Writing – Page 15 – Britt Skrabanek

The Grit and Grace of Montreal

old port of montreal — Mr. H at Old Port of Montreal

If Brooklyn and Paris mated, their love child would be Montreal.

Grit and grace. Hard asses and romantics. The ones that won’t look you in the eye and the others who stare right at your ass.

This paradoxical city is emphasized further by its language tug-of-war. French is everywhere: the parking signs, the menus, the spoken greetings.

Yet, a sorry attempt at some high school French by an American tourist (yours truly) flips the switch. Seamlessly, as if “Bonjour” were never stumbled over, the conversation morphs into English with a peculiar flourish.

Walking down the street is a puzzling treat as English and French interlace. A couple at a table next to us bounces back and forth – a French question, an English answer, then one, then just the other – like a nail-biting tennis match for the ears.

Taking a road trip will only confuse the American more. Living in the U.S means conquering an ocean to hear that steady foreign hum.

Although Ontario looks a lot like Wisconsin, there are doors like these in the rest areas…

Eventually, there’s no more English. None. Our foreign experience creeps up on us in the form of construction signs and unpronounceable roads.

Where the hell are we? North America? Canada?

No…Montreal, Quebec.

Each languid day is strange – no schedule, no obligations. And, Mr. H. and I wander around this land without time.

One of the deepest ways to connect with someone means surviving together in a place where nothing makes sense, somewhere that is the antithesis of home, routine, and grind.

Travel makes the heart open to possibilities. And, so we opened ours to Montreal and did all of this…

And, we got down at Piknic Electronik at sunset on an island. Yeah, it was cool…

But, what about the food, Britt? Montreal is one of the foodie capitals of the world, isn’t it?

Indeed, it is. So, food gets it’s very own post next week. Get ready to drool.

That Aha Connection

Sometimes I have these surreal interruptions – “Aha” moments, if you will.

Like a group of determined children, they tap my shoulder, tug at my clothes, or even grab my face to win my erratic attention.

Hey, lady! STOP.

So, I do…and it changes me.

Those running in my social media circle heard about the recent death of my Kindle. She was a trusty companion – knowledgeable, entertaining, and just an overall good soul. Until Hazel the cat rubbed her out, knocking her off the highest ledge in our apartment.

Alas, the Kindle was no more.

Being that I don’t possess the financial superpowers to replace my beloved Kindle currently, I took a field trip to the library. My first time in over a year. (Free books….yay!)

Blogger gal pal Gabriela Blandy at The Sense of a Journey, pointed me in the direction of Raymond Carver, spartan wordsmith extraordinaire.

Always the literature mutt, I decided to give him a whirl.

Whilst pouring over “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love“, I came to a dog-eared page from somebody who had checked out the book before me.

And, I stopped.

Another person had left their mark, a folded corner for me to find. Why did they stop reading just then?

Did they set their alarm, turn off the light, and go to bed? Did they sigh and head into the kitchen to wash the dishes? Did they stuff the book in their bag and board a plane?

From that point…we were connected. The dog-ear was my “Aha”.

Just like the time my change was shoved into my hand at a drive-thru. At a stoplight, I looked down at my palm and noticed Washington’s smirk was littered with poetry in red ink.

Aha.

Just like the time I had this indescribable urge to name one of my characters Sal. Months later I looked down at the right corner of my desk and noticed this carving was there the whole time…

Aha.

We zip through our lives half the time, don’t we? Eat, sleep, work, play. Repeat.

But when it all comes down to it, we are connected in so many ways. And, it’s absolutely magnificent when we stop and breathe it in.

We live side by side – none of us are really that different. Sometimes we need the “Aha” to make us pause, to see how damn incredible this thing called life is.

Advice for those leaving for college, as well as the rest of us

Check out this incredible post from Stan Mitchell, which I meandered over to via good pal Tim Dittmer.

The importance of breathing life in is crucial to our enjoyment of its awe-inspiring beauty. The more we rush, the less we absorb. Every day, every damn moment deserves our full attention.

So, inhale and hang onto it, Lovies. It’s a keeper.

How the cynic became a sap

I never dreamed of the white dress.

While we’re at it, I never thought much about white picket fences either. Hey, I grew up in a modest condo in Southern California.

My parents divorced when I was six. I remember it like it was yesterday.

I hid in the My Little Pony tent on my bed until I heard the front door slam shut, signifying the finale of “Mom Just Moved Out”, a play I never wanted to see. I peeked my head out and saw my dad sitting on the floor, his face covered by his hands.

All I could do was put my arm around him. It’s all I had.

We did the joint custody thing. Dad most of the time and mom every other weekend. It was odd living out of a suitcase when I hung out with my mom, but we did our best.

I have two half-sisters and one half-brother. None of us grew up together.

A smattering of step-siblings trickled in and out of my life for years. It was always a strange dynamic with them: we played together, we ate together, we pretended to be this makeshift family.

It never worked…we were strangers playing house.

But, this story isn’t about having it hard growing up. I know, compared to many, my childhood was a piece of cake.

The outcome of it all was a cynic – a young one. I grew up thinking love was a sham. Marriage was just a joke to me, the kind I rolled my eyes over.

From a young age, I vowed never to marry. Why the hell should I even bother? All I could see was heartbreak, callousness, and paperwork.

Then, somebody came along to prove me wrong. My husband. My soul.

When we first saw each other…we just knew we were meant for one another. It’s cliché, I know. But damn, what’s wrong with a little cliché?

This year we celebrated eight magnificent years of marriage. We’ve been through it all together – we’re war buddies, we’re best friends.

Now I believe in something different, that love is available to all of us. We just have to accept it, then hang onto it for dear life.

Well, that’s how the cynic became a sap.

Love Thy Editing

Say it with me…I

love

love

OK, guys. Here’s the toughy…editing.

silence

editing (she repeats in a firm, but encouraging tone)

extreme silence

Alright, writer pals. We’re getting there. Baby steps.

I just so happen to be one of those weirdos who doesn’t mind the editing process. (Notice I still didn’t say love.)

When it comes to a systematic approach, mega details, and cutthroat decisions devoid of emotion. Well…meet my dark side, folks! The editor.

On a less intense note, I see editing as something to cherish. Because at the end of the day, you just wrote a freaking book.

A novel is no joke, pumpkins.

The love, commitment, and devotion put writing a book on par with the most important people in your life. That book is the buddy you tell all of your secrets to, the lover you think about endlessly, and the spawn of your imagination.

It’s your soul in written form.

Man, oh man. There’s just something magical about seeing your first draft all printed out.

Sure, it looks like shit. But that shit is yours.

Currently, I’m working on my second draft of The Bra Game. In other words, I’m murdering my baby with a cheap red pen.

Now I don’t claim to be an expert, nor am I anything in the vicinity of a bestseller. In fact, I’m a self-taught writer who gets her jollies by bending the rules.

But, I do have three books under my belt, so I’ve learned a thing or two about editing.

Specifically, how to try to love it a little.

Change location Rather than being chained to your desk with a sad face, take your printed baby outside. Fresh air will do your pasty ass some good.
Check out some resources As writers, we will forever remain students. Recently, I picked up “Self-Editing for Fiction Writers“. Some parts boosted my confidence, while others slapped me on the wrist. But, it was all good. I learned some shit.
Read it out loud For the sake of your loved ones, try to do this in private. But, do it. When it comes to the rhythm of your writing, especially dialogue, it is crucial to mouth off.
Sporkforge Hey, what’d you just call me?! I stumbled across Sporkforge from another writing blog once. It’s ghetto as hell, but it’s a life saver. The word counter/text analyzer is a free online tool that dishes out your repetitious words and phrases. I’m sure there are fancier programs you can buy to do the job. But, Sporkforge is free for us poor indies.
Use caution with find and replace One time I replaced “purse” with “handbag” throughout my entire fourth draft. Let’s just say, my editors and I had a good laugh over “handbagged her lips” instead of “pursed her lips”. Whoopsy!
Marry it, then divorce it You will live with this story every day – you will get into spats and you will comfort each other. No matter how much energy you put into it, you will never be satisfied with the finished product. Never. So put your big boy or girl pants on, sign the divorce papers, and go your separate ways.
Pat yourself on the back You wrote a damn book for crying out loud! Pat yourself real good.