Eat the Damn Cookie!

Posted on April 1, 2015 by clubfredbaja

Close up of an half eaten cookie with crumb against a white back

I’m coming out of a slump.

It’s been over three months of slump this time around—waking up every day feeling a shade of blue that darkens as the day progresses. The outside world rarely knows I’m slumping because a) I’m good at faking happy b) I know slumps are temporary so I don’t share them lest I lengthen them c) I see the big picture and I know I have no “real” reason to complain about my life.

That’s also the problem, though. I know I have no reason to be in a slump but I can’t get myself out of it. Slumps frustrate me and I end up in this loop where an argument rages in my head all day…

Me: Sigh. I am sad.

Me: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

Me: A thing is making me feel sad and listless.

Me: YOU ARE SAD? YOU? HOW DO YOU THINK THE PEOPLE IN REFUGEE CAMPS FEEL, HUH? HOW ABOUT ALL THE STARVING OR SICK PEOPLE? WHAT HAVE *YOU* GOT TO BE SAD ABOUT?

Me: You’re right. Now I feel bad about being sad.

Me: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

This time around, the slump was triggered by a combination of winter, financial woes, missing self-imposed deadlines for the book, hormones (yay), and my beat up body that decided to spaz out on me and not let me run or go to the gym. Every time I thought I was coming out of the slump, something dragged me back in. Icing on the slump? The birth control pills I was taking to tame the peri-menopausal hormone beast were making me gain weight. Not only could I not run or go to the gym, I was putting on pounds just by thinking of food. (Not a lot of pounds but it doesn’t take many for me to feel glum).

I ditched the pills, published the book, and finally dragged my butt back to the gym, believing that at last—at last!—my woes were over.

Then I got the news about my sister’s leukemia.

First Class ticket back to Slump Town.

It wasn’t until Prez and I were driving back to Nelson, after almost two weeks of city traffic and hospital visits and family drama, that I knew The Great Slump of 2014/15 had finally passed. The mere knowledge that I would not have to battle Vancouver drivers for two hours per day was enough to make the world seem suddenly full of light and hope.

Every time I find myself in a slump, a funk, or whatever you want to call it, I wonder how the hell I got there and how I’m going to get myself out. I become consumed with the idea that I MUST get myself out of the slump. Like I’m some kind of superhero and the world depends on me being in tippity-top shape or something?

This time was a little different.

At one of my lowest points, my good friend Laura invited Prez and I along for a soak at Ainsworth Hot Springs. (Truly, I do not think I could endure an entire winter without at least one hot springs soak). Prez can stand about fifteen minutes of hot water before he wilts, which left Laura and I plenty of time to chat and prune. I decided to confide my slumpiness and share some of the reasons behind it with my friend. Among other tales of self pity, I shared my frustration at my complete lack of desire to maintain even basic health and nutrition. I don’t keep junk food in my house, in order to remove temptation completely, but lately I had been popping over to Safeway on my short lunch breaks and buying crap to snack on.

“I don’t eat cookies,” I whined to Laura. “I don’t crave cookies. I am not a cookie person. I can always force myself into the gym, even when I’m feeling low. But these days all I want to do is sit on the couch, watch TV and eat cookies! I HATE IT!”

And she said the most amazing thing to me.

Oh, you want to know what she said?

“Why don’t you just let yourself be where you are and feel what you’re feeling? Why don’t you just eat the cookie?”

I thought about it all the way home.

Why can’t I let myself be sad? Why can’t I admit that there are worse things in life than gaining a few pounds and being unproductive now and then? Maybe the slump would pass more quickly if I stopped fighting it?

So…I gave in. I didn’t turn into a complete couch potato (books don’t publish themselves), but when those moments hit, and the cookie called, I answered without self-flagellation. I let myself eat the cookie.

And now the slump has passed, the sun is out, the book is out, the bank account…could be better but I’ve actually had some paying gigs of late, my hormones are stable for the moment, I’m back at the gym and running, I’ve already ditched a few el-bees, and I’m renewed enough to be there wholeheartedly for my sister when she needs me. The world, shockingly, did not come to an end because of my slump.

I don’t think this slump induced self-loathing is my burden alone, though. I think there are a lot of messages out there that reinforce the notion that if we don’t want it all, do it all, and have it all, while looking and feeling perfect, then there is something wrong with us. It’s too easy to look around, either in the real world, or at the media, or on social media, and believe that everyone else has it figured out and we’re stupid, sucky failures. And the older you get, the easier it is to fall into that trap because tick-tock, tick-tock. Shouldn’t you be further ahead by now?

I’m no help either. I’m just as likely to give the “You shouldn’t be sad! Lots of people have it worse than you!” speech to friends who confess their slumps to me. Friends, you know who you are. Sorry!

What I need to say, what we all need to say, is “Just eat the damn cookie!” Let yourself be sad. Unless you’re suffering from clinical depression, it’s going to pass in a few weeks or months regardless of what you do, so don’t keep banging your head against the same brick wall. Whatever your cookie is, eat it. Don’t let anyone, especially yourself, make you feel wrong for doing so.

The sun will come out again.

The pounds will come off again.

You will be happy again.

But until then it’s okay to be sad and…

Eat the damn cookie.

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My Side of the Canyon: On age, youth, and the gap between

Posted on March 29, 2015 by clubfredbaja
Kristene Perron, Mabel Marrington, Dorothy Mason

Me with my “gram”, Dorothy (L), and my nana, Mabel (R)

Want to drive your young children insane? Take them along when you go out for lunch or dinner with a friend. When the meal ends, order coffee after coffee and talk about a bunch of adult stuff. With each refill watch the squirming, sighing, and eye-rolling escalate. See how many refills it takes before complete child meltdown.

What is wrong with adults? I used to wonder this whenever I found myself stuck in that nightmarish restaurant scenario as a child. How can they just sit there, just talking and talking and talking about boring stuff, not doing anything?

To child-me, this was one of life’s great mysteries: Why are adults so boring?

Now that I am an adult, I get it. Now that play and time with friends is a luxury. Now that my body no longer recovers instantly from the kind of everyday abuse child-me put it through.

I know now that even if you had sat child-me down and had explained why adults enjoy sitting and talking with their friends for hours and hours, I wouldn’t have understood.

There is canyon that divides the old and the young. It can only be filled by experience.

I have two nephews. Both are in their twenties. Both are interesting and intelligent young men in their own unique ways. Both have already faced their share of adult struggles—heartbreak, unemployment, birth, bureaucratic headaches, disappointment. I’ve watched them grow up from a distance, seen the inevitable changes, tried to be a friend when and how I could.

One of the perks of being Cool Aunt Who Lives Far Away is objectivity. I exist at a safe distance, physically and emotionally, from the drama. Or do I?

In the past year, I’ve had a few experiences with my nephews that have pushed me out of the “objective and supportive observer” chair. I’ve had to realize that they’re not kids anymore. We’re all adults and it’s time we learned to relate to each other that way.

I have not been completely successful at this.

The canyon of experience dividing us is real. And frustrating, from the side I’m standing on.

A few years back, I was accused of having never been twenty-three. My accuser, in case you had any doubts, was twenty-three, and drunk, and waking Prez and I up at 3:00am for the umpteenth time that month. My anger was unfathomable to his twenty-three year old mind. The irony of his statement is that I have been twenty-three; I remember being twenty-three. I remember that I was selfish and self-entitled, just like him. Just like many (most?) twenty-somethings. It was he who had never been forty-two. He was the one who could not possibly have known what I was thinking and feeling.

The old and the young stand on opposite sides of the canyon. On one side, youth, energy, and naivety squirm and sigh and roll their eyes. Why are old people so boring? What is wrong with them? I’m never going to be like that! On the other side, age, weariness, and experience order yet another coffee, shake their head, and wish for the day when those snot-nosed little brats will cross over and “get it”.

I don’t want that to be me. I don’t want to be so jaded that I can’t allow the young their chance to make all the same mistakes I did. Those mistakes and their consequences are what got me to the other side of this divide. I have empathy now because of the damage my selfishness caused. Honestly, how many of you in the Over 40 category reading this right now look back at your younger self and think, “Wow, I was kind of a dick”?

We didn’t think we were dicks back then, did we? Everything we thought or said or did was justified because EVERYTHING WAS ABOUT US.

Secure in the knowledge that the moon and the stars and the sun revolved around us, we took risks, we forged new paths, we looked life in the face and dared it to do its worst. We dreamed big because the world was made for us and everything was possible.

I don’t remember the exact day I woke up on the other side of the canyon. It was sometime in my thirties, though. Maybe if I’d had children it would have happened earlier—it’s easier to stay selfish without small humans depending on you. Whenever it happened, I do recall feeling a sense of smallness. It wasn’t discomforting, this smallness. Quite the opposite. All those big dramas of my younger days became insignificant because I had seen enough of the world to know how petty they really were. Romance still existed but love was more important because romance comes and goes, love endures. I stopped looking outside myself so much for validation and praise—hard work was its own reward. I acknowledged my shortcomings but accepted that every human is flawed, so I also forgave myself. I stopped trying to make everyone happy because it’s an impossible task that breeds resentment. At the same time, I let myself care more about other people and stopped expecting everyone else to care about me.

This side of the canyon is aches and pain, loss, regret, and the tick of the clock. Life is finite over here. But this side of the canyon is also serenity, wisdom, love, camaraderie, loyalty, and stories. Oh, the stories!

As wonderful as it is over here, however, we need to let the young be young. We don’t have to applaud their mistakes but we do have to let them make those mistakes. The world needs energetic naivety as much as it needs thoughtful experience.

I look forward to the day my nephews and I will stand on the same side of the canyon. I hope we’ll be friends and share a coffee (well, tea for me), and talk about our younger days, and laugh. Until then, I think it’s time for me to stand back and let them live their lives, though I will occasionally shout“I love you!” into the void, just so they don’t forget.

Sean and Scott children

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When Did We All Become Children?

Posted on March 20, 2015 by clubfredbaja

Kitten Is Playing With Paper Cranes

Several years ago I watched a fascinating documentary on cat behaviour. One of the theories put forth in the film was that by feeding and sheltering cats from an early age, humans unintentionally keep them at a juvenile stage of development for their entire life. After all, in nature, kittens would very quickly learn how to catch and eat their own food but in our homes we take the place of their mother and provide them with all the nutrition they need. Without the incentive of possible starvation, “play hunting” remains just that.

Before domestic cats became pets, they had a job: Kill vermin. Ours was a relationship of convenience. Humans had food that attracted lots of pests, cats killed and ate the pests that threatened our food and spread disease. Some cats still perform that function but more and more their role in modern human society has become that of entertainment, ornament, and companionship.

When we take away all the natural challenges cats are designed to overcome, what’s left?

*

I’m reading a collection of SF/F stories right now. One I found particularly haunting—Rainbows for Other Days—is set in a post-apocalyptic earth maintained by human/mechanical hybrid caretakers. The natural environment is too toxic and fragile for humans and so the small population is contained in a prison-like facility until the day they can once more inhabit the planet freely.

When one of the humans escapes and is rescued by a hybrid caretaker known as a Ranger, an argument about the current unhappy state of humanity ensues. The question comes down to logic versus emotion. Yes, a small group of humans could be set free to live in the wild and possibly survive but doing so would risk the larger plan designed to ensure a healthy planet and a population of humans that would not repeat their past mistakes.

The reader is left to wonder about the nature of personal sacrifice and the wisdom of choices that reach beyond the here and now.

I’ve been wondering about this quite a lot lately.

*

More and more, my trips to the big city leave me exhausted. Stress exists like a living entity whenever you shove too many people too close together, a volatile being ready to punch and kick and bite. As much as I enjoy the vibrancy and diversity of Vancouver, the traffic, anonymity, line ups and crowds wear me down.

My latest trip was unplanned, included far more rush hour driving than I’ve done in years, and centered on an already stressful situation. I was happy that circumstances allowed me to be available for my sister when she most needed me, but I’m not going to pretend that a leukemia ward is a place anyone really wants to pass their days.

But what wore me out most was a piece of drama, which, for the sake of family harmony, I will not discuss except to say it further prompted me to further consider the nature of self-sacrifice.

It is human nature to want a better life for our children, to protect them from the hardships we endured, and to minimize their suffering. It is also human nature to complain when the younger generations fail to appreciate the hardships of their predecessors—hardships they could not possibly appreciate, having never experienced them. Do you see the irony here?

And so it goes, generation after generation struggling to make a better, easier life for their offspring, while lamenting how easy Kids These Days have it. We know adversity strengthens us. We know that for all the damage nature can do to us fragile humans, we benefit from maintaining a close relationship with the natural world. We know that suffering often gives us purpose, and purpose lights a fire in our belly. We know all this and yet we can’t help ourselves.

We are determined to make a safe, sterile world, bereft of the daily challenges that are the cornerstone of our development.

When we take away all the natural challenges cats (and humans) are designed to overcome, what’s left?

I have a theory based purely on observation and speculation. Namely, like kittens mothered long after weaning, humans for whom life is too easy have no incentive to grow up.

Some of us will use this freedom from adversity to run free and explore, create, play, let our imagination carry us to exciting new heights. But some of us will find ourselves lost and purposeless, a multitude of Don Quixote’s without even a windmill at which to tilt. With so much time devoted to nothing but our own self-interest, we become the heroes of invented tragedies. Petty injustices are amplified—How dare you try to pass me (ME!) on the freeway—and everything slowly becomes about us and our feelings. Our precious precious feelings.

The conundrum for me is where we draw the line. When does easy become too easy? When does respect for others become pandering?

I see the difference in the level of cancer treatment from the time my mom battled the disease to this past week when my sister undertook the same battle and I am awed. Only a sadist would wish us to go backward from this point. But progress doesn’t happen in isolation. The same drive that pushes us to create better treatments and cures for diseases also pushes us to create padded playgrounds and self-driving cars.

Are we as a species capable of taking the long view and making the best choices for our future selves, especially if that means more adversity in the here and now? Are we doomed to move forward as adult children, mothered by our well-meaning ancestors?

*

Last night our friends Pat and Joyce called to make sure we’d arrived home safely. I have known the Roneys for almost eighteen years, Prez for longer than that. There has never been a time we have needed them that they have not been there for us.

During the seven hour drive home, I’d been turning the question of humankind’s selfish short-sightedness over and over in my mind and yet there I was talking to two of our many generous and self-sacrificing friends.

“We love you guys!” they shouted in unison. “We love you, too!” we called back.

I am overwhelmed by life’s contradictions.

*

“Mankind can never surpass nature’s wisdom, miss.”

She cocks her head and squints, shielding her eyes with her hand. “No? Why’s that?”

“Because he wants what he can never have–an end to suffering. Nature wants nothing. It just is. Life seeks its level. It now and then visits misery or pain and then goes on its way. But man is unhappy. He makes gods and governments to alleviate suffering and walls off his children from it. When the walls fall down, the deluge strikes. So he builds higher still, till he dams up the whole of the world. And when the whole world crashes down, there’s nothing but suffering.”

~ C. Stuart Hardwick, Rainbows for Other Days

Posted in Environment, Family & Children, Friends, Health and wellness, Nature & Environment | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments

A Farewell to Stoicism

Posted on March 16, 2015 by clubfredbaja

Heart In Hands

Those of you who know me will have noticed a series of Facebook posts this week concerning my sister Kelly. Among those posts were shameless requests for ehugs and pleasant distractions to lift her spirits. I’m certain at least a few folks who saw my posts tut-tutted over my whore-like pleas for attention. And I don’t care.

Almost two weeks ago I received a text from my sister. She was in the hospital. The fatigue that she had assumed was due to stress and a lack of sleep, was actually a dangerously low level of hemoglobin. What happened next left my head spinning. Blood transfusions, a diagnosis of acute myeloid leukemia, talk of issues with her bone marrow, an ambulance ride off the island to the only leukemia specialty ward in the province, tests, tests, and more tests, and then chemotherapy. I finished off my only pressing commitment in Nelson, loaded up the truck, and Prez and I headed to the coast. I’ve been visiting her every day, but for one, since I arrived.

I’ve been down this road before, with my mother, but this time I’ve decided to travel differently.

I am a fan of stoicism. I grew up with a father who worked in a steel mill before there were such luxuries as hearing protection, steel-toed boots, and safety goggles. In his world, you didn’t complain about life’s little inconveniences—tinnitus, burns, the occasional smashed toe—you were simply thankful to have a good paying job and a roof over your head. And pity? Who has time for that?

I married a man who once informed me hours after getting stung by a poisonous insect that his leg had gone numb right up to his hip and he had honestly thought for a moment that it might continue, and he might die. When I asked him why he had not thought to inform me of this while it was happening, (we were snorkeling), he said, “Well, we were too far away from a hospital to do anything and I figured if I have to die it might as well happen while I was doing something I enjoy.”

As for me, I have written of my Spock brain tendencies which have only recently been sabotaged by those damn female hormones. More than one person in my life has not-jokingly referred to me as emotionless because (pre-peri menopause) I was not known to shed tears over just about anything…at least not in front of other people.

When my mother was diagnosed with cancer, I was a rock. My job, I thought, was to be steady and logical. I pointed her toward a support group and attended the first meeting, but that’s about as touchy-feely as I allowed myself to be. We would get through this with good old Marrington stoicism. Even after her death, I believed I had done all I could do.

For years I looked disparagingly upon those who could not contain their public emotions or sent out cries for help, but almost a decade ago two special friends shifted my thinking.

For those of you who never had the pleasure of meeting my friend Big Wave Dave, he faced down a fairly dismal stage four cancer diagnosis and managed to squeeze out several more happy years than the doctors predicted. He was very clear that one of the big factors in his success was the army of friends, family, and well-wishers of all description who cheered him on. But that army would not have existed in such force if it were not for his wife, the remarkable Liz.

You see, Dave had originally wanted to keep his diagnosis quiet. Like many people, I’m sure he did not want his condition to be a burden on others, did not want pity, and felt he could handle the challenge on his own. Liz, wisely, put the kibosh on that idea. Even if Dave had been capable of dealing with the cancer solo, she knew she was not. Together, they broke the news to friends and family, in person, by phone, and email. I will never forget that day. Most of all, I will never forget how honoured we were to be included in the news and how eager we were to offer any kind of support that we could. It wasn’t pity we felt but love.

After witnessing the tsunami of friendship that carried Dave through those difficult years, I realized that maybe stoicism ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Slowly, I have tried to open up, to ask for help when I need it, and admit to vulnerability. I even—gasp—cry in front of people now and then.

The hormones might be helping with that.

So, when my sister ended up in the hospital, sick, scared, and alone, I decided that without violating her privacy I would try to recruit my own army of well wishers to bring a smile to her face while she waited for test results. I put out the call for smile generators on Facebook. My friends answered that call and how. Funny videos, photos of shaved llamas and funny cats, messages full of love and cheer flooded in, often from people who had never even met Kelly. Just as I had hoped, her spirits were lifted and a terrible time was made a little less terrible.

I continue to post updates and to thank those who have been there for my sister, and for me. As long as she has to go through this ordeal, I want her to know that a whole bunch of people are out there just waiting to help.

And those folks tut-tutting about my oversharing? Well, they can just keep tut-tutting. I’ll be riding the tsunami.

Posted in Family & Children, Friends, Health and wellness, Love | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Inkless: Why I’ll Never Get A Tattoo

Posted on February 19, 2015 by clubfredbaja

Bare back with no tattoos

Not long ago I posted on Facebook asserting that it is my goal to be the last non-tattooed person on the planet. The statement was supposed to be a joke and I think most people got that, except maybe my sister who has a lovely little butterfly tattoo and very delicate feelings. (Sorry, Kelly. Love you! xo)

But part of it wasn’t a joke. You see, I don’t really like tattoos. And some people will automatically interpret this as, “I HATE YOUR TATTOO”, which is not true. I do hate some tattoos but I’m sure yours is really nice, especially if you are a gigantic, meth addicted biker who knows where I live.

Let me be ultra clear. I don’t like tattoos for myself. I don’t see the point of it. I like my big ol’ blank body, wrinkles and moles (of which, I have several,) and all. To me, my blank skin possesses all the possibilities of a blank sheet of paper—any story could be written here!

This is the part where you tell me how your tattoo has a special significance and it marks the day you:

  • Left your abusive ex
  • Had your first child
  • Buried your mother
  • Lost your virginity
  • Found your virginity
  • Base jumped off the Sears Tower
  • Quit meth
  • Joined a biker gang
  • Started doing meth again

This is also the part where I say, “I know, I know!” because I realize that by telling you how I feel about my body I have somehow unintentionally denigrated or ridiculed how you feel about your body.

Relax. Breathe in. Breathe out.

When I talk about what I like for my body, it’s all about me. 100% about me. There is no comment on you—pinky swear. Though perhaps if your first reaction is defensiveness that’s worth a moment of pondering.

I don’t have tattoos and never will have tattoos, unless that biker gang guy drags me off to his biker gang clubhouse and forces one upon me. I don’t have any piercings either, except for my ears, which happened when I was thirteen and involved me nearly fainting. I have not worn earrings for well over a decade and those holes are no longer holes. I call them “ear lobe dimples” now.

When I was younger, body decoration of all sorts excited me. Big hair, big make-up, big clothes, oh baby, size does matter! Looking back, I know where that all came from—I was a weirdo in Straightsville. I was not fully able to embrace my weirdness but it needed to come out. My solution? Wear my weirdness on the outside and shove it in everyone’s face. LOOK UPON ME, ALL YOU NORMAL PEOPLE, AND DESPAIR! I did everything I possibly could—everything that would not get me permanently grounded—to express myself via my body.

Back then, in the olden days, tattoos were still an act of rebellion. Only punkers, rockers, bikers, members of the military, sailors, and criminals got tattoos. Usually they were ugly blue-ish blotches, though artistic tattoos were becoming more popular by the time I was almost old enough to legally get one. And I was certain I would get one because I was so out there, so bad ass, so “fringe”. My first tattoo would pay homage to one of my favourite comic book characters, the wacky-yet-clinically-insane Badger. Yo, Larry! (Still one of the best comic books of all time, in my not-humble opinion).

Badger comic book with bullI’d gone so far as to pick a spot for the stylistic badger paw when I received the unsettling news that tattoos required getting stabbed with a needle about one billion times. Um…no. I would just have to find some other way to prove my bad assery to the world.

All I can say about that is: Whew. I still remember Badger with fondness but not with enough fondness to want that memory permanently stamped onto my flesh.

My forms of expression changed over the years but when I started doing stunts everything changed completely. Who *I* was no longer mattered—my job was to pretend to be other people. That turned out to be great fun and a form of expression in its own right. Today I might be a ninety-seven-year-old grandma, tomorrow a zombie, the next day a spaceship captain (I did get to be that sometimes—most awesome thing ever!). I became the canvas upon which other lives were painted and I liked it. In my “real” life, everything came down ten levels. My days were spent training, which meant I lived in workout clothes, hair in a ponytail, no make up. Gradually, I found this new blankness liberating.

Today I am so comfortable in my own skin that even clothes often seem a nuisance. “Man, do I really have to waste time putting on pants again?! HEAVY SIGH!”

Yes, I actually say “HEAVY SIGH” instead of sighing. I am an artiste.

The most interesting things about me do not exist on my epidermis, but inside my cranium. I think therefore I am wonderful. My brain is a chaotic but happy place where raging thought blizzards gyre across the psychedelic plains of emotion. I’m still weird, I think, but I can finally embrace my weirdness and I’ve found a much more satisfying method of expressing it. I no longer need to make myself into a walking billboard.

I write stories. Those are my tattoos. They are permanent and each has a special significance, marking the day when:

  • I finally left my abusive ex
  • I buried my mother
  • I found my biological mother and siblings
  • I met my true love

No image on my skin could ever mean as much to me as one of my stories and hopefully, unlike my skin, those stories will live on long after my chaotic brain ceases to exist.

I am glad you have your tattoos. Rock on, and bear your marks with pride. Everyone needs a way to tell their story. Everyone needs a way to shout, “This is who I am! This is what matters to me!”, even if only to themselves.

But it’s not my way and never will be.

I am not inkless, however.

If you want to see my ink, look between the covers of my books.

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Ready to Jump

Posted on February 14, 2015 by clubfredbaja

Today marks eighteen Valentine’s Days for Prez and me. I’d say it’s been a strange one so far but we never seem to have a “normal” anything, so let’s just say it was our usual strangeness.

An opportunity may have presented itself (again, I know), and if the stars align we may once more be headed far, far away. If you’re tempted to fire questions at me for more details, my advice is to wait. Opportunities are like passing trains for us—we’re always ready to hop on and ride but sometimes the train is too fast, sometimes it’s headed in the wrong direction, and sometimes we simply decide it isn’t worth the effort. If we decide to jump aboard, my dearest Nutters, you’ll be the first to know.

I mention the opportunity because if it pans out it will be too good to refuse. That will mean selling things, packing things, saying goodbyes, and starting all over again—something at which we are both pros. I mention the opportunity, also, because it’s Valentine’s Day and I’ve been ruminating on love.

After a romantic morning of blowing insulation into an old home for a friend and client, Prez soaked in a hot tub. “Come sit and talk with me,” he said. I did, hesitantly. You see, I knew he wanted to talk about “The Opportunity” and I knew that this time the train looks to be going at the right speed, and in the right direction, and I have no excuses to put off jumping on.

So we sat in our tiny, steamy bathroom, he in the soapy water, and me on the bathmat with my back against the wall. We talked through the pros and cons, as we always do, though after eighteen years we’re much better at spotting the cons. Even admitting the still-distant possibility that my life could be up-heaved—that I could lose the freedom of my work-at-home-in-purple-pajamas lifestyle, that my writing and all the activities connected to it could be forced to take a back seat for at least a few years, that all the friends I’ve finally acquired by standing in one place long enough for people to remember my name—filled me with despair. I feel as if I am just starting to come into my own as a person after forty-five years and now I may have to walk away from all that?

I wanted to cry but I did not. You see, when I look at my husband, my closest companion for almost two decades, my best friend, business partner, and head cheerleader, and he says, “Kris, I’m 53. If I don’t get something going quickly, we’re going to end up poor for the rest of our lives.” I know what I have to do.

He’s right. And I love my husband. And I can’t stand to let another year slip by watching him grow more despondent and frustrated. I say yes. I say, “If you think the opportunity is worth it, let’s go.”

Love is not Valentine’s gifts and chocolates and declarations of affection. At least not the kind of love that keeps you together for eighteen years or more.

Love is the million invisible threads that tie your happiness to another’s.

It’s not blind, love. It’s looking at life with your eyes wide open and realizing that you can’t always be the one at the top of the seesaw. Up and down, give and take, that’s how partnership works.

So, if The Opportunity works out (odds are unknown at this point), I’ll pout and cry and indulge my less noble nature for a little while but then I’ll pack my bags and head off to the next big adventure. How could I not?

If The Opportunity doesn’t work out, I know there will plenty more heading our way.

My friend Deryn messaged me about a week ago and mentioned that she had spotted Prez and I walking down the street holding hands and she thought it was sweet. I think that’s how I always see the two of us—holding hands, always ready to make the leap together wherever the train may take us.

Kristene and Fred Perron in love

Always ready to make the leap together

Posted in Love, Travel | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

The Joy of Finished

Posted on February 8, 2015 by clubfredbaja

Kristene Perron rides a unicorn

Since I embarked on my professional writing journey almost eleven years ago, I have learned lessons too numerous to count. Most of the dreams and beliefs I once held about the noble craft have been pushed off the cliff of pragmatism. But of all the revelations that I have experienced, there is one that hit me like a meteorite of pure DUH. I will share it with you now:

Ideas are cheap.

Ideas are less than a dime a dozen. You would have better luck trading your old shares of Enron for food than you would by trading in your brilliant idea for the next Great American/Canadian/Whateverian novel. If aliens invaded earth, story ideas are the only natural resource they would not bother to harvest.

I used to believe that what every writer needs is a brilliant idea for a story. From there? ZOOM! Manuscript. Contract. Money. Fame. BLAMMO!

The truth? No matter how brilliant, an idea that is not put into action and seen through to its conclusion is worthless.

The hard part of writing is not coming up with good ideas. The image of the poor tortured author staring blankly at a typewriter and lamenting her writer’s block is not without some truth but neither is it The Worst Thing Ever when it comes to writing a novel.

The hard part of writing…no. The hardest part of writing is taking an idea and then sitting your ass in the damn chair to bang out the first draft. Then the second draft. Third. Fourth. However many drafts it takes. Then, submitting the “finished” draft to an editor or editors, only to be told it needs changes—possibly changes large enough to send you back to square one. THEN, not freaking out and defending your brilliance through tears and shoutyness, but looking critically at those suggested changes and returning to the damn chair. Then, (no, it’s not over yet), polishing and spit-shining your work, even when you’ve lost all objectivity and you hate your stupid stupid characters and you wish you could just start on the next good idea because that one is surely going to be loads of fun and no work at all.

Oh, and completing the manuscript is only the beginning of your job. If you decide to traditionally publish, you need to find yourself an agent or publisher. If you indie publish, you are the publisher and your to-do list would make a Viking warrior weep.

Finishing what you start, that is the hardest part of writing. It’s also, I suspect, where many aspiring writers shrug their shoulders and eventually walk away. Which is sad, because there is another big truth that has been revealed to me that I will also now share:

Finishing is awesome!

Seeing an idea through to its conclusion is like riding a unicorn into a mountain of chocolate cupcakes while fairies sprinkle you with orgasm dust.

Sure, you’re exhausted and your head feels like someone liquefied your brain and then dumped a carton of Pop Rocks and rabid badgers into it, but it’s still awesome. The days after your manuscript is finally complete are bliss-filled and dreamlike. And after your manuscript becomes a real novel that will be on a real (or virtual) shelf somewhere that real people can buy and read it? There is not enough “WOW” to describe that feeling. The first time I held a copy of Warpworld in my hand, you could have burned down my house, crashed my truck, and kidnapped my cat and you still could not have pried the smile from my face.

In a few weeks, I’ll be holding Ghost World, the third volume in the Warpworld series, in my hands. This will be a good time to ask me to lend you some money or babysit your bratty kids or help you move. The first novel will always be the best but every time I see a manuscript through to the very end I am euphoric.

I’ve heard writers who are hesitant to share their story ideas because they fear another writer might steal them. If this is you, here, have a big spoonful of Relax. First, there are few ideas that are so original that the idea alone will carry the story. Second, I could give one hundred people the same idea and I would end up with one hundred very different stories in the end. Third, about .01% of people who hear a good story idea will actually have the time, desire, or discipline to turn that idea into a completed manuscript.

So, now the big question: How do you finish?

I wish I could impart some lofty wisdom to you to answer that question. Better yet, I wish I could invent a pill that I could sell to you to instantly put the knowledge into your brain ($29.95, possible side effects may include fits of laughter, bleeding eyeballs, and restless leg syndrome).

Truthfully, I don’t know. Mostly I think you need a fire in your gut that no amount of drudgery can extinguish. You need to “be” writing. I don’t leap out of bed every morning at o’dark thirty because of a list of rules I’ve taped to my fridge, I do it because the story demons will not let me sleep.

Having said all that, there are some tips I can offer. Discipline, organization, and efficiency can be learned, and it is those tools that will help de-drudgerize some of the work on your way to the finish line.

1. Set specific goals with dates

A writer without an externally imposed deadline is like a toddler on a sugar high in a toy store. So. Many. Shiny. Distractions!

Be specific: Complete 5 chapters

Set a date: By March 20, 2015

Most importantly, treat that deadline as seriously as you would if it was handed down to you from a Really Big Publisher Who Signs Your Cheques.

2. Buy, learn, and use Scrivener

Those of you who already use this miracle program are nodding your heads knowingly. I do not know how I survived without Scrivener. This is manuscript organization at its finest.

3. Put your pants on

Okay, your metaphorical pants. Pants suck! BOO! Down with pants!

What I mean here is: if you want to be a professional author, you must treat writing as your job. Yes, it can be a fun job but it’s too easy to get swept up in the “Whee! I’m an artiste! I don’t need to punch a clock or wear pants!” mentality. Every successful author will tell you that what made them successful was not freedom from responsibility but a lot of really hard work.

4. Writer, know thyself

If a quick peek at your Facebook page ends with you watching an Epic Fails compilation on YouTube three hours later, then you need to revoke your internet privileges while you write. Some writers with this problem even use a separate computer, with no internet connection, solely for work. For me, my Achilles heel is my sociability. I like people and I have lots of friends close at hand, which means I had to teach myself to say, “No, I can’t come for coffee with you, I’m writing” when what I really, really, really wanted to say was, “Yes, I’ll meet you for coffee in an hour!”

Chatting with friends over coffee will feel good in the moment but finishing your manuscript will feel good x one million in the not-so-distant future.

5. Ask for help

One of the beautiful things I’ve discovered about the writing community is that most of the time most writers want to help each other succeed. Don’t be afraid to call upon this Army of Awesome when you’re stuck in a rut or you’re up against a problem that has stumped you. Whether you need someone to tell you to “Suck it up, put your pants on and get back to work!”, or you need help filling a plot hole, there are other writers out there who can and will lend a hand. Don’t let pride stop you from getting the job done.

And if you don’t have a writing community, find one. Go to conferences or workshops, take part in online forums and discussion groups, find a writers group, step out of the cave!

6. Pace yourself

I’ve spent a lot of time in gyms (there is a parallel here, bear with me). Without fail, at the beginning of every January, June, and September, the gym would be packed full of people who were determined to lose weight, get fit, and finally achieve their goals! These well meaning folks would practically kill themselves in the first two weeks. And, inevitably, every February, July, and October, they would be gone and the gym would be quiet again. Why? Because losing weight and getting fit are hard tasks. If you make a hard task harder by pushing yourself too fast and too often, you’ll burn out and quit.

Set writing goals, yes. But set realistic and attainable goals and don’t knock yourself out in the first month. Building strong story muscles takes years and writing a manuscript is a marathon not a sprint.

7. Try a little tenderness

Be kind to yourself. Not every good idea survives to “The End”. Don’t be afraid to walk away from a manuscript that just isn’t working. It happens. You may need a few running starts before you hit upon the right good idea.

Conversely, (if you’re taking the traditional route), don’t despair over those finished manuscripts that win you nothing but rejection letters. Be proud of yourself for making it to “The End” and accept that as long as you’re learning and improving then you’re a success. Writing is not a race, it’s not a competition, it’s simply one of many paths to walk—so why not enjoy the view?

That’s my two cents. Now, with the finish line in sight, I’m going to try and savour these last moments between the end of the current manuscript and the start of the new one. If you need me, I’ll be on my unicorn.

Posted in Indie publishing, On Scribbling, Warpworld | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Woman in the Burqa

Posted on January 31, 2015 by clubfredbaja

“We’ve already been killed, all of us. It happened so long ago, we’ve forgotten it.” ~ Yasmina Khadra, Swallows of Kabul 

I waited for the furor of the Charlie Hebdo massacre to die down before I wrote this post. Like everyone else, I was horrified and saddened by the killings. Unlike so many others, I did not leap up in outrage and solidarity, raise my pen or pencil, and declare Je suis Charlie! When I saw the world leaders, arms linked, defending freedom of speech, I was angry, but not at the murderers. You see, every day, freedom—basic freedom—is denied and the world lets it happen. Those of us who question the instrument of this oppression are branded as disrespectful or biased—even if we speak out in defense of our own. Even if “our own” constitutes half of the human race.

But let me stop here and tell you about the woman I saw in Las Vegas.

Not even a month has passed since I saw her. I was walking down the Las Vegas strip. The weather was chilly, even for January, but the sun was shining and I was enjoying the feel of light on my face. Soon I would be back in Nelson, where sunlight would be a scarce luxury until spring. The usual teeming masses of people wandered the street, clutching their plastic replicas of the Eiffel Tower and taking photos of the Bellagio Fountains. I’ve seen it all too many times to care. But then, in the middle of the mob, a shadow appeared.

She walked down the Strip, covered from head to toe in a grey burqa. I say “she” because of what I know about burqas and their wearers, not because I saw even an inch of flesh to hint at the wearer’s gender. Completely hidden, eyes behind a tiny mesh of fabric, this woman waded through the crowd and I was mesmerized.

What was she thinking? Here in this city of sin, here where flesh is so readily displayed, here where the sun shines almost every day, what did it feel like to be here under that shroud? Was she thankful for the protection and anonymity of the garment or did she look longingly at me in my bright pink coat, walking freely and joyfully with the crisp winter air on my skin? Who was the woman under that burqa?

Because I’ve traveled, I’ve seen women in burqas and hijabs and chadors, and all manner of religious and cultural coverings, and have never spared more than a glance. But this woman haunted me. Perhaps it was the location and the incongruity of such extreme modesty in the center of hedonism?

No. The woman seared herself onto my consciousness because I am not supposed to talk about her. It would be rude and insensitive, at the very least, for me to comment on a piece of clothing designed to hide females from the world, to render them shapeless and inhuman. To speak aloud my rage at the systems that deny women the simplest freedom–the feel of the wind and sun on a crisp January day—would be, in a word, blasphemous.

Legally, in my country, I can talk about religion and the harm and injustice it inflicts on my gender. Socially, such talk is unacceptable. All religions enjoy a kind of protection not afforded any other institutions in the world. This is not a law. This is a social contract. A contract of silence.

I cannot speak out against the oppression of a simple piece of cloth without risking condemnation. It doesn’t matter that I am a woman, a free woman, a woman whose foremothers fought for her freedom against the social and religious constraints of their time; religion is untouchable. Oh, I can join in the voices that rise up against “extremism” but I cannot (especially as an atheist), condemn the good, “moderate” beliefs and believers who continue to systematically subjugate, devalue, and exclude females from positions of authority. I must keep my nose out of other people’s business.

Why? Why can we not look as critically at religion as we would at economics, or the military, or government? Why are the organizations that repress women off limits?

I do not care about the names—Islam, Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, etc.—all religions should be examined because they all have condoned or contributed to the unfair treatment of my gender. And where we see that women are denied rights and freedoms, or caused harm by religious texts, teachings or practices, then we must use that freedom of speech we’re apparently so fond of and shout “This is not right!”

Murder, torture, slavery, oppression, these things are happening to my sisters right now. Not in one quick and senseless act that draws the attention of sympathetic world leaders, and not in one isolated location, but always and all over the world. The outrage you felt over the Charlie Hebdo massacre? That is the outrage that burns inside me like a miniature sun, every second of every day.

I am not Charlie.

I am the child bride. I am the dowry killing victim. I am the girl who cannot go to school. I am the rape victim who was stoned to death for her “crime”. I am the woman who is not allowed to drive. I am the widow bound and tossed on the funeral pyre of her dead husband. I am the girl with the mutilated genitals.

I am the woman in the burqa.

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Posted in News and politics, Women's Issues | Tagged , , , , | 6 Comments

The Confidence Trap

Posted on January 22, 2015 by clubfredbaja

Trapped woman

Among my repertoire of Funny Stories and Anecdotes for Social Gatherings, is one that perfectly captures Prez’s off-the-chart confidence.

In 2005, we started a handyman (handyperson?) business. What more perfect job was there for us? Prez was a natural Mr. Fix-It and I was obsessively organized, good with paperwork and a pleasant face for customers. Voila! Instant job!

One of our early jobs involved a fair amount of plumbing. Quoting the job, Prez strutted through the client’s bathroom, measuring, calling out items for me to note, and assuring the client that this would be “no problem”. We shook hands on the job…and Prez drove straight to Home Depot to buy a book on plumbing. “Wait,” I said, “you just told that woman you could do the job, no problem. What do you mean you need a book?”

Prez’s response?

“Oh, I can do it. I just need to learn how.”

Turns out, he had a very basic knowledge of plumbing and this was not going to be a basic job. In fact, sitting on the edge of a bathtub, trying desperately to make fittings fit and work properly, was the closest I’d seen my husband come to public tears since he got the news that his sister’s cancer had returned.

Eventually, he figured it out and everything came together. The client was happy and we were relieved. But that wouldn’t be the last learn-as-you-earn job we took on and, more than once, Prez would still be flipping through the pages of a how-to book on the drive to the job.

The way I tell it in person, this story is a guaranteed laugh producer. What’s not so funny, at least to me, is that it reminds me of the lack of confidence that I struggle with daily. Prez got us that job—and many others that paid our rent and bought groceries and funded the occasional jaunt south—because he was confident enough in himself that even if he didn’t know how to do a specific task he was sure he could figure it out. Me? I would have to have had a three-year plumbing course under my belt before I would have agreed to take that job.

This is the confidence trap that I have struggled to free myself from for most of my life. I know I’m not alone. Though Prez’s level of confidence is extreme, in general, most women are less confident than men. Even when—and this is the important part—they are just as competent, if not more so, than their male counterparts.

More on that later.

For now, let me say that my lack of confidence has held me back more times than I can count and it wasn’t until I was at the end of my third decade that I began to see how much so. Sure, I took more risks than a lot of people but not as many as I could have, and should have. And while I’m glad that I finally wised up about this a part of me mourns my wasted potential.

My confidence and (perceived) competence are conjoined twins. And my perception of my competence relies heavily on external validation. It has taken over ten years of people telling me, “Hey, you’re really good at this!” for me to actually believe that I am a competent writer. And, yes, regardless of gender, writers tend to be folks who struggle with confidence and self-doubt, but that’s the best example I can offer to show how difficult it is for me to trust in my own abilities.

Now, some of you are reading this and thinking, No, not you, Princess. I’ve seen you at work, you’re super confident!

Ah, outward appearances are wonderful, aren’t they?

It’s not an act per se. But what others perceive as my confidence is simply me forcing myself to be the person I want to be. It is me grabbing myself by the lapels, slapping my own face, and shouting, “Stop whining! You can do this!” I do this because I have learned that when I can get out of my own way magic happens.

It has also been my experience that forcing myself into situations where failure is likely, and then failing, and getting up and dusting myself off, and trying again, is (against everything logic would suggest), one of the surest ways to build real confidence. I’ve also learned that “failure” is a trickster. Spectators judge you more by how you fail than by the failure itself. We respect people who can laugh and say, “Well, I sure blew that! I’ll do better next time.” far more than those who slink off to the corner to pout.

So what is the confidence trap and how did I fall into it? Nature? Nurture? Diabolical alien plot?

The first two for sure. The jury’s still out on the aliens, but I’m not ruling it out.

For an in-depth examination, I’ll point you to this fantastic article in the Atlantic. But, in short, women’s lack of confidence is partly biological (more testosterone = more risk taking), partly social conditioning (don’t even get me started on that one), and partly personal experience (how are we rewarded or punished for our confidence?).

I can trace the roots of my own confidence deficiency back to grade school—teacher’s pet, perfectionist, conflict-avoider, natural klutz, blossoming weirdo, book worm. By puberty, I was already a prime target for predatory males who seek out girls with low self-esteem…and then systematically lower that esteem even further. Passive-aggressive mother. Alcoholic and domineering first husband. And the vicious circle goes round and round.

Essentially, I have spent the better part of the past twenty years climbing out of that trap. And, no, I’m not out of it yet but I’m not going to give up.

There are two tests ahead of me.

First, as mentioned in the previous Coconut Chronicle, I’m starting up my own freelance writing business, which means I’m going to be putting myself out there in a whole new way. I need to be assertive and confident. I need to take jobs that may be out of my comfort level. I need to be able to say to myself, “Yes, I can do it. I just need to learn how.”

Second, Prez has been working on a project for several months now and I have been helping out. At the end of May, he wants us to participate in a pitch fest in Los Angeles. Now, I am perfectly happy writing a pitch or a treatment but standing in front of real people and pitching an idea? (I think I just peed in my pants a little bit). But I have agreed to do this and I am determined to put myself out there and maybe fall flat on my face. One step closer to getting out of this damned trap.

So how do we keep our young girls from ending up in the trap?

It’s tempting to suggest praise and encouragement but I think girls get plenty of that. If anything, we need to stop praising the very behaviour that sends the message that pleasing people and being “good” is desirable. In the words of Eleanor Roosevelt, “Well behaved women seldom make history.” We need to think about how we reward boys for their risk-taking behavior and start applying it equally to girls.

It’s also incumbent on us adult females to get past our own self-limiting beliefs and behaviour, and set the example for future generations. As any good writer of fiction will tell you—show, don’t tell.

Men, you have a role to play too, especially if you’re in a position of power. When a woman acts assertively or confidently, she’s not being pushy, she’s not a bitch, she’s just doing what men do all the time. When you talk about confident women in those terms, you’re telling young women that confidence is bad.

For me, I will continue to crawl out of this stupid trap, inch by bloody inch, and I will call out encouragement to you in your trap as I do.

We’re better than we think we are. Now we just have to believe it.

Posted in Life at Work, Women's Issues | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

The Goal Is…

Posted on January 5, 2015 by clubfredbaja

Decide what to be and go be it

What is the goal?

I thought I knew the answer to this question. What I thought the goal was: Make a living writing books. Of course. I thought I was on the path to achieving that goal when something momentous got in the way: real life.

A little over two years has passed since Josh and I published our first novel in the Warpworld series. Two years since diving headlong into the swirling mass of indie hopefuls. Two years of writing, reading, researching, marketing, and crossing fingers. Two years of fretting (on my part), over whether we’re doing it right, whatever “right” is.

Two years and where are we now?

The Good: Though a small group, Warpworld readers seem to love our story and, best of all, they seem to “get it”. Our new editor jokingly praised our “depthyness” and that’s exactly what we aimed for—a full story that is at once easy to fall into and yet layered enough that readers can reread each book and find something new every time. We’ve won a couple of small awards and received a glowing five star review from the San Francisco Book Review. Our third book will come out by the end of January and we’re already at work on number four. I can’t speak for Josh but I’m proud of what we’ve created.

The Not-So-Good: Like so many new and/or indie authors out there, we remain largely invisible to the wider reading world. Indie or not, it is damn hard to get noticed in an ocean of books. Neither of us are making a profit from our work. All money that comes in goes right back out to finance more books.

In short, no matter how good our work is, it ain’t payin’ the bills and probably won’t be for a while.

Which brings me to my Real Life Dilemma.

Watching the indie publishing revolution from the front row, I’ve figured out that there are a few paths to financial success.

  1. Write a LOT of material. I’m talking four to six novels a year. Pump out product like a Korean factory worker on amphetamines.
  2. Be a rock star at marketing and promotion.
  3. Give away a lot of books and hopefully build a loyal audience.
  4. Play the long game. Keep putting out quality books, slowly build your library and attract more readers.
  5. Be super lucky.
  6. Start out as a traditionally published author and have your audience follow you when you shift to indie.
  7. Write the most consumable books possible in the most commercially viable genre(s), i.e. write what sells.

I’m sure there are other sub-paths to indie success but these are the ones I see most frequently. Josh and I have chosen number four—play the long game—but it is not without its risks (what if five years down the road we still aren’t making enough money to pay the rent?) and it means that we have to accept not making a livable income in the here and now.

What was my goal again? Make a living writing books.

Shit.

I’m not a rock star at marketing. I can’t crank out more than one Warpworld title per year, and it’s unlikely I can put out more than two books per year, total, without sacrificing quality. I don’t want to write to the lowest common denominator—penning teen vampire romances or similar stories just because they sell. That leaves being super lucky as my only viable option. Or…

OR.

Maybe I have the wrong goal.

No. I know I have the wrong goal.

This is the epiphany I had, two years into my publishing journey: What I want is to make good art.

Simple as that. I want to write stories I would love to read. I want to write the stories that burst from my brain and demand an audience. To hell with what the rules say, or what the market demands, or what one-thousand-and-one indie writing blogs tell me is “right”, I want to do this MY way.

If doing it my way means I have to get a “real” job and write in my off hours, so be it. There is zero shame in that choice. Hell, almost every single published author I know—even the ones who have won fancy awards and have audiences significantly larger than mine—cannot make a living from their writing alone. A sad fact but a true one.

What I want to remember, what I want burned into my flesh, is that being indie means you can do whatever the fuck you want. That’s the beauty of being indie and that’s the part I think too many writers forget. If your goal is to make money, go for it. I like money. Money is awesome. But if your goal is to make art, then you may need to find something else to make the money while you make art.

How did it take me so long to see this? How many hours/days/weeks have I wasted trying to find the magic success bullet?

I don’t care what everyone else is doing and I don’t care if I don’t measure up to their standards of success. I used to believe that going back to some kind of regular job for my income would be an admission of defeat. Now, I see that choice as freedom. If I can sell my writing skills to businesses who need blog posts, or articles, or website content, that’s bankable cash that allows me to write fiction without any stress. I can play the long game without waking up at 3am in a cold sweat, wondering if I’m going to end up living on the street someday.

Writing good stories is what I love. When my fingers are tapping keys and creating illusions, I am content with the world. It is the happiest of happy places. There’s no validation required in the process. I write therefore I am. As one of my favourite Canadian authors, Angie Abdou, so eloquently put it, “I like myself better when I write.”

I do not know what the future of publishing will bring. I do know that choosing art over money feels like thousands of pounds of weight floating off my shoulders. If financial success comes, it will be the icing on an already damn tasty cake.

Winged manThe goal is love. The goal is passion. The goal is art. The goal is choice. The goal is revolution.

The goal is achievable.

Welcome to 2015, everyone. It is truly a new year.

 

 

 

Posted in Indie publishing, Life, On Scribbling, Warpworld | Tagged , , , | 8 Comments