The One Night Stand of Screenwriting

Hi Kids!
As this was one of my earliest posts as CSSC Writer Laureate -  I figure about 5 people read it, so here it is again with a promise of fresh material later this week!

First off I want to know how it happens to be Wednesday again? Time is truly a fascinating thing, isn’t it? Especially since in some real science way it doesn’t exist. Those of you not inclined to think esoteric thoughts about space time, or question whether or not stars have souls, are likely skipping ahead right now wondering how far I’m going to wander down this time tangent. You tuned in after all to get the answer to that big icky question left outstanding last week – How do you know your idea is a movie? Of course the short answer, and the cheap pop psych answer is, that if you truly see it and believe in it as a movie, then of course it is!

But that’s not the way it works in my head aka the Cocoverse, so leaving that with you as an answer is likely the coward’s way out. Not that I’m against that completely, sometimes the coward’s way is best, but it’s only Blog the 4th so I want to put off any overt displays of creative cowardice on my part for at least a few more weeks.
I’ll try and give you a bit more to work with. Then back to my time ruminations (that’s your word for the week).
First off, when the character chatter gets going in my head and I have to decide whether the story idea is best expressed as a novel, short story, song, poem, play, short film, feature, TV series, webisode, game, etc. It’s kinda like a Broadway audition. Except that instead of yelling “Singers who can Dance stage left and Dancers who can Sing stage right!” I yell “Doers who can Talk in the green room and Talkers who can Do wait out in the house.” Hmmm, that last is going to be pretty cryptic to those of you who know nothing about theatre. If that is you, your homework for the week is to see a play, doesn’t matter what it is, or even if it’s any good. If you want to want to write for the screen you have to know not only what that is, but what it is not.

All that to say that if my characters are exploring ideas and the expression of those ideas through language, I start to frame the story as a play. On stage the play of language takes the place of a sweeping landscape shot or a close up of a cherry blossom falling. So the chatty Cathy’s who want to wallow in hyperbole get the stage.
If the conflict plays out in a place, or places, I start thinking film or TV. If the place is big enough and complex and important enough to the play of the story that it becomes a character in and of itself then I’m thinking feature. Whenever big sky or weather or rocky shoreline or acres of cracked concrete are key to making the story work, it’s a feature. But also to be a feature it has to meet a couple other criteria. Is the plot all of a piece? There needs to be a certain unity of story to make me believe in it, in that I have to at least sense the shape of the beginning, middle and end. As well, it had better be wildly interesting to me if I’m going to invest myself for months and months in the story landscape. For me too, a feature has to have a complexity of plot and action that exceeds the budget of a TV show. Features have scope, even low budget ones.

TV for me is more about complexity of character. Characters that tangle and untangle and re-tangle themselves around each other. As well, TV ideas for me don’t have crisp endings, being so character driven, a good ending of one TV episode is just a good beginning for the next. Feature endings need to come down more, to a place of greater quiet and rest. Maybe because the up part has to be of such scope and intensity that the great exhale at the ending needs to be longer and deeper. And in terms of investment? For a writer a TV series is a marriage while a feature is a fling, so if you don’t want to be married, careful about heading down the TV development road.

Do I really think about all this stuff before I start writing? Yah, sorta. Sometimes I’ll sketch out a few scenes and just ask myself what it feels like. If I produce an inciting incident and a lot of internal dialogue, I start thinking short story, if a new world or a series of events jumps in, I’ll start thinking novel.

Short films come to me quickly, within a space of hours I have a beginning, middle and end sorted out. Writing one is like planning a big party. I know the time commitment won’t be that great but it still needs to be one hell of a good time, so I try to make sure that I give it a tight container to fit in. I like my shorts to have a unity of time, place and/or action. I find setting limits or story parameters keeps it from spinning out of control. Whether it is limiting character number or location or theme, I limit something about the structure in order to stay focused. In the Cocoverse the short film is the one night stand of screenwriting, so I try and have fun and not take it too seriously.

Honestly though, here we are at the end and in truth, back at the beginning because I’m going to leave you with the thought that your story idea is a play, song, painting, graphic novel, short script, feature film, TV series – indeed all of the above. Your idea is all of these things and none of them until you choose. I think the only way you can choose is to actually have some knowledge about the different storytelling techniques that come into play with each format. That means read. Read short scripts, plays, novels, features, teleplays, novels and cereal boxes, and oh, yah, blogs. If you are a screenwriter writer you read every day. Sorry, but it is a non-negotiable. Watching short films on the web, your favorite TV show or a movie marathon, is negotiable. Reading is not. Best of all is to get a hold of the screenplay and a DVD of the film, read, watch, repeat, read, watch, repeat.

Time for me to go do all that right now. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, always has a slot in my space-time continuum.
-Carolynne

Someday I'll Stop Writing These Dreadful Songs

The Canadian Tenors Moose Wearing My Writing Hat

But evidently that day isn't today.

Sorry my friends it seems to be an itch that I have to scratch. I will grow out of it. Really I will. It's just some weird delayed adolescence thing where I must write out my feelings. Even if I was feeling them twenty years ago. Please hang in here with me, we will get through this and I will start writing like an adult again sometime soon.

Someday by Carolynne Ciceri

Because I knew your favourite kind of chocolate
Because I knew the right thing to say
Because I knew when to hold you tight
Because I knew when to walk away

You love me more than you know
You love me more than you can say
This lifetime, or maybe the next, we’ll be together, someday

Everyone is happy to give an opinion
Everyone is happy to have their say
Everyone can be wrong you know
Everyone doesn’t get to choose our way

You love me more than you know
You love me more than you can say
This lifetime, or maybe the next, we’ll be together, someday

For now it is our secret
For now on different roads we walk
For now all we can do together
Is steal a few moments of sweet talk

And what if it’s all untrue
What if it’s all in my head
That doesn’t make it any less real
It just makes it my beautiful dream instead



Jeepers. Okay. That whole different roads, sweet talk thing - yikes. Maybe a jealous fellow writer put a curse on me? Could happen. Fine. I will keep working on it. Because that's what we writers do. We re-write.

And Then We Ate Cake

Best Staff Meeting ever today.

7 of us gave 3 minute presentations on what we (and our unit) do. I put up a picture of the Star Trek bridge crew and got to label Lt. Uhura with my name. It worked out that there was a Trek character analogous to each team member and their job.  So much fun.

We were only permitted one slide á la 3MinuteThesis competition format, but I missed the memo saying we were permitted to use notes on paper so instead I rehearsed my spiel with jazz hands interpretive dance moves to help jog my memory. It worked except that for the big finale I ran out of thumbs. I guess you had to be there.

And the Student Academic Services team pointed out that each clerk on their team has 2000 students. Can you imagine if even 1% of them decided to email a question on the same day? Yikes!

Then the PDFO (Postdoctoral Fellows Office) presenter was especially cute a) because he ran out of time and gave JFK’s most words in a minute record a run for the money and b) he grew a Movember ‘stash and struggled the whole time to keep from playing with it – but he managed to arrest the hand moving toward the ‘stash. Bravo!

Doc Exams was a hoot in a dark and lovely way as they bordered their slide with images of Prozac pills and read out an astonishing record of transactions accomplished during one month - 75 Doctoral Examinations in the month of July! Can you imagine? 75 stressed out PhD students plus supervisors plus external examiners? Jeepers. Well done Ladies!

One of the coolest things was that some of the units let the newbies give the presentations so The Girl With Two Hats and the longest job title in the office won the Best Use of Puns award as she illuminated all present about her quest to eradicate Curriculamaphobia from across our 250 degree programs. While the Thesis duo pointed out that they were undoubtedly the smartest of us all as they read, and reread, about 1000 Master’s and Doctoral Theses a year. Ouch.

Then my favourite of all  - an Awards Veteran who didn’t need a slide but only a wicked sense of humour to share with us the trials and triumphs of a short-handed team who fought through a labyrinthine mountain range of process and paper to emerge on the far side of their silly season with their sense of humour intact, an appreciation for each other and millions and millions of dollars awarded to thousands of graduate students who depend upon it to pursue their dreams of making the world a better place for all of us.

Yes, one an all of us ordinary heroes for sure, but still it was nice to be reminded of how smart and creative and funny and caring this strange and motely group of folk who spend the labour of their days trying to make the world a better place for UBC graduate students because UBC graduate students make the world a better place for all of us.

And

Then one of us declaimed Scottish poetry while the Dean played the bagpipes

And then we ate cake

Now that was an awesome day at the office.

A Rather Distressing Compulsion

I think I have a virus. Or a brain fever. How about a virus that is causing a brain fever? I can’t stop writing songs. It is becoming a rather distressing compulsion. Like that great musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where everyone sang their feelings because they were compelled by a demon of song. Urkk. I can’t stop with the song ideas. Maybe they are actually poems but I don’t think so cause I just spent the last hour working out the chord progression for Dragon Young Dragon, a blues lament in E major. Jeepers.

I’d share many more feelings on the subject but I want to go work on another song idea – this one inspired by the line “Every day is an ordinary day, until suddenly it isn’t.”  So I guess is going to be song about love at first sight since after the lament of Dragon Young Dragon I am determined to write something peppy. Yes you heard me, peppy.

Dystopian Malaise - a Bookclub Rap

Dystopian Malaise
by Carolynne “CoCo” Ciceri and Aynsley “Zombie Mom” Friesen

Aynsley "Zombie Mom" Friesen

You ask if I can talk and I answer okay
But I really have no interest in what you have to say
I put smile number 5 up onto my face
And I let my brain start wandering all over the place

I’m suffering from Dystopian Malaise today
How can I tell? ‘Cause I hear myself say
Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool. Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool.Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool.

There’s so much post-apocalyptic drama in the lives of my friends
It’s a tragic soapy opera that has no end
I’m so sick to death of hearing all about it
So crazy bored that I could just spit-it-it

I’m suffering from Dystopian Malaise today
How can I tell? ‘Cause I hear myself say
Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool. Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool.Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool.

I nod, I smile but if you could  look in my head
I’d really be watching Robert DeNiro movies instead
I’m thinking of puppies and bunnies and cool mountain streams
Sorry but your sad sack reality just gives me bad dreams

I’m suffering from Dystopian Malaise today
How can I tell? ‘Cause I hear myself say
Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool. Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool.Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool.

When you talk at me I say
Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool. Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool.Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool.
When you talk I say
Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool. Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool.Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool.
I say
Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool. Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool.Uh huh? Oh yeah? Cool.

A Mutated Chromosome 17

Okay 3:09 a.m. I am really not happy to see you again. Seeing your pale green LED face – a bit blurry from my lack of eyeglasses and a bit wobbly due to the large green plastic water glass strategically positioned to mute your radiant…ah, radiance -- makes me realize that in the past 15 years or so, you and I have spent some part of this Lost Hour together. Sometimes only a few moments, sometimes the whole damn thing and then some, but at least 2 out of 3 nights we exchange our nocturnal greetings. I for the most part groan, sigh and from time to time launch a curse word in your direction. You return to me your intense faintly malevolent green stare. 

While I recognize that our early morning conversation is hardwired into my genes – insert some scientific jibber jabber here about melatonin cycles and genetically linked paucity of the enzyme required to break it down, or else too much of the enzyme I can never remember which it is. No matter, I have accepted you as part of what my Dad used to call “your specialness” in which context “special” takes the same meaning as the word as “funny” does to the word “peculiar”.  That does not mean, however, that I welcome you or have to be polite to you whenever you decide to show up.

Tragically for me, a wage-slave of the most ordinary 9-5 kind, you often come tip-toeing along with my Muse in tow.  He seems to frackin’ love you. A night person he definitely is and I’ve got no problem with that except for when the alarm sounds at 6:45 a.m.

This morning’s thoughts decided to take a few laps of the brain chasing down the idea of winning the Giller Prize. For those of you not in the know of Canada’s literary stuff, the Giller Prize is a big deal north of the 49^th parallel. It is a yearly $50,000 prize given to Canada’s best English novel or collection of short stories and comes with lots of press and a huge bump in book sales. I’d seen a news clip a few days ago about the award and this year’s winner (Esi Edugyan Half-Blood Blues) and her comments were humble and heart felt. I started thinking about what winning a big splashy prize like that would mean to a writer, not in terms of their career so much but a few layers deeper then that. I started wondering what it would mean to the writing.

So my Muse sat down on the end of the bed and started playing one of his favourite games with me – “What if that were you?”.

And so we began. It started with me imagining what I would say if I won such a thing. What would I talk about in an acceptance speech.  Would I spend a lot of time thanking all the people who ever helped me and then all of those who got in my way? Because truthfully they’d have had just as big a hand in any literary success as those who tried to help. Or would I say something real. Something about writing. Then a transformation of some kind took place. Even though I was still writing my Giller acceptance speech in my head, all of a sudden I was talking about why I write. Why I have to write. It surely isn’t to win prizes I thought, for I don’t think it is possible to actually do the work at all with that goal fixed in one’s head.

It may seem odd to many but it was the first time in my life I spent a big chunk of time thinking deeply about why I write.  Diving underneath all the surface reasons like, “I’m good at it.” Or “So I can fully express myself” or “I get to be the hero of every story” or even the big reason that though it appears on the surface is a True Iceberg of Thought – “Because I get to play God.” – so that surface thought is also one that goes all the way down to the bottom.

In the process of trying to explain why I write to my Muse I came to understand that I write because I have to write.  For better or worse, prizes or no, twenty years of writing has created a Writer, which is as you may or may not know is only kind of a half- human, half mythical sort of construct. A creature that splits her time pretty equally between the Here-and-Now(HAN) and the Land-of-What-If and –Maybe (LOWIM) and no matter how fantastic HAN might be at any point in time, she is always pining for the forests and valleys and oceans and planets of three moons that lie in her truest home LOWIM.

So there it is. I write because it is now as much a part of my genome as the weirdness on chromosome 17 that inverts my melatonin cycle. It’s a curious sort of group of thoughts that make me as sad as joyful. But analysis of that emotional response will have to wait for another day’s Lost Hour. For tonight my Muse has snuggled down in the blankets next to me and closed his eyes, so now I will too.

Welcome to Cocomania

Things that I am thinking.

Wondering why my blog fan base is as big in Russia and Brazil as it is in the USA? Georgia and Latvia too seem to have developed a recurrent interest in the Cocoverse. Guess I’ll have to plan stops there on my book tour.

Today I shamelessly flattered a male co-worker into changing the colour printer cartridge for me so that I wouldn’t risk my guitar finger nails.

In the last twenty-four hours I’ve written two new songs and outlined a new story property charting out it’s dramatic progression from short film script to web series to one act play, full length play and feature script. It’s called Brandon Fury and I seem to think it is immensely funny in that I snort with laughter every time I think about it for more then 30 seconds. But I’ve worked it over a few time and I think it is genuinely funny and not just the serotonin talking.

So I guess it’s a comedy.

If not for the day job I’d have written at least two more songs and finished three other scripts in this time period. Got a big stack done at the office too. So either somebody needs to throttle back on the caffeine or the Bipolar type 2 pendulum is finally swinging back in the happy direction.  If so - no worries my lovelies - in my personal expression of the disorder the manic phase is notable only by a clean apartment, excessive chattiness and a new draft of my proposal to achieve total world literary domination. Yah, but also don’t believe anything I promise for the next little while K? The blizzard of personal and professional improvements that I have planned for the next six weeks are all well intentioned but a girl has to remember that a few baby steps and a few pages written everyday will get a girl over the rainbow more surely then a mad dash ending in a sprained ankle and tears.

Spending some time with Mom too working on “Dummy Hand” our theatrical magnum opus about a septuagenarian bridge club. Okay thats’ a word one is not called upon to spell very often. So many stories to write so little time.

Twitchie the House Elf did finally cough up the guitar capo so in addition don’t be surprised if you pass by my door and hear the sound of my voice singing “Hallelujah”. That would be the Canadian Tenors arrangement of the Leonard Cohen tune of course, but transposed by capo magic to a better spot in my vocal range.

I love weekends.

BTW I thought you all might like to meet one of the most often referred to magic talismans in the Cocoverse - the Rock of Truth. Which, just as an aside, is still jammed in the printer. I guess I'd better go find the tweezers.

Scented Candle Wax & Potato Chip Crumbs

Okay, now I know for sure that the Fae are ticked with me. First was the incident of the disappeared guitar capo which I blamed on the House Elf. Hey Twitchie, my little man, where there is scented candle wax and potato chip crumbs there is fire pal. Then the broken guitar nail as the neophyte guitar player counts down to her first recording session. Now I've gone and lodged the "Rock of Truth" into my printer in a manner that can only be described as bizarre. The frackin' capo is still AWOL by the way, the nail is still broken and I haven't yet figured out the right tool to liberate the "Rock of Truth" without wrecking the printer - which is also out of ink on the eve of a script competition deadline. I've tried the extra heavy duty nail file, the pen and the stray knitting needle previously blessed by my friend Angela, goddess of the fibre and pottery arts, but no joy. Rats. I had high hopes for that knitting needle which is one of the few things I own that could be construed a holy artifact.

If I could be bothered to record a sound track for this post you'd be hearing Lady Antebellum in the background - some musicians and songwriters that I'm very impressed with by the way - and the sound of me snorting air into my nostrils and flame out of my nostrils in the foreground. Now maybe that is just from the chipolte chili mishap at lunch but I don't think so. I've ticked off some Major Minor Deity big time. Now will have to do all of the dishes, change the sheets and take a nine orange peel bath to re balance my chi. Not to mention scheduling an eco-terror attack on the UBC Botanical Garden to secure some hyssop, holly and rowan. Unless any of you has some fresh mistletoe or hair from a live wolf to offer up? Thought not. Somebody needs a hug. Oh, wait both the Cossack and IrishEyes emailed or FB'd in my direction in the last 24 hours. Heh. Maybe a girl should stop complaining. Yep. Okay, she will. But Twitchie, you'd better watch your back pal.

The Critical Nature of Extra Napkins

So one of those things that has always struck me as odd is the big wad of napkins that often come with a fast food order. It has always seemed to me that the number of napkins that one receives in any specific instance is inversely proportional to the actual need for extra napkins. You know what I’m saying, the two napkins and two tiny wet naps with the family size bucket of chicken, the four napkins with the extra large pizza and the fist full that accompanies the relatively dry burger and fries, no ketchup. 

While all those who’ve ever seen me eat or imbibe liquid of any sort can testify, I am a multiple napkin kind of girl. Always have been, always will be. Over the years I have therefore developed a wee bit of a paper napkin collecting habit, a habit which has served me fairly well all in all as witnessed by the events of the past 24 hours. A dirty grocery cart (ick!), a broken egg on the kitchen floor, milk spilled on the coffee table, coffee spilled on the coffee table too for that matter, an errant sneeze at the computer keyboard, a stray tear squeezed out in response to a memorable musical performance on TV, you get the idea.

But today I saw my spare paper napkin collecting habit in a slightly more sinister light as a colleague witnessed me pulling a spare napkin from my desk drawer in order to put it to some minor use and she asked, in a tone of voice that I thought was rather melodramatically aghast given the circumstance, if it was indeed the case that the entire drawer was full of spare paper napkins. Ah, yes, in fact that is true. I have an entire desk drawer devoted to the accumulation of extra paper napkins. Is that so wrong? It’s not like it’s a big drawer. Does that make me a hoarder or just well prepared?

As long as I’m the Empress of the Cocoverse, which is a position held in perpetuity by the way, I’m going with “well prepared”.

P.S. I promise to figure out how to get rid of the annoying advertising that I added in a strange fit of "I wonder what this button does?" Now I know. Ick

Just a Little Bit Cocoa

So here I be, trying to get all organized for a serious turn off the tv/phone/internet writer's weekend and suddenly all I can think about is how great it be if I rolled a few teaspoons of peanut butter in chocolate cheerios and then dipped them in the melted remains of the organic chocolate chili bar stashed in the filing cabinet. Now I can hear many of you screaming "no don't do it" but truth to tell, sweets are not my food waterloo and that chocolate chili bar has survived unscathed for at least ten days, so regardless it won't be as bad as you fear. Chocolate seems to be the one thing I like to eat for which I have a reasonable "off" switch.

In the end, laziness will out and I'll just snap a couple squares off the bar and retreat to the purple velvet couch for this week's episode of "Supernatural". Which since you're asking is something for which I do not have an "off" switch. Then to bed cause I did in fact rise in the deep dark of the night last night to work on my spec "Lost Girl" script. Awesome funny scene actually, and a little bit naughty. Though if any of you have any practical suggestions about how to get my Muse to show up at about 7 p.m. instead of 3 a.m. I'll save the rest of that chocolate chili bar for you.

Instead of a Moldy Rutabaga: A Reprise

Okay, yes, the ultimate in lazy blogging is re-posting an old blog. But since me, with the new found expertise reading my blog stats, has concluded only three people ever actually read this one, I don't feel so bad out the re-post 'cause it is one of my favourite rants and I'm in a ranty sort of mood but too pooped to work up the fresh head of steam required for a truly fabulous original shellacking. So here's hoping one or two more of you enjoy this, the inaugural Friday Rant.

Really I crack myself up sometimes. I mean seriously, who am I to have such strong opinions about writing and story. Me with my one and only option cheque for 1$ stuck up on my book case with a bit of sticky tape. After a morning spent giving notes for favours it seems particularly hilarious that I’m still, at 7 pm at night, fuming over the issue of voice over in film scripts.

Just in case you’ve never heard me say it out loud before, here it is. "Voice over is the refuge of the lazy writer." Or the addition of a spectacularly insecure director or producer who doesn’t trust the very expensive team of artists and craftspeople they’ve hired to express the story in the glorious visual aural literary medium that is film.

I read this same sentiment once in one of my hundred books on screenwriting and I do so wish I could remember which A-list screenwriter to attribute the quote to, but, I don’t. Which is sad because sometimes I feel like I’m standing alone, screaming it into the teeth of a hurricane force wind with fellow writers and film business folks lined up like pilgrims in front of a pilloried (your word for the day) harlot chucking rotten root vegetables at me chanting the names of successful and highly touted films that use the medium. And I don’t care if that is a dreadful run-on sentence that needs an editor. Get your own blog.

You really think you are Robert Redford and your script the next A River Runs Through It? Okay, maybe you are but if you’re going to get the voice over by me man you better be chucking the Oscar or Golden Globe at me instead of a moldy rutabaga.

You see the great glory of film is when the music, words, acting, visuals, camera movement, casting, costuming all become a greater synthesis – you know the whole becomes greater than the sum of their parts. It is possible. Just layering good acting and nice visuals with a poetic voice over is self-indulgent crap. Sorry too harsh. It is what I call “young man” writing which is actually separate and distinct from “young woman” writing which has its own pitfalls.

Young man writing is self-indulgent and masturbatory while young woman writing tends to innumerable cups of tea and tedious descriptions of the actions of other people not on the screen to trustworthy confidantes. Certainly a place for both voices in the cannon of our craft, but really people. Look at not only what you are writing but how you are writing. Go ahead and chuck the moldy rutabagas if you must but be brave enough to have the tosser taunt me in his own voice.

Note to Self

When MacGuyvering eyeglasses back together with black masking tape, ensure that you do not spend 15 minutes trying to attach the left arm to the right side of the glasses.  "But Carolynne, surely you realize that is not black masking tape in the photo?" Yes, yes my friends I do.  That is regular masking tape and it appears in this photo of the repaired spectacles because the black masking tape gave out completely as I tried to maneuver the glasses into position in order to take this wonderful photo to share with you all.

So here is my wonderful photo to accompany a story that is representative of my month so far. I will now leave you to go stir the pot of beans on the stove which is representative of my attempt to loose 20 pounds between now and the Canadian Tenors concert 72 days from now where, if I succeed my Mom will pick up the tab for the tickets. Taken together, the cheaply repaired glasses, beans and desire to get someone else to pay for my Canadian Tenors habit, these things are representative of my attempts to save up enough money to finance the filming of my award winning short film script, The Lobby.

Current funds assembled to date total 100 dollars and the refund on 11 empty liquor bottles recently discovered under the sink - 5 Absolut vodka, 2 Bombay Sapphire gin and 4 wine bottles(2 red, 2 white), for those of you who enjoy excessive detail I will post the wine brand names upon request - which have been there since I decided that booze was too expensive sometime last June. Oh, and of course the tea light holder full of nickels which are no longer accepted by Vancouver parking meters.

After the bean stirring I should return a phonecall, but it is too late already because glasses repair took 7.5 times longer than budgeted. Instead I'll be practicing the guitar till bedtime which is representative of ...um, my desire to practice the guitar until bedtime.

Sleep well. Don't forget to vote for Georgia Murray on Cover Me Canada and like all her vids on YouTube many times and like them as often as the button will let you hit it. Which is representative of my wanting the dreams of a terrific artist and lovely person to come true. Won't you sleep better knowing you had a little part in that?

Fandom in the Cocoverse

Synchronicity. I was going to erase that word and start these musing anew and then realized that I didn’t want to. After all I did experience it about an hour ago while driving in the car and listening to a radio station to which I rarely listen. Cory Hart’s “Sunglasses at Night” was playing and I cranked it up and listened with an intensity never before witnessed between myself and that particular pop classic. All to say that my girl Georgia Murray is taking the stage in Toronto in mere moments real-time to cover the song for tonight’s CBC show Cover Me Canada. Now perhaps Mr. Hart’s song still receives daily air play here in Vancouver - who am I to know such things - but somehow doubt it, good tune that it is notwithstanding.

I don’t know about the specific space-time continuum that you inhabit, but here in the Cocoverse music seems to carry with it a greater preponderance of synchronous moments than any other single media or entity. Perhaps because it is so intermeshed with our processes of emotion and memory at a neurological level. Or perhaps that is just part of it’s magic.

I’m a fairly recent addition to Ms. Murray’s bandwagon, having had the extreme pleasure of seeing and hearing her perform live here in Vancouver not more than six weeks ago. She was awesome live and the CBC production team has yet to capture the full range of that awesomeness on their show, in my humble lay person’s opinion.

It is no small challenge to do sound for a live broadcast for not only a disparate group of bands but also having only 90 seconds to get the mix right. I don’t envy them their task but perhaps in future, not doing a 100% live performance with such (relatively) inexperienced bands would significantly elevate the quality of the sound on the show. I’m afraid that the general public is so used to polished perfection that many can’t pick out the moments that are gems from the nerves and miscues. In truth all eight bands really have something great and raw going on and a couple of the bands have superb chops.

I offer as evidence the YouTube videos of Ms. Murray - last week’s official version from the show - which was good - and the acoustic version she and the band laid down only a few hours later in their hotel room which was all kinds of amazing. Without strangers on the sound mixing board and the over-caffeinated lighting technician strobing crazily, in the acoustic version of Alanis Morrisette’s “You Oughta Know” Ms. Murray and crew kicked that song’s ass from Tofino to Cape Spear and back .

As a writer and neophyte guitar player I’m avidly participating in Georgia’s journey to musical stardom for a number of reasons. One is that I get a huge buzz from “discovering” talent on the way up and watching them ride the wave. Sometimes, as we have all borne witness, the talent and genius and celebrity ends up with the artist smashed on the rocks. But sometimes, and in this case I’m willing to bet on it, the fifteen year overnight sensation can enjoy each and every moment in the spotlight and ride out the dry spots sure to come with the same joy in the music that has sustained them thus far.

For me too part of the attraction is that I am an artist that performs best in my own milieu when I find others to inspire me. And I’m not taking about famous dead geniuses or celebrities whom I may admire but have never met.

I seek out the everyday artists in my everyday little life. It is shocking how many you can find if you only look -- the accounting clerk who is genius with the knitting needles; the sister who can take a pot of dirt and a few scraggly plants and compose a living tone poem; the roommate who taught me to brew the perfect cup of coffee; the graphic designer become award winning children’s book author; the colleague entering her first ballroom dance competition; the executive assistant become novelist and yoga teacher; the 10 year old boy who would not stay in the green room during the opera performance become a tenor known round the world; the guitar teacher become film composer; the Dean become choir master; the under 30 actor become film exec -- and today Georgia Murray, reluctant reality TV contestant. Tonight she sings for you and she sings for herself, but in the Cocoverse, most of all, she sings for me

September Flash Blog

Seriously, this is a Flash Blog because who in September has time to write anything longer? For someone who has no children and is not currently registered in any classes back to school has been inexplicably fraught this year. Maybe because I work at a school. Oh and I do have my guitar lessons, that makes me a student of something I suppose. So all I've got for you today is one of the essential questions of the Cocoverse, which from time to time we are all called upon to ponder. How is it that I have two working opposable thumbs - opposable is your word for the week which the spell checker on this blog site doesn't like very much and yet it is spelled correctly. Any way, back to the question of the day - How is it that I have two opposable thumbs and a good blodge of higher education on my resume and yet can't figure out how to operate the new fangled lid on the take-out coffee cup? Serves me right for not remembering my travel mug I guess.
Here's hoping you all have a more successful morning than I in terms of imbibing your wake-the-hell-up beverage of choice.

Goodby Early Adopter, Hello Later Learner

Another birthday in the books and ruminating on the passage of time, as per usual at this time of year. And I'm looking at my old iPhone - without the 3S or 3G whatever that means - and my aging MacAir - the lack of a built in disc drive is really starting to bug me - upgrades are in order, but truthfully I can't be bothered. And my head hurts at the idea that i need to migrate my on-line social life from Facebook to Google+ and I feel guilty for not tweeting and blogging regularly and so I started to play the new Sims on-line game to relax until I had this huge Ah HAH moment...

...as my Sim was cleaning her fake toilet and heating up food in her microwave - something I highly object to in the real world btw and then she headed to her fake computer to write a fake blog post and then the fake guitar where in order to learn life points and simoleaons she had to practice a Flamenco piece.

Imagine if you will, the now, the entire movement of my cosmos screeching to a halt as I look over at my real guitar with my real flamenco music on the stand and I realize the real flower pots on the real balcony need attention more than the fake flowers on the computer screen. What am I doing! I have a life to live and here I am playing at a shadow version of it? Albeit my Sim looks better in skinny jeans and a corset top than I do, but come on! So I powered down the computer and picked up up the real guitar. Tonight I will make my favorite 2.5 hour Baja Beans and clean my real toilet. Then the only thing I'll touch the computer for is to research gluten and egg free recipes so that I can have my real friends over for a real dinner.

So there. It takes me awile to learn things sometime but I got there in the end. If I'm going to have a fake life it is going to have aliens and superpowers and hot guys with six pack abs who sing to me all day and make me sing all night!

Sing from your heart

I have just watched a bunch of wonderful music videos of amazing BC talent and I am so proud, but...

Okay beautiful young people, lean in and listen well, for I was once one of you and pissed it away with self doubt and pretensions - lose ‘em! The pretensions I mean. Look it up if you don’t know the word. KISS, and not the rock band your parents knew and loved. Keep it simple schmoooes. Trim the beard precisely, forget the feathers unless you can prove First Nations heritage, and a short tight mini skirt as you sit on a bale of hay in the middle of a field is just not the thing chica!

Please be the you are and not the you that you think you should be. I know that is a tall order when in your twenties, I do. Everyone around you is in full court press trying to make you into what they want you to be. But take a deep breath, and ask someone older, in the biz, whom you admire, their opinion before adding tambourines or back-combing your hair or assigning your creative future to your current boyfriend.

Sing from your heart not your ego, and surround yourself with images that mean something to you. Don’t worry about giving us a narrative and god knows you should punt your producer’s narrative, unless he is paying you big bales of cash for the privilege, which I very much doubt. Seriously, I bet if you asked Jan Arden or Sarah McLachlan for 1/2 an hour of advice they’d be thrilled to give it.

Okay, that’s my outburst for the month. Please just know that you are beautiful and genius. After that, it’s just hard work. Don’t forget that either. Push yourselves. It is at the edges of our comfort zone that real magic happens.

6 minutes in my head

Here's a six minute writing exercise from my Writing Maestro Deb Norton who blogs at partwild.wordpress.com

You have six minutes to answer the prompt - If I dig deeper...

Here's where I went.

If I dig deeper I wonder if I’ll strike gold or open up a cess pit? Which will it be? A little of both mayhap or neither. Maybe I’ll just uncover deep dark rich earth that goes on and on underneath my little spade. The kind of earth that must be paired with the word rich. Rich earth ready and willing to receive the seeds of dreams. Ready earth rich with secrets and spells. Earth ready and rich, able to cherish and feed and nurture and infuse the life that turns a dream into a story. If I dig deeper.

Oh, to be in Paris, or at Comic Con, whatever

Alright. So what is a middle-aged girl with a head cold to do on an unseasonably cool summer night. I know! Write a blog post! Strangely the sun is threatening to shine tomorrow maybe if I sit out on the balcony I can get it to burn the sore throat away. But no, no complaining for me tonight, not moi. It has been an interesting sort of week.

Two people I like a lot are both in France this week, one in Paris and the other lolling about near a pool by a chateau somewhere in the Gers, almost dead centre of the country. Another of those I adore is in San Diego at Comic Con and I am kicking myself a bit that I couldn’t work out how to be there too. I’m thinking of him especially tonight as Ron James is saluting the his home town of Lethbridge. I love me my Ron James he is one funny and brilliant comic poet. I wonder how our American neighbours would take him though, he is so very Canadian in all the funniest ways.

What else this week of note? Oh, yah, I got to be a hero tonight me with the jumper cables for a couple of my hotter guy neighbours best of all one of them walked right into one of my favourite cheeky lines of all time, “Wow, I guess it really does pay to be prepared,” says he. I get to smile and wink and fire back with, “Yes, well, you know though I’ve never been a Boy Scout, I’ve had a few.” That caught them by surprise. I was rewarded by two slightly choked barks of laughter and one of their girlfriends from the shadows saying, “Hah! I’ve had a few, that’s funny.” I told her to feel free to steal it anytime she likes. Then I had to beat a hasty retreat telling them to leave the jumper cables under the car when they finished. Always leave ‘em laughing and then make yourself scarce before you can screw it up. For those of you who, sadly still haven’t gotten the joke - Boy Scout motto “Be Prepared” - get it?

Mind you I sort of hacked in the direction of one of the boys so I’m hoping he doesn’t catch my lurggy and remember me that way.

What else, hmm, not too much. Wait that’s a big fib. I had my self-esteem handed back to me on a silver platter this week. Can’t tell you how or why yet. Suffice it to say that I have awesome friends and a few of them got to share my relief as I received a big compliment from an important stranger.

Other then that. Still going to bed early, indeed signing off pretty much now as 6 AM comes early, even on a Saturday. But that early writing hour is proving to be very important to my health, and my page count.

Love you all, thanks for dropping by. I now have to tackle a writing assignment from the Artist’s Way - pretending to be my eight year old self writing me a letter at my current age. You can bet I won’t be running spell check.

Night’n’G’Bless.

A Blog About Nothing

It seems that I find myself with a little space of time and the inclination to blog, though I’m not certain what to blog about. The thing of it is, I find myself once again on a reading fast - this time for only a week - and thus need some mechanism to take a bit of a brain break from my day job. Eating lunch only took eleven minutes and I didn’t bring my guitar today nor do I have an inclination to walk in the rain so blogging it is. Though I could try and work on an actual script or story or hey, even play a game on my iPhone but no. Why am I looking for a justification for blogging? Can it be that often it seems to me that so many blog about so little?

Well at least you were forewarned about this blog from its title. I suppose I could tell you why I am once again without reading or TV or movies for a week given that I recently did a month without fiction and it turned out to be unproductive writing wise in that I spent my reading time watching DIY TV and House Hunters International. Love to be on that show some day. Or better yet, Fantasy Homes by the Sea, that’s the program to be on for sure.

This time I am working through the Artist’s Way and it is turn off the fiction week in order to make yourself face some of the things in your life that you’ve been avoiding facing. This week is all about finding integrity. I have been working through this course in creativity for the first time in about twenty years and am daily surprised by how much I’m getting out of it the second time around. Just doing the Morning Pages (3 pages or 750 words of free association) daily has affected a great sea change.

I am doing more creative writing on a daily basis. Gone seems to be the great plans for huge uninterrupted writing sessions. I write whenever I have a little space to write. Still early days yet so time will have to tell if this shift in creative activity will result in more finished product but I have high hopes and those hopes seem to have a good basis in reality.

The other thing of note is that I’m feeling, in general, a lot better about myself than I have been of late. It’s been a bit of a rocky year on the self-esteem front. This is another positive turn of events that I am claiming is all to do with the Morning Pages. Something about getting the day’s whining out on paper before 7 AM seems to help keep it out of the rest of the day.

Another Saturday Night

Now that I've checked up on the recent posts of all 82 of my Facebook friends...I know, hardly an epic number, bu I have this weird thing about accepting people that I actually know or like or have met on more than a single occasion. Call me crazy.

Just in the event that you might be interested on what I might be up to on a Saturday night, I am here to tell you. Other than checking everybody's latest on facebook, I have also been working on new songs on the guitar. Waltzing Matilda (don't ask), Pachbel's Canon (because at some point it must be learned, may as well be now) and Asturias (which my sometime substitute guitar teacher calls the "Stairway to Heaven" of classical guitar).

Baby Steps

I believe I learned a lesson today in the area of not kidding myself.

As some of you know I've been doing well using the Slow Carb approach as outlined by Tim Ferris in his book "The 4 Hour Body". Today is day nineteen and Friday after work is time to measure before enjoying the Hello Weekend! dinner of grass fed beef steak with a side of spinach and pinto beans (livened up with a clove of garlic, tablespoon butter and a few hits of hot sauce) all to be washed down with a lovely glass of red wine.

The problem arose at the day's end when, in anticipating my commute home I decided to stop and the liquor store and grocery store to pick tomorrow's cheat foods. All day Saturday is my planned Go Crazy Diet Day. All well and good. I tell my self that I've been so successful that I won't be tempted to cheat tonight, even though the goods are sitting there, because I am so happy and proud of my progress. I also reminded myself that one less trip in the car would reduce my carbon footprint. After all, I managed to do this task on the Friday night the first week and restrain myself. Well mostly, I did enjoy one Martini.

It wasn't until I was circling the parking lot having no luck finding a space that I realized that I was lying to myself. I was hungry since I skipped the second mini lunch that I'm supposed to eat around 3:30-4 and I recognized that as I was parking and running the grocery list in my head that I was fully planned to begin my cheat day tonight! I was envisioning the potato chips, icing the vodka and unwrapping the chocolate bar.

And so. I didn't park. I came straight home and cooked my correct meal for the moment which I am about to sit down and enjoy. Yeah me. One day of not kidding myself.