The bakery window

The assignment: A “Dérive”, a French term that apparently means “a wandering” and was a favourite practice of the Dadaists and Surrealists who would go somewhere, drop all their pretensions and motives for being there and just let the environment inspire them.

Writer’s note: I managed to find myself being inspired in the middle of a snow storm and had to write quickly and under the shelter of shop awnings, though my pages got wet anyway. The following is what later developed from those notes; from the adjectives, phrases and random thoughts. I had a look at some of the submissions made by the other writers in my group and many of them stuck with a stream-of-consciousness style. Not sure if I was supposed to do that too. It wasn’t clear. Oh well. And it’s a bit heavy on the descriptives — topic of the week is “showing” not “telling”.

* * * * * *

THE BAKERY WINDOW

You could hear them coming a block away. The indignant cries of the jostled street-goers and the raucous laughter of the two boys rang out as they darted between people on the sidewalk. The rubber soles of their boots clunked heavily on the wet pavement as they charged ahead. I turned just as one brother pushed the other out of my way, narrowly avoiding a collision by passing on either side. They skirted around an elderly man behind me, sending him into a precarious teeter. His armful of groceries threatened to spill out over the side of its paper bag and his startled Daschund, promptly leapt into bellows at the commotion, pitching after the children at the end of his leash.

I reached out to help steady the man and from somewhere down the bustling village street came the frantic holler of a mother belatedly warning the boys to slow down and watch where they were going.

His balanced regained, the old man grunted a thank-you in my direction and threw a sour glance to the boys who had run up to the bakery window and pressed their faces to the glass. He cursed under his breath and yanked his barking dog away down the street, shuffling to keep his footing on the icy patches.

Looking after him, I shivered. The sun had long been wiped out of the sky and replaced with a flat grey slate that sat thick and low. Snow began to fall from somewhere in the clouded ceiling and it landed fat and wet on my lashes. The cars in the narrow street lumbered by at a snail’s pace, tires rolling slow-motion through the dark, filthy puddles. The crosswalk lights blinked lazily through the misty air and a group of young women scurried across, their collars pulled high and their heads buried in their jackets as a wind kicked up and whipped hair across their faces.

Several pigeons flew overhead to seek refuge atop the hand-painted wooden bakery sign, where they huddled, fluffed against the chill. The bakery, the meat market and at least a dozen other old-fashioned shops sat together on this strip – the last resilient stand in the village’s fight against modern commercialization. All around creeped the Starbucks, the major grocery chains, drug stores and fast food joints, waiting to pounce and smother the independent shops out of existence. They were bloodsuckers, draining the life out of local business and turning shoppers into ignorant foot-soldiers for the corporate machine.

However, this last group of shops was putting up a good fight and had a loyal following determined to wage any necessary battle. Whether it would be enough to ward off the greedy chains, only time would tell.

The boys’ mother finally caught up, laboured with a third child in a stroller and several grocery bags of her own. She was a plump lady and came huffing to the warm glow of the bakery window, her shoulders drawn up and her red face tight and annoyed as if the falling snow was burning her skin. She chastised her sons between breaths as she dusted off the top of their heads, but her words went unnoticed by the boys whose eyes were locked on the mountain of sugary goodness laid before them. Their mouths watered at the sight of the sumptuous pastries, the soft and supple doughnuts shining with sweet glaze. A dish of rich chocolate brownies sat next to a tray of M&M cookies the size of dinner plates and a stack of flaky croissants leaned against a pile of sticky jam-filled danishes.

The bell above the door rang continuously with the constant flow of customers and the comforting sweet smell of baked goods and cinnamon slipped into the street, luring the cold and weary inside like a warm hand about the shoulder.

The bakery’s tiny aisle was crammed with people in their winter coats, juggling their purchases and calling orders to the owners behind the counter. There wasn’t a free space to be found in the store, on the shelves or in the displays. Jams, syrups, chocolates, biscuits and breads lined the walls from top to bottom. Bagels and buns filled baskets along the counter. Laughter permeated the air as a stout, Italian, man with a large moustache at the cash told a joke and rang in an order of pecan tarts. When the red-faced mother and her children shuffled in, stroller, groceries and all, he called out, “Mrs. Jefferies! Boys! Come to have a doughnut today?”

Through the shop’s window you could see the snow pelting down hard on the street, transforming the wet, bleak picture into a bright, frozen one. Most people hurried by, paying little attention to their surroundings, only concerned with getting to their warm and sheltered destinations. But every so often, a nose would catch the enveloping smell of freshly baked bread or an eye would be drawn to the glowing window display in all its splendour and for a brief moment they’d forget the miserable weather and the dull grey world around them. For a brief moment, they’d stop, allow their senses to bask in such sweet, homely comforts – perhaps even purchase a tasty treat – and then continue on, a small warmth ignited within.

Where they speak your language

“The writer must be universal in sympathy and an outcast by nature; only then can he see clearly.” – Julian Barnes, author.

Last Saturday I had the pleasure of attending a writer’s and editor’s breakfast meeting here in the city. I wanted to do some networking, but I was also interested in seeing what this particular group was all about and whether or not I’d want to join as a member. The verdict is still out, but I think I’ll go to their next event.

It was a large gathering, in the dining hall space of a restaurant in the west end. Ages were diverse, but I was one of the youngest in attendance. I only had time to chat with the people at my table: a past president of the organization, a children’s book author, a freelance magazine writer, a correctional services guard and a computer engineer who both write fiction part-time.

After discovering I was in journalism, the past-president waved over a towering old man with brilliant white hair and beard. He was a retired television producer who used to work for CBC and when the past-president said she’d like to introduce him to a young lady he replied with a hearty laugh, “I never turn down the opportunity to meet a young lady. Whether they’d want to meet an old codger like me is another story!”

He was a pleasant and interesting character, full of humour and energy and a spirit I envied. Though I was still unsure about committing to a membership by the end of the event, I at least found the interaction with new people to be refreshing. In fact, I found as I glanced around the room, catching bits of conversation here and there, that the exposure to new faces and personalities – as odd and quirky as some were – was a great way to get the creative juices flowing, imagining the secret lives and stories behind the faces. I wondered how many of them were looking at our scene with the same imaginative filter, ready to grasp inspiration when it appeared.

The past-president told me why the founding members started up the network. She said writing is such a solitary affair that it’s necessary for writers to have a place they can go to interact with real characters and take a break from those living in their minds, their stories and books. It’s also helpful, she said, to have people around you who understand writing – the need for it, the frustrations and successes. People who speak your language. People who, like you, live in two worlds: the real and the imaginary.

Sounds like a meeting place for the mentally-unstable, I thought. Perhaps it was. But why did it sound like a place I would like?

The guest speaker that morning was local actress and writer Robin Duke, of SCTV and SNL fame. She spoke to us about comedy writing — more her experience with it, than prescriptive direction. As fascinating as it was to hear about her friendship with Catherine O’Hara and her television experience, I was disappointed to not hear more about the comedy writing process. At the end I asked what advice she would give someone who wanted to inject comedy into their writing, but perhaps didn’t feel they were a comedian by nature? I asked, is it necessary for a comedy writer to be a comedian?

She said something vague about just being able to do it and transferring real experience into funny situations. She asked if that made sense? I was about to say no, when she turned away to take another’s question.

There were some useful pointers hidden within her presentation:

• You need to be able to make fun of yourself, first and foremost. If you can’t be ridiculous enough to sacrifice your own pride, then you won’t be able to do it with any characters you create.
• Funny things happen to real people all the time. Bring your own material to the table and find inspiration in it.
• Comedy has a lot to do with rhythm. The scene needs to be drawn out to carefully-timed beats that build upon the one that came before. The punch-line or funny part is delivered after a crescendo has built up.

She gave us a disclaimer at the beginning of her lecture that she was there to tell us about comedy and not to do a comedy routine. In the past, she explained, people would come away from her lectures disappointed that she wasn’t funny. Despite this she did say some amusing things. One of which was:

“If you don’t like a person’s idea, then don’t tell them. The silence should be enough to let that person know.”

Bent at 90 degrees

I haven’t much to say today besides complain about the fact that I’ve just started up with a personal trainer and I think she’s slowly torturing me to death. The first day we worked out together I nearly passed out and had to sit bent over with my head between my legs. I told her the other day my arms were sore from our last workout thinking we’d then concentrate on a lower-body workout so I could rest. Instead she said “Oh good. Let’s do upper body again.”

So thanks to psycho trainer today I could not fully extend my arms without screaming bloody murder. I have to sleep with them at 90 degrees. I tried to pass my boss a piece of paper as I went by his desk and I actually shrieked when I over-extended. He jumped out of his chair.

To be fair, she makes me work harder than I would ever make myself. So in some sick twisted way, that’s good.

Oh, and I wrote this which will now grace the upper left corner of my website:

The Rabbit Hole

I stand with you, and you with me
in a mysterious land of circumstance.
Friends and foes, lovers and those
inspire the tales at hand.
It’s this world of course, that provides the source
for the musings the tellers tell.
White rabbits you’ll find, mad queens are the kind
to wander this wonder-land.

The gauntlet

The assignment: Write a self-introduction piece in any style. No rules. Just make it about yourself.

Author’s note: Without guidelines, I had no plan for this piece when I set pen to paper. This is the result of an hour-long freewrite (writing non-stop without thinking) and a few revisions. When I receive the instructor’s feedback, I’ll post any tips she has for improvement. Update – see end of post.

* * * * * *

THE GAUNTLET

At the time it felt like one of her greatest achievements. Slipping into that hot, stinking cab with the sweaty seats and tassel-lined roof and telling the driver, with confidence and without the slightest hesitation, where to take her.

For weeks this task had involved an embarrassing charade with garbled Arabic that only ever elicited confused looks or rude gestures from the non-English speaking driver. If she was lucky, she’d catch a friend on her cell phone and they’d translate the directions. She’d take the phone back from the driver, feeling generally useless, and in her lap discreetly wipe his cheek sweat from the phone’s display screen as he’d pull into traffic.

But the day she told him where to go was a grand one. He even thought she was Arab, from the fluidity of her words!

It was a small achievement in retrospect, compared to graduating from university, getting her Master’s degree, reaching career milestones, and growing as a journalist and a professional woman.

But it felt damn good.

It was a beacon of light in those dark days of adjustment. Her life had become rife with obstacles and even the most trivial of issues made her want to rip out her hair.

She couldn’t find a vacuum to cut through the layers of filth she inherited in her new apartment. It took her an unnecessary long time to write a basic article because the people she tried to interview kept hanging up on her. Strangers stared, pointed and called out as she walked the streets. Her stove didn’t work. A colony of ants took up residence in the kitchen cupboard. She nearly had her camera confiscated for taking a photo of some police officers. Her roommate was an indoor chain smoker and a good-for-nothing slug. And it was freaking hot.

That’s why to her, tackling the taxi challenge was tantamount to solving world hunger. That seemingly insignificant conquest would feed her resolve and help quell her fears of being alone for weeks to come.

She was resilient. But she was scared out of her wits. And she felt guilty for her weak moments knowing that only several hundred kilometres away an entire population was struggling to survive war, poverty and political unrest.

But those long, dark desert nights teased her insecurities. The mournful howls of the alley cats and startling crack of fireworks (or were they guns?) kept her awake within the stone walls of her bedroom night after night. It was then she was most reflective.

Besides the obvious thoughts (What the hell are you doing alone in the Middle East?) she would think of her family back in Canada, of her life there and how it came to pass that she was living and working on the other side of the world. It was the latest stop in a journey that began with the realization in high school that as a journalist she would not only be encouraged but paid to write, to stick her nose into other people’s business and to be places no other ordinary person could go. It was the perfect career choice for an innately curious young writer, desperate to see the world and learn new things.

Along the way she faltered from the path only twice to test the waters of corporate communications and politics. She had the ambition for both, even a slight hunger for power that would have suited her well as a civil servant, but those shoes never fit as well as they did when she was walking the road towards journalism.

In the beginning there was a lot to learn. She imagined the lives of reporting legends and romanticized a life of epic adventure and award-winning journalism. She’d arrive on the scene a celebrity in her own right and get all the best scoops. Alice in Wonderland, Reporter Extraordinaire. Seeking Truth, Finding Adventure and Discovering the World …all in the flash of a press badge.

It wasn’t long before her grand notions of journalism were deflated down to size. Years of covering small town news where cows made headlines had a lot to do with it.

And yet, there she was in the Middle East, with adventure jumping out around every corner. Sure, she was still writing silly stories about petting zoos and IT conferences, but it was a step. Yes, she was treated like crap for being a Western female journalist, but the experience was invaluable. And ok, living conditions weren’t great, but what did she expect? The Four Seasons? It was the Middle East, the hottest news zone on the planet!

For many nights, she’d fall asleep convincing herself that she was fortunate to be there. Telling herself to suck it up and stop complaining. It took longer than she’d like to admit before she took her own advice.

The assignment would turn out to be a short stint, but once she found her feet she made the best of it. Before she knew it years passed since her plane had taken her out of that sunburnt place. She settled back into life in southern Ontario, adjusted to the shock of a sudden undemanding life and took her place among metropolitan Canadian journalists.

The taxi-ride accomplishment is now worlds away and her tongue no longer knows the Arabic words. But she closes the fingers of her mind tightly around the fleeting memory whenever she feels lost in her path. The adventure she so eagerly sought had found her, once in the deserts of the Middle East. It put her to the test and she ran the gauntlet, discovering for the first time what she was really made of: guts, gumption and a strong perseverance of mind.

She had a taste of something she liked, however brutal the initiation had been. Inevitably, she’d go seeking it again and this time, she’d be ready.

* * * * * *

From the Instructor: I’ll spare anyone reading this the positive comments and stick to what’s helpful. I was asked, “With something this rich in detail, full of available, honest emotion, why did you choose to put the piece into third person? (here we go, the psychology of it…) but it’s something worth exploring.” My response? Writing in first person is all I do these days and any writing I ever did about my time overseas was the same. I suppose going with third person was my way of distancing myself from the story and trying to provide a more ’rounded’ picture of my experience. Hard to do when it’s all about me… 

A turn to fiction

I’m a writer by nature. There’s no getting around it. If I’m not writing as a journalist, I’m writing in a journal. I’m describing people, places and dreaming up stories to tell. When I don’t write, I get depressed. It’s like a drug and putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) is my release.

Whether I’m a good writer is another question altogether. I’m my worst critic, so if you asked me I’d say I was complete crap. There’s definite room for improvement, let’s say. And I want to be better. I want to feel like I know what I’m doing when I sit down to that blank page.

That’s why I’ve recently signed up for a fiction writing course. (Check one off the 2008 list!) It’s distance-ed, which suits me just fine. This way there’s no room for excuses to miss a class – lectures and readings are posted and read at my leisure, assignments are emailed and discussions take place via an online chat and bulletin board. A brilliant alternative to battling the Canadian elements at night on the highways and committing hours out of your schedule to sit in a cold classroom.

The course will keep me well in practice, if nothing else. Perhaps I’ll post some of my work for the amusement of all and the crap-factor can be left to your own judgment and discretion.

The gig will soon be up

In less than 48 hours all this buzz about J.J. Abram’s Cloverfield will come to an end and we’ll all know what that thing is and what it’s doing to all those poor New Yorkers (why is it always New York that gets terrorized?). My first instinct and best guess is still that it’s a Godzilla spin-off. Some bad corporate or military dudes have done some bad things that have now awaken/ created/ summoned some evil or misunderstood lizard monster or robot with anger management issues.

The kid in the previews was going to Japan.

I hope the whole movie isn’t filmed sans steady-cam, as we’ve seen in previews, cause that’ll make me puke just like I nearly did in Blair Witch.

Note to self: sit waaay back.

I must say though that these guys have undertaken a kick-ass viral campaign to generate buzz and suck in target market data. They’ve got several official websites (six), some that make sense, others that only leave you asking more questions. Tons of independent blogs have popped up just to support all the web chatter. They also previewed a new trailer during the NY celebrations in New York.

From Wikipedia:

As part of the viral marketing campaign, the drink Slusho! has served as a tie-in. The drink had previously appeared in producer Abrams’ previous creation, the TV series Alias.Viral websites for Slusho! and a Japanese drilling company were launched to add to the mythology of Cloverfield. When Cloverfield was hosted at Comic-Con 2007, gray Slusho! t-shirts were distributed to attendees. Fans who had registered at the Slusho! website for Cloverfield received e-mails of fictional sonar images prior to the film’s release that showed a deep-sea creature heading toward Manhattan.

And now a Japanese magazine has released an installment of manga based on the film. Talk about hype. It’ll be interesting to see if all this work pays off at the box office.

I just hope this doesn’t turn out to be the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man making a comeback.

Wanted: A well-stocked kitchen

The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it:

‘No room! No room!’ they cried out when they saw Alice coming.

‘There’s PLENTY of room!’ said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.

‘Have some wine,’ the March Hare said in an encouraging tone.

Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. ‘I don’t see any wine,’ she remarked.

‘There isn’t any,’ said the March Hare.

‘Then it wasn’t very civil of you to offer it,’ said Alice angrily.

‘It wasn’t very civil of you to sit down without being invited,’ said the March Hare.

The thing about living on your own is that it takes ages to stock your kitchen up well enough to eliminate the need for trips to the grocery store for even the most basic ingredients when trying new recipes. My parents’ kitchen though, always seems to have just about everything you’d need and ingredient-gathering expeditions are undertaken mostly for the more exotic culinary components.

But here? Cinnamon – no. Onions – no (had a small supply, but ran out). Vegetable stock – no. Flour – no. Eggs – no (again, the supply never lasts thanks to my egg-loving housemate). Soy sauce – no. Balsamic vinegar – no. Potatoes – no.

These are just a few items on what’s become a long shopping list. It’s no wonder we’re always staring at empty cupboards complaining that there’s nothing to eat. The most basic of staples aren’t there to be able to make anything!

Off to the store then, to sacrifice a small fortune for the sake of a much more complete culinary arsenal.

Khrystos Razhdaietsia

… means “Christ is born” and is the traditional holiday greeting for Ukrainians celebrating Christmas tomorrow, January 7th. My family had our annual dinner this weekend for the holiday, complete with kutia (sweet grain pudding made of wheat, honey and poppy seeds), borscht (beet soup), herring and perogies. See photos below. All the best to those celebrating Orthodox Christmas!

Looking forward to 2008

Happy 2008 to all! I hope everyone manages to carry the cheerful holiday spirit through January – apparently the most depressing month of the year. I’d believe it too, for all the guilt-driven marketing on the TV and radio, telling us to get our fat selves to the gym and to commit to paying those expensive VISA bills. Like we don’t have enough stress, we now get the advertisers on us – the persistent joy-kill.

I thought this would be the year I would stop making resolutions. I asked myself what’s the point? I never keep them. And yet, I can’t help staring down the uncertain road of 2008 and wanting to find specific things there. Like a 15-lb lighter version of myself. Or the solid beginning of this novel I’ve been meaning to write. Improved photography skills. Stronger ties with friends, near and far. A balanced cheque-book.

The list is a long one.

Those goals will be with me as I tackle each day this year, but I don’t think I need to spell them out here. Been there, done that. Instead, how about a list of some of the things I’m looking forward to in 2008:

1. Moving into my very own place. Hopefully I’ll be buying. Not sure yet where that’s going to be – central Toronto somewhere and close to a subway line if I’m lucky. I’ll struggle with the new responsibility and lack of disposable funds, I’m sure, but I will be very glad to rescue my new dishes and housewares from storage in my parents’ basement at long last.

2. Furthering my continued education. Specifically, I want to take dance lessons again. I once took ballroom dancing lessons and was shocked at how much I loved it. I’d also like to join a writer’s group or take a fiction writing course. And I hope to continue going out with the Toronto photography group and keep my camera active.

3. Traveling to the Middle East for a friend’s wedding. Unfortunately, this depends on whether item no. 1 comes to fruition and how broke I am as a result. If I do make the trip, I hope to also visit a friend in Paris for a few days on the way back.

4. Getting through the pile of books I’ve been meaning to read. I have this problem where I can’t resist bringing a book home even when I’m still in the middle of reading another and have two more in line after that.

5. Volunteering my time to help others. I lead a pretty selfish life and it’s about time I lend my free hand to those who need it.

6. Being entertained by Hollywood. This year brings the release of two greatly-anticipated films, Indiana Jones IV and the Time Traveler’s Wife, starring Eric Bana and Rachel McAdams that was filmed in Toronto. I don’t think I could have picked a better actor to play time-challenged Henry, a character I couldn’t help but fall for the first time I read the book. I’m also looking forward to the fourth season of ABC’s Lost, seeing more of Jack, Sawyer and Desmond and finding out what the deal is with those crazy flash-forwards.

7. Becoming a better news editor. I still feel very new in my role at the paper, after a month and a bit, and I can’t wait until I’m right settled in.

Good luck to you this year and may there be lots for you to look forward to in 2008.