Mortgage Judo

You know what? Even if I did hear back from Mr. Awkward Indecisive Orange Garbage Bag Guy, I wouldn't really want him as a tenant anyhow. You just know he would be the guy to call you up at 2 a.m. on a Saturday night saying, "My toilet's overflowing. Come fix it." And then I'd have to schlep down there in my jammies and dislodge some gargantuan Polish sausage from the john under his disapproving glare. Like I need that in my life.

Someone asked me what I thought it meant that my place hadn't rented yet. Like what kind of Law of Attraction woo woo business was going on. My first thought was: 'Because I thought renting my place would be hard and therefore it is hard.' And my second thought, the thought that became words was: 'Because I'm supposed to start a commune for artists who all come here and do kick-ass creative work.'

This Someone suggested a brothel might be more profitable. Which is probably true. It's just that subdividing a 650 square foot condo into several, um, treatment rooms might be against the condo board rules. Although, the brothel would come equipped with a natural soundtrack of humping noises from the neighbours. Might be good for business. "I'll have what she's having." That sort of thing.

Regardless, my idea about a shared creative space for artists stuck in my head and I really like it. I wrote a few emails to a few friends, floating the idea past them. And then I posted on Craig's List...just to see. Got two emails from interested artists already. Not bad considering it's Labour Day Long Weekend and everyone is desperately BBQing everything in sight hoping to juice the last drop of Summer Fun from these three days.

Here is what I think: if I just relax about the whole thing and use my own creativity, everything will work out. Just imagine: a bunch of writers, artists, theatre people, designers all gathered into one space making creative work. Maybe having weird artsy rent-raising events involving naked performance art and cocktail weenies. That is just good juju right there.

Or maybe the nice couple doing their PhDs that just called this morning will take it. Who knows? It's all happening.

Tenants Are Tricky

Hey, remember that time when that awkward guy called about the condo? And he called, like, 20 times and kept trying to talk me down on the rent? And then was an hour and a half late to the showing after I had driven eight hours on winding mountain roads in the rain and hadn't had dinner? So we just left? 'Member when I yelled at him on the phone because of that? That was funny.

Omigod and remember when I showed it to that other girl who was really nice and great and would be a way better tenant than the awkward high-maintenance guy? And the showing went really well and she liked it? And then I took her down in the elevator because I'm nice and was showing her out and then just like in some bad high school Drama Club play where two strangers get stuck in an elevator...that girl and I got stuck in the elevator? And I started to worry that she was claustrophobic and I said, "I swear this never happens," about a hundred times which made it sound like I was lying, even though I wasn't?

Remember how we learned that the Alarm button in a stuck elevator just rings a bell that sounds like a phone and that bell doesn't go anywhere like the elevator company or the management company, it just rings pointlessly into the building? The building where no one even makes eye contact, so why the hell would they help you get out of an elevator? And then after we called the management company and the elevator got really hot, we got out and everything was fine.

Except she didn't take the apartment.

And then remember two days and fourteen more rent-debate phone calls later the Awkward Guy said he'd take it? So we cleaned the place like crazy because he wanted it immediately? Only, remember how he brought all of his stuff in a mini-van cab and piled it in the lobby of the building – tons of stuff all crammed into about 20 big orange garbage bags – and then he tried to talk me down on rent again using strange economic theories that the mini-van cab driver gave him? And I wasn't sure what he was doing because he was the one who was homeless and whose stuff was in an orange plastic pile in my lobby?

And then 'member how he didn't end up taking the place?! After all that? And then he had to call another mini-van cab to take him and his great big orange pile of plastic existence to Motel Village? And we just went home kind of baffled and had pizza. Remember all that? God.

Meet The F*ckers

Maybe if I write a rilly funny post about my condo, people all over the world will laugh and that will draw waves of lovely cosmic energy upon which The Perfect Tenant will surf, landing at my door with a toss of his/her sunbleached tresses. Here goes.

When you buy a condo, the people who sell it to you throw the word "concrete" around a lot. You might think that means the building is a little beehive of concrete cells and you, if you buy into this active lifestyle community, can have your own little cell protected from yet connected to all the other bees in the hive.

And you nod and smile and the secret thought slips into your head that maybe, just maybe, this will be the building where you actually make friends with your neighbours. And maybe the glorious Concrete means you won't hear your neighbours fight or sneeze or (as was the case in one particular apartment building) poop. And that might facilitate the gradual blossoming of a friendship a little better than constantly hearing the private inner workings of their lives and bodies.

But that doesn't happen. Partly because no one makes friends with the people in their building. And partly because the people that own the condos are very different than the tenants that inevitably and gradually fill up all the little cells of the beehive.

Being right close to the technical/vocational school, these tenants are younger than the mid-thirties professionals who ponied up fifty grand for a down payment. And being younger, they are louder. Probably because they haven't lived in apartments for, oh say, thirteen years like I have and therefore are not trained to, oh say, shut the hell up. But I'm not here to unleash and Old Lady rant about the Young People of Today.

I'm here to tell you about The F*ckers.

I met The F*ckers one winter evening as I was making dinner and they were making something else. As I chopped, they humped, the music of their lovemaking drifting easily through the drywall of our shared bedroom wall.

I smiled, said something wistful-yet-patronizing like, "Crazy kids," and placidly went back to my cooking.

But this, dear friends, was only the beginning.

Because "concrete construction" might mean the floors of the beehive are concrete, but the walls certainly aren't. And because another thing about younger tenants is that they happen to have the sex drives of teenage rabbits on Ecstasy.

The F*ckers f*cked. A lot.

And I, being just on the other side of the paper-thin drywall, was privy to it all. I tapped my foot to the sound of the bed banging rhythmically and happily, becoming moved to tears by Mrs. F*cker's operatic orgasms.

I noticed as the 6 pm couplings progressed to later at night. During sleepovers, I was treated to carnal alarm clocks at three and four in the morning. And on weekends, if I heard giggling, I knew he was using the patented and powerful Tickle Her And Then Take Her Pants Off foreplay technique.

One epic day they did it at dinnertime, again at ten or eleven and then went for the hat trick, waking me from a dead sleep at three a.m.

Oh yes, The F*ckers f*cked.

I will admit to some jealousy.

I tried to remember my own early twenties, hoping that at some point I got as busy as these kids, and my whole life hasn't been a barren sexless wasteland. But, all I can remember of the Early Twenties is sleeping with sharp objects at the ready to fend off my constantly horny snowboarder boyfriend.

Quite different than what my friend Dayna describes as The Early Thirty Hornies. Quite different indeed. Dayna described an unexpected period of arousal once a woman hits the Big-3-0, probably some hardwired baby-making impulse deep in the DNA. But, being in my twenties at the time (and still fending people off with sticks), I thought her theory was BS.

How wrong I was.

So there I was deep in the Early Thirty Hornies, frustrated as all hell, listening to the Early-Twenties F*ckers go at it twice and three times a day. And my only consolation was that their "sessions" are rather "short." Because, being young, Mr. F*cker hadn't yet figured out that two minutes is not going to cut it in the long run and he'd be hearing a lot less of Mrs. F*cker's operatic orgasms (if they were indeed orgasms) as the years went on unless he acquired a bit more stamina.

One night, the bed started its usual bass drum against the wall. It accelerated faster than usual and then abruptly stopped well before Mrs. F*cker's usual aria had begun. There was a brief moment of shocked silence and then Mrs. F*cker cried out indignantly, "You f*cker!"

Stamina Mr. F*cker. Stamina.

Ixnay on the Vacay

So, my sister and I have returned from trying (and failing) for the fifth year running to relive the Perfect Vacation of 2002 – when just three months after my marriage vanished from under my feet, we convened in Huntington Beach, California to celebrate Kim's 21st birthday in style.

Maybe it was that we had no expectations about how fun it was going to be. Maybe it was the fact that all four days included James Brown, champagne and chocolate-chunk brownies. Maybe it was because we were in Cali-fucking-fornia for God's sake. Whatever it was, it was perfect. And for five years, we've attempted to recreate the magic. To no avail.

There was the Forest Fires and Mac Trucks At 3 AM camping trip of 2003. There was several rounds of Let's Try To Turn Kim's Basement Apartment In Vancouver into Fun Central When Really It's Just Mildewy and Damp (Physically and Metaphorically). Then there was the classic Visit To The Other Sister, where I went into a Pottery Barn coma upon entering Middle Sister's new HGTV/Martha Stewart/Designer Guys umbrella drink of a condo and became asphyxiated with indecision over which of the three fruit-scented bath gels and matching body lotions to use. (They called the paramedics...I was fine.)

Every year, Kim and I get a little more desperate as the Valhalla of our first vacay slips further from our reach. And so, our three days in The Cherry Cabin on Kootenay Lake were more Sudden Death Sister Bonding Mission than chilled-out vacation.

How We Imagined It To Be

• Perfect sunny, 30-degree weather (so Kim could tan and I could have a hope of entering the sub-zero lake water)
• No other human beings within a 2 mile radius of wherever we were at that precise moment in time
• A rustic cabin, yes, but one with supremely comfortable, preferably pillow-top beds, soaker tubs, spa showers and extremely accommodating cabana boys
• Bliss, joy and laughter from the time we left home to the time we returned
• Spa-like states of relaxation (with or without drooling)
• Lovely sandy beaches with no one quite so attractive as us upon them
• Almost-transcendental states of sisterly love
• Consciousness-altering conversation illuminating the great mysteries of, if not the Universe itself, then at least each other as beings within said Universe
• A clear understanding of the nature of Happiness and how to facilitate It in our lives

How It Was

• Windy, cold and rainy such that I wore wool socks to bed and turned on the plug-in heater thingy that buzzed and rattled into the night
• A band of neighbours in the cabin next to ours, all blessed with the gift of profanity, plus the charming alcoholic owner of the "resort" who insisted on laughing boozily in our faces after everything he said (none of which was anywhere near that funny)
• Whatever the opposite of a "pillow-top bed" is
• Intermittent irritation, disappointment and making-the-best-of-things, assuaged by the steady application of cheap red wine, beer, vodka-soda-with-lime
• First-year-university-like states of tipsiness (with and without drooling)
• Almost-homicidal states of sisterly competition during the two separate trouncings I sustained in the 1st Annual Jones Sisters Gin-n-Juice Gin Rummy tournament
• New levels of understanding as it relates to each other's sex lives
• New levels of understanding as it relates to the cheapest and/or best place to procure a bikini wax (cross referenced with who does and doesn't do 'the bum') independent of whether or not you will ever be in a bikini on your holiday because it is so bloody effing cold
  
• Personal progress on the Happiness issue including the effect of eating wild blackberries off the vine and sipping coffee while gazing onto the morning-calm waters of Kootenay Lake
• Acknowledgment that one's list of life goals should and will henceforth include 'Cabin By A Lake'
• Tacit agreement that a general reduction in Overblown Expectations and Preconceived Notions would also be helpful
• Plans for Sisterfest 2009 will be limited to one of the following locations: Bora Bora, Maui, Santorini or Havana
  

Paris Greatest Hits

I'm gettin' a little nostalgic these days. Maybe writing memories of the past ten-odd years of your life will do that to you. I don't know. I'm holing up (yet again) in BC to write like mad, so I may not be able to post for the next couple of days. In the meantime, I give you The City of Lights' Greatest Hits:

The Metro's Art Nouveau stylings. You know you are in a good place when the public transit gives you goosebumps.

Dramatic headless cemetery statues. Perhaps not a Hit in and of themselves, but somewhere around this decapitated angel are the bodies of Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf and Jim Freaking Morrison.

I have a thing for headless dudes, I guess. These ones did something to me. In a good way. The Musee du Cluny was spiritual.

Hey, remember that time when I got up at 7:30, crammed my beret on my head and ran down to the Barbes Market so I could be there when they opened? The place where they're only flirting with you because they want you to buy their tomatoes? Remember that? And then remember after, when that really cute guy in my building flirted with me (not because he wanted me to buy his tomatoes) but I couldn't understand a word he was saying, so I just stared at him stupidly?

Oh sure, there were a couple days like this. But despite the marketing, Paris in the Springtime is pretty much rainy and cold. The best way to get through it is get your daily dose of flowers and churches. Does a body good.

"My" cafe, La Fourmi. The manager was surly, the coffee borderline, the toilets shocking, and the ambience perfect for writing. Ask us about our transvestite panhandlers!

Not showing this would be like seeing a Don McLean concert and him not singing American Pie. He may not feel like it. Might feel like singing it is some big cliche and he's really moved on, you know? He's past it. But, really, it just wouldn't be right not to.

Jardin des Tuileries. Where statues look like angels. And where gypsy women hold photographs of sad-looking children and ask you for money.

The view from my window. What I saw when I arrived, exhausted and completely freaked out. What I saw when I wrote. What I saw when, rather than write another word, I wanted to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon. What I saw while drinking 900 giant cups of tea every morning. What I saw when I fell in love with my characters. What I saw when I killed them. What I saw when I placed a pile of white pages on the table, took a breath and left for home.

Pulling Ahead

It's three weeks into my Great Book Writing Adventure. It's been a wild, wild ride so far. To be honest, I thought I'd have fallen off by now. Lingering somewhere in my own personal no-man's-land between the excited beginning and the triumphant end. The horse latitudes.

I finished the story of my ex. It took two solid writing days and a whole schwack of Kleenex. It was sweet in the beginning as I remembered what it's like to be fourteen and infatuated. (Yes, I fell for him at 14.) And then, just as it was in real life, it got worse and worse until I was a sobbing mess on a Friday afternoon.

I finished "his" section and I opened up the twenty-some-odd word processing files that comprise this book so far. I wrote down the word count of each of them and added it up. Just for fun. To see where I was relative to how I felt.

I needed to check in, what with the focus-pulling freakshow of the Great Jones Surprise Party on the weekend, followed by the Marathon of Idiots of this week's condo renting extravaganza. I figured, actually, I was screwed.

I punched numbers into my calculator, not looking at the running total. Numbers like 1372 (How My Paris Dream Began) and 2042 (A bunch of lists such as Lessons Learned from the Barbes Market and various bits of dialogue, such as the conversation between the shyster epicerie owner who shortchanged me 7 Euros).

I've been writing pieces by piece, story by story, or as Anne Lamott would say...bird by bird. When I wrote a rather terrible novel two Novembers ago, I wrote it in one enormous Word document, pages and pages electronically reaching far out of sight. This time, I just open a new file every morning and see what happens. One day I'll have to string them all together, and that day is coming soon, but not today.

Anyhoo.

I finished adding. I looked at the screen of the Casio calculator I stole years ago from either my dad or my friend Alison. Imagine my genuine surprise and infinite delight at seeing this number: 29, 211.

Thirty thousand words! In three weeks.

And it isn't even that I care about the actual number per se, it's that I'm doing it. I'm writing this book. It's happening and I'm so grateful for that. Grateful that I've found whatever it is you need to find in yourself to sit down and put your fingers to the keys. Grateful that the Great Creator has chosen to join me on this journey. Grateful for the people in my life who support me on it.

There is a lot of work to do yet, but I know I can do it.

The past two writing days have been emotionally hard. It reminds me of Paris when I had to kill Charlie, one of my characters. (Who came back to life in the second draft. Who now is about to be written out completely. Regardless.) It was sad. But deliciously sad.

How marvelous to dive into creation. How marvelous to put your head down and work at this task filled with love and then to look up and see that something real and living is taking shape.

Wootastic Day of Mythic Proportions

Quel day. My mind is a little bit blown, so forgive any gaps in logic or reason. Yesterday was in-freaking-sane.

First, I met with my Pop to discuss my plans for committing to my creative work for one year. "This is the year?" He asked. "This is it?" Yes, I said. I'm tired of letting fear hold me back like it has for the past ten. So, right now, this year, I'm moving past fear to whatever waits beyond it.

I also told him about the pattern I've had since my giant-sized depressive breakdown thing six or seven years ago. It goes like this: go on medication, get an unfulfilling full-time job, quit after a year or so, go freelance, choose 'paying the bills' over 'creative work,' get depressed. And repeat.

This summer, I was able to see the pattern before I popped the pill, pulled the 'chute and abandoned my creative self once again. These are the stakes, Pop. Write or drown.

And then he said:
1. I get it.
2. I support you 100%.
3. What do you need from me?

Every moment when I'm not writing lately, I have repeated, "The universe supports my creative work. I take a risk and am rewarded." I walked away from my coffee with dad with the use of their car while they're gone, so I can sell mine, and later that evening, my folks called with an offer of a plane ticket on points.

Then, I returned all that damned IKEA furniture that was oppressing me and our garage and un-spent $1100. The $1100 that was going to be my plane ticket, but now represents a month's rent – if I can find a sublet or shared accommodation for 700 Euros...anyone?

Then Drea called to tell me that she might have $250k for her documentary and would I help her write a treatment for the investor. And, oh by the way, I'm writing the doc.

In the afternoon, a guy who rents executive suites to film people called. He needs one just like mine ASAP. He's a friend of a friend and we got to talking. I told him I'm a writer. I told him I wrote a screenplay in Paris. He said "Let's meet" because he knows people and there are lots of on-set writing jobs re-writing scenes as they shoot if I wanted to break in.

I immediately imagined myself running through the mud and pouring rain at one a.m. to my trailer, scribbled notes in my hand. This guy worked with Ang Lee on Brokeback Mountain. There are four projects shooting here right now, this minute.

In between those highlights, it's been a leeeeeeeettle chaotic. I talked on my cell phone so much I have a massive brain tumour. My idiot-per-hour rate has skyrocketed as a result of this condo renting adventure. Stress level? Atmospheric. I drove between Burbland and town six times yesterday, which equals well over two hours of emissions-chugging time-suckage. I did not write a word. I ate two lattes and a piece of frozen pizza at 9 pm. Which means I spent most of the day in my least flattering state. A state I call Bitch Hungry.

All I can do is stop getting spun by the chaos. I have to believe all of this is clearing the way so I can work. That this flurry of activity is setting the stage for a big, beautiful expanse of creative time, freedom and growth. That the perfect tenant fills my condo with light and love and a sweet chunk of change. That the right opportunities reveal themselves. That I receive the kind of support that leads me to my highest self. That everything is working perfectly. That the universe supports my creative work. I take a risk and am rewarded.

Not-So-Bons Mots

Writing about falling in love with my ex-husband for the next while. Harrowing work, but lovely, too. In a wistful nostalgia kind of way. And so, in an effort at levity during this weighted task, a compilation of my least favourite words. Words that – when I say them slowly, letting my tongue curl around their letters – conjure unspeakable horror within my very soul.

Slacks – Imagine if you will, too-tight 70s polyester plaid stretched unflatteringly across the wide expanse of a middle-school teacher's camel toe and ample...
Thighs – White chicken skin jiggling rippling cellulite dimpled flab
Paste – Flaccid, thin and wrong, like the taste of Elmer's glue
Panties – Annoyingly prim yet somehow pornographic
Breath – The hard br followed by the impotent th that makes yoga class impossible to enjoy
Milk – Stretchy strings of white milky mucus in the throat, a phlegmier word than phlegm itself
Moist – The sick sound of someone chewing, wet, so wet
Pleasure – A dirty-minded 60-something man whispering into the ear of an altogether too-young girl
Fabulous – If used to describe life as a single girl in my presence, I will punch your face in
Scrumptious – Aw, fuck off

And now for the other side of the linguistic coin. Words I love. Love, love, love. Absolutely not a definitive or complete list. Just the ones I can think of off the top of my head.

Juice – Sounds like something that should be yelled at sporting events. Jooooooce!
Panties – Meh, it's a love-hate thing. My friend Nadine pronounces it pannies with a bit of a y-sound after the p. Like piannies. Hilarious.
Fuck – Come on. You love its raw, seething, sexual power, too. Admit it. Speaking of...
Raw – Exposed, bloody, muscular, vulnerable. Painful, real, terribly true.
Outrageous, Delicious, Gorgeous – When, and only when, my sister Kim says them
Bananas – Use liberally in the form of 'That's bananas!'
Segue – Yes, dahlings, that's how you spell 'segway.' Reminds me of siege. This segue has us under siege! Run for your lives before the topic changes!
Enraged – When uttered by my friend Hilary. Please read my homage to Hil here.
Intoxicated – Emphasize the 'tox' to introduce a lovely hint of pomposity
Fisticuffs – Bare-fisted boxing matches with big, old-fashioned handlebar mustaches. Carnival popcorn in striped boxes. Cymbal-banging monkeys and wind-up music boxes

Easy Does It

One of my favourite AA slogans. Along with Just for Today, which may have been a subconscious inspiration for my Just One Year (JOY) idea. Who knows? Let go and let God, I always say.

Anyhow.

Despite how effing haggard and beaten I felt, yesterday was a beautiful day. Because I wrote and it was glorious. I didn't push. I didn't count words. I just wrote for the sheer joy of it. I wrote Be Selfish on a Post-It note, sending an energetic PFO to everyone else and their ideas, opinions, needs and feelings. I let everything wait outside the door until I was good and done.

I wrote the way I write this blog, actually. I arrived at the page, which is to say I got present. I waited, hands poised above the keys. And then I let it come.

Don't be shocked, but I don't really plan what I write on this thing.

The stories I tell, tell themselves. They come from a place beyond thought. Even if they're stories about things I've done or said, they come from somewhere larger than me. I've described it before as God passing through my fingers and onto the page.

But it's not like I'm possessed or anything. I'm just flowing. I'm getting out of the way and letting the words and ideas pour out. I'm working and it doesn't feel like work. I feel curious about how this story wants to be told. Not stressed out about whether it's good or bad.

The story that asked to be written yesterday was about meeting Dana the Artist. A crazy night, back when I was still dressing like a Canadian tourist with sensible shoes and a Gortex rain jacket.

I arrived too early to a very-obviously-lesbian cafe in Le Marais and circled round and round, peering into the faces of everyone sitting out front. Trying to determine if any of them were Dana. And trying to ignore the ones that looked me up and down and turned away in disgust. (Gortex must not turn them on.)

Dana arrived and we had a drink before proceeding to another bar. Where I met a bizarre-and-beautiful burlesque dancer from Kentucky, who I fell madly in love with on sight. Who was just returning from a bondage workshop. Who only dates non-biological men. And whose head I almost knocked off her body by coming in a little too fast for the kiss-kiss French greeting thing.

It was, howyousay, le weird. I have never felt as whitebread as I felt that night. It took me three days and a map to find my comfort zone again. If I ever found it.

All of which makes for a damn good story.

The O.D.

I met with my writer/editor friend Jill yesterday to talk through the memoir project and (I hoped) hammer out some sort of outline or structure.

But what came out of our discussion wasn't about writing per se. It was about dreams. Somewhere in our conversation, I told her that the original incarnation of this dream, my big Paris writing dream, was very different than the thing I actually did.

My Original Dream (the O.D.) was to spend a year in Paris, write a novel and be fluent in French. The thing that happened was I spent a month in Paris, wrote a screenplay and spoke enough French to get groceries and coffee.

"So, you haven't lived your dream yet," Jill said matter-of-factly.

And then my ears started making that sound, you know the one, that high-pitched sound when your world just got ever so slightly rocked and you're not sure if you'll still be standing up in a minute.

What if I haven't lived my dream?

What if that month in Paris was the appetizer course of a meal I'm still starving for?

Yesterday was a hard day. Two people harangued me for pushing Paris back to February. My rack-up-the-word-count work style was criticized. I was with family all weekend and didn't touch my memoir for three days – which I've learned is the limit of my sanity. I said yes to having people over when I absolutely should have given myself that time to write. I haven't been sleeping. I am broke.

And it's entirely possible that I need to go to Paris for a year.

Someone reminded me that this Just One Year plan was about "givin' 'er for a year, right?" They said it casually, as though this was all in fun, this grand hobby I have. As though closing the door of my office and turning my cell phone off between the hours of X and X would cut it.

But, down in my secret places, I don't think it does. When you stay in your regular life, "they" can still get you. There's always going to be someone who needs a ride to the airport. And someone you haven't seen in ages who is demanding dinner next week. And the phone ringing and the email binging. There's always going to be vampires.

"Sometimes you have to give up one part of yourself to reveal another part." Is what Dana said.

"You must put your own oxygen mask on before you help anyone else." Is how Heather put it.

This great risk I feel compelled to take. The complete commitment I've put out there. Will it tolerate waiting six more months? Will it allow me to 'build up gradually' as though this was a workout program from some women's magazine? Will it accept compromise at all? Or will it keep clutching at me and scratching out my eyes until I submit completely? Until I let go of this person I keep trying to be and become the person I am.

The Incredible Floating Family

I know I probably have you all well-trained NOT to check my blog on the weekends, but now I'm all goal-happy, so I'm posting every day. And it turns out I lay out some serious plans on Saturdays and rethink those plans on Sundays. Quel shock.

And here we are Monday. Exhausted after a sleepless weekend because I'm stressing about my frickin' condo. But energized from a mind-blowingly good talk with my family.

See, I have the kind of family where you need to have your shit together. At all times, you should know what is happening with your career, your relationship, your real estate holdings, your investments and the contents of your refrigerator. And at all times, all of these things should be getting better, not worse.

At least that's how I've felt for the past thirty-odd years.

Being a creative-type in a family of scientists has not helped in the Having My Shit Together department. Especially since I've been trying desperately to fit into some half-assed hybrid state of having a full-time job while feeling fulfilled creatively. Which, of course, hasn't worked. So, I end up quitting job after job and looking like a real flake.

(Not to mention the fact that I bring up "The Universe" as a viable decision-making strategy in a family for which logic is the tool in the drawer.)

So, imagine my surprise and secret delight at hearing, one by one, all of my family members reveal how completely and totally OUT of control they are. My two sisters, my mom. Even my super-high-functioning, intimidatingly successful father is a little unsure. We're all in the same boat. No, we're OUT of the boat. Bobbing. Dog paddling. In a vast ocean of confusion.

On a Sunday afternoon, we all lifted up our skirts to reveal the swirling chaos we've been working so hard to hide from each other.

I finally told these people that I've been living Plan B for ten years and it's not working. And at 32 years of age (my saving years!), it's time I tried Plan A. So I'm selling my stuff and taking off to Paris.

I was so afraid of being judged. But the opposite happened. I felt lifted up by support. And I think that was because we all have something in common – we're all uncertain. Not one of us knows what's going to happen in six months. Where we'll be living, what we'll be doing, how we'll be paying for it. No clue. All of us have realized that The Way We Thought Things Would Go is vastly different from The Way They Went. All of us are hanging by our fingernails in limbo, hoping it all turns out okay.

How bloody refreshing.

My mom has a funny habit of blurting out usually-ridiculous bits of wisdom in the middle of regular conversation. For years we've been writing down things like, "You can't sue from the grave," and compiling them into booklets of what we call Momisms. I think we're working on Volume 3.

But yesterday, as I tearfully explained why Normal wasn't going to work for me even though I've tried, she came up with one that doesn't seem to fit with sayings like "Dijon mustard is a multimedia experience."

"Mel," she said, handing me my seventh Kleenex. "Normal is a myth."

Pros n' Cons

So, my big plan has pluses and minuses. Like all plans probably. First, let's look at the upsides:

PROS

• If I pull off all that mad writing I have planned, I will have amassed the kick-assiest body of work in the shortest amount of time I've ever heard of
• I will have tons to pitch to agents, publishers, producers, rich patrons in search of artists to sponsor
  
• I will have creative momentum already happening so I can hit the ground running in Paris (once the jet lag wears off)
• I have set myself up for success with proposals, finished pieces and submissions in the works – as opposed to arriving on Paris' doorstep with five bucks and a poem I wrote in Grade Six
• I will not have napalmed a relationship I'm not sure I want to napalm
• I get to cross-country ski in the Canadian Rockies for at least part of the winter
• I don't have to spend Christmas alone in a tiny, drafty flat crying into my microwaved turkey dinner, if they even have that in France

Now let's check in with those pesky downsides:

CONS

• The sell-the-car-and-go-to-Paris-now plan didn't include the six months of living-in-Calgary expenses I now have to come up with STAT
• Am I waiting until February for my boyfriend's benefit or because it's best for me?
• Let me get this straight...I am planning to write a memoir, a novel, a play, a complete rewrite of my screenplay, some short pieces, plus submitting all of the above and learning French. In six months?! Ha.
• Double con: selling my car now means schlepping to and from the 'burbs somehow, but not selling my car now means paying for gas for six months

And here's an inside look at my churning insides:

OMG

• I still don't have a tenant for my effin' condo, so in T-minus two weeks, I'm on the hook for $1400 a month
• That cheque I was waiting for? Yeah, still waiting
  

Just One Year (JOY) Plan

My friend Andrew told me a story about a graffiti artist he interviewed for a magazine article. The artist had been trying to make a go of his art while working full time, but his art career was kind of stalling and he was getting depressed. (Sound familiar?) Anyway, this artist decided to commit 100% to his creative work for one year – long enough to make big change, short enough not to completely freak him out. He struggled at times, sometimes needing parental bail-outs when rent got tight, but that year brought him to self-sufficiency as an artist.

Welcome to my year. It secretly started on August 1st only I didn't tell anyone. It needed time to brew. It's a loosely-structured plan, which I anticipate will shift and change, but here is the skeleton:

AUGUST
Work on first draft of Paris dreams memoir
Develop a routine/habit of writing every day
Develop proposal for publishers/agents

SEPTEMBER
Complete memoir draft for September 15
Banff Centre residency – learn a ton, gather contacts
Either let memoir rest and focus on screenplay (remember that?)
OR
Revise memoir and begin submitting to publishers/agents
Begin French class
Sell car

OCTOBER
Memoir submission con't.
Submit screenplay to producers/agents
Begin outlining/brainstorming novel
French class

NOVEMBER
NaNoWriMo – 50,000 words in 30 days
Keep working on and playing with narrative form
Submit screenplay, memoir or short pieces
French class

DECEMBER
Submit. Submit. Submit.
Write 2 -4 short pieces
French class

JANUARY
24-Hour Playwriting Competition
Develop dialogue skills
Submit. Submit. Submit.
French class

FEBRUARY
Leave for Paris
Rework memoir with new editor and new publishing contract
OR
Work on Draft 2 of novel
Meet as many publishers, editors, producers as is humanly possible
French class in Paris

MARCH
Writing
Submitting
Meeting people
Speaking French

APRIL
Writing
Submitting
Meeting people
Speaking French

MAY
Writing
Submitting
Meeting people
Speaking French

JUNE
Boyfriend arrives and meets all my new weird French friends
We stay in Paris
OR
Take off to villa in south of France or Spain or Austria or Italy
Write and submit

JULY
Write and submit
Watch Tour de France with Boyfriend

AUGUST
Come home...or not

Decision Day

Here we are. August 15. Decision Day. Forget what I'm talking about? Go here.

After my gratuitous display of selfishness the other night, the one where I told Boyfriend I was gettin' on a plane in October and staying in Paris for six months whether he liked it or not and then realized that the fact I've put off my dreams for ten years doesn't negate the fact that I've committed to a relationship, I've been doing a lot of thinking.

One decision I've made is that a whole chapter of my book will be dedicated to the great challenge of living your dreams when you are in a relationship. Perhaps I'll call it 'It's Easy When You're Single, Childless and Rich!' It would be fun to do exactly and only what's best for you and get on that plane TOMORROW, dammit. Which you could, but it would have consequences. Like the end of your relationship, for example. Which you may not be prepared to face even though you've been questioning things and, while there are legitimate concerns about opposites not just attracting but making a go of it long term, you suspect that a lot of the time you're just projecting your own creative frustration onto your partner.

Welcome to Long Breathy Sentence Friday. Gasp. Can we take your order?

Another factor you'd be smart to consider is how you are sometimes pointlessly impulsive and end up wasting a lot of time wondering what the hell you are going to do now that you've quit your job, sold everything and arrived in a city that, shock of shocks, does not greet you with open arms crying, "Welcome back! We missed you! Here's a lucrative publishing contract and a BMW X3 fully loaded with a male model and a champagne tap."

Yet another realization you've made in the past couple of weeks of spectacular creative output is that you simply require a deadline or some other sharp, pointy accountability device in order to be unbelievably productive. If I added an editor with a background in drill sergeantry to this self-imposed book deadline of mine, I would be in seventh heaven. This is good to know about oneself.

All this to say I'm still going to Paris. But not in October. In February. For three to six months and maybe longer if mood or opportunity strikes. My point is not to put off my dream. My point is to set myself up properly this time. Dana had an excellent observation that the mistake I made with Paris Part 1 was to ignore the next step. I probably should have arranged a meeting with a producer or something after returning home in order to maintain momentum and prevent catastrophic depressive sinkage.

So. I am working towards my September 15th deadline and the wonders that await me in Banff. Meantime, I am crafting a delicious proposal to send to publishers asap. The absolute best case scenario is if I got a contract before getting on a plane to Paris. Wouldn't that be lovely? Regardless, it's time to put my head down and do the work. I need to be diligent and brave with my dream – getting pieces finished, submitting, putting myself in front of people who can help. In other words, letting the universe know that I am serious about my success as a writer. So when I do arrive in Paris, I've really earned the BMW with a champagne tap.

Detailed plan tomorrow. Stay tuned.

How Not To Be A Good Girlfriend

Don't let a healthy relationship stand in the way of your dreams! In less than an hour, my Patented Method can bring you the kind of results that can lead to lifelong resentment. For just three installments of $19.95 you can't afford NOT to!

Let's get started...

• Make plans to spend six months in Paris without your partner. Plan to be away over Christmas and his birthday if possible. Pick a projected departure date that makes it impossible for him to join you – if he can't save several thousand dollars in five minutes, he doesn't want to come.
• Come up with a genius funding plan that doesn't include helping with the mortgage in your shared home and will likely involve him chauffeuring you around for a few months. Hey, you have to save money for Paris!
• The night of the Big Talk, have a glass of wine or two at your all-girl BBQ. This will get your surly attitude and sense of female self-importance good and warmed up. You go girl!
• When you arrive home, sit down and tell him what you have planned. It's best to blindside him with this conversation, especially when he is working. That way, he is completely on his heels and won't know how to react.
• When he appears shocked that you've decided to leave him for six months with no possibility of parole, tell him that he doesn't seem very supportive of your dream.
• Sit in sullen silence for twenty minutes.
• Listen to him tell you that he wants you to go to Paris, but that it seems you had already decided everything by the time you came home and your plan doesn't appear to consider the relationship at all.
• Decide he is selfish.
• Tell him, in minute and scientific detail, everything you've done to "consider the relationship" for the past three years...even during the times when, need you remind him, he wasn't very considerate.
• Reward him with another dose of sullen silence when he suggests that you keep the past out of the discussion.
• Tell him that if he needed to go someplace for six months, you would let him.
• Ignore his obvious distress. He can handle it...he's a man!
• When it appears you have gotten what you wanted, tell him you are tired and are going to bed. Don't forget to be insulted that his goodnight kiss is less than enthusiastic!

With my Patented Method, you could be on your way to a seriously unhealthy relationship dynamic in no time!

Can't handle the power? Don't worry. I've included a handy packet of quick-absorbing Remorse-Tabs. Taken before bedtime, Remorse-Tabs will help you take the long walk to I'm Sorry.

Instructions for use:
Take two Remorse-Tabs with water. Pad downstairs in your jammies. Sit on the carpet in your partner's office and curl yourself into a tiny – and hopefully cute – ball. Tell him that you have an idea for a different plan that might work for both of you. Outline a plan where you leave a few months later, allowing the possibility of things like hanging out in Europe for the summer with your boyfriend and maybe watching the Tour de France, his most favouritest sporting event in the world. Realize a plan like this is probably better for you anyway because it gives you time to set yourself up for career and creative success rather than impulsively flying off to a foreign country where you don't speak the language well enough to even have a conversation with a publisher even if they did think your book was brilliant. Agree to talk again in the morning. Kiss and/or hug liberally. Notice the goodnight kiss is a little juicier this time.

Money Money Money

Right now, I am a guinea pig for the biggest reason why people don't live their dreams. My bank account has $267 in it. Well, it did last week. I've been avoiding it lately.

I'm not destitute – I'm waiting on payment for a project I did at the beginning of the summer. Only the more they take their sweet time paying me, the more that cheque will be gone before it arrives.

It's a Catch-22. I'm running out of dough, but taking copywriting work is a trap. Sure, the money's good, but it steals focus (and precious time) from my creative work. And the more I rely on copywriting to support me, the less faith I put in my creative work. Which is not where I'm at right now. I'm in a 'take a risk and commit to my art' place. Not a 'contribute regularly to my RSP' place.

My mantra lately has been: "The universe supports me in my creative work." Which is pretty much the opposite of most people's affirmations when it comes to dreams. "I can't afford it" is a popular one. "You can't make money at it" is another, usually when one's dreams have an artistic bent.

Right this minute, I can't afford Paris. But that is the stupidest, most pathetic reason in the world not to go. Imagine if I wrote that in this blog. Ack! You would lynch me. Money is the most tired excuse in the book for putting off your dreams.

The other day, for my book, I wrote the Top Ten ways to fund your dream. They weren't exactly ground-breaking ideas – grants, extra projects, not going to restaurants for awhile – but it got me thinking creatively about money. Later, in the shower (where ideas live), a whole bunch of other ideas came pouring out. Everything from a donation campaign to pre-selling the book before it's even published.

Dana suggested I give myself an advance like I'd receive from a publisher. I've got a line of credit, which they gave me when I bought my condo (hoping I'd rack up more debt), but I've never really used it. If I gave myself a $5,000 advance, I could make that last for a couple months at least.

But it wouldn't get me back to Paris. Decision Day is looming people. Lest we forget.

Yesterday in the shower (where ideas live), I did the math on what I'd need to live in Paris for six months. It was a pretty rough budget, but life in Paris – despite the glamour of the place – is fairly simple. Basically just flight, rent, food and Metro. The number I came up with was $15,000.

As I drove to meet my girlfriends, I repeated "I have $15,000 or more for my journey to Paris" over and over in my head. I parked, walked towards Prince's Island Park and as I was crossing the footbridge (where ideas live), I had a thought. Sell my car.

I could easily get $15k for it. I wouldn't be driving it for six months anyway. And a car is a luxury item I would easily, happily give up. I was carless for two years before buying my Subaru and felt a kind of pride about that. I'll ride my bike and get fit again. Besides, my folks are leaving for Australia in September, leaving their Honda behind.

So, I put the intention out into the universe and in less than half an hour, I had a simple solution that delivered the exact amount I require. Sometimes this stuff is scary good.

Gutting it Out

I spent yesterday working on a 2000-word essay. Remember when I said 2000 takes me two hours? Yeah, well, yesterday I took me more than fifteen. I sat down at my desk at 8 am and besides meals and pacing back and forth late in the evening, I was chained to my laptop until past 1 am.

See, on Sunday afternoon, I was researching publishers to pursue after my manuscript is complete. I found a few, including one called Seal Press, a women's publishing house that's less scrapbooker and more Sex & the City. On their home page, there was a call for submissions for a new anthology called something like Ask Me About My Divorce.

OMG. As the kids say.

Those who know me well know that my divorce was a defining moment of my life. I was 26 years old, depressed and I weighed approximately two pounds. The years I was married were the worst of my life, so when my ex left on our second anniversary, New Year's Eve no less, it truly was the best thing that ever happened to me. It just took me awhile to figure that out.

So seeing a call for submissions for a personal essay on one of my favourite topics was super-sonically thrilling. The only trouble was, the deadline for submission was August 1st. I was a week late.

I emailed the editor, saying that I saw the deadline, but wondered if:
a) she had more than enough genius submissions to fill three anthologies, thank you,
b) she thought late people should be shot from a cannon off the face of the earth, or
c) she was hoping to receive a last-minute submission from a woman whose husband left on their 2nd anniversary when she was 26 and who decided she was going to laugh her way through this dammit and ended up becoming a dating columnist and television personality, specializing in such topics as 'Is Your Bathroom Date Friendly?' and 'Five CDs Guaranteed to Get You to Third Base.'

She emailed me less than an hour later saying she'd love to read my essay. Which was great! Except that I didn't have an essay.

I had half a self-help book. I had a one-woman show. I had hundreds of columns and articles with a reference here or an insight there. But I didn't have a well-crafted 2000 - 4000 word personal essay with the underlying message of: I got divorced and it rocked my world.

But I told her she'd have it in 24 hours nonetheless. Because I have serious problems with people-pleasing and over achievement.

So, why did writing my favourite story, the story I've told on four million occasions, take me ten times longer than it probably should have? There was some over-analysis, sure. I also think my Big Bad Awesome Divorce story has been dwarfed in importance by the Living My Dreams In Paris story. Which, of course, is a good thing.

But really, I think I just learned the big lesson of memoir: there are an infinite amount of ways to tell any story.

I toiled for ten solid hours and four versions before something came out of it that would pass as focused, publishable work. I called around begging for readers and feedback, but it's summer and it was dinnertime and the entire world was on a deck someplace enjoying BBQed meat. While I slumped in my sweatpants, my hair still bed-heady, with no bra. (Too much info? Sorry.)

Desperate for immediate feedback, I made Boyfriend read a story he's probably heard just about enough of in his life. His detailed feedback? "It was good."

Twelve hours in, I kept combing through it, changing a word here, a comma there. I'd completely lost sight of the point of the essay, let alone the point of the collection it was part of. I started to wonder if I'd ever actually been married or if that was part of some grand shower-deprived delusion.

At 10:20 my sister called with feedback. At 11 my writer-editor friend D did, too. I reworked the piece with their suggestions – which were very good and, thankfully, not conflicting. At midnight, it was done. Only I didn't have a title. I wandered around the house. I brainstormed titles with Boyfriend, who came up with some good ones, but really just wanted to see Michael Phelps race. At one am, I typed in a title, pressed Save and sent it off.

And now I wait. Hoping that the anthology editor reads it today and doesn't say, "Midnight doesn't count as Monday, sweetie. And your writing stinks too. You're OUT." Hoping, instead, she says, "Dude, this is seriously hot shit and you are a seriously hot writer. You're IN."

Station Break

Greetings Sports Fans! Opportunity knocked in a really neat way yesterday – a Sunday no less – and I'm spending my morning writing to a sudden deadline. It's all very exciting and I'll tell you about it as soon as I'm finished.

Happy Monday,
XO

Does Size Matter?

My friend Stephen made an interesting comment about yesterday's post. He referred to my daily word quota of 2000 as "effing insane." Funny thing is, I thought the same thing when AJ told me he wrote three chapters on Friday and was gunning for four on Saturday. Which, in my experience, equals one hell of a lot more than 2000 words.

I actually thought AJ was lying, but if Stephen is as floored by my output as I am by AJ's, I kind of think we all might be telling the truth. Which brings up the issue of Quantity vs. Quality.

If a person wrote one brilliant sentence and called it a day – as opposed to ten pages of absolute crap – would that would suffice? Keep in mind, I'm talking about first drafts, not polished, published works, when quality absolutely matters, whether the book is two pages or two hundred.

Personally, I subscribe to the school of Shitty First Drafts, an approach borrowed from the hilarious and wonderful Anne Lamott. The basic method is to bash out a whole bunch of words that are hopefully aimed in the general direction of the book/screenplay/haiku you want to write and then, after the bulk of the projectile word vomiting is done, go back and start making sense of it all.

I do hope Stephen will post another comment and tell us about his process. AJ too. And any other artist, writer, creative types out there. Or even carpenters, mechanics and undertakers – because everybody has a process. And because now I'm really intrigued.

Two thousand words, when I'm really cooking, takes me about two hours. I believe this pace comes from working at a magazine where a deadline was always looming like the blade of a guillotine and cranking out passable prose in five minutes or less became necessary for survival.

The thing about my puke-it-out-then-clean-it-up process is that re-drafting becomes excruciating. And I'm wondering if a more considered (a.k.a. slow, thoughtful) approach might serve me better. So that when I arrive to the second draft stage, I am not trying to pick apart the carnage of a five car pileup in order to make sense of things.

Especially if that pileup includes a semi-truck transporting chickens with avian influenza and there's feathers and strange snotty emissions (or whatever happens with bird flu) splattered everywhere and they need to bring in the Infections Diseases crew in biohazard suits and quarantine the whole area, shutting down the highway and backing up traffic for miles.

I'm sorry. Where was I?

Process. Word count. Right. My question to you, elegant and intelligent readers, is this: Is it more important to think about quality in a first draft or quantity (as in 'get the story out of my head as quickly as possible')?

Bad Writing Day

Maybe I blew my creative load on yesterday's blog post. I don't know. I sat down to write again, stared at a blank word processing page and nothing came. Not one to let this get me down, I packed up my things and went to the library, in hopes being surrounded by books would help. Osmosis, you know.

Alas, all that awaited me at the library were shelves and shelves of distractions. The library is a good idea in theory, but maybe not for me. Being around that many books and trying to focus is like asking a sex addict to sit quietly with folded hands in the middle of a brothel.

Also not helping was the young black woman sitting next to the old white man with the giant mustache. He was helping her with taxes or her resume or something and they were in this weird flirty state where everything was some kind of innuendo. The old man was really getting off on it. I bet he wished all his resume clients were like this one.

And then the flirting abruptly stopped, as I figured it would. I mean, we were in a library after all. And he really wasn't her type. He left soon after the End of the Flirting. I looked up and he was gone.

The woman immediately started talking too loudly on her cell phone. And after that, she began sniggering at stuff she saw on the Internet. Then a cute little boy came up and said, "Excuse me? Have you seen my mom?" I said I hadn't and he started to describe her, which was good because I was just about to take him by the hand and seek her out. But then he abruptly ran away, so there went my good deed for the day.

Then there was another cell phone call. This one was made by an older woman with a Southern accent. She, like my mother, seemed to think that the cell phone was a tin can telephone with two cans connected by a string. And although the sound is supposed to carry up the string, you really just end up yelling loud enough so the other person can hear you. Which negates the need for a tin can telephone in the first place. But cell phones aren't really like that and the person on the other end can hear you just fine, there's no need to yell, thank you. On the plus side, I did discover that she'd be leaving the key underneath the ashtray.

The library is full of strange people.

But it wasn't very full of Melanie's brilliant writing. I cranked out around 1500 words, which isn't terrible. I've been working towards around 2000 words per day, which is eight-ish pages.

Only, I'm losing steam. Not on the content. With this content, I could write forever. It's the style. I started out this project just documenting my memories. I had never written down how the Paris Dream originally came about, so getting that down on paper was nice. Only now the 'This Happened Then This Happened' thing isn't working for me. It's boring.

Which isn't surprising. I'm the kind of person who will make a Top Ten list about her divorce. So that's my task next. To play a little. Yesterday was a terrible grind. Today will be about playing with words and ideas, with how memory can be packaged and re-sold for home use. Today might include things like a real estate brochure for a Creative Living Community, a recipe for True Happiness!, a warning label for what happens when you don't live your dream.

May experience such symptoms as lethargy, intermittent crying, violent mood swings, addiction to prescription drugs, chick flicks and a garage full of porcelain dolls ordered off the Shopping Channel. If these symptoms persist, quit your day job and get on a plane to Tahiti immediately.

Itchy Fingers and the Powder of Doom

It was just a regular day. Or so I thought.

For a week, I'd been working hard, writing the book I hoped would launch my career as a writer. Things had been going well. I was productive and focused. Pleased with my progress.

Until I tried to change my writing schedule.

I had been conducting an experiment. Besides writing a book, I was developing a ritual that I hoped would help me as a writer and as an artist. I wanted to write regularly, every day waking up, making a cup of tea and then sitting down to the keyboard.

I'd heard other writers talk about Motivation Powder before. Mostly whispered confidences in the dark corners of cocktail lounges or dinner parties. Some writers had gotten hooked on the stuff, turning their lives into wastelands of failed marriages and estranged children, trading in happiness for yet-another bestseller. I didn't want to be like them, but I craved their productivity. Surely my depth of character was stronger than their weakness to addiction. How naive I was.

My curiosity got the better of me that afternoon, and I found the place, a dingy hole-in-the-wall near Chinatown. It was just past noon, but it felt as dark and frightening as midnight as I made my way to the end of the dead-end street. My steps echoed hollowly. Rivulets of greenish, fetid water trickled out of cracks in the concrete.

A man was waiting for me as I pushed through the rusted scab of a door at the end of the alley. At least I think it was a man, and not some creature culled from the muddy depths of the Scottish moors. He didn't speak, peering out from behind greasy strands of what must have once been hair. He turned suddenly and with surprising grace, slipped the powder in a paper packet and spun around to face me. He handed me the packet and as I fumbled for some cash, he shook his head. Terrified, I backed out of that horrible place, dropping a few crumpled bills on my way out.

I ran down the alley and all the way home.

It was with shaking hands that I spooned the reeking, greenish powder into my tea the next morning. It tasted vaguely metallic but not entirely unpleasant. I sat and waited.

Nothing.

I glanced at the clock, cursing the late hour and rushed to Drea's home for a visit. On my way, a niggling thought tickled my mind. I hadn't written that morning. I brushed it aside, promising to write that evening, and kept driving.

Drea greeted me warmly and we set about entertaining Lola, her toddler. We played and laughed as the mid-morning sun broke through the wall of clouds, warming the earth of the lawn. I was in good spirits, almost forgetting my disturbing secret.

But then, almost imperceptibly, a prickling sensation began behind my eyes. I tried to ignore it, but it intensified and moved gradually over my entire head. The strange sensation made its way down through my neck to my arms. And down my arms into my fingers. It was taking over my entire body! I watched in horror as my fingers began making involuntary movements, like I was playing piano spastically in mid-air...or...could it be? Oh God... Typing.

I willed my mind to focus on Drea's words or on Lola playing in the dirt, but my body was now my enemy. I couldn't control my movements and the frightening hold this force had on me. The prickling quickly transformed into intense pain. I began to writhe in agony on the lawn, my fingers typing murderously at the air.

God above, what was happening to me?

I cried out for help, but the words died in my parched throat. Drea and Lola moved in slow-motion and it seemed as though they were laughing at me. They circled me and chanted in some strange language I didn't understand. Their sweet voices turned into the mind-splitting shrieks of harpies.

I threw myself toward the house, clawing my way across the lawn to the deck, the stairs and, possibly, freedom. Must. Write. Must. Create. My voice came in breathy bursts, scorching across the desert my parched lips.

Every movement required monumental effort, but somehow I was getting closer. Just through that door, I knew, was my laptop. My precious, beautiful laptop. My saving grace. My antidote.

The shrieks of the harpies grew louder as I moved closer to the door, but I ignored them. My beautiful friends! Transformed in my mind to monsters! What had become of me? Finally, I reached my satchel. I clawed at the leather, my gnarled fingers searching for the panacea of my laptop's pure white keys. I ripped open my laptop and as the screen jumped into life, the hellish symptoms faded, retreating to the dark recesses of my mind.

I was safe. I huddled in the corner, typing as fast as my fingers would allow. I understood then I could never stop writing. I could never rest. I knew that demon would always be waiting for the moment when my fingers stopped moving. Lurking in the dark places just behind my eyes. Waiting to strike. Waiting, ever waiting.

Deking Out Distractions

This post is dedicated to AJ who is abandoning the cultural buffet of Prague for the Czech countryside in order to find some peace n' quiet.

Had a brief email exchange with him yesterday, and he told me there were "distractions." Although he didn't get specific about the flavour of distractions he's dealing with at the moment. But really, it doesn't matter. When you are distractable, the hole in your sock can throw you off course.

Staying focused is one of the hardest things to do when you are reaching for a big goal. Keeping your eyes on the prize is tough when a lot of the time 'the prize' feels nebulous, far-far-away, sometimes even impossible to reach. Especially if it's summer and cold beers or girls in short skirts keep walking by. Or if it's winter and it's too cold to write/paint/run. Or autumn when the falling leaves, uh, get in your eyes. Or spring with those goddamn flowers.

You get my point. Distractions will always, always be there.

You can tell yourself that some distractions are more okay than others. Going museum-hopping in Prague or Paris is easier to justify than drooling in front of any of Gordon Ramsay's seven hundred Food Network shows. But when you have work to do, and you know it, it's all the same.

When you go to write in a delicious locale, the 'I really should see the city' devil will inevitably start hanging out on your shoulder at some point. The thing is, it's no different than the 'Oh, a second pint won't hurt' devil or the 'I'll catch up with work/sleep/cello practice on the weekend' one.

Distractions are excuses made external.

And the only way to deal with them is to look them in the eye, tell them you are chasing down a dream and get back to work.

When I was training for Ironman, I actually started saying that to anyone or anything that tried to throw me off course. "Gotta go. I'm chasing down a dream." I must tell you, friends, this really works. It immediately puts people on their heels because they expected something lame like, "I have to work in the morning."

But it also creates an air of awe and excitement. Your dream is bigger than you. And bigger than that dude who wants to buy you another beer. You are on a mission. People can't help but respect that.

Listen, sorry to cut this off, but I've gotta go. I'm chasing down a dream.

I Dream of Tranny Wigs

When I am in the middle of a ridiculously huge goal or a massive creative project, sleep becomes very important. But not just the sleeping part of sleep. That's important, too, and I've found that nine hours is a good amount for me. An amount that I never get, mind you, but the amount that I aspire to.

The part of sleep that is incredibly precious and valuable are the moments just before drifting off. My process this thus:

1. I thank God for the lessons and the gifts of the day. (New readers, don't get freaked out by my use the G-word...read this for background.)
2. I go through each lesson or gift I received, giving God props for each one.
3. If I need to "pray" for someone, I do. (It's usually if they are giving me grief in some way...I add some positive energy in hopes that the irritating thing, whatever it is, will just gently and elegantly unravel itself. Maybe while I'm sleeping!)
4. I ask for help. I don't say things like, "God, I really, really want a pony. Pleeeeeease give me a pony." I ask that the Great Creator joins me at the page. I ask for guidance and clarity. And I say this a lot: "Please guide my hand."
5. Then I drift off into blissful slumber.

I am religious (ha!) with this process because I believe sleep is where you connect with your subconscious. Sleep is when you process all the ideas from the day, and where things like random midget sightings become incredibly well-formed characters. Where the things you didn't know you noticed get processed. And then all these new connections and insights get communicated to you by your intuition later.

Basically, to me, sleep is an absolutely essential part of the creative process. It is a tool to be used, not ignored or squandered by stumbling home from the absinthe bar at 5 am.

Right now, six days in to my big book-writing project, I'm super-conscientious with my bedtime ritual. And maybe that's the reason my dreams have been so wild. I don't know. But things in dreamland are cuh-razy these days.

I've never done much work with dreams, but I just read this morning that many authors and scientists use their dreams in their creative work. The dude who invented organic chemistry dreamed about a snake biting its own tail, which gave him the model for the benzene molecule. And when author Amy Tan needs an ending, she puts her manuscript under her pillow.

So, explain this to me, would you? Last night I dreamed I was in a weird dance-theatre piece directed by Dana the Artist. All was going well until closing night when, as I was getting my props and costumes ready, the lights went out. I did the best I could in the dark, but when the lights came back on, I only had one scene's worth of stuff. Which didn't even matter because my colleagues were wearing entirely new and different costumes I had never seen before.

I cobbled together a new costume, which involved high heels, sporty tube socks and a nappy tranny wig. I went out onstage where our three-person cast had suddenly expanded to the entire cast of The Lucille Ball Show or some other 50s sitcom. And no one knew what the hell was going on. This Archie Bunker-type actor was so pissed off at the whole thing that he started talking in this impossible-to-hear whisper and my freaking parents were in the audience. It was a gong show.

Is this about my control issues? Is this telling me to go with the flow? What?

Going Public

Out there in the wilderness, I made a couple of decisions. Commitments, really. One commitment is to post in this blog every day for one year. The other is to write a book by September 15. Both goals scare me to death, which is perfect.

One of my accidental tag lines is: "If the goal doesn't scare you shitless, it's not big enough." It's a phrase I coined at some point in the Ironman days. And I think it stands.

See, the ideal life-changing goal is one that is so big you have to change your own life just to have a HOPE of achieving it. Who knows what other life-changing effects the reaching of this goal might have. But in order to even have a shot at it, you have to change your behaviour, beliefs, eating and sleeping habits, etc. I'm not talking about losing 10 pounds by swimsuit season here. I'm talking about goals that you aren't even sure you are capable of, but that you know, if you rise to the challenge you will become the kind of person for whom anything is possible.

Goals in this category are the Everest-type goals. Career changes. First marathons. Second marriages. Babies. Getting published. Getting a gallery. Making a million. Goals that seem almost too big, but you want them so bad, you'll stop at nothing.

My two commitments are part of a goal like this. And I wasn't sure if I was ready to go public with this, but here goes: I want my full-time job to be my own creative work. And really, when you get right down to it, I want to be a bestselling author. Period. Point blank. There it is.

Eeek! I'm not sure if I should be telling you that. I know this guy who is like a modern pirate in the more romantic, swashbucklingest sense of that word. He swears the way to get what you want is to write down your goal, look at it every day and don't tell a soul.

I'm not much of a 'Don't Tell a Soul' type. I'm coming to terms with that. Hopefully this one doesn't bite me in the ass. But really, can I write a blog about living your dreams, when I don't tell you what my dream is? Most boring and vague blog ever. And hey, maybe it will help! Maybe one of you knows someone who knows a fabulous publisher who falls in love with my writing and away we'll go!

But that's kind of putting the cart before the horse. Again. Still. Right now, these are my tasks: blog every day and write the book by Sept. 15.

The blogging every day bit is about developing the ritual of writing - what kind of changes do I need to make in my own life in order to write every single day? It's also about amassing a serious body of work in the 'Living Your Dreams' category. And secretly, building a deliciously passionate community of readers and dream-hungry maniacs like myself, because that kind of energy will help me achieve my goal. And hopefully it will help some of you achieve your goals. And then we'll all appear on Oprah and live happily ever after.

The book by September 15th is about getting this writing career of mine really going. September 15th is not an arbitrary deadline. It is the first day of my memoir course at the Banff Centre. The book I am writing is a memoir of living a dream (aka Paris). Having a first draft completed by the time I walk through those doors means I will be improving an already hopefully brilliant manuscript and readying it for publication. It will also mean that the facilitators (aka Professional Contacts) will get a good sense of my brilliance and diligence to my craft and will then say something along the lines of, "Melanie, you are a genius. You must meet my agent/publisher/editor/mother."

So those are my big announcements. I'm making the commitment to my Big Dream. I'm drinking the Kool-Aid. Taking the blue pill (or red one, I can never remember which). I am effing GOING FOR IT. Is basically what I'm saying. Who's with me?

Dreamaholics Anonymous

Short post today as Boyfriend and I zip out to the mountains for some QT and BBQ with my fam. I posted all weekend, so there's lots to read there. Also, I'll be making a couple big announcements tomorrow, so tune in for that.

In the meantime and in between time, here's what's happening in our growing group of bad-ass dream junkies:

Writers
AJ (writer/comedian extraordinaire) is now, at this moment, writing in Prague. Well, I'm assuming he's writing. There was a small moment where I think his money had been frozen by the bank or something. But really, in that case, you just take a lover. Rent = covered.

Musicians
A certain super-shy friend of mine pulled me aside at a recent dinner party and whispered these seductive words into my ear: "You've inspired me. I'm starting cello lessons." Look for her CD and world tour coming soon.

Babymommas
Athena and McDreamy have lots to report. Number one, these crazy lovers just got engaged. Congrats! And then, a week later, they found a surrogate. Congrats the sequel! So, if all goes as planned, I should have a Pregnancy By Proxy announcement come mid-September.

Filmmakers
And my gorgeous friend Drea is smack-dab in the middle of making a documentary on homeopathic medicine. She arrived back in Calgary with literally $200 in the bank and now has a job, a camera and funding coming in for her film.

Ahem. These people rock the effing block. This is what it's all about, people. Bringing more love into the world by living your dreams every single day. Keep dreamin' kids. And keep writing me with your stories of audacious acts of awesomeness. Xoxo

A Kick-Ass Ass Kicking

My original plan was to drive into the woods, spend one day with Dana the Artist and spend the rest of the time bored out of my skull in some divey roadside motel. I was going to relax, take it easy and meditate in order for the secrets of the universe to bubble up from my placid consciousness.

None of this happened.

Instead, I spent the whole time with Dana, getting my ass kicked all over the interior of BC. Dana the Artist brand Ass-Kicking takes two forms. The first is 'Let's spend twelve hours bashing through the wilderness.' The second is 'Quit effin' crying and start effin' working.' Only she doesn't drop the F-bomb as regularly as I do. Instead, her speech is peppered with French words that she no longer remembers the English for. Which is way more charming than swearing like a trucker.

So. There I was, hoping to be coddled and spoiled – and I did get spoiled because Dana is one of the most generous people I've ever met – when I had unknowingly walked into Artist Boot Camp. In which failure was not an option.

It was like trudging through the galaxy to find Yoda and Yoda feeding you a delicious meal and then whooping you into submission in a light saber session. Which, if you are Luke Skywalker, you know is good for you.

It's not that you are a masochist or anything. It's just that you suddenly realize that your self-indulgent Victorian histrionics aren't serving you. And the only thing that will serve you is to get fucking writing.

A pithy example: "I was going to bet you five grand I could write a bestseller before you could."

I mean, she was playing hard ball from the moment I walked in. And if you know me, you know that sometimes, I like it rough.

My favourite dance teacher, the uptight British man who inspired me to become a contemporary dancer, taught his class exactly like boot camp. Every class involved sit-ups and push-ups. He wanted us fit and strong and ready to perform. Or else. Sure, it was about physical stamina for a physical art form, but it was also about an attitude of diligence and respect for ourselves as artists. He wanted us to be great and wasn't going to settle for anything less.

Tough love is one of my favourite kinds of love. And again, I swear, I'm not a regular member of some S&M Eat-Me-Beat-Me club. I just dig getting my ego kicked around for my own good. Tough love takes balls. It takes courage to deliver and courage to receive. If properly executed, it can be the catalyst that takes you to the next level. It can be the door to great success.

One night, when I was training for Ironman, I decided that staying up drinking until 3 am was excellent preparation for a three-hour bike ride. The next day, I got up just in time to eat a few grapes before my coach picked me up. I was impossibly hung-over. I probably reeked of booze. And I expected seven grapes to fuel a ride in which I'd burn 1,700 calories.

Coach Ross was not amused.

And I finally got it. I am responsible for myself and my choices have consequences. Today's three-hour ride started yesterday with my decisions about food, water and sleep. And my rock star lifestyle was not behaviour befitting a soldier.

Neither is laying on the couch, reading self-help books and crying all day. Or whatever I've been doing for the past two months.

The only way out is through. The only way to be an artist is to make art. The only way to live your dreams is to wake up every morning and LIVE THEM for God's sake. It's about action. It's about movement. It's about hard effing work in the name of your Big Exciting Dream. Which no one is going to give you, but you.

The Thing About Paris

I'm back from my trompings through the wilderness. Have a lot to process and will report on that over the next few days. However, I did want to address an issue between us. Paris.

I haven't bought my ticket and the stupid IKEA furniture is still sitting in my garage. Which, as someone near and dear pointed out, makes me look like a liar. Which, based on ideals like honesty and integrity, doesn't sit well with me.

So, here's the story.

When I got back from my magical God-coming-down-for-a-chat walk, I had a sit down with Boyfriend. This was the 428th sit down talk Boyfriend endured over the month of July, and despite that, he responded really well to the fact that I sang him a real live version of 'Leavin' on a Jet Plane.'

It occurred to me later that I might have been using the trip to Paris as a way to escape a relationship I wasn't sure about. I would be running away from something. And that didn't feel right.

Our trip to Fernie was about us getting to the bottom of everything within our relationship. During that trip, I began to worry about Depression because I was crying-and-not-stopping so freakishly frequently.

So. At that point I was confused about my relationship and whether I was using Paris as an escape hatch. And I was becoming scared that I'd go to Paris, get horribly depressed and throw myself into the Seine.

It occurred to me that there were several issues to address before I got on that plane.

Rather than call the travel agent, I decided to address those issues. I figured out that the source of these pre-depressive feelings is stifled creativity. I've determined I need to separate my feelings about my relationship from my own personal struggles. And I've decided to focus on myself first and deal with the relationship second.

Boyfriend had the very sensible idea to set a Decision Deadline for Paris. That deadline is August 15th. Between now and then, I am focusing 100% on my creative work. Which, if my calculations are correct, should decrease feelings of Depression and increase Living Your Dreams Factor.

So that's me. Now, back to us. Dear readers, I love you. You keep me going and you lift me up. So many of you have told me that I inspire you. I don't take that lightly. I don't ever want to mislead you or disappoint you. I'm (finally) beginning to understand the power of words and the power of hope. And you should know that as much as I've inspired you, you've inspired me.

We still friends?

My Adventures with Dana the Artist

6:00 Wake up to sun rising and birds singing
7:00 Reheat coffee in microwave
7:01 Decide that was a terrible idea
8:30 Eat tortilla chips with salsa and guacamole in lieu of breakfast
9:30 Drive to Logan Lake in 1970s VW van (wearing hunting hat and jacket, concealing Budweiser in sleeve while passing the police station)
9:45 Get gas
10:00 Drive deeper into baked desert hills, passing rusted railroad cars and pink-signed bars
10:30 Discuss rationale for broken-down cars on lawns. Dana thinks it's a status thing. I think it's just basic human laziness and I'm surprised I don't have a rusted-out Dodge Charger on my lawn
10:32 Go off-road with van, stopping near peaceful lake
11:00 Walk toward lake, dodging cactus. Notice how the ground throbs with grasshoppers as I walk
11:17 Observe hawk and smaller bird fighting above the forest
12:00 Learn about frog migration and observe it in action as dozens of teeny tiny toads boing about in the reeking mud
12:27 Go off-road with Crocs, shoes that have as much traction as two pats of butter
12:58 See the small bird that was fighting with the hawk. Observe her pretend to have a broken wing in order to draw us away from her nest. Decide we're not fooled by this drama queen
1:10 Train eye to notice chips of basalt in preparation for intense arrowhead seeking
1:30 Arrive at “ancient” campsite and search for arrowheads amid broken beer bottles. Deposit new rock collection in brown paper bag
2:02 Cross small stream with van, jumping out to observe another phase of the frog migration. Choose not tell Dana about several frog-van casualties
2:45 Drive to farm. Buy two pies (blueberry and raspberry)
3:15 Pass large herd of mountain goats (or sheep, I can’t remember which is which). Become momentarily shocked as one of them gets its horns wrapped in barbed wire. Enjoy relief as he frees himself
3:20 Drive to town of Clinton
3:45 Get harassed by nosy church ladies at Thrift Store #1. Consider buying a book called “Kebab It!” based solely on title
4:00 Question the sobriety of Mr. & Mrs. Joe Dealz at Thrift Store #2
4:20 Purchase badge reading “Every Thursday is Bargain Finder Days” at Thrift Store #3
4:30 Wonder how a town this small has three second-hand stores
4:45 Peruse Clinton Museum, specifically looking at their collection of arrowheads
5:15 Sign guest book with fake name
5:26 Eat 1 slice of Havarti cheese, the first thing since "breakfast." Decide Havarti is the single most delicious cheese in the world
6:00 Drive to nearby provincial park
6:15 Start campfire (okay, stand uselessly by as Dana the Woodsman starts fire)
6:16 Decide to start more fires in life
6:30 Cook chunks of steak on sticks in fire (kebab it!)
7:20 Eat pie
7:30 Discover raspberry bush. Eat raspberries
7:45 Drive deeper into provincial park
8:00 Search for arrowheads
8:20 Begin to think this search for arrowheads is pointless and stupid
8:30 Begin to think Dana’s dad, despite having written books about ancient indigenous tribes, is full of shit and there never were arrowheads in the first place and he just made it up. Next Dana's going to tell me there’s gold in them thar hills. Or leprechauns or something
8:42 Keep looking for arrowheads despite skepticism and aching back
8:50 Feel inexplicable joy (followed by easily explicable jealousy) when Dana finds perfect, amazing arrowhead
9:00 Return to search with renewed enthusiasm
9:37 Wonder if the fact that I don’t end up finding an arrowhead says something about my energetic point of attraction
9:40 Get back in van
10:00 Stop by side of road to investigate mysterious black animal, discovering the sun-bleached bones of another animal instead
10:15 Drive home, falling asleep intermittently in the passenger seat, being woken by bizarre volume changes on 1970s tape deck
11:30 Arrive home profoundly tired, covered in a layer of dust and feeling like I lived this day as fully and completely as one could possibly live any day of one's life and if this doesn't feed my creativity, I have no idea what would