Rogue's Gallery.

Well, another November is wrapped up. As has the October before it, and the September before that. Those were probably the longest three months of my life that didn't have a final exam in them... but now it's over, and I'm able to talk about Batman.

You see, this summer, I finished the latest revision of "Pile O' Bones", my novel about a Saskatchewan vampire hunter. I've sent copies out to those who asked about it, and one or two people were even polite enough to inquire about a sequel. I proposed that in Book Two, our hero would venture to Alberta, where a dark and foul force is preying upon Newfoundlanders in the oil patch. And then, the hero follows this villain to Newfoundland, where he has to confront this evil before he corrupts the very spirit of St. John's itself.

I liked the idea for a little while, but then I realised the horrible truth: One backdrop the first time (the best one), and two for the second, to make up for the first's absence. I was following the same pattern as the Batman movies!

But maybe that's not a bad thing. Let's take a look, shall we? Behold, then: The Adventures of Norton Swift, Paranormal Investigator!

1. "Batman". Villain: The Joker.

Book One takes place in Saskatchewan. Why does Saskatchewan resemble the Joker? For no reason at all. That's why it's funny! (But seriously, this decision was already made for me, in a way.)

2. "Batman Returns". Villains: Penguin, Catwoman

I already planned that I'd feature Newfoundland and Alberta in this novel, and it's and easier match than I thought. For the Penguin, you have the sea, birds, umbrellas, and strange mannerisms. And Alberta as Catwoman? Well, Alberta is a lady's name. Catwoman is something of a Wild Rose herself. And unlike most other Batman villains, she's in it for the money.

3. "Batman Forever". Villains: Two-Face and the Riddler

After two books of adventures, it makes sense that Ron would eventually be called into the heart of the country: Ontario and Quebec. The beautiful part here is that both villains describes both provinces equally well.

4. "Batman and Robin". Villains: Mr. Freeze, Poison Ivy, and Bane

These matches are all blindingly obvious: the Northwest Territories, B.C., and PEI. Also, there's the added bonus that this book would take our hero from "Coast to Coast to Coast". In fact, that would probably be the title of this one.

5. "Batman Begins". Villains: Scarecrow, Ra's Al Ghul

The Scarecrow isn't quite a perfect match for the Yukon, but we'll accept it out of respect for Sam McGee. And Ra's Al Ghul is an powerful immortal, who controls a distant empire, who sees Batman as a potential ally as well as a rival. That's not a province - that's the good ol' United States of America. It looks like Ron's finally stamping his passport in Book 5.

6. "The Dark Knight". Villains: Joker, Two-Face

And here, a return to the two provinces that most need a second appearance: Saskatchewan because it's his home, and Ontario because Toronto will remain absent from the third novel, but feature prominently here.

There you have it! A map of all future adventures! So, we still have to travel to Nunavut, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Manitoba. I think I know two of those analogues already:

The Ventriloquist = New Brunswick. That most bilingual of provinces, long knows for being able to speak with two voices. Not only that, but they have a mild public image that somehow co-exists with their fiery Maritime spirit.

The Mad Hatter = Manitoba. Chiefly because of the Metis trappers and the Northwest Rebellion, but I'm sure it wouldn't be too hard to find other examples of crazy Winnipeggers.

So, all we have left to find are Bat-villains for Nunavut and Nova Scotia. Any suggestions?

Word War. 15 minutes. Go.

I'm typing this on an intern's laptop in the Office of Letters and Light, here in downtown Oakland. I figure that if I'm going to abuse their fine hospitality, I should play by their rules, right? So. Fifteen minutes. Start writing about Jack London. GO.

* * * * *

They moved the cabin from the Yukon down to the bay, to better honour me. I don't know why they bothered. Sure, they'll be able to charge people a bit of admission, but that's providing people deign to show that much love for an author. More likely, it'll just give them a chance to charge twice as much for the nearby hotels. Three times as much, once the moss sets in.

But let them have it. That cabin was an eyesore when I moved in, and I hadn't been too worried about making it any prettier. It's not even where I did my writing, as much as they might have loved to capture my "writer's mojo" or such hogwash.

But, they were looking in the wrong place. They should have looked at the forests, or the glaciers, or the packs of wolves that howl at a sun, smokescreened and windswept until it looked like the moon.

They also should have looked at my underground lair. I mean, it was right there, underneath the cabin. They just had to hook a compass up to a battery, and then physically swing the needle north. Then, the entire floor drops in.

And this! This is the sort of thing they would have loved, O yes. Mementos of all my conquests -- from the skin of the polar gator from the ice floe swamps of the Yukon lowlands, to the glowing gold of Nanaimo. And here! The farewell gift I got from the space-faring Yeti when I helped them escape this rock, and return to their rightful home. It required such a massive detonation, that we had to disguise the radiation as the Northern Lights, which still persist to this day in a certain spot over Bering. I told them that was thanks enough, but they insisted on something else, and so I received this communicator. I'm told it allows instantaneous communication with their people, but its exact operation still confounds me. Perhaps that will be a challenge for some other explorer to unearth.

For unearth, they shall. I lived my days here, and it was not the natural scenery that made it beautiful to me - it was my sweat and toil. I would not dream of depriving the next visitor of that experience. And so, this land shall be wiped smooth, and in years to come, all that shall be found of my Arctic refuge is whatever the tree roots have failed to devour.

And what they find, they shall find with my blessing. Or if the wolves find it instead, perhaps that shall just prove all the clearer that they had always owned it in the first place.

* * * * *

447 words. Not bad, actually -- my personal best for a 15 minute sprint is 501. But you just know that Jack London could have written 502, all while skinning a caribou at the same time.

That's something to shoot for, I guess. But in the meantime, I'll just savour the moment of writing something (anything) in this wonderful place.

mojo status: 100/1000

Oh, by the way, I'm now three degrees of separation away from Koko the sign language gorilla. Thanks, Chris!

mojo status: 150/1000

The Sculptor.

The snow in Resolute howled on as the company inside the East Bank Inn finished their most most recent time-waster.

"Whew!", said Jules. "'Scuse me, folks, I'm a bit parched. That was a longer story than I expected." He got up and headed for the kitchen.

"Nice story," Paul said, nodding. "Kinda makes you want to start playing soccer, so that you'd be able to speak a common language if you ever end up in Europe without money or friends or a passport."

Darryl pointed an accusing finger at his friend. "Hah! You're just saying that because that's what happened to you last year!"

Paul laughed at that, and everyone joined in, although Montreal and Eddie exchanged confused glances.

"By the way," asked Montreal, "what sort of sports do you guys like to play up here? Hockey? Skiing?"

Harry shook his head. "The ocean doesn't freeze, and we can't afford to use that much water for a rink. As for skiing, well, we've got cross-country skiing, but downhill skiing is purely a rich tourist's sport. We've got dogsledding, though, and snowmobiling, and quadding, and hunting. That takes up most of our outdoors leisure time."

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't sound too different from non-leisure time around here."

"No, I guess it isn't. Well, the Inuit games are popular, too."


"Inuit games?"

"Oh, those are a lot of fun, and really big with the kids. All sorts of events, but most have to do with high kicking or wrestling or just plain toughness. Lots of reputations are at stake during the Inuit Games."


"So, are these games based on traditional skills?"

"No, they're just something we came up with a few years ago. So, what about you guys? Any sports?"

Montreal thought about that. "Well, I work out - you know, exercise, treadmills, pilates, that sort of thing. I ride my bike when the weather's good. During the winters, I, um... ski." She blushed a bit.

Harry blushed right back. "Oh, sorry! No offense about that "rich person's sport" comment, right? I mean, I was just talking about how much it costs to go skiing in Resolute..."

"Oh, don't worry about it. You're right, it's quite a bit easier to ski where I'm from, and it's not cheap to operate those ski slopes. I wouldn't want to guess how much it would cost to build a chair lift up here."

"Yeah, that's what I meant. So, how about you, Eddie?"

The young man shrugged. "I stay indoors, mostly. I'm not too bad at Team Fortress, though."

"Team Fortress?"

"Video game."

"Ah."

Eddie could feel the conversation dying quickly. "Um, I also... well, does art count?"

"If it gets you outside and moving, then sure."

"Okay... well, what about carving?"

"Really?" Harry leaned forward in his chair. "Do tell! What sort of stuff do you carve?"

"Yeah! It's your turn for a story, anyway!", added Paul.

"Whose story, now?" Jules had just come out of the bathroom.

"Eddie's going to tell us about his carvings!"

"Oh, that sounds good. The artist's perspective, eh?" Jules eagerly took a seat.

Eddie rubbed his hair nervously. "Um... y'know, it's not like I've got a good carving story, like, it's not like I ever carved a wolf head out of a tree to stop a stampede, or anything... let me think." Eddie got up and started pacing around.

"What's the--" Harry was shushed by Montreal.

"Give him a minute," she scolded.

"Okay. Okay. I think I've got something. I know one of the Inuit carving legends, but I have to set it up with what little I know about it. If anybody feels like correcting me, they can jump in any time."

Harry spread his hands. "The floor is yours."

"Oh. Well, thanks. Okay..." he coughed, and took a deep breath.

"Carving. Carving is one of the few subtractive arts. With painting, or music, or writing, or even dancing, you're creating something out of nothing. But with carving, you end up with less than when you started. Since you're always taking away, I like to think that that means that carvers have a much better vision of their end product than any other artist -- everything has to be planned and anticipated, through all the steps. You can't redo a bad decision, and you can't improvise halfway through and still end up where you wanted to.

"And yet, carvers are unable to plan ahead completely. A vein or a fissure inside a rock, or a fracture in an antler can force a carver to change those meticulous plans without warning.

"Inuit carvers have brought these two aspects together into a single philosophy, that coincides with their overall world, as well. I think that's why I'm so impressed, and inspired by their works.

"You see, they believe that there's a spirit within everything, and that spirits can change bodies over time. Polar bears become humans, and seals become geese, and fish become wolves, and caribou become rocks... it can go in any direction. Now, I'm not sure exactly how a rock dies, so that its soul goes somewhere else. Or how a rock is born, for that matter. My own theory is that rocks serve as spiritual RAM, a buffer where the soul overflow can get dumped. But anyway, the point is that rocks can have animal spirits inside them.

"Now, the carver's job, then, is to tell what sort of spirit is inside the rock they're carving, and help bring it out. If it's a beluga spirit, they carve a beluga. If it's a human spirit, they carve a man. And sometimes, they only find out enough about the spirit once they're already midway through carving. And sometimes... it's an evil spirit. One of the great challenges for carvers is being able to tell if it's an evil spirit in time. When that happens, part of the carving has to be left unfinished, to trap the spirit inside the rock. Not only is this difficult to determine, but carvers will often have too much pride to leave a carving unfinished. That makes purposefully unfinished carvings very valuable.

"Now, I've never carved anything out of soapstone. I usually just use wood, or sometimes antler. In those cases, it's a pretty safe guess that either tree or deer spirits are involved.

"But I did see one carving, once, which was actually on display at the National Gallery. But how it started was very different from how it ended up. It was a large, rough rock, not even polished, but it had a fissure in it, about a centimetre thick and five centimetres deep..."

Eddie settled back in his chair, and the tone of his voice changed, like he was back on familiar ground. He continued...

"The sculptor who had chosen it was getting ready to cut it in half to make two sculptures, but halfway through cutting, he could tell it was the home to an evil spirit. Now, I don't know my spirits, but it seems pretty clear to me that for it to be that visible after only a single cut, it must have been a great evil indeed. In fact, only a few days after cutting the stone, the sculptor fell into a deep sleep. The shaman thought that the sculptor's spirit was busy fighting the evil spirit that he'd released, and that the victor would get to keep the man's body. The shaman told this to the man's son, who was also a talented carver.

"What should I do?", he asked.

"The spirit must be trapped again," said the shaman.

"But the rock has already been opened!", he protested.

"Then it must be closed."

"So, the young man went out into the wilderness. He walked for many days. At first, he thought to go to the place where his father found the stone. But as he got there, he realised that the stones around here might also have some evil in them. And so, he kept walking. He then went to his favourite place to find stones for himself, but it occured to him that he should not merely seek to offer another soul in exchange for his father's spirit, for that was not kind. And so, he kept walking.

"He walked for many days, past all the names which he had known, and past all the names which his family had told him, and past all the names which his elders had told him. He walked through dead and barren lands, and he walked through the valleys which were rich with life, his boots sinking deep down into the wet moss as he trudged through.

"Finally, he came to a mountain with no name. He climbed it, and saw before him a valley with no name, and another mountain with no name far on the other side. The valley was dark and flat, and covered evenly with rocks, right from one coastline, clear through until the valley ended at a different coastline far away. He walked down the mountain to the bottom of this valley. As he had seen, rocks were everywhere, and he had to climb carefully and watch his step just to cross the valley floor. These rocks were all covered in lichen, however, which was thick and black, so thick that it didn't flake off in your fingers as lichen normally does. He left these black rocks behind, for they had a purpose -- to provide a home for the lichen, which provide a good meal for the caribou.



"He kept walking across this barren, empty valley. He was started to grow weary, for there was nothing to hunt in this valley. He ate some of the lichen, and made a shelter for sleep. He dreamt that he was high, high in the sky, and then he dreamt that he was not dreaming, which confused him greatly in his dream which was not a dream. But when he awoke, he understood perfectly. He made his way to the other mountain with no name, on the other end of the valley, and he began to climb.

"This mountain was much higher than the other one, and the young man was soon wading through the snow. The rocks were a rough, sharp black, and the snow was a deep, soft white. There were no other colours. He climbed through the snow, treading carefully, for the mountain itself might have opened up like the crack his father had made, and the snow would hide such a crack perfectly. At one point, he grew tired, and leaned out to a large rock, and in doing so, he fell through the snow, right up to his armpits.



He could feel nothing beneath his feet save for the sloping walls below, but he was able to climb back up. When he stood up and looked beneath him, the gravel he'd scrambled out upon was sifting down into the hole. He needed to do something similar with his father's stone, he realised, but does gravel have a spirit? Does each pebble hold the spirit of a mosquito? Or is the spirit of a mosquito just as large as the spirit of a muskox? Perhaps he had a spirit which was once that of a mosquito, he thought to himself.

"Regardless of that question, his solution would not involve gravel. Instead, he kept on walking, past the gravel and the hole, continuing his ascent until he came to a lake, resting peacefully at a plateau near the top. The lake was silent, and its surface was smooth. It was perfectly clear, and he could see straight down to the bottom.

There, resting upon the bed of pebbles, was a beautiful piece of soapstone, grey like a seal's pelt, with mottles and flecks and scattered all the way through. Such a stone would have made a wonderful sculpture, but the young man wasn't here for himself, so he kept on going.

"Further up the mountain, he stopped for a rest. As soon as he sat down and enjoyed a long, deep breath, he felt better and at peace. He looked about him, and saw a rock the size of his open palm. A rock without a spirit, as near as he could tell. A rock made of soapstone, almost the exact same shade of greenish black as his father's stone. He picked up this rock and held it close to him. Then, he rested a while longer, and began his trek back down. He walked past the lake, and he washed the rock in its still, clear waters. He walked past the hole, and let the gravel cover the rock as it continued to trickle down to the bottom. He walked back across the valley, and wrapped the rock in the black lichen. He climbed up the other mountain, and back through the plains that were lush with moss and flowers and grasses. He tied the rock to a long rope, and dragged it behind him, and it ran along the greens and yellows and purples and browns and reds of the foliage. The rock had no spirit, but the man wanted this rock to experience the good things of the world nonetheless. Some people might have called this foolishness, but if there was a spirit in that rock, it would be far more foolish to condemn that spirit to its intended task without making peace with it first.

Finally, he came back to his home, and with his father's split stone waiting for him, he sat down and began to carve the rock that he'd found. Every chip and every scrape was done with care, for the further he got in his carving, the more he became convinced that this stone he'd found was the only one which would have sufficed. Finally, after many, many hours, he had created a perfect opposite of his father's stone. Crests and valleys, bumps and dents, chips and ledges, all matched up perfectly. A gift was made to the evil spirit by putting some water in the crack, and then the young man carefully inserted his carving into the crevice. The rock fit perfectly into the crack, and it would twist and pivot on its own no longer. When tapped, it resonated as a single, solid object. The young man smiled, and laid it at the bedside while he spoke to his father. He spoke to his father all through the night, and then, when morning dawned, the old man woke, his spirit returned.

"From that day on, the young man and his father continued to carve rocks, and they kept watch over the evil spirit in that stone, which they kept safely away from everybody. Their shop became known as "The House of Whispering Rocks", and the young man was highly regarded by his peers -- not only because he was able to judge the spirits within stones better than any other, but also because he was, to date, the only Inuk ever to have carved a larger rock out of a smaller one."

Eddie smilled, and his storyteller's voice disappeared with a hint of relief. "And, that's my story."

The Golden Compass just became a better movie.

Last week, I was meeting up with a few of the literary ninjas in Edmonton, and had a good time -- ate a few ice cream sundaes, shared a few stories, tried my hand at Beastie Boys karaoke -- but there was one thing which I hadn't expected. One of the people at my table was a palm reader, and specialised in telling people what sort of animal spirit they channelled. (Is that the same thing as "spirit animal"? I'm out of touch with my New Age terminology.)

Naturally, ten seconds after finding this out, I had my palms out and ready. Going over them, she said I had "water hands" (very creative), and that my friends were very important to me.

Given that I had driven six hours to see my friends at a writer's meeting, a skeptic might suggest that it wasn't just my palms that gave her these clues. But let us put these spurious claims aside for a moment, and accept that this was all in good fun. Long life, health, heartache... she went through all of these, but what I wanted to know was my spirit animal. What apparition would appear to me in a feverous dream some day, to share its wisdom with me?

"A lizard," she said. "A really big lizard."

Huh. Well, I guess we can't all be dragons, I said.

"Actually, I am."

Huh. Well, maybe it's something like a crocodile, I said.

"No, that's a reptile, but it's not a lizard."

Huh. Well, I guess iguanas have their charm. I guess.

I thanked her, and rejoined the party, now secure in the knowledge that I had a lizard spirit watching over me. Or maybe it was just sleeping on a warm metaphysical rock. The conversation turned to other things, but as we were discussing trips to Drumheller, a wonderful thought occurred to me. I turned to a nearby friend.

"So, tell me," I asked, "What does "dinosaur" mean in Latin?"

"Well, isn't it something like thunder liz-" and she stopped, suddenly aware of what that meant.

Oh yes: that's EXACTLY what it means. Have I mentioned the mascot for my writing region yet?



I think it means something.

NaNoWriMo update: My Favourite Editor.

Well, I started off with a bang for NaNoWriMo this year -- 10,000 words in the first weekend.

The story was about twelve people that traveled across Canada. So, the first chapter was about the person from B.C., the second chapter was about the person from Alberta, and by the time I got to Saskatchewan, I was struggling to get the words across. My characters were struggling to find interesting things to do. They seemed trapped at a rest stop on the Trans-Canada, unable to do anything but talk about coffee. That wasn't what I wanted -- what I wanted was to write about the songs of walruses and unquestionable dominance of the polar bear. I want to write about high-kicking seals, about towns populated only by sled dogs, and about hunting trips that don't require any preparation beyond flour and ammo.

So, I'm going to write about it. Goodbye, original storyline! Hello, drastic swerve into interesting material!

It might seem a bit capricious and, well, amateur to switch gears halfway through. But NaNoWriMo's all about your self-discovery as an amateur writer, and that's exactly what this is. Besides, I'll still be incorporating my first three chapters -- it's just that these will be the only characters. I'm just editing out the chaff before I write it, that's all. I'm looking forward to this weekend of writing more than ever, now.

And on a completely unrelated note: Guitar Hero may make you feel like you're playing at a sports stadium. But Wii Music makes you feel like you're playing at the Muppet Theatre. There's something to be said for that.

It's a good thing I ran out of toilet paper.

I knew I didn't have to be worried -- all it took was a grocery run.

Driving back from the Sobey's, I thought I'd take a different route home, which took me past the Wal-Mart. A big sign was erected in the parking lot:

THIS LOCATION OPEN UNTIL 5PM NOV 4
NEW LOCATION OPENS 8AM NOV 5!!!

I turned my head around. Did they mean that new building, literally kitty-corner across the street? Apparently so. It looks like it's going right next to the Mark's Work Wearhouse (which used to be one block north) and the new Canadian Tire (which used to be three blocks north).

I've mentioned the CanTire before, and it bugs me an order of magnitude more in Wal-Mart's case. Sure, they want a bigger building, and apparently renovation isn't possible any more. (It must have something to do with cheap, open design constrained to a single floor, which already takes up every permissible square metre the city allows.) So, they build a new one.

But if this old Wal-Mart is so small... then how come it's far too big for any other building to occupy? Congratulations, progress. You've invented the disposable warehouse. I'm a little bitter about that... but! I can write about it! In fact, the more I think about it, the better it sounds. It's a story about a bunch of people traveling to Nunavut, but why? Sure, they could probably find work there in construction, or as a government employee, but one of those things I can't write about, and the other one I shouldn't.

Ah, but Wal-Mart. Did you know that Nunavut is the only district in North America without a Wal-Mart? Might they be interested enough to send a marketing team up there? Might that marketing team be chosen from locations across Canada? And what better way to learn about one's national identity that by doing a report on it, deliverable to one of the biggest multi-national corporations in the world?

The only downside to this idea is the fact that I'll have to make sure this doesn't become a 200-page polemic. However, I've certainly got my ideas now -- and I know what this novel is about. (And the title, Qallunaaq ("outsider"), applies just as well, if not better.)

Fifty-six minutes to go.

I think I'm ready.

Writing:my brain :: potato chips:my backseat.

Wow. Three nights to go until NaNoWriMo, and I don't know what I'm writing yet.

I mean, I know the story: twelve chapters, each one about a person from a different province or territory, and they all visit Nunavut for their own reasons.

I've done the research: not as much as I'd like, obviously, but enough to be sure that this is what I want to write about.

I've developed the characters: some are named after video games, some are named after cities, some are named after my dreams, and one of them is named Tim.

But I still don't know what my novel is about. I haven't had that rush of insight that says, "Yes! This is what I want to say to the world, and the world needs to hear it!"

Mind you, this is nothing new. This happens every year, and that rush always comes at a different time. One year, it didn't come until the twenty-third of November. Another year, it came that July. There's a change that this year, it came in Pond Inlet. You might say that that's a place, not a time. Honestly, I'm not sure if either of those descriptions apply to my experience there. If I can put it in words, I guess I'll have my insight.

But I won't find that insight, if I don't try to put it into words. And that, as always, is what NaNoWriMo is all about.

And, in other news, a bell pepper rolled out of my grocery bag onto the floor of my car at a red light this evening. It took me ten minutes of searching to find it, and I came out with an extra bag of potato chips. (All Dressed, in case you're wondering.)

The scary part is, I wasn't planning for my car to get any cleaner before December...

My apologies to the car pool.

The Long November.

Four weeks of laundry -- check.
Four weeks of clutter -- check.
Two weeks of dishes -- check.
Two weeks of take-out meals when the dishes ran out -- check.
Four weeks of unpaid bills -- check. (is in the mail.)
Three nights with more than ten hours of sleep -- check.
One apology to supervisor for lost productivity -- check.
Resume regular blogging activity -- check!

All right. It took me a week, but it looks like I've successfully recovered from another wonderful NaNoWriMo November. It was a wonderful month, when long-forgotten plot points seem to resurface at just the right time to almost look intentional, and when characters launch into rants and observations that manage to crystallise what you've been thinking about for weeks. It's also a time when I get to write about a giant monster walking over a strip mall, its roof supporting the behemoth's weight as well as a thick crust of snow would, before it finally gives way. The ending may have been a tad videogamey (hit the weak point for massive damage, etc.), but so long as I didn't have to involve more giant monsters, nuclear drill bits, the power of love, or "oxygen destroyers", I think I held my weight against the originals. If anyone wants to read a copy, send me a message, and let me know whether you'd prefer the rough draft with all its blemishes, or if you'd rather wait for a slightly edited (i.e. half as lengthy) version.

I've been doing NaNoWriMo for five years now, and it's incredible how much of a social event it's become. For instance, check my Facebook profile, and you'll see a video of me at the Edmonton wrap-up party, phonetically reciting a typographical slaughterhouse. The audience is in stitches, but it's not because they're laughing "at", or even "with" the excerpt. Each and every one of those authors is laughing with each other. Who would have guessed that Edmonton would mean more to me now than it did when I lived there?

It got me thinking, though, that I haven't visited Regina since April. So, I threw out an e-mail, asking who was going to be in town next weekend. One response I got said, "Why, are you coming home for a visit?"

Note the wording there. You can hang your hat wherever you wish... but when your friends tell you you're home, you're home.

And if that wasn't proof enough, I got another response asking me if I wanted to join in on a 2nd edition AD&D campaign that weekend. Let us not squabble over the merit of such an offer -- the fact that such an invitation was even made is proof enough that a piece of me will always be stuck in a snowdrift on Grant Road.

It's going to be a grand December.

A stunning revelation.

All right, my subconscious and I usually get along pretty well. I trust him, and he's honest with me. We don't talk much, but we know the other's routine well enough to compensate for it. We're like roommates that communicate only through notes on the fridge:

"Aqua: Really appreciated that impulse purchase yesterday. It's a great shirt. Thanks! -Denton"

"Dent: Glad you liked it! I'll be out hunting story ideas for a day or two -- let me know what you thought of "Stardust" when I get back. -Aquadeo"

(So what if I named my subconscious after my Internet handle? I had to name it something, and "LukeDuke76" was taken.)

Anyway, I think I might have to have a man-to-superman discussion with Aquadeo tonight. And it's not because he keeps eating my breakfast cereal. You see, my November novel is about the adventures of some wayward ghosts, lost in their city. With no residence, and no possessions, all they can do is wander the streets, trying to focus on a small area that they can become familiar with, so that at least they've got a semblance of home. They're told by another ghost of a great being, "The Caretaker", which will come for them, and take them on to their intended destination in the afterlife.

However, when the Caretaker does appear... well, this is where I wanted to put in a Godzilla attack. Of course, a giant radioactive lizard might violate some copyrights, so I designed my own monster. I call him Nodrog. Nodrog is what you'd get if an 19th century foundry became possessed, and started absorbing all the mud and brick and asphalt around it to grow arms and legs. It picks up a layer of pavement with every step. It has smokestacks jutting out of its back like spines, acting as exhaust pipes. On its face, under two glowing yellow eyes, is a nigh-immobile weld of rebar and plate, frozen in a toothy grin. Its real mouth, however, is in the center of its chest, huge, gaping, and all-consuming.

Now, it may be a monster, but it's still the Caretaker. Therefore, it absorbs ghosts into itself when they come too close, and those ghosts forever lose their individuality, sucked up into the Caretaker's collectiveness.

Now, I was having a fun time writing my novel up until today... but now, I've got the Caretaker lose in the city, chasing these ghosts through the city streets, eating and destroying everything it passes along the way.

Have you noticed the problem yet?

I'M WRITING A PAC-MAN FANFICTION.

What have I done? How did this happen? And how long had Aquadeo known, and simply decided not to tell me? Believe you me, I would have preferred finding this out before I'd written 40,000 words. Ugh.

Now, don't get me wrong -- I still like the novel, I'm still having fun, and I'm still going to finish it. On the other hand, this is going to take a lot more editing than I initially thought.

Stranger than fiction.

*Yawn*... wow. I'm not sure how I broke 22,000 words in my first week, and I'm not sure if I'll ever do it again, but that was a magical weekend (followed by a Monday of catatonia). During my absence, the Flaming Disasters recorded their third consecutive loss, thanks (in part) to the fact that only one team member showed up to play. But she played anyway, and shouldered the loss entirely by herself. I don't know if I've ever had an odder reason to be proud of someone.

In other news, my supernatural-parasite novel is now a full-blown "giant rock monster from outer space stomping all over Vancouver" novel. And yet, I've got characters in it who explore the idea of how one's self-evaluation and self-awareness affect their perception of the world around them. Mind you, I *still* have no idea how you can defeat a giant rock monster through heightened self-awareness, but I hope to figure it out soon.

Finally! I'm pleased to announce that my NaNoWriMo region (Alberta::Elsewhere) now has its very own mascots! Ladies and Gentlemen, please say hello to Tyrrell and Rosie... the WRIMOSAURS!





Bear in mind, my friends, that I'm 31 years old, and in order to take these photos, I had a tea party with a pair of stuffed animals inside a busy Starbucks.

Somehow, I never run out of odd reasons to be proud of myself.

Subjects and Objects.

Driving through the city yesterday, I saw a sign for one of the season's last garage sales, gamely trying to drum up an audience before the frost. It looked like this:

GOT BABY'S
NEED STUFF
1236 ROSS
Tot's Clothes+More

You see, this is why I like NaNoWriMo. It holds on to that crazy idea that maybe, just maybe, people would treat words with more respect if they used them more often.

On the other hand, I couldn't help but smile when I drove past the sign, and saw their aborted first attempt on the other side:



Yes. You go, baby.

Can't Stomp The Signal.

That's the working title, anyway. It'll make more sense once I explain just what's going on in this year's novel. Behold, then, the master document which describe's this month's efforts, in full.

It all started out with a decision to combine Godzilla-style monsters with "The Secret of NIMH". The connection between super-radioactive lizards and super-intelligent rats is the idea that there are all these little things living inside the giant monster, controlling its actions, the same way a parasite can influence the behaviour of its host. Then, I realised that although "Watership Down" isn't nearly as creepy as NIMH, it's a far better book about life in an animal colony.

The next revelation was about the Godzilla mythology: According to the latest movies, Godzilla is actually the fusion of all the souls of those killed in war by the nation of Japan. Hence, the insatiable desire to destroy Tokyo. It's a bizarre concept, but it provided an important idea: what if this story was about a colony of ghosts, rather than super-intelligent rats?

Then, I shifted the story to a different section of the parasitic life cycle. A deer is infected by a tapeworm, it's eaten by a wolf, the tapeworm then matures and mates inside the wolf. Parasite eggs end up in wolf droppings on the grass, which are eventually eaten by deer. Godzilla (the wolf) might be cooler, but the reader can identify with Tokyo (the deer).

So how do the ghosts affect the monster's, and the city's behaviour? And why? Answering the second part is easy -- like in the movie's theory, the ghosts get absorbed into the giant monster. He's their gateway to the afterlife. The first part is trickier, but I finally settled on this: the electromagnetic spectrum. Easy for a giant monster to detect from a distance, and a good yardstick for the development of a city.

In other words, the more the city communicates (radio, TV, cellphones, Internet), the likelier it is to attract the great beast from the depths. Thus, you have ghosts haunting people and places (which is bad), trying to get them to communicate more (which is good), in order to destroy the city -- which is bad for the city, good for the ghosts, and most of the ghosts don't even realise what's going to happen. Hopefully, there are enough different motivations and perspectives in that setup to keep things interesting.

There you have it: my novel in a big, ugly nutshell. Still no characters, still no plot. There are lots of things I haven't considered in the slightest, which is just how it should be for NaNoWriMo. And now you know exactly what I'll be blathering about for the next forty days and nights.

By the way -- if anyone has a better idea for the title than a "Firefly/Serenity" reference, let me know, okay? Thanks!

That rancid stench of ink... I'd know it anywhere.

November is drawing near, and you all know what that means: National Novel Writing Month! Yes, once again I'm going to pollute this blog with the effluence of my consciousness. Say goodbye to my thoughtful observations, and say hello to Denton's stream of consciousness. It's going to be wild, frenetic, and slightly unnerving, and all of you lucky people are going to get dragged along for the ride. For instance, I've discovered a way to put a hairball the size of a shrub into my novel, only to throw the idea away twenty seconds later. (In case you're wondering, it would be a garbage truck that got bitten by a werewolf, and no, that's not making it into the final draft, although it's inspired me to write a small subplot about garbage collectors.)

If you'd like to give it a whirl, there's still plenty of time! Just sign up with www.nanowrimo.org by November 1st. You don't need a backstory, you don't need a main character, and you don't need a plot. You just need to have faith that you can come up with something and run with it. Even if it starts poorly, thirty days of writing will mean that by the end, your writing will be considerably more polished. The trick is that most people won't write for thirty days unless they have a deadline of some sort. Thus, NaNoWriMo addresses both concerns at once. You see? A win-win situation. Go on, sign up so that I have a few more friends that can share the experience. It'll be fun.

(And let me be slightly less subtle for a moment: If I've been a guest at your wedding, then I'm challenging you personally. Come on, you can do it... I've read your e-mails, and we both know that you could write ten novels out of what happened in Howorko's basement.)

Wish you were here.

Well, I'm writing this from the main lobby of the Novotel Ottawa. Nice place -- right between the waterfront market and Parliament Hill. And much nicer beds than the U of O, to boot.

So far, the trip to Ottawa's been great -- I got to meet with some Ottawa novelists last night at a local Denny's. Ah, Denny's... preferred choice of both the poor and the cheap, the undemanding and the tolerant. No wonder it's the de facto meeting place for writers everywhere. A great meeting, though -- it's wonderful how much a room full of strangers can have in common.

And, of course, I got to meet some old friends. The odd highlight that evening was watching one of them insist on preparing a cheese fondue in a shirt and tie, because his wife said it looked hot.

The really odd part is that it wasn't Al.

Government training tomorrow! Tune in next evening for all the gory details of bureaucracy unleashed!

The Sweet Spot.

And that does it. Another month, another novel. (Which, once again, you can read for yourself if you ask.)

One of the great sensations of writing a large work in a small deadline is the fact that no, you can't plan out 50,000 words in advance. You're going to have to make it up as you go along. Usually, that means that you start including conversations you hear at work, or you bang your head against the keyboard until you finally get an idea.

This month, though, just once, it came to me in mid-sentence.

Um, spoilers, I guess...

I had already planned out that "Chubby the Checker" was going to be this schmope named Justin. I'd introduced him beforehand, and made him a blabbermouth, to make it seem less likely that he'd be a silent mascot. Then, during the big confrontation scene, our heroes find him at home alone. I thought that I'd given him a nicer place than a single guy on a WHL salary deserves, so I mentioned that his wife wasn't at home. Then, he starts blabbering again, and I realise that I've created a character that's too unbelievable. Not only that, he's not even entertaining. An excellent source of wordcount, but not entertaining. One of my main characters shared my cynicism, and he actually mocked this spineless sap, saying, "Look, you are "Chubby", right? It's not your wife or anything?"

...and as I typed those words, I realised he wasn't joking. "Chubby" was indeed Justin's wife. She was the dominant type, exerting her decisions onto her hapless hubby, just like she exerted her energies on an entire audience. Boom. Just like that, I had a small twist, a new (and stronger) character, and a believable relationship for her background.

That moment right there, when my subconcious wakes up and says hello? That's one of the best feelings in writing, and it's why I'm signing up for NaNoWriMo next year.

Well, that and the dream of publication.

I really should re-learn FTP for this.

Okay, I've slept, eaten, gotten my Rayman fix... I'm back.

Woooo! Finished the novel! A complete 50,300 word work of fiction, completed in 26 days... and I'm feeling great! It's not my most ambitious novel, but I think that helped me keep my focus. Sure, a few chapters are nothing but wordcount filler, and it's not nearly as funny as it should be, but I think it holds together.

So, if you want to give it a read, send an e-mail to denton (à) seekingfire.com, and you'll get your copy. If you do, though, remember that you're under no obligation to:

1. Start reading it.
2. Finish reading it.
3. Like it.
4. Tell me you like it.
5. Tell me what you don't like about it.
6. Admit you read it.

I hope you enjoy it, though.

And, now that I'm done with that book, it's time to finish last year's! Just one chapter to go... but first, I've got 26 days' worth of dishes and laundry that need to be dealt with.

Tomorrow.

(Ah, it's good to be back in the old routine.)

What the poets are saying.

All right. 31321 words at the end of a long night, but I'm ahead of schedule, and feeling good about it. Even more importantly, I've worked in the traditional Tragically Hip lyric into the dialogue. Included in the following is an excerpt from the title (and closing) track of their latest, World Container.

Sorry about the philosophical pretentiousness, but that sort of stuff comes easy when you're just trying to make words appear.

"So, those are comedians. But you said all actors show that mirror to the audience. What of those others?"

"Excellent question, Blinky. Say -- you don't mind if I call you Blinky, do you? As a clown name?"

Blinky drew himself up in his chair, heady with the idea of having been indoctrinated into the ranks of Named Clowns.

"All right, then. So,the question was, what about other actors? In other words, the other half. Comedy has been paired with Tragedy, now known as Drama, ever since the invention of the theatre. When Drama holds up that mirror, people identify with it, and they see themselves, yes. But they see the past. Drama is too intense in portraying unfamiliar emotions, and too successful in recalling familiar ones. Of course, the good dramatists can pull out any sort of particular memory -- say, the loss of childhood -- and apply it to a foreign concept, like abandoning a mountain climber as you scale a summit. Still, it's all a matter of working with the audiences' past."

Alton tapped his chin for a second, and finally hit upon the right thing to say. "Comedy is all about the here and now. We show the blunt, direct, unavoidable face of the world as it currently is, complete with the progression of all our flaws, and we force it into people's faces. Drama takes you down to those touchless times... and what we have there are all the flaws in progress, where all songs are one song, and that song is "Don't Forget"."

Upon hearing this, Gordon finally gave up his resistance, and smiled. "You know, I'm still not sure if you really know all that much. But you've got a nice way of saying it."

Alton took a slight bow.