Reflection

Sometimes I think super hard about things other than writing.

There is Snow

Natalia learned how to muffle her crying, how to put on a mask that said to the rest of the world I am a well-adjusted individual. Pay no attention to me.

Winter isn’t like I remember it. When I was a youngun’ in Kelowna I remember heaps of snow that dominated the world. They peaked like egg whites whipped to perfection, so thick you could burrow into them and tunnel like a prairie dog to the other side of the world.

I’m sure climate change is the reason for the grey, barren world outside of this bus depot now. I find it strange when there is no snow to hide the earth in the winter. Snow is like a magician’s cape pulled over a box containing a rabbit. In the spring it is pulled back to reveal flowers where there was once something else. Without snow, the magic of the seasons seem somehow more hollow, almost exhausting. I’m happy for the blue sky, and the sense of infinity that comes from living on the prairies during this time of year, but I wish there was snow to blanket the earth and create that sense of incredible wonder again.

In the winter I always find myself stalling when it comes to writing. Maybe it’s the fact that I am cold 90% of the time and my fingers would much rather be buried in a blanket than tapping away at a keyboard. I can’t do that now. There is a sense of ownership to this journey, that even the three or four people who have read Between Fire and Pines and The Skeletal Bird are owed an ending, and unfortunately I am still rather far away from that. There is a lot of work to be done this winter, and I have to drag myself out of this melancholia that had set in and remind myself that in my very tiny world, I too am a magician.

Plot, characters, setting, events, deaths, births. They are all woven together to make my cloak, and beneath them exists a final product, another book. It isn’t as simple as the cry of Abracadabra or Alakazam. The end product of this magical act must be tended to like the snow tends to the earth in the winter. It is done beneath the surface, where no one can see what is taking place.

I like being a magician with words, although I’d hardly call myself adept at the craft yet. But magic can be learned and the bulbs in the frozen ground can be tended to, and amazing things can grow where you least expect it.

Book 3 has been a challenge for me, and I’m not sure why. It is at least  partially a case of “I wrote the original plot so long ago that it no longer fits with the overall narrative, and also it was stupid.” At the same time, something hasn’t been fitting quite right. It’s like a shirt that’s been washed too many times. It no longer fits right. Without a finished draft I can hardly go back and begin to identify the problematic feature. Instead I have to barrel on through the whole thing until I have that beginning, middle, and end. That’s when my favorite part of the magic show takes place. The illusions, the  misdirection, all the bits and pieces that I get to put into place. The moments of quiet reflection and the other moments of explosive action.

I was speaking to a writer friend of mine not too long ago and he was just about halfway through The Skeletal Bird. I always get nervous when it comes to my friends reading my work, especially when they have the same desires that I do to succeed in the industry. We’re hard on each other, if only to help each other improve and succeed. This friend told me that he was enjoying it, but in particular he loved the moments between action and dialogue. The little reflective moments that don’t build on plot or characters, but create a striking visual and help cement an author’s voice. I was extraordinary happy with that, and quite embarrassed by the praise. It meant a lot to me, and helped carry me through some severe moments of doubt.

At the same time, I think maybe doubt it a product of a winter without snow. You look around the world and wonder if its possible this cold will ever cleave itself from the earth, if you’ll ever feel the warmth of a spring sun. Winter is a time of doubt, and it can be remarkably exhausting if you don’t have the means to survive it. I have words; a little bit of magic in my hands.

I wouldn’t mind a bit of snow either.


Between Fire and Pines  and The Skeletal Bird are both available on Amazon, Kindle, and Kobo! If you’e read them, please consider leaving a review on Goodreads! It helps readers make informed decisions. Like, “This book wasn’t as bad as I thought”, or “This book is like a Michael Bay wet-dream”.

Let’s Talk About Cults

Or more, let me introduce you to my new favorite obsession. Three years ago it was biker gangs, last year it was viruses. This year is the year of cults, and I am so giddy that my astral cocoon is fit to burst!

I’ve been busy working on Book 3 (reminder, you can buy books 1 and 2 on Amazon), but as always I’ve also been working through replotting book 4 (because writing a series, let alone one nine novels long requires a bit of foresight on my part.) And as with all the previous books, something about the plot of #4 just wasn’t sitting right.

And then I listened to Cults, a comedic investigative podcast that looks into various cults throughout history, their activities, recruitment methods, all that fun sort of jazz. As hosts Paige Wesley and Marie Bello explain on their inaugural podcast, they’re interested in cults because they live in California and cults are literally everywhere. Oddly enough, that was the same thing Gregg Hurwitz said in an interview about his second Tim Rackley book.

I love comedy. I love cults. If there were a cult based around the Marx Brothers, I would probably join. (The password is always Swordfish). As it is, I live in Canada and the only Cult I have access to has a history of cutting off people’s arms and I need mine for writing purposes (Hello, Ant Hill Kids.) Therefore, I live vicariously through the work of people like Paige and Marie who are deeply ensconced in the cult-scene and, on at least one occasion relayed to listeners about a weekend visit to a farmer’s market for a massage (which might just be the most hipster thing I’ve written in the last few months) about how they were nearly swindled by a cult.

The point is, knowledge is power. I have a notebook chalked full of notes thanks to these two lovely ladies about the cult that will be dominating book 4, and I am excited to see where it takes me.

However, as with all things in life, they couldn’t have expected to poke the hornets nest for so long before something came out to sting them. A couple days back a message was posted on the Cults Facebook page regarding the removal of Part 1 of a particular episode. It doesn’t take a backrub peddling pontificator to know that someone got a little uptight about being called a ‘cult’ and didn’t appreciate having their presumably very white, identical pants and shirts all laid out to bare for the public to see. It looks like they have avoided litigation, at least for now. But that sort of subtle threat against your creative work can be a serious downer, and word can spread and sometimes impact that potential audience you are trying to reach. That’s why I’m encouraging all of you to go to your favorite podcast provider and give Cults a listen.

Okay. Maybe not the first few episodes. Pre-Armando episodes, or Pre-Mando episodes as I will now call them. Armando, their hilarious sound guy, was sorely needed in those early days. But don’t bring it up to Paige or Marie. They know their sound was crap. If you can deal with ratcheting your sound up to eleven, they’re still worth checking out. I promise, there are no audible jump-scares to ruin your hearing.

Cults are fascinating. They’re all around us (some more than others, I guess. Stupid, lame Canada with its lack of interesting cults.) They prey on the weak and most vulnerable in society and manipulate them into acting outside of the social norm. They are awful, but sort of cool, but really actually awful, but also, like, sort of really cool in a sick sort of way.  I have a lot of different feelings, but given my history of writing explosive, violent scenes, I suppose an interest in cults isn’t that unusual.

The point is, go listen to it. The crimes of these cults and leaders aren’t exactly friendly jaunts through fields of daisies. Paige and Marie are dealing with dark, uncomfortable topics on a weekly basis, and interjecting an overtop level of humor that a person could argue reflects the overall nature and response of general society when we hear about people getting caught up in cult activities. Ha ha, look at those chumps! This could never happen to me! That’s about as academic as I’m willing to get on the topic at the moment given the high levels of morphine currently in my system.

Anyways, give it a listen. It’s well worth it. Also buy my books. Those are also well worth it.

Or don’t. See if I care.

(I do.)

Chronic Pain Diaries “The Luckiest”

I’m lucky, I’m lucky, I’m lucky. It’s a mantra that I force myself to live by. I am lucky. I am well-adjusted. I’m okay. I repeat it every day religiously because if I don’t, if I miss a moment of it, I run the risk of revolving into something heinous. It’s a something that is a wreck, a destructive force that runs the risk of devouring my sense of ‘self’. I don’t know what I would become, but I can’t find out.

Because I am lucky. I am lucky.

Today is a bad pain day. I knew it the moment I woke up. My skin ached, my bones felt like they weighed a thousand pounds each, and my muscles pulsed. I know these bad pain days better than I know good pain days, if there can really be such a thing. I know them and I dread them because they bring me as close to the edge of the ruination of my ‘self’ as I ever want to come. I continue to remind myself, I am lucky, but somehow the words are more hollow. They echo in my mind, absorbed by the heavy darkness that infiltrates all my senses.

I am lucky.

I never understand how it happens. Yesterday my pain was awful too, but for some reason it wasn’t a struggle. My brain woke up, acknowledged the pain, and then kicked it into the back corner where other, more important things could overshadow it. Funny pictures, my Codsworth FunkoPop arriving, lovely emails from people I work with, dinner with the husband. It’s all good, everything is fine because I am lucky. So what changed in the eight hours of sleep (or lack thereof) that my mind, so irregularly wired to handle the concept of chronic, unending pain, now seems like a mountain I can’t climb, let alone reach the summit to plant my flag? Brains are remarkably fickle things, I suppose.

I am lucky. I am alive.

It’s so damn exhausting. On the long walk through the Plus Fifteen from where we park downtown to my office I listen to my Chronic Pain Mix. Songs that are dark, or peppy, or make me feel good. The Lament of Eustace Scrubb by The Oh Hellos; Alright by Pilot Speed; Safe and Sound by Hawksley Workman. They calm the sense of aggravation, of unease. Some songs are so melancholy, I could revert to a teenage frame of mind and think Yes, this song perfectly fits my mood. Some are so energetic, I wonder how I could possibly feel depressed. Because that it was it is. Depression. A big, black swath of angry, vitriolic depression that clings to me.

I am lucky, but I can feel it in my heart, like it is encased by a cloth that is too warm, uncomfortable. It makes me feel sick. And I can’t express it properly, because for over half my life now I have lived with this I am lucky persona. I thrust out my chest, I bang my drum, and I declare Look at me! I am lucky!

The drumming drowns out the little voice in me that is sad and exhausted by the weight it carries.  Lucky as I may be.

I am lucky.

I see others who are also lucky, but don’t know it yet. I speak to them and listen to their frustrations and I nod and commiserate, because on some small level I understand. Yes, it is overwhelming; yes, it is depressing. Yes, it is never going to end. But you will live. We will live. We are lucky. But there is the part of me that knows that I will never be part of their club. Like high school, like all the places I’ve worked, like any social circles, I sit on the periphery of this world because my day-to-day sensibilities do not lean towards sadness and anger and frustration, but relentless positivity.

I am lucky.

Chronic pain is lonely enough as it is. Social isolation is a monster. But to be isolated further from those who suffer as you do? Unfathomable loneliness that eats away at you.

Still, at least you are lucky.

Happy New Year – Introducing the Idiomatic Podcast (Coming Soon)

I haven’t met some of my closest friends in person. I’ve only spoken to one or two of them through Skype, and another handful on text message. But I love them.I love talking to them about writing and reading and the triumphs and failures of the craft. And for a while I’ve been playing with a thought…

What would it be like to share these thoughts with other people? To share our comedy and our wins and losses and our anger at Keith who never gets off his ass to write even thought he totally should and we are so disappointed in you, Keith.

What would it be like to podcast?

Tough, I think is the proper word. Hard as hell, even. It involves time, which I do have a bit of. It involves money, which I now have more of thanks to a new job. It involves knowledge of software, of which I have zero. It involves patience. And patience? I have that in abundance.

I can’t say what spawned it. Maybe being back at the chat room, talking about New Years writing goals. Amber brought it up, reminding me that I had this idea.

It exploded from there. Ideas thrown about. The purchasing of a microphone and a Mumble Server. Reading, experimenting with this and that. Downloading Audacity and wondering why I had the, ahem, audacity, to think I could do a podcast. it would be classic Kathleen. Invest time and money into something. Give it an honest go. Flounder. Fail.

Not this time. We have a plan. And hopefully, starting the second Sunday in February we will be able to share it with you. The Idiomatic Podcast. A group of rotating authors, some early in their careers, some just lifting off, some veterans, talking writing, books, tropes, and more. The first couple won’t be perfect. We’ve promised ourselves we’re only allowed one F-Bomb per episode. The dreams are big. Could we get local authors on to take part? Could we interview people? What all do we talk about? Well we have that covered enough. There isn’t enough time in the world for us to talk about everything on our minds, so hopefully my audio editing skills will magically present themselves.

Get ready, you idiomatics. We’re coming for ya’.

The Code, Book 2: The Skeletal Bird – Coming Soonish

I’m not sure what it is about November. Perhaps it has something to do with NaNoWriMo, which I unfortunately bailed on this year. Or perhaps it is the fact that it is also Extra Life (which was a grand success this year.)

Something about November forces my writing to a complete halt.

want to write. I want to be productive. Especially given how well Book 2 is coming together. Alas, I took nearly a month off of writing and now I am desperately behind.

That’s not to say I didn’t accomplish things related to writing. For instance, I came up with the title. That’s pretty good, eh? Ha ha. In reality, I actually accomplished much more than just a title. This is my favourite point in the writing process, when I take the core of the story and build an intricate frame around it. It really is the little things that make the plot.

That being said, I’m also coming to terms with the fact that Book 1, as proud as I am of it, is not a reflection of my skills now. And isn’t that always the way of it? Your skills as a writer are always changing, always evolving. You become more theatrical, more concise, more in tune with what a reader is looking for. Your voice becomes more lyrical; bolder, brighter. It becomes everything you could have imagined.

And then the next day it becomes that all over again. Because your skills as a writer are not static, they are constantly evolving, and at some point you have to step back and say “Yes, this is as good as I can make it with my current skill set.” Even though one day you know you will look back at it, face palm, and pray for the sweet release of death.

I was fortunate enough to meet a local author yesterday, who told me about a time she saw Yann Martel speak. Martel, of Life of Pi fame, explained how he hated the first line of the novel and eventually just had to come to terms with it.

Yup, that sounds about right. Come to terms with it. Deal with it. Suck it up, cupcake. You’ll never look back at your old work and thing that it was the best thing ever. It is always changing. As you grow and evolve so does your writing.

Still, that desire to go back and press the ‘edit’ button is so, so tempting…

Where was I? Oh right. Book 2.

Coming June (probably) of 2017! Book 2 of The Code Series. The Skeletal Bird.


It has been two months since the Seige on Alcatraz. Natalia Artison and her guardian, Jim Wilkinson, have been on the run, changing names, identities, and stories, in the desperate hope of staying one step ahead of those that want them dead. 

But things have changed, and it is time to go home. With old enemies now on their heels, and an innocent child the victim of circumstance, Natalia and Jim must agree to forge an alliance with one who wants them dead in order to prevent an even more vicious enemy from coming down upon them.

Even an alliance with the devil cannot protect the innocent. With Jim’s family caught in the crossfire, Natalia must decide which fate is more horrendous: one where she is the killer, or one where she is the killed. 


 

Awwyisss.

Until then, may I recommend you purchase a copy of Between Fire and Pines from Amazon and become acquainted with the world of Natalia Artison and the Agency?

Until next time,

Kathleen

Extra Life 2016

It’s that time of year folks. Extra Life 2016 is almost upon us; 14 days and counting. Somewhere, in my brilliance, I thought I could make a $2000 goal. That was silly. I am silly. As it stands I am currently at $410 plus some change donated by my lovely coworkers. Not bad given that I haven’t bombarded social media the same way I normally do. If you’d like to donate to my Extra Life campaign, you can do so here. If you need some convincing, read on.

The What:

Extra Life is a 25 hour video game marathon that takes place every fall. Gamers around the world gather to play video games, board games,  and card games for 25 hours while simultaneously raise money for local Miracle Network Hospitals. I play for Alberta Children’s Hospital. ACH is my jam.

The Why:

I’ve spoken about my medical misadventures more than a few times. I haven’t held back when discussing how nasty chronic pain is, or how vital I have found music and books when it came to surviving my hospital experiences. When it comes down to it, a person can’t be expended to spend hours upon hours of their formative years in the same place with the same people, repeating the same experiences, and not develop some sort of affinity for the setting. For me, that has been, and always will be, the Alberta Children’s Hospital. The old hospital, now the Richmond Road Treatment Centre (Where my chronic pain clinic is now located, fancy that) became my home away from home. I knew its walls, its art work, its doctors and nurses and orderlies. I knew it better than I knew myself, and consequently found the earliest pieces of who I am grew and were nurtured in those walls, by those people. The old ACH holds a very special place in my heart.

It also terrifies me. Like, literally, I usually pee myself a little bit when I have to go back there. Three spinal surgeries with awful, debilitating pain will often create that negative connotation. And yet, for whatever reason, I also love it. Despite having only one surgery in the New Children’s Hospital (which will be celebrating its Tenth Anniversary this year!) I find myself still associating it as a home-away-from-home. It is still inexplicably mine, though I have grown so much older since walking through its halls as a patient. It is a place I ‘graduated’ from, phased out of, and in so many ways, it was the first place to dub me an adult. Sure, I had already graduated high school and gotten a diploma and could vote and had to do my own taxes, but only when I was told I could no longer go to ACH did I truly feel like I had grown up.

It was mesmerizing how sad I was to leave the hospital, to leave behind the nurses who had helped raise me in so many ways, and the doctor who had been like a father to me for the last seven years.

Growing up sucks, but growing up and leaving behind that was more difficult than any tax equation or ‘adulting’ I have had to do since then.

I love the Children’s Hospital. I hate what it represents in many ways; all my fear, my pain, my awkward youth. But I appreciate how I can now look back on it with wider, if not world-weary eyes, and see what it meant to me and how it shaped me into the woman I am today. That is why I take part in Extra Life. It is giving back, if only in the smallest way, to a place that helped shape me into the sarcastic, annoying individual I am today.

I couldn’t be more grateful.

The When:

November 5th, starting at 10:00 a.m.

The Who:

As always, Cheryl will be joining me for her own live stream! Last year I was pretty damn sick and I flaked bad on her. This year I am making it up. Because Alex and I are moving this monday, we will be having a pseudo-house warming party with some close friends who are invited to come over and play card games as a break in the evening!

The Small Details:

I’ve decided this year to try doing a single game from the start. Namely: Fallout 4. I’ve only done a single run of Fallout 4 so far, so I think it’ll be fun to start all over and make the biggest, sarcastic, jerkiest character I can. I’m going to call her Moira BulletStomper. Yeah.

I’ll be streaming on my Twitch channel here!

Tweets will happen intermittently here.

How can I help?

If you have a dollar to spare and you’d like to donate, you can do so on my fundraising page here!  Alternately, I encourage you to join in the fun! Tell your friends, get groups together, and use November 5th as an excuse to reconnect with some old buddies and raise money for your local Children’s Hospital. It certainly doesn’t have to be ACH! You can pick any hospital in any region!

This really is a wonderful cause. I can’t do sports. I am not so good at the mathing. I don’t politic or science well. But dammit, I can game, and I can write, and on November 5th I’m going to be doing it #ForTheKids!

As a bonus, here is my spine from… one of the surgeries. I don’t know. I’ve lost count.

participant_141562

Fractals

She was built of fractals that continued to break down, leaving behind smaller halves of the same person.

Several days ago I finished the second draft of Book 2 of The Code Series. It was a little surreal. I’ve spoken before about earworms, and how some idea can get nestled down into your skull and refuse to leave until you rewrite your entire manuscript. The original draft of book 2 was a bit different. I finished it and didn’t feel satisfied. It felt disjointed and not the least bit cohesive. Whether or not that was true, it’s hard to say. I generally go with my gut on these things, so I took a couple days away from the draft, figured out where I went wrong, and deleted 70k words. And while I shed a bitter tear for all the words lost, I knew that it was the right thing to do.

Now with the second draft finished I feel much better. I have the same stomach squirm (elusive cousin of the ear worm) that is telling me this is it. Now I’m on the right path. This is a draft I can, and will, work with.

Enter my favorite part of the process. Not rewrites, because screw rewrites. No one likes them. No, this is the part where I go through the manuscript and begin to develop the ideas that were half assed. Increase that, add more blood to that, throw in another explosion here, more drama, less mystery, more ghosts. Any and all of it. It is essentially a full rewrite, but I start with major changes (13 at last count) that need to be addressed. And these changes are what give the story an air of mystery. They are the pieces of thread that connect all the stories together.

love this part of the process.

And yet, while I’m busy writing, and moving, and dealing with a huge barrel of drama at work (and the barrel is full of bees and the bees are on fire) I have mistakenly forgotten that marketing is a valuable part of the whole process. If I want people to read Book 2, I really need them to read book 1. I am no good at marketing. I get into slumps where I’d rather read or write new things. Anything than create another tweet that says “Hey! Look at me!”

Okay, story time…

The other day at work I got a call. Usually when people call me at work it is to ask about consignment which I, bizarrely, agreed to take over when the Consignment Manager left. This time, however, the phone call was for me, Kathleen, the author. The woman on the other end explained her son had bought my book and wanted to come in to introduce his Grandma to me, who had been reading the book with him over the last few weeks.

I knew this kid, because he was there at my signing and bought the book while I nervously looked at my mom, telepathically screaming to her What do I do oh my god this isn’t appropriate for someone his age oh my god oh my god oh my god!

Since my signing, the kid, Yago, has come to see me at work a couple times. We’ve had lots of fun talking about the book and Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. On the day his mom called I was having a brutal day. I was miserable from all the drama and getting accused of things I hadn’t done. I was tired of being part of the rumor mill and just wanted to go home. Getting to see Yago again would be a highlight so obviously I enthusiastically told his mom to bring him on over.

A few hours later I was standing at the front, being introduced to his grandma, who slyly told me that Book 1 was the only time she would ever say those words around him. (Oh my god, how many times did I drop the F-bomb? I’m so sorry, Grandma!) I explained that I was having a miserable day until they showed up, and how happy it made me to see them. I gave Yago my card so we could email if he wanted to.

He wasn’t happy that [Spoilers] died, but he liked the book all the same.

It was an amazing experience. My first real fan. The first person who has no real reason to care about my writing, and he liked it. It was remarkable and heartwarming and made me feel like, despite all the mistakes of the first one, it was still a palatable book and was worth the marketing effort and the exhaustive hours and the tears and struggles. That the fact the series is going to be 9 books long isn’t ridiculous – it’s worth it, because it is a good story that is worthy of being completed.

It felt like a renewal. It sparked the flame again. It was marvelous. Now, with only 9 days until we move, I’m saying screw it to packing for a while, and I’m going to sit down and edit the hell out of Book 2. Because someone out there is waiting eagerly to see what happens next, and I don’t want to disappoint him.

Fun reminder! You can buy a copy of my debut novel, The Code: Book 1 – Between Fire and Pines, from Amazon right here or read an excerpt here!