In the process of packing for my latest move I was able to excavate one of the better poems I've written, something I figured had been lost long ago (ok, not that long but it sure feels it).
In the summer of 2003, following my second year of university I went back to Cape Breton as I'd done the summer before. That summer I'd worked for the Cape Breton Post and this time I wanted to do something different. So I enrolled for two courses at UCCB - one on children's lit and another devoted to play writing. They were both totally up my alley and this was back in the days when I was actually still a good student. I aced them both.
Play writing was great and helped reignite my passion for creative writing and really was one of the major events to set me back on that path. We did lots of cool things and maybe some day I'll talk about more of them but for the purposes of this post I will just mention one. We walked through UCCB's art gallery and were each told to select one painting to write a poem on (it may not have just been poems, there could have been other options but as a poem is what I did it's what I remember).
I picked one by an artist named Noah Schwartz simply called "Untitled". I can't remember for sure but I think it was painted in 1979. Anyway, like many paintings out there this wasn't really a straightforward picture of something. I guess it was what you might called "semi-abstract". I can't really see it in my mind now but there were harsh lines and faint colours, lots of white, brown and maybe some pale blue and black. I just can't remember. Anyway, here's how I saw it that day.
Noah Schwartz's 'Untitled'
Modern meets ancient here
it's windswept, sun-bleached, now stripped and
sand-blasted
There's something so much older...underneath
Scaffolding against the cliff-face
archaeology uncovers secrets in the canyon
slowly but surely they scrape to meet them
Noon. The sun is high and there are
shadows cast against the rock
Men in boots and dusty fedoras come in the day with their
tools; their instruments of history
They swig their water, unroll their canvas
and chip away
They come in the day and shade their eyes
wipe their brows
what is ancient is not easily given up
The men leave at night
many secrets remain, elder gods are the most protective
This place is old
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Vampire Problem
As you know, the most major of all my projects is V World (working title), a novel that features a sprawling narrative with multiple points of view in the tradition of books like The Stand (Stephen King). It's set in contemporary twenty-first century America (2008, actually) but features many supernatural elements. The most prevalent of these elements is the presence of vampires.
I started writing the novel in November of 2006 (sad, I know) and can't really say I had the intention of writing a "vampire novel". I simply wanted antagonists with a supernatural element and I chose something familiar and comfortable. I was just going to take all my favourite things about vampires I've read in books or seen in movies and videogames and combine them. At the time, none of this seemed complicated. The novel itself seemed endlessly complicated because even from the very start I had a fairly clear idea of how many different main characters and plot elements I wanted to include. But the vampires seemed like simplicity itself really.
But now I don't know. I realize it's silly to suggest that the vampire's place in popular culture today has really changed so much in three years and yet that's how it feels. The popular Twilight novels have been made into one film so far with more to follow. The Blood Books series is now a television series, Blood Ties. The books are by Canadian author, Tanya Huff, who was actually born in Halifax. The books were written in the nineties but it was in 2007 that they were adapted for tv. Coincidence? I'm starting to think not.
Less than a year later, another television series based on vampire books surfaced. This is True Blood, based on The Southern Vampire Mysteries series of novels by Charlaine Harris. The main thrust of this one is a human psychic falling in love with a vampire.
Notice how all these recent movies and shows are based on vampire books written by women? Yeah, so did I. Thanks, Anne Rice. Blah.
There's also some new show called The Vampire Diaries that's airing on MuchMusic of all channels so I figure this is some sort of blatant Twilight ripoff - can you imagine? So much of this kind of stuff creates tons and tons of horrible fan fic but probably the saddest thing about Twilight is that it reads exactly as if it was fan fic itself.
I have no idea when I'm going to finish this damn book but I vow here and now that finish it I shall. It's just that the current climate in literature and pop culture is oversaturated with stuff featuring vampires and I can just picture the reluctance of a publisher to release my novel. Even though I definitely wouldn't call it a vampire novel. Vampires are just...there.
So where will my novel fit into all of this? Hopefully far, far outside of it. My vampires regard humans as food and toys, nothing more. They do not fall in love with them or even treat them halfway decently. They enslave them, torture them and kill them. My humans will fight back, not swoon and prostrate themselves before the Almighty Sexy Vampire. Don't worry though - there's some sex in the book. Aw yeah.
I started writing the novel in November of 2006 (sad, I know) and can't really say I had the intention of writing a "vampire novel". I simply wanted antagonists with a supernatural element and I chose something familiar and comfortable. I was just going to take all my favourite things about vampires I've read in books or seen in movies and videogames and combine them. At the time, none of this seemed complicated. The novel itself seemed endlessly complicated because even from the very start I had a fairly clear idea of how many different main characters and plot elements I wanted to include. But the vampires seemed like simplicity itself really.
But now I don't know. I realize it's silly to suggest that the vampire's place in popular culture today has really changed so much in three years and yet that's how it feels. The popular Twilight novels have been made into one film so far with more to follow. The Blood Books series is now a television series, Blood Ties. The books are by Canadian author, Tanya Huff, who was actually born in Halifax. The books were written in the nineties but it was in 2007 that they were adapted for tv. Coincidence? I'm starting to think not.
Less than a year later, another television series based on vampire books surfaced. This is True Blood, based on The Southern Vampire Mysteries series of novels by Charlaine Harris. The main thrust of this one is a human psychic falling in love with a vampire.
Notice how all these recent movies and shows are based on vampire books written by women? Yeah, so did I. Thanks, Anne Rice. Blah.
There's also some new show called The Vampire Diaries that's airing on MuchMusic of all channels so I figure this is some sort of blatant Twilight ripoff - can you imagine? So much of this kind of stuff creates tons and tons of horrible fan fic but probably the saddest thing about Twilight is that it reads exactly as if it was fan fic itself.
I have no idea when I'm going to finish this damn book but I vow here and now that finish it I shall. It's just that the current climate in literature and pop culture is oversaturated with stuff featuring vampires and I can just picture the reluctance of a publisher to release my novel. Even though I definitely wouldn't call it a vampire novel. Vampires are just...there.
So where will my novel fit into all of this? Hopefully far, far outside of it. My vampires regard humans as food and toys, nothing more. They do not fall in love with them or even treat them halfway decently. They enslave them, torture them and kill them. My humans will fight back, not swoon and prostrate themselves before the Almighty Sexy Vampire. Don't worry though - there's some sex in the book. Aw yeah.
Monday, August 3, 2009
V World Update
And I'll be you thought this novel was dead. Well, so I did I quite honestly. For a long time parts of it had been inaccessible to me and I still find working on it emotionally draining. But in the last few weeks I've regained it and have been reading through and editing the chapters.
The main problem now besides overcoming very unprofessional personal hangups is connecting the other stuff I've written in the meantime.
For over two years I've had lots of ideas for this story and originally projected it as resulting in something like a 650 000 word story. That's...a lot. Now I think it could be decidedly shorter. I don't really know if that's a good thing or not, we shall see. In any case, it won't really become clear for some time. The nearly 40 000 words I have written I can say I am mostly pleased with and the main challenge now besides actually moving the story forward is deciding exactly how much is needed to fill in the gaps I've left in connectivity. This is the first major work in my entire life that I've actually written out of sequence and so far I'm finding the experience quite difficult. There really is something to be said about the wisdom in plotting. Yes, I have plotted this book to a certain extent - beyond any extent to which I've ever plotted anything else - and yet, it's still not really straightforward plotting. It's more like holding ideas in my mind and then writing them down without any clear idea of how to make them all fit together.
If you've forgotten what V World is supposed to be about it's basically my attempt to do something like King's The Stand (go on and laugh; I'll wait) only with vampires being the major plot element and a uniting force for many different characters who start out having nothing to do with each other. Eventually I hope to change the landscape from normal twenty-first century life in North America to something pseudo post-apocalyptic only not quite that far. You know - a lawless world full of anarchy, dead people and vampires (and a few other super natural elements thrown in for good measure). I know what you're thinking, assuming you have in fact, stopped laughing - "a tad ambitious, no? Particularly for you, Mr. Unpublished Author." To which I respond: Absolutely. At this point in my life, ambition can only be a good thing, even if maybe I am somewhat out of my league.
I've got a head full of madness, a pretty decent laptop and time on my hands - the perfect tools for such an endeavour, I would think. Sure, talent and a better work ethic might help too but perhaps these things can develop over time. I think what held me back previously in those areas was a problem in attitude - I figured time would be required to hone those abilities but I didn't seem to grasp that didn't mean empty time where I just waited around for things to happen for me. While intrinsically I believe I always knew what it would take to get myself going I think I probably shelved such rationale while instead clinging to ridiculous hopes of perhaps one day simply waking up and realizing I now possessed the talent level and work ethic to proceed. I hadn't forgotten about hard work and sacrifice; I'd just decided to trick myself into thinking there were shortcuts past them.
Now I stand on the precipice of something truly significant. Something that will help me evolve as a writer. Whether that means success as in finishing the novel and actually having it published and finally embarking on a career as professional writer or just finishing the novel and understanding finally how it all works now in addition to maybe also understanding myself a little better too, I don't know. (Feel free to congratulate me on that ridiculous run-on sentence - I've already given myself a little pat on the back for it) But now I do know that, to paraphrase Hamlet, "The novel's the thing". Lately I've repeated this mantra while trying to remind myself that there's a lot more going on besides that and that any breakthrough with V World still only really represents one step on my road. Then I bury that because I am anything but a big picture guy, put my head down and write.
Special thanks are in order to three certain people who all in the past few months, completely separately and each in their own way, encouraged me to continue on with this book. I doubt any of you knew at the time how much your words resonated with me and shook me out of the state of doubt and defeat I'd attached to V World. So I'm telling you now: Thankyou.
V World - I should really think about a new title, shouldn't I?
The main problem now besides overcoming very unprofessional personal hangups is connecting the other stuff I've written in the meantime.
For over two years I've had lots of ideas for this story and originally projected it as resulting in something like a 650 000 word story. That's...a lot. Now I think it could be decidedly shorter. I don't really know if that's a good thing or not, we shall see. In any case, it won't really become clear for some time. The nearly 40 000 words I have written I can say I am mostly pleased with and the main challenge now besides actually moving the story forward is deciding exactly how much is needed to fill in the gaps I've left in connectivity. This is the first major work in my entire life that I've actually written out of sequence and so far I'm finding the experience quite difficult. There really is something to be said about the wisdom in plotting. Yes, I have plotted this book to a certain extent - beyond any extent to which I've ever plotted anything else - and yet, it's still not really straightforward plotting. It's more like holding ideas in my mind and then writing them down without any clear idea of how to make them all fit together.
If you've forgotten what V World is supposed to be about it's basically my attempt to do something like King's The Stand (go on and laugh; I'll wait) only with vampires being the major plot element and a uniting force for many different characters who start out having nothing to do with each other. Eventually I hope to change the landscape from normal twenty-first century life in North America to something pseudo post-apocalyptic only not quite that far. You know - a lawless world full of anarchy, dead people and vampires (and a few other super natural elements thrown in for good measure). I know what you're thinking, assuming you have in fact, stopped laughing - "a tad ambitious, no? Particularly for you, Mr. Unpublished Author." To which I respond: Absolutely. At this point in my life, ambition can only be a good thing, even if maybe I am somewhat out of my league.
I've got a head full of madness, a pretty decent laptop and time on my hands - the perfect tools for such an endeavour, I would think. Sure, talent and a better work ethic might help too but perhaps these things can develop over time. I think what held me back previously in those areas was a problem in attitude - I figured time would be required to hone those abilities but I didn't seem to grasp that didn't mean empty time where I just waited around for things to happen for me. While intrinsically I believe I always knew what it would take to get myself going I think I probably shelved such rationale while instead clinging to ridiculous hopes of perhaps one day simply waking up and realizing I now possessed the talent level and work ethic to proceed. I hadn't forgotten about hard work and sacrifice; I'd just decided to trick myself into thinking there were shortcuts past them.
Now I stand on the precipice of something truly significant. Something that will help me evolve as a writer. Whether that means success as in finishing the novel and actually having it published and finally embarking on a career as professional writer or just finishing the novel and understanding finally how it all works now in addition to maybe also understanding myself a little better too, I don't know. (Feel free to congratulate me on that ridiculous run-on sentence - I've already given myself a little pat on the back for it) But now I do know that, to paraphrase Hamlet, "The novel's the thing". Lately I've repeated this mantra while trying to remind myself that there's a lot more going on besides that and that any breakthrough with V World still only really represents one step on my road. Then I bury that because I am anything but a big picture guy, put my head down and write.
Special thanks are in order to three certain people who all in the past few months, completely separately and each in their own way, encouraged me to continue on with this book. I doubt any of you knew at the time how much your words resonated with me and shook me out of the state of doubt and defeat I'd attached to V World. So I'm telling you now: Thankyou.
V World - I should really think about a new title, shouldn't I?
Saturday, June 27, 2009
e e cummings would not approve
Stubborn fool that I am, this really happened.
february 2008
huddled in the glow of a coke machine
i pretend that it gives warmth
close in two hours
minimal passers by, no security appearance since arrival
no security anywhere besides the type that tells me to move along
eyes stinging, memory stinging
this city is no longer home
and still i refuse to leave it
this happened here, that happened there
it should not linger this way
and yet it does
and so i linger also, it's become my only purpose
these streets taste like bile even in sunlight
i hate the sunny days most of all
few as they are
were there more when she walked with me?
she's around every corner
so i move in straight lines
everything has changed and nothing still has for me
my load is heavy and i am unclean
i chose this
she chose the same
february 2008
huddled in the glow of a coke machine
i pretend that it gives warmth
close in two hours
minimal passers by, no security appearance since arrival
no security anywhere besides the type that tells me to move along
eyes stinging, memory stinging
this city is no longer home
and still i refuse to leave it
this happened here, that happened there
it should not linger this way
and yet it does
and so i linger also, it's become my only purpose
these streets taste like bile even in sunlight
i hate the sunny days most of all
few as they are
were there more when she walked with me?
she's around every corner
so i move in straight lines
everything has changed and nothing still has for me
my load is heavy and i am unclean
i chose this
she chose the same
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Talking
Early on in my writing I discovered that I have a pretty good ear for dialogue and I think I'm good at producing both snappy and clever as well as realistic sounding conversations. That's probably at least partially why I'm such a fan of someone like Kevin Smith, who as a writer really specializes in dialogue. It's also why I like plays so much. So writing a play should be easy for me, right? It's 95% dialogue after all. Plus it's always been a dream of mine to write a play and then see it performed on stage, to see something I wrote come to life.
A few years ago on a date with Kristine I went to the Pit at King's (my old university) to see my friend Jesse play the lead in the play, Equus. I'd never read the play before or seen the movie version but I knew a little about it. And I enjoyed it a whole lot. Jesse was especially great and I'm not just saying that cause he's my friend - I doubt he'll ever read my praise here - but also throughout the whole course of the play I found myself imagining my own play being put on in that space. Even though I didn't have a play written yet, the very beginnings of one was forming in my head.
Which brings us to now and this little excerpt. This is just a small piece of an early scene in my play "Away". Just two people talking. But I hope it's a good example of well-done dialogue.
SCENE TWO
Same location. It is the next day after school. Alex and Robyn walk up the street with their book bags and stop under the streetlight.
ALEX - I was right here, taking out the garbage. There were four flashes, two really close together. You didn't see it at all?
ROBYN - Nope. I trust you to catch all these things. You're the one with the telescope.
ALEX - Well, I only really caught it by accident. I looked out my window for another hour but - nothing.
ROBYN - Meteor shower's tomorrow night, right? This couldn't have anything to do with that?
ALEX - What? How could it?
ROBYN - Well, I dunno.
ALEX - You really don't pay attention when I talk about this stuff, do you?
ROBYN - Sure I do, Alex. It's just that it's pretty much ALL you talk about, you know?
ALEX - Well, let's talk about something else then.
ROBYN - Yeah, well I've gotta get my homework done if I'm gonna make it tonight.
ALEX - Homework be damned! You are coming tonight whether you're finished or not. It sucks with just three. Not to mention it's getting harder and harder to get Ryan to play anymore and I need you there to counterbalance Jono.
ROBYN - What do you mean 'counterbalance'?
ALEX - If you're not there then Ryan will just try to get out of it by saying he doesn't remember how to play, Jono will try to help him and there won't be any real conversation. It'll just be "D&D is lame", "No, it's not" and "What's Robyn doing?" all night and I'll lose my mind. I wouldn't even want to play but then Jono would just whine and Ryan would suggest we just quit playing it altogether. So-
ROBYN - So the very survival of our D&D sessions hangs in the balance if I don't make it tonight. I get it. I'll come. Because I WILL get my homework done. You should try my method of doing it before the day it's actually due.
ALEX - My system works fine.
ROBYN - Whatever.
Here they pause for a moment. Robyn is looking at her shoes.
ALEX - Um...Robyn?
ROBYN - Nothing. Just thinking.
ALEX - Ok.
ROBYN - Do Ryan and Jono know about the meteor shower?
ALEX - Huh? Of course they do. Although I'll probably have to remind Ryan.
ROBYN - You...don't have to.
ALEX - What do you mean?
ROBYN - Just that if Ryan doesn't feel like going it's not like he has to or anything. I mean, it's not like D&D, right? We don't NEED him.
ALEX - I...guess not. It's not, like, a tragedy if it's just you me and Jono.
ROBYN - You said that Jono always talks at the wrong time and ruins the moment.
ALEX - He does. But I'm weaning him off it, I think. He's getting better.
ROBYN - But if Ryan doesn't want to go then maybe Jono could hang out with him. You know...so Ryan wouldn't be left out?
ALEX - If he's left out it'll be because he left himself out. Jono shouldn't have to miss it to babysit Ryan.
ROBYN - Maybe he'd want to.
ALEX - I'm really not following you. What's this about?
ROBYN - Uh...I just thought maybe...that...it could be just you and me at this one.
ALEX - Why?
ROBYN - If I'm going to make it tonight, I've gotta get going.
ALEX - But-
Robyn turns and starts down the street. She briefly turns back around to call back to Alex.
ROBYN - D&D at seven! I'll be there.
She continues out of sight. Alex stands at the end of his driveway staring after her.
A few years ago on a date with Kristine I went to the Pit at King's (my old university) to see my friend Jesse play the lead in the play, Equus. I'd never read the play before or seen the movie version but I knew a little about it. And I enjoyed it a whole lot. Jesse was especially great and I'm not just saying that cause he's my friend - I doubt he'll ever read my praise here - but also throughout the whole course of the play I found myself imagining my own play being put on in that space. Even though I didn't have a play written yet, the very beginnings of one was forming in my head.
Which brings us to now and this little excerpt. This is just a small piece of an early scene in my play "Away". Just two people talking. But I hope it's a good example of well-done dialogue.
SCENE TWO
Same location. It is the next day after school. Alex and Robyn walk up the street with their book bags and stop under the streetlight.
ALEX - I was right here, taking out the garbage. There were four flashes, two really close together. You didn't see it at all?
ROBYN - Nope. I trust you to catch all these things. You're the one with the telescope.
ALEX - Well, I only really caught it by accident. I looked out my window for another hour but - nothing.
ROBYN - Meteor shower's tomorrow night, right? This couldn't have anything to do with that?
ALEX - What? How could it?
ROBYN - Well, I dunno.
ALEX - You really don't pay attention when I talk about this stuff, do you?
ROBYN - Sure I do, Alex. It's just that it's pretty much ALL you talk about, you know?
ALEX - Well, let's talk about something else then.
ROBYN - Yeah, well I've gotta get my homework done if I'm gonna make it tonight.
ALEX - Homework be damned! You are coming tonight whether you're finished or not. It sucks with just three. Not to mention it's getting harder and harder to get Ryan to play anymore and I need you there to counterbalance Jono.
ROBYN - What do you mean 'counterbalance'?
ALEX - If you're not there then Ryan will just try to get out of it by saying he doesn't remember how to play, Jono will try to help him and there won't be any real conversation. It'll just be "D&D is lame", "No, it's not" and "What's Robyn doing?" all night and I'll lose my mind. I wouldn't even want to play but then Jono would just whine and Ryan would suggest we just quit playing it altogether. So-
ROBYN - So the very survival of our D&D sessions hangs in the balance if I don't make it tonight. I get it. I'll come. Because I WILL get my homework done. You should try my method of doing it before the day it's actually due.
ALEX - My system works fine.
ROBYN - Whatever.
Here they pause for a moment. Robyn is looking at her shoes.
ALEX - Um...Robyn?
ROBYN - Nothing. Just thinking.
ALEX - Ok.
ROBYN - Do Ryan and Jono know about the meteor shower?
ALEX - Huh? Of course they do. Although I'll probably have to remind Ryan.
ROBYN - You...don't have to.
ALEX - What do you mean?
ROBYN - Just that if Ryan doesn't feel like going it's not like he has to or anything. I mean, it's not like D&D, right? We don't NEED him.
ALEX - I...guess not. It's not, like, a tragedy if it's just you me and Jono.
ROBYN - You said that Jono always talks at the wrong time and ruins the moment.
ALEX - He does. But I'm weaning him off it, I think. He's getting better.
ROBYN - But if Ryan doesn't want to go then maybe Jono could hang out with him. You know...so Ryan wouldn't be left out?
ALEX - If he's left out it'll be because he left himself out. Jono shouldn't have to miss it to babysit Ryan.
ROBYN - Maybe he'd want to.
ALEX - I'm really not following you. What's this about?
ROBYN - Uh...I just thought maybe...that...it could be just you and me at this one.
ALEX - Why?
ROBYN - If I'm going to make it tonight, I've gotta get going.
ALEX - But-
Robyn turns and starts down the street. She briefly turns back around to call back to Alex.
ROBYN - D&D at seven! I'll be there.
She continues out of sight. Alex stands at the end of his driveway staring after her.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Work
I just read the latest post on Charlie Huston's site, (pulpnoir.com) a place I don't visit as often as I should because as he's someone I'd like to emulate, I feel like so far I'm doing a really horrible job. But anyway, you can check it out here. This time I'll actually try to draw inspiration instead of simply feeling defeated. It really shouldn't be too difficult - come on, Cole, you want to be a bartender till you're forty and only sometime after that become a writer? Get off your ass.
Because so far I really haven't. I mean, this blog is pretty good proof of that.
So I will be trying to make a fresh start right here, right now. I have ideas in my head and stories in my heart - that's never been the problem. The problem has been initiative and discipline. There's no magic way to develop those things, you just have to bear down. So this is me, bearing down. And you get to see some of it. Lucky you.
Because so far I really haven't. I mean, this blog is pretty good proof of that.
So I will be trying to make a fresh start right here, right now. I have ideas in my head and stories in my heart - that's never been the problem. The problem has been initiative and discipline. There's no magic way to develop those things, you just have to bear down. So this is me, bearing down. And you get to see some of it. Lucky you.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The Dark Staircase
This is just a little excerpt from a recent short story of mine. I realized I haven't posted any kind of excerpt on here in forever and the last few offerings I gave were actually poetry which is really strange for me.
For personal reasons, this story was very difficult to write despite the fact that I'd actually had nearly the entire thing plotted before even starting it (a rare thing for me). The main idea is similar to that of an old English folktale I read god knows where god knows how long ago. I guess if you did a search for The Dark Staircase, you would most likely find at least a couple things but I really did think of the title on my own. Titles have never been a forte of mine (my editors even would often change the working titles I used for newspaper articles) but I am somewhat proud of this one. So sorry if it's not actually original.
Let's go to a hilltop in Ireland:
She shook her head and silently admonished herself. She'd been so desperate to discover something fantastic out here that she was letting her imagination run wild, that was all. Looking closer at the stones, Annie couldn't see how they could ever have looked like gravestones anyway. But then again, depending on how old they were, there was no reason to assume these gravestones had ever looked like the kind she was used to. Not really. If this had been a graveyard and it was really old, then the markers might have been more simple and not as angular as the ones she was accustomed to. If they were that old, then maybe this was no Christian graveyard but a pagan one. Like, for druids or something. Annie didn't really know anything about druids or paganism except that they were old things from Europe. Maybe she could ask Janet about it. It was possible she even knew about this place and had just forgotten about it.
But almost as soon as this thought came to her, Annie got the very distinct feeling that it would be best not to mention it to Janet at all. There had been something in her expression and voice when Annie had first told her of her plans to go for a walk. She'd looked uncomfortable. Maybe even worried. Annie couldn't figure out why. As much as she wanted to believe in things like haunted graveyards, even she couldn't really imagine this place having ghosts and restless spirits milling about it. And surely Janet didn't believe in such things. She couldn't. In addition to being an adult, she'd always struck Annie as the level-headed type. Not a dreamer like her.
Annie bent down next to one of the stones that was more above ground than the others, reached out with one hand and slowly ran her fingers over its rough surface. It felt like a rock. Annie was no geologist or...rock enthusiast. And she was obviously no archaeologist. She knew that for such people, things like stones could sort of speak to them. Tell them about the past. But not her. She was just a bored girl hoping to find wonders within the ordinary. She tried to bring her thoughts back to the realm of rationality. Ok, she allowed, maybe her guesses had all been right. Maybe this had been some ancient, pagan graveyard. And that was definitely interesting. More interesting than anything else she'd found during her time here. It was a little creepy too. But the answers she wanted to the questions this place had raised weren't coming. The spot wasn't that isolated. If there were some, like, artifacts lying around the area, then someone would have found them long before her. Now there were only strange (but maybe not that strange) stones sitting in two rows (that may not be deliberate rows). They couldn't speak to her.
She was about to stand up again but then without even consciously meaning to, she brought her other hand to feel the surface of the stone. Now she could feel something. An impression of...depth. The idea that there was more underneath. Well, sure, she thought. If this is a graveyard then there are bones underneath. No. Something was telling her no. She gazed at the stone, running her hands over it intently. Speak to me, she willed to it. What is underneath?
A long space of time seemed to pass. Annie was starting to believe she'd only imagined that...whatever it was. It hadn't been a voice. Just a feeling. But a powerful feeling. And then the word, no, as distinct as it had been, that wasn't in a voice either. But it had come through as clearly as any voice.
Frustrated, she stood up. Her boredom was getting to her, that was all. She was letting her imagination take over. It was time to go back anyway. All that stuff may have been in her head but either way, it was freaking her out. She looked back to the house. She'd felt so far away for awhile but she could still see it over the rolling hills. Then suddenly, the not-voice imparted another word to her.
Come.
She had no doubts this time. There was some force calling to her, possibly through the stones or up through the ground. She didn't like it. She backed away and nearly stumbled.
Annie did not run back to the house but she walked very quickly. She didn't look back once.
***************
I'm also really terrible at picking out parts that make for good excerpts from longer works but hopefully that part reads somewhat well on its own. See you next time.
For personal reasons, this story was very difficult to write despite the fact that I'd actually had nearly the entire thing plotted before even starting it (a rare thing for me). The main idea is similar to that of an old English folktale I read god knows where god knows how long ago. I guess if you did a search for The Dark Staircase, you would most likely find at least a couple things but I really did think of the title on my own. Titles have never been a forte of mine (my editors even would often change the working titles I used for newspaper articles) but I am somewhat proud of this one. So sorry if it's not actually original.
Let's go to a hilltop in Ireland:
She shook her head and silently admonished herself. She'd been so desperate to discover something fantastic out here that she was letting her imagination run wild, that was all. Looking closer at the stones, Annie couldn't see how they could ever have looked like gravestones anyway. But then again, depending on how old they were, there was no reason to assume these gravestones had ever looked like the kind she was used to. Not really. If this had been a graveyard and it was really old, then the markers might have been more simple and not as angular as the ones she was accustomed to. If they were that old, then maybe this was no Christian graveyard but a pagan one. Like, for druids or something. Annie didn't really know anything about druids or paganism except that they were old things from Europe. Maybe she could ask Janet about it. It was possible she even knew about this place and had just forgotten about it.
But almost as soon as this thought came to her, Annie got the very distinct feeling that it would be best not to mention it to Janet at all. There had been something in her expression and voice when Annie had first told her of her plans to go for a walk. She'd looked uncomfortable. Maybe even worried. Annie couldn't figure out why. As much as she wanted to believe in things like haunted graveyards, even she couldn't really imagine this place having ghosts and restless spirits milling about it. And surely Janet didn't believe in such things. She couldn't. In addition to being an adult, she'd always struck Annie as the level-headed type. Not a dreamer like her.
Annie bent down next to one of the stones that was more above ground than the others, reached out with one hand and slowly ran her fingers over its rough surface. It felt like a rock. Annie was no geologist or...rock enthusiast. And she was obviously no archaeologist. She knew that for such people, things like stones could sort of speak to them. Tell them about the past. But not her. She was just a bored girl hoping to find wonders within the ordinary. She tried to bring her thoughts back to the realm of rationality. Ok, she allowed, maybe her guesses had all been right. Maybe this had been some ancient, pagan graveyard. And that was definitely interesting. More interesting than anything else she'd found during her time here. It was a little creepy too. But the answers she wanted to the questions this place had raised weren't coming. The spot wasn't that isolated. If there were some, like, artifacts lying around the area, then someone would have found them long before her. Now there were only strange (but maybe not that strange) stones sitting in two rows (that may not be deliberate rows). They couldn't speak to her.
She was about to stand up again but then without even consciously meaning to, she brought her other hand to feel the surface of the stone. Now she could feel something. An impression of...depth. The idea that there was more underneath. Well, sure, she thought. If this is a graveyard then there are bones underneath. No. Something was telling her no. She gazed at the stone, running her hands over it intently. Speak to me, she willed to it. What is underneath?
A long space of time seemed to pass. Annie was starting to believe she'd only imagined that...whatever it was. It hadn't been a voice. Just a feeling. But a powerful feeling. And then the word, no, as distinct as it had been, that wasn't in a voice either. But it had come through as clearly as any voice.
Frustrated, she stood up. Her boredom was getting to her, that was all. She was letting her imagination take over. It was time to go back anyway. All that stuff may have been in her head but either way, it was freaking her out. She looked back to the house. She'd felt so far away for awhile but she could still see it over the rolling hills. Then suddenly, the not-voice imparted another word to her.
Come.
She had no doubts this time. There was some force calling to her, possibly through the stones or up through the ground. She didn't like it. She backed away and nearly stumbled.
Annie did not run back to the house but she walked very quickly. She didn't look back once.
***************
I'm also really terrible at picking out parts that make for good excerpts from longer works but hopefully that part reads somewhat well on its own. See you next time.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
From The Page to The Screen
I went to see Zack Snyder's much-anticipated movie adaptation of celebrated graphic novel, Watchmen last weekend and was, for the most part, pleased. Almost immediately after its release in 1987, speculation ran rampant concerning if it could be put to film successfully. I consider myself to be one of the bigger Watchmen fans out there, of my generation at least. I didn't read it until 2004 but I bought it immediately (in paperback graphic novel form) and have read it six times to date. So the idea of a movie being based on such a great work both thrilled and terrified me. Now, I know that even if the movie was absolutely horrible, it can't change the fact that the novel is amazing. But still, I think most fans of any work in any medium would hate to see it reduced to something less in another form.
So I'll quit screwing around here and get to it: do I think the movie should be considered a success? Well, I guess I already gave that away by earlier stating that I was "mostly pleased" with it. Ok, yes, I think it was a success. I believe it could have been better. But I still believe it was very close to what I wanted. I won't get into what I liked and didn't like, this isn't a review. I just wanted to talk about Alan Moore's well-known complete lack of involvement in the making of the movie, right down to vowing that he'll never even WATCH it. Ever. Just like the film version of V For Vendetta (another success in my opinion, albeit on a much smaller scale as the source material was far easier to adapt), you'll find Moore's name absolutely nowhere within the credits. Only artist Dave Gibbons is credited but this is at Moore's own insistence. I don't actually know Moore's reason(s) for not being completely opposed to film versions of his works (in that he doesn't keep them from being made) but I figure it mostly comes down to these two: as a writer who always works with at least one artist, he cannot claim sole ownership of the property and...money. Moore's name may not appear in the credits of any film based on his work but you can bet he still receives some of the revenue said films generate. I think he sold the rights so they could made into movies so I don't think royalties apply but my point is their being made into films has made him money. And that's fine. I'm not here to say Moore's a douche or that he shouldn't be allowed to do or not do whatever he chooses with his own creative property. As a writer I plan to make damn sure that I maintain creative and legal control over any works I produce.
But I will say that in my own humble opinion, I believe that Moore is wrong. His original intentions regarding the film based on V For Vendetta remain mostly unclear: he's had various disputes with DC over the licensing thing and this caused him to leave the publisher behind. But various sources claim that Moore was initially supportive of efforts to make movies from V For Vendetta and Watchmen and reversed his position years later. I don't know. I have no idea what to believe. But then they made V For Vendetta, without his involvement but also without his forbiddence, and Moore had this, among other things to say: "the [book] had specifically been about things like fascism and anarchy. Those words, 'fascism' and 'anarchy', occur nowhere in the film. It's been turned into a Bush-era parable by people too timid to set a political satire in their own country." (this quote can be found on wikipedia) So he wasn't happy with it. Fine. But maybe he WOULD have been happy with it if he'd involved himself somewhat in its production.
As near as I can figure, Moore doesn't choose to do this simply because he doesn't believe in the medium of film, insofar as adaptations of comics and and graphic novels go anyway. Again, if that's his belief, that's cool. It's just that Moore decided to find fault with V For Vendetta for reasons that had nothing to do with its medium; basically he criticized the film's producers for what he perceived to be mistakes. Mistakes that could have been avoided if he'd chose to involve himself in the making of the film.
Why I think Moore is wrong is because he seems to be contradicting himself. Either he believes his works are unfilmable or he doesn't. And yet it's clear that at least some of the flaws he found in V For Vendetta were not a cause, direct or indirect, of the medium of film. It seems to me that Moore can say others can adapt his works if they wish but he doesn't care to involve himself because he believes said works won't work on film - that's fine with me - but he does this and then finds other things to bitch about.
As far as Watchmen goes, I guess Moore figured they were going to fuck it up so badly that he'd make sure to never even watch it. A few months ago, in an interview with Tripwire magazine, Snyder said this about Moore's position on the movie: "Worst case scenario - Alan puts the movie in his DVD player on a cold Sunday in London and watches and says, 'Yeah, that doesn't suck too bad." When Moore got wind of this, he replied: "That's the worst case scenario? I think he's understimated what the worst case scenario would be...that's never going to happen in my DVD player in 'London' [Moore lives in North Hampton]. I'm never going to watch this fucking thing." (I read this in Wizard #209)
As I said, he can do or not do whatever he likes. And if he doesn't want to watch the movie, that's all well and good. But I think he is wrong in his decision to distance himself from movie versions of his works. Anyone who knows me is well aware of my position of movies based on comics and novels - they never replace the source material, they never represent it as well and they are never better. People have heard me rant endlessly on this and yet...I am still a fan of movies and am not often personally against movie adaptations of comics and books I like. I guess efforts like the movie versions of Akira and Jurassic Park - quite different from their source material but still really good - give me hope.
Maybe that's the difference between Moore and myself - while I also don't really believe in the medium of film when it comes to translation of stories originally told through text and art, I still LIKE films. So I usually want them to try. I simply lower my expectations and hope for the best. Which is precisely what I did for Watchmen and I came out mostly happy. And you'd have to be an idiot to read into this that I think we should just always be ready to settle for less when it comes to movies based on comics and books, that we should accept mediocrity. I am not saying that all. What we should be willing to accept is the limitations of a medium, whatever it may be.
A staggering amount of Stephen King's works have been put to film. And a staggering amount of them are bad. And even the best efforts are easily inferior to their original forms. But King still greenlights this stuff. I wish I had the exact quote but King recently said he does this because he's a big believer in "what if" as well as different perspectives. He was actually speaking in reference to some of his stuff being turned into comics there but I know it applies to the movies as well. And what he didn't say there is something that's well-known anyway: Stephen King is a big fan of movies. And I truly think this is his main motivation behind his decision to allow so many of his books to be made into movies, even though he knows they will ultimately fall short.
As near as I can figure, Alan Moore is NOT a fan of movies. Again, that's cool. I'm not condemning him for a personal preference like that. But it seems to me Moore has two options when it comes to movies based on his stuff - he can either involve himself in their production and try his best to help the film makers to come up with something that truly represents his creations or he can flat out refuse to allow something he made to be adapted into a medium he personally doesn't care for or believe in. But what he seems to be choosing to do is sit somewhere in the middle, telling people they can adapt his stuff and he'll sell the rights and get his money one way or another but at the same time he'll make his disdain for their efforts well known.
My feeling is that if I ever write some stuff that's worth a damn and the question of will I allow it to be put on screen comes up, I'll either throw myself head-first into the production and work with people to adapt it as best as possible, according to my own feelings OR I will just say, "no thankyou, I don't believe this will work on film and don't want to see an inferior version of my story" and I'll do whatever it takes to ensure no film ever comes about. Moore is a strange man but also in many ways, a brilliant man. I can't pretend to know everything about him and I can't pretend to understand him. But I do think that in this instance, he is wrong. It's not as if anything I say could bother him. If you saw Watchmen and liked it, read the novel. If you saw Watchmen and didn't care for it, read the novel.
So I'll quit screwing around here and get to it: do I think the movie should be considered a success? Well, I guess I already gave that away by earlier stating that I was "mostly pleased" with it. Ok, yes, I think it was a success. I believe it could have been better. But I still believe it was very close to what I wanted. I won't get into what I liked and didn't like, this isn't a review. I just wanted to talk about Alan Moore's well-known complete lack of involvement in the making of the movie, right down to vowing that he'll never even WATCH it. Ever. Just like the film version of V For Vendetta (another success in my opinion, albeit on a much smaller scale as the source material was far easier to adapt), you'll find Moore's name absolutely nowhere within the credits. Only artist Dave Gibbons is credited but this is at Moore's own insistence. I don't actually know Moore's reason(s) for not being completely opposed to film versions of his works (in that he doesn't keep them from being made) but I figure it mostly comes down to these two: as a writer who always works with at least one artist, he cannot claim sole ownership of the property and...money. Moore's name may not appear in the credits of any film based on his work but you can bet he still receives some of the revenue said films generate. I think he sold the rights so they could made into movies so I don't think royalties apply but my point is their being made into films has made him money. And that's fine. I'm not here to say Moore's a douche or that he shouldn't be allowed to do or not do whatever he chooses with his own creative property. As a writer I plan to make damn sure that I maintain creative and legal control over any works I produce.
But I will say that in my own humble opinion, I believe that Moore is wrong. His original intentions regarding the film based on V For Vendetta remain mostly unclear: he's had various disputes with DC over the licensing thing and this caused him to leave the publisher behind. But various sources claim that Moore was initially supportive of efforts to make movies from V For Vendetta and Watchmen and reversed his position years later. I don't know. I have no idea what to believe. But then they made V For Vendetta, without his involvement but also without his forbiddence, and Moore had this, among other things to say: "the [book] had specifically been about things like fascism and anarchy. Those words, 'fascism' and 'anarchy', occur nowhere in the film. It's been turned into a Bush-era parable by people too timid to set a political satire in their own country." (this quote can be found on wikipedia) So he wasn't happy with it. Fine. But maybe he WOULD have been happy with it if he'd involved himself somewhat in its production.
As near as I can figure, Moore doesn't choose to do this simply because he doesn't believe in the medium of film, insofar as adaptations of comics and and graphic novels go anyway. Again, if that's his belief, that's cool. It's just that Moore decided to find fault with V For Vendetta for reasons that had nothing to do with its medium; basically he criticized the film's producers for what he perceived to be mistakes. Mistakes that could have been avoided if he'd chose to involve himself in the making of the film.
Why I think Moore is wrong is because he seems to be contradicting himself. Either he believes his works are unfilmable or he doesn't. And yet it's clear that at least some of the flaws he found in V For Vendetta were not a cause, direct or indirect, of the medium of film. It seems to me that Moore can say others can adapt his works if they wish but he doesn't care to involve himself because he believes said works won't work on film - that's fine with me - but he does this and then finds other things to bitch about.
As far as Watchmen goes, I guess Moore figured they were going to fuck it up so badly that he'd make sure to never even watch it. A few months ago, in an interview with Tripwire magazine, Snyder said this about Moore's position on the movie: "Worst case scenario - Alan puts the movie in his DVD player on a cold Sunday in London and watches and says, 'Yeah, that doesn't suck too bad." When Moore got wind of this, he replied: "That's the worst case scenario? I think he's understimated what the worst case scenario would be...that's never going to happen in my DVD player in 'London' [Moore lives in North Hampton]. I'm never going to watch this fucking thing." (I read this in Wizard #209)
As I said, he can do or not do whatever he likes. And if he doesn't want to watch the movie, that's all well and good. But I think he is wrong in his decision to distance himself from movie versions of his works. Anyone who knows me is well aware of my position of movies based on comics and novels - they never replace the source material, they never represent it as well and they are never better. People have heard me rant endlessly on this and yet...I am still a fan of movies and am not often personally against movie adaptations of comics and books I like. I guess efforts like the movie versions of Akira and Jurassic Park - quite different from their source material but still really good - give me hope.
Maybe that's the difference between Moore and myself - while I also don't really believe in the medium of film when it comes to translation of stories originally told through text and art, I still LIKE films. So I usually want them to try. I simply lower my expectations and hope for the best. Which is precisely what I did for Watchmen and I came out mostly happy. And you'd have to be an idiot to read into this that I think we should just always be ready to settle for less when it comes to movies based on comics and books, that we should accept mediocrity. I am not saying that all. What we should be willing to accept is the limitations of a medium, whatever it may be.
A staggering amount of Stephen King's works have been put to film. And a staggering amount of them are bad. And even the best efforts are easily inferior to their original forms. But King still greenlights this stuff. I wish I had the exact quote but King recently said he does this because he's a big believer in "what if" as well as different perspectives. He was actually speaking in reference to some of his stuff being turned into comics there but I know it applies to the movies as well. And what he didn't say there is something that's well-known anyway: Stephen King is a big fan of movies. And I truly think this is his main motivation behind his decision to allow so many of his books to be made into movies, even though he knows they will ultimately fall short.
As near as I can figure, Alan Moore is NOT a fan of movies. Again, that's cool. I'm not condemning him for a personal preference like that. But it seems to me Moore has two options when it comes to movies based on his stuff - he can either involve himself in their production and try his best to help the film makers to come up with something that truly represents his creations or he can flat out refuse to allow something he made to be adapted into a medium he personally doesn't care for or believe in. But what he seems to be choosing to do is sit somewhere in the middle, telling people they can adapt his stuff and he'll sell the rights and get his money one way or another but at the same time he'll make his disdain for their efforts well known.
My feeling is that if I ever write some stuff that's worth a damn and the question of will I allow it to be put on screen comes up, I'll either throw myself head-first into the production and work with people to adapt it as best as possible, according to my own feelings OR I will just say, "no thankyou, I don't believe this will work on film and don't want to see an inferior version of my story" and I'll do whatever it takes to ensure no film ever comes about. Moore is a strange man but also in many ways, a brilliant man. I can't pretend to know everything about him and I can't pretend to understand him. But I do think that in this instance, he is wrong. It's not as if anything I say could bother him. If you saw Watchmen and liked it, read the novel. If you saw Watchmen and didn't care for it, read the novel.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Fun with Rhymes
I first started writing poetry as a kid when I discovered I had a knack for putting together snappy verses that rhymed. It was more or less the foundation of every poem I wrote from about Grade 2 into junior high. But in junior high I grew up a little and was more exposed to pretentiousness and suddenly felt like all my poems were childish. Now I was reading poems by famous writers and a lot of them didn't rhyme at all. Some girls I knew were also writing the odd poem and none of them rhymed either. They were just a bunch of words about pain and isolation strung together. No rhythm, no iambic pentameter. Just words.
Impressionable youth that I was, it was time for me to get in on this. So I started writing dark poems with no rhymes. My writing was maturing and I'd venture to say that perhaps 2 percent of them weren't complete crap. Anyway, even when I came out of this phase and almost stopped writing poetry altogether for awhile, those few poems that I did write still didn't rhyme. I had just gotten used to expressing myself that way. If rhyming no longer seemed childish to me it still seemed...tacky. So for another few years I ignored my gift some more. In that time, I think I did manage to write a handful of not too bad non-rhyming poems. The best of which being one called "Afternoon" that I wrote about three weeks into my first year of university, looking out at the "quad" of King's College.
But a few years after that a friend of mine who is also a writer wrote a poem about a hurricane that we'd recently experienced and he showed it to me. I don't remember it now but I remember it was good. I also remember that it rhymed. And it wasn't childish. It wasn't tacky. It was good. This caused me to do some thinking. Could I write a rhyming poem that wouldn't suck? I didn't know. For a couple days I bounced some ideas around in my head, trying to come up with just a few lines to start with. It wasn't working. But then about a week later, I was staring at the page and a simple rhyming verse came to me. I barely had to think - I just wrote and it came. It wasn't until I was nearly finished that I read it over and realized the subject matter - it was about my breakup with my first ever girlfriend. Not a recent event in my life at the time, in fact, I'd already been through a few other disasters since then. But that's what it was.
I don't really like posting a complete work here no matter how worthless it may be but I figured it couldn't hurt. It's called Drive and here it is.
Drive
i sometimes drive alone at night and listen to my songs
my focus drifts away and i think of what went wrong
it wasn't all that long ago i made this drive with you
sighing, laughing, dreaming
now all of that is through
every signpost sparks a memory
every corner prompts a thought
i think of you in your new place while i stay here and rot
i need to get away from this
before in these thoughts i drown
so i turn the volume up and i press the pedal down
not too far past your bridge we used to go sometimes
how fitting now to use it to pay you for your crimes
the sights aren't so familiar now because now they are a blur
i think of what they might say
"he died because of her"
i give the wheel a good jerk
and now i'm in the air
soon to be another victim of a life that isn't fair
the water's cold, the water's dark
and that suits me just fine
it seems a proper punishment for believing you were mine
eventually i slip below
where everything is black
it's quiet and it's calm here
but still i want them back
the days we had, the nights we shared
i still can't let them go
i forgive you now
i'm sorry
but you will never know
Impressionable youth that I was, it was time for me to get in on this. So I started writing dark poems with no rhymes. My writing was maturing and I'd venture to say that perhaps 2 percent of them weren't complete crap. Anyway, even when I came out of this phase and almost stopped writing poetry altogether for awhile, those few poems that I did write still didn't rhyme. I had just gotten used to expressing myself that way. If rhyming no longer seemed childish to me it still seemed...tacky. So for another few years I ignored my gift some more. In that time, I think I did manage to write a handful of not too bad non-rhyming poems. The best of which being one called "Afternoon" that I wrote about three weeks into my first year of university, looking out at the "quad" of King's College.
But a few years after that a friend of mine who is also a writer wrote a poem about a hurricane that we'd recently experienced and he showed it to me. I don't remember it now but I remember it was good. I also remember that it rhymed. And it wasn't childish. It wasn't tacky. It was good. This caused me to do some thinking. Could I write a rhyming poem that wouldn't suck? I didn't know. For a couple days I bounced some ideas around in my head, trying to come up with just a few lines to start with. It wasn't working. But then about a week later, I was staring at the page and a simple rhyming verse came to me. I barely had to think - I just wrote and it came. It wasn't until I was nearly finished that I read it over and realized the subject matter - it was about my breakup with my first ever girlfriend. Not a recent event in my life at the time, in fact, I'd already been through a few other disasters since then. But that's what it was.
I don't really like posting a complete work here no matter how worthless it may be but I figured it couldn't hurt. It's called Drive and here it is.
Drive
i sometimes drive alone at night and listen to my songs
my focus drifts away and i think of what went wrong
it wasn't all that long ago i made this drive with you
sighing, laughing, dreaming
now all of that is through
every signpost sparks a memory
every corner prompts a thought
i think of you in your new place while i stay here and rot
i need to get away from this
before in these thoughts i drown
so i turn the volume up and i press the pedal down
not too far past your bridge we used to go sometimes
how fitting now to use it to pay you for your crimes
the sights aren't so familiar now because now they are a blur
i think of what they might say
"he died because of her"
i give the wheel a good jerk
and now i'm in the air
soon to be another victim of a life that isn't fair
the water's cold, the water's dark
and that suits me just fine
it seems a proper punishment for believing you were mine
eventually i slip below
where everything is black
it's quiet and it's calm here
but still i want them back
the days we had, the nights we shared
i still can't let them go
i forgive you now
i'm sorry
but you will never know
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Leia's Story
Leia came to us in the spring of 1999. I was finishing up grade ten. My sister had seen her picture in the paper and cut it out. She and my mother picked her up from the SPCA and brought her home. I found out about it on the way to UCCB (now called Cape Breton University) to play with my high school's jazz band in the lobby during an art show.
We weren't a cat family. Since my parents' marriage in 1977, we'd only had dogs, a bird and two iguanas. At the time, we'd had our current dog and second bichon frise, Vicki, for just over three years. But apparently my sister had had it in her head for some time (unbeknownst to me) that she wanted a kitten. So Leia, a tiny tortoise shell kitten with thick fur and a bottle brush tail came home to live with us.
It took Vicki four days of hyperventilating while one of us held onto her and a private discussion with Mother to get with the program that there was going to be a cat in the family. Leia, perhaps weighing a pound at the time, took no notice of Vicki and calmly explored the house, often getting lost in various corners causing us to embark on frantic searches for her. She was comfortable right away and never appeared nervous or frightened. She loved all of us as instantly as we loved her.
For the first few days, we wondered if she was mute as she hadn't uttered a sound. Soon she began purring. And purring and purring. But this didn't prove she had a voice. I think it was at least a week before she spoke, emitting what would become her signature chirp. This was a kitten that NEVER meowed or mewed. We could only theorize that she'd never learned how, although we'd never believed that was the sort of thing a feline had to learn. Whatever the case, for her entire life, Leia would rarely speak, purring often and loudly (even while eating) and occasionally chirping when something grabbed her attention or if she was pleased. But meows and mews were never her thing. Only a car trip - always a traumatic experience for her - would produce sounds of any similarity.
She was perfect from the moment she arrived. She instantly understood the purpose of her litter box and never had an accident at any point in her life. Once Vicki understood that Leia was ours, they became instant friends, sharing the water dish (Leia would always wait patiently for Vicki to finish drinking first if they ever arrived at the same time) and playing together every day. Leia remains the single kindest creature I have ever encountered in my life. She never got angry and she never expressed herself in any way other than as happy, friendly and loving. You could pick her up any way any time. You could hold her however you chose. Leia trusted all of us implicitly and was always glad to be petted and held.
My sister left for university after that first summer. So Leia began sleeping with me. Her favourite position was into my back as I lay on my side. She would wake me up by gently, always politely, tapping my face with a paw. Then she would leap off the bad, give a chirp and walk in circles until I gave her my attention so she could eat. That was the thing about Leia - in order to eat, she required an audience. At first she'd be forcing me to follow her downstairs to the kitchen at six in the morning to stand there and supervise while she ate her breakfast. I quickly learned to keep an extra food dish in my room for this. However, my being in the same room just wasn't enough - I STILL had to get out of bed and stand there, sometimes even pat her back, in order for her to settle down and eat her food.
After two years of this, I also left for university and Leia would find acceptance on my parents' bed. Vicki, ever the jealous type, was not initially pleased with this development but as always was the case when it came to Leia, she would come to accept the situation.
Leia was unique and beautiful for a million reasons. She always drank so daintily, first testing the water with a paw. She would tentatively dip a paw in then lick some water off it before finally deciding to lower her head and lap in the traditional manner. And in this she was extremely slow. While Vicki (and later, Wednesday, my cat) would simply plunge her head in and slurp and slop until she had slaked her thirst, Leia lapped very slowly. It wasn't uncommon for her to be crouched at the water dish for over five minutes to take a drink.
She loved toys and her favourites would be these plain, yellow ducks that were initially on strings. But she would chew the strings off then simply pick up the duck in her mouth, bat it around with her front paws, or, when she really got going, lie on her back grasping the duck with all four paws, sometimes kicking it with her hind feet. It was always a joy to play with Leia or just watch her but you had to be careful; if Leia ever found herself especially intense in her sport but then noticed she was being watched, she would very quickly cease this activity and walk away with her tail held high, as if trying to convince us it had never happened at all. Before this I'd never known that a cat could be embarrassed. But it was very important to Leia to appear dignified at all times in front of us.
Vicki would chase her and she would chase Vicki. They took turns. Sometimes Vicki would be lying on the floor asleep and Leia would come bounding in, sometimes hopping sideways, then leap onto Vicki and use the prone dog as a springboard, catapulting off her before running from the room or leaping onto a piece of furniture. Vicki would scramble to her feet in a fit of confusion, looking around dimly while Leia was already well out of sight. And Leia really did love Vicki. She would often jump onto the kitchen table to observe Vicki when she was put outside. It was clear she was concerned about the dog being out of the house (a place Leia never dared to venture) and I'm sure that sometimes she watched also in an effort to remind us that Vicki was out there - that she didn't trust us to remember to let Vicki back in on our own. She never in her life hissed or growled at Vicki; not even on those few occasions where the dog might have deserved it.
Leia is the only pet I know that would actually pose for photos. She must have had some understanding of her own physical beauty and it was clear she was very proud of her appearance. Unlike Wednesday, she was an almost obsessive groomer, constantly tidying her fur.
She loved her family and loved people in general. There was nothing solitary about her - she was always wherever we were and was very rarely alone in the house. She always came when called and had a very good understanding of English, better than many people I've met (and I'm speaking of Anglophones).
Her illness and eventual death are also a part of her story but it's not what I want to relate here. She was taken from us far too soon and I'll miss her for the rest of my life. Without Leia paving the way, we never would have gotten Wednesday, whom I love and adore just as much.
Leia will always be in my memory and my heart, not just as my cat and my pet but also as the most shining example of pure kindness I've observed so far in my life. She truly was an extraordinary creature and my words here could never do her proper justice. But I still wanted to try.
We weren't a cat family. Since my parents' marriage in 1977, we'd only had dogs, a bird and two iguanas. At the time, we'd had our current dog and second bichon frise, Vicki, for just over three years. But apparently my sister had had it in her head for some time (unbeknownst to me) that she wanted a kitten. So Leia, a tiny tortoise shell kitten with thick fur and a bottle brush tail came home to live with us.
It took Vicki four days of hyperventilating while one of us held onto her and a private discussion with Mother to get with the program that there was going to be a cat in the family. Leia, perhaps weighing a pound at the time, took no notice of Vicki and calmly explored the house, often getting lost in various corners causing us to embark on frantic searches for her. She was comfortable right away and never appeared nervous or frightened. She loved all of us as instantly as we loved her.
For the first few days, we wondered if she was mute as she hadn't uttered a sound. Soon she began purring. And purring and purring. But this didn't prove she had a voice. I think it was at least a week before she spoke, emitting what would become her signature chirp. This was a kitten that NEVER meowed or mewed. We could only theorize that she'd never learned how, although we'd never believed that was the sort of thing a feline had to learn. Whatever the case, for her entire life, Leia would rarely speak, purring often and loudly (even while eating) and occasionally chirping when something grabbed her attention or if she was pleased. But meows and mews were never her thing. Only a car trip - always a traumatic experience for her - would produce sounds of any similarity.
She was perfect from the moment she arrived. She instantly understood the purpose of her litter box and never had an accident at any point in her life. Once Vicki understood that Leia was ours, they became instant friends, sharing the water dish (Leia would always wait patiently for Vicki to finish drinking first if they ever arrived at the same time) and playing together every day. Leia remains the single kindest creature I have ever encountered in my life. She never got angry and she never expressed herself in any way other than as happy, friendly and loving. You could pick her up any way any time. You could hold her however you chose. Leia trusted all of us implicitly and was always glad to be petted and held.
My sister left for university after that first summer. So Leia began sleeping with me. Her favourite position was into my back as I lay on my side. She would wake me up by gently, always politely, tapping my face with a paw. Then she would leap off the bad, give a chirp and walk in circles until I gave her my attention so she could eat. That was the thing about Leia - in order to eat, she required an audience. At first she'd be forcing me to follow her downstairs to the kitchen at six in the morning to stand there and supervise while she ate her breakfast. I quickly learned to keep an extra food dish in my room for this. However, my being in the same room just wasn't enough - I STILL had to get out of bed and stand there, sometimes even pat her back, in order for her to settle down and eat her food.
After two years of this, I also left for university and Leia would find acceptance on my parents' bed. Vicki, ever the jealous type, was not initially pleased with this development but as always was the case when it came to Leia, she would come to accept the situation.
Leia was unique and beautiful for a million reasons. She always drank so daintily, first testing the water with a paw. She would tentatively dip a paw in then lick some water off it before finally deciding to lower her head and lap in the traditional manner. And in this she was extremely slow. While Vicki (and later, Wednesday, my cat) would simply plunge her head in and slurp and slop until she had slaked her thirst, Leia lapped very slowly. It wasn't uncommon for her to be crouched at the water dish for over five minutes to take a drink.
She loved toys and her favourites would be these plain, yellow ducks that were initially on strings. But she would chew the strings off then simply pick up the duck in her mouth, bat it around with her front paws, or, when she really got going, lie on her back grasping the duck with all four paws, sometimes kicking it with her hind feet. It was always a joy to play with Leia or just watch her but you had to be careful; if Leia ever found herself especially intense in her sport but then noticed she was being watched, she would very quickly cease this activity and walk away with her tail held high, as if trying to convince us it had never happened at all. Before this I'd never known that a cat could be embarrassed. But it was very important to Leia to appear dignified at all times in front of us.
Vicki would chase her and she would chase Vicki. They took turns. Sometimes Vicki would be lying on the floor asleep and Leia would come bounding in, sometimes hopping sideways, then leap onto Vicki and use the prone dog as a springboard, catapulting off her before running from the room or leaping onto a piece of furniture. Vicki would scramble to her feet in a fit of confusion, looking around dimly while Leia was already well out of sight. And Leia really did love Vicki. She would often jump onto the kitchen table to observe Vicki when she was put outside. It was clear she was concerned about the dog being out of the house (a place Leia never dared to venture) and I'm sure that sometimes she watched also in an effort to remind us that Vicki was out there - that she didn't trust us to remember to let Vicki back in on our own. She never in her life hissed or growled at Vicki; not even on those few occasions where the dog might have deserved it.
Leia is the only pet I know that would actually pose for photos. She must have had some understanding of her own physical beauty and it was clear she was very proud of her appearance. Unlike Wednesday, she was an almost obsessive groomer, constantly tidying her fur.
She loved her family and loved people in general. There was nothing solitary about her - she was always wherever we were and was very rarely alone in the house. She always came when called and had a very good understanding of English, better than many people I've met (and I'm speaking of Anglophones).
Her illness and eventual death are also a part of her story but it's not what I want to relate here. She was taken from us far too soon and I'll miss her for the rest of my life. Without Leia paving the way, we never would have gotten Wednesday, whom I love and adore just as much.
Leia will always be in my memory and my heart, not just as my cat and my pet but also as the most shining example of pure kindness I've observed so far in my life. She truly was an extraordinary creature and my words here could never do her proper justice. But I still wanted to try.
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