In fact, I’m acutely aware of it. With the monumental elephant-in-the-room distraction of school, it’s been a slim couple of months in terms of my personal writing and author mental health.

You know what I’m talking about, right?

When I don’t carve out a space for myself to be detached and just write, I get a sensation of bugs crawling beneath my skin, as if the cold,  sharp edges of little serif crawlers were poking me and prompting me to knock off whatever I think I’m doing that’s so important and just write dammit!

With this in mind, yesterday I made my way to CBC studios in downtown Vancouver to participate in CBC Radio One’s Book Club, featuring author Eva Stachniak. From the get-go, Stachniak’s talk promised to be a good’er. She opened with a reading from her new novel The Winter Palace, which was rich in the texture of the Russian Court and the towering historical figure of Catherine the Great. The narrator of the story is a servant, who will later become a wily spy. Hearing Stachniak discuss the character of Catherine was inspiring to say the least. Catherine is an outsider in every sense of the word: culture, language, and class, haunting themes to probe.

Stachniak had a tendency to talk in lovely and captivating ways about the craft of writing, so much so that I had to stop halfway through the talk to work out the cramp in my hand from scribbling down the nuggets of advice. Here are a couple of my favourites, which I have continued to dwell on today and hope to apply to my own writing:

• In response to a question re: how does she distinguish between fact and fiction in a work of historical fiction?

“How do we know history? It’s a collection of stories. What we hold as truth/facts are in themselves just stories.” Stachniak jokingly referred to her line of historical fiction as “archival fantasy.”

• Stachniak described the white nights of St. Petersburg, in which the sun remains visible for twenty-four hours due to latitudinal position of the region. She referred to the emotional and physical ramifications of a person in such a circumstance, and the impact of temporal space on the sensations.

I was fascinated by this—often there is a tendency to describe the weather (“It was sunny,” “It was rainy”) in straightforward no-nonsense tones. But how does the weather affect the psyche? How does space, and one’s relation to that physical space, impact a person’s actions? They are questions that we are so immune to as a result of simply getting up and breathing everyday that taking a concentrated look reveals some truly interesting things.

Writing muscles recharged, I’m off to put them to good use!

The Winter Palace by Eva Stachniak

Published: Jan 03, 2012 by Doubleday Canada
ISBN: 9780385666565
Price: $24.95
Chapters-Indigo
Amazon

“Poor dear, you can’t enjoy Halloween like a normal kid.” (Aka: you can’t gorge yourself silly on sugar mini choco bars of heaven and wake up the next morning in a pile of empty wrappers and your own drool while stray raccoons poke you).

My initial urge was always to jump up and down and shriek like a demented leprechaun: I am too a normal kid! I eat candy for Halloween! My dad will beat you up if you don’t give me candy! [NOTE: while my dad was never one for candy-related fisticuffs, I feel confident that he would have totally thrown a few punches for a mini-O'Henry.]

This policy shifted subtly as I grew older. It became apparent that when a trick-or-treat stash dwindled overnight, or (let’s be honest) flat-out disappeared into ooey-gooey yumness in my belly, the last person accused was the sad little Diabetic girl in the corner making puppy dog eyes at her box of raisins. Before you chase me with pitchforks for this “alleged” choco-cide, let me just say that this evil stage of adolescence did not last long. It only takes one time getting caught before you become the go-to suspect for chocolate disappearances.

I shifted to my current model of Halloween celebration. It starts with good intentions, trying to look down my nose at the people around me partaking in an all-around sugar orgy as I try to valiantly convince myself as I eat my salad that yes, I am a fun person. Then comes the roller coaster ride of the sugar high, the sugar crash, and, as I mentioned before, the raccoons. FYI: they are not as cuddly and cute as they seem.

Within a week I had purchased two tickets to readings hosted by Kidsbooks, one for Scott Westerfeld (author of the Uglies and Leviathan series), and James Dashner, author of the Maze Runner series. Both authors had recently released the final books in these trilogies, and were bringing the YA love to Canada.

-Scott Westerfeld signs books for ravenous fans              -James Dashner hams it up

From these two presentations, I learned some juicy little tips and tidbits for speaking to the YA group.

1. YA is a helluva big group. Even though the suggested reading age is 12 or 14 for example, there are many kids 4 or even five years younger who will devour the books. This is a good thing to keep in mind when preparing content for discussion.
2. SPOILER ALERTS! For the Dashner reading in particular, there was a tendency on the part of the younger kids to excitedly blurt out questions that unintentionally gave away major plot points and surprise endings. Dashner handled this well, pre-empting the questions with urgings to not give things away. I was impressed at how he did this while making the kid feel important and not veering into condescension.
3. Visuals—Westerfeld made use of colourful visuals and details about the artwork and its development in the books. Kids really latched on to these descriptions and it kept them engaged throughout.
4. A little something for the parents—it wasn’t like these kids were wandering in off the street on their own. Each one was accompanied by at least one parent. If the author can keep the parents and kids entertained and interested, all the better (especially since those parents are the ones with the purse strings). Both of these authors managed to include content of interest to adults very well, interspersed throughout their talks, but not overpowering the kid-centric presentations.

Tips to put in my back pocket for later . . .

Maze Runner Trilogy

The Death Cure (Maze Runner Series #3) by James Dashner

Published: Oct 11, 2011 by Delacorte Press
ISBN: 9780385738774
Price: $19.99
Chapters-Indigo
Amazon

Goliath by Scott Westerfeld

Published: Sep 20, 2011 by Simon Pulse
ISBN: 9781416971771
Price: $22.99
Chapters-Indigo
Amazon

• I am a book nerd: the smell of linen paper and hot type is akin to crack. It’s what sends shivers up my neck to my librarian’s bob.
• Hello? FREE.
• What the hell is a Wayzgoose? This mystery just could not be left alone.

What we found tucked in the lower level of the Vancouver Public Library was a Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory-esque experience for book nerds. I was able to use a letterpress, pressing the pedal with my foot to work that type baby (while also pretending that I was driving a model-T Ford). I saw linocuts made before my eyes sparkly with wonder, watched a woman marble paper, and saw gorgeous/outrageous sculptures made from old Danielle Steel magazines. Not to mention the sculpture of Sarah Palin’s memoir. The title page of her face had been strategically carved – the eyes and mouth hollow, and the entire book electrified and attached to a set of tweezers on a wire which the reader (me!) used to pull pieces from the carved-out facial features à la the game Operation.

This was total book euphoria. Likely the way an ADD kid feels when making his way through his Halloween candy. Halfway through the exhibitors, Count Chocula turned to me with concern. “Are you alright? You’re breathing pretty hard and your face is all flushed.” NOTE: These are also physical symptoms of a hypoglycaemic reaction, so brownie points to Chocula for noticing ;)

Basically, I had an out-of-body ecstatic experience – when my toes touched ground, my pupils had returned to normal size and I had two new unbelievably beautiful books to add to my cinderblock and 2 x 4 bookshelf.

Best of show? A massive volume of Tom Sawyer (by massive, I mean approx. 10 x 20!) with hand-cut type and a staggering number of multi-coloured linocuts throughout the book. The book was hand-bound, the cover hand-made. The book required four years to complete, and was the last project of Jim Rimmer and his Pie Tree Press before his death.

I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but there is something surreal about feeling the linen pages of a book that is so well-loved. If this was a film, the moment I touched that page would be accompanied by a Whitney Houston ballad.

Yes, letterpress. I will always love you <3

In a world of POD technology, frenzied writing deadlines and industrial printing presses, there is something that shivers my writer’s timbers about a labor of pure unadulterated passion like these books. You aren’t exactly concerned with a return on investment if it takes you 4 years to simply print the bloody book – believe me, there’s a whole lotta love.

Don’t get me wrong. Removal of the barriers to entry provided by modern printing processes and POD technology means a staggering increase in new voices and a dissemination of ideas. But if there is room for this in publishing, I really do hope there is room for the kinds of books I saw at the Alcuin Wayzgoose print fair.

On an unrelated note, if anyone is adept at strapping a 2-tonne letterpress to the back of a Chevelle, your help would be greatly appreciated :D

Linocut Sticker = wicked awesome

One of my gorgeous new books produced by the Alcuin Society

(The other is The Trial by Franz Kafka)

Now I’m the kind of gal who carries around my twenty-pound Dell laptop and forgoes the impending hernia. The type of straight-outta-the-90s child who misses palm pilots and scrawls notes on stickies and whiteboards around my room as if they were prehistoric cave walls. Representing the Troglodyte faction with pride.

Imagine then my shock to discover that I am unknowingly functioning as my mother’s model for technological innovation. I routinely receive calls from her on the rotary phone opining that she can’t figure out the “damn iButtons on the damn iPhone,” (so adorable). This has been amplified as of late by my acquisition of a Kobo.

For a long time, my mother refused to be swayed by that snake oil salesman by the name of “technology.” Every time I go to visit her though, I put out the eReader and walk her through how it works. She slowly moves from cautious observer of technology to active participant after three such tutorials. Not to suggest that she is by any means a whiz at the eReader now. The last email I received from her sent chills down my spine: “BOUGHT AN EREADER [yes it was in all-caps] NOW YOU CAN SHOW ME HOW TO USE IT HAHA. BUT SERIOUSLY, WILL NEED HELP.”

With the push my program to learn about emerging forms of book technology, I wonder lately what the digital divide between people my mother’s age, and so-called “digital natives” will mean for marketing emergent forms of technology. If my mother and her flash mob of late adopters is any indication, approaches to selling new forms of technology will have to be gentle in delivery and coaxing—the equivalent of a big virtual hug that won’t yell at you or freeze you out. I’m interested (and fearful) to see how this experiment turns out.

Marketing Lessons from my mother’s eBook adoption:

1). The differences between PDF and ePub files are not exactly crystal clear to this demographic. Going on long explanatory passages isn’t helpful if what you’re even talking about isn’t clear. Plus, it breeds anger when the purchaser finds herself with a format she does not understand and finds difficult to use and read.

2). Visuals go a LONG way towards understanding. Step by step instructional videos and instructions utilizing images and BIG arrows are hella helpful.

3). When this person is confused and can’t talk to someone to walk through the problem, the device migrates to the back of a drawer and collects some excellent dust bunnies.

4). Accessorize: this goes a long way and is an easy thing to get excited about. Rhinestones, colour changes—any variety of crazy accessories creates continued excitement.

Source photo via Constance Wiebrands

Viking-helmeted dudes and dudettes strut to the starting line alongside me. Warrior gear – chainmail, loincloths, plastic inflatable swords at the ready. I give one last twist of my pump and disconnect it for the duration of the race, lest it be caught in barbed wire or drowned in mud. My sister took a long look at me sidelong as I put my pump in my purse to leave with her husband. “If you have a seizure on top of that mountain,” she says with deadly seriousness, “I’ll freaking kill you myself.” I had no Sherpa back-up on this little expedition and no pump: I was on my own.

A little background perhaps: we set to compete in the Warrior Dash, a 5km race straight up Whistler Mountain (location of the 2010 Winter Olympics). 2.5km straight up the mountain, followed by 2.5km marked by a series of obstacles: climbing walls, fire pits, balance beams, rope ladders . . . culminating in a 100-yard army crawl through the mud beneath strings of barbed wire.

What in holy hell was I doing here? An interesting query, which my mother also voiced emphatically.

I signed the 40 point waiver acknowledging my willful participation in events that could lead to death or dismemberment and mulled over this question. Well, remember that whole “I’m going to train to run a marathon” stuff of mine? Thus far, this has consisted entirely of eating ice cream while reading books on marathoning at the beach. Enter: the Warrior Dash. The ass-kicking, gut-busting starting point I need to kick my marathon training into gear.

The thing about Diabetes is it’s always been an exceedingly convenient excuse for me. I can’t train as hard because I’m Diabetic you know. I can’t run as hard as the others because I’m Diabetic you know. I can’t play the game because I’m low. For much of my life, these excuses have sat on the backburner of my mind, ready to hop into battle at the slightest provocation to explain my failures, the easy excuse me and my family have used for much of my life to gloss over the painful bits. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t; followed by a highly rational explanation to that effect. How it really makes more sense to pursue brainy avenues that aren’t unduly sidelined by Diabetic complications. I fully indulged this line of reasoning from myself and others: it seemed to make things easier in the short time.

Until you buck up and take a good long look at yourself, and have to hold yourself from back from kicking yourself in your own pants. I’m tired of the endless sentences that contain “can’t” and “Diabetes” in cuddly proximity.

So that’s why I stood on that dusty mountain, staring at the furry, chainmail-clad butts of my fellow Vikings set for battle.

The starting gun blared and 4000 wannabe warriors charged up the mountain. I’ll spare you the gory details – there was much cursing, mud, sweat, and a few occasions where it looked as if vomit were in the cards. I would reach for my phantom pump for reassurance it was still there, before remembering it was at the base of the mountain, safe and snug in my purse. My sister and I didn’t come in first, not even the first couple thousand. But we finished the race with Viking pride, receiving our complimentary Viking hats, medals, and all the bananas we could eat (seriously, those bananas with ice water tasted like nectar of the gods in the 30 degree heat). I pillaged and plundered the banana table with reckless abandon, covered in mud. Believe it or not, my blood sugar after all this was a perfect 5.8. I survived without my pump and without the excuses lingering at the back of my mind.

Marathon training’s begun, bananas have been eaten, and at least for now, I feel like “can’t” isn’t in my vocabulary anywhere near Diabetes. Maybe those Norsemen were on to something . . . Stay tuned for more training updates, and of course, more Viking shenanigans ;)

Mud pit adorned with barbed wire; the gorgeous banana table!; my sis and me (I’m on the left :D )

As a writer, and a plebe who has worked for minimal funds at both traditional and self publishing companies, it’s interesting to witness first hand the unceasing verbal bitch slapping issuing forth from either side. Sometimes it’s akin to being caught in the middle of a school yard squabble, when the urge to pull hair and poke eyes is hard to resist.

Here is my answer to those dewy eyed wannabe wordsmiths: don’t ask me—do your homework and figure out for yourself which is best for your particular project.

A spot of reading to that end to aide you in your research: four things I’m most often asked to elaborate on when it comes to making this choice. Self-publishing is not a dire threat to the universe (ie: impending apocalypse of Biblical proportions),  traditional publishing isn’t set for death, but you should probably know both before you make a decision. Writers listen up: there are no magic bullets, so roll up those sleeves and stop whining: write something. Correction: write something good.

1) The Slush Pile

In traditional publishing, we’ve all heard of the slush pile. We fear it, respect it, tremble at its glowering presence and the end result of it, which is more often than not a lovely form letter. Often the line that is sold to self-published authors is a notion that for them, the slush pile doesn’t exist. They’ve discovered a magical key past the gatekeepers of literature. Here’s a newsflash: self-publishing has a slush pile. They’re called “readers of the world,” and they are a whole lot scarier than a form letter. They might even kick you in the stones if something you publish doesn’t cut the mustard.

You still need professional editing. You still need a gorgeous cover design. And you still need to market the hell out of your book. You can pay to have your book published, but it doesn’t make you JK Rowling: I can pay to have an ass lift, but it doesn’t make me Tyra Banks.

2) The Marketing Myth

There is a notion circulating among many aspiring authors that as a traditionally published author, one would be the recipient of a marketing campaign that would put the American electoral season to shame. Signings! International tours! Hotel stays in foreign countries! Women throwing panties on stage at your lectures!

Implicit in this idea is the notion that the author is entitled to act as a diva, requesting only blue M&Ms or Comic Sans type *shudder*. Whether you are a traditionally published author or a self-published author, this idea is not going to fly. Unless you are JK Rowling, you probably can’t get away with insane theatrics and demands. Even Ms. Rowling would likely get a few nasty glares at such behavior. No one likes a lugey in their moccachino, so best to err on the side of caution.

Ask when you don’t know something. Take advice and guidance. For both the traditional publisher and the self-publisher, it is financially beneficial if your book proves successful. For both, you will have to do most of the work yourself if your book and your career is to have ANY steam.

3) Market Share

There is a strange notion going around that self-publishing poses a huge threat to traditional channels because it is encroaching on established norms and threatening profit margins. Um-pardon? For the vast majority of cases, the Targeted markets are a little different. One targets readers, one targets authors (guess which one’s which! I dare you).

Here’s where things get a little dicey: published authors reclaiming the digital rights to their back catalogue, which poses a real monetary threat to those who forfeit those rights. Traditional publishing houses establishing self-publishing imprints to help themselves to a piece of the wannabe-author-pie.

You, unpublished author, don’t need to worry about this yet. You need to worry about writing a book that is good. Don’t worry about choosing one type of publishing because the other is doomed to a quick and immediate death. I don’t see it happening.

4) For the love of all that is holy, NO ONE CARES ABOUT COPYRIGHT!

This is the question I am asked the most. Seriously. Even if we were trapped in a burning building and it was raining hellfire outside, said wannabe writer would probably brush the burning ash from their spindly shoulders, refrain from asking me for the extra extinguisher in lieu of asking me how they protect themselves from someone stealing their work.

Here’s a newsflash genius: if someone wants to steal your book, YOU’VE FREAKING MADE IT! For you, unpublished underling, copyright isn’t the concern, but obscurity. I don’t want to hear about the famous author whose name you can’t remember whose book was stolen word for word. I don’t wanna hear about your book which is so original and fantastic it makes the angels sing and is simply ripe for stealing. It’s not. If you’re worried about copyright, you’re not worried about the important stuff. Aka—writing a good book (duh).

Hint hint: Go and write something! And make it good. It’ll find a good home.

Since the moment I was diagnosed with Type One Diabetes twenty years ago, I have been hearing that a cure is right around the corner.

Really soon! Maybe this year! Right around the corner! In your lifetime for sure!

People wanted me to give money to find a cure, say something inspirational about a cure. What would you do if you were cured? What would you eat again? What would you do that you never believed possible? I grew a little starry-eyed at so much attention. A cure? For me? Oh shucks, you shouldn’t have!

A cure! Dramatizations sprang to mind, those Viagra commercials of people jumping up and down, running through the streets, pumping their fists to the sky—this is how I have envisioned the release of a Diabetes cure, and my own requisite contribution to the celebration. I’ve been brushing up on the jazz hands, FYI. I pictured myself collapsing in a sugary heap, saturated with all the forbidden foods of my youth.

And then, I kept hearing about this cure.  Over and over. Minus the actualization of said claim and the tickertape parade. And as a fifteen year old, topped up to full with angst and insulin, I was pissed. How was I to have my “overcoming adversity” made-for-TV special if these so-called scientists wouldn’t get off their asses and cure the disease that was such a literal pain in my own ass? Besides the fact that other sickos kept muscling in on my turf. How in holy hell could I get a cure pronto if these other disease-ridden people wouldn’t cease and desist? The non-profit, disease-curing world began to feel overly crowded, like a dimly lit bar on Tequila Tuesday when the mud-wrestling pit is unveiled to the masses. Elbows to the kidneys ensued, and more than a little dirt in the eyes. It felt like I had to fight and kick and scream with my diseased brethren and ensure our voices were heard above the other groups to get that elusive cure.

My endocrinologist, fulfilling his alternate role as anger management dude, talked me down off the wall (and thankfully prevented me from assaulting any other chronically ill citizens). He spoke of his first year in med school, when a colleague produced the first rough-hewn insulin pump (a big ‘ole syringe strapped to a board and powered with a small mechanical motor—no joke). There is no limit to innovation. Patience is probably a good thing in this arena too, he insisted, unless of course you want a funky complication like green ears.

There is a danger to living with too much hope. Just as there is a danger to living with too little. One has you constantly gazing elsewhere, blind to the world churning on around you. The other has you blind to everything except your immediate world and the minutiae of illness.

When someone tells me a cure is right around the corner, I don’t have the urge to celebrate or, alternately, the urge to flip them off. Maybe they’re right, maybe they’re not. But the fact that people care enough to give two hoots is wicked cool.

Maybe one day there will be a cure. I’ll be practicing my jazz hands . . . just in case.

Why do you care to know any of this? Often we of the nerdly legions are thought to be beyond embarrassment. How the heck can you further embarrass someone whose retainer is caught in their eyeglass cord?

I’ll tell you.

I took a bag of books to sell back, like any other time I have done the exact same thing. I left the shop with an emptier bag and some sweet store credit burning a hole in my pocket. Only, this time the store people looked at me a little funny as I walked out. I noticed that one young guy, who I had chatted with on occasion, seemed to sidestep me with great gumption by veering around a tippy stack of cookbooks. Only when I arrived home did I find the reason for the strangeness, and promptly enrolled myself in the witness protection program. What follows is a cautionary tale for fellow word nerds.

At 17, after high school graduation, I went on one of the Mexico trips high school graduations are famous for. I enjoyed freaking my mum out with amped up pre-trip stories of all the debauchery I would participate in, and continued the tradition in Mexico by buying her a postcard (check it out below). When I got home, the postcard was reborn as my bookmark after my mum’s reproachful hysterics, and like many bookmarks in my possession (I have a real gift for losing them) soon vanished. The bookmark was lodged in a book I endeavoured to sell on consignment, which the store owners promptly found. When I opened my bag at home, there they were staring back at me from the place of prominence in the lining, a row of white bent bums on the beach. I went eighteen shades of red and blacked out for awhile in a sort of “eff my life” coma before rising again like Scarlett O’Hara and proclaiming to my cat that “With God as my witness, I will never give bum pictures to the bookstore again!”

As part of my posterior prevention quest, here are a couple of tips to help you avoid going to the bookstore or library with your fanny out on display. If I successfully master them, perhaps one day I will be let out of the nerdly witness protection program:

1)    Shake your library books and books for sale before parting with them. When I think of all the items I’ve used for bookmarks—love notes, shopping lists, receipts—I shudder.

2)    Check for inscriptions. A book to “my honey bunny” might be a book which, on second glance, you are not quite so willing to part with.

3)    Don’t swear at the self-checkout machines at the library. They probably meant you no harm, though I can’t be sure.

4)    Buy a book. Seriously—do it. From a small bookstore. I dare you. These stores are in trouble, so open the purse strings and spend your daily latte money on something good that won’t give you heartburn.

5)    Don’t argue with the librarian over the 30 cent late fee on your account. Pay the damn fee and be grateful the library/bookstore still exists and hasn’t been bought out by Amazon.