Not even a writer yet and I'm already bitter.

Today I write about being a writer.

Is it me, or is there NO money to be made in creative writing anymore? Through seminars and book readings that I’ve attended over the past few months, interaction with published writers has painted a pretty dismal picture: that it’s pretty hard to make it as a writer.

Today for example, Julie Wilson visited our class (bookmadam.com, seenreading.com), and it seemed to me that although she’s involved in a variety of writing projects she enjoys, it was only recently that any of them have rendered any profit.

So in response to the question- how would I want to do be published, I’m hoping that whatever I’m hypothetically writing is great and attractive enough to warrant a traditional publisher. To me it seems like that’s the way to make enough money to get by; Wilson, for example, is making money now that she’s writing True Blood fan materials. Although Matt Duggan, another author who visited us, spent two years working on a project that was basically scrapped, maybe this is an example of a publisher doing what’s best to make money. Not every writing is good, so perhaps using a traditional editor and publisher system is the best for finding out if your work is any good before you release it to the world. 

If that doesn’t work out, it’s back to the drawing board while I post my work online for free. What’s the alternative, making $12.95 a week self-publishing or hawking it on Amazon? Come on. Isn’t writing professionally all about the money? Otherwise I’d have a job and just own a notebook for weekends.

Kerry Ryan, the Warrior Poet

Today I interviewed a writer.

Kerry Ryan is a Winnipeg poet who just released her second collection, Vs. Her work has also appeared in a number of literary journals, but this latest collection heads in a completely different direction than you might expect. It’s the story of her journey into the world of amateur boxing, as she trained and competed in a white-collar boxing match last year.

I attended Kerry’s book launch at McNally Robinson last week and was fascinated by this young woman who went out punching people in the face and came back to write beautiful poems about it. She was definitely someone I wanted to talk to more, but I thought it would be best to keep a safe distance from her right hook. So we sent each other some emails, and here’s how it all went down.

AP- Hey Mrs. Ryan. I really enjoyed your reading last night; the whole poet-boxer thing fascinates me. How do you decide what to write about?

KR- OK, first off- please call me Kerry. (Otherwise, I feel like you're talking to my mom. :) ).

I'm a pretty lazy writer, so I usually write about things that are close at hand: if it's winter, I write poems about being cold; if I'm traveling, I write about landscape; if I'm spending a lot of time at the boxing club, well, I end up writing about boxing.

AP- You said during your reading that competing in boxing was one of your accomplishments that you're most proud of. Is this what made it a subject important enough to devote an entire collection to?

KR- I didn't set out to write an entire collection about boxing. I started writing the poems as I was training, as a way to process mentally what I was learning in the ring, and also as a way to rationalize my decision to fight. I thought they might one day be a chapbook or a section of a collection. But the more poems I wrote, the more it seemed like a cohesive story and suddenly I had a full length manuscript.

AP- Writing poems while training… isn't that distracting? Do you mean these poems are coming together in your head as you're physically training? You didn't write anything during an actual fight did you? That just sounds dangerous.

KR- Sparring required total focus, so poems were the last thing on my mind when I was in the ring. I started working on the collection during the same time frame I was training for my fight and I came to see writing as part of the process. First, the training was completely consuming, mentally. I really couldn't think about anything else for a couple of months, so it seeped in to my writing life. But I also used the writing to try to get my body and brain on the same page. I've always learned best by writing a concept out in my own words. So, I approached learning to box in the same way.

Check out the rest of the interview with more of my hard-hitting questions by clicking on this post!

Books and Jazz- Yes they both still exist.

Yesterday I went to a book launch.

The McNally audience 

June “Pepper” Harris, a musician and playwright from Chicago was at McNally Robinson last night to launch her new autobiography, I Used to Be Coloured But Now, I’m Black! Between live jazz music songs, Harris read from her book and told of her experiences.

The evening started at 7PM with quiet jazz music; two guys on upright bass and piano soloed together as Harris walked around and met everyone, welcoming old friends and even shaking my hand. Harris then told a couple stories, and her friend read from the new book.

I Used to Be Coloured But Now, I’m Black! tells the story of Harris’ life so far: her early days of performing in the Chicago nightclub scene in 1962, the racial difficulties she faced, and the world travels her music has sent her on. Harris also read excerpts from her book about these topics, expressively and laughing, engaging the crowd as she shared her memories.

Harris reads from her new book

 She read of her time performing in Qatar and how through her music she was able to connect with the women there, even though they were so culturally different. She was in Qatar on September 11, 2001, and told of the reaction to 9/11 she experienced from both American and Muslim peoples. She also shared her dreams of peace, laughing, “Maybe jazz musicians should be heads of state. There would be no wars- we musicians like to sleep in.”

She read of her blind date in Norway; asked to a classical concert that promised to be too incredible to pass up, but with a man she worried would look like “nine miles of muddy Mississippi back road sludge on a rainy day.” He turned out to be a dreamboat.

She closed her speaking with thoughts on her book’s title. Being one of the first black entertainers in her scene, Harris faced racial prejudice but has clearly risen above it. Her title represents the changing socially acceptable titles for her, but Harris says it hasn’t changed her a bit.

“As a kid they called us Negros. Then they decided that was bad, so they said coloured. Then I was a Black-American, then a Black-Canadian, then an Afro-American, well guess what folks- I’m a woman.”

She wrapped up the event by singing a few songs: a silly, fun song she had written recently called It Ain’t All That Hot Out, a spoken word number about her reactions to finding a giant black snake in her house as a child, and another poem she read while the band continued to back her up. She slipped between her roles of musician and author smoothly, and seemed as comfortable swaying and scatting as she did reading her stories.

Harris sings too!

Harris has clearly been through and seen many things in her life, all the while never taking herself too seriously. She was an interesting and fun person in her book reading, and I Used to Be Coloured But Now, I’m Black! seems like a perfect extension of her personality. 

Listen to Harris kick it on her Myspace page.

Check out McNally's upcoming events here.

interesting title here- Creative Writing Short Story Assignment

Today I published my own writing.

As an assignment for my Creative Writing class, I’m giving a gift to all my readers: a slimmed-down version of my short story. Does writing a story on your own blog count as publishing? No. To make it a little more manageable for online reading, I’ve cut out all the beautifully worded descriptions and some important information necessary to the storyline. Kidding! Enjoy it my babies...

The Pamphleteer

Percy listened to his fish tank’s filter running, barely audible amidst the melodies. It had been months since the tank boasted any residents; it now stood forgotten and empty, save for a thick coat of algae that covered its contents. The rocks, the glass, the No Fishing sign; it was just as well there were no fish, for such an infestation would be grounds for animal cruelty.

Percy paid his rent and still had enough left over for a sandwich every day, but no one knew where that money came from. It seemed most of his days were spent only by sleeping in until late and sitting on the fire escape staring into distant fantasies until it was time to sleep again. He often played an acoustic guitar, but everyone in that neighbourhood did and no one was making any money. In fact, he was on his way home from playing guitar and singing into a microphone at a tiny bar in the back of an electronics store when he got the news.

Percy had always thought Armageddon warnings came from beards and robes, poorly drawn signs, ringing bells. But this one came from none of those, and he was completely taken aback. He had nearly dropped his guitar case as he jumped, jolted from city blindness and a world of his own, a hand and paper slapped into the middle of his chest.

“The world is ending in three days,” offered the man on the street.

“Thanks pal,” said Percy as he tried to continue.

“No really,” the man insisted as he pushed Percy back, hand and paper still sticking to his chest. He looked at Percy, his eyes hard and unyielding, without trace of doubt or madness.

And now in his bed, although the sunlight had long disappeared and his eyes were closing, he thought of the man. He rolled over and flipped on his bedside light, grabbing the pamphlet from the floor and studying it yet again. No matter how strange this warning was, Percy found himself scared more by its hopelessness. The page offered no solution or salvation, just a statement that confirmed the man’s words and Percy’s worst fear: it was official; the world was ending in three days. And now he was supposed to fall asleep?

*                             *                             *                             *                             *                             * 

Percy saw something wonderful. A pretty Asian girl was getting on to a bus as he passed the station, the sign shouting to him that she was headed to Boston. He thought of going to talk to her, but what would he do? Stop her from leaving? Don’t go, I need you! Or ever worse: get out- you’re going to Boston? I’m going to Boston! That only worked in the movies, and even then rarely, and the instigator always had some distinguishable characteristic that Percy felt he was lacking.

So he had walked on, past the bus station and the Dumpster outside that often attracted the city’s lowest, back to his apartment and a better block of town. He turned down the back alley that suddenly opened to his right. Skulking around puddle and garbage he walked back to the fire escape, which he knew to be rusty or broken or something; either way always pulled down and stuck. Up the ladder to the stairs, this was almost as quick as the normal man’s route he usually took. On the fourth floor however, he stopped, hesitated, completely innocent, when his eyes misjudged and his foot slipped off the first step. As he reached to the wall to steady himself, he gave a glance, which quickly became a look, through the window into the apartment in front of him. A woman stood by the far wall, wearing only one of those too-large shirts with buttons that you assume to be her man’s, painting the wall a fresh coat of light blue, and doing a poor job. Her long legs flicked out gracefully from under the long shirt, both already dotted with spots and specks of paint. Percy had always wondered if he could paint such a beautiful scene, but he never had the supplies.

*                             *                             *                             *                             *                             *    

The sunlight was unforgiving; this room had too many windows. Percy nearly smacked the woman standing behind him with his guitar case, ungainly, but for once not because his mind was drifting. He swiveled his head and squinted his eyes to close out some of the bright. The line in front of him moved slowly, frustrating and terrible, Percy thought he was going to get his license renewed or was waiting to ride a rollercoaster. Finally he reached the ticket counter, after having several quarter-hour intervals of queue time to doubt his decision and support his decision and choose his time and count out his money, so it was only a moment before he strode confidently away with his ticket to Boston.

Outside on the sidewalk it seemed the porter was only helping old women stow their cases beneath the bus, so Percy opted for independence and waved off the boy’s halfhearted advance to assist.

“It’s alright sir, but thank you!” his tone conveyed his glee. The bus revved and ran as it stood on the drive, while Percy’s heartbeat raced to match it. He opened his bag one last time before sliding it aboard, checking to see that his watercolours and brushes and photographs of flowers would not be crushed if the boy should happen to be careless. Satisfied; he boarded, the whooshing doors closed behind him and he found a seat near the back to nap in. He only had two days left, and there was so much to do.