A Sunny Day

Just now, sitting on the back stoop, arms resting on my knees, dog snug against my leg, on a bright day that is now waning into late afternoon.

It's warm compared to yesterday, but anything's warm compared to that: -13C (8.6F). I had refused to turn up the thermostat (because it's October, damnit) and so spent the day shivering. We hooked up the electric blanket and went to bed at 9 o'clock, blocks of ice shaped like feet bumping into each other, yelps to "get over on your own side" in a bed the size of a football field. I don't like complaining about the cold because local folks can hardly wait to see how "the new people from Ontario" will cope with north Alberta's aptly named Cold Lake. We know cold, though. Both of us are hardy crops. The thing is, we're used to a woodstove, where you ignite a few sticks of maple and bake yourself down to your summer underwear faster than it takes to make porridge. The furnace here heats the air, not the house, and, the minute it shuts off, cold gels all feeling left in those icicles we once called toes.

The fighter jets drone overhead. Sleek bees with needlepoint noses. Incessantly practising to save the world.

Inside, I hear my coffee's ready.

It's Not Hallowe'en That's Freaking Me Out

National Novel Writing Month starts this Friday and I'm scared out of my freakin' mind. Honestly, I haven't done any serious writing since who-the-feck-knows and I'm terrified I've forgotten how. Don't scoff – writing is like marathon running. Well, I think it is, not actually being a runner and getting winded when I make the way down the Twizzler aisle at Walmart.

Seriously though, writing is like any kind of training – the more you do, the easier it gets, and the better it gets. I did Nano two years ago (it's when I did the majority of writing for Green Eggs & Weezie) and I remember colleague Mark Kerstetter commenting that he could tell I had been doing some intensive writing because even my blog posts showed some powerfully buff writing muscles. Well, he said something like that. I forget exactly, but the point is he wrote that two years ago and his words still ring in my head, not only as a compliment but as a warning that my writing muscles are now as flabby as their owner.

Still, I'm not going to let that get me down. I am going to write at least 50,000 words during Nano. I will. I make that pledge to you and to myself this very moment. I will persevere. I have to. Because now, at the ripe old age of 53, I am finally starting to think of myself as a Writer. I've been playing around with it my whole darned life but I've never fully accepted it as a description that belongs fully to me. Yes, I wrote as a journalist. Yes, I blog and write short stories. And yeah, I finally realized my lifelong dream and finished an entire book. Still, I was sort of mincing around the title of Writer.

Not now, though. It's do or die for me. I've practically accepted the fact that nobody wants to hire a fat, grey-haired old broad anymore. No, don't scoff – it's true. I've tried. Wait until you're 53 or older and suddenly your old field of endeavour doesn't exist anymore (graphic design in newspapers is almost entirely done in India) and your experience doesn't apply anywhere else. I've tried applying at sign companies and for social media jobs and they've hired youngsters. Nobody wants to invest in a grey-hair. We think we know everything. We want to be paid too much. And, who knows, we could die at any moment so why invest training if we're just gonna pop off one night? Yes, I could work at Walmart. Or the grocery store – IF I didn't have such bad knees. Seriously, I couldn't stand behind the till for more than 20 minutes without crying in pain. Granted, I could lose weight and fix my knees and get a job at Canadian Tire, but why would I? For minimum wage? And be unhappy?

I'm lucky right now. Dave makes just enough money to support us both. You don't have to tell me to be grateful, because I am. This is an opportunity. The opportunity I've been wishing for my whole life. I can be a Writer. Now all I have to do is write. Oh, Nano, you're scaring the crap outta me. But I need you like an alkie needs a bottle of Listerine.

***

I was intrigued by a comment on yesterday's post from author River Fairchild who wrote: Cathy, published is published. It doesn't matter who published it. You are a business. You are not only a writer, but also a publisher.

She's right. It doesn't matter if you're self-published or published by Harper Collins. But there I was at a party denigrating myself, saying that I was "only" a self-published author. Yeah, I know. It's ridiculous. I know that it's almost impossible to get a traditional publishing contract when publishing companies and bookstores are going bankrupt. I know that e-books are the wave of, not only the future, but NOW. Because I'm also a reader, I know that self-published books are every bit as good as the other ones. I know this. I do. But I have to start owning it.

River is right. (If you know her, you know River is always right.)

I am an author. Period.

***

Speaking of authors, Marian Allen at Fantasies, Mysteries, Comedies and Recipes invited me to do a guest spot at her blog. (Thanks Marian! *waves*) Please, if you have a moment, drop by and leave a comment. So far I'm the only commenter - I'm beginning to think I drive people away in droves! Just the mere mention of MY BOOK sends 'em a-running! I do understand that you're sick of hearing about me and my book. It's just that it's the biggest thing going on in my life right now. Not working has limited my blogging experience. I find that I have three things to write about: my book, my dog's butt hole and cleaning kitty litter. I think I'll dress up as MY BOOK for Hallowe'en. That'll scare the little feckers who dare come to my door!

So go see Marian. Way you go, Alex ... yup, you too, William and EC. Delores and Deb, stop stalling. JoJo, step away from your sick couch. Geez you guys, somebody give Buzzard and Buttons and Karen a shove, will ya? And stop trampling on Juli, Dana, Deb and Linda!

***

One more thing - congratulations are in order for Madeline Mora-Summonte at Shellshank Redemption who has just today released her first book! Love the cover. Love the title. And the stories are fabulous – I just downloaded People We Used To Be this morning and already I'm halfway through.

If you buy her book (it's only a buck) and you love it (because you will), don't forget to leave a review on Amazon. It really helps other people decide whether or not to buy it.

Best of luck Madeline! So happy for you!

Freakin' Amateurs

I am such a dumb-ass. Yesterday I was at the neighbour's for one of those kitchen parties (you know, with the utensils that cost more than a trip around the fecking world). My neighbour, who is sweet, introduced me to everyone as a "published author" and I modestly explained that my real last name is Atwood, which made them look at me like a bug, and then I said, "no, no, I'm a self-published author and everyone looked relieved because they weren't in the presence of greatness after all.

The sales lady asked me if I had my book edited and I said, well, yes, I have writer friends who edited it for me to which she replied, "I have a friend who self-published a book," and she proceeded to tell me that the book wasn't all that interesting and was absolutely full of spelling errors.

"Huh," I said, because I didn't know what else to say. I'll tell you what I was thinking, though. I was thinking, smugly, that my book is almost typo-free. I was thinking that her friend must be a fecking AMATEUR to put out a book with so many typos. I was feeling all, uppity about my typo-free self.

I will concede that there may be the odd mistake here or there, because nobody's perfect, but I am confident there are very few spelling mistakes in Green Eggs & Weezie, thanks to the eagle eyes of a whole bunch of my editing buddies.

So I looked at her, and smiled graciously, and thought how freakin' fantastic I am compared to her poor spelling-challenged friend.

Pride always goeth before a fall, yes it does.

Last night I was pleased to discover Amazon.com had released the paperback version of my book.  I was all, like, hooting and happy, going over the amazingly professional blurb that I had written for the back cover and then used as a promo to sell the darned thing. This is what I wrote:

Down-to-earth, darkly humorous and wise, Cathy Olliffe-Webster’s debut novel, Green Eggs & Weezie, casts a wry eye over what can happen when even the best marriages go bad. Through the beguilingly earthy Weezie Polk we learn that it’s not a good idea to whack a cheating husband with a Dr. Seuss book; that Anthony Bandero has nothing to do with a Brazilian wax; and that it’s never a good idea to pee your pants in jail.

Anthony Bandero.

ANTHONY BANDERO? Who the feck is Anthony Bandero????

My blood ran cold. I had meant to write ANTONIO BANDERAS, you know, the famous Latin heart-throb and all-round stud-muffin actor, and yet, in a moment of absolute idiocy, I had spelled his name COMPLETELY WRONG, thought it looked just fine in editing and then, not only put it on the promo, but also had illustrator Steven Novak put it on the back cover!

Yep, uppity me, typo-free since never.

This Just In –

Hey! I'm Over Here!

Squee! Come visit me  today over at my bloggy pal Delores' place, Under the Porch Light, where I'm spilling my guts and Delores is passing Kleenex for nose-blowing purposes.

Did I mention that when I blow my nose it sounds exactly like those noisemakers on New Year's Eve?

Yeah ... Not proud of that. But I AM proud of hanging with Delores, so drop by, ok?

Oh, and bring coffee and doughnuts. Delores didn't have time to shop!