I’ve Moved! It’s now about Chick Life. I’d be honoured if you followed me … zoomermag.com/louisa_mccormack

by louisa on May 6th, 2009 | Comments Off

Author Photo Hijinks

by louisa on April 6th, 2009 | No Comments »

One fun thing about publishing a book is that you get to have your picture taken. Correction, you get to have your picture taken wearing make-up. Correction, you get to have your picture taken wearing make-up that’s been applied by someone who knows what the hell they’re doing.

My first author photo was snapped by the most talented, gracious and easily the most gorgeous fashion photographer in the country, Mr. Chris Chapman. He corralled a super-talented young make-up guy and hair guy who were willing to work for the credit, Beau and Dylan respectively. I corralled my fashion editor friend, Derick, who commandeered the scene by making use of clothes pins and accessories exactly where and when needed. I shall never be able to thank D as he deserves for that. The pictures turned out as well as could be hoped. (My lips need a lot of bolstering and my bangs are generally clumptastic.)

Up until a few years ago, authors weren’t supposed to really care how they looked in their dust jacket picture. Most authors subscribed to the school of get-your-significant-other-to-snap-you-on-a-park-bench -looking-pensive, and left it at that. Writers need to finance the author picture ourselves; it’s in our contract. Author will supply recent publishable photo, blah blah. A lot of authors have an 8×10 specialist whip them off a standard head shot at best, black turtleneck etcetera.

I was, like, “Screw that, I want to look as good as damn well possible!” (Which was very chick of me, which is perhaps why I’ve been relegated to the chick lit dungeon.) To be extra provocative, I even added a dress credit to my first pic. I love, love, love the stellar, genius Canadian label Mercy and don’t care who knows it. Admittedly I was keen to stir up a bit of a furor. I mean, no writer that I know of has ever credited hair, make-up and a stylist let alone a designer. But nary a peep of complaint out of anyone, no matter how establishment. No one objected to my blatant gussying. Rats!

But this is a gratitude post. I’m grateful. Because every so often I’ll get asked for a shot of myself and lo and behold I have a bunch. From both shoots that I’ve done so far I scored four airbrushed poses each. I hope to keep them all on file until 2018.

For my PEI book I approached the head of the photographic arts program at Charlottetown’s Holland College. I promised to pay a student the same amount for my second photo as had financed my first. I was invited to take a look at six portfolios. I had never interviewed potential hirees before — shall we say it was trippy to the point of jarring. One portfolio jumped out at me. The artist in question, Jessicah, seemed like a great lady to spend a PEI summer day with. She had no problem procuring a make-up artist and Kelly turned-out to be a doll. Arrangements were finalized for a July Saturday. Hence me in wellies and a sundress hanging out at my cousin’s horse paddock and smiling broadly on her beach.

We nixed all the jogging shots, and Louisa looking (effortfully) sultry by the lobster traps. May I never again have to clap eyes on Louisa vamping on the wharf.

I’m a long way away from my next author photo; it should be the last thing on my mind right now. One of my Catch shots just made it to the contributors page of FASHION Magazine, however. That’s thanks to a roundtable discussion on financial habits that I recently anchored and edited. What a fantastic gig. I owe FASHION a huge debt of thanks for all the fascinating things they’ve had me do over the last few years. I especially love it when I make it to the contributors page. Snazz-a-matazz!

Smile with your eyes, everybody. A good picture of oneself is worth a hefty chunk of soul. May you all have a passel of high resolution Jpegs in your laptop files.

Of course, sex! works just as well as cheese!

Tags: Gratitude

Discipline, Where is thy Sting?

by louisa on March 30th, 2009 | Comments Off

I have a friend who has several interesting writing projects in the works. The closer his deadlines loom, the less enticing it is for him to write, because the more danger he’s in to have to ”hack it out”. That’s his dilemma and I respect it.

I’m ashamed to say I’ve been frittering time like it’s going out of style. It’s heinous when I get up to that. My job consumes a mere 12 hours a week; I thought the whole point of working 28 hours a week fewer than most serious, responsible citizens was that I have an important artistic project on the go. Go being the operative word, as in get going you ninny.

It’s always scary to jump in and start a new book. So much of a book is in the tone. So much of the tone has is set from the start. There’s this insanely integral and mighty decision to be made immediately about gait, speed and direction. Jesus H.

At least I have enough momentum to be nearing my starting point. Granted, I was expecting it to come late Januaryish. I never guessed I’d be an April fool. There’s no way I’ll shirk that starting point now. Oh no. I’ll climb on my ball, stretch out my fingers, open a doc and launch in. (The first writing day is fairly luxurious, actually, because you have nothing from the day before to review and correct — 1000 words down, badda boom, badda bing, you’re off to the gym with plans to pick up grapes and a mag as self-congratulation treats on your merry way home.

I’ve been confused and woebegone lately, that’s my major hold-up. I’ve been downloading the Neko Case oeuvre like a madwoman, I’ve been sending long and winding emails to close friends and relatives about the meaning of love. I’ve been deleting any bookmarks that trigger nostalgia and despair. In other words, I’ve been using my computer for highly digressive purposes. Beginning a book while I’m deranged bodes ill for that almighty first paragraph. I want to start this book feeling staunch, sane and imperturbable. I’ll take temporarily imperturbable. I’ll take anything less than bewildered.

My Grandmama always taught me never to give in to self-pity, rather get down to work immediately, even if the only thing you have available to do is to clean the kitchen floor (she was raised an aristocrat so for her this was a monumental statement). Well, I don’t have a kitchen right now. My mother would hit the roof if I marched over to hers with a mop, bucket and seeming attitude. My bathroom, on the other hand, is sparkling. My Grandmother also taught me to help others when I’m feeling wounded. Luckily my job as a teacher allows for that, and with a bit of volunteering on the side I’ve got the helpfulness thing sort of kind of covered. “

At least I don’t live in Bangladesh,” I told my friend with the multiple writing projects. It’s a line I’ve been using for the past few years to indicate my determination not to wallow. My friend is superbly idiosyncratic. “God, I could do with a trip to Bangladesh,” he fired back. Jeez, so could I! I owe the good people of Bangladesh an enormous apology. I’d trade

Bangladesh for

Charlottetown in an instant, frankly. I’m sure the vast majority of Bangladeshis are a lot less miserable than I’ve been this past couple of weeks. I hope one day that I have the honour of introducing myself to a number of them and learning what I can.

The wonderful thing about writing a book is that you create a world you govern. I should hurry and get my ass there as soon as possible. My book will be a wonderful place to ask questions and answer them. No one will ignore me in my book. People in my book will be unkind to each other purely and only with my permission. Essentially, there will be nothing to truly frighten me in my book. The thing about discipline is that as long as you don’t overdo it, enough of it scores you some sanctuaries.

No more lollygagging gagging. Accomplishment is key.

Tags: Bitterness

Scrumptious Research

by louisa on March 23rd, 2009 | Comments Off

As an undergrad I was prone to all-nighters. Not because I slacked. Au contraire, I was a new waver craver crossed with a cart pony. Freshman year to senior, I hauled ass six days out of seven (Saturdays I worked at The Bay). But I had a lot of essay courses, and they bogged me down. My dad, who I turned to for proof reading (my nineteen-year-old self dates back pre-SpellCheck) once told me in all his generous wisdom, “Dear, you have to learn to bring an end to the pleasant accumulation-of-data phase and get down to the hard work of organizing your thoughts.”

Ah, research notes. My how I love them. I love collecting them, colour-coding them, regrouping them, condensing them, and then colour-coding them again.

My first novel, the one in a drawer, was my thesis at Concordia. It took me three years to write, not because it was lengthy or painstakingly redone but because it contained blooming copious amounts of research (always verrry dangerous in fiction). I had a fairy godmother character of an ironic variety who my three very downtown Toronto-minded main characters encountered at a new age centre (which they had visited simultaneously and unwillingly only due to their killer PMS). Sophia, this pagan godmother of mine, filled my three younger women in on all kinds of feminist, reversionary religious history lore. Every juicy tidbit with which I supplied Sophia (dozens and dozens) took about a hundred pages of reading to unearth. There’s only so much that one reads that anyone would realistically repeat in conversation.

For Sophia and in turn her curious charges I had to read far and wide: comparative religion, feminist etymology, the Greek and Roman myths, the Jungian basics, Gnosticism, Bruno Bettelheim plus the Brothers Grimm, and so on. Fifty texts and then some. Anything that had to do with the female-principled divine, I ordered it, forked-out for it, read it, and marked-up the margins like a demon.

To put everything I’d read into context I even had to read the damn bible, with highlighter. I cried when I realized that was in order; it took over a month. I cried again when I realized that no one remembers the bible on the first go-through. To get all the smiting, patriarchs and harlots straight you’ve got to read it cover to cover at least twice. No could do, I was that sane.

As a professor who eventually participated in my thesis defence observed, “This novel contains as much research as a doctoral dissertation.” Um, no wonder I never got the thing published. What really slays me though, what really gets my goat, is that not only did I beat Madge to Kabala (of fleeting intellectual interest in my case due to its intriguing sexual rituals, but never evangelically and never put into practice) I was also cottoning-on to all the DaVinci code stuff way ahead of Dan whatshisface. I just didn’t do the right thing with it. (Turn comparative religion into a gory murder mystery that men would read thus rake in kajillions).

My next novel was research light to the point of research non-existent. For The Catch I took a summer off to research in between the first and second draft. I read ocean conservation materials primarily, plus a huge amount of Gothic literature that was never really called into play, and a bunch of biographies on behalf of Colin, my biography addict. One out of every two biographies would land me one usable thing. (My editor appropriately siphoned away a lot of the fishing industry spillage.)

Which brings me to Dorset Girls. I have had an amazing experience these past four months (research always takes triple the time I estimate) delving into my schoolgirl diaries and correspondence. I was overcome with longing numerous times, to be back there in adolescence despite the pain. To be back with Emma, Lucy, Jo, Jane, Slood and Bridget as we swotted for O’s. I have five separate categories of tabbed and sorted notes to show for myself now: Home Life (with my family); House Life (at my hall of residence); School Life (lessons, as I called them then); Junior Philosophy (back then I already liked to theoreticize); Vocab. The latter is six pages of word after word I’m amazed I used because it was either so foolishly precocious or so hilariously English.

This is my last research week, I insist. Wish me luck as I terminate the pleasant data gathering phase and leap from notes to book without a net. As in … do the research, stuff it in your head, then refer to it as seldom as possible thenceforth. Just one more go through with a highlighter. Just one more examination of my list of school meals — the good, the bad and the ugly. Just one more Googling of 1970’s BBC mainstays. Then I’m off to my character’s Dorset, the Dorset that doesn’t really need to be researched.

Wait… what and when was the first Bay City Rollers number one hit? What’s the difference between a Swiss Roll and Jam Rolypoly? What’s a horse trials again? And what on earth was that gigantic British vaccination I got when I was fourteen and weighed five stone seven? How much the hell is a stone?

Tags: Uncategorized

No Grant, No Cry

by louisa on March 16th, 2009 | Comments Off

I’m not as bitter as I’m going to sound but the fact is I didn’t get the Canada Council grant that I was hoping for. As a mid-career writer I was allowed to request $25,000 worth of funding this year for my latest literary project. (Self-help authors and How To scribes need not apply.) 25K, man. In my books that pretty well doubles my holdings. Would have doubled my holdings. No doubling occurred.

Rats!

With that kind of dough I could have worked part-time for the whole three years it’ll take me to finish Dorset Girls. Carving a couple of 100% writing days out of one’s week does a world of good for one’s book. That way you can stuff the whole thing into your head and keep it there, which is the only way to go when you work with minimal outlines like me. (I swore to myself I was going to do an explicit, lengthy, detailed outline this time but I just don’t think my kind of magic happens that way. I think I’m stuck dreaming things up day-by-day for the most part, which can be a total nightmare when you’re a quarter way in and still not exactly sure where the hell you or a single one of your characters are headed — one wrong turn can mean six months of pulling a U’ey.)

Anyhow, no large scale federal subsidization of this author’s time. No valid membership in the CanLit establishment for Louisa McC. No bloody bursary. No moulah. No meta pat on the back.

I wish I didn’t need it. I wish I got more than 10K per book in the open marketplace and that the 10K I do tend to get wasn’t chopped into 3 separate payments that are forked-over years apart. Not that I’ve even sold Dorset Girls as of yet. I’m going to be painstaking in my labour this time so I’m anxious not to commit to a production schedule prematurely. No auctioning off what isn’t drafted. The only person who’s paying for this book at the moment is me.

And my guy. Okay, I had impure thoughts. If I got the grant I was possibly going to blow a bit of it on heels, bubbly and a trip. Not really. I was going to use the grant to make my creative life liveable and somewhat secure then use some of my socked-away savings on frivolities. No grant — no spending courage. No grant, no Prada. Definitely no heading to the Prada outlet just outside Florence. Until this puppy is done it’s going to be all frugality all of the time. I’m going to shop in my closet, cut my extra virgin with canola, meet friends for drinks not dinner, and staycation.

Wait! Wait just a minute. I have PEI to thank. The PEI Council of the Arts did come through for me last December in a huge way with a major production grant by their standards: 5K. Thank you, PEICA! They want me to make a note of their generosity in my next publication, complete with replica of their logo. No problem. They distinctly deserve it. Since I scooped my PEI $$$$’s I’ve altogether stopped supply teaching. Tuesdays and Thursdays are for writing only. Monday afternoon is for blogging, Wednesday and Friday afternoons are for lesson planning, weekends it’s back to the book. The book that’s been taking shape since the PEICA said it should. THX again!

Like I said, I’m not all that bitter about missing out on a Canada Council grant this time. Even if I’d suggested a genius project, I was applying from the Atlantic region for funding for a book set in Ottawa and England. That must have been tricky once the horse trading started. Possibly, the jury thought I was scattered and unconvincing in my intentions. Maybe they found me insufficiently experimental. I’ll try again in a couple of years once Dorset Girls is off the ground and I have something else taking root. I’m healthy and therefore full of concentration – that’s my real wealth.

I suppose if anything I’m bitter that I need to ask forgiveness. Saying one’s sorry is always a bit of a pinch. I hope I’ve conveyed how thoroughly apologetic I am that I need a grant at all. Taxpayers pay for hospitals, school and bridges which is all fine and well — bring on the infrastructure and make first world hay. But they pay for culture, too, whether they want to or not. Maslow would nod knowingly at this point and whisper something about actualization. Funhouse or not, culture is a moral mirror no self-respecting nation does without. And if Canadian taxpayers didn’t foot Canadian artists’ bills? We wouldn’t have much art, that’s for damn. I’m biased, obviously, but I’m convinced we deserve the self-understanding that only art provides. Besides, toss us artsies some stimulus and we pop that dosh right back into the economy. We haven’t got stocks and pensions anyway. Might as well spend our hand-out on a new, second-hand laptop, and a lot of bulk store penne after a long, hard day on the stability ball composing sentences.

In essence — sorry we novelists need funding, we don’t ever assume we deserve it, we don’t really spend it on shoes. Hmm, if I learn to blog a bit faster I can get in a good hour or two on the book late Monday pm. The faster I write this thing the faster I can sell it. The more books I write the better I’ll get at it. Practice makes wise.

Frankly, I insist on making a cultural contribution.

Tags: Bitterness

The Last The Next Chapter

by louisa on March 9th, 2009 | Comments Off

Ladies, and men — may gratitude resound far and wide this week. May I trumpet thanks, yodel thanks and generally bellow my gratitude far and wider. That’s because I talked to Shelagh Rogers on CBC radio, for a quarter hour and then some, this past Saturday afternoon. Shelagh Rogers wanted to know all about my book and, lord love a duck, my writing. I was featured on The Next Chapter.

Friggin’ canonization, man!

Shelagh and I actually met on the first Saturday afternoon in February to have our conversation. I felt so bad for my parents because at 2:45 pm that day I went tearing out of the house in a showy frenzy of excitement, anxious not to be late and hell-bent on being convivial. As my parents were aware, La Rogers and I were scheduled to talk at 3:30 sharp. I got home later that afternoon to two crestfallen elders. They had sat by the radio jazzed to hear me. 3:30 had turned to 3:45 had turned to 4pm but no Loulou. I hadn’t thought to explain to them that Shelagh and I were confabbing at Beanz over tisanes, that barely anything goes live, that all would be taped edited, packaged and aired at a later date.

Cut to March 7. My parents were at the Madame Butterfly simulcast so on their behalf I had to purchase that odd thing — a blank cassette tape. Remember those? I was glad to have their house to myself because by 3:10 I was shaking. I knew Shelagh had been pleased with our chat. I knew that her producer had been happy, too. But in my case there is always the danger of, well, not moron factor but I can be a bit of a buffoon. Exactly what the hell had I said this time?

It’s funny, when I do the odd bit of radio news reporting I have total calm, cool and collection as I wait to hear myself come on the air. By that point I’m sometimes too tired of my latest item to even tune in for it. Most reporters don’t. So your piece is on the radio? Big deal. You’ve got to crank out another one in twenty-three hours.

Once though, I was at home writing and flipped on the Maritime Noon call-in for a sec while I was scrubbing my toilet or something. Lo and behold they were talking about charitable causes. People could call in and state their charity of choice. I had to get on there and plug CODE! I dialled the toll free number like a woman possessed. It was, like, fight and flight impulses all jumbled up into one torrential adrenal rush. The producer assumed I was sane. I was put through. Before I knew it, I was talking to Costas Halabraisos. No I wasn’t. I was talking to Costas Halavrezos. Freak me out of my gourd, man! I was talking to Costas Halavrezos, live, a mile a minute, like a seven-year-old listing what she wanted for her birthday. I was enumerating CODE’s services and attributes like someone calling the harness races on a cup night. Costas thanked me in such a way that three provinces full of listeners heard. Afterwards, I called Laura, the local PEI producer, to tell her I’d been on her show. I was awestruck by my own audacity. And I was still trembling. Getting on Shelagh’s show was a little like that.

Shelagh is a doll, everyone knows that, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have hardball questions up her jewel tone sweater sleeves. Shelagh had me on my toes, that’s for sure. Shelagh’s the quintessence of thoughtful.

I was scared because I remembered having at one point said, “I think everyone should have a job!” What I had meant was that everyone deserves a calling. In an economy like this one, insisting that everyone should have a job is akin to cruelty. Praise The Next Chapter team, that got cut. As did another old family tale that popped out of my mouth like a loose crown. And here it comes again …

It goes something like this–one day my mother, Peggy, and her sister, Mary, were walking home from the pond after an ice skate, through the Point Deroche woods. That’s when a mink popped its head out of its hole. Mary took her hockey stick, whomped the mink and killed it flat dead, bam. Their father skinned the mink, sold the pelt and gave Mary the proceeds: $40. Forty bucks was an astronomical sum for a twelve-year-old in the late 1940’s, hence the lore. “That was a vegetarian telling that story!” I hastened to clarify for Shelagh’s listeners. Luckily, such clarification was never required. Snip-0-rama-rama. I also got in a little dig about the lack of Sunday shopping here that was neatly deleted. (The idea is that Islanders ought to carefully preserve family time, as if no family survives with its moral health intact if Sears is open for sabbath browsing.)

My fella tried to log on the Newfoundland webcast and hear me before I even heard myself, the sneak. No dice but he caught me at the same time I did. He thought I sounded smart. ”I wasn’t Valley Girling, was I?” I really needed to know. Up-talk would be a travesty for a 47-year-old. No intonation escalation detected from his perspective. My perspective remains slightly paranoid. I can get a bit mid-Atlantic when I’m nervous. It’s vestiges of the British accent I had in my teens, which is legitimate enough, but I hate sounding at all Madonna-at-a-podium. At one point I heard myself describe myself as “hopelessly euhhh-ban,” for instance. Even more prattish than calling oneself hopelessly urban. But no one’s perfect. The perfect radio interview is imperfect, really. Just like the perfect human being.

Holy crow. I talked to Shelagh, in a segment all my own, in which my main character was referred to with delicious familiarity and my themes explored with accuracy and insight. That does it. For what good it does me, I really am a writer now. But pardon me while I lesson plan Unit 8 of Contemporary Topics 3. We’ve got some serious vocab preview to do on Wednesday, and the whole related projects section to cover. And, as always in Listening and Speaking 3A, the CBC news to listen to, take notes on, and discuss.

Here’s to crown corporation broadcasting!

Tags: Gratitude

I Know the Unknown

by louisa on March 2nd, 2009 | Comments Off

Jesus H, I had this whole thing written, posted and edited yesterday and then it disappeared overnight. Bloody hell. I will now try to recreate it from memory. Please pardon the inevitable loss of élan.

I had an hour long phone call with my corporately employed brother this weekend, the kind that takes a couple of months to build-up between siblings of different geography, métier and age. My brother is six-and-a-half years younger than me. Luckily, that forestalled any jealousy on my part. Apparently, if an older child is already in school when a new baby arrives it fosters all kinds of academic enthusiasm in the older kid. It’s like, “Screw this dull-witted baby stuff. I’m up to important things, like learning to print big letters and little letters, add double digits, and win at hopscotch.” At least that was the case for me. The only time I paid much attention to my baby brother was when he was in his Jolly Jumper and I could scootch down and make faces of huge alarm and horror at him – the kind you might make when informed of imminent nuclear war – which would cause him to quickly brim with woe and bawl. Then came the really fun part. With great maternal grace, so I thought, I’d pat him calm: there-there, there-there. Then start over again. Hours of fun, until my mother told me to cut it out and go colour something.

Anyhow, I was mentioning to my brother how ridiculously speculatively I live my life, how I have very little guarantee of professional anything.

I have a petition in for a Canada Council grant, for instance. It’s check-the-mailbox-with-a-pounding-heart time. 20% of applicants are successful. At two books in, I’m categorized as mid career now; there’s no going back to emerging. I imagine my competition was pretty stiff. Hence my mantra of late – I’m probably not going to get it, I’m probably not going to get it. I’m all about lessening blows. Still, freak zone. So much money by my standards or not.

I’ve also got a pitch in to CBC radio to do a summer show (It’s a Secret). Yesterday, I got a very apologetic voice mail from someone extremely warm-hearted at the program development committee. An hour or so earlier she had sent me a thanks-but-no thanks email, but in fact the committee hasn’t assessed my pitch yet. I got someone else’s ixnay erroneously and prematurely. The kind woman felt awful but she needn’t have worried. I never know which of my ends is up anyway. To make matters even more rambunctious, until I figure out exactly what gives with my radio pitch I am holding off on moving several thousand miles. To wit, I am moving several thousand miles away and I don’t know when.

I don’t know where my next freelance magazine assignment is coming from. I don’t know when I will finish my next book and who will buy it when it’s done. I don’t know what I’m going to do without a pension but until then I have no idea how I’m going to score sessional work at a creative writing program. I kind of breathe uncertainty.

“Weird, huh?” I said to my brother.

“No, not really,” he said with the deadpan that has got him far in his IT department. “You’re an artist.”

I think that’s the nicest thing my brother has ever said to me. He’s right. La vie bohème is one hell of a constant crap shoot. I knew that when I opted against solidity, property and Caribbean vacations. My brother knew that when he offered to store my fifteen-carton library in his basement for oh, seven years now. I’d scrounge up the funds to transport it somewhere appropriate if I had any idea where.

I’m sure of this: the writing life is an unsure one. I better swallow that pill once and for all. Deep down I probably perversely like it that way. Befrazzlement is perhaps what’s keeping me signature gaunt.

But could someone please just tell me this – is my damn PEI book ever going to sell to

Japan?!

Tags: Bitterness

Lovely Time Wasters

by louisa on February 23rd, 2009 | Comments Off

I am very grateful for the fact of part-time work which gives me regular writing days and writing half-days. Today, to make matters even more sublime, I have a snow day. I awoke in a post-Oscars stupor, opened a blind to check on the projected ice storm which was indeed in effect, logged on to the local cbc-dot-ca to read through the list of school closures, said “aha, thought so,” logged off, snapped shut the blind, and went back to sleep to blast away residual fatigue. I slept until nine-thirty. Here I am two-and-a-half hours later, ready to begin work of my own.

Why so long until productive, you ask? Did I shovel? No, because my dad has hired a neighbourhood teen to do that, paid by the hour, so if I shovel I am literally stealing money out of a youngster’s pocket. (I like shovelling, actually and suspect that given a whole winter of snow banks to attack I’d have gone up a cup size.)

So did I cook myself a leisurely omelette and toss an intricate breakfast salad? No, I nuked a bowl of Red River porridge as usual, tossed in some blueberries and a mandarin, slopped on some prune Activia, and quickly boiled up a tea pot full of peach-ginger.

Did I do a dust bunny cull and scrub the Pollackian tooth paste drips off my bathroom sink? Nope, did that last night, finally, before a certain gent confessed that he lacked the inner female necessary to come over and watch the Oscars with me and left me the grapes and cheese sticks to myself.

What took me so long to brass tack-it today and every other morning is that, try as I might to contract my Favorites Centre, I require a buffer zone of idle clicking before I get down to work. I’ve got to flutter hither and thither for up to an hour before concentration becomes an issue of pride or zilch pride. Like many of you, I need cyber pacification.

There’s my gmail (for real stuff), my hotmail (for spammy stuff), my web mail (for exciting stuff), and my squirrel mail (for ESL school stuff) to check for starters. There’s the weather, of course. We’re Canadian, we need to keep tabs on that. For some strange reason I retain weather info for about as long as it takes me to yawn. But no matter, I check Charlottetown, Toronto and now Victoria weather with great momentary curiosity. And, as foreadmitted, I take a quick look at my amazon and indigo pages to check for minor seismic activity. Then I usually give the home page of the Toronto Star a peek to maintain my Toronto girl credibility. (I save my parents’ hard copy of the Globe for dinner time. The arts pages make me too jealous too early in the day. I’ve always got a friend of a friend in there doing something hideously impressive. Or an accomplished columnist buddy pulling regular wages.)

What else stalls me in my tracks? Ooooh, book industry blogs. They’re so justifiably worth checking and it takes a lovely quarter to half hour to get through them, depending on the degree of insight, schadenfreude or envy to be had. I’ll list my book blogs in order of addiction, most passionate to least: Bookninja; Bookslut; Quill & Quire; Paper Cuts; Galley Cat; Guardian Books Blog; MOBY LIVES; That Shakespeherian Rag.

Those clicked through, I can now begin the task of getting seriously indulgent. Provided it’s not Thursday or Saturday, however, in which case I simply must examine the latest New York Times Style sections. That’s how I know style is often substance.

My greatest blogging jones probably gets kicked into action by Jezebel. All I can say is go there if you have ovaries. Jezebel makes Gawker look dull.

For a truly reliable pop culture larf, visit the rambunctiously witty Auntie Fashion. I have been mistaken for her. The honour is mine. No one skewers and celebrates like Auntie F.

For another lass with trusty snark and high articulation, check out the Live Journal of Elyse Sewell, that bright finalist on the first season of ANTM. She’s been modelling in Asia since Tyra. It’s like your funniest friend is modelling in Asia. Click at your peril — you’ll hate her for occasionally disappearing.

Feeling scruffed out by all this time wasting? It’s impossible to feel sullied while you hobnob with the adorable Chantel Simmons. This woman takes the bull out of adorable.

To restore a sense of purpose I now recommend two superb style blogs: The Sartorialist and Garance Doré. It hardly counts as idle, surely, to examine the most dapper Manhattanites and Europeans currently alive on swanky street corners. Warning: click on the above and you’ll immediately want more scarves.

And with that — forgive me for this — unless you’re going to do a tour of major British, French and American newpaper front pages, which is never really a bad idea, it’s time to, gak … work.

Tags: Gratitude

Star Wars

by louisa on February 16th, 2009 | Comments Off

Hmmm, well, I owe a bitterness post. I’m feeling ridiculously grateful lately so this isn’t going to be easy. However, one niggling, little thing did come up at the Writing Q & A I did at the Confederation Centre Library last week. I sensed I really had the room’s attention as I talked over this very minor source of bitterness. This nuisance, really. I might as well share with the group. Here goes.

To recap, I was asked all kinds of interesting questions last Thursday by the several Charlottetown citizens who braved freezing rain to find out what they could from me truly about what it’s like to publish a book. I answered questions about my income, my process, the kinds of contacts I’d put in place before I got my book contract, how I got an agent, how I create my characters, how I relate to my editor, how I name my books. Last but not least, as 7:59 ticked over to 8:00, I was asked if reviews hurt my feelings.

In a word, yes. Hell yes! True, you learn some really constructive things when you’re reviewed, advice you’d pay good money to get in the right frame of mind, so, here’s to that. But you also get nailed for things you think are way off the mark. And you have no recourse. There’s no verisimilitude measuring stick you can take out and shake and say, “Screw you, I did get this right, I did, I did!” The facts are, in this day and age of dwindling books pages a writer is bloody lucky to get a review at all. I keep that in mind no matter how mixed the reception to my labour of love. May I be panned rather than ignored.

Someone being bitchy on a book review web site is a little harder to deal with because amateur reviewers don’t hold their tongue in the same way that professionals do. They can be sniiiiiide. Why seek out said reviews, you ask? Trust me, I don’t have them bookmarked. But I do have a Google alert out on “Louisa McCormack”. Every so often Google sees fit to send me a link to some what-did-you-think-of-this web site. To be specific, a link right to a page where random strangers hoist thumbs up or shove ‘em down when it comes to my titles. That’s their right, of course. I put myself out there; I’ve got to put up with people putting me down. Such is the law of semi-celebrity. (I use the word semi loosely; I use the word celebrity without any earnestness at all.)

So far so sane.

What does upset me if I let it, what does make me inwardly whimper and outwardly scrunch, is to see someone dicking with my star rating on a book-vending web site.

With one click, anyone who wants to can give you one to five stars, depending on their degree of disdain or approbation. On indigo.ca, the same person can give you dozens of ratings, one right after the other. The same person can give you dozens of crap ratings that is. One person can spend no more than five minutes click, click, clicking you down the star scale at will.

It’s only human to take a star rating somewhat seriously when considering shelling out cash for a book. Well do I know; I’ve been there many a time. Books cost a fortune. I trust Josephine Public to steer me somewhat right. Stars matter.

Generally, ratings accrete very slowly. As an example, it’s taken my first book, Six Weeks to Toxic, a better-selling book than The Catch, two-and-a-half years to accumulate twenty-seven ratings. Pace-wise, ratings trickle in as a rule. It’s unheard of for a book to go up four ratings overnight let alone forty. There are not four, or for the purposes of argument fourteen, Canadians who care about any one book that much. Even if it’s by Miriam Toewes.

The Catch has gone up forty ratings overnight a couple of times. The Catch is up to 134 ratings in a mere five months. The Catch has gone up forty ratings and down two stars in the amount of time it takes to cook a tofu dog. Something fishy is going on. Someone has it in for my book. Someone is occasionally obsessively clicking me into the mire.

I could click in retaliation, yes. Click my way back up to three discreet stars. But I lack the finger power. And the anger. And I’ll only get slammed back down again if I try. Best not to fight this one out. Better to languish bruised then lash out in pain. Besides, stars are for the public to give, not some petulant writer. Paws off, Loulou.

But what a mean thing for someone to do — to methodically drag me down! The book is fiction, for heavens sakes. It’s told from the point of view of an entirely invented character. Minnie’s edgy yes, but she’s make-believe. Why such malevolence? Where’s the fun in being ruthless? By the twenty-fifth click, wouldn’t one feel a bit wrongheaded?

Okay, wait a minute. I’m taking a faulty approach here. Whoever you are, you sporadically click-happy low star-rater person (or people) you, thank you. Thank you kindly. Thank you for not forcing my face into a one star rating. That would be mortifying. As it is I’m merely feeling burned by the distortion of it all. I mean, maybe I would have had two stars even with a realistic amount of realistically accumulated ratings. Now I’ll never know. But there are worse fates in a writer’s life. Heavens, at least I have a little firmament.

And soon I’ll strip my Indigo page from my Favorites Centre altogether. I’m allowed to check it daily for six months post publication date, then basta. No more counting how many copies sold on the weekend if any. No more hoping for fresh citizen reviews. No more evaluating my star rating for, sigh, potential manipulation.

Stars be damned, I’ve got a whole other book to write!

Tags: Bitterness

Public Lending Rights

by louisa on February 9th, 2009 | No Comments »

The Canada Council pays me annually for the use of my books by Canadian public libraries. They seem to think I’m dispensing a privilege by letting Canadians take my books home for three weeks subject to renewal (7 day loans only for The Catch in Halifax and Charlottetown — that’s high demand for you, babies!) That is, the Canada Council pays me and every other writer sufficiently on the ball to register with the Public Lending Rights program. Wahoo to that!

The PLR program pays a maximum of $2000 or so per author per year to be quasi specific. Last year, I misunderstood and thought I was eligible for the max based on how many copies of Six Weeks were shelved with Dewey decimals. Alas, that’s a personal maximum. And it gets calculated based on a representative library. The maximum per book is more like $200. This year I also get to register The Catch so I stand to garner a couple of C notes out of the deal henceforth.

Bus fare to New York! Strappy sandals!

For some actuarial plus politically manipulated reason, the PLR kitty oscillates yearly. And of course more and more books are annually added to the clamour (although some authors are also freshly certified dead). In any case, the newest books get paid the most to make up for the growing ranks and potential inactivity of the old stuff.

Righteously, self-help books and how-to manuals are excluded from the rewards program by the Public Lending Rights commission, bless them. It has to be a book book to get PLR dough. Yay for Public Lending Rights. Seriously.

There was a survey done this past week as to Canadian artists’ earnings. Yay to not being as pitiful as I feared. I guess. The average female self-employed writer makes little more than $21,000/pa. I am not alone in my rampant frugality. A whole bunch of other writers out there also buy their Calvin Klein underwear only at Winners. Hence a whole bunch of other writers have bras that are obscure shades of chartreuse and teal.

Okay, wait a minute … do I want something to hope for, income-wise, or redemption as a highly typical resident of a finely-tuned socio-demographic bracket? Shucks, give my misery company.

A whole bunch of other writers out there regift the umpteen blank, embossed little hardcover scratch pads they get given on a regular basis. A whole bunch of other writers out there only eat mangoes from Chinatown and save their meagre LuluLemon stash for special gym days. A whole bunch of other writers out there dread exotic locale weddings. Recesession, what recession? We’ve been recessed for years!

Valentinesish, however, we get that low three figure PLR pat on the back. After all, visual artists get a couple of grand whenever a Canadian museum showcases their work. As they should. Based on Art Basel Miami and Marcel Dzama mentions in New York publications, I thought the visuals artists would be dining on pheasant while they watched the writers eat crow. The averages work out in authors’ favours, however. I’m sorry about all that bitterness, fine artists. You make a literal pittance. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve spent my virtual pittance on some of your work and will do so again because it makes me feel loaded.

With upcoming PLR payment largesse, let me keep the solidarity flowing. My good (and in fact successful) pal Michael Adamson is entered in the Saatchi on-line art showdown. Click here if you would like to vote for his beauteous Clover Rust. In solidarity with the writer’s craft, Michael has hands-down the best painting titles ever. Click here to check out his magnum opus.

And feel free to get my books out of the library. Just don’t tell me that’s what you did if you are in any way acquainted with me. If you live in Charlottetown, please check out my Writing Q&A session at the Confederation Centre library on Thursday Feb 12 at 7pm. It’s my token thank-you to the PEI Council of the Arts for the production grant. And for the gonzo PLR program, of course.

F’ing A, PLR: I’m subsi-frickin-dized!

Tags: Gratitude

Louisa’s Latest

Equal parts gratitude and bitterness. Do chip in.

I’ve Moved! It’s now about Chick Life. I’d be honoured if you followed me … zoomermag.com/louisa_mccormack

Author Photo Hijinks

Discipline, Where is thy Sting?

Scrumptious Research

No Grant, No Cry

The Last The Next Chapter

I Know the Unknown

Lovely Time Wasters

Star Wars

Public Lending Rights

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