Kevin

Harvesting the Writer Brain and Eavesdropping Your Way to Better Dialogue

As writers, we all have our own ways to capture those ideas that flit in and out of our brains a million times a day. Sometimes, the trick is to grab on to the right ones…and to let those less than stellar ones float back into the morass from which they came. The brain is like a TV screen on crack. We all know this. It’s often the loudest idea that gets the most attention, too (kind of like when you’re channel surfing and you run into Jersey Shore—you know it’s a brainless horrible creation that you should not even glimpse at. BUT it’s just SO loud and neon-glow like. Its sheer horribleness makes you stop surfing for a minute. Maybe even so you can just scream at your TV for having such a vile thing on it). The loudest idea is not always the good one. When you’re fighting for attention, though, you can really be convincing (cue a knock-down screaming brawl on Jersey Shore—don’t change that channel!).

The writer’s job is to listen…to try to catch a glimmer of each of the ideas as they float past. AND to know that the best idea could be under a quagmire of very bad ideas. To harvest the best ideas takes practice. How we practice is of no significance. That we practice is.

For me, I like to jot down ideas on little scraps of paper as they come to me. I remember to have a pen handy at all times. There was a time when I carried a little notebook, but I found that to be less effective than scribbling on scrap paper. A word of advice…if you prefer to carry around a notebook, make sure it is neither very pretty nor very cool. It’s pretty crappy when you have this perfectly good journal and you don’t want to mess it up with writing. This has happened to me on more than one occasion. I attempted the notebook again recently, when I found a very cool one. I carried it around for several days. The pen paused over its awesome pages many a time. But I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sully it with ink. How useless is that?!

My uber cool and drastically empty Andy Warhol Journal!

So, I always have a pile of shopping receipts in my pockets and I scrawl little notes on them in the most interesting of ways. At times, the writing goes in a circular route around the outside of the receipt…so I can fit everything in that I want to write. It looks messy, it’s hard to keep track of…but no beautiful notebooks are dying at my hand. You never know when the ideas will hit. Even if all you have on you is your smart-phone, make sure you have a memo app that you can open quickly and add notes to on the fly. The brain thinks…that’s what it does. Listen to that thinking. The next Great Canadian (American) Novel might fly past you one day. You have to be ready to grab onto it and go for the ride.

My less than pretty highly functional shopping receipts. A great 'mason jar' in which to trap my ideas. — My less than pretty highly functional shopping receipts. A great ‘mason jar’ in which to trap my ideas.

I find the smart-phone memo app most helpful when I’m dialogue-surfing. What? That’s really a thing. It’s one of my most favourite games. When I’m out and about my day I seek out the quirky people. You just know the quirky ones are gonna throw out some bitchin’ dialogue. And if it’s out there, it’s up for grabs. Nobody suspects a thing—sort of—when you’re standing beside them thumping your smart-phone keys at the same rate that they’re talking. They’ll just think you’re texting a friend. Just don’t forget you’re not actually a stenographer…don’t ask them to repeat a line if you missed it. (-: So, yeah, shopping receipts for ideas from the brain-screen and smart-phone for dialogue-surfing. That pretty much sums up my needs as an idea harvester. It’s not how you trap the idea. It’s what you do with it once you have it. Remember that it doesn’t have to be pretty.

Whether you jot down your ideas and borrowed dialogue on toilet paper or on a beautiful leather-bound journal, think of them as fireflies in a mason jar. They’re awfully pretty. Make sure you follow the prettiest…not the loudest.

When You’re Sleepless, Madness…er…Magic Happens!

I know I’ve been talking a lot about the Muskoka Novel Marathon lately, but I can’t help it. It’s coming. Like a freight train that sneaks up on ya when you’re walkin’ the tracks and singing old Buddy Holly tunes. Or…yeah! Blancmange! Something something about a train going down a track…

The atmosphere of the marathon is such a magical non-quantifiable thing. You cannot write about it and do it justice. You just can’t. You try to stay up all weekend, you write non-stop…but you also socialize non-stop. You eat non-stop. You listen to music non-stop. Skip the light fandangle, et cetera, et cetera. It’s a high like no other.

As if there isn’t enough going on to warp your mind, you step out of the building on the Saturday night and the streets are turned into a carnival of milk chocolately, caramel stickable gooeyness. Because…don’t close your eyes…you have walked into the strange and magical world of Nuit Blanche North. Art installations and crickety crawling stilt-walking juggling sensations. And what would a Nuit be without a fire-eater.

(Just a side note, I love that most of my words today are being underlined in red squiggly lines.)

When THIS is happening INSIDE at the Novel Marathon, you pray that you will find sanity OUTSIDE! (-:

I always think of that classic line from Bill & Ted when I’m at the marathon. “Strange things are afoot at the Circle K!” That pretty much sums up the marathon. Just when you think you have to get outside to embrace a reality that is NORMAL, you walk out into this:

And this:

But before you run off down the street like a madman, you take a hard look at your surroundings and you realize that things are just as they should be. Writing a novel in a weekend SHOULD be a magical experience. Your heart SHOULD stop every now and again. You need these moments of wonder peppered throughout the weekend. It’s another classic reason for me to haul out that overused saying of mine. “Don’t be afraid to eat the dishes!” You’re gonna have some hard times over a 72-hour writing period. You’ll get cranky. You’ll get tired. You’ll get bloated. You’ll get indigestion out the wazoo! You need to step out of the world and into a carnival.

I’m sure that’s why the city planners threw Nuit Blanche into our weekend. They knew that into every novel marathoner’s life, a little magic must fall.

The tree that you see above ^ is a tree completely wrapped and enshrouded in TIES. Yes, ties. I sat beside that tree for about half an hour before I saw it at last year’s marathon. At first, that scared me. But when I stopped to think about it, it was pretty par for the course. I was, after all, writing. We marathoners took turns writing in the street in downtown Huntsville. We were our own art installation…and we collected a nice sum of money for the cause (the literacy program of the YMCA of Simcoe/Muskoka). If you see us out in the middle of the street this July, BRING MONEY!

I guess the lesson there is DON’T EXPECT TO QUESTION THE EFFICACY OF A TIE TREE WHEN YOU’RE MARATHONING. Or something like that.

Did I say juggling fire-eaters and stilt walkers? I think I meant fire-juggling stilt-walkers.

You’ve heard of the player piano, I’m sure. But did you know that Huntsville had a play-me piano. Right there in the street. Just waitin’ to be played. How frickin’ awesome-sauce is that! My only complaint? I DON’T KNOW HOW TO PLAY A PIANO! I wish I did. That corner of the downtown core would be hoppin’! This year, one of my goals is to get a fellow marathoner punchin’ those keys to an awesome sing-a-long song. Or something like that.

WRITING! It really does happen at these things! I have 5 novels to prove it. This is a shot of my screen during Nuit Blanche. If you want to know the height of exhilaration and dare-devilness, just write a novel in the street while hundreds of people are walking by reading over your shoulder! YIKES. Okay…I know you’re probably thinking that jumping out of an airplane is a whole new plateau of exhilaration that is miles above writing in the street. So what. By it’s very nature, it would have to be at least a mile above a street. There’d be no exhilaration jumping out of an airplane that’s parked on the runway. For a writer, public writing under a microscope pretty much does it for adrenalin rush-hour kicks.

So, am I excited for this year’s Muskoka Novel Marathon? Nah. Nothing good ever happens at these things. Just. BIC (bum-in-chair) writing. Nothing else. Move along. Nothing to see here (or do I mean see-hear-smell-touch-taste?)!

Rabacheeko – A Horror Story (WCDR Wicked Words Honorable Mention)

This short story was something that had me veering completely off my normal course. I actually created a new language of sorts to write it. ultimately, I think the reason it received an honorable mention is that it wasn’t easily accessible to all. It was fun to write, but admittedly a bit confusing. A great experiment, anyhow. It won an honorable mention and was published in the anthology for the WCDR Wicked Words contest. (-:

Rabacheeko

I lay on the super—the sofa—pressing the pulsey pill into the pomegranate—palm—of my hand. My BoDiddly—body—is frozen in trace—in trance. I’m a pairofeyes—paralyzed. Something Margaret has done to me. But my hanglide—my hand—I can move. I can gridlock—ground—that pilsbury—pill—into my palm.

“Take the pill, Trish,” Margaret screeches. But I don’t take it.

When she spikes—speaks—the pilsbury—pill—flexes in my plan—my palm. Did it breathe? Her vice—her voice—was inside the pill. An enchilada—echo. An echo.

“Take the pill,” it echoes, squiggling—squirming—in my filth—my fist. My weirds. My words. My words.

Margaret is my nancy—my nanny. But where is my baby? Margaret was suppose to be watering—watching—my baby boy.

Before I can bring my filth—my fist—to my monster—my mouth—the fried doors—French doors—fly open.

“What have we here?” Margaret cows. Did she caw? “What a pretty little girl.”

A thing that is not a grizzle—a girl—stands in the doorway. I know it’s not really a grizzle—a girl.

“What pretty eyes she has,” Margaret says. “Look at her pretty eyes, Trish.”

But her islands—her eyes—are like mice. Scratching. Her islands—I can’t let her look at me with those islands—those eyes.

Margaret pets the girl thingy’s high—her hair—and it comes off in clumps of crows—of curls—in her fist. Black frothy crows—curls. Margaret doesn’t notice the crows. Doesn’t see.

“Spin, Rabacheeko,” Margaret spies—says—to the girlie thing. “Spin for Trish while she sleeps and slips the pretty pill into her mind.” Did she say mind? I think she said monster—mouth—but I swear I saw mind on her lips.

Rabacheeko? I heard that name because—before—in my whispers—my wind—my meanness. My what?

She’s so tiny. I want to ramble—to run—but my feet won’t mock—move—me. She skitters around the womb—the room. Her tiny freeze—frame—by the widow—the window and then inside—beside—me. Beside me.

“Tee ta tire, Tiki ta,” she—it—says. But I know she says, tee ta tire—take the pill—Trish. I can see it in her mice—her islands—her black oil eyes. “Tee ta tire, Tiki ta.”

I want to ramble—run—but I only press the pilsbury—pill—into my palm. It’s all I can doodle—do.

“Jesus mother filler, Trish!” Margaret says, screaming in the windows shake. The pilsbury screams in my fiddle—fist. I can feel it angry in my grab—grip.

“Where’s my balloon—my body—my boy!” I beg. “My balloon? You have my bendy—my baby. Give me my madness—my Matthew.”

“I’m afraid we’ll be needing your madness, my angel,” Margaret sings. “But if you take the pill, we’ll give you a balloon. You fucker, sweet girl.”

The Rabacheeko girl thing is nightly—naked—and her nipples nearly cry. Her veins are blackbird—black—and squinty—squiggly—in her skin. Her hunger—hand—reaches out to touch me and I scrim—scream. But my voice comes over—out—of her raw mint—mouth, not mine. The scream exits her mint—mouth—in my voice. I cry.

“My billy bub!” the thinging tinkle—girlie—wimpers—whispers. “My billy bub bounce biggy!”

She brings something out of her mint—her mouth. A plinger—a planet—in small. She lets the black planet shining in her heart—hand—come out to play. It doesn’t bounce. It hungers—hovers—in the air. The black shining planet hovers in the air above her hand.

“Looky, Tiki ta!” it says. It squirms like heat. Rabacheeko grizzle—girl—squirms like heat. “My billy bub.”

I squeeze the pilsbury—pill. I want to swillingly—swallow—it willingly. I want my balloon—my boy—back, so I want to swilling the pill. I want to eat the pilsbury to stop the plinging—the planet—from touching me.

“Take the pill, you filthy girl,” Margaret says oh so sweatly—sweetly—like a coo. Like a ninny—a nanny. She’s my nanny. She touches my finger—my face—caress. “Take the pill, you fucking filthy fool, dearie.”

“Where’s my baby?” I ask. And I say what I mad—I mean. My words. I say it rigid—right.

“Tiki ta!” the thingling says. “Tiki ta, touch my billy bub.”

My hands that—raven—could not move—they reach to touch the planet black. My mind tries to stoop—to stop—but it reaches, they reach and touch the billy bub. No. Don’t touch the billy bub. But my tongue tinies the black orb.

It stretches and shrieks. I scram—scream. It goes bigger and bigger. A bubble of black.

The girling Rabacheeko thing laughs like diamonds. Sharp. Jagged. And the black planet, like a raven cracking—glass—egg—breaks bigger. Bigger and bigger. It stretches and grows. The girling thing reaches to bring it down to earnest—earth. It stretches wheels and leather.

“Oh Trishbratbaby,” Margaret pleads, shaking me. “Why did you not sweetly take the fucking fool pill?”

The girling thing giants—giggles—and shows me the planet as a wheelchair. It’s grown from a plinging—a planet—into a wheelchair. It sits wicked and wild, waiting for me. Black and swaying, with wheels that scratch—I mean screech! It wants to eek—eat—me. I know.

“My billy bub!” Rabacheeko says in scratching in my head. It’s not a girl, this Rabacheeko. It’s eight years-old and evil ever ancient. It speaks in my heart—my head—from the inside out.

“Nightingale!” I scream. But what I mental—mean—is NO.

“In my billy bub, Tiki ta!” it whistles—whispers—in my egg—ear. But I know she means, in my wheelchair, Trish. Get the frack into—inside—my wickety chair—my wheelchair!

But I don’t move. I squeeze the pilsbury in my fiddles—fingers.

“Magic! I want my balloon back. My bologna. My baby!” I say to Margaret. She wattles—watches—the wheelchair and laughs. My Matthew.

“You don’t have a baby, Trish,” Margaret says. “Remember. You don’t have any children. You can have this pill if you wish.” She holds a pill in her hell—her hand. But I feel the one in my fist. She wants me to tail—take—it. But what will it do?

Madness, Madness, I say in my head. But I know I mean, Matthew, Matthew. My baby. We came for tea. To the new ninja’s—nanny’s—house for tea. I remember. Madness and me. His stroller. His stroller is by the fried—French—doors. Squeaking in the corner like a good striper—stroller—should.

The tea. That’s what took my weirds—my words—poison in the tease—the tea.

The Rabacheeko thing, it rips my flush—flesh—in ribbons. My blur—blood—is falling in rivers. Rivulets of retch—red. It touches waterfall and fingers noisy the falling red. Rabacheeko likes blood.

“My water, mi wata wiggle!” it says and drinks my dripping blur. It’s not a grizzle—a girl. It’s a monstrosity—monster. Rabacheeko grizzle.

Margaret laughs. “Oh Trish!” she says. “Don’t you love my pretty little girl? My Rabacheeko pretty girl.” But I know she means grizzle.

Rabacheeko holds my arm now and pulls it from my shiver—shoulder. The crack of bog—bone—makes me scream. Its—mind—mouth—opens and my vicky—voice—comes out. But retch—red—pumps freely and sprays. Springs—sprays—on the pretty Rabacheeko grizzle—girlie.

“Eat the flying fucking flung pill, Trish,” Margaret howls as she pushes me from the sofa and onto the fringe—the floor. “Eat the filling finger!” I know she’s swearing.

“Mi wata, wiggle, Tika ta!” Rabacheeko whistles wild. She laps at my blur—my blood.

My arms are coated in blur. My mind in shackles chuckles. My baby, my baby.

If I go into the black planet, I’ll dig and dive—die. I know this. I’ll dig and dive—die. I’ll never see madness—Matthew—again.

It reaches lips with teeth to tear my mingle—mind. I scream.

“Tiki ta,” it says like a pretty picture, pleased. I know this is my name. Trish. “Tiki ta.” It holds my flush—my flesh—in hungs—hunks—of hanging in its slippers—slopping—hands.

The wheelchair’s wheels spike—spin—and I know that devils twist inside the works. I don’t want to sit there. But I’m on the grind—ground—floor—and being pulled by the thinging grizzly girl. I scribble—scream. She is wicked. She is wicked and wild.

“Not the blacking!” I say in shout. “Not the blacking blind!” But I mean, Not the wheelchair!

“Tiki ta!” Rabacheeko laughs and picks my blurring—bleeding—body from the frothy frithing flung—floor.

“Inside, my billy bub!” it pleases—pleasures—pleads.

“Here you go, Trish,” Margaret melts. “Your lovely lively pill.” She squeezes it down my mawing mind—mouth. “Forget your lovely baby boy. He’s mine. Here you go, dearie dear. You little foolish fuck.” Her smile is surprise—serene.

I know she will look after my baboon—baby. I look at the chair as Rabacheeko drags me inside. She brings me to the plinging—the planet—the churning—chair.

“Inside my billy bub!” the Rabacheeko scribbles—screams. And she sits me in the cherub—chair. I fall and falling filling fall forever fleshly. And I disappoint—I disappear.