taking forward:
literally creating my own reality ie. more DIY sewing/craft/home projects, following the compass of my interests
choosing luxury when appropriate: cooking with good quality ingredients, reading and collecting beautiful books, supporting local businesses

leaving behind:
peer/cultural pressure, especially around parenting

word for the new year: hygge
SO! I've been seized by a novel idea, which means I might even end up doing nanowrimo this year. Maybe because I'm in that rosy bubble of brooding/pre-writing, I feel such urgency about the novel, it seems to demand that I write it before someone else writes it (and ideas being about as original as an egg, I have a feeling someone else is probably writing it) and my half-complete short stories hardly hold my interest.

In this golden age of the internet I've stumbled on some novel writing gems.

The IWP Storied Women MOOC is teaching me (almost) everything I want to write in this novel. Lesson Two, on Desire and Point of View, is pure gold.

Tim Clare's Couch to 80K podcast has also been a surprising delight. I was skeptical, and I'm only a few days in, and I'm not listening to them regularly but rather two in a row some days and some days not at all, but I like it. It's surprisingly digestible.

As a crutch I have a copy of Alan Watt's The 90 Day Novel open. I think Clare's podcast is superior, both in production quality and his ability to tap your imagination (Watts' prompts are a bit too on the nose and formulaic) but I am a big fan of all the crutches.

Jeff VanderMeer's Wonderbook is also a pleasant perusal. It doesn't stir my imagination on the same level as the more artful/high-brow Iowa lectures, but it is full of imagination and I appreciate this imaginativeness to what's been passed down as golden rules: beginnings and middles and ends and so forth. Having been raised on Freytag's pyramid in grade 4, the first time I heard the 'a story has a beginning, middle, and end' axiom I said, an earthworm has a beginning, middle, and end. Is it a story? And that seems to be the spirit of Wonderbook.
Let 2018 mark the year that I found my way back to writing!

Once upon a time, quite a long time ago now, I wrote freely and voraciously and without self-consciousness... do you know what I'm talking about? Then life happened, and I stopped writing for years. This year life happened again, and I found that I had to write, because I was a writer who wasn't writing, and writing again feels like coming home... like I'm finally doing the work I was meant to do, that writing is what I was put on earth for.

But it hasn't been easy to feel my way back into writing. I feel like Lyra Belacqua after she lost her natural ability to read the alethiometer, searching for tools and texts to teach me how to do what I once knew. I feel like Seraphina in Shadow Scale with a shrinking mind garden, wondering how I can stumble on my lost mental powers again.

In the first half of 2018 I built myself a writing routine. I am cursed, or blessed, with a long commute. In the half-light of dawn I tumble out the door towards the bus-stop, and when the bus hisses in front of me I slur into the first available seat and rumble half-asleep along with the bus, and when it ejects me at the station I usher myself through metro-tiled corridors unheeding the florescent lights or street musicians or other passengers, only dimly registering that I am part of a horde of bodies streaming towards our goal of catching the train. It is, not unlike what Roxana Robinson describes in "How I Get to Write" where she tells us that "In the morning, I don't talk to anyone, nor do I think about certain things. I try to stay within certain confines. I imagine this as a narrow, shadowy corridor with dim bare walls. I'm moving down this corridor, getting to the place where I can write. [...] I am not yet in the world, and there is a certain risk involved in talking: the night spins a fine membrane, like the film inside an eggshell. It seals you off from the world, but it's fragile, easily pierced." I learned that, as the train carries me from unworldly consciousness into the world and the day's task, this was the liminal space in which I could write...

But it wasn't enough. I moved so slowly. I wrote the same sentence over and over again, trading one word for another until that sentence was so shiny I didn't know where it fit into the story.

I don't know how I convinced myself to take a course -- I am of the frugal sort, and probably secretly a subscriber of the old-fashioned belief that creativity can't be taught -- but I did. I bought Story is a State of Mind, designed by the Canadian writer Sarah Selecky (whose short stories are so piercingly sharp it almost hurts to read). It is of the same school of creativity as Elizabeth Gilbert and Ira Glass, in other words, the underlying principle is that "your story is smarter than you are," or "you already have the water, you only need to find the jars" and that the only way to get better at your craft is to persist despite your own resistance to it. Or as Abdo in Seraphina would say "If "through meditation you can turn the mind to water," as Lyra finds out at the end of His Dark Materials that she must re-learn what she once knew through diligent study...

Through audio lectures (with transcripts) and readings, The Story Course tricks you into prioritizing your right brain (your creative brain) and ignoring your left brain (your inner critic) as you work through the basics of storytelling - beginnings, dialogue, plot and drift, voice. It's thoughfully designed hand-holding to help you liberate your story, because with the right creative prompts and habits, you (simply have to trust in that) your story will surface. There's also a wonderful course community of free resources like Sarah's Six Senses writing program, which I've done twice now! I used to be terrified of unstructured writing, but it turns out that this really is the most valuable tool especially if you're trying to move past your inhibitions into generating original fiction.

After all the writing practice I craved a more detailed scrutiny of theme and relevance in my fiction, so I did MOOCS at the International Writer's Program at the University of Iowa. These are pure gold if you are looking to take your writing (fiction, non-fiction or poetry) to a critical level. The course readings are top-notch -- I have discovered so many new short stories that I have fallen head over heels in love with, and learned a lot from the discussion forums with the readings that I didn't love. The peer feedback on assignments is also incredibly helpful. (also: Message me if you do one in the future and I'll make sure to look at your assignment!)

So with all that I also decided to do Yuletide. I was browsing the prompts and couldn't resist... ideas and words just flowed. I only regret that I didn't have time to write more before the deadline, there were several other fandoms I was eyeing! I love how with fanfiction you get ready-made worlds to play in and your writing comes in as a pure response to something you love. The thing is, original fiction isn't so different: as you go through it you are also in conversation with your favourite authors, hoping you can one day join their ranks.

Here's to a happy, productive, story-filled 2019!

Note: If you end up signing up for The Story Course via my links, I get a small referral fee.

Some of my favourite short stories that I've read this year:

Prayers for a Fox by Enza Garcai Arreaza - this is probably the best short story I have ever read in a long time

Cat Pictures Please by Naomi Kritzer

American Standard of Perfection by Kate Finegan - this could be a novel, but it's all there in this short story. so good

Who Will Water the Wallflowers by Eliza Robertson

Inventory by Carmen Maria Machado - yes, I loved The Husband Stitch, but I love this speculative fiction story more

A Brief History of the Homely Wench Society by Helen Oyeyemi - and everything else in What is Not Yours is Not Yours, especially "Books and Roses" and "Dornicka and the St. Martens Day Goose"
How was your november? While you were all doing Nanowrimo, I was on Nanoknitmo. You were counting words, and I was counting stitches. Ihad a knitting deadline: a november skirt, a toddler hat, a woolly sheep toy.

So when I saw a yuletide prompt about knitting, combined with all the Hans Christian Andersen tales I've been reading to small children lately, this tale flowed out. However, i decided not to gift it as it contains some of the writer's DNW.  But here it is for your reading pleasure:
 
The Loose Stitch
 
Once upon a time there were nine stitches divided over three double-pointed needles to form the toe of a sock.  
 
"Wee," said the stitches as they slid up and down the needle.  "Ouch," cried the ones at the ends that had to be pulled taut to prevent ladders from forming.  "Shove over," said the stitches as they multiplied and jostled to fit on the cold metal.  But for the most part the stitches flowed round and round in an even stockinette.
 
The little stitches travelled in the workbag of a knitter who knitted every morning when she took the train to work and every evening when she commuted home.  This meant they got to see quite a bit of the world: the sunset streaking through the train windows, the gusts of snow when train doors clamped open and shut.  They also met an assortment of lovely souls. "Pretty yarn," said a small girl in the neighbouring seat who reached out to pet the tiny stitches.  "You've progressed fast," another seat-neighbour remarked, and the stitches preened under his congratulations.  "Oh, I do like to see people knitting," said a woman with hair of soft, snow-white wings.  "The clicking needles make such a comforting sound, and it reminds me of how when I was a child we all had to make our own socks.  Knit one, purl one.  I still remember."
 
Soon the toe was complete and the knitter began to turn the heel.  Some stitches waited, held on waste yarn, while they watched their neighbouring stitches grow tall and shapely.  
 
Around the ankle the colourwork began.  "Sock knitting is personal," the knitter quoted from her pattern book, and she selected strands of lichen green and tangerine to complement the slate grey. 
The existing stitches had to make room for the new colours, and they ruffled in discomfort. When she tried to smooth out the tension, some stitches buckled in protest.  One ran away.
 
In the tangle of new colours the runaway stitch hid and evaded the knitter's notice until five rows later.
 
"Oh, drat," she said, and continued her string of curses as she unravelled the yarn back to the offending stitch.  Caught, hooked, and untangled, she resumed with the correct stitch count.
 
Several rows later an unruly stitch jumped off the needle again.  "That loud tangerine strand pushed me off," he told his compatriot greys, and they let him cower in their midst.  This time the knitter did not notice until she had finished the cuff and was ready to cast off.
 
"Hmppff, I'm not going back," she determined.  She extracted an agile crochet hook, snipped off a strand of spare yarn, and wove the loose stitch back in place.
 
Now the knitting was complete and the stitches were swaddled in crunchy wrapping paper.  They saw nothing else until a pair of grizzled hands tore the wrappings open.  There was a shriek of joy.
 
"Honey, you are incredible.  They're exactly what I wanted.  I can't believe how soft they are.  I'm never taking them off."
 
The stitches had to stretch to adjust as got tugged over a pair of rough-skinned feet.  The poor little stitches near the toe had it worst: his toenails were jagged and brittle.
 
From their new vantage point, some of the stitches saw the man give the knitter a slobbery kiss.  Some of the stitches were frankly relieved that, smooshed against the bristly carpet, they saw nothing but dust motes.
 
One day the loose stitch, who had been stretched to his limit and snapped and fallen down one row after another, heard the knitter say,
 
"Darling, couldn't you take better care of the socks I made you?  There's a great big rent in them."
 
She trailed the gaping hole that the loose stitch had left in his wake.
 
"Thank your shoddy handiwork."  the man replied.  His breath reeked of scotch.
 
The stitches squeezed and crushed under his uneven tread, and when he peeled them off his toes, wet and fetid, they went straight into the litter bin.
 

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