Caroline Wissing

When you go on a road trip, it’s inevitable you will come home with stories. At least, that’s the hope. What’s the point of adventure if nothing happens worth talking about? Like Dory says in Finding Nemo, “Not much fun for little Harpo.”

When I set out with my two friends, Gayle and Kelly, to the annual Ontario Writers Conference, I hoped to accumulate some stories. Stories from the trip, and inspiration for fiction stories, both from the fabulous workshops and readings, and by osmosis from spending so many hours surrounded by the creative energy of passionate writers.

Let me start by saying that, if you’re a writer, whether you publish traditionally or self-publish — regardless of whether you write literary fiction or fantasy, science fiction, mystery, or anything in between — you will almost certainly benefit from attending a conference. The networking opportunities alone are priceless. You might even make a friend or two along the way.

Also, it’s essential for writers to get off their plush office chairs and head out, blinking against the brightness, into the wide world. Stories come from our overactive (sometimes scary) imagination, but they also come from our experiences. Little quirks about the people we meet find their way into characters and flesh them out, making them feel more real. If you’ve never been anywhere, it’s arguably more difficult to describe with authority and authenticity the sounds of a jungle, the stink of a fish market or the feel of ocean spray on your cheeks when a wave breaks on the rocks below your feet.

So here I present my little stories, such as they are.

Story 1: Wayson Choy

In case you’re not familiar with this guru of a man, he’s a national treasure. A writer of the highest calibre whose novels and memoirs capture the essence of the Chinese-Canadian experience. In person, he is humble, gentle and philosophical. At the conference, he was described as a Yoda, which he is, only taller and less green.

On Friday night, the conference held an event called the Festival of Authors. It’s an evening of author readings and networking, and I spent the time greeting old friends and meeting new ones. When the evening was winding down, my friend, Kevin, who’s one of the conference organizers, asked me if I could drive Wayson Choy back to the hotel where we were both staying. We’d already arranged for me to take Wayson to the venue in the morning, so it was a good plan for me to meet with him and arrange our morning drive. Besides, spending more time in his company is as welcome as spring sunshine. Many who know him call spending time with him: “Worshipping at the Church of Wayson.” This is apt.

I had a lovely private chat with the great man during our nighttime drive back to the hotel. When we arrived in the lobby we realized we were both going to the same floor. We went up in the elevator together and strolled down toward our respective rooms, which were across the hall from each other. We agreed to meet in the lobby the following morning at 8:10 am to head off to the conference venue. And then we said our good nights.

My friend, Gayle, who hadn’t attended the Festival of Authors, was already lying in bed. I whispered a hello, grabbed my pyjamas and ducked into the bathroom. I changed and brushed my teeth. While I was about to climb into bed, I heard a soft knock on the door. Without thinking, I went to it and opened it wide to find Wayson standing in the hallway. He asked about checking out and bringing his suitcase to my car in the morning. I answered his questions, all the while keenly aware I was talking to the incomparable Wayson Choy while wearing my jammies. To his credit, the gentleman did not bat an eye at my state of undress.

“Goodnight, Mr. Choy!”

Story 2: The Conference

For an eventful day, it was relatively uneventful. And, with me, that’s generally a good thing. I didn’t crash my car (which is, apparently, my “thing”) on the way to the venue. I didn’t accidentally show up in my pyjamas (although that might have helped Wayson Choy remember who I am). I didn’t break anything or throw up or trip and fall. I didn’t say anything ridiculously stupid (that I’m aware of).

What I did do was talk to brilliant writers about writing, drink lots of coffee, eat some great food and attend some kick-ass workshops. I learned about voice and character, and some specifics about the journey from book to film (which would be cool, so if you’re a film producer, call me!). I bought a book and got it signed. And I forgot to take pictures. Any photos were provided by friends.

Note to self: Next year, take pictures, dumbass!

Story 3: It Won’t Let Go

All conferences must end. It was time to go. I needed gas. My husband had just got a gas card for me so I was looking for a station that matched my card, for the points, you know. Thankfully, this particular company is popular and there seemed to be one on every corner. I pulled up to the pump and Gayle ran off to get money from a bank machine while Kelly hung out in the back seat updating her social media with news of our wonderful weekend.

I inserted and removed my points card. No problem. Still jazzed and keyed up from a busy weekend, I then shoved my credit card into the gas pump. It resisted a little so I shoved harder. And, then, it was stuck. My card was STUCK in the gas pump. Okay, maybe I inserted it upside down, but the thing’s rectangular; it should not get stuck. I grasped the thumb-nail-sized piece of plastic that I could still get hold of and pulled, wiggled, jiggled and jostled. It didn’t budge. At all. Kelly got out of the car. I explained the situation and she proceeded to reef on my poor lodged credit card. Nothing.

While Kelly ran inside to tell the attendant about our predicament, I asked a likely-looking young man, with his pregnant wife in the passenger seat, if he had any tools about him that might help me out. A pair of pliers, perhaps. He shrugged an affable “no” and proceeded to fill his car with gas without getting his credit card embedded inside the gas pump.

Kelly came back out. Well? Apparently, the lone woman operating the cash register couldn’t leave it to come out and give us a hand. We took turns jiggling the completely unyielding card and then Gayle came charging up and asked what was happening. We told her and she marched with steely determination inside, saying something about insisting the woman call the manager. Kelly and I took more turns yanking on the card. Kelly broke a nail. I began to entertain thoughts of cancelling my poor credit card and abandoning it forever to the heinous machine that stole it from me.

The young man at the other pump finished gassing up and asked us what was actually wrong that we might need tools. We told him and he walked over to take a look. He grasped the card with his strong man fingers and pop. Out it came. He handed it to me and walked off while I shouted my thanks. I believe I called him an angel.

I am thankful there are good and kind people out there who will help others who encounter a problem on their weekend road trip. I am also thankful gas stations have more than one pump, because I’d be damned if I was going to try sticking my card in that one a second time.

Story 4: To the Zoo

On Sunday, we took a detour and went to the Metro Toronto Zoo. If you haven’t been and you like zoos, go to this zoo. It’s absolutely fantastic. And I had the bonus of going with a friend who has a degree in zoo keeping. When I told my son about Kelly’s degree, he laughed. Me: What? Him: Zoo keeping. Me: What? Him: It sounds dumb. They should call it something else. Did I mention my son is fifteen?

When you go to the zoo with someone who has worked in zoos, you get the dirt. The behind-the-scenes insight about the time she and a friend were almost disemboweled by an irate ostrich. About how the male fruit bat’s penis extends as far as his chin (lucky little lady fruit bats!). About how she once had to help catch a dangerous big cat (I forget now which species) that had escaped.

Plus: Animals! We were lucky that it was a beautiful spring day that felt like midsummer. The zoo wasn’t busy and we didn’t have to jostle for position to see the elephant’s arse. By the time I got home, my sinuses full of zoo pollen, my eyes had puffed up such that I could barely see. This is not a good look for me.

Overall, the Ontario Writers Conference 2013 was another great success full of inspiration and stories. The organizers, who I now consider friends, did a fantastic job and everything ran smoother than ever. If you’re interested in reading about OWC 2012, check out my blog post from last year.

I am accident prone. No, I’m not overly clumsy (just regular clumsy). I don’t have bruises over 30 percent of my body and I haven’t fallen down the stairs lately. But I do seem to have an invisible (to me) target on my back or forehead or somewhere on my person that is a magnet for traffic accidents.

In February 2011, I was driving to the ski hill along an icy highway in dodgy visibility when a poorer driver than I am hit a patch of ice, overcompensated and steered right in front of me. Considering I was travelling at more than 80 km per hour, I didn’t have much of a chance to save myself. So, WHAM!

Despite braking and trying to steer away from Ms. Bad Driver, I rammed into her, and then sheared off ten posts of the highway guardrail. We careened into the median, coming to rest with the former nose of my car inches from the guardrail of the lane going in the opposite direction. I say “we” because my ten-year-old (at the time) daughter was in the passenger seat. “Were we just in an accident?” she asked, as the car hissed to rest and sighed its final death rattle.

Front end of the first car. RIP Nissan.

That car was a write-off and, through both no-fault and the other driver’s insurance, we had to replace it. After much research, debate and haggling with Jerry Lundegaard down at the car lot, my husband and I finally found the right car at the right price. For a while I missed my old car. There had been nothing wrong with it and I’d liked it. RIP little Nissan.

The following year—this would be the winter of 2012—I was travelling home on the bus. I work downtown and take the bus to the office. I figure, let someone else worry about traffic, weather, and if there’s a hockey game scheduled for that night. One of the perks of taking the bus, because I don’t suffer from motion sickness, is that I can get some reading time in. So, on this particular weekday afternoon, I was blissfully reading away when the bus suddenly braked, crashed into something (WHAM!), swerved and scraped its left side all along the cement wall of the dedicated bus lane. This seemed to go on for hours but probably lasted less than a minute. I got thrown to the floor, where I scraped my tender buttocks. In the ensuing silence, passengers began moaning, rising to their feet, brushing themselves off, and asking each other if they were all right. Thankfully, most of us were okay.

Bus Crash. Out of Service indeed.

We disembarked and waited for another bus. Meanwhile, rush-hour buses were backing up along the transitway in both directions in unprecedented numbers. Finally, a bus arrived to take the crash victims, not home, as one might expect, but down one stop so we could climb up out of the transitway to street level and wait for a bus with hundreds of other re-routed and disgruntled passengers. With my sore back and scraped buttocks, I had to stand on a crowded number 61 for an hour to finally get to my car at the Park & Ride lot. Poor show, OC Transpo.

Which brings us to last week: March 2013. I was again driving to a ski hill, alone this time. I was on my way to watch my now-thirteen-year-old daughter compete in the provincial alpine ski championships (she’s a helluva skier and I’m helluva proud of her). As I drove through a green light (it was green, as green as green could be; Kelly green, bottle green, green as Ireland and envy) another car came barreling through the intersection in the opposite direction. In that split second before impact, I recall looking up at my light (GREEN) and his light (RED). And then: WHAM!

Mr. Bad Driver (perhaps a relative of Ms. Bad Driver from two years earlier) T-boned my car. My side airbags came ballooning out to cushion my head against the driver’s side window. (Did you know that when airbags explode, it smells like smoke?) Again, my poor, damaged car came to rest. Again, I wasn’t seriously injured. But again. Again? Really!? I cried, bawled, beat my fists against the steering wheel. AGAIN?! A nice man opened the door and asked after my well-being. A good question considering I’m sure I appeared quite hysterical.

Write-off or not? We must wait and see…

An ambulance, a fire truck, a tow truck and a police car arrived. Sirens wailing, lights flashing. Three very nice people waited in the cold to tell the nice police officer that it wasn’t my fault. At all. I thanked the witnesses at the time but wish I’d been able to do more for them. I wish I’d had three bouquets of flowers and three boxes of chocolates I could have given to those lovely, generous people.

My car is now languishing at the collision yard awaiting assessment. We’re not sure if it’s fixable or another write-off. I missed my daughter’s afternoon ski race. I have a rental car that’s so big it won’t fit in my garage so I have to park it in the driveway. It snowed a foot overnight.

I’m supposed to feel lucky. And I do. I’m not only alive but not injured in any way, beyond generalized soreness that heals in less than a week. It’s an odd kind of lucky, though. Sometimes, thinking about people who aren’t in at least one traffic accident each year, I feel less lucky.

When I finally get my car back—or a new car as the case may be—if I offer you a ride anywhere, say no.

American Idol is back. This most guilty of pleasures is gracing our television screens once again with a new season. With voyeuristic ferocity, the Idol fan can watch the latest incarnation of William Hung in his or her spectacular fail, while—possibly in the very same episode—also witnessing the first televised performance of the singer who will eventually win this extravaganza.

But something happened on the show the other night that made me sit up and take notice. One of the contestants received a golden ticket to Hollywood. That’s not notable, you might say, and you’d be right. But this particular young lady, whose full back story I can’t now recall, waved it in the air and said something like, “This proves that if I can do it, anyone can.”

Is that so? She’s clearly never heard me sing.

This brings to mind how easy it is for people who have talent, and who have worked hard to develop that talent, to minimize their ability. How simple it is to believe that what we can do ourselves is easily doable for others. But is it?

I can write. I’ve always been a good writer, at first for my age, later for any age. I was precocious when I was young enough to be labeled precocious: the highly peculiar child who enjoyed writing essays and enjoyed getting them back even more. Writing is pretty easy, isn’t it? If you read the books, do a little thinking, spend the time to craft some good sentences and put those together to make great paragraphs: voila! It’s not magic or even rocket science.

I can see this attitude already manifesting itself in my 13-year-old daughter. Like me, she’s good with words and consistently receives not only high marks in English, but high praise from her teacher (and from several teachers over the years). I see her shrug it off, as if being good at writing is a given. Anyone can write, right? Wrong. I know, after several-and-a-half decades, that many people cannot write a decent sentence to save their lives. Some people can cook, some can sing, draw, do math, write, grow green things, sew, knit, train an animal, shop, or program a computer. Some people do those things poorly, or can’t do them at all.

However, if a person finds success using their innate talent, they’ve likely also honed it. Practiced it until it comes easily and what they do is of high quality. When you enjoy doing something, practicing it is less of a chore and more of a joy. Athletes who eat, sleep and breathe their sport do so because of how much they love it. NHL hockey players, LPGA golfers, Olympians and other elite athletes practice their sport for the love of the game. So, too, do writers, painters, actors and singers. How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice!

Of course, it’s best to spend time practicing a skill in which you have a hope in hell of achieving a level of proficiency. I could practice singing all day long but I’d never do better than Hung’s painful rendition of She Bangs. Plus, I’m sure I’d realize this and wouldn’t enjoy the journey. Writing’s my gig. And with every finished piece, short story or novel, journalistic article or technical manual, I know I’ve learned in the process and am improving.

If you’re good at something—math, English, sports, drawing, video gaming—don’t devalue your skill by assuming that anyone could achieve the level of skill and accomplishment that you’ve achieved. As Christopher Robin said to Pooh in A.A. Milne’s classic stories, “Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

Let yourself be rare, or even unique, in your ability and accept the praise as it comes. We who are willing to work to achieve our goals deserve nothing less.

If you are embarking on a writing career—as a freelance journalist, novelist, short story writer or anything in between—effective use of social media can help you make connections, create paying work and bring your words to more readers. But you have to be willing to put in the sometimes considerable effort that it takes to succeed.

Social media (and I’ll treat “media” as a single noun rather than a plural because these days “media was” sounds old-fashioned; let’s face it, Latin is a dead language) is first and foremost about its adjective: social. It is a give and take. It’s about sharing information, commiserating, helping and, yes, on occasion exchanging the odd tidbit of innocuous gossip. The success or failure of your social media presence is entirely up to you and how much effort YOU are willing to put in.

I have been lucky enough to have had some success using social media, due to considerable time and effort on my part, but also largely due to the generosity of the people I’ve met.

This blog post is not intended to be a name-dropping brag-fest, so I’ll refer to the authors and editors who I’ve met, and who have helped me, by their initials only. A diligent researcher/stalker could easily find out who I’m referring to. Suffice it to say, those who are referred to here are nationally (some internationally) famous best-selling Canadian authors (they know who they are). Whoever they are, they are all exceedingly generous of heart and spirit.

The Forums

Before I joined Facebook and even before Twitter existed, I became a member of an online forum called Absolute Write. This is an international site for authors of all stripes and levels of ability—fiction and non-fiction—editors, agents, booksellers, and industry insiders. Many of the more famous authors and agents operate under a pseudonym but their expertise is easy to recognize and invaluable to new authors.

Because it’s an American-heavy, international site, it’s easy to play Spot the Canadian. The forum has a private messaging feature and building relationships with the Canadian members of the site has proven to be an extremely enjoyable and fruitful venture for me. Using these forums, I met KC, a poet and novelist who has become a trusted mentor and beta reader. He also told me about the Ontario Writers Conference, which I now attend annually and at which I’ve met in person dozens of other authors, like RJW, AK, AB, SC and the other SC, JCS, CB, and so on.

I met RJW, a best-selling author who gave me the name of his agent and allowed me to use his name when I contacted her. She didn’t end up taking on my work, but I’ve been grateful to RJW for all his support over lo these many years.

I met AK, who is a novelist with an eye for cover design. When I posted on the forum that I didn’t love the first draft of my publisher’s cover, she generously offered to play around with the image and text fonts. As a result of her efforts, I ended up with a cover I could be proud to call mine.

To attain relationships like these, I had to build trust by posting frequently and intelligently about what I know (and admitting when I was wrong—ugh!). My online self needed to be trustworthy and approachable. It takes a bit of work but if you find an online forum you want to be a member of, jump in and build some strong relationships with the other members. You won’t regret it.

The Facebook

I have two Facebook pages. One is personal, where I can use privacy settings to post the occasional photo of my family and share a bit more personal information with friends only. The other is a public author page, where I post links to blog posts and reviews of my novel. I use it to post writing-related information and, ideally, build a fan base. I don’t think I have any actual “fans” but I have the page ready just in case. Come on over, like my page, and say “hi:” https://www.facebook.com/pages/Caroline-Wissing-Author/253742287989560

The Twitter

Twitter is the most recent social media outlet I’ve joined but, ultimately, one of the most valuable. Through Twitter, I found out that author AA was coming to my town. She invited me to her reading, where we met and discovered the same publisher published our first books. She gave me advice to increase my readership.

And, in one of the biggest changes to my career path, I was contacted through Twitter DM by PD, the editor of a local quarterly magazine. She wanted to help promote my book and increase Christmas sales by writing a blurb about the novel in the winter issue. She also asked if I would be interested in writing a feature article for the same issue. Heck, yeah!! I interviewed the subjects, wrote the article and enjoyed every minute of it. I also got paid for doing it. I’m working on my second article for the magazine and now have these credits to add to my freelance resume. Thanks, PD, for your support and confidence in me!

Some Last Words

What about privacy? I believe you can grow and maintain a significant social media presence and still retain your privacy. Be careful what you post or tweet. Always think before you post. Always. If you’re unsure, let the comment sit for a few hours, reread it, and if it seems okay, post. If not, DON’T! On your personal Facebook site, use privacy settings diligently to protect your photos and posts. On Twitter, confine your interactions to business-related matters. Keep your personal circumstances as vague as you feel you need to in order to be comfortable.

Writers on social media who post only about themselves and don’t interact by commenting on other people’s pages, or retweeting, replying or favouriting on Twitter, are missing opportunities to connect and grow their network of contacts. And it’s not just about growing contacts, it’s also about making friends because these are real people out there, with experiences and knowledge to share. And one day, it might be you with knowledge to share.

Writers today are living and working in a rapidly changing environment. Let’s face it; we need all the help we can get!!

If you’ve read much of anything lately, especially if you’re of a certain age and situation, you’ve probably come across the term “sandwich.” It not only aptly describes a particular situation but can also define a generation, as in Sandwich Generation.

As I am the egg salad snugly ensconced between slices of rye, I feel as if I need to share my situation, both for commiseration and simply to get it down and let it out.

For the uninitiated, sandwich refers to those of us who have children living at home while, at the same time, have a parent or set of parents aging beyond their ability to live independently. This is a tight spot indeed. Just when our children need us most—and let us not be fooled into thinking teens and preteens don’t need their parents—our attention, time, energy and patience are firmly divided.

When my father died suddenly of a massive stroke in October of 2010, I had no idea the burden I’d be carrying today.

I wasn’t particularly happy about my parents’ original decision to move clear across the country, twelve years before when my father retired. At first I thought I’d miss them and was just being selfish. After all, I’d recently had my two children and didn’t want my little ones to miss out on getting to know Grandma and Grandpa. But I saw how much they loved being out there. The weather was beautiful year-round, they golfed at a club and had friends, they went out the theatre. I was almost jealous, it sounded so idyllic.

They got older, of course, and had a series of health scares, which had me rushing to pay exorbitant fees for last-minute plane tickets to BC. My father had a mild stroke, my mother got hit by a truck at a pedestrian cross-walk, and the worst of all: my mother almost died from a bout of severe septicemia caused by a kidney infection. This last illness was devastating. In its throes she became confused and disoriented. I later read that 40–60% of patients with septic shock die within 30 days. But my mother survived. Sadly, so did the confusion and disorientation.

My father took over her care after I flew back home to my waiting family but my mother never fully recovered. I didn’t know the extent of my mother’s difficulties until after my father’s death, when I brought her to Ontario to live closer. I wish my father had shared with me more about my mother’s condition, both for his sake while he was alive, and for mine after his death. At first, I thought I might set her up in a little apartment of her own but soon realized she had trouble learning new things, like how to use my microwave, and didn’t seem able to organize herself into putting together a sandwich.

I researched independent retirement residences and found a beautiful one close to home. Thankfully, my father had provided well financially and we weren’t limited by lack of funds. My mother moved in and appeared to enjoy it, although she rarely joined the activities beyond taking meals in the dining room. And then the dreaded phone calls and warning letters began: “Your mother’s smoking in her unit again.” And that was the end of that. My rebel-without-a-cause mother was about to get kicked out. She wasn’t even being surly or belligerent. Just smoky.

Because she’s not able to manage independently, and there’s not a retirement residence in the whole country that will allow an old woman to smoke on premises, my mother now lives with me, my husband and our two teenage children. She takes the smoking outside and into the garage but continues to refuse to quit. Should she injure herself or become ill and have to go to hospital or into residential nursing care, it’ll be cold-turkey, baby.

So, now I’m cooking, laundering and cleaning for five; chasing down errant homework assignments; ferrying kids to their various lessons; installing nightlights to the bathroom; repeating myself ten times a day; worrying when I’m at the office and my mother is home; worrying whenever my kids are not at home; NOT writing fiction; and am never, ever alone.

Being egg salad (or ham or tuna) is an adjustment but I know we’ll all survive. Somehow.

Survival Tips:

Communication

If your parents are aging yet still independent, I urge you to talk to them no matter how uncomfortable you might feel about certain important topics. Discuss what would happen should they become ill or injured, or if one of them should die unexpectedly. Talk about options that might make a sudden change easier, like downsizing from the old family home to a condo or apartment (and throwing out the years of accumulated junk in the process), or moving closer to together, ideally to the same town.

Talk about how your parents are doing financially. Their generation wasn’t much for sharing that kind of information with their children, but dig in your heels and insist on knowing their situation because you might end up switching roles before you expect to. If you’re going to be the parent, you need to know.

Take Time for Yourself

Yeah, I rarely do this. But I imagine it would be a darn good idea. Independently pursue a passion; get together with friends; sit alone in a Chapters for a few hours with a book and an impossibly large coffee full of pumpkin and whipped cream (with sprinkles); go shopping for yourself (not anyone else: yourself); take a long walk.

Patience, Patience, Patience

No one is intentionally trying to make you mad (although I’m sometimes suspicious that my daughter is taking an independent class in Button Pushing 101). When my mother asks me for the third time what I’m making for a potluck dinner, I know she’s simply forgotten what I told her five minutes before; if she remembered the answer from the first time she asked, she wouldn’t ask again, right?

Sometimes I breathe. I’ve tried doing this in the room where the chaos is occurring but I get a lot of looks and the occasional offer of a paper bag. Best to go off alone to a bathroom. Breathe, count, visualize yourself NOT strangling your fifteen-year-old, your mother, or the husband who isn’t even home yet and isn’t that part of the damn problem.

Let It Go

Laundry piling up? Toilet accumulating that special yellow glow around the base? Dishes so hardened with old food you’re considering throwing them out and buying new? That’s okay. It means you’re making time for important things, like your kids, your spouse or yourself. That stuff will still be there when you get back to it. And we all need something to look forward to.

Don’t Ignore Your Children

Older children still need you. Make time to talk to them about school, friends, pressures and whatever might be bothering them. Don’t assume that because they’re older they don’t need you anymore. I think teens need parental guidance and involvement more than ever. Even if you have to leave the laundry or a dirty house, make sure you (or your spouse) are there to attend their recital, parent-teacher interview, sporting event or speech. They might not articulate it but your praise and approval still mean a lot to them.

Know You’re Not Alone

Hello! *waves* Here I am in the same boat with you.

I know at least half a dozen families who are currently living with, or have lived with, one or more aging parents. If you find someone out there in a similar situation, chances are she has some of the same struggles. Get together for coffee and a gab session about your individual frustrations and coping strategies. Knowing we aren’t alone helps us humans in managing our struggles. I don’t know why, but it does.

Cut Yourself Some Slack

So after all this trying to look after your own needs and letting things slide, you still lost patience with your mother and got angry at her. So you just yelled for 10 minutes at your daughter for using your hairbrush and not returning it to its proper place in your bathroom, and then lit into your son for eating all the school snacks. So you just called your husband a dick for deciding to clean the garage on the same day you’re trying to prepare for a dinner party for 12. These things happen (not to me; these are merely examples of what could happen, you understand). Forgive yourself and move forward. You’ll do better next time. Or not. And that’s okay too.

On the first weekend in May, I went to an event I’ve been attending for several years: the Ontario Writers’ Conference. This is a wonderful opportunity for writers to mingle; attend writing workshops on practical matters like plotting and point-of-view; meet publishers, agents and editors; and generally spend time in the company of like-minded people.

I remember attending my first conference, when I nervously eyed all the “successful” Writers and felt like a fraud. Sure, I wrote stories and I’d completed a novel or two but, really, who was I to call myself a Writer? That title is for real Writers, like I saw all around me. I didn’t really belong there among them. All I had was a stack of rejection letters. Little did I know: nothing makes you a real Writer like having a stack of rejection letters.

I found out about the conference through social media and there were a few people I’d met online that I could now meet in person. I stuck with my friend from home whom I’d travelled to the conference with, and my little group of online (now IRL) friends, and stared out, wide-eyed, at that world of writers that I didn’t think I was, or could ever be, part of.

By the end of the conference, I almost felt like I could someday be a legitimate Writer. I was exhausted and elated, inspired and motivated. I went home and worked. I worked and worked. And then I dug deep into my shallow barrel of courage and submitted that work. Rejections still came, but they started to be personalized. And I also got requests for material. Partials at first, and then fulls. Gears began moving slowly forward.

At the 2011 conference, I pushed my introverted self to meet those Writers. I also had news. I’d signed a contract to publish my first novel. From the get-go, despite the initial excitement, I was sure that it was some kind of cosmic trick, so I kept it low-key. You never know when the rug can get pulled out from under you. As the 2012 conference approached, my novel neared publication. It finally felt real. The rug would not be pulled out.

It pays to use social media and network at conferences. Not only do you meet really fantastic people, they actually want to help you. There might be stories out there about shark tanks full of competitive writers ready to attack their counterparts, but I’ve only had positive experiences in meeting my fellow authors.

My friend and mentor, Kevin

And now we get to my friend and mentor, the wonderful poet and novelist, Kevin Craig. He’s on the organizing committee for the Ontario Writers’ Conference and is a tireless champion of all writers, everywhere. Several weeks before this year’s conference, I got a message from Kevin saying he would try to get me a reading spot. He and the other wonderful conference organizers wanted to start a new tradition of giving one first-time novelist, and past conference attendee, an opportunity to present their work. Needless to say, I was thrilled, excited and slightly nauseated at the prospect.

I soon discovered I had five minutes, at precisely 9:08 am. This was good. I like to know exactly what’s expected. Plus, reading in the morning would allow me to get it over with so I could relax and enjoy the rest of the day. I practiced my scene over and over at home, using an online stopwatch to gauge my time. I consistently came in at 5:07, but I figured I’d be nervous and would read a bit faster anyway. But, oh, how I agonized over those seven seconds.

The wonderful Canadian writer and member of the Order of Canada, Wayson Choy

Only a couple of weeks before the conference I got another message from Kevin: would I like to drive the conference’s honorary patron, Wayson Choy, to the venue that morning? I immediately responded: hell to the YES!! And then contacted my friend who was driving me to the conference that morning. Thankfully, she also said hell to the YES.

I’ve listened to a speech by the beautifully eloquent Wayson Choy every year. I’ve also read all his books. His quiet grace, lyricism and no-nonsense approach are always inspiring. I’d been awake since 4:45 am and I was jazzed, nerves jangling, but determined not to miss the opportunity.

“I’m doing my first public reading today, Mr. Choy. Do you have any advice?”

He thought for a moment. “Always remember that they want to hear what you have to say. They want to hear your story.”

I thought about that. I focused on it over the next hour, while I nibbled at a muffin and added caffeine to my nerves. These were my peers. They wanted me to succeed.

Finally, I heard my name and began the long walk to the podium. Deep breath.

I read. I didn’t know if they were listening or perusing the day’s agenda or talking among themselves. But they were out there and deserved my best, so I focused on my story. My words.

When I was done, they clapped. I felt the faintness of relief. Release. Well or poorly, I’d done it. I’d read my little story in front of two hundred writers, readers, agents, editors and publishers.

We all began to make our way to the washroom, and then on to our first workshop of the day. Before I left the room, I got stopped by several groups of people, congratulating me on how well I did. I was stunned. A lovely young lady had already gone to the book table and bought a copy. Would I sign it? I did. The response overwhelmed me. I felt like Sally Field. They liked me!

The fabulous Adrienne Kress

From this, I gained courage and met more people than I ever had. And I was thrilled to finally meet in person a friend I know through social media, the fabulous author of several very successful children’s and young adult novels, Adrienne Kress. Get your kids to read Alex and the Ironic Gentleman. It’ll change the way they see the world.

So, Writers (and those who write are Writers), take every opportunity that comes your way, find the courage to attend conferences, submit work, read aloud, meet your peers. We aren’t here to compete, we’re here to elevate, inspire and encourage. There’s room for all of us to publish our best work.

And, if you’re ever in a position to help a fellow writer, do it. I sure plan to.

On April 12, I held a book launch party to celebrate the release of my debut novel, Voiceless. In my opinion, it was a great success and lots of fun.

I held the launch at an independent bookstore for a couple of reasons. First, stores will sell the books for you, rather than having to sell them yourself if you choose a private space, like an art gallery or even your home. Second, independent bookstores are becoming fewer and they need the exposure. Many of the attendees at my launch hadn’t been to this store (some hadn’t even heard of it) but all loved it and vowed to return.

The store’s event coordinator told me my launch was the first time all the books sold BEFORE the author did the reading. By the time the evening ended, he’d already contacted the book distributor to order more copies.

Based on my relatively limited experience, here are some tips for making a book launch successful.

Invite Everyone You Know

Now is not the time for quiet modesty. You wrote and published a BOOK. Holy cow, celebrate it by telling EVERYONE you know. Twice.

Maybe I’m just lucky to have wonderful people in my life. But you can keep in mind that, in almost every case, family, friends and colleagues are as excited as you are about your success, and equally anxious to help you celebrate.

Use Media to Get the Word Out             

Social media is the obvious choice. Facebook and Twitter, et al, are the perfect vehicles for keeping people informed about the date, time and location of your launch. Don’t go overboard and tweet every five minutes, but keep the event in people’s minds by posting or tweeting reasonably frequently, especially in the days leading up to it.

Another choice is print media. If your city or town has a local weekly paper, contact them. They would love to do a story on a local author. Make sure they publish the launch details with the article they write about you and your book.

Do a Reading

Yes, I gave a short speech and did a reading. Boy, was I nervous, but I felt I owed it to the people who went out of their way to attend and buy a copy of the book to thank them for their support and read a scene from the novel. It wasn’t easy and I don’t know how well I did, but I did it and you can’t beat this kind of experience. If you’re going to have to do readings, it’s best to begin by looking out on a sea of friendly faces. Someday you might have to read to hundreds of strangers. Yikes!

Bonus Tip: If you’re over 40, keep your reading glasses handy.

Have a Signing Table

Make sure to have a dedicated table just to sit and sign books. If you’re lucky, there’ll be a

At the signing table

modest lineup. The lineup, either at the cash register or signing table, can get people excited about buying a copy of their own. It’s also a good place to take photos with the people who bought your book.

Provide Food and Drink

If you can afford it, make sure to provide refreshments. Having a wine glass in hand and eating tasty nibbles gets people talking and mingling. It also might get them in a buying mood.

I hired a caterer, but you can get reasonably priced platters of veggies and dip, sandwiches or cookies at the local grocery store. If you’re worried about the details, a caterer is a good idea because she’ll refill the platters of food and keep the drinks topped up, leaving you free to chat people up and enjoy the moment.

Have Fun!

Of course coordinating something like this is stressful, particularly if you’re going to give a speech and read from your work. But this is YOUR party. You worked hard and earned your success.  Try to let yourself enjoy it and have a good time.

This is, without a doubt, one of the most exciting times in my life. The launch of my first novel is the culmination of years of hard work, not to mention the heartache of rejection and (for some reason even worse) near-misses. Although being able to entirely paper a small room in rejection slips feels a bit like a badge of honour. Like a battle scar.

Not only does my novel’s publication come with a sense of childlike excitement, it admittedly comes with its fair share of stress. In addition to life recently handing me a series of obstacles to overcome — including illness, an accident and extensive home damage from a broken toilet — I have set out to find the perfect book launch venue.

I should know better than to expect perfection in anything. I should have given up that dream when my first kite, rather than soaring to the heavens, got caught in the top of that tree during its maiden voyage. Anything that we expect to be great could potentially get torn to shreds by a tree.

So I researched book launch venues with cautious optimism. I wanted to have my launch at an independent bookstore, rather than at a big retail chain. Indie bookstores promote local authors and bring communities together, and there are far too few of them these days. So I called around to give myself some options. The first place I contacted sounded perfect: an indie that’s not too far from home and has a great local reputation. I went for a visit. Now, the event coordinator warned me that they were doing “some renovations” but I wasn’t quite prepared for the scene of destruction. Wow. Although assured the renovations were scheduled to be completed by Easter (I wanted to hold the event on April 12), I’ve heard enough horror stories about renovations to realize an end date is “flexible”.

Another idea popped into my head. I’d attended a friend’s birthday party at a funky local gallery and loved the atmosphere. It had been a really fun evening. What about that? I called the gallery. The owner quoted a weekend price that made my knees collapse. I told him I wanted it for a Thursday, for a book launch (pulling the “I’m too poor” card) and he gave me a special rate. Even the special rate brought on diminished-bank-account heart palpitations.

An independent bookstore right downtown was having lease issues and couldn’t commit. The feminist indie in a trendy neighbourhood told me they usually didn’t do launches for books like mine, and then didn’t call me back. I felt like I was going through a series of bad relationships. And the launch date was getting closer and closer.

I didn’t want to change the date. It felt right. A couple of weeks after the book’s publication but not too long to have the blush of excitement wear off. Plus there were people coming from out of town who were definitely available on that date.

And that brought me back to my first choice. My first love. I had another talk with the event coordinator and he promised that, if the renovations weren’t absolutely completed on time, they’d make sure to cordon off a space that wouldn’t look like a construction zone. Well, he had me at cordon.

Nothing is ever perfect. There are only degrees of I-can-live-with-it. My launch will go on either way, and it will, I hope, be perfect enough, in its fashion. As long as it’s not battered to death by the Whomping Willow, I’ll be happy.

Is it too late for a post about New Year’s resolutions? I spent New Year’s Eve in the hospital, and the following seven days in bed with pneumonia, which has basically reset my clock by a week. So, here’s a blog about resolutions (one week late for all you healthy souls).

I don’t do New Year’s resolutions.

Except this year I resolve not to spend my next New Year’s Eve in an emergency room. There can be no worse day, I think, than New Year’s Eve and the wee hours of New Year’s Day to go and hang out in a hospital. Thankfully, they seemed to separate the ill from the injured and drunk. Thus my area of the ER, while busy, was relatively quiet.

Just for fun, here’s Emergency Room Tip #1: If, while sitting in the waiting room, you turn a ghastly shade of green, puke into a plastic bag, and try to lie down on the filthy floor, the nursing staff will give you a bed. And a blanket from the big warming contraption.

Why do I not do resolutions, you might ask? Generally, I believe they are an exercise in futility. Most resolutions are so sweeping in their generality, so utterly unachievable, they fail before they get to the starting gate. Setting myself up for failure is something I can do anytime. I don’t need a special occasion, like the turning over of a new year.

In and of themselves, resolutions can be a Good Thing, if you take the right approach. I’ve decided to view resolutions as goals that meet at least some of the following criteria. Feel free to poach any of my ideas and apply them to your own yearly goals/resolutions.

And don’t forget to resolve to stay out of the emergency room; it just makes good sense.

Achievable

I will join a gym.

It sounds achievable and I’ve actually made and kept this resolution several times. Too bad that, aside from the day I signed over several months’ salary, I never again set foot inside said gym.

It’s important to make sure the goal is realistic for you, given your time constraints and lifestyle. Before deciding on a resolution or goal, take a look at the time and money (if applicable) you can afford to throw at it. Make sure you won’t fail by making the goal too vague (join a gym) or too lofty (win world weight-lifting championship).

Walking for twenty minutes, at least three times a week is an achievable goal and not a half-bad resolution. It helps if you acquire a dog that will sit upon your chest and pant into your mouth with its hellacious breath until you take it for a walk.

Incremental

A resolution needs to build on itself. Small, incremental goals can add up to a pretty big achievement, if you’re willing to make a plan and stick to it. I’m not willing to go to the trouble this time around, so I’ll leave this one with you. Good luck.

Measurable

I will finish my novel.

Another one that sounds good, but how to go about it?

The ability to measure your progress can be a great motivator. As a writer, if I resolve to write x number of words each day or each week, I can keep a running tally (in a spreadsheet if I’m tech-savvy and anal) that illustrates my progress. In this case, success can beget success (yes, I just used the word “beget”). The closer I get to the ultimate goal of finishing that story or novel, the more motivated I am to do just that.

In Your Control

This is the one thing that many people fail to take into account when making resolutions. Can I make this happen? If you’re putting your fate in other people’s hands, your success or failure is no longer under your control.

This year, I will find an agent.

It sounds like a good resolution, right? Wrong. Getting an agent is entirely OUT of my control. Crafting a killer query letter, assembling a stunning query package, researching and sending the query to the RIGHT agents. Those actions are under my control. Whether or not an agent decides to take me on is entirely up to her.

Before my husband and I were married, we moved in together. Scandalous, I know.

We had just graduated from university. I was selling lingerie at the mall for a lump of coal every other Friday and doing data entry on a seasonal basis for Revenue Canada tax returns (may I never have another government job). He was driving across town at all hours (shift work) to sort packages at the UPS warehouse. Thank God the brown uniforms are so sexy. We had nothing but each other and a slightly squalid apartment carpeted in green shag. The place also overlooked a marvelous graveyard. But at least the neighbours were quiet.

For our first Christmas together, we smuggled a real tree up in the elevator (I don’t believe we were allowed to have one) and erected it on the shag in our living room. We’d splurged on a few boxes of cheap glass balls and some lights. A week before the Big Day, we decorated our tree with great delight.

We had also bought our first commemorative ornament. It was a hollow ball with a clear plastic front. Inside you could see a tiny living room, decorated for Christmas: a tree, fireplace with stockings hung, a window with snow falling, and a couple sitting on a couch. When you plugged it in to one of the light sockets, the fireplace flickered to orange life. If it was depressing that an ornament displayed a nicer room than the one we were living in, I didn’t notice.

When I look at the pictures from that Christmas, the tree so sparsely decorated and the young version of ourselves looking so pleased, I can see behind us our first decoration hung upon the tree.

And last week, when I pulled out that ball, with the words “Our First Christmas Together, 19 (none of your business)” printed on it, I was reminded of that time. Those days at the start of our lives when all it took to make us happy was being with each other.

Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates!