Assorted Nonsense

Daniel Yaari (pictured above with a Neve console) is visiting CBC Radio from Israel to help us perfect some DaletPlus software.  But although Daniel works for Dalet these days, he’s really a recording engineer.

He sent me this picture today which I thought was kind of cool.  The console he’s standing behind is a Neve, which is one of the finest names in recording consoles.  I had the pleasure of flying a Neve Capricorn for several years in studio 212, the radio drama facility, at CBC Radio.  It was a fine sounding console, if a tad flaky paired with a Sonic Solutions digital editing system.

But the really cool thing about the console pictured above is that before Daniel’s studio in Israel got their hands it it belonged to The Record Plant.  Apparently tracks for John Lennon’s Imagine and David Bowie’s Let’s Dance (among many others) were recorded on it.

Take a look at the small set of speakers Daniel’s leaning on.  Those are Auratones.  We also have a set in studio 212.  I was giving Daniel and his family a tour of our facilities and when he saw the Auratones he laughed.  “Always have to check your mixes through Auratones!” he said, and he’s right, we frequently checked our mixes on the little Auratones to see what they sounded like on something a little closer to the kind of stereo people had at home.

One of Daniel’s favourite tricks was to dub his mixes to cassette and listen to them in his car.  I used to do exactly the same thing (only on CD) because there’s no better way to tell what your mix sounds like in a crummy listening environment than listening to them in your car.  I remember subjecting my sister Shawna to a night of driving around listening to an episode of the radio play Steve the Second in my Sienna.

Ah the good ol’ days…

Just for fun, and because I keep mentioning it, here’s a snippet of “A Time and a Place”.  I read this bit to a bunch of friends recently and the resultant scorn and derision was well within acceptable limits.  I don’t think posting this tiny little section is giving too much away.

The section starts at page one hundred and sixty-three of the novel, at the beginning of Chapter Eleven, a chapter entitled Vegetation Abounded:

It was awful – the light too bright and the sounds too loud.  I cried out and curled up into a ball to protect myself.

“Wildebear!  Can you hear me?  What’s the matter with him?”

“He’s not used to it.”

“Will he be all right?”

“He should.”

“Should?”

“He might not.”

“Will he or won’t he?”

“That’s what you’re here for, doctor.  To see that he’s okay.”

“Hmph.  What happened to him?”

“Not much.  Plenty.”

“That’s an infuriating thing to say.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry – just don’t say anything like that ever again.”

“I can’t promise that I’ll –”

“Okay okay, just — where was he, anyway?”

“Where he needed to be.”

“Oh for crying out – Wildebear!  Wildebear, it’s me, Humphrey.”

I peeked out from between my arms to see who was talking.  Humphrey – the name sounded familiar.  He had a lot of meat on him, this Humphrey.  He’d make a sumptuous meal.  And I just happened to be starving.  Although a part of me knew that there was something very wrong with the idea, I unfurled myself in anticipation of a feast.  Catching a glimpse of one of my front paws, I was shocked to discover that it was almost completely hairless.  My God!  Was I ill?  I emitted a most un-T’Klee like whimper and curled back up.

“Physiologically he’s all over the map,” a voice said.  “His pulse is racing and his serotonin levels are dangerously low.”

It had come from my front foreleg.  Something shiny and silver was attached to me.  I tried to lick it off.

The creature Humphrey leaned down to touch me.  Instantly I whirled on it, but something was the matter with my reflexes.  Before I could deliver the coup de grace the Humphrey creature grabbed hold of me and held fast.  I found myself in the embarrassing position of having been captured by my own prey.  It was like having been bested by a bandaloot.  I hoped that none of my brothers were around to see.

Except that… I had no brothers.  It was Cat’s brothers I was thinking of.

And I was not Cat.

Was I?

“Damn it Wildebear, what were you trying to do?  Slit my throat?”

Humphrey.  Humphrey!  It was my old friend Doctor Peter Humphrey – and I had been about to eat him!  What had I been thinking?  Awfully confused, flitting back and forth between two identities, one human, the other a cat, I could not have said with any degree of certainty who or what I was just then.

“You should think about cutting your nails once in a while,” Humphrey muttered.

A thin red line had emerged on the side of Humphrey’s neck.  My attempt to dispatch him had come altogether too close for comfort. I started to apologize, but couldn’t seem to get the words out — talking involved using whiskers I no longer possessed.

Humphrey let go and stepped back.  I desperately tried to pull myself together.  I had no fur, no whiskers; I was, therefore, not a cat.  I was a human.  And humans spoke with their –

“Humphrey!  I – I’m so sorry.  It’s – it’s good to see you alive!”

He touched a finger to his neck.  The tip came away red.  “Little thanks to you.”

I rose to my feet and took in my surroundings.  We were in a small room blanketed in luxurious sheets and pillows.  Frills, tassels, reds and purples abounded.  The furnishings would not have been out of place in a Sultan’s tent… or that of a T’Klee.  Humphrey and I were not the only ones in the room, I saw.  Iugurtha was there as well.

I began backing away slowly.

“You’re scaring him,” Humphrey told her.

“It’s not me he should be afraid of,” she said.

And with that everything fell into place.  Suddenly I knew precisely who I was, where I was, and what I had just been through.  It seemed incredible, but I had just spent several days, possibly weeks, living inside the mind of an alien cat.  I had witnessed the subjugation of a people I had come to love by a race of horrible monsters.  After an experience like that it was a wonder I was anything resembling sane.

“Wildebear.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“You’re licking the backs of your hands.”

“Ah.”  I stopped and considered.  “So I am.”  Then, because there really was no better way to relieve stress, I resumed licking in earnest.  “Please don’t ever throw me through the gate again,” I told Iugurtha in between licks.

“Once should suffice,” she said.  “What is your opinion, Doctor?  Is he in good health?”

“Nothing a little bed rest and years of psychotherapy won’t fix,” Humphrey replied.

Mention of rest made me realize how exhausted I was.  I excused myself, curled atop several of the fluffiest pillows I could find, and purred myself to sleep in a matter of seconds.

Thinking about my process today.

Which is so frigging slow.

I write in the morning on the GO Train, maybe half an hour if I’m lucky.

I write in the evening on the GO Train, maybe half an hour if I’m lucky.

Every now and then I’ll write in the evening at home, anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour and a half.

I write when I take my kids to a lesson, anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour.

There are a few other places where I’ll squeeze in some writing if I get a chance.  If I’m home sick, or waiting for an appointment, or on a day off when my kids are in school and my wife’s working, or on those rare, blessed occasions when I’ve deliberately set aside an entire day to write in a cafe (those days are few and far between).

So I generally don’t get a whole lot of writing done in a single sitting.

Which is why I’ve been working on my current novel in earnest from the Fall of 2005 and it isn’t finished yet.  Damn close, mind you, page 316 of 345 of the final draft.

But man it’s frustrating.  I feel like I’m doing claymation, not fiction writing.  Because the pace I write at I feel like I’m completing maybe thirty, forty seconds worth of work a day.  Two or three minutes a week if I’m lucky.  And that’s being generous.   What I mean by that is that on a good day I might complete a paragraph that would take mere seconds to read.  In a week, maybe three or four pages that would take a couple of minutes to read.

When Nick Park was first working on the claymation classic Wallace and Gromit in his basement he considered himself lucky to complete three or four seconds of material a day.  At that rate he’d probably still be working on the first Wallace and Gromit A Grand Day Out had not Aardman Animations helped him finish it.

Of course the reason I work at this pace is because I have a demanding full time job and a young family.  Sometimes I think, man, what I wouldn’t give to be able to write full time.  Then I think, well I wouldn’t give my family, that’s for sure.  Nor would I give my day job, which I enjoy, and which puts bread on the table.  So I will continue to work at this pace for some time.

The good news is this time last year I was on page 245-250.  So I completed about sixty-five final draft pages in a year.  With about thirty pages left to go, I should (knock wood) be done A Time and a Place in about half a year, if all goes well.

And in another ten or twelve years I’ll retire from the day job and THEN get to write full time.  By then, at the rate I’m going, I should have two completed novels under my belt.

Joe the eternal optimist…

Heard a lot of Rex Murphy today, first on Fresh Air, then on his own show, Cross Country Check Up.

Made me think of the first time I met the man.

I’d just returned from living in France, so I’d been out of the CBC Radio loop for awhile.  One of my first bookings upon returning was recording a little voicer from someone I assumed was a freelancer.

I met the gentleman in the studio and he handed me his script.  I helped him get comfortable in the booth, asking him if he knew how to turn his mic off and on and whether he knew how to adjust the volume of his headphones.  I did this because I’d learned that many freelancers and guests come from backgrounds far removed from radio and any little thing you can do to help them get comfortable in a radio environment helps their performance.  This particular freelancer did not let on that I might be telling him stuff he already knew.

He did one and only one pass on the script, which was a commentary the subject matter of which I’ve long since forgotten.  I do remember that I had two issues with the freelancer’s performance.  One was a slight vocal stumble at one point, and the other was a word choice that I questioned.

When the freelancer came out of the booth I mentioned both issues.  I did so because when you’re working with mere mortals, and even when you’re not, everyone involved in the process usually wants to get things right, it’s just a part of the job to point out mistakes so that they might be corrected.

Instead of responding to my constructive criticism the freelancer thanked me for recording him and left the studio.  I remember thinking, well that was interesting.

It wasn’t too long afterward that I discovered the freelancer wasn’t a freelancer at all but a well established broadcasting personality in Newfoundland on the cusp of becoming a well established broadcasting personality nationally.  I don’t think he intended to be rude by ignoring my attempt to improve his performance in the studio.  I expect his confidence in his performance by that point in his career was such that he knew it was fine and that I was just being picky.   I can’t remember what word choice I had taken an exception to but knowing what I know about the man now I’m fairly certain that whatever it was he was right and I was wrong.  He was probably just bemused by my attempt to correct him.

I’m letting him off a bit easy.  He should have at least acknowledged my remarks before leaving the studio.  There was perhaps a little bit of the CBC “class” system at play, in which he was the talent and I the mere technician.

But I’ve met the man a few times since then and (although he never remembers me from encounter to encounter, there’s really no reason why he would) he’s always unfailingly polite and as far as I know a nice guy.  Plus I have developed enormous respect for him as a talent.   I love his commentaries and I appreciate his stance on most subjects (his remarks this morning on Fresh Air concerning the science and politics of Global Warming were spot on).  The sheer breadth of his vocabulary and the skill with which he wields his weapon of choice — words — commands my respect.

I can’t remember who wrote it, but the best line I’ve ever read about Rex Murphy was a blurb on the cover of one of his collection of essays.  Paraphrasing here, but it went something like:

“When Rex Murphy dies, they’re going to have to beat his mouth to death with a stick.”

Love that line, love Rex Murphy, a true Canadian institution.

Even if he did ignore my criticism.

The Fiction Editor is a little gem about editing novels by a fellow named Thomas McCormack. It’s probably the best book on editing fiction I’ve ever read, and I’ve read plenty.

Most books on writing you’re lucky if you pick up one good tip. I’m serious about that. In one book I learned to be careful with the verb “To be” (it’s better to say “the birds flew” than “the birds were flying”). In another book I learned that the maxim “show don’t tell” is not a one size fits all piece of advice (sometimes it’s better to sum up crucial facts quickly than add a chapter to your manuscript). In yet another I learned to use a single name for your characters (don’t keep changing the name from Fred to the red haired youth to the budding gymnast back to Fred again) and in another I learned that tension does not exist in the manuscript but rather in the reader, and is generated by constantly posing questions that must be answered.

In McCormack’s text, although not quite one-stop shopping, I garnered many such tips.

McCormack is a former editor for St. Martin’s Press. In fact, he ran the joint for many years, and in so doing turned its fortunes around (it was on its deathbed when he inherited it). But he was always a budding writer (dramatist mainly) and clearly empathised with the writers with whom he worked, relating strongly to their needs. And what many of them need most is a good editor.

McCormack’s main premise in The Fiction Editor is that good editors are few and far between, and this is primarily because editing has always been mostly an intuitive endeavour. Editors have a few tricks up their sleeves but mostly they seem to go by their guts. They might recognize that something doesn’t quite work, but they don’t necessarily know why it doesn’t work, or how to fix it. McCormack argues strongly for a more disciplined, almost scientifically rigourous approach to editing.

I’ve always felt myself that there are a million hidden rules in writing, that I’ve gradually been unearthing one by one, almost like panning for gold. I have yearned for a teacher who could lay those rules out one by one, clearly, sytematically, a process after which I would know how to write not only clearly and quickly, but well.

McCormack goes on to divulge a few tricks of the trade, a mere handful compared to what must be out there, but far more than in most books. I suggest you purchase the book (now in an expanded second edition, available at Amazon.com) to find out what they are.

One caveat: The Fiction Editor is slightly self-indulgent. McCormack was the most powerful man in his company (I suspect) when he wrote it; it could have benefited from at least one more pass (hence the second edition… I own the first). I wonder if his underlings were afraid to point out a few things. For instance, he loves to make up words (neologisms, for which he apologizes). Actually, I quite like many of his neologisms, such as “gad factor” (the extent to which characters conflict). Others (such as “somacluster”) don’t work quite so well (I’ve read the book twice and still can’t quite remember what somacluster is supposed to mean).

The worst is “master prelibation,” which is really just an unfortunate and distracting choice of words, and which, were it not for McCormack’s otherwise earnest tone, I might almost suspect is a joke on his part (although I suppose it’s possible my own twisted sensibility might be at play there).

But I wouldn’t let that exceedingly minor caveat put you off. This really is a terrific little book on the art of fiction editing.

Parents are visiting, not much time to blog. So until I return, here’s a little something to tide you over. I find myself watching it over and over again:

Hey John,

My father called me last night and told me you passed away.

What the hell? You were only forty-eight years old. Forty-eight is way too young to die. And how is it you were forty-eight anyway? My God, we were teenagers just yesterday.

I haven’t seen much of you these last few years and I’m sorry about that. There was a time when we were good friends. We went to High School together, played in the Jazz Band together, and got our first start in professional radio together on the same 250 watt daytimer. And then I moved away and it got hard to stay in touch and now I realize too late what a shame that was.

Lots of memories, though. Like the time you hit me in the head with your trombone when we were playing a concert. You probably don’t remember but I kind of lost my temper because it was the second or third time you hit me in the head. I’m sorry I lost my temper; it’s pretty funny looking back at it now.

And then the time you asked me to work for you after I’d spend the entire day in the hot blazing sun sanding the hull of some rich guy’s sailboat. I really wasn’t up to it but you talked me into it. I was so muddle-headed that night I accidentally swore on air and got suspended for two weeks. Also pretty funny thinking back on it. Thanks a lot for that one.

Another night I was finishing my show and I accidentally identified myself on air as you. “You’re listening to CJRW radio, I’m John Burk,” I said. I have absolutely no idea why I did that, but again, it was pretty darned funny.

You were the disc jockey at my wedding. Thank you for that, sir. And a long standing DJ on CJRW. Probably one of the last men standing on CJRW, long after the first building burned down and the owners were so scarred by the experience that they turned the station country and made it almost fully automated. I remember visiting you in that sad excuse for radio thinking that you were just like Venus Flytrap on that episode of WKRP. But you survived.

You were a good guy, Mr. Burk. I don’t remember you uttering one single word of malice toward anyone, ever. My mother told me how well you looked after your mother when she was ill, visiting her every single day for hours at a time. I sure hope someone did the same for you this last little while ’cause you deserved the same consideration you showed your mother.

If there’s a heaven or the rough equivalent of one I know that you’re in it, John.

Where ever you are, even though it’s gotta be a long ways away, I can still hear your voice as clear as day.

My Scalzi interview scored a link on The Great Geek Manual, but they got the name of my blog wrong: Aborted Nonsense!

Thanks for the mention just the same, guys.

I have to say I was tempted to abort this nonsense over the last couple of weeks. But the server problems appear to have been sorted out, so I’ll hang in there for a least a little while longer.

That scoundrel Schmidt at Analog rejected my excerpt from my novel. The nerve!

However, it does afford an excellent opportunity to teach my kids how to handle that nefarious aspect of the writing life. They already know a bit about rejection; E had a piece published in the local rag, so K wanted something published. So she wrote something up, submitted it, and shades of Schmidt! It was rejected. She was deeply offended and spent several days afterward ripping up every newspaper she could find (not bothering to distinguish between them).

So now they have an excellent opportunity to see how the old man handles rejection. After the tears, profanity and inevitable bender (the kind where you wake up afterward on a different continent with a full beard) you can bet the old man will be just fine. Like the professional I am (or aspire to be) I will just keep the story on the market until some day some fool somewhere publishes the damned thing.

In the meantime, in the words of writer Matt Hughes, I will never surrender.

And I will do my damndest to hide the worst of the bender from the kids…

Bear with me folks… having some serious blog trouble. Hopefully things will settle down soon. My host misplaced all my files the last few days, and they claim there are some resource problems, that I’m using up too many resources on a shared server. So this blog may be intermittant the next few days as I sort things out.

Sorry!