Averil Dean's Blog, page 12

Needle (Needful)

Do you laugh when someone asks if you’re enjoying all this? Do you offer the weary smile of the knowing? Do you become earnest, try to explain that it’s work. Mime the act of hair pulling, zombie typing, an invisible noose jerking at your neck? Oh, the agony of seeing your characters float above the landscape because you don’t know where to set them, or how to introduce them to each other (Gwyn, meet Dermot, he’s going to fuck you over in chapter 33), and can’t seem to winkle out their opinio...

Smooch

I’m in love with people this week. It’s been a rough patch for me and for someone I care about, but everywhere we turn there has been compassion and help and the plain, unvarnished kindness of strangers. We forget about that sometimes. We get caught up in the news of the world, the racism and violence, and overlook the plain human truth that most people, given the smallest chance, will rise to the occasion and be kind. They’re just waiting for an opening.

Here’s yours:

Do one kind thing for a s...

Broomstick and Buckets

I used to hide my work. All my notebooks, my pink and yellow post-its, the cryptic phrases I’d jotted on the back of receipts or torn envelopes. It all was so precious to me and so imperfect, which shamed me in some way, as though I could only call myself a writer if the words sprung brilliant and fully formed from my head, as if grappling were not part of writing except as an exercise for the poorest members of the tribe. I had this notion that writing involved leather-bound journals and fou...

Fancy

Here’s what happens: I have a good idea for a book and start to write it. Then I read someone else’s (better) book and think, Hmm… This story has some interesting elements, maybe something similar could work for mine. And so like a magpie I add this or that idea to the scrapalanche, this or that type of character or voice or structure or tense, and I put them all in an enormous idea-pile until whatever nugget I began with is buried in miscellany.

Steampunk art by Santiago Caruso

Which is where...

Stew

It’s time, I think, to go back to my previously sporadic posting schedule. The danger of not-writing has passed. True, I had planned to blog every day for a year, but what are goals anyway except as a means to an end? The end in this case being books, of course.

So here we are on a Thursday morning, and even with a few days between the last post and this one, I don’t have much to report. I’ve been writing, working, eating peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwiches. The other day I made pasta with an...

No Mas

At the office last Friday, I was talking to a patient about our artwork: her painting, my writing. She used to paint tote bags and sell them at the farmers market. It was hard work, she said, because so many people would walk past, shaking their heads, saying they have plenty of tote bags and don’t need another. Other times she’d sell one and realize afterward that it had been her favorite; it saddened her to lose the art she had made. That’s interesting to me, because as writers we don’t eve...

Small Death

It’s been an odd week and I’m in an odd mood, with too many things going on to get anything done at all. I’m going to try to pull myself together this weekend and at least make some progress on my endorsement request letters. (So, SO awkward to ask a stranger to read your book—can I get a hell yeah?)

I have managed to make some decisions about the new project and I’m plunging ahead. I’ve been back at the café and the Tofu Hut before work, carving out a quiet hour or two every day to slam down...

Take Me to Church

My lover’s got humour

She’s the giggle at a funeral

Knows everybody’s disapproval

I should’ve worshiped her sooner

If the Heavens ever did speak

She is the last true mouthpiece

Every Sunday’s getting more bleak

A fresh poison each week

‘We were born sick,’ you heard them say it

My church offers no absolution

She tells me, ‘Worship in the bedroom’

The only heaven I’ll be sent to

Is when I’m alone with you

I was born sick,

But I love it

Command me to be well

Amen. Amen. Amen

[Chorus 2x:]

Take me to church

I’ll wo...

Look Ma, No Hands

I have no words of my own to share this week. Maybe I’m in intake mode, maybe I just need to rattle around in my own headspace for a while. I’ve tried several times to formulate a question around this guy’s message, but you know how it is. Sometimes the topic is too big, the questions too intrusive, the brain too addled to make sense of it all. So tonight I’ll let the video speak for itself.

(I love you guys. Have I told you that lately?)

Gin at 7:07

This is what I’m thinking about today. Money, wealth distribution, and the death spiral of a capitalist economy.

“I may earn a thousand times the median wage, but I don’t sleep on a thousand pillows.” – Nick Hanauer

Any ideas how we fix the mess we’re in? Also, is it too early for gin?