"Marita/Please find me/I am almost 30"

Still shot from NFB documentary "Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Leonard Cohen", available here.

Still shot from NFB documentary "Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Leonard Cohen", available here.

In less than two weeks, I will be 30 years old. And I actually have no problem with that.
I've always liked the way the number 30 looks. I've heard from friends that turning 30 can be clarifying. Plus, I can play the 'Listen punk, I'm 30' card when relaying life advice to my younger friends. 

There's something appealing about setting sail from the things you did when you were 20.
They officially belong to a different era. For worse, yes, but mainly for better.

So for the record: it's not me that has a problem with turning 30. It's the rest of the world, apparently. I recently read a fashion blog listing what women should "stop wearing after turning 30". Apparently graphic tees, oversized sunglasses, non-matching socks, tube tops, old sneakers, and cheap bras are reserved for the spring chickens. Basically, they want Golden Girls like me to empty out their closet and walk around naked. (Scratch that, because people older than 30 should never ever be naked.) My response to this article was the same response I have whenever someone feels they have a right/obligation to police how women choose to present themselves in the world: EFF THAT, GO WALK OFF A CLIFF, ETC., ETC.

Reading that list made me realize for the first time that other people are going to have expectations for me that are different than they have been for the last 10 years. I think I've largely coasted on the cultural 'cuteness' of being in my 20s. Turning 30 means I'm going to get nagged more about having babies (which is not in my plan), and where my work is "going". I'm not going to be treated like someone who has infinite time to explore and tread new paths. 

I wonder if I'll start to be influenced by the expectations of those around me? For example, will I feel slightly less awesome when I walk to the corner store to buy candy in my neon leopard-print pyjama pants? Well, I simply can't see that happening.

I first heard the story of Leonard Cohen's poem Marita when I was clearly too twenty-something to be rattled by its significance. How many 29ers spend the last few months of their 20s, wishing for a Marita to come along and save them from their inevitable aging? The story goes that he wrote it on the wall of Le Bistro on Rue de la Montagne (pictured above), a place he described as "an irresponsible sanctuary - you aren't sure whether the hounds are waiting inside, or whether you've just left them". 

So who is this Marita, and can she help an almost-30-something like me? According to a Toronto Star article, when asked, Cohen wrote "the poem on the wall of a Montreal bistro, after unsuccessfully trying to pick up one Marita La Fleche, an older woman who patted him on the head and said, "Go on your way, young man, and come back when you're 30."

Well played, Marita.  
May I be half as wise and even a fraction as crushing as I run (headfirst and blindfolded) into my 30s.

 

 

Mad Men's Matthew Weiner: "Why don't you wait and see what they find on their own?"

I read a great interview with Mad Men writer-producer Matthew Weiner (he eschews the term 'showrunner'). While lots of his responses tickled me as a fan, what stuck with me as a writer was this little nugget: 

"You work on a script or story for three months and then you hand it to somebody and they have 24 hours with it, and you're like, "Why don't they get it?" Well, guess what! A) You might not have achieved what you want to do in terms of clarity, and B) Why don't you wait and see what they find on their own?"

A) is a reality I'm All Too Familiar With and already spend enough time whingeing about, so I was most interested in his take on B). Weiner goes on to share a recent example (which I won't for spoiler reasons). But in short, the way the actors interpreted a scene was different than how he'd intended for it to be performed. And it became more "real" (his words). So even Weiner— who has created characters so layered and full-feeling that they've become archetypes in our culture, and who knows his characters so intimately— still doesn't always know what a scene or storyline is really about until he hands it off to someone else.

Sending one's work out for editing/interpretation is equal parts thrilling and nauseating. I don't know about you, but each time I hit 'send', this little voice (which, FYI, sounds an awful lot like Marcel the Shell with Shoes On) pipes up from the dead centre of my gut and says: "My gosh, I hope they pick up what I've put down there." But lately, I've noticed a follow up exclamation, where the emphasis is taken off of me entirely, and instead the little voice says, "I wonder what they'll see that I can't see yet." 

Art and activism: the two animals who live inside me.

I live with two adorable, hungry animals inside me.
Let's say they're lions.
Actually, let's say they're goats.
Let's say they're as adorable and rambunctious as Jollygood and Sunshine (pictured below).

So yeah, there are two goats inside me.

The first goat is an artist, who, for as long as she can remember, has wanted to tell stories. Stories that are true. Stories that make a person say, "that’s just what I’ve always felt, but you said it clearly". She likes the way her favourite artists make readers lean in and touch foreheads with the rest of humanity by using humour+heart as a connective force. She wants to try to do the same.

Photo credit: Sunshine and Jollygood, two sweetpeas enjoying their lovely life at Piebird Farm Sanctuary.

Photo credit: Sunshine and Jollygood, two sweetpeas enjoying their lovely life at Piebird Farm Sanctuary.

The second goat is an activist, who, for as long as she can remember, has wanted to suck less and help other people suck less too. Especially when it comes to the treatment of other animals. She wants to tell their stories, so people say, "I had no idea animals had it this bad. I don't want to contribute to that mess anymore." She respects the way her favourite activists have so fully dedicated their lives to their important causes. She wants to try to do the same.

But there are only so many hours in a day. And there's only so much "forage" (energy) to be chowed down on. Some days it seems like you can only be really good at taking care of one goat. So only one goat gets access to the most delectable pasture. Sometimes for weeks. But it always feels like cruelty to deny the one goat, and let the other feast. It feels especially bad to let the activist goat go hungry. After all, artist goat is just telling silly stories. Are stories going to fix all that's been so broken?

When I go into these guilt swings about the activist goat being fed too little, I go to extreme places. For years, I ignored artist goat entirely. Artist goat survived entirely on the nourishment of enjoying other people's art. She created almost nothing herself.

Don't let my goat metaphor confuse you about the seriousness of this issue for me. First off, I love goats. I couldn't be more serious about my love of them or using them in metaphors or one day living with a bunch of them piled on top of me. Secondly, of all the identity-based dilemmas I face, this truly is the largest one. I want for both goats to thrive, to be happy, to skip around, and to meet their goals. I even want them to be pals (like Jollygood and Sunshine), or to at least respect the importance of what the other is doing. And I know there are artists out there with their inner goats living in perfect harmony. But endless discussions with J. had brought me only a thimble-sized amount of peace in my own balancing act. Until a few days ago, when he texted me the following:

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."

The quote is attributed to Howard Thurman, an author, philosopher and civil rights leader.

When I read it, all my bones shook. It was exactly what I'd needed: permission. To go in directions that make me feel alive. It's about nourishing each goat with the things that make them feel the most alive. By focusing on the feelings, instead of the output, I believe this is how any person with two goats living inside them finds balance. (And come to think of it, how any artist or activist avoids burn out.)

The quote also gave me another gift. It licked shut the envelope on saying 'Yes' to the forms of activism that drain me. Because Thurman's words made me realize this: it is coming alive that moves people. It is offering up authenticity that leaves people changed. I have permission to say "H to the ELL no" to the approaches/people/spaces that tire me. And "SHIT YEAH!" to the work that makes me buzz with energy.

In other words: I feel now like both my goats will be better nourished. 
They'll feel freer to frolic and be the best goats they can be (in a non-military goat way of course). 
Hopefully just like Jollygood and Sunshine.

I just have to let each goat go in the direction that makes her feel the most alive.

Typos: "When your baby dies, it is worth nothing..."

The inimitable Jill Margo's recent Mini-Mag issue was focused on typos. 

I have a love/hate relationship with typos. I hate them because they are tiny, disguised reminders of the fallibility of human beings. How often have you proofread something (whether it's an email or a story draft), sent it off to someone, and then realized you wrote 'you're' instead of 'your'?

And then you get that hotflash in your armpits and the panic sweats commence, because you need that person to know that you know the difference between 'you're' and 'your'. That it was a silly mistake, that it means nothing. But are you supposed to send a follow-up communique just to state that? Are you supposed to write "OOPS! I meant *your, not 'you're'. Durrrrr." Isn't making a big deal of it letting your Poor Spelling Skills slip show?

But there's also the love part of my relationship with typos. I tweeted a few weeks back that of all the typos in all the towns in all the world, my favourite one is when you write: "it is worth nothing that" instead of "it is worth noting that". I love how absolutely, colossally opposite of your intention it is. It's a big ol' slap in the face from your computer. It's your computer saying, "I OWN YOU, ASSHOLE!" Writer Chris Kuriata responded to my tweet saying 'My worst typo? Trying to type to a friend, "When your baby does" but actually typing, "When your baby dies"'. 

I like to imagine that in some alternate universe, where typos are allowed to run free, somewhere, one was just sent that begins: "When your baby dies, it is worth nothing that..."

Are you a swooper or a basher?

We were having dinner with a couple friends a few weeks ago and my pal Andrew was asking about a chapter I'd just finished writing for a forthcoming textbook. 

"So are you a swooper, or a basher?" he asked me.
"Say what?" I said.
"Vonnegut had this thing about how there are two kinds of writers: swoopers or bashers," he said.

Having never heard this before, I glumly handed Andrew my Vonnegut Fan Club membership card. He was kind enough not to cut it up in front of me.

So according to Vonnegut, writers were either swoopers or bashers. 

Swoopers "write a story quickly, higgledy-piggledy, crinkum-crankum, any which way. Then they go over it again painstakingly, fixing everything that is just plain awful or doesn't work."

Bashers "go one sentence at a time, getting it exactly right before they go on to the next one. When they're done they're done."

Vonnegut himself claimed to have been a basher. He had some weird gendered beliefs about it too, arguing that most men are bashers and most women are swoopers. While I'm not into generalizing based on gender, I do personally fall into the swooper camp. Hard.

My first drafts are messy and cluttered, and full of placeholders for things that I hope will bloom later. I think of them as seeds I drop throughout the story, with the strong suspicion that they'll eventually germinate and bloom. Sometimes into flowers, sometimes into weeds which need pulling.

My partner J. is a basher. It makes for a sitcom-esque experience when we collaborate on things. Because he wants to get it just right. Which is admirable. But I just want to get it, period. Like Elizabeth Gilbert, I hail from the world of "Done is better than good". At least when I'm working with newborn stories. To expect perfection (or completion) with each individual sentence paralyzes me with fear. I'd never start.

Letting everything escape out of me and onto the page without judgment or pressure or expectation is the only way I can write and still like myself after.

I will admit: it would be thrilling to write in a way that you instantly knew when the story was over. I tend to feel like my stories are never 'finished', so much as they slip away and escape. 

What about you, dear reader? Are you a swooper? A basher?

Marina Dempsey's on the case!

They're filming something in our neighbourhood. We drove past all the crew trucks on our way home from walking the dogs. 

"I wonder what it is," J. said.
"I'll look into it when we get home," I said. "It's easy to find out."
"So Marina Dempsey's on the case then?" he said.

When I was 8, I created my first story series. Marina Dempsey: Pet Detective. (Yes, I was more than a little influenced by Jim Carrey). Marina was a tough, sassy third-grader with a knack for locating purloined pooches.

Thanks to my ultra-Italian mother — for whom clutterlessness is actually closer to Godliness than just plain ol' cleanliness — at some point the Con-tact covered polkadot binder that held all the stories, the character sketches, and the notes for future stories, went missing.

It was never recovered. It's something my Mom feels bad about to this day.

But I told J. the story of Marina Dempsey, and whenever my Sherlockian slip is showing, he reminds me of this little person I created, who he sees in me even today. In this way, it's as though Marina did get read by someone, and the little 8-year-old in me always feels a wee bit chuffed. 

My idea of heaven? Spending time in Neil Smith's idea of heaven

I just read this early review of Neil Smith's highly anticipated novel, Boo.

I don't believe in heaven, but oh Mylanta — if it does exist, please let it be full of 13-year-olds, and built by the big-hearted imagination of a treasure like Smith.

Fun fact: Smith is the judge for Sarah Selecky's Little Bird Contest this year! And he's sharing all kinds of inspiration for entrants on his FB page.

My online cotillion and thoughts on professional sassing...

It's a weird thing to be building an online presence for yourself. It's like an extended opportunity to make a good (or extra bad) first impression. And because I'm a bit of a perfectionist (on the Friends spectrum, I'm about as 'Monica' as they come) I've bumped up against the usual barrage of self-critiques when making the tiniest of decisions. Is this pink too pink? Am I unconsciously infantilizing myself? Is that picture too showy or not showy enough? Is this bio wholly representative of the very essence of me? Am I trying too hard? Or trying to not try too hard, too much?

I'd say it's a lot like a first date, but I don't really know how those go because all my first dates tended to roll right over into second dates (breakfast) and third dates (lunch), and then relationships, and marriage proposals and Viking River Cruises. You know how it goes. 

Rather, I imagine this is the way rich girls feel picking out a dress for their cotillion balls, only with more PNG resizing and looking up if 'ubertalented' needs a hyphen, and less crying because your wild-card Dad got laid out by a business client, and now the whole fucking evening is ruined. YES I WATCHED THE O.C. WANNA MAKE SOMETHING OF IT?

In truth, I'm staking a claim on this little piece of virtual earth because I want a home-base, where I can get excited about stuff, share work with people who may be interested, and be opinionated in a way that's more respected (Insider's Tip: people accept more sass from you if you have your own URL, because then you are a professional, who by giving Squarespace money, now has an inalienable right to manufacture cheekiness.)

You can expect those kinds of insights and oh-so-much-more if you come on this journey with me. I'm even saving you a seat.

Yours,
Shannon