The Naked Disguise

Being that my blog (and the working title of my manuscript) is called 'Childish Things,' I am apparently interested in, and an advocate of, all things that allow the imagination to run wild. Too often in life, as we progress from childhood to adulthood, we are encouraged to put away childish things and behave a little more maturely, a lot more seriously, and focus solely on the mechanics of day to day functioning at the expense of the occasional daydream or wish fulfilment fantasy.

We tend to be extremists that way. As young kids we can go nuts and create whole worlds in our minds (even build castles and forts with the cushions off our sofa), yet once we cross that imaginary line, the world drains itself of every colour to become harsh in its black, white and predominantly grey tones.

We equate seriousness with maturity and using imagination with being somewhat naive and childish. At least, that's the face we show to the world.

BUT...

Have you ever noticed how older teens and adults regress - cut loose, if you will - once they're given official permission? A couple of examples in my life have occurred these last two Saturdays. Both were 40th birthday celebrations - one was a Red Party (wear anything red), and the other party's theme was Hat, Wig and Hairpiece (you can kinda guess what that involved).

Suddenly, well respected, somewhat serious, intelligent professionals (I work with a few) happily regress to their younger, cheekier and more energetic selves and lose their inhibitions. Usually, alcohol is the elixir of regression in adults, but it's not the same. For one, it's inherently messier and it dulls the senses. So when a simple hat, hideous mullet wig (my choice) or splash of color is donned, you get the same looseness without the groggy repercussions. Basically, you 'play' once more.

Adults don't play, you might say. It sounds a little strange. Perhaps it does. In reality, it's just a label for a feeling that comes naturally to all kids (big and small) when the timing and circumstance are right. The fact that I was in a roomful of adults who were having a ball, dancing up a storm, exchanging hats, wigs and tiaras as the night grew young is all the proof that I need that ALL humans (and animals by the way) play, regardless of their age. Call it whatever you want, but strip the euphemism away and that's what we're all doing.

If it takes a disguise or accessory to get to the real 'you' beneath the role you assume in society, then I say why not? And if you're a young kid or a teen reading this entry, never let your ability to play slip away.

I guarantee you'll be happier for it.

I Wish...

Driving home from my parents' place today, I saw a little kid walking with his mother, wielding a cricket bat and taking shadow swings with a beaming smile on his face. I was instantly taken back to my own childhood and the endless lists of things that I was super-passionate about - and imagined I'd achieve when I finally grew up.

Whilst I no longer take my tennis racquet everywhere with me, or dress up like a superhero, I realized that I still - in a more understated, adult way, carry with me the books, both published that I read, and the manuscripts, notebooks and diaries that I write, making a declaration of sorts to the world that I still desire something - that I still very much have a dream that I wish to someday (soon) turn into a reality.

That young boy today was no doubt imagining hitting a ball out for a '6' and winning The Ashes, and was doing so without trying to hide his burning ambition from those around him. It seems that as we grow up, we tend to dream in a little more subdued way, or layer it with the real life necessities and obligations that adults must contend with in life.

That isn't a bad thing - after all, a life in its complicated entirety is so much more than an achievement, a trophy, or a publishing deal.

But...

I think it's healthy, necessary and vital to every so often stand up with a hand on one's heart and make a wish upon a star. Tell the world - in most cases, the people in your life, what you wish for in those quiet and honest moments. If you put it out into the world, chances are someone, somewhere will hear.

Be brave!

The Underdog

Everyone loves an underdog...

I vividly remember reading an editorial article in GQ back in 1999, whilst holidaying in Greece, that has stayed with me. Although the article lampooned the infamous procrastination of novelists - in a very wry and very true way - it was the story of a man, who after a debilitating stroke, managed to write a novel by blinking out the letters, that resonated with me. Apart from being a constant pillar of perspective and reference any time the writer-in-me gets a tad precious or believes there's 'never enough time,' how can I not deeply admire a man who despite a terrible affliction succeeds in accomplishing a herculean task that most able-bodied people could never hope to achieve?

I was reminded of that editorial last night, when I watched the Ladies Singles Final at Wimbledon. The newly crowned champion, Marion Bartoli, is the epitome of an underdog. Her playing style is unorthodox - two handed off both sides (reminiscent of the legendary Monica Seles), with a hammer-like service motion (that doesn't include bouncing the ball at the service line), added kangaroo-hops and shadow swings at the back of the court after most points (to help reset, alleviate nerves and focus on the point ahead), culminating with her physique (which is not traditionally athletic). It brought to the fore that in sport there are genetically blessed athletes and there are natural-born competitors. Marion is most firmly in the second camp.

Whether a literary or a sporting example, what is it that ignites the fervor of a reader, watcher, or admirer into advocating for the proverbial underdog? Is it an inevitable push-back of all things cookie-cutter in appearance? If so, it is a full circle moment for most adults as it tends to run against the teen need of fitting in. For me, it reminds me that we're all unique, individual creatures trying to forge our own path in the world. Cookie-cutter or quirky-souled, deep down we are all one-off creations with no inherent rule books to help us navigate through life. It is the obvious examples of the above paragraphs that provide a touchstone of this very truth and ignites a sense of camaraderie.

As we cheer for the underdog, we cheer for ourselves.

A Writer is Born

When I was in the 1st Grade, my teacher, Miss Jackson, informed us all of a monthly book club that allowed kids to choose, order and have books delivered right to their very own classrooms. I thought I had died and gone to heaven! There was Lucky Book Club (for youngsters like me -  I was 6 years old at the time) and Star Book Club (that were for a slightly older clientele, filled with chapter books, and novels). I recall going home with the brochure and excitedly showing my mother. Even as I type this, THIRTY years later - eep - I can vividly remember how giddy I was. Mail-order books! OMG!

My parents had always encouraged my reading and where possible (and affordable), I could buy a book from the bookstore. But as I graduated from having tales read to me to reading them on my own, I wasn't able to get my hands on books fast enough to satisfy my craving for the written word. Excited and nervous, I remember asking mum if I was allowed to order a book that very afternoon. Without remembering the exact conversation, I was so happy when she agreed. I think I even mentioned that it was a monthly service and could I use my pocket money to buy a book or two every month? As many things those days were linked to being a good boy/diligent student, I was over the moon when she agreed. After all, I WAS a good boy (mostly), and a brainy kid.

Now...what to order? I must have poured through that thin four-paged, double-sided brochure for the entire afternoon. It was my equivalent of looking through the display case of assorted ice-cream and being able to choose only one. Would I pick the best one? Oh, the dilemma!

Finally I choose the book, Caps for Sale by Esphyr Slobodkina. That was the one I wanted! But what did a 6 year old know about the mechanics of mail-order? When my mother shrugged her shoulders, I retreated to my bedroom, trying to figure it out. Frustrated and anxious that I might miss out on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I decided to take a wild stab at it. So, I took out my craft scissors and carefully cut the little picture of the book that I wanted from the brochure and slipped it into the envelope along with the few dollars. Proud of my ingenuity, I rushed back to school the next day to hand it to my teacher.

I remember Miss Jackson opening the envelope and smiling. She may have even stifled a laugh. She took a new brochure and flipped it over to the back page to show me the order form that was there all along. She then gave me a lesson in filling out a coupon - a skill that still serves me to this day, and popped my order through.

I waited the week or so - it felt like a month - for the book to arrive. Then, during class one day, Miss Jackson held up the basket of freshly delivered books and read out the new owners' names. I blushed and hurried to the front of the class when she called my name out. Looking at my very first independently chosen and purchased book (as much as a kid my age could choose and purchase anything), I remember thinking that it was the glossiest book I'd ever seen. I was convinced it shone brighter than any other book I had on my shelf.

As you can imagine, I read and re-read the book a trillion times. From there my retail book addiction was born. Every month I would examine the new brochure and carefully order the next adventure I wanted to go on.

Even now, when I peruse the shelves of a bookstore, or the webpages of Amazon for my Kindle, I am reminded of that day. Somewhere in that experience, my adoration of books was ignited and my dream of being a writer was launched. And that dream is still very much alive today...

For the Love of Horror!

It used to be frowned upon to admit that one liked watching horror films - it was usually accompanied by a snort of derision and a roll of the eyes, especially by serious film critics. And while there are plenty of awful, just awful, entries in the canon, there are also films that lock you into a metaphorical roller-coaster car and take you for a thrilling - and yes, horrifying, ride.

Any writer (or reader for that matter) of horror, thriller, action, science fiction and the like are either fans of scary movies or have at the very least plundered the storytelling archetypes inherent in the genre. When uber-successful directors such as JJ Abrams and Joss Whedon openly admit to having gorged on a diet of horror and sci-fi in their formative years, the genre suddenly achieves a modicum of gravitas.

When one thinks of a storyteller, one conjures the image of a campfire surrounded with eager listeners who are enraptured by the narrator's ability to lure, enthrall, surprise, frighten and ultimately delight them with a yarn. As a writer or filmmaker accomplishing the above emotions is most definitely a goal, if not 'the' goal of entertainment. (There's even a theory that being scared in a safe environment actually helps people deal with the real evils of the world).

I too find that studying (and unabashedly enjoying) the horror genre has definitely helped hone my idiosyncratic set of storytelling skills. I may not be a horror writer per se, but any narrator who wishes to take his or her readers on a Joseph Campbell (arche)type journey can surely learn a thing or two from those who have successfully scared the pants off the public! As a writer of fast-paced and Dickensian YA, it has assisted me in crafting an appropriately shadowy atmosphere.

So, count me in as another creative who both enjoys and has been influenced by all-things-scary.

Boo!

Going Dark

I'd love to start this blog entry with 'where did April and May go?' but I am acutely aware of where those months went! The fact that I've managed to capture June before it too slipped through my fingers gives me reason to celebrate.

So where was I? To put it succinctly, I was 'off the grid.'

For a blog that is equally about writing and living out your dreams, sometimes the commentary will abruptly stop dead in its tracks. As very few things in life follow a neat, linear passage, this is an inevitable turn of events - and one I have no doubt will be repeated many more times during my writing life.

Suffice it to say, during my blogging hiatus I was busy at work (day job); crafting a climax to my novel that is worthy of the build-up (and tearing out my hair just a little); and taking care of my father's increasing medical appointments. That last one has sent me into a minor tailspin. Those who read this and have been through their own sobering point-of-no-return reversal of becoming a parent to your parents knows how heady, and heavy, that can be. Add a dash of exercise, a smidgen of socializing and there you have it.

So, this little entry is my blogging equivalent of dipping a toe back into the water. As my fingers bang out these words I feel a wonderful sense of relief. I feel instantly and gloriously at home.

It's nice to be back.

The Padded Room

There is a famous quote by Einstein... "There is nothing that is a more certain sign of insanity than to do the same thing over and over and expect the results to be different."

Many people are familiar with this quote - it has been around for a while and been paraphrased, reinterpreted, misinterpreted, and even popped in the middle of an Usher song. So why does it endure?

As a writer, who is trying to hone a particular set of skills on my path to publication, there was a penchant for me to live in my own head a little too long and to establish a routine or a style that may not be conducive to my goal of continual improvement and the eventual cracking of the 'professional writers code.' It dawned on me a little while ago that I needed to find a balance between staying true to my own voice - and changing things up in an effort to break from the above definition of insanity.

This has been quite liberating, and surprisingly so. Now, I write at all different times of the day (when I can), I attack brainstorming and the editing process is ever-changing ways, I listen to music while writing, go for a run before sitting down to write for the day, and generally find new ways to get under the skin of my protagonists in an effort to breathe life into proceedings. This may not sound like much, but to a fellow writer who may read this, shaking one's routine can be enough to send your axis spinning out of control.

But that's the entire point. If nothing changes, then nothing changes. What is there to lose about trying to mix things up and trying to shape the clay in a different way? I'd rather break free and play rather than rock back and forth in the padded room of my writer's mind.

Happy writing!