On my mark(eting), get set, GO

 

Random afternoon thoughts in no particular order as they come to me...

I've received my 10th rejection for Flies, I think that's enough. I'll just self-publish. I don't think 10 or 100 copies will make much of a difference in the big picture; I will still need to work another job. The movie deal will have to wait, I guess. 

In the meantime, I've also rewritten Karmageddon, which despite my best attempts, actually increased by 500 words. I've changed some names which have always bothered me, added some finer details which I didn't think I'd be d
oing. Basic editing, I guess. 

I just finished putting a call-out on my loyal FB fan page, asking if anyone is interested in reading an advance copy for review. 

What writers don't think of is the turn-around involved in books; I read a post where the author states it's a 12 month turnaround time. Crazy! But, on the other side, also not. 

I've looked into substack, booktok, hosting a wix site, wattpad, medium, patreon. They all have their benefits, all require a lot of time and dedication, which I don't have. So I guess I will just keep chipping away. I've joined Blue Sky, which I guess is like Twitter but less 'bot'-y. 

I'm still stuck on my #U2? dystopian sci-fi legal thriller's 3rd act, the book itself is clocking in at WAY too many words (155,000) at last count. I think I could break it down into 3 novellas but again, need the time. Once I push out Karmageddon and Flies, I'll punish myself by taking another go at that.  

I've also found many of my hand-written short stories. I'd like to put those down on hard-drive somewhere for posterity. Again, time and dedication is my weakness. Did I mention finances? Those are also my weakness.  

What about new writing? I ask myself. 

Thank you for taking an interest, I reply. 

I keep having random philosophical thoughts that I'd like to explore but they're big picture thoughts that are hard to write into little sentences. I have one line about depression that is sticking with me; Depression is like always feeling you are two sentences away from crying. I feel like that a lot, which is why the line is sticking with me.  

I have an idea about a book that's a fun read but too high-brow (for me) so I want to dumb it down a bit. I also want to rewrite my wrestling epic, Duff Ragwell and His Amazing Channel Changer, someday. Retitle it 1994 (no relation), perhaps.

Anyways, that's all I got for now. Thanks for reading, future me.  

 

 Where did the time go? 

How did this get to be May already? My last round of query letters have now gone the full 6 months with no replies. That sucks. I've been becoming increasingly cynical of all the FB/Reddit groups I'm in; there seem to be only 3 or 4 subjects; How do I write my memoir? Who will publish my memoir? I'm so happy I published my memoir, how do i self-publish (or some variation of).

I feel ashamed that I'm part of these groups and more recently have been wanting to express my self-loathing on being on these sites, wanting the same thing all these people want; to be read. 

And I'm sitting with a novel ready to go, sitting in Kindle for the last 2 months, waiting for me to pull the fucking trigger and just press publish. Why am i so hesitant to just put it out there? Probably because I'm over 50 now and I don't want to be considered a 'senior' writer? I don't know. 

Plus, who really reads this shit anyways. I saw a therapist 5x at the start of this year. He ended it, not me. I wound up crying every time I saw him. Typical suicidal thoughts. 1st time, I told him I wouldn't call him if I decided to do it- I think that's when he realized I was really in trouble. 2nd time, he wound up crying. 3rd time, he tried to get me to find my happy place, i couldn't and he literally said 'oh oh' as I started bawling. We had a 10 day break after that. 4th time, he told me the next time would be the last time and on that 5th and last time, I barely cried which I guess we/he considered good enough.

So here I am. I'm still working on the dolphin rapist thing. It's pretty big; 180,000 words (est) so I'm trying to cut it down and I cut out this huge chunk but I'm reconsidering as of course, it ties to the end. I'm also confused as to if it's funny or not. People have been raped by dolphins. That's not funny. But it is. But it isn't. 

Anyways, here's a picture of an evil dolphin for the likes. 

 

 

Yes, I am still not famous.

 
On query letters, podcasts and fatherhood

I've been spending some time listening to a podcast on writing, where three women critique query letters by hopeful writers. I've liked and hated it; the letters are basically all follow the same format; here's my genre, my word count, what the story is about and who the comparables are (meaning similar books). Blah blah blah about the arc of the story, a little bit about me to humanize me and the first 5 pages of a manuscript are critiqued. 

I'm in a love/hate mood with it. First I don't love that of the 10 critiques I've listened to, every query letter has been by women. Second, I don't love that (spoiler) I sent out 5 intro letters to my top five specific agents a three weeks ago and not a word. I hesitate to call them query letters as they weren't for one book specifically, but a pitch for all of them. I also don't love that none of those intro letters were like what these ladies would want. 

I do love most of the advice; clock in around 400 words; careful of comparing yourself to 'famous' authors, which is a bit difficult because I like to read the more tried and true. I'm no Kurt Vonnegut but I sure am influenced by him. Grab the reader at the start, show character arcs in your summary.

Anyways, the podcast has given me some ambition to look at my marketing again. The only one I feel is a slam-dunk of a one-liner is my current manuscript but the way it's going, it won't be for another year at least. 

Which brings me to a short topic about prioritizing and fatherhood. 

I annually hate myself when my birthday roles around, reminding me of pledge I made when I was 40 to get published. It's 12 years later and I still haven't achieved that goal. I totally get that a lot of it is on me; nobody is rushing to find someone who isn't making it easy to find. But a small epiphany- part of this delay in life goals is, yes, fear of success but it is also the responsibility of parenting. 

I spent an hour today teaching my 10 year old how to play Risk, 30 minutes of him explaining a detailed map he drew. We made Kraft Dinner together. Last night, my 14 year old asked me to sit with her on the couch and we watched TV (9-9!) for a couple of hours. I've spent hours this summer ripping up weeds and replanting my lawn as it gave me a sense of completion and honestly, will make our home look better as my wife and I grow older here. Nobody else was going to do it. I've also spent many hours not with the kids, doing other things to avoid writing, which is such a cliche but it's true. It's so easy not to write and I hate myself when I don't, when I listen to podcasts of others who are that much closer than I am, Some were mothers and I wonder how their support system is; where their kids are. I read Danielle Steele has nine kids and has written 94 books. That sounds impossible on both counts. Nine kids? Where does she find the time to be a mother. Then I think, she likely doesn't. Now I've never read any of her books and likely never will but I'm envious of her output.  That's a dedication to the art I simply don't have in me.   

Yes, I could have used all those hours to write, not write, promote myself, draft query letters, get closer to my dream. Instead, I CHOSE (and I have to remember this) to be a good father, dad, husband. They come first, usually always come first and that is nothing to be ashamed of. No matter how litle I write in a day or week.

Families are what we make them.    

My Next WoP/Passion Project

 

Everyone has some type of passion project. For me, my passion is not finishing my passion project. But I am working on it. 

We all need dreams. I've rekindled mine of sorts, been spending a few hours a day over the last two weeks trying to print out this mess of a dystopian legal thriller novel which I envisioned over a year and a half ago. I know this because, thanks to Google Docs, it keeps a version history of my works in progress. 

I think I found the original seed of this epic novel; it's from Jan 7, 2022. Over a year and a half ago. Crazy. 

It is a meeting of potential sexual assault victims to create consensus of filing a lawsuit against a dolphin and the company that manages it. A lot of the original guts is there; five victims, an official rep from the company, at the time called Playa De Blanca; it's now a global vacation conglomerate called Great Holidays. 

Two nights ago I night-dreamed of finding out the names of the agents of my top 10 favourite contemporary authors and sending off a query letter for representation. I had a good start in my head to the letter; giving two examples of roads to success, the one told to Michael J. Fox by his father when he wanted to become an actor and the one told to Kermit the Frog by Gonzo in the original Muppet Movie when he wanted to do the same thing. 

I'm basically the Great Gonzo of writing. 

It was a good letter in my head. Here's hoping I will follow up on it. But first, edit and print one more chapter, which was really the first chapter i ever wrote and is now tentatively Chapter 18 of many...

A Secret that Rocks the Literary World, if they only knew about it.

 

Wow. So many months since my last entry. That's because of all the press I am doing around my other projects is really cutting into this side project. Perhaps if I just admitted that jay royston is a pseudonym for the real me, a few more admiring fans may take an interest in this blog. 

But for them to take an interest, they'd need to bite the worm, which if you've read this far, you have. 

I believe this is called catfishing. I apologize to the real jay royston for appropriating your name and wonderful sense of humor in making this blog. I trust you like a good joke and won't sue. 

So who am I?

Here's your first hint; I have a coffee in front of me. It contains 2 spoons of sugar and some cream, maybe one, maybe two. So cross off everyone you know who drinks it black, or black with sugar. 

Still unsure?

The second hint is I have written 3 (maybe more) fan letters/email to authors of books I have read. There may be more but I don't really keep track of these things. I think if I told you who those authors were, you'd be too close to my real identity. However, I will say that one author was also a pseudoymn and wasn't an elderly wise Jeff Lebowski-type dude but more of a young Jeffrey Lebowski-type dude who wore seasonal Xmas sweaters instead of housecoats. 

I think that is enough hints for now. I shall enter my next set of clues in about 15 months time, in keeping with my current updating the blog schedule. 

Flies Non-Update

 

Well, after the "I got this" talk of Thursday night, it turned out I didn't 'got this' on Friday. 

Instead of resubmitting Flies to another possible publisher, I chose to do other things, like clean up my tool room (which had been on the list for a long time) and finish my rough editing of Karmageddon. 

It's amazing how much I want to change after leaving it alone for 2 (?) years. Does it naturally get worse or is that just me? Anyways, I finished tagging all the things I want to change and have been spending this morning (Saturday) doing that instead of, again, resubmitting Flies. 

I also went to the liquor store yesterday, to get a little something to deal with the fact I am turning 50 and was immediately drawn to this:                                                                                                                                                                                       Now for some reason I can't get Blogger to text-wrap around these pictures I'm getting frustrated and having spent 2 hours on this computer, avoiding submitting Flies, I will once again return to my state of self-loathing and find more shit to throw away, at least making my day somewhat complete.                                                                                                                             So here I am, one less day until 50 with on publishing contract. Not like there's any rush anymore. 

Flies; the first submission.

Attempt #1

Okay, so I know enough about the submitting process to know I don't know enough and never will. 

I'm going to detail my attempts at finding a publisher for Flies so that way either I A) have someone to blame, B) have a semi-interesting journal for people interested in a similar journal and C) therapy.

I'm just going to hop on C) here. I submitted Flies three days ago, via Submittable to the 'Featured Publisher' of my local chapter of the Canadian Publisher's Alliance - that's not the name but it was the first one that came up on a Google search.

They have a caveat; saying they publish about 20 books a year with around 1000 submissions annually. So, chances are pretty slim. 

Now, previous experience/homework suggested there's a long turn-around time when a manuscript is dropped into a 'slush pile'; like months and months. So I sure wasn't expecting an answer anytime soon. 

But I did. Running that high I started reading/editing Karmageddon again and SHIT there's a lot of notes I've made for the next edit. How do manuscripts get worse the longer you're away from them? 

Then something unexpected. A reply from the publisher. Could it be? 

Three days and form letter rejection. 

I found that out about 7pm tonight. That put me in a funk so hard I laid down on the couch and power napped for about 15 minutes before being woken by the kid. Then I spent about 30 minutes looking at other possible publishers, depressed and miserable, self-loathing, questioning my validity of writing talents, etc. I put that on pause, deciding I will look deeper into it tomorrow. Maybe submit again before the acceptance settles in which obviously already did.

Another hour or so of that feeling sucky before going to bed. 

It was while laying there that I had this epiphany that Flies was never going to be an easy sell - I mean, it's a story about killing children that nobody cares about. I need to work on selling it; how I'm going to do that, I don't know. I need to have a cheerleader in my life, someone who will say 'no problem, you got this, you can do it'. And I realize I don't so it's all up to me. 

It's always been all up to me. 

I got this. I will find a publisher for Flies. 

In the meantime, I'll journal my struggles on my blog (does anyone read blogs anymore?) for posterity. 

In this day and age of bells and whistles and 'everything lives forever on the Internet', which by the way is not true judging from all the embedded video clips that have been removed from this blog, I figure this will make for a decent memory for the day when I do get Flies published and maybe, just maybe, find an agent to make my life a little easier and my confidence a little stronger. 

I got this. 

Be your own cheerleader. 

 

It's starting to feel a lot like...something.

 

It's been awhile. 

I've been busy. Busy being a father, a dad, a renovator, a learn-as-you-goer, teacher's assistant, dog-walker, home-maker, etc etc. with little time for writing. I'm only here because I am on a sick day from work with it's own weird little backstory behind that which I won't get into. 

I did Nanowrimo, which is a writing challenge held in November in which you try to type 50,000 words. I cut out an hour a day and my family let me with little to no distractions. I used that to edit a 1st draft I have let simmer for many months. It's a murder mystery thing; someone's killing pedophiles and it's done in three different points of views; a step away from my preferred Karmageddon world building. 

It's a challenge in itself and I'm only like... 1/2 way done, even with Nanowrimo. And CoVid. 

According to Worldometer.info, here are the latest stats worldwide; . 1,665, 000 deaths (about 3% of those who officially contracted it). In Canada there were 13, 865 deaths. They don't give out an age breakdown but that can be found with a little digging; last I checked, 96% were people over 80. 

Yep, CoVid is still the thing. There are too many conspiracy theories to count and, depending on who you ask, faith in our leadership is plummeting. We have small owner-operated restaurants forced to close while McDonald's has their best sales ever. You can't have a wedding with more than 20 people (depending on where you are) yet Home Depot and Walmart are fine. You can't work out at a gym or have dinner with more than 4-6-10 family members but you can go into any store that is open as long as you wear a mask. 

Masks are mostly mandatory the world over yet nobody mentions the mask-makers as part of any conspiracy. That's left to Big Pharma, two of whom have announced vaccines immediately after the US election win of Joe Biden over Donald Trump. And socialists; that one is fun. While the stock markets show huge gains (keeping the rich richer), somehow this is all a conspiracty for a great economic reset where everyone will get a (gasp) basic universal income. 

As back when this first started, nobody really rich or famous has died. Tom Hanks was one of the first to get it and that would have been a game changer. But he was fine. As was Justin Trudeau's wife, Boris Johnson (UK premier), P!nk, Trump ('cured' over a weekend), a ton of other White House high-ups in his cabinet, Prince Charles. 

I had my own theory at one time (writer brain kicking in) that this was a War of The Worlds/Invasion of the Body Snatchers thing where those who die are pod people, advance forces for alien overlords. It's not sensitive to those who have lost someone but we all have to try and make sense of all this in our own ways. If that involves me coming up with a Killer Alien Virus theory to explain why I can't watch my daughter play ringette, so be it. 

Mostly, those who died have been old and with weakened immune systems. I went for a walk awhile ago and had this minor epipheny of how this is a Boomer reaction to the approaching of Death, as futile as it may be to fight it, they're going to try. It's backfired a little, such as so many have had to die alone, their families unable to hold their hands one last time, in fear of infection. When we, as a society, placed our elders in care homes, paid other people to care for them then get angry that they are dieing in these places we have put them, who really is to blame?   

So we have people shouting online to wear your masks and other people shouting it makes no difference. In my province, nearly all the deaths were in long-term care homes (which are like bus stations for funeral homes). We have a 50 person cap on a hockey arena that sits 3000 and a 2 person cap in public restrooms. 

We have this 'front-line workers are the real heroe' memes going around yet many of those are the cashiers who are keeping the economy running. There has been no mention of Big Banks or credit cards doing anything other than lip service to everyone falling deeper in debt. I don't know how that will play out but in the meantime, we try to keep as normal as possible. 

Yet on my end, things are actually quite stable. We both kept our jobs; I caught up on a lot of side-projects such as building a front walkway, building a fence, bartering my labour from that to a 14ft aluminum boat and a utility trailer (which I then rebuilt). We resided our house, finally losing the avocado green aluminum siding and replaced 8 windows. Then to top it off, we have a new(er) truck, one that can actually tow the utility trailer! So yeah, sorry society is in the crapper and our alien overlords are about to run the show but I'm doing pretty darn good.

 

Now if I can only get a book deal. 

 

Self-quarantine Day 4

Day #4 of the national self-quarantine aka Spring Break 2020. 

While I jest, this is where we are at. I don't know if things would be much different for us to be honest. The kids are doing what they are doing; nothing different from their previous school holidays, barring the fact my daughter's Stay At Home class was cancelled and, as of yesterday, so are our weekly firehall practice.

We are still planning to go into town today; my oldest 2 have a bowling date with Grampa, who is willing to risk the chance of infection to spend some time with the kids.

I bought my oldest a bass; today I plan to go into pawn shops to see if I can find a cheap amp. My daughter is missing a sketch book so we will buy another one. My youngest is happy that his leprecaun trap has netted four hats and golden chocolate bar.

Still off Facebook, and now Yahoo is starting to send me emails about it; Greg shared this, Ken shared that...

I'm reading Stephen King's On Writing and Wings of Fire, recommended by my daughter. It's a fairly straight forward dystopian rebellion tale, but with dragon/insects. It's not very subtle. For example, the bad guys are wasps and when the protagonists are deciding where to find the Rebellion, they have a choice between Yellowjacket Hive, Bloodworm Hive or Jewel Hive. Not hard to guess where they're going.

But she's reading and I love her and I will finish it. As per King's On Writing; Reading bad writing makes you more aware of your own bad writing. I'm not saying Wings of Fire is bad; it's meant for a particular audience.

Nobody died last night from CoronaVirus, keeping the Canadian death toll at 4 in a population of 38 million people. We talked a little at the dinner table with the kids. They seem mostly oblivious however the older one isn't saying much.

short story start 2076 circa 2013

In 2074;

In what could be considered the greatest tragedy or the greatest victory for the human race depending on one's pragmatic views 3 nuclear bombs were detonated, destroying Jerusalem (death toll; in the millions), Vatican City (388 dead) and the Cayman Islands, which created a mass economic murder as corporations, banks throughout the world lost the 'paper trail' of assets that were sequestered there.

There was much bible thumping and Quran throwing however with each side indicting the other for the mass genocide neither could put up a strong case as to the organization responsible.

Most blamed the United States, except for the United States who blamed secular terrorist organizations in 48 different countries who all had links to Al Quaeda which was interesting as the last known Al Quada member had died of natural causes[1] in 2049.

It was the grandparents, long spurned as expendable and over-nostalgic that tried to remind people of the collective internet-based group Anonymous. But their postings were drowned out in reruns of the latest editions of 'So You Think You Are A Thinker' and 'Extreme Bat Fights' on the wall screens of most nation's homes and public supermarkets.

Anonymous was prepared for the backlash. The years of planning, the conspiracy theories started decades ago, the revenue from their shares in duct-tape was more than adequate to fund the operation. 

Yet even they weren't prepared for the general apathy that most of civilization displayed after the discovery that the holy trinity of religions was annihilated to nothing more than radioactive decay. There was a short burst of general disorder and chaos throughout most nations that again, thanks to the proliferation of corporate news agencies was summarily censored and (word to describe mass flaunting) in different parts of the world so that while Californians were aware of the mass killings of French tourists by sharks off the coast of Normandy they were blissfully unaware that over 19 million fellow Californians had disappeared from government data banks.

Everyone knew someone who had been killed, yet nobody knew anybody who made the news, barring a quick one-line throwaway story placed between the search for the Holy Land Destroyers and another cute story about a dog and a cat who were best pals.

So this is where the story begins, at the end of religion.

---

[1] he fell to his death after he was headbutted off of a rocky crag in Afghanistan by a unruly mountain goat.

Kurt Vonnegut rules

Kurt Vonnegut

Eight rules for writing fiction:

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.

2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.

3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.

4. Every sentence must do one of two things -- reveal character or advance the action.

5. Start as close to the end as possible.

6. Be a sadist. Now matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them -- in order that the reader may see what they are made of.

7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.

8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

-- Vonnegut, Kurt Vonnegut, Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction (New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons 1999), 9-10.

Kurt Vonnegut: How to Write with Style

My meta-Interview w/ Daenon Kaye

Whatever happened to... Jay Royston

by Daenon Kaye

I sat down with Jay Royston to interview him about his upcoming book, Karmageddon. It has been many years since we worked together, publishing a Canadian film magazine in Vancouver. He has aged well, still has all of his hair and while wrinkles are now appearing around his eyes, there is still a sparkle for the unusual I recall from laughs past.

Been a long time.

Sure has. Over a decade at least.

Yeah. Last we talked, you were recovering from kidney cancer.

Yep. A lot more has happened since. Got two dogs. Got a house. Got married, got divorced. Had a kid. Got two more kids. Got married again. Returned to writing.

Let's talk about your book, Karmageddon.

Of course.
...
Let's pretend I know nothing about it. What's it about, at it's core?

Karmageddon is a collection of interlinked stories surrounding four nuclear attacks brought on by the world-wide legalization of marijuana. But at it's core it is a philosophical look at what happens when the tenets of our self-identity are taken away; our faith, our jobs and our bank accounts.

You call this a sequel of sorts to your previous novel, Enter A Fistful of Marijuana. Will your readers need to know that story before reading this one? 

Not at all. While it would help my bank account, Enter a Fistful isn't necessary reading to enjoy Karmageddon. Enter A Fistful introduced some of the characters you will also see in Karmageddon and established the birth of Karmajuana, a genetically-modified strain of cannabis which is the accepted drug of choice in Karmageddon.

Your books have a certain theme. For example your first book was Stoner, Unincorporated. 

Yes, but that was the name of the town my characters were in. I grew up in Prince George and outside of the city there is a small community named Stoner. I often wondered about what type of people would live in a town named Stoner and so, after spending some time in Nelson, I incorporated some of the people and stories I heard there into the novel.

Let's get back to Karmageddon; you hypothesize that the end of the world comes about because marijuana is legalized. It seems like quite a stretch to go from smoking pot to nuclear apocalypse. 

But is it? Give me an unusual yet believable story any day. The premise of Karmageddon may be absurd, but I hope it is believable.
Some of my favourite books are this way. Take Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, Douglas Adams and his Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Jasper Fforde and his Thursday Next series. They have unbelievable premises but yet are able to strike a core between humour and truth with some readers. I hope to do that with Karmageddon.

Why did you choose to make it a series of short stories instead of the usual linear route?

There were many reasons. In the original Ghostbusters, when the Staypuft Marshmallow Man came to destroy the world, there was a typical crowd reaction shot. I recall thinking 'wow, those people will have such an amazing story when they get home.' Imagine trying to explain to anyone you saw a 100 foot marshmallow man? I wanted to do that, write of people who aren't necessarily part of the larger story.

I also wanted to make a book which is easy to jump in at any point. You don't really need to start on page 1 with Karmageddon. You could jump chapter to chapter and still get the main points of the story. It's a book where you can go at your own speed, where you don't need to remember what happened previously to finish the book.


Do you prefer e-book or traditional publishing?

Traditional all the way. I've tried e-books but it's just not the same. Books are more tangible, have that amazing tactile and sensual sensation when you are holding one. You don't get that from an e-reader. Plus I think a bookshelf is an amazing thing to have in your life. I have books scattered around the house, so I'm not dependent on just one e-reader. We spend enough time on our screens and the last thing I want to do is stare at another one doing something I enjoy.

Thoughts on self-publishing?

Like everything else, there's a good and bad side to self-publishing. It's become very accessible. A writer controls their own destiny, their own marketing. On the bad side, the marketing takes away from the writing. It provides instant gratification for a lot of beginning writers who may not respect the process and dilutes the waters of better-written books out there.

Good books can't be written in a week or a month. Stoner, Unincorporated took over a decade for me to feel it was good enough to publish. Enter A Fistful was over five years, Karmageddon, three. So the good news is I'm getting better but I couldn't have done it without the option of self-publishing.

 What's next? 

 I'm following up on some of the characters introduced in the world after Karmageddon, to see how they have changed. I also have three other novels in various stages of completion that are more serious in nature. Yet for the most part, I'm going to take it one day at a time.

Pre-thoughts on my first book signing

So, I'm doing a book signing at a local bookstore in two days.

I'm nervous.

And while I sit here nervous, I remember a couple of other things I should be doing.

That should help me avoid thinking of what I'm not doing to make this book signing a success.

I haven't contacted any media outlets.

I should do that.

But if I don't do that and my numbers are poor, I can always say 'well, it's because I didn't publicize it enough'.

But if I do and my numbers are poor, I can always say 'well, there's proof that mass media is dead'.

If I don't do that and my numbers are good, I can always say 'well, I guess I publicized it enough'.

If I do do that and my numbers are good, I can always say 'well, I guess advertising worked.'


Decisions, decisions...

The Joys and Pains of Self-Evaluations

We've all done a personality test of some sort; 'which superhero are you?' 'what type of pie best represents you?' 'If you were a car, you would be a what?'. Sure, they're funny and for a brief moment we might wonder what our life would have been like if we actually were Ross or Rachel from Friends. But for every goofy personality test, there are the more serious ones; the ones psychologists and scientists put together through data collection, analysis and accepted hypotheses.

They aren't necessarily fun. They allow you to reflect better on who you are as a person, why you might not feel like you fit in with the general populace. For some, they are epiphanies; 'Oh, that totally explains why I like spontaneous acts of expression and shutting myself out from the rest of the world'. I've done a few of them in my time but I'm at an age of 'tell me something I don't know'.

First, disclaimer; According the Mayers-Briggs Personality profile, I'm an INFP. You can be one of 16 different letter combinations and for most people (like myself) I don't really investigate many of the other combinations because, well, they're not me. I did the MP test in my first year of college, in  a room full of budding accountants. I was the round hole trying to fit into the square peg in that class, which made complete sense at the time.

I did it again twenty years later thinking I've had a lot of experiences since my first year of college. I've loved and lost, hired and fired, tried and failed, tried and succeeded. I've met hundreds of new people so all of that experience must have changed me somewhat right?

Nope, still an INFP.

I means introverted, I feel better by myself than with a crowd.
N means iNtuitive, which means I mostly go with my gut instinct as opposed to rational deductions.
F means Feeling, which means I am guided by my principles; if I agree with it, I'll do it.
P means Perceiving; I'm an idealist, I believe the best in everyone.

By no means is that a complete definition; for we are all only parts of a whole. But those are some of the basic ingredients which make up myself.

Now, I just did another test; the via assessment test, which is also free to do online. It measures those characteristics/values which dominate your personality; there's around 24 of them - too many to list.

I value honesty above all else. I also enjoy humour, creative thinking, and learning new things.

Sounds great, right? Nothing too surprising there. But when it came to my weakest strengths, you know what lays at the bottom of this idealistic soul?

Hope and gratitude.

That's a pretty big kick in the nuts and hard to rationalize with my strengths. How can I appreciate honesty yet have so little hope? How is I love to learn new things but have so little gratitude to the world I'm learning about?

So that's what I'm dealing with today; all because I took an assessment which tells me what science has determined by a series of 120 questions what I truly think of myself.

Does my humour come from my sense of hopelessness?

First Book Signing Post Recovery

Did my first book signing - I want to write about it but my 5 yr old is behind me, trying to find the word astronaut in a word search, among other things relating to the moon.

I can't do it. The kid needs more attention than a first draft of a manuscript.

In Other News

An old film friend of mine reached out and said he'd been writing something. I offered to read it.

It was some of his own therapy regarding his love life of years past.

It wasn't anything special. But then he linked me to his own blog and was blown away. I told him so. It was original, had a unique voice, etc etc. I told him this was a book waiting right there. He writes short and simple, with great imagery. I don't know if it is because I know him or if his writing is that good but I really relate and/or get frustrated with the protagonist's views.

Here it is.

He thanked me for my thoughts but wants to write of a different girl right now.

I'm a bit envious of his writing style but remind myself we are all different. I think his story could be more successful than mine ever would be, but then again - two completely different ball parks.

He writes kind of like this;

I'm listening to Creep by Radiohead right now. The dogs are laying on the couch, one is licking itself. I have to bathe them today, if for no other reason than to delay other mini-projects.

Artistic Therapy Part 5 Cancer

So, having cancer really puts a stop to things.

But it doesn't, life goes on.

I have a good doctor who is able to schedule me for a kidney removal in one month's time. I have my parents fly out to join me for the big day. They are divorced and remarried but they both come out and everything is weird again. I think they are staying in my nice landlord's place while I am in the hospital. I don't recollect much of this time.

I do remember, and this part still messes with me, for the weeks before the operation I was given a sieve to pee through; the thought being I'd pee out any kidney stones that were in my uretha. I did that every day until I had to go to the hospital.

The night before I was given 2 liters of electrolites to drink; that's basically a super-cleanse and by the end of the evening, it was going in me as a liquid and coming out as a liquid. My insides had never been so cleansed. All this was so there was plenty of room for them to do their digging around in there as they cut out my kidney.

So there I am, in my johnny, getting ready to go on the gurney which would lead me into the Operating Room. I go to have one last pee. I no longer have that sieve after all, what's the point, right?

So as I flush I notice this little turquoise tip-of-a-pencil thing going down the toilet. Or did I?

I get on the gurney, say nothing. I go into the operating room and it's lights out.

I recall waking up, or maybe this was from the first operation, and lifting myself over to the stretcher. I then pass out again. Next thing I remember is waking up with a young nurse over top of me. It's all foggy for a bit here - needless to say, the movie is the last thing on my mind.

I spend a few days in the hospital. When I'm able I fly home with my Mom to BC and convaless at home in her basement, my old room from my twenties. I listen to a lot of Bif Naked, hiding down there doing ... nothing I remember.

I hear somehow my ex-partner's sister also has a cancerous brain tumour. There's no contact there.

Facing Facts

I was angry at her. I was so angry at her.

I was tired. We were tired. I left a note saying we were going for pizza. Call me. Yes, I get she felt excluded. Yes, I was part of making her feel excluded. I didn't want her there. I wanted her studying on movie-making, learning the business side, figuring out how to enter film festivals, doing producer-type stuff.

I didn't want our days spent discussing shots, her swishy-snow pants swishing, the inevitable cutting remarks that I felt would be directed her way by X. I could visualize his scorn spreading to the others, making her the omega wolf, the one picked on, despite it was her drive that brought all of us together.

I felt I was protecting her.

I was wrong to do that.

I wanted to be entirely in control, to not have to argue with her about what to do, defend shots, scenes, lines. To avoid another discussion where she tells me we need to have a dream sequence with Y because she has two friends willing to go topless in a car wash and boobs sell movies.

I was so angry. I was angry at Sound Guy coming in and pointing out all the holes in the ship - holes I knew about and was the reason I called him.

I was angry this dream, making a movie, wasn't fun. I was angry my friend, the guy I trusted to shoot the movie, fucked off on me. I was angry I felt pushed into doing this, that there was no way to go but forward, ever since she said we had an investor.

I felt so alone, nobody to turn to to complain we weren't taking log notes. In the back of my mind, I knew every day meant another tape I would have to go through later, take by take, to figure out which was best.

I wasn't staring down the camera. I was angry that every day was such a complete tiring mess where I wondered what exactly I was shooting here. I was angry she said our relationship was over once the movie ended. I was doing this for us, I told myself.

And if there was no 'us', what was the point of anything? Being dumped on any day is never the best. It was only a slight drop below being stranded at the alter.

I was angry when she told me we were through. I said fine but we could we finish the movie first. We finished, hooked up for one more night and then I was angry she expected me to continue to fly back and forth to edit the movie, knowing the relationship ended.

I was angry I didn't get a choice in the editor - not even a fucking demo reel from the guy. We already got burned for $800 by the 'FX guy' for a shit totem grade school kids could have done in 20 minutes and a fake head so realistic I had to shoot it mostly from the back. Then there was my original DP, then there was the new DP who left town with one master tape still in his possession.

And now she was saying I wouldn't get a choice in who was editing this fucking mess? Were they aware we had no log sheets? Was he going to go through 18 hours of tapes for free?

So she kicked me off my movie. I was furious. She even got the investors to all sign something saying I was fired. I still have it. Along with a ream of angry letters sent over the next few months.

I was angry that I loved her, agreed to do this movie because of her, that she made me decide between the movie or her in the middle of filming.


I hated her. I hated her so much I moved across Canada. I hated her so much I sent her the masters after making my own copies and told her to go ahead. I hated her so much I had to ask her cancer-fighting sister if she was seeing someone else as she was recuperating in a hospital bed. I hated her so much I spent $1500 on a camera just so I could edit it myself. I hated her so much, I learned to edit. I hated her so much I would call her business phone from 3000 miles away in the middle of the night just so I could listen to the sound of her voice on her messaging machine. I hated her so much I never left a message.

I hated her so much I kept all her letters, a dying art, the angry letter - all capital letters, hand-written. I still have them, that's how much I hated her. I have pictures of her in my memory chest, from happier days of course, when I loved her and thought she loved me back. She was as old then as my wife is turning now.

(... that made me pause).

I hated her so much I yelled Happy Birthday to her when I saw her on the street five years later. I hated her so much I tried to say Merry Christmas to her when I saw her selling something in a department store. I hated her so much I left chocolates on her car door that night. She knew they were from me. I hated her when I saw her car beside mine, her staring ahead - either unaware I was right beside her or painfully aware.

I hated her for killing my dream, for no longer being part of my life. I hated her for making me feel like I could do anything and then telling me I couldn't. I hated her for the amount of times she'd blow me, far more times than actual sex. I hated her for pretending to believe in me. I hated her for all her arguments about her 'editor'.

I wanted nothing more than to win her back. I thought if only I edited this whole mess into something, entered it into a few film festivals on our behalf, then maybe she'd see I was doing it all for us. I wanted her to believe in me again. I needed her belief in me.

And when it was gone, so was I.

Life happened. I got cancer. She didn't acknowledge that. I moved back home. Not even a peep. I left, came back, got married, got divorced. Met someone else, and we are still together, two kids now. Happy life, happy wife.

The last time I saw her, and I've googled-creeped her name many times over the years to see where she was to no avail, she was entering a furniture store. I was inside, holding my months old baby daughter in my arms. I turned quickly, kept my back to the door as she entered. When she passed, I exited.

And that was the end of her. Physically.

Yet, she's still inside me. She found people willing to invest $15000 in our vision. It was an amazing, awful, one of a kind experience which will never happen again. For a few months, I was a filmmaker.
For a few years, I tried to recreate that lie, believing in an impossible goal, 3500 miles away from her.

Do I still hate her?

She did her damage.

Do I still hate her?

Did I ever hate her?

Or did I always hate the choice I made?

Cracks in the windshield; synchronicity

I'm struggling again but this time I'm more accepting of it. I realize I am struggling. Not just in writing but in all things. The 'do it' part is missing. I'm stuck on 'just'.

I need to hear that song now but the random Internet slot machine will play Lucky for me.

I'm on a roll
I'm on a roll this time
I feel my luck could change

Kill me, Sarah
Kill me again with love
It's gonna be a glorious day

Pull me out of the air crash
Pull me out of the lake
'Cause I'm your superhero
We are standing on the edge

The head of state has called for me by name
But I don't have time for him
It's gonna be a glorious day
I feel my luck could change

Pull me out of the air crash
Pull me out of the lake
'Cause I'm your superhero
We are standing on the edge

We are standing on the edge.


Nice song. 


I guess I should be happy I'm just on the computer. I was standing in the shower, delaying getting out. I have so much to do today. I took a breath. I told myself that today was not going to be hard. I could do it.

Just. (also by Radiohead)

I will sit in front of the computer for an hour. So far it's been 23 minutes, I think. OK Computer (rocking this Radiohead).
I still don't know what is wrong with me, I mean, other than that I have depression and I am getting old and I'm confused as to what I should be and everything that comes with being nearer fifty than forty or thirty.
Shit, yesterday I played Lego Batman on my PS3 and then mowed the lawn. Priorities...

I got another thanks but no thanks from a literary agent and I told myself that these rejections hurt less the more you get them. And that's true and also not true at the same time. But I still delay on trying again. It's been six months and no word on Karmageddon. Time to throw it somewhere else.

Yet, here I sits. On one hand, good for me. I'm finally sitting here. Yet, I'm not submitting K anywhere. I'm choosing to write this instead, to question why I'm avoiding and yet also to be the immediate answer as to why I'm avoiding.

Time management. My life sometimes feels like a series of band-aids on top of each other. And I hear stories and I watch stories and realize I'm not as bad off as others. So I should appreciate that. But I still have so much to do. Just do it, jay. Just do it.

I've got a lot to do today.

And now the Internet has given me this sadly timely U2 song that hits home on my Radiohead station: 

Tough, you think you've got the stuff
You're telling me and anyone
You're hard enough

You don't have to put up a fight
You don't have to always be right
Let me take some of the punches
For you tonight

Listen to me now
I need to let you know
You don't have to go it alone

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you when I don't pick up the phone
Sometimes you can't make it on your own

We fight, all the time
You and I, that's alright
We're the same soul
I don't need, I don't need to hear you say
That if we weren't so alike
You'd like me a whole lot more

Listen to me now
I need to let you know
You don't have to go it alone

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you when I don't pick up the phone
Sometimes you can't make it on your own

Say, say, say

It's been an hour. Baby steps. On to the next thing.

Outside. In Rainbows. (Radiohead)

Yes, Daughter, there is still a Santa Claus

Late night thoughts on Childhood Beliefs

Note; It’s been nearly 6 weeks since I’ve written anything of substance. The cycle repeats. Inspiration, Dedication, Insecurity, Shame, Confidence. If I’m lucky, sometimes I’m able to replace Shame with some Editing. I shouldn’t feel insecure about what I do, I know it’s good. But I lack validation and the desire to seek out the validation, so I have let my dreams sit for the summer, enjoyed it with my children, for the summers do go fast and they are both starting school this year and my memory is slipping faster than they are growing.

I love my daughter. She’s nine. She told her mom a few days ago that she’s starting to have suspicions about Santa Claus. She didn’t say that directly, she was making an observation. “You know, Santa seems to only have toys that you could also buy in Walmart.”

I’m like… wow. But you, as a parent, have to keep that dream alive, you know? What do you do? Bring down the house of cards that is Santa Claus?