those things," she tells me, "I've got Skull Candy."

We talked about quite a few things yesterday, but the thing I remember most is Mom saying..."Skull Candy". It's not a phrase you expect from the lips of a very proper, impossibly elegant 78 year old.

It reminded me of the old hamburger ad campaign where the elderly woman lifts the top half of the bun, peers inside and yells "Where's the beef?". The audience loved it.

I personally make of point of saying whatever crosses my mind these days. OK, I censor some things - that's why I still have all my teeth, but mostly I let fly the fullness of my quirky genius.

But what about the characters I create?

I wonder if I've been so busy making them "consistent" that I've denied them an opportunity to surprise.

So, today I'm going through my manuscript today to check it for "Skull Candy" and "where's the beef". I'm gonna make sure that every character gets to say a little something that surprises me.

I'll report back...

Skipping along to a tune called "Breezin' Along with the Breeze"...

Kari

Roadshow

Just got back from a week long road trip that started here in Cowtown and wandered down to Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, North Dakota, Saskatchewan and back to wild rose country.

Took my notebook and favourite pens just in case I felt inspired to write a few poems or stories along the way, and in the process, turn my writer's block into a case of writer's cramp.

Saw some very interesting (and big) attractions like Yellowstone Park, The Devil's Tower, Little Bighorn Battlefield, The Black Hills and Mount Rushmore. Took pictures, bought souvenirs, ate too much, slept too little, enjoyed the prairie heat and air conditioned motel rooms.

Didn't write a whole lot at the time, but jotted down some things that might come in handy, sooner or later. Sooner would be better.

Old Faithful geyser is just that ... erupts right on schedule like it's a paid performer. And it's sooo pretty.

Park wildlife, especially bison herds, are a bit camera shy, so my husband and I take close-up photos of buffalo chips instead (a damn poor substitute.)

According to Sioux legend, The Devil's Tower was formed by a big old bear clawing its way up a big old tree, as good an explanation as any.

Hundreds of army soldiers, scouts and native warriors killed each other at the Little Bighorn, so it's gotta be haunted ... must be a spooky place after dark.

The nice folks in Deadwood stage the shooting of Wild Bill Hickock day after day after day for fun and tourist dollars. And they'll put you in a bus and drive you up to the cemetery where Bill's buried, right beside his lady friend, Calamity Jane. For no extra charge, they'll tell you some mighty corny graveyard jokes.

Bikers rule Sturgis (and the Black Hills) for the annual August rally ... take note: Hell's Angels are kinda camera shy, too.

The U.S. presidents' faces carved onto Mount Rushmore are, well, monumental, but just wait until the much, much bigger Crazy Horse monument eventually, finally, at long last get finished ... it'll make Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt and Lincoln look, well, not so monumental.

Crossing the border back into Canada at the port of Estevan on a late summer afternoon is almost a surreal experience ... the sweet little customs agent glances casually at our passports, asks us a few friendly questions and wishes us a safe trip home. By the way, is there no end to Saskatchewan? And what's up with the horizon everywhere? Just curious.

Love those biscuits and gravy for breakfast down south. Mmmm.

Love those half tacky half charming fridge magnets and key chains.

Love my cool t-shirt that says Life Is Short Spend It In Yellowstone.

Life is short.

Spend it everywhere you can.

Write lots of stuff down.

Cause writer's cramp hurts so good.

Mmmm.

Joanne Morcom

Want to know more about Joanne? Visit her website and follow her personal blog.
Website: http://www.joannemorcom.com/
Blog: http://joanne-laughingpoet.blogspot.com/  

Sex. Oh yeah. Right Here at the Writer's Corner

I just finished writing a sex scene.

I've no one to blame but myself. I was the one that threw down the challenge to the novel class.

Three pages. That's what we agreed on.

Three pages.

Really?

No one can write great sex in three pages.

Great sex is not a sprint - it should be a great 10K with a happy ending. OK - most of us will settle for a well executed 5K that ends with a genuine smile and a polite thank-you.

Today my character, Chuck, had sex. I wrote about it for three hours. The poor boy was horribly inept. Still, it worked out well for him - sort of. He was scarred by the experience, but also intrigued by the possibilities.

When I write painful scenes, I often cry. When I write scenes of triumph I cry as well, and sometimes I pump my fist in the air. Sometimes when my characters are funny, I laugh. When they cook, I get hungry.

So yeah...it's getting definitely late.

Yes honey, I'll be right there.

Ummm. Gotta go.

Blush.

Kari

Half Empty, Half Full

If I’m hungry, I pretend I’m not.

If I’m thirsty, I drink water or green tea with ginger, sports drinks, and technical smoothies with protein powder and glucosamine...stuff that tastes bad, but is good for me.

I hope that my purposful drinks will make me forget that I’m hungry.

If I need to write, I go for a run.

When I run, I count miles or steps until I am tired of counting.

When I write, it is because I am hungry and thirsty and tired of running, and I have exhausted my patience for counting.

I think of this as a kind of discipline.

,

But when I write:

Everyone is thirsty - and I let each of them drink what they want - even if they drink too much. Scotch, wine, beer...I don’t care. I let the them live.

When they are hungry, I allow them fries, truck-stop liver and onions with a side of dark gravy that arrives with a congealed skin on top, Big Macs and Slurpies, bubble gum and bubble tea, Vietnamese subs and Spolumbo’s sausages...Bernard Callebaut.

I allow them sex I would never have.

I forgive them their cowardice, lassitude, incompetence and incontinence.

I support them in their time of need and offer them a sympathetic narrator when their spirits fail.

I let them reach over my head, swim past me, go further, or deeper, darker, faster than I am capable of.

I am kinder to my characters than I am to myself.

...and when I am done writing, I feel full.

Get ‘em while they last.

Kari

Cashew. Bless you. Yes, we're nuts...

There are at least two things that writers and triathletes have in common.

People think we’re nuts.

In the case of triathletes, it’s because most people just don’t get why we spend the time, put up with the discomfort, or buy all that gear to enter a race we have little or no hope of winning. I think most of those people have never crossed a finish line.

As writers, perhaps we’re stigmatized by all those wacky creatives who precede us, those brave and tortured souls who filled their pockets with stones and walked into deep water, or cut off part of an ear, or wrote naked in a glass room and periodically whipped themselves with knotted horse hair after plunging into an ice-water bath.

People who think writers are nuts, have never constructed THAT sentence…the one you wrote yourself and can read as many times as you want and it still makes the hairs on your arm stand up.

Note: People also think mountain climbers are crazy, but moutaineers have the “because it’s there” escape clause. I don’t know how they get away with that…it’s not even a strong sentence.

Moving forward…the other thing writers and triathletes have in common is that we feel the fear and do it anyway. It takes wild courage to put careful words on paper and read those words to a packed room. Anyone who’s done a reading knows how hard it is to batten down your bladder while you attempt to speak AND hold your breath at the same time. As a triathlete it’s hard to know that there’s family waiting at the finish line while you wonder if you have what it takes to arrive.

Last Christmas some friends of ours gave us a box of Kraft Dinner for Christmas…55 year old KD. When this KD was made, the Kraft people were still explaining what KD was. The box is labeled, in several places, “KRAFT macaroni and cheese DINNER for making macaroni and cheese”.

The fact that this box of KD exists at all means that, a long time ago, some man, woman or child made a conscious decision to preserve it. Perhaps it was plucked from the stores of a Cold War bunker, or from under the bed of an adolescent hoarder long since gone to college. The point is somebody saved a box of KD…for over 50 years. Seems a little weird to me. Do you think the neighbors knew?

Let’s own up - we’re all doing something a little nuts, whether we’re writing, running, or stashing soon-to-be-classic foods in a bunker under the garage.

Good thing too. Nuts is delicious. Crazy is a finish line. Weird is an act of courage. That said, it’s way more dangerous to keep your best words inside your head than it is to toss them into the air or onto a page.

Nuts is about one of the best things we can be.

Stay calm, be brave, write on.

Off to chew cashews,
Kari

Note: Microsoft Word recognizes KD as a word, but tries to ‘correct’ triathlete. Hmmmm.

Ice in Bowls and Perfect Swimming

I’ve battled the fear of open water for most of my life. I’m good for hundreds of lengths in the pool, but put me in water I can’t see the bottom of, and I panic.

About a month ago I read an article in Impact Magazine titled “Swimming Without Walls” (by Brian McAsey). Brian says that the reason many people shun lakes and oceans is that cold water, particularly in the face, causes the "fight or flight" response to kick in.

Brian honestly believes that you can condition yourself past panic by sticking your face in ice water and blowing bubbles.

Brian’s funny.

I’m desperate.

In less than two weeks I have to race the first leg of my triathlon (1.2 miles) in the balmy waters of Ghost Lake. Ghost Lake is even too cold for fish.

So I get out the big bowl, fill it, and submerge my face, five days in a row. My facial pores, it is noted by a close friend, are looking very refined. My complexion glows.

Better than refined pores, on Monday evening I spent a panic free hour swimming in that icy reservoir. I did.

Really, sometimes the weird sh*t works.

Now, let’s talk about my unfinished novel.

I like to consider myself the sort of person who gets things done. I set a goal, I break the process down into steps. I find the help I need. I do the work.

Why then, six years or so after beginning, am I still working on the same book?

Completion, it seems, is my other great fear.

What if I finish the book and nobody will publish it? What if somebody publishes it but nobody buys it? What if people buy it and hate it and say mean spirited things about it? What if the leftover copies end up in the Dollarama beside their collection of distasteful looking cookbooks and bad self-help literature?

All I have to do is imagine my book being rejected and I’m overcome by the urge to carry it to safety or kick someone.

I’m paralyzed by the thought of not being accepted and loved for the genius that I am. I’m so worried about not being adored that I’m refusing to take the risks that come with completion.

Hmm...maybe what I need to get this book done is a bowl of ice water in which to soak my ego.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a bowl that big. Perhaps an icy lake will work.

Just keep swmming,

Kari

Let's Practice Counting

I count.

Constantly.

Which is to say, I’m always counting something. Steps, for example. I’ve worn a step-counter for so long my little girl thinks it’s like a pacemaker, or a prosthetic device. She is convinced that I will die if I leave the house and it is not clipped to my waistband.

When I’m pumping gas, I count the rhythmic sounds the pump makes. I calculate the beats per litre. At my Petro-Can, the pump beats at approximately 4/bpl.

I used to play drums in the military. I can still tap my fingers at 120 beats per minute. That is the standard pace for marching. That is the pace of a heartbeat in wartime. When I run, my pace is 180 footfalls per minute. That is the pace of someone running toward a finish line, not away from gunfire.

I count the kilometers I ride, the miles I run, the lengths I swim, the pushups I press out, the ball crunches.

I count calories. Calories in. Calories out. I try to make the former a lesser number than the latter. I fail constantly. That is why, despite my best efforts, I weigh 128 lb and my bodyfat is still over 20%.

My novel has a word count. It is 53,684. I think I need 10,000 more words to make it work. I don’t try to count them as I write because that would be far too confusing.

Yesterday I did 120 pushups. The day before that I was supposed to ride 100 kilometers, but I stopped at 94.6. There was hail...too much to count.

Today I swam 100 lengths of the pool. I did three loads of laundry and bought three magazines.

Despite all my counting, I know that the things that I count don’t make me “count”.

We talk about the miles we log, but we truly count when we cross a finish line holding the hand of someone we love. We count when we write the words that make a reader laugh, or cry, or throw down the story down in disgust. We count when we inspire someone else to write words that count, or take steps that count.

I count. You should count too.

Best,

Kari

(according to the Mac, this is 382 words)