That Kid Who Changed My Life

Posted on December 18, 2014 by clubfredbaja

boy hitting a Christmas pinata

You see that kid? The one in white, putting the beat down-on the piñata? That kid changed my life.

Some of you have heard this story before. I would apologize for the repetition but this is not just any story. I’ll keep telling it as long as people will listen or read.

You can’t see this kid’s tooth-challenged grin or the way his face exploded with joy the moment that piñata cracked open and spilled its sugary guts on the concrete. You can’t see me watching from the sidelines—a guest at the Los Amigos de Los Niños Christmas party—snort-laughing at the feeding frenzy the split piñata unleashed.

What else can’t you see in this photo?

This kid’s home, for starters. It may have been a small rancho way up in the back country of Baja, Mexico, near Mulegé. His family might have some cattle, a few goats for cheese, chickens, perhaps a burro or a horse. It’s quiet up there, beautiful in the way only deserts can be beautiful. Naked beauty. But it’s so far from town that the only way this kid can get his schooling is to stay at the boarding school the government provides in Mulegé. You won’t see polo ponies or diamond studded cell phones in this photo; it’s not that kind of boarding school.

You will have to imagine Mr. and Mrs. Claus also watching the fun and the other kids who are out of the photo, sitting on the sidelines and treasuring their one and only Christmas gifts. Meager toys by our standards—a ball, a stuffed animal, a doll—but given with love by the American and Canadian snowbirds who help support the school.

Notably absent in this photo is my life prior to December 1998. A childhood of presents under Christmas trees and my association with the holidays as a time of malls and overindulgence. A holiday I came to dread in adulthood.

But you can see the smiles on the faces of those kids waiting for the candy to drop, can’t you? Such a simple thing. A bit of candy. So much joy from so little.

I wish I could have captured the moment that snowman burst and rained happiness because you can’t see how hard that kid fought to get his share of the loot. Small he may be but there’s no way he was letting the big kids push him aside. He earned his handful of candy, his missing-toothed grin spread impossibly wider before my eyes, and then…

And then.

He walked right over to me and dropped a goodly share of his hard-earned candy into my filthy rich gringo hands.

You can’t see me tearing up right now but I always do when I get to this part. I don’t need a photo to remember that kid’s face.

He had nothing and I had everything and no one asked him to share with me but he did.

Every day since that photo was taken I’ve tried to honour that kid. I’ve tried to remember that it really isn’t about what you get but about what you give. More than that, it’s about how you give. Without prompting, without expectation, without resentment, without judgement, without fear…that’s how you give. Never doubt the power of one small selfless act.

Because of that kid, I stopped giving out presents at Christmas and made it clear I wanted and expected none in return. By the standards of most people in this world, I am wealthy. I don’t need presents. Instead, I fastened an idea of giving onto my heart and I’ve tried to give the things that matter—my love, my friendship, my time, my loyalty, my empathy, my encouragement—when and where it matters, all year round. I’m not always successful but I always try.

When I look around and see the love and friendship that surrounds me now, I know it’s because of the lesson I learned seventeen Christmases ago. He gave then. He keeps giving.

That kid changed my life.

Wherever that man is today, I wish him joy.

And candy. Lots of candy.

Feliz Navidad.

Posted in Baja - Mexico, Friends, Love, Travel | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Across Time and Space With Orange and Brown and Flowers and Clocks

Posted on December 5, 2014 by clubfredbaja

ugly floral pattern

This is my couch…

Ugly floral couch

It is ugly. It is old. When you sit on it, Ugly Couch creaks and shrieks as if it is in agony. Perhaps it is in agony. If your skin was patterned with brown and orange flowers interspersed with old clocks how happy would you be?

The couch cushions are sentient beings. I can’t prove it but I’m sure the way they shift into a near-vertical state the moment I touch down is the cushions’ attempt to suffocate me.

I hate Ugly Couch. I know the feeling is mutual.

This was a couch of convenience. Prez and I had just arrived back in Nelson after two years in the Cook Islands. We didn’t know what we were going to do with ourselves, we didn’t know if we were going to stay in Nelson for long, but we needed something to sit on.

Something cheap.

Something we wouldn’t regret selling for peanuts if we up and moved again, as we are wont to do.

Gone are the days of expensive Italian leather, soft as butter. Gypsies do not invest in the nails that will hold their feet to the ground!

Also, we can’t afford that stuff any more.

We found the couch through the local classifieds. It was stuck in the back of a big old house full of junk and old “stuff”. Though ugly, it was clean and looked unused. We gave the man $75 and loaded the ugly couch into the back of our pick-up. Easy to do, the couch weighs about four ounces because it is constructed of velour and wishful thinking.

Over the years I have…

  • begged
  • threatened
  • negotiated
  • cried

…for a new couch. Not “new” new. Just different. Less likely to induce spontaneous eyeball bleeding. Something has always thwarted my efforts. An ancient curse?

Two summers ago, I thought I’d outsmarted the curse. Prez was out of town and I’d found a second-hand leather couch for less than $200. It was beige and clean and promised to be everything Ugly Couch was not. Desperate, I hauled New Couch home, unloaded it by myself, and dragged it into our suite. I couldn’t get it up the ridiculous spiral staircase, however, and so I had to wait until Prez returned.

“Say goodbye, Ugly Couch,” I taunted, as I counted the days.

Ugly Couch remained silent. Biding its time. It’s all-knowing gaze was trained on what it knew were my futile hopes and dreams.

Sure enough, once New Couch was installed in the living room, we discovered its fatal flaw: it was slippery. Not only that, but it was also tilted an angle that was guaranteed to spit you onto the floor. It lasted a week. New Couch now resides on Tim and Becky Rippel’s front porch.

Ugly Couch will not be usurped. Ugly Couch laughs at your pain.

Ugly Couch knows your weaknesses.

Every litter of kittens we foster fall instantly in love with Ugly Couch. The velour is the perfect texture for their tiny claws to grab and hold as they learn to climb. And, underneath, torn fabric beckons them into Ugly Couch’s belly. “Come, small furry friends, and nest in my cottony bosom.”

They do.

“You see? Your babies love me. You cannot get rid of me as long as they are here,” Ugly Couch purrs.

It is correct and I am weak in the face of kittens.

Yet, even through our tense stalemate, Ugly Couch and I have penned tales of love of and loss, triumph, sorrow, mighty battles and steamy seductions. On Ugly Couch, I have created and traveled to worlds of all description. Hundreds of thousands of words have flowed from my fingers as I perched atop fields of orange and brown flowers… and clocks. Together we have become gods and demons, transcended time and space, given life and taken it away. We two. We lucky two.

couhc in space with astronaut cat

I could make my peace with Ugly Couch, perhaps, if not for the silent and not-so-silent judgments of those around me. I know they hate Ugly Couch. They do not see it as my muse but as the anchor dragging me to the depths.

Ugly Couch is my Yoko Ono.

I want to believe my writing will not suffer when Ugly Couch and I at last are parted.

I will know soon enough.

A new couch has been promised to me by a fellow scribe. (Not “new” new but…well, you know what I mean.) In six to eight weeks, Ugly Couch will be sent away forever and I will begin a new journey of discovery, on a new couch, one without clocks or flowers. The cold war will end and Ugly Couch will be vanquished.

Or will it?

Posted in Life, On Scribbling, Warpworld | Tagged , , , , , | 7 Comments

Ain’t Too Proud To Beg

Posted on November 24, 2014 by clubfredbaja

Hello I Am Someone Who Can Help words written on a nametag stick

Remember when it was cool to be a renaissance person?

Yeah, neither do I.

I have to find a job. A real one. Not something Prez and I invented. Not the kind where I work ten to twelve hours a day, every day, but don’t get a paycheque. Nope, it’s time for me to rejoin the rest of the world and change out of my pajamas before I go to work.

Problem: How?

My employment history reads like a career option catalogue a highschool guidance counselor might give out, with overlapping timelines that would confuse Dr. Who—a veteran time traveler. In many cases, my employer was either me or Prez or both, which makes reference letters problematic.

Kristene was a wonderful employee! I literally couldn’t live without her.

Sincerely,

Kristene Perron

There’s also the matter of certification, something our society seems to be all about these days. No, I don’t have any post-secondary credentials in business or marketing but in nine months, and with no budget to speak of, Prez and I took a dilapidated beach resort from the bottom position on Trip Advisor to the number one spot. And we held that rank until the day we left. Oh, and we also brought occupancy up to an 80% average, even during the off season. I don’t think an MBA could have done any better than we did.

But how do you take that—and the other chaotic mish-mash that constitutes my work experience history and skills—and convey the information effectively to a complete stranger…in one or two pages of bullet points?

I routinely bang off thousands of words in a day without breaking a sweat. Imagine my horror when I sat down to write a resume and found myself, an hour later, staring at the one and only sentence I had managed to squeeze from my keyboard. Horror and humiliation.

BLINK BLINK BLINK went the cursor and with each new BLINK I felt decades of hard-won confidence slipping through my fingers.

BLINK-what kind of loser can’t even write a resume-BLINK-you will end up working at A&W-BLINK-if you’re lucky.

Desperate, I googled “Kootenay Career Development Society”. I knew of this place—a non-profit organization that helps local people with their job searches—but I’d never thought it was for me. I mean, I’m a writer damn it! As if I need help writing one stupid page of facts and a four paragraph cover letter.

Pffft.

BLINK. You need help.

I hated to admit it, that I needed help, but that’s exactly what I needed. And so I rolled my pride up into a tiny ball and swallowed it, then I made an appointment with an employment counselor.

His name was Shane. He made me laugh. I told him my story and showed him my resume. We filled out the necessary government paperwork and scratched our heads at all the places where my round peg would not fit into the square holes. Shane explained how we could highlight my skills instead of focusing on the crazy list of jobs and dates. He talked about courses I could take to satisfy employers’ desire for certification and assured me he would try his best to get government funding to cover the costs. Most of all, he affirmed what I had always believed—that real life experience and success are as valuable as paper credentials.

I walked away with a plan and a shiny new resume that makes me sound pretty darn awesome. My confidence began seeping back in.

resume Kristene Perron

Page 1 of the shiny new resume–thanks Shane!

I wrote a letter in my head:

Dear Self,

You don’t have to be good at everything. It’s okay to ask for help, beg for it if necessary. Please don’t forget that again.

Sincerely,

Me

Now the hunt begins. Wish me luck.

(See how I’m asking for help again?)

Posted in Life at Work, Nelson - British Columbia | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Smash Space

Posted on November 13, 2014 by clubfredbaja

Shattered Or Smashed Glass Sharp Pieces

Here is the story of my trip to the World Fantasy Convention in Washington, DC. It is not the entire story, not even a significant piece of the story, but it is the story inside the story, and the one I need to tell.

This story begins more than eleven years ago because everything is connected, right?

I was sitting in the home I shared with Prez, doing whatever it was I was doing back then. Possibly making a protein shake, getting ready to go to the gym, or scrapbooking; it could have been any of those. The phone rang.

“You have to come over here!” It was Prez. He was next door, at the Roney’s, helping prep their main bathroom for the crew that was coming in to renovate it later that week. He sounded giddy.

I hurried over, through the front door, up the stairs, and into our neighbours’ washroom.

“Put these on,” Prez said and handed me a set of safety goggles. Then, he passed me a sledgehammer. He was grinning.

He urged me into the bathtub and told me to “swing away” at the tile on the walls.

I swung the sledgehammer. Hard. The tile exploded into shards with a sharp CRASH. The jagged pieces flew around me and landed in the ceramic tub. A light flared in my brain. A diamond of euphoria burst in my chest. I grinned. I looked at Prez. He grinned. We grinned together—a shared secret.

Smashing was fun.

I smashed more tiles, laughing like a kid who’d just discovered where Mom and Dad hid the Halloween candies. When I was done, when I passed the sledgehammer back to Prez, I felt lighter, stress-free, peaceful. This surprised me.

I am a creator. My pleasure had always come from imagining things into the world, not tearing down the creations of others. Sure, I’d broken things on set—every stunt person does—but that was deliberate, the breaking was designed as part of the creation, it was fake. This bathtub, these tiles, these were real things, things not meant to be smashed. And somehow that made their destruction satisfying.

Since that day I have done quite a lot of demolition. It is the part of any renovation or construction job to which I genuinely look forward. I need that smashing. I crave destruction. Tearing down is release.

Creation is work. Creation is struggle and doubt and heavy lifting. Ultimately joyous and fulfilling, yes, but work.

Professionals who attend science fiction and fantasy conventions are creators. Fans who attend conventions are appreciators of those creations. Both groups tend to be a little nerdy, a little different, a little misunderstood. Many were/are likely victims of some form of bullying or harassment in the “real” world. Because of this and other reasons related to gender and sexual orientation there has been a big push to ensure these conventions are safe spaces. This is good. When we come together in our collective oddness, this is a time of celebration. No one should feel threatened. We need a safe space.

As a woman, I’m no stranger to harassment. As a feminist, I applaud the efforts of con organizers to create a safe place for me and others.

You know what’s coming next, don’t you?

But…

We also need smash spaces. We need a place to tear down the walls of propriety. Creation and destruction are conjoined twins. How could you explain light if you had never seen darkness?

As much as I appreciate the safe space of a con, as much as I strive (in all facets of my life) to be the best me possible and choose to live in places and move among people who exhibit the most noble elements of humanity, part of me craves the release of All The Bad Things. I need a smash space. I think we all do.

In 2013, at my first SF/F con, I somehow stumbled into such a place. I found myself, over breakfast, in the company of three writers—Griffin Barber, Andy Rogers, and Alistair Kimble aka “Gerry”—with whom smashing was welcomed. No, scratch that. Smashing was encouraged. We dubbed ourselves Breakfast Squad and spent every morning together, in the hotel restaurant, in various states of hung-overness or exhaustion.

This year, at World Fantasy Con, there was no question how I would be spending my mornings. We four form the core of Breakfast squad, though we also welcome guests and honourary members. We aren’t difficult to spot. Generally, we are the ones doubled over, tears rolling from our eyes, the occasional snort (mine) rolling through the room, laughing until it hurts.

The rules of Breakfast Squad are simple: there are none. We will talk about whatever we damn well please. Nothing is sacred. How bad are we? Well, this year we found a way to violate manatees so…

SMASH! SMASH! SMASH! SMASH!

Of all the many wonderful experiences I enjoyed at World Fantasy Con, I choose to share this one with you because I worry that as the pendulum of political correctness gains momentum we will forget the importance of smash space.

To smash is to open a conduit to the worst of ourselves, to be uncomfortable, to acknowledge we are both darkness and light.

If I cannot go to the places that make me uncomfortable, I will fail as a writer. Truth seldom lives in comfort. Truth lives in the dark spaces, in humiliating memories, in the stickiness of sex and the chill of death.

I go to Breakfast Squad, eyes looking like two cherries in a glass of milk, the scent of stale gin lingering on my skin, hiding beneath my baseball cap, and I sit down with my friends. With all the grace of ten-year-old boys on a sugar high, we raise our sledgehammers and swing away. Profound or profane, we speak uncensored and I am liberated.

We are savages. We revel in the low hanging fruit. We turn on our own.

When we are done, I put my Politically Correct Kristene face back on. I become the carefully crafted person the rest of the world has come to know–no less genuine, simply more constricted. I go up to my room, take off the ball cap, shower, douse my eyes in Visine, and rejoin the convention.

I walk away from Breakfast Squad Kristene but I walk away lighter, stress-free, peaceful… back into the world of safety.

Posted in Friends, News and politics, On Scribbling | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

4am at World Fantasy Con

Posted on November 9, 2014 by clubfredbaja

In a few days, when I have returned home and processed everything, I will write a long and detailed post about my time in Washington, DC at the World Fantasy Convention. But right now, at 4am, having just returned to my room, six hours past my usual bedtime, I want to capture my raw feelings about another precious chunk of time spent with my tribe.

For most of the year, I squeeze my round peg into a square hole, happily and without complaint, because I am grateful for all the wonderful people and experiences life has put in my path. For a few days, however, I get to hang out with my round peg friends. Here, I am not weird. Here, I get to be my full uncensored self.

It takes a lot of work and sacrifice to make it to these conventions, not to mention the love and support of my husband, to whom I owe so much–and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. These days take forever to arrive and before I know it they’re over. And yet…

And yet.

I go home a richer person and my round peg friends are the lights that shine on me every day. Thank you all and until next time…I love you.

 

Posted in Entertainment, Friends, On Scribbling | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Difficult

Posted on October 19, 2014 by clubfredbaja

Brick wall ahead road street sign

Lately my thoughts keep drifting back to Difficult People. We all know them, that friend, or co-worker, or family member you love BUT…

Yeah. Difficult.

Difficult People, DP’s, come in all shapes and sizes, and while the details of their difficultness vary, they share some common traits:

  • They are hard to be around or work with for any length of time.
  • They either can’t see what makes them difficult or don’t take any meaningful steps to deal with the problem.
  • Everyone in their social sphere tends to have the same complaints about them.
  • They frequently have some amazing skill or personality trait that *almost* compensates for their difficulty.

I will add that sometimes mental illness (diagnosed or not) can play a big part in DP behaviour.

DP co-workers are frustrating because we often have little or no choice about that relationship and work is the place where most of us spend most of our time. DP family members are likewise bound to us, though we can often choose to distance ourselves as much as possible.

But of all the DP’s we encounter in our lives, it is the relationship with our DP friends that can sadden and exhaust us the most. These are the people who we connect with entirely by choice. These are the people whose behaviour constantly forces us to re-evaluate the friendship and ask “Is it worth it?”

Right now, some of you reading this are nodding vigorously. You know who your DP is. You can see their face. You feel tired and angry and despondent just thinking about them. You wish there was a magical solution—a word or phrase you could utter—to make your DP instantly easy to deal with.

Maybe there is such magic. I have not found it.

When I Googled variations of “difficult people, friends, co-workers” etc. what I got was a lot of links to religious and conflict resolution websites. Considering my most recent and biggest DP experience, the advice these sites dole out make me think the authors are talking out of their asses. I’ll refer to the person in my experience as DP1 and share some of these nuggets of wisdom with you…

“Let the other person talk”

Are you freaking kidding me? The problem was not letting DP1 talk, the problem was reining him in so that others had equal talking time. There is one incident I remember with PTSD-like clarity. In this instance, DP1 would not let me speak at all, no matter how hard I tried, and I ended up throwing in the metaphorical towel in front of a group of people I was supposed to be leading. Humiliating does not begin to describe that moment.

“Be calm”

HA HA HA!! Those of you who know me in real life know that there is almost nothing that can make me lose my cool. I am slow to anger. I am Zen incarnate. Prez says that I don’t have a vindictive bone in my body and I am inclined to agree. I’m no one’s doormat but I’m happy to say one of my better qualities is my ability to see the big picture and not get ruffled by the small stuff.

I tell you this so that when I admit that within a very short time DP1 had me shouting and crying and so enraged I went nights without sleeping you will understand how far a Difficult Person can push those around them.

“Use the power of visualization”

Yes, this was a real suggestion. The author encourages you to “try to imagine that person as a loving spiritual being.” Look, logically I know that for the most part DP1 means well. He is not a bad person, in fact much of his bad behaviour actually comes from a place of good intention. The entire reason I didn’t throw my hands up and walk away months earlier than I did was because of this knowledge.

Knowing that assholes don’t exist in a vacuum doesn’t make them any easier to deal with. And imagining that the person who is making your life 31 flavours of miserable is a “loving spiritual being” is nothing short of slapping your hands over your ears, closing your eyes, and singing at the top of your lungs.

“Genuinely consider the other person’s point of view”

Sure. Good advice. But what if you do that over and over and over and over … and you still come to the conclusion that they’re wrong? What if you constantly bend over backwards to accommodate their point of view and are seldom, if ever, shown the same consideration in return?

How long can a person bend before they break?

No. I’ve come to the conclusion that some DP’s cannot be reached, placated, or handled. Like addicts and abusers, they must first admit they have a problem and then seek help for it. More than that, they must really, really want to change and sometimes that takes hitting at least one form of “bottom” first.

If you’re wondering where this rant is coming from, well, that’s complicated. One part is the situation with DP1 that I vowed not to share until my emotions had settled enough to think logically again—it has taken almost two years. One part is seeing some friends recovering from or dealing with their own DP’s and empathizing with their struggles. And the last part is the hope that maybe some DP’s out there might read this and realize the damage they’re doing to others and to themselves.

What bothers me most about all the DP advice I found was that 100% of the responsibility is put on the shoulders of non-DP’s. As if we must all cater to the precocious adult children of the world.

No.

No. No. No. No. No.

I will bend like Gumby in a sauna to make my world run smoothly. I will open my arms and heart to friends who are struggling with their demons. I will empathize. I will listen. I will love. But I have a line and when a DP in my life crosses it they are no longer welcome. No matter what it takes, I will cut them out like a cancer.

If you are a DP or suspect you are a DP, re-read the paragraph above. That is what I (and I suspect many, many other people) want you to hear. There is a line. When you cross it, you lose a friend/family member/co-worker/employee. We ask ourselves “Is it worth it?” and we mean “Is it worth the headaches and heartaches to have this person in my life?” You, DP, also need to ask “Is it worth it?” Except, your question means “Is my behaviour, no matter how I try to justify it, worth losing this person from my life?”

If the answer is no, seek help. Find a therapist, counselor, psychologist or other professional who can help you get to the bottom of what’s making you this behave this way. Heck, you may need medication and that’s not a bad thing. Sometimes your brain needs as much attention as your heart or lungs or teeth. Your real friends will support you. Hell, they’ve put up with worse!

Do your share of the work and we’ll do ours.

Those of you struggling with a DP, I’m sorry. Truly sorry. I can’t offer you any useful advice since nothing I’ve tried has ever worked when it comes to someone who is really determined to be a DP. What I can tell you is that you need to take care of yourself, without apology. Sometimes distance is the only solution, as tricky as that can be. Whatever you do, don’t blame yourself. That’s Dead Endsville, my friend.

It has taken me two years to get to a point where thoughts of DP1 no longer trigger an emotional reaction but my confidence in myself remains shaken and there are still moments when I ask, “Could I have handled that better?”

Sometimes the answer seems clear. Other times there is no answer only the unhappy realization that sometimes doing your best is not good enough.

Posted in Friends, Health and wellness, Life at Work | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

Crossing the Line

Posted on October 9, 2014 by clubfredbaja

Hand Behind Barbed Wire

In 1993 I crossed a line. Overnight, I went from “person who watches movies” to “person who is in movies”. This had long been a dream of mine and, as we all know, dreams are simply goals without a plan. I made a plan. Dream became goal. Goal was achieved.

This past weekend I crossed another line. This time I went from “aspiring author who sits in the audience at writing conventions” to “author who speaks on panels at writing conventions”. This had also been a dream/goal of mine, ever since I attended my first SIWC (Surrey International Writing Convention) waaaaaaaaay back when.

I wrote a pithy, business-friendly version of my experience at VCON 39 over on the Warpworld blog but at the behest (AKA aggressive nagging) of my friend Griffin, I decided to write a more meaningful post about the experience here. New slogan: The Coconut Chronicles, where guts come to be spilled!

I won’t post an accompanying image for that slogan.

I’m not going to write an informative, point-by-point breakdown about speaking on panels for newbie authors but if you are a newbie author and you want to get an idea of what the experience is like, read on. IF YOU DARE!

First, let’s talk about why the hell I even got on those panels. After all, I’m a self-published author (gasp), who only has two books (number three is coming soon!) and a handful of published stories and awards under her belt, surely there are more accomplished and talented authors out there? Yep. There are. So what’s the deal?

1) I asked. Simple, really. I wanted to speak on a writing/SFF convention panel, I told people I wanted to do this, and when the opportunity presented itself I threw my name in the hat.

2) I knew someone who was involved with VCON and who would put in a good word for me.

I know what you’re thinking because it is exactly what I once would have been thinking: “Oooooooh, she knew someone.”

Back up. Back way the heck up, buddy.

“Knowing someone” and “Knowing someone who recognizes that you’re a good candidate for the thing they do that you want to be part of” are two very different beasts. The someone in question has seen me in action, online and in real life. They knew that I could do a great job (and I think I did), and so they could confidently put a word in for me without risking their reputation. I would not have been given the same opportunity if I had not always presented the best (see also: most interesting) version of myself when interacting with readers, fellow writers, agents, editors, and publishers. My A game may be a tad quirky (yes, I performed my human bagpipe imitation at a Worldcon party),but I always bring it.

Luck is a factor in any arts career. Don’t like that? Too bad. The trick is working hard enough and putting yourself in enough situations where luck and you can run into each other like you’re in some goofy romcom with Emma Watson and Hugh Grant.

So I worked hard, got lucky, met the right person, asked confidently, and got OK’d for four panels. Yay!

Then what?

Well, that’s when the work started. When it comes to things I love and want, I’ll be the first to admit I’m a bit of an overachiever. Of the four panels I was on, two seemed pretty straightforward. One was about writing fight scenes, specifically hand to hand combat and weapons. Having punched and having been punched (and kicked and flipped and generally beaten up) in ways too numerous to mention, and with two action-heavy novels with my name on the cover (number three is on the way!) I felt really, really comfortable on this topic. The other panel was about how to start a writing project and see it through all the way to the end. Yep, the queen of goal setting and self-discipline was all good with that one. Sure, I refreshed myself and jotted down notes but I didn’t sweat those panels.

The other two panels were a bit trickier. One concerned perspectives on self-publishing. What made this topic more complicated was that I’m not even close to being a “best seller” in the indie world and I also don’t agree with many of the stances espoused by the “cult of self-publishing”. Further to that, I consider myself a representative of Warpworld so I wanted to make sure that whatever I said my partner wouldn’t disagree or, worse, be embarrassed or offended. For this, I did some extra research and spent a good chunk of time conferring with Josh on how I should present myself (us) up there.

But the panel that had me shaking in my boots was, ironically, a panel that I had submitted for consideration. Titled “After the Battle”, it dealt with the responsibility of writers to accurately portray the aftermath of conflict. It seemed like a good idea when it came to me but once it was real AND I was on it I felt suddenly out of my element. Yes, Warpworld has conflict and in the second book we tackle the aftermath of that to some extent but I have no personal experience with war, battle, PTSD, or the military—as my fellow panelists all did! Worse, I would be sharing the table with David Weber, military SF heavyweight and VCON guest of honour. YIKES!

Thank Cod I know so many knowledgeable and helpful people.

And here is where I pause for a short public service message to aspiring writers. *cue elevator muzak*

The one piece of advice writers are given ad nauseam is “read a lot and write a lot”. It’s good advice. I’ve given it myself. What people don’t often tell you is “live a lot”. Living is where you experience things that can go into your stories. It’s also where you can meet interesting people who possess knowledge that you could not possibly accumulate in your lifetime. Go out of your cave! Do things! Meet people! Live!

Back to the show…

For help with this daunting panel, I called upon my Army of Awesome. Along with the aforementioned Griffin Barber, I reached out to Alistair Kimble, Andy Rogers, Josh Simpson, Deryn Collier, and Liz Meyer. They all gave me a ton of feedback and encouragement. All have some experience or knowledge that I lack, all are people I respect. Let me thank them again, because I should. THANK YOU ALL!!! (Your cupcakes are in the mail).

So, now I was on the panels, I had copious notes, and I was ready to go!

How did it go? To quote Tony the Tiger, “Grrrrrrrrrreat!”

Once the first panel was over and I’d dealt with the nerves—yes, even people who have jumped out of the way of oncoming cars (on purpose) get nervous—I felt right at home. It helps that I am a dyed-in-the-wool ham and love nothing more than a captive audience. (Emphasis on captive). In fact, I can’t wait for the next opportunity, which I will seek out like a thing that seeks out things!

Kristene Perron on the VCON panel with David Weber and Ron Friedman

After the Battle panel with David Weber (R) and Ron Friedman (L) – Photo: Ron Friedman

And here’s where I’ll pause again to offer advice to writers who hope to someday cross the line, like I did. The rest of you feel free to stretch your legs or grab a beverage.

I had a great first panel experience because I was worthy of it (I’ve put in over ten years working seriously as a writer), I was (over) prepared for my panels, and I genuinely LOVE talking to people and sharing my enthusiasm for writing and for the genre I write in. Yes, there’s an element of marketing and networking involved but if that’s the only reason you’re on a panel people will smell it, trust me. (I’ve been on the other side of the line long enough to say that with confidence). Respect your audience and never forget what it feels like to be on the other side of the line. Bring your A game (however quirky that may be), be the best version of yourself, have something valuable to offer, and take time to talk to people who come up after the panel to talk to you. If you’re uncomfortable speaking in public (it’s the #1 common fear people have), don’t wait until the day of your panel to deal with that. Join Toastmasters, take acting classes, start speaking at small events to get a feel for it—practice!

Respect, equally, your fellow panel members and moderators. This is not all about you and your book(s). Ideally, this is you and a group of like-minded people entertaining and/or educating a bunch of folks who have given up their precious time to listen to you babble. It’s about them.

And I’m back…

By the end of VCON I was buzzing like a mega hive of killer bees during honey season. (Is there a season for honey? Hmmm.) There’s some switch that flips on in my head when I’m tossed into a conversation with clever, funny, and dynamic people. Introvert I may be, but I love me some cerebral stimulation.

In November I head to World Fantasy Con in Washington, DC. No panels to speak on but a whole bunch of amazing people to meet and re-connect with. (Breakfast Squad, I’m looking at you!)

I may never get rich writing but, holy crap, has it turned out to be rewarding on so many levels. If VCON taught me anything, it is that I am a wealthy, wealthy woman.

Oh, and as for that “someone” that I know. She’s not just a good someone to know, she’s one hell of a great friend.

Kristene Perron and SAndra Wickham

The one and only Sandra Wickham

The line has been crossed. The dream has been realized. And now a new, exciting chapter begins.

What is your line? How will you cross it?

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

The Beautiful Lie

Posted on September 25, 2014 by clubfredbaja

Between by Angie Abdou

“What do you mean you don’t want to have children? Aren’t I a good mother? Haven’t you had a good life?”

When my mom asked sixteen-year-old me this question, through tears no less, I wish I’d had Angie Abdou’s book, Between, to quote from. In the throes of a mommy-meltdown, Abdou’s Vero Nanton lays bare the fundamental lie of motherhood: “Parenting’s hard”. Well, that’s only the beginning. What follows next is a truth I have always, inexplicably and inarticulately but deeply known, and the reason I have never been consumed by the desire to reproduce.

“Whatever made us do it? I mean, really, imagine trying to sell this experience to someone if we hadn’t all bought into it already. Here’s the pitch: You’ll get pregnant. Your body will warp in ways you hadn’t thought possible. It’ll never be the same. You’ll pee your pants for months afterward, maybe forever. Delivering a baby will hurt until you think you’ll die. You’ll wish for death. You won’t recognize your own screams. What’s that awful noise? you’ll ask the doctor. As a reward, you’ll have years of shit and barf and endless sleepless nights of screams and whines. You don’t even know what that sound will do to your nervous system.”

Vero goes on with her darkly hilarious rant, which should be read in full and in context to appreciate, then concludes with “Oh, there are good moments…Sure. Build that into your marketing plan—there are good moments.”

That’s it. Right there. That’s the reason I never felt the pull of parenthood, because I wanted my life to be full of good moments but without the pain and the screaming and the barfing and the pants-peeing. I always suspected the Technicolor Disney version of parenthood was not quite right and the older I get the more I see this is the case.

I know at least some of you want to pop my cynical balloon. Hey, poke away, I’m almost egg-free anyway and Prez’s river has no fish. But I applaud Abdou (who is a mom, for the record), for writing with such raw honesty about the hardest job in the world. As a childless-by-choice woman, I have often acted as a kind of confessional for female friends and co-workers who needed a non-judgmental ear for their parenting woes. Want to know what they tell me? Along with the usual “barfing and screaming” complaints, a good number of women have told me that although they love their kids and wouldn’t give them up for anything, if they could go back and do it all again they would choose a life without them.

Shocking? I don’t think so.

To continue, our species needs a constant supply of new additions. We’re hardwired to want babies. There’s also a good chunk of evidence that we’re equally hardwired to forget the pain, the barfing, and the pants-peeing in order to make more babies and to convince future generations that, hey, this baby thing is AWESOME! It’s a lie, but it’s a lie with a purpose: our survival.

In his bestselling book, Stumbling On Happiness, Daniel Gilbert explains the phenomenon and also presents research to show that parents are not as happy as we’ve been led to believe. Of all the good things children give parents, Gilbert asserts that an “increase in daily happiness is probably not among them.”

I’m not anti-children. In case you’re getting that idea. I love kids. Kids inspire and rejuvenate me…in small doses. I am, however, critical of parenthood as the default setting for life. With a global population of over seven billion and climbing, humans have knocked it out of the park. There are enough of us now, (possibly too many), we’re all good, thanks. When it comes to babies, it’s no longer about survival. In the western world, at least, it’s about choice.

Choice.

Go on, let that word sink in.

You can choose.

But before you do, go buy and read a copy of Between. One story may not change your mind, either way, but parenthood is too important enter into with your eyes only half open. The beautiful lie has had it’s day; its time for a little truth.

Posted in Family & Children, Women's Issues | Tagged , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Never Still Life

Posted on September 14, 2014 by clubfredbaja

Packing. Again. On the move. Again.

A thousand thousand thoughts swirl. Goodbyes and hellos. New friends left behind, reunions with old friends on the horizon.  Even as I begin to mourn the loss of the ocean, I can see the smiles on Baker Street, that colourful cast of Kootenayans drawing me into their embrace. I want to stay and I want to go.

I am not homeless. I am homefull. I call too many places home.

I want to stay and I want to go.

Kristene Perron says goodbye to the ocean

 

 

Posted in Friends, Nelson - British Columbia, Ocean, Travel | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments

Random Comfort

Posted on September 5, 2014 by clubfredbaja

Tree in a field of stars

I’ve heard often about the comfort of god and religion. That has always been something for other people, as I believe in no deities and belong to no religion. But the implications of that statement struck me recently.

If god(s) and religion provide comfort then those of us without them must also be without comfort.

This comfort is based on the idea that someone(s) is looking out for us and that no matter what tragedies or hardships occur they are not without purpose and, for the devout, an eventual reward. Surely, randomness, the concept that nothing or no one is in charge and that things just “happen”, must be frightening.

No. It’s not.

Somewhere far away from me, right this moment, a friend I have only known online, is dying of cancer. I have never met him in real life, and now I never will, but he is a member of a discussion group I once frequented and we spent as much time laughing, debating, and sharing life’s ups and downs as any in-the-flesh friend I know. He is a kind, intelligent, witty fellow who made the internet a welcoming place for a lot of folks. He has read both of my and Josh’s books but long before that he was one of my most avid cheerleaders. Writers need people like him. I need people like him.

Of all the people who populated that board over the years, all the trolls and assholes whose existence revolved around making others miserable, why did the disease hit him? Him? What purpose does that serve?

If I believed in an omnipotent being controlling our fate, I’d be so angry right now. Not just for my friend but for every man, woman, child, and for every living creature that has ever suffered. For every war and natural disaster. For every rape, torture, and murder. For every missed opportunity, for every heartache, for every dream unfulfilled. For every addiction, obsession, and affliction. For every bad thing that has touched life on this planet since the beginning of existence, I would be angry.

In randomness, I take comfort.

Bad things happen to good people, good things happen to bad people. Sometimes trolls flourish while bright lights dim, flicker, and expire. It may not be fair but in a world of random “fair” is meaningless.

In a random world, I know that I must pounce on happiness, hold it down, feast on it for as long as I can. I know that anything can happen, at any time, to any person, even me. I alone am responsible for making the most of whatever time I have before my rented atoms return to the world. I take comfort in that. In a random world, I know friendship and love are the reward for all the other BS we slog through and they need to be appreciated in the here and now.

When I look up at the stars, I do not need to know some great being is looking back at me. It is enough that stars exist and that I have the privilege of seeing them.

I am sad for my friend. His life does not need a purpose or a grand plan for me to mourn its end. It is enough that he exists, that our lives intersected, that I had the privilege of knowing him, and that I am a better person because of it.

Posted in Friends, Life, Love | Tagged , , , , | 5 Comments