I have been meme'd for the very first time ever!!! When Lane said she'd meme'd me, I didn't have a bloody clue what it meant, being new to this blogging business. I only hoped it didn't hurt. Then I read her blog and Jen at work enlightened me. I have to say it's all very exciting. Just thinking that someone wants my opinion on something gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling. Of course she might just have been desperate for a fifth person, but I'm choosing to believe the former. Anyway, enough of the pleasantries. Here goes:
Total number of books: A few hundred. If I didn't live in a matchbox there would be walls of bookshelves, but space is an issue. There isn't a room in my apartment without reading material.
Last book read: Currently reading Fame Fatale, a feisty little romp by Wendy Holden.
Last book bought: Bright Lights, Big Ass, by Jen Lancaster. I laughed so hard I think I might have peed a little. (Too much information?)
Five meaningful books: It's sad really but I'm just not that deep, however I'll give it a whack anyway.
Anything by Dr. Seuss. Loved him as a child, love him still. I think he has somehow shaped the life and imagination of any child who has read him.
The Great Gatsby by Fitzgerald. Read it initially in high school. It has everything you could ever want in a novel and it is so beautifully crafted. It made me realise how effortless writing can seem.
Oliver Twist by Dickens. Saw the musical film first as a child and developed a huge crush on the character, or maybe developed a huge crush on Mark Lester who played Oliver. Then years later I read it and loved every word of it.
The Reader by Bernard Schlink. It's a story about the nature of love and whether or not love can survive the unfathomable. Very provocative.
The Other Side of the Story by Marion Keyes. It's just a good, funny story, but it focuses on the publishing industry from three different perspectives, so it was meaningful for me. A good laugh is always meaningful for me.
So, there you have it. Now, in the tradition of the meme, I'm supposed to tag five more victims...er, enthusiastic, willing participants. I would like to hear what Travis Erwin, Sarah G, Terrie Farley Moran, Juliette M and KeVin K have to say about this.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
A little service, please.
Let me say at the outset that I do not profess to be an expert on customer service. I am much better at it now than I was at seventeen, when the manager (and by manager I mean pimply-faced youth on a power trip with a mere three months more seniority than me) at a major McFood chain hauled me into the office to give me McShit, made me sign my file and suspended me for a week for not smiling at a customer. (May my nipples fall off if I'm making this up.) I lost a week's salary and a substantial chunk of my teenage dignity for not smiling at one jackass customer with nothing better to do with his Saturday afternoon than complain about the poor little girl at the counter just trying to make enough money to buy a pair of Nike All-Courts with the smurf-blue swoosh and a pair of red Lee painter pants. (Stop laughing! They were cool at the time.) You'd think he would have been happy that the burger he ordered without the sauce actually arrived on his tray without the sauce, but I guess that wasn't enough for him. He wanted an effing smile too. Bastard.
So, I've acknowledged that teenagers don't always get customer service bang-on, and that's understandable. Their minds are full of other things like the opposite sex and rock stars and film stars and zit cream and the opposite sex. I get that. But the little twerp who served me, and I use that term very loosely, at the cleaners the other night needs to have his ass fired, or he at least needs to be hauled into the office, given shit, forced to sign his file and suspended for a week.
I didn't go there to drop off or pick up clothing. I'm a firm believer that if it needs to be dry-cleaned or ironed then I don't need to wear it. I went in to see about a part-time job, because when you work in the non-profit sector and you don't have a roommate, you need a second job. I stood at the counter for at least a minute, maybe two, waiting for him to figure out that I was there. A minute doesn't sound like a long time but it is. Stop reading this and time one minute. Go.......See? It's a long time. Finally he came out from behind a door, presumably a washroom or a stockroom door, scratching his arse. And I mean that quite literally.
"Yeah?" he grunted. Not 'Hello, can I help you?' Not 'Hi, how are you?' Not even 'Yes?' Just 'Yeah?', with all the enthusiasm of Lindsay Lohan at a sobriety convention.
"Hi, I understand that you are looking for staff."
"Uh...I think we were? But the boss? Isn't, like, here."
He began to fidget with some invoices on the counter.
"You think you were?"
"Yeah, but we hired someone already. But, uh, maybe we need one more person."
'As soon as they fire your butt, you mean?' was on the tip of my tongue but I pulled it in. I might, after all, have to work with this guy at some point.
"Is there an application form I can fill out?" I said, positioning myself directly in front of him, trying to prompt him to look at me and give me his full attention, such as it was.
"Nope. You have to bring in a resume."
"Okay, to whom should I address the cover letter?"
"The manager."
Mental note to self: Do not slap this child, do not slap this child, do not slap this child...
"Does the manager have a name?" At this point, the bitchy was beginning to creep in but can you blame me?
"Fred." (Name changed to protect the idiots.)
"And Fred's last name?"
Idiot Boy looked at me as if I'd just asked him to mentally calculate pi to forty-six decimal places.
"Does Fred have a last name?" I asked. Slowly.
"Uh, just a minute." He opened the drawer under the till and riffled through the pages of an address book. This could take a while, I thought, since Idiot Boy doesn't know Fred's last name and therefore won't know what alphabetical section to look in first. Sooner than I expected, he said "I think it's Smith." (Name again changed.)
"Okay then. Thank you. I'll bring Fred a resume tomorrow."
"He won't be here tomorrow."
"His day off?"
"Yeah, but I'll be here tomorrow so you can just give it to me."
Not a hope in hell! "When will Fred be here next?"
"Monday, I think."
"Okay, I'll drop it off Monday then."
"Cool," he said, and resumed farting about with the invoices.
Like I said, I was no customer service genius at seventeen but if anyone had come into my McWork and said 'I hear you're looking for staff,' I'm reasonably sure I could have come up with 'I think so but the manager won't be in until Monday. Feel free to drop off a resume to the attention of Fred Smith.' Although there's no guarantee I would have smiled when I said it.
NB - It is not my intention to, in any way, denigrate the McFood chain alluded to in this post. They are splendid and I had some of the best times of my young life working for them. I don't mind denigrating the anonymous McDink who suspended me. You know who you are.
So, I've acknowledged that teenagers don't always get customer service bang-on, and that's understandable. Their minds are full of other things like the opposite sex and rock stars and film stars and zit cream and the opposite sex. I get that. But the little twerp who served me, and I use that term very loosely, at the cleaners the other night needs to have his ass fired, or he at least needs to be hauled into the office, given shit, forced to sign his file and suspended for a week.
I didn't go there to drop off or pick up clothing. I'm a firm believer that if it needs to be dry-cleaned or ironed then I don't need to wear it. I went in to see about a part-time job, because when you work in the non-profit sector and you don't have a roommate, you need a second job. I stood at the counter for at least a minute, maybe two, waiting for him to figure out that I was there. A minute doesn't sound like a long time but it is. Stop reading this and time one minute. Go.......See? It's a long time. Finally he came out from behind a door, presumably a washroom or a stockroom door, scratching his arse. And I mean that quite literally.
"Yeah?" he grunted. Not 'Hello, can I help you?' Not 'Hi, how are you?' Not even 'Yes?' Just 'Yeah?', with all the enthusiasm of Lindsay Lohan at a sobriety convention.
"Hi, I understand that you are looking for staff."
"Uh...I think we were? But the boss? Isn't, like, here."
He began to fidget with some invoices on the counter.
"You think you were?"
"Yeah, but we hired someone already. But, uh, maybe we need one more person."
'As soon as they fire your butt, you mean?' was on the tip of my tongue but I pulled it in. I might, after all, have to work with this guy at some point.
"Is there an application form I can fill out?" I said, positioning myself directly in front of him, trying to prompt him to look at me and give me his full attention, such as it was.
"Nope. You have to bring in a resume."
"Okay, to whom should I address the cover letter?"
"The manager."
Mental note to self: Do not slap this child, do not slap this child, do not slap this child...
"Does the manager have a name?" At this point, the bitchy was beginning to creep in but can you blame me?
"Fred." (Name changed to protect the idiots.)
"And Fred's last name?"
Idiot Boy looked at me as if I'd just asked him to mentally calculate pi to forty-six decimal places.
"Does Fred have a last name?" I asked. Slowly.
"Uh, just a minute." He opened the drawer under the till and riffled through the pages of an address book. This could take a while, I thought, since Idiot Boy doesn't know Fred's last name and therefore won't know what alphabetical section to look in first. Sooner than I expected, he said "I think it's Smith." (Name again changed.)
"Okay then. Thank you. I'll bring Fred a resume tomorrow."
"He won't be here tomorrow."
"His day off?"
"Yeah, but I'll be here tomorrow so you can just give it to me."
Not a hope in hell! "When will Fred be here next?"
"Monday, I think."
"Okay, I'll drop it off Monday then."
"Cool," he said, and resumed farting about with the invoices.
Like I said, I was no customer service genius at seventeen but if anyone had come into my McWork and said 'I hear you're looking for staff,' I'm reasonably sure I could have come up with 'I think so but the manager won't be in until Monday. Feel free to drop off a resume to the attention of Fred Smith.' Although there's no guarantee I would have smiled when I said it.
NB - It is not my intention to, in any way, denigrate the McFood chain alluded to in this post. They are splendid and I had some of the best times of my young life working for them. I don't mind denigrating the anonymous McDink who suspended me. You know who you are.
Monday, September 24, 2007
If they're on sale, buy lots!
So, after the ten-pages-gone-mysteriously-missing fiasco of last week, I felt compelled to restore some semblance of order to my postage stamp-size apartment so that future attempts at locating vitally-important objects are not quite so distressing. Don't get me wrong. It's a lovely, little apartment with a lovely, little sunroom to write in and a lovely, little kitchen, perfect for preparing lovely, little meals. It's just so small that if I don't keep on top of the editing, things can get out of hand very quickly. You would think that the smaller the flat, the lower the chance of losing things because there are only so many places they could be. But let me assure you, it is staggering how much extraneous crap you can cram into a scarcely four hundred square foot space.
Let me emphasize that I am not the kind of slob who doesn't clean for twenty-eight years until Kim and Aggie turn up, rubber-gloved and ready for action, at the door. The regular cleaning gets done, well...regularly. No obvious buildup of thick, brown grot on the stovetop, few, if any, spiders lurking in the corners, no long-dead vermin or wayward hairs in the fridge, no pet by-products ground into the carpet and left to petrify. I would not be mortified if company were to show up unannounced. I am not sure, however, whether I'd be comfortable with them rifling through my linen cupboard.
I started with the front hall closet. How hard could it be? Take out the coats, footwear and vacuum cleaner, sweep, mop, put everything back. Piss case. Except that I completely forgot that over the past three years I've used the shelves at the top as a catch-all. I found two cans of spray paint that I have never used; can't remember what I bought them for but, clearly, there was a project in the offing at one point. I also came across a bottle of carpentry glue that I used to fix my coffee table. And ruin my couch. (If anyone knows the secret to getting an obscene quantity of wood glue out of upholstery, please post.) There were also many small, tool-type items including my handy-dandy electric screwdriver - the single woman's best friend. Alright, maybe not best friend but certainly in the top five.
I vaguely recall tissues being on sale for the crazy low price of fifty-nine cents a box. I vaguely recall a limit of four boxes per customer. I have no recollection whatsoever of making three trips to the shop to snap them up. If you consider the fact that I keep a box of tissues beside my bed, one in my sunroom, one on the back of the toilet, one on the bookcase next to the couch and one on top of the fridge, you will realise that there are seventeen boxes of tissues in my scarcely four hundred square foot space. Seventeen! Does that seem excessive to anyone else or is it just me? What in the holy and sanctified name of God am I going to do with seventeen boxes of tissues? Two of the opened boxes are printed with bells and snowflakes, which would obviously suggest that I have not managed to get through them since last Christmas. It's nearly October. It will take me roughly four years to use them up. Kids who started ninth grade two weeks ago will graduate high school before I need to buy tissues again. They will have cast, shot and premiered Pirates of the Caribbean VII before I need to buy tissues again. Britney Spears will have been married and divorced two more times before I need to buy tissues again. Interesting, I think, that I just put the last roll of bog paper on the spindle this morning. I can cruise right through seventeen rolls of that stuff in about eight weeks. Must buy some more, though I suppose I could just use tissues, if need be.
My front hall closet is now spotless. The tissue boxes are piled neatly at the back of the top shelf, like a floral cardboard brick wall. The things I use more frequently are stacked in front of them. I've made space so that accessing the coats, footwear and vacuum cleaner is much easier. In a few weeks, when I've recovered from the trauma, I will tackle the linen cupboard where, incidentally, the linens have not been kept for the better part of a year because there is no room for them.
Let me emphasize that I am not the kind of slob who doesn't clean for twenty-eight years until Kim and Aggie turn up, rubber-gloved and ready for action, at the door. The regular cleaning gets done, well...regularly. No obvious buildup of thick, brown grot on the stovetop, few, if any, spiders lurking in the corners, no long-dead vermin or wayward hairs in the fridge, no pet by-products ground into the carpet and left to petrify. I would not be mortified if company were to show up unannounced. I am not sure, however, whether I'd be comfortable with them rifling through my linen cupboard.
I started with the front hall closet. How hard could it be? Take out the coats, footwear and vacuum cleaner, sweep, mop, put everything back. Piss case. Except that I completely forgot that over the past three years I've used the shelves at the top as a catch-all. I found two cans of spray paint that I have never used; can't remember what I bought them for but, clearly, there was a project in the offing at one point. I also came across a bottle of carpentry glue that I used to fix my coffee table. And ruin my couch. (If anyone knows the secret to getting an obscene quantity of wood glue out of upholstery, please post.) There were also many small, tool-type items including my handy-dandy electric screwdriver - the single woman's best friend. Alright, maybe not best friend but certainly in the top five.
I vaguely recall tissues being on sale for the crazy low price of fifty-nine cents a box. I vaguely recall a limit of four boxes per customer. I have no recollection whatsoever of making three trips to the shop to snap them up. If you consider the fact that I keep a box of tissues beside my bed, one in my sunroom, one on the back of the toilet, one on the bookcase next to the couch and one on top of the fridge, you will realise that there are seventeen boxes of tissues in my scarcely four hundred square foot space. Seventeen! Does that seem excessive to anyone else or is it just me? What in the holy and sanctified name of God am I going to do with seventeen boxes of tissues? Two of the opened boxes are printed with bells and snowflakes, which would obviously suggest that I have not managed to get through them since last Christmas. It's nearly October. It will take me roughly four years to use them up. Kids who started ninth grade two weeks ago will graduate high school before I need to buy tissues again. They will have cast, shot and premiered Pirates of the Caribbean VII before I need to buy tissues again. Britney Spears will have been married and divorced two more times before I need to buy tissues again. Interesting, I think, that I just put the last roll of bog paper on the spindle this morning. I can cruise right through seventeen rolls of that stuff in about eight weeks. Must buy some more, though I suppose I could just use tissues, if need be.
My front hall closet is now spotless. The tissue boxes are piled neatly at the back of the top shelf, like a floral cardboard brick wall. The things I use more frequently are stacked in front of them. I've made space so that accessing the coats, footwear and vacuum cleaner is much easier. In a few weeks, when I've recovered from the trauma, I will tackle the linen cupboard where, incidentally, the linens have not been kept for the better part of a year because there is no room for them.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Fall cleaning
I started a story a little over a year ago, but ten pages in I put it aside to work on the Effing Novel From Hell. The idea has wandered into my thoughts a handful of times since I put it away, but I've always managed to simply scrawl one or two brief notes on a post-it or the back of a grocery receipt and banish it to the shoe box of random ideas under the bed until I finish ENFH and can devote my undivided attention to it. That all changed Friday night.
I was watching Sex and the City on DVD - the episode where Big drives out to Aidan's house in the country to cry on Carrie's shoulder over some snooty actress who doesn't deserve him. Classic episode - moving on. I'm not sure what part of the show made my story pop into my head but it did. With a vengeance. I had to find it and reread it immediately and, with any luck, whip off ten more pages in an hour and a half then stand back in awe of my sudden bolt of inspiration.
I opened the file box marked, ever so originally, STORY IDEAS and opened the pink folder I had filed the story in. But it wasn't there. I scanned through the rest of the folders for the pages. No luck. I looked through all of them again but it was definitely not there. Somewhat perplexed, I opened the desk drawer, but all I found was a box of paper clips, two erasers, an exacto knife, a roll of Scotch tape, two keys that must open something, although what I have absolutely no idea, and half a box of Smarties that have been there so long that the packaging has since changed. No papers of any sort, unless you count the cardboard insert on the Scotch tape. I systematically went through the heap of yet-to-be-filed papers that have been piled on the second shelf of my bookcase since dinosaurs roamed the earth, but the story remained elusive.
It was about that time that all hell broke loose. We've all experienced it - the volatile cocktail of confusion, panic and sheer frustration that compels us to rip through an apartment like a category five hurricane, leaving untold chaos and destruction in our wake. I turned things over, emptied things out, pulled things down, strew things from one end of the flat to the other. Somewhere in this heap were ten pages I had a feeling I would never see again, no matter how hard I searched for them. I resigned myself to the fact, made tea and started on the Smarties, still delicious after all those years.
It took three days to sort through the wreckage. In the recesses of my brain I suppose I thought I might come across the pages during the clean up operation. But as I placed the last box on the shelf, I solemnly accepted the loss and vowed to move on.
Yesterday my earring rolled under the couch. I reached to retrieve it and my fingertips brushed across the dog-eared edges of what felt like ten sheets. I pulled the stack out and skimmed the first few pages. But the mood had passed. I filed them in the pink folder.
I was watching Sex and the City on DVD - the episode where Big drives out to Aidan's house in the country to cry on Carrie's shoulder over some snooty actress who doesn't deserve him. Classic episode - moving on. I'm not sure what part of the show made my story pop into my head but it did. With a vengeance. I had to find it and reread it immediately and, with any luck, whip off ten more pages in an hour and a half then stand back in awe of my sudden bolt of inspiration.
I opened the file box marked, ever so originally, STORY IDEAS and opened the pink folder I had filed the story in. But it wasn't there. I scanned through the rest of the folders for the pages. No luck. I looked through all of them again but it was definitely not there. Somewhat perplexed, I opened the desk drawer, but all I found was a box of paper clips, two erasers, an exacto knife, a roll of Scotch tape, two keys that must open something, although what I have absolutely no idea, and half a box of Smarties that have been there so long that the packaging has since changed. No papers of any sort, unless you count the cardboard insert on the Scotch tape. I systematically went through the heap of yet-to-be-filed papers that have been piled on the second shelf of my bookcase since dinosaurs roamed the earth, but the story remained elusive.
It was about that time that all hell broke loose. We've all experienced it - the volatile cocktail of confusion, panic and sheer frustration that compels us to rip through an apartment like a category five hurricane, leaving untold chaos and destruction in our wake. I turned things over, emptied things out, pulled things down, strew things from one end of the flat to the other. Somewhere in this heap were ten pages I had a feeling I would never see again, no matter how hard I searched for them. I resigned myself to the fact, made tea and started on the Smarties, still delicious after all those years.
It took three days to sort through the wreckage. In the recesses of my brain I suppose I thought I might come across the pages during the clean up operation. But as I placed the last box on the shelf, I solemnly accepted the loss and vowed to move on.
Yesterday my earring rolled under the couch. I reached to retrieve it and my fingertips brushed across the dog-eared edges of what felt like ten sheets. I pulled the stack out and skimmed the first few pages. But the mood had passed. I filed them in the pink folder.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
SWM seeks...
Here's what his personal ad said:
Single, white male, late thirties, seeks vivacious female, 18-40, for adventure. I am sensitive, loyal and caring, average height and build, ice blue eyes with flecks, employed, financially secure, no children. I am looking for someone I can enjoy exciting activities with, as well as quiet times. I enjoy long walks on the beach, hikes in the hills and the great outdoors. If you are looking for someone to pamper and spoil you, take you for romantic al fresco dinners and show you the sights, I just might be your man. Photo provided on request.
Here's what his personal ad actually meant:
Single, white male: separated, but hanging on until I get half the sale value of that double-wide
Late thirties: forty-three, if a day
Seeks vivacious female: seeks hot, racy minx, preferably gorgeous
18-40: Legal but not old
For adventure: for hot, racy sexual encounters
I am sensitive, loyal and caring: My sister told me to write this
Average height: 5'6''
And build: 280 pounds
Ice blue eyes with flecks: dull grey on a good day, perpetually rimmed in bloodshot
Employed: part-time at Dairy Queen
Financially secure: broke and okay with it
No children: that I'm aware of
I am looking for someone I can enjoy exciting activities with, as well as quiet times: after the rambunctious sex, there will be lengthy periods of sleep.
I enjoy long walks on the beach: free
Hikes in the hills: free
And the great outdoors: free
If you are looking for someone to pamper and spoil you: I'll rub your feet after a hard day's work because I have a kinky foot fetish...oh, and it's free.
Take you for romantic, al fresco dinners: How does a burger, fries and a double-thick shake on the tailgate of my truck sound to you, darlin'?
And show you the sights: but you have to show me yours too...
I might be your man: I said might, girl, don't push me.
Photo provided on request: My mom thinks I'm a looker...honest.
Needless to say, there was no second date. On the plus side though, I don't feel half as guilty referring to my fat ass as bodacious.
Single, white male, late thirties, seeks vivacious female, 18-40, for adventure. I am sensitive, loyal and caring, average height and build, ice blue eyes with flecks, employed, financially secure, no children. I am looking for someone I can enjoy exciting activities with, as well as quiet times. I enjoy long walks on the beach, hikes in the hills and the great outdoors. If you are looking for someone to pamper and spoil you, take you for romantic al fresco dinners and show you the sights, I just might be your man. Photo provided on request.
Here's what his personal ad actually meant:
Single, white male: separated, but hanging on until I get half the sale value of that double-wide
Late thirties: forty-three, if a day
Seeks vivacious female: seeks hot, racy minx, preferably gorgeous
18-40: Legal but not old
For adventure: for hot, racy sexual encounters
I am sensitive, loyal and caring: My sister told me to write this
Average height: 5'6''
And build: 280 pounds
Ice blue eyes with flecks: dull grey on a good day, perpetually rimmed in bloodshot
Employed: part-time at Dairy Queen
Financially secure: broke and okay with it
No children: that I'm aware of
I am looking for someone I can enjoy exciting activities with, as well as quiet times: after the rambunctious sex, there will be lengthy periods of sleep.
I enjoy long walks on the beach: free
Hikes in the hills: free
And the great outdoors: free
If you are looking for someone to pamper and spoil you: I'll rub your feet after a hard day's work because I have a kinky foot fetish...oh, and it's free.
Take you for romantic, al fresco dinners: How does a burger, fries and a double-thick shake on the tailgate of my truck sound to you, darlin'?
And show you the sights: but you have to show me yours too...
I might be your man: I said might, girl, don't push me.
Photo provided on request: My mom thinks I'm a looker...honest.
Needless to say, there was no second date. On the plus side though, I don't feel half as guilty referring to my fat ass as bodacious.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Let's talk a little bit about rejection.
A few days ago I received my first rejection letter and, while I'm not planning on jumping off a bridge any time soon, I'm a little disappointed. But I'll get over it. At first, I wasn't sure if a form rejection letter, all printed up on rather impressive agency letterhead, made me a bonafide writer or if it just made me a very bad one. I have since decided that it takes more than one agent's opinion to confirm, beyond a reasonable doubt, that I am absolute crap, so I will reserve judgement until at least ten reputable agencies have told me to sod off. To give credit to the agency, the letter was nice. It didn't come right out and say 'You're absolute crap, Shearer, but we hear that McDonald's is hiring, so all is not lost.' It just said something along the lines of 'We certainly don't want you, but keep on trying.' Which I suppose is standard, but it made my first rejection that much easier to take. I'm thinking that literary agencies should offer courses in tactful rejection to teenage boys. It might help to reduce the instances of low self-esteem in teenage girls, but that's another topic altogether.
My next step is to send my manuscript to more agents. Submitting a manuscript, if the agents' websites are to be believed, is moronically simple. Send a cover letter (easy peasy - If you can't write a decent cover letter you have no business trying to write a novel), a short synopsis (one page - think blurb), the first three chapters, unbound, double-spaced, printed on one side of the paper, and include a self-addressed, stamped envelope. Straight forward.
I decided to go with a British agent because, while I have lived in Canada for most of my life, I am still a British citizen. I wrote the cover letter and synopsis, printed the entire package and stuffed it all into the envelope. A quick visit to Canada Post and it would be off to London where, after reading it, the agent would be so impressed that he'd offer me a multi-book deal and a sizeable enough advance that I could quit my office job and stay home to write, in my jammies, full-time. I know, I know, that sort of thing rarely happens, but if you can't have your self-indulgent little fantasies, is life really worth living? I think perhaps not.
It turns out that Canada Post doesn't carry foreign postage. I went to their website, the postal outlet down the road and their corporate headquarters. No dice. So I went to the Royal Mail website to order UK postage straight from the source. You can order stamps from their site quickly and easily, but only in enormous quantities, and although I understand that postal costs are always rising, I was quite sure I would never get through hundreds of pounds' worth of stamps. I was happy to discover that they offer a print-your-own postage option. You figure out how much you need, place your order, type in your credit card number and print. Perfect!
Or not. Printed postage must be used within two days. No good. By the time my manuscript travelled to London, sat in the slush pile, got read and sent back, four to six weeks would have elapsed, and although I'm quite certain the Royal Mail staff are lovely people, expecting them to extend the deadline for printed postage usage by several weeks hardly seemed realistic. In desperation, I rang the British High Commission. Their slogan is 'Britain In Canada' but it should really be 'Everything From Britain In Canada Except Bloody Stamps'. Finally I phoned Royal Mail and spoke to a splendid young man called Ryan (if I remember correctly), who assured me that I could order a small quantity of stamps but they would take several weeks to arrive. Defeated, I ordered them and settled in for the wait. I decided it was a perfect opportunity to proofread my first forty-six pages yet again.
Here's what I don't quite understand. We can put a man on the moon, break the sound barrier and send text messages to the farthest reaches of Outer Mongolia in a fraction of a second but getting a few quids' worth of stamps from the motherland in a reasonable amount of time seems beyond the realm of possibility. How can that be? Some authors will tell you that slogging through the middle third of their novel is the most difficult part of getting a book published. Others will tell you it's finding an agent. I'm inclined to believe it's actually procuring the postage for the self-addressed, stamped effing envelope!
My next step is to send my manuscript to more agents. Submitting a manuscript, if the agents' websites are to be believed, is moronically simple. Send a cover letter (easy peasy - If you can't write a decent cover letter you have no business trying to write a novel), a short synopsis (one page - think blurb), the first three chapters, unbound, double-spaced, printed on one side of the paper, and include a self-addressed, stamped envelope. Straight forward.
I decided to go with a British agent because, while I have lived in Canada for most of my life, I am still a British citizen. I wrote the cover letter and synopsis, printed the entire package and stuffed it all into the envelope. A quick visit to Canada Post and it would be off to London where, after reading it, the agent would be so impressed that he'd offer me a multi-book deal and a sizeable enough advance that I could quit my office job and stay home to write, in my jammies, full-time. I know, I know, that sort of thing rarely happens, but if you can't have your self-indulgent little fantasies, is life really worth living? I think perhaps not.
It turns out that Canada Post doesn't carry foreign postage. I went to their website, the postal outlet down the road and their corporate headquarters. No dice. So I went to the Royal Mail website to order UK postage straight from the source. You can order stamps from their site quickly and easily, but only in enormous quantities, and although I understand that postal costs are always rising, I was quite sure I would never get through hundreds of pounds' worth of stamps. I was happy to discover that they offer a print-your-own postage option. You figure out how much you need, place your order, type in your credit card number and print. Perfect!
Or not. Printed postage must be used within two days. No good. By the time my manuscript travelled to London, sat in the slush pile, got read and sent back, four to six weeks would have elapsed, and although I'm quite certain the Royal Mail staff are lovely people, expecting them to extend the deadline for printed postage usage by several weeks hardly seemed realistic. In desperation, I rang the British High Commission. Their slogan is 'Britain In Canada' but it should really be 'Everything From Britain In Canada Except Bloody Stamps'. Finally I phoned Royal Mail and spoke to a splendid young man called Ryan (if I remember correctly), who assured me that I could order a small quantity of stamps but they would take several weeks to arrive. Defeated, I ordered them and settled in for the wait. I decided it was a perfect opportunity to proofread my first forty-six pages yet again.
Here's what I don't quite understand. We can put a man on the moon, break the sound barrier and send text messages to the farthest reaches of Outer Mongolia in a fraction of a second but getting a few quids' worth of stamps from the motherland in a reasonable amount of time seems beyond the realm of possibility. How can that be? Some authors will tell you that slogging through the middle third of their novel is the most difficult part of getting a book published. Others will tell you it's finding an agent. I'm inclined to believe it's actually procuring the postage for the self-addressed, stamped effing envelope!
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Getting Started
Hello everyone,
Welcome to my blog. I'm an unpublished writer who has been working on a novel for longer than I care to admit and I thought a blog might be just the place to get some things off my chest. Don't worry. Nothing too deep. No politics or religion here, folks. Just some tiny, insignificant observations about my world and the people in it (names changed to protect the idiots, of course), the odd laugh, shopping tips, maybe a little venom now and then, but only directed at those who truly deserve it (people who cruise in the passing lane, irresponsible pet owners, skinny people on diets - you know who you are).
If you have anything to add, please do. Don't be shy. The blog police, to the best of my knowledge, won't swoop in with their virtual red pens and dock you for blatant lapses in spelling and punctuation. Nor will I. Although, if you happen to mix up they're, their and there or to, too and two, I will most definitely have a laugh at your expense and, quite possibly, show your gaffe to liquored-up friends and acquaintances at parties, but you will never know. After all, rubbing your nose in your mistake would be rude and unforgivable. Not to mention it would render it open season on me when I fuck up which, incidentally, I do with appalling regularity.
So, now that we're acquainted, what should we talk about first? Gimme some time to think. I'll be right back.
Welcome to my blog. I'm an unpublished writer who has been working on a novel for longer than I care to admit and I thought a blog might be just the place to get some things off my chest. Don't worry. Nothing too deep. No politics or religion here, folks. Just some tiny, insignificant observations about my world and the people in it (names changed to protect the idiots, of course), the odd laugh, shopping tips, maybe a little venom now and then, but only directed at those who truly deserve it (people who cruise in the passing lane, irresponsible pet owners, skinny people on diets - you know who you are).
If you have anything to add, please do. Don't be shy. The blog police, to the best of my knowledge, won't swoop in with their virtual red pens and dock you for blatant lapses in spelling and punctuation. Nor will I. Although, if you happen to mix up they're, their and there or to, too and two, I will most definitely have a laugh at your expense and, quite possibly, show your gaffe to liquored-up friends and acquaintances at parties, but you will never know. After all, rubbing your nose in your mistake would be rude and unforgivable. Not to mention it would render it open season on me when I fuck up which, incidentally, I do with appalling regularity.
So, now that we're acquainted, what should we talk about first? Gimme some time to think. I'll be right back.
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