Did You Get Paid?

For a struggling artist, this is probably the most insulting question a person can ask, and yet, everybody does it.  Even other artists do it … at least they are calling themselves artists.  Personally, I think that a fellow artist would understand that a monetary pay cheque is just one of the many rewards available to an artist.

Sometimes I contribute to someone else’s work and after that novel gets published, I confess that it was a project I worked on and then I get asked, “Did you get paid?”  Did I get paid?  A pay cheque?  No.  Do I care?  I’m annoyed that anyone thinks I should care.  I believe helping someone with their project is like this:

Your friend phones you up and says that her house is being shown to a prospective buyer and she only has four hours to pretty the whole place up.  Obviously, she needs help, so you head over and give her a hand.  Later, when the house sells does anyone ask you if you made any money off the sale?  Such an idea is unthinkable.  What?  Do they think you deserve a percentage of the profit?  Sweeping the floor should entitle you to five percent.  Don’t you think?  Ridiculous!

If I’m a writer for the money, then I’m in the wrong field.  Psychological romances (my genre of choice) rarely make any money.  These days it’s all about erotica.  All the same, if I wanted money, I could probably make a lot more of it working an ordinary day job.  Here’s a list some of the rewards that come from being a novelist that have nothing to do with money.

1.      The joy of creation.  Making something is fun.  It’s fun to make cupcakes.  Does anyone ever ask me if I got paid for making cupcakes? 

2.      Exercising your brain.  I love getting a good cerebral workout.  Don’t you? 

3.      Reviews from fans.  You only get this if you are willing to put up your writing for free.  I’ve done that for many years because I’m of the belief that if no one is willing to read your writing when it’s free then they are certainly not going to pay for it.  I’ve really enjoyed this.  I’ve had forums with hundreds of posts from readers requesting to know more about my story because they couldn’t wait for my Thursday update.

4.      Exchanging ideas.  That’s why occasionally I help people with their work.  It’s just exciting to see what other people are doing at a point when your input could improve a story.  Not that you want to change it in a big way.  If you want to change everything about a novel, then it’s probably not a project you should be working on.

So, don’t ask, ‘Did you get paid?’  The backlash may make you wish you had bitten your tongue instead.

If He Wears a Mask

When I was still a gothic teenager, I was visiting my grandmother and asked her about a movie I had seen clips of at her house when I was a child.  It was The Phantom of the Opera.  I was then informed that one of my older cousins had watched it so many times that she had ruined the VHS tape.  I expressed sadness over it, because I had already tried to get my hands on a copy and failed.  When I was 16, my grandma surprised me by bringing me a copy she had made from off the TV.  I was so moved.  Seriously – it was intensely thoughtful (just as a P.S. to everyone – always be mouthy about the things you want – someone might make your dreams come true).

Anyway, I watched it and discovered that I found the ending where the Phantom gets shot indescribably satisfying.  I wish I had been able to enjoy the film more since my grandma went to so much effort, but really … when he dies – I’m relieved.  What can I say?  I don’t really sympathize with murderers.  But even though the Phantom is not a great character to root for, he wears that gorgeous mask and sings with that gorgeous voice and all the female population is swept away.  If he’d left his mask on like V in V for Vendetta I’ll bet he would have got the girl.

The other day, a French film came out on Netflix called A Monster in Paris.  It’s a cute little G rated animated film and it made me so happy.  It’s like someone took The Phantom of the Opera and said to themselves, “I’m going to take all the stupid out of this.”  And they did!  Seriously, it was marvelous. 

But women who are enchanted by the idea having a lover who is kind of monstrous will be disappointed.  It’s obviously a pretty popular theme.  I’m the type who likes the story of Cupid and Psyche more than Beauty and the Beast even though one is based off the other.  It’s just that Cupid is not a monster even though Psyche and everyone else believe that he is.  Actually he has no horns, claws, tentacles, extra arms, fangs or bat wings.  Just being ridiculously good looking doesn’t seem to win many points these days.

And it’s not that I don’t like stories where guys turn into dragons (Spirited Away) or where men have to be highly mutilated in order to die (Highlander) or where men are dead throughout the whole love story (The Ghost and Mrs. Muir).  The Phantom’s haggard appearance was not what repelled me.  It’s not even that he has a tortured soul (women love men with tortured souls).  It’s that he kills people for basically no reason.  I just don’t have a soft spot for that.

Romantic Christmas

Once upon a time someone asked me how they celebrate Christmas in Japan.  I kinda cocked my head.  If anime and manga are to be trusted, it’s a date night where you cuddle with your honey and eat cake.  Maybe you’ll look at the Christmas lights in the shopping district and have a secret wish that it will snow.

Well, here in Canada – no worries – it will snow.  And it’s not a date night.  It’s all about the children and it’s all about the parents and that weird old man looking for your chimney.  However, even with that mystique about the holiday – I have long since considered it the most romantic day of the year. 

Here’s the thing.  By eleven-thirty on Christmas Eve, I have just worked my tail off like I have never worked my tail off before.  Chances are I was hosting some event at my house with meat and cheese and cocktail sauce.  Even if I haven’t invited a lot of people, there are plates of cookies and chocolates and a million other yummies that represent a good deal of back-breaking labour.  Then there’s also the hassle of wrapping last minute gifts, stuffing stockings and cleaning up after the celebration, so that my kitchen won’t be a frightful mess when I prepare not one, but two, large meals the next day.  By eleven-thirty, I’m sacked out on the couch with a glass of icy egg nog in my hand.  My head is cradled by the shoulder of my beloved husband and the lights from the tree are reflecting in my hazy eyes.  He leans over and whispers, “Merry Christmas.”  I glance at the clock and realize he’s right.  It’s past midnight.  Then he slides a tiny velvet box in my lap and I’m completely charmed.

One would think I’d have that induced high on Valentine’s Day, but I really don’t.  When Valentine’s Day rolls around, I’m all partied out.  All the classy restaurants are full and the entryways are overflowing with people waiting for a table.  I don’t have twinkly lights set up in my house.  There’s no weeklong vacation and I don’t make goodies.  Finding a babysitter is rough because they’re all taken.  AND by that time of year, I’m serious – I’m all partied out.  January is my month for partying and I usually have at least four parties that month.  For Valentine’s Day, I usually just end up asking my honey to buy me a hamburger the size of my head and call it quits.  Burger joints aren’t full on Valentine’s Day … that’s an insider tip.

But Christmas – that’s a magical time of year.  Seriously, even if there isn’t any sparkly thing in a velvet box.  Last year my husband bought me a rug shampooer.  I haven’t been able to get him to stop using it.  Now that’s the gift that keeps on giving.

What I DON'T Want for Christmas

Strongbad did one of these a few years ago … and it still cracks me up.  The things he didn’t want were an ornament, one of those robotic plastic do-hickies that dance and sing, and something homemade.  Seriously, ‘these sea shells have office supplies hot glued to them for absolutely no reason’.  I love that dude.

So, what do I NOT want for Christmas?  I’m really onboard with Strongbad with the Christmas robots.  I can only listen to Jingle Bell Rock so many times before I want to jab out my eardrums (it’s twice.  I can only listen to it twice before eardrum jabbing starts to sound good).  Actually, I would prefer it if people didn’t buy me Christmas decorations, though I am a little friendlier towards ornaments (I mean ONE ornament).  It’s not like they have long lifespans at my house and ornaments have small enough price tags to negate my guilt.

The next thing I don’t want for Christmas is jewelry.  I know most people think I like jewelry because I do, but buying it for me becomes an extremely personal affair.  So unless you have been jewelry shopping with me on more than one occasion or have a strong reason to believe that you UNDERSTAND what I like and value – don’t do it!  Seriously, I’d rather you bought me a mug from the dollar store.

Any kind of fruitcake is off limits too.  I don’t know anybody who likes eating that stuff, yet I see it for sale in the stores months ahead of Christmas.  If somebody does like it, I’d like them to send me a detailed description of how it melts in your mouth or how the chewy bits make you happy.  Seriously, you could turn me right around.  I can hardly hear the word Heidi without thinking about toasted bread with cheese and having to make a trip to the kitchen.  Dang her grandpa for feeding it to her as soon as she got to the Alps!

Dolls are bad too.  I know.  I’m a grown woman.  Why is anyone even thinking about getting me a doll?  The truth is … they ALL are.  Everyone one or two generations ahead of me is thinking about getting me a doll.  I have two entire boxes (dishwasher sized boxes) in my basement full of dolls. I think the perfect home for dolls is a place where they will get drooled on, or drawn on, or undressed and left out in the sun.  Basically, I think they’re intended for children to play with and if they’re not getting played with then they’re garbage. 

So, there you have it.  What I don’t want for Christmas – the official list.  However I do welcome all baking supplies, woolly socks, pens, chocolates, and Christmassy yum-yums that you can spare.  Seriously, you don’t even have to melt the chocolate wafers.  They can come directly from Bulk Barn.  Happy Holidays!

What's His Name?

Have you ever sat down and named the entire cast of characters for an entire book in one sitting?  It’s exhausting.  It’s worse than when you’re sitting down with a bunch of guys to play D&D and no one can decide on a friggin name for their character, so you waste three hours.  Besides, you have to have some idea of what kind of appearance, personality, and what role each character will play in the book.  This also means more often than not, even though you would like to name everyone in one sitting – you can’t do it.  So, even if you’re on a writing rampage, you have to stop, google baby names and come up with a new character on the fly.  Who can blame Stephenie Meyer for naming three quarters of her characters after her siblings?

Anyway, naming human beings is a completely different matter than naming a character.   For starters, when you’re naming a character, you can choose their last name.  First name and last name can exist harmoniously because they were both conjured out of thin air.  Not so when you’re naming a person.  The last name has already been decided and you have to work with it. 

Secondly, there is no taunting.  You can name your character something that would obviously result in teasing, alligator bites and wet willies without fear.  Those things will only happen to your character if you want them to happen.  If only we could obtain that much control in real life.

Thirdly, it doesn’t matter if someone else has the name you picked.  There can be 200 guys named Christian in the literary world and no one gets confused.  It’s not like all our imaginary guys go to the same school and the teacher can’t keep the names straight.

Naming real people is a serious headache.  You don’t know what they’re going to look like when they’re grown up, or what they’ll be like, or anything.  The only thing you know is that the little person contains some of your genetic material and some of its daddy’s.  That’s it.  So, you have to agonize about spelling.  Do you want the spelling to be something that everyone is going to understand easily or do you want to make the spelling unique?  Are you going to name it after someone?  Is that someone likely to annoy you in the future?  Name it after someone dead.  Do you know anyone else who coincidentally has the same name?  Is there likely to be confusion? 

There is a million ways to botch it really and once it’s done.  It’s pretty much done.  Yuck!  I seriously used to enjoy naming characters in books and thought that I would love naming a baby, but in the end, it just tires me out.  Scratch that.  Both those things tire me out.