tollipop

starling

Hello, dear reader, how are you?  It's been a lifetime and an age.  I'm not sure if this will reach you, but I finally wrote that book I was telling you about. It's called Starling, it is my valentine to this breathtakingly harsh and beautiful world, and it's written with all the love in my heart.

I'm not actually sure if anyone receives updates to this blog, but as of yet I've made no official effort to market Starling and it seemed to me Tollipop was a necessary and fitting first step.  I do keep a rather poorly attended account on Instagram called @kirstencramwriting where I've been making updates.  

Starling is only available through Amazon at the moment, though I occasionally leave copies around town for some story lover to hopefully find.  If you happen to read and enjoy it, please tell a friend.  While I know a broader effort to promote the novel is needed, somehow I can't help but feel word of mouth is the most meaningful endorsement. 

I hope you are well, I hope you are seeing the beauty in life through all the upheaval and change of these past intervening years.  

I know it's still there.  

once a cat, always a cat

Dear reader, how can an announcement be both of monumental proportions and hardly qualify as more than a drop in the bucket?  Tonight I finished the 3rd revision of my novel.  It's like crossing a line that seemed impossible to reach and yet now it's done, there's still miles and miles to go.  But I reached it!  I'm here!  And regardless of what happens, this seems like a significant achievement.  I feel confident my story can hold up under greater scrutiny, that it stands its ground and flows.  

That's not to say I think my story is great.  I'm honestly not sure on that level. But it flows.  

I'm curious to know how others find the writing process.  Ironically, and perhaps because it's late, I find myself lacking the words to describe it.  In simple terms...it's hard.  People talk about the pleasure of revision and even I myself assumed I'd love it, since I dearly enjoy revising this blog.  But please allow me to assure you: there's a WORLD of difference between editing 650 and 65,000 of the most stubborn, elusive, gorgeous, mundane, incorrigible, exasperating words!

Words, dear reader!  Oh, WORDS.  I want to pet them.  I want to caress them.  I want to wring their little necks.  They're adorable one moment and so odious the next.  They line up in the most banal of formations to spite me, staring me down with brazen contempt.  I stare back with my most hardcore Canadian face and they burst out laughing, then run circles around me like a stampede of preschoolers hopped up on too much sugar.  

One of the unexpected discoveries I've made in this process is that the first few revisions to a story are less like the thrill of adding sparkly ornaments to a tree and more like the horror of contemplating a hideous lump of clay and wondering if it can be salvaged.  Initial revisions only reveal to the writer how problematic her story actually is, how much help it really needs.  It's been incredibly daunting at times, leaving me to wonder if I alone happened to write the world's sloppiest first draft (all the while thinking it was quite the gem!), or if other writers can relate to this predicament.   

Who knows, dear reader?  It's late, the house is quiet, and I don't have a pack of writer friends to ask questions about lumps of clay that would get me kicked out of their group in the first place. 

playdates and a grim hiatus

Dear reader, please allow me to put your fears to rest by assuring you Miles and Kingsley's playdate was brief and highly supervised.  I suspect they may be molting soon, so "friends as snacks" probably wasn't on Kingley's mind, anyway.

That said, I'm really here in a moment of frustration.  This has been a quiet morning and I've had almost nothing else to attend to beyond the revision of my novel, yet it is defying me like the most recalcitrant teenager to walk the planet!  

I've taken a break from writing for the past month or so, waiting for feedback from a freelance editor, and I'm now trying to assimilate her advice with my existing vision of the story.  

I don't know how else to articulate this experience other than to say last night I found myself imagining scenarios wherein I was given my choice of a form of torture, and I kept choosing every other option except for having to revise the final draft of a novel.  I mean, drawn and quartered?--all that's required of me is to show up.  Confronted by a coliseum of lions?--at least I'd stand a fighting chance!

How twisted is it I was actually consoling myself with these thoughts?!

At any rate, as you may know I have this weird anxiety with Tollipop...undoubtedly spurred by my little brother's mean texts, wherein I worry people will come visit and there is nothing new to read.  

Please  know this up front: there will be nothing new to read.  

I've descended into the abyss of relentless agony, of the fruitless tinkering with a sentence for the space of one hour variety, wretchedly wishing to exchange my soul for a roomful of emergency swear vials.  

Please, if you wish to see my life in happier moments, click the blue Instagram icon on the upper left hand side of this page as I will keep it updated.

It may be awhile before I return to blogging.  

half canadians

Another mean text from my little brother this morning:

Hello, update your blog.  I know you have material you're just sitting on.

Oh, Jonny...I seriously can't wait for you to come visit next week.  I'm going to put you to work writing for Tollipop on an hourly basis!

I don't really feel like writing about the bustle of the season, dear reader.  It's been busier than usual lately, but to debrief myself here only feels like prolonging the chaos.  I'd rather be peaceful in quiet moments.  I'd rather talk about something wondrous, like Higgins and his shimmering wings which unfold before my eyes and flutter like a fine, whirring mechanism.  

I'd rather tell you most nights, very late, I sit in front of this computer in a state of bleary fatigue and stare at the revision of my story, tinkering with phrases and feeling secret passages open when I discover ways to say things more clearly.  

For me, this is writing at its most sublime: when it is so simple, clear, and visceral that you would trust yourself to be held in its hands, going to whatever world it takes you and wishing, in a way, you could stay there forever.   

notes

There's something about a handwritten note, dear reader, which touches me deeply.  

What is it, I wonder?  It's not the actual words alone, but more in combination with seeing them written out by hand.  Something about it seems like the deepest and most genuine gift.  

I know in certain cultures people consider having their picture taken a violation which steals a piece of their soul.  But a picture could never be that personal to me, even though I love those, too.  If anything comes closer to that sentiment in my mind, it is a handwritten note...not that it steals a piece of one's soul, but rather offers it.  

I cherish these gestures, these bits and scraps of paper.  I keep them in boxes and drawers, I find them tucked into books, and whenever I come across one from long ago, I stop what I'm doing and take a moment to feel that feeling, like an old, forgotten magic, all over again. 

The girls keep their old notes, too.  

With the advent of personal computers, I lament the deterioration of my handwriting.  

But I still like to write notes.  

I write them to Izzy during her music lessons.  And while they may not always be the most technically astute, they convey what I hope she discovers through this and every other pursuit in life.  

I text them to my nieces.

Send them to friends, 

And leave them for pretty much anyone who'll find them.

Yesterday I finished reading The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to Caroline's class at school.  

The children presented me with this picture which they'd signed with little notes around the border.  I was completely caught off guard, as Caroline did a great job of keeping their project a secret.

Throughout the time I've been reading, the students have written notes and made drawings for me.  I have quite a fantastic collection of foxes as a result.  

There's no way to explain how wonderful it was to be in that classroom.  It was like being in the midst of a symphony of cicadas, only this time the hum and energy was coming from the most fantastic group of eleven year olds you could ever hope to meet.  You could actually feel how good hearted, smart, funny, curious, and interesting they are...it radiated and bounced from every corner of the room.  

They couldn't have fully known it, but I am so grateful for the notes and drawings they made.  I hope to hear from them in the future, I hope there is some way to stay in touch, but their handwritten sentiments capture for me some tiny flicker of this amazing thing we had, this escape into the world of books, this rare, unforgettable journey we all took together which somehow and in some way, I hope, goes on forever.  

beautiful science

Hello, dear reader.  How are you doing?  

It's been on my mind lately to come here for the sole purpose of excusing myself for not being here, but Izzy said I'm always announcing blog breaks and it depressed me to acknowledge the truth of her words.  

There's something about such excuses of absence which bothers me...they seem self important, a tad pathetic, and probably unnecessary.  

I suspect everyone who visits Tollipop has, by this point, figured out it's not a daily blog, as much as I wish it was.  And I doubt blog etiquette, if there is such a thing, requires one to announce writing breaks...yet when I miss a few days I get anxious, picturing you sitting at some table in the woods, wondering where I am.  

So from now on I'll stop making these disclaimers...at least until I start worrying about someone feeling abandoned again.

At any rate, you'd think I'd be finished with the first revision of my novel but as it happens, I'm not.  

I am, however, in the final chapter!

I was listening to a podcast from The New Yorker yesterday while on my way to pick up Izzy, a conversation with the writer Joyce Carol Oates, who said (in effect) pure inspiration rarely comes with the initial writing of a piece, but generally manifests iftself through the process of revision.

I was very encouraged to hear that. 

It made me wonder what one of Charles Portis's original drafts might look like. Or Tobias Wolff's.  Or Donna Tartt's, whose latest novel I don't dare read at the moment in case I derail altogether.   

And while the process of revision is seemingly endless, I've sort of promised myself when I reach the end of this first time through, I'm going to ask a few friends if they'll read it for me and give me their general reaction.  The thought dangles in front of me like some sort of prize, like an acknowledgement this isn't all confined to my imagination but that there really is an actual story to share.  

It makes me shiver and smile.

Of course, there's always the possibility it won't be well received and this story may never be more real or resonant than what exists inside my head.  I'm not pessimistic, but I'm also not delusional.  

I can only keep fussing over these words and trying to coax from them the inspiration I know they're capable of revealing. 

Finally, and most interesting of all, Sherlock molted during the night!  

This is how I found him first thing in the morning, something about it so poignant, fascinating, and joyous to behold.  

a few thoughts

My reading of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe to Caroline's classmates continues to be one of the great highlights of my week.  It's wonderful to receive such a warm reception and to be listened to with spellbound expressions of rapture.  

Today I brought the students a sample of Turkish delight in the form of a chocolate bar I used to love as a child...they pronounced it delicious and wondered aloud if I'd enchanted it as the White Witch did...a reference to the story which delighted me to no end.  

I also asked a student who happens to be from England how she would rate my British accent on a scale from one to ten, ten being on par with Her Royal Majesty, the Queen.  She thought a moment and said seven.  

Seven, dear reader!  Seven!  

I would have been delighted with a four.  

One of the loveliest developments to occur as a result of these weekly reading sessions: the students are checking out every available book by Roald Dahl and C.S. Lewis from the library!  Many of them had never heard of either author before we started reading together and now they are ambushing the school librarian with requests for more.  

When I think of the things which make me deeply happy, this thought comes to mind.  

Something else which was lovely: we had a friend stay with us overnight, an American who married one of my childhood friends and now lives in my hometown.  Whenever I see him, I feel our lives somehow overlapped and exchanged tracks, or something to that effect.  

Anyway, he showed me the new Canadian currency and it practically boggled my mind!  So pretty!  And so cool!

Oh, Canada...you'll never know how much I love you.

I also wanted to let you know the legend of the gigantic blue bee lives on!  I see them everywhere out in the desert these days, like majestic, gleaming drones.  

I adore them because I think they like to show off a little.  They hover around, flexing their muscles, enjoying the way I stare.

And finally, Sherlock.  Thank you for sharing my amazed delight in the development of his new leg.  Recently my husband asked if I was going to turn into that bug lady, a sort of teasing question which I'll assume did not carry a genuine note of concern.  

But in case anyone here wonders along the same lines, let me try to explain.  If I am that bug lady, then I've always been one.  I've always wondered, crouched, and observed.  But I am also self aware.  I do get of all the interests to be had in this world, an interest in bugs may be considered rather marginal, even more so to carry on imaginary conversations with them. 

Still, such things amuse me.  They make me happy.  They are a small, secret delight I keep mainly to myself yet rattle on about from time to time here on this blog.  

Beyond that, something else I love about Sherlock: he's dependable. Even though I like to pretend otherwise, I know he's a creature who adheres to instinct which is constant, steady, and true.  He eats when he is hungry, for example, not because he's depressed.  He hangs upside down, he grooms himself, he awaits a cricket to catch his attention.  And while I can never figure out exactly when he's planning to molt, I do know he WILL molt.  He won't change his mind and decide he's not in the mood to do it.   

Something about such consistency in this changing, mercurial world calms me. I never have to wonder if Sherlock likes me or not.  He doesn't like me and never will.  It's not even a matter of like.  It's not a matter of whim or caprice.  It's just a set of instincts, rhythmic and predictable, beautifully fixed.

It gives me something to count on.  It's something of a relief. 

when the cousins come

When the cousins came to visit last week they weren't two seconds inside the house before they were asking to see the praying mantis, hold the beetles, pet the bunny, and go for a walk out in the desert which they hoped was teeming with rattlesnakes.

And besides swimming in the pool from dawn to dusk, that's pretty much what they did.  

Do you ever go for nature walks, dear reader?  It's not really the same thing as a hike, since covering ground isn't the main priority.  It might only require a few steps, depending on one's curiosity and the range of discoveries which can be made within a small radius.  

It strikes me the things which really matter in raising a child, the things which help build a happy, secure, dynamic human being are essentially free.  I shared my thoughts on this topic once before so I won't bother to rehash the lecture, but during this past week I was reminded again how important it is to let children experience nature, to encourage their curiosities, to let them observe the outdoors and share those moments with them.  

Moving along...Sherlock hasn't molted yet and I'm beginning to think he never will.  He keeps acting like he's going to and then changes his mind.  

And I keep falling for it.  

Finally...I'm probably going to take a little break from Tollipop (again).  I need to finish the revision of my novel and decide what to do next...whether to let it sit awhile, find someone to read it for me, or just launch another revision, which I know it needs.  

The strangest thing about writing is how lonely the process can be.  Writing is like wandering through an entire world of one's making which is both magical and yet immensely solitary at once.  Beyond that, writing doesn't let you pass easily back into the world where everyone else lives.  It holds onto you, somehow, it keeps you in a strange dream.  I don't hang out with writers nor find many moments to "discuss the craft," except when I force the conversation upon my husband.  So...I'm in this place, arranging and rearranging words, making this world from my imagination exist in another realm but let's face it, it might not be that great. It's one thing to picture something in your head and quite another to bring it through a medium into the harsh light of day.  

But I'm this far down the path and there really doesn't seem much else to do but keep on going.  

a watched mantis never molts

A quick update for all of you who must be wondering yet are too polite to ask: Sherlock has not molted yet.  I repeat, has not molted.  

He actually tricked me with the refusal of that cricket the other day.  I suspect it was his way of letting me know his palate's a tad more epicurean.  

At any rate, I just wanted to allay your concerns for the time being.  However, he rejected a cricket again yesterday, so this may launch a new 72 hour waiting period for us all.  

And just so this isn't ALL about a praying mantis, though I see nothing wrong with that, I wanted also to say I'm nearing the end of the first revision of my...manuscript.  But that isn't saying much, dear reader.  

That's like saying I spun ONE straw from a haystack into gold.  

At least I hope it's gold. 

Oh, and the bookshelf.  It's up and running again.  

Is anyone in the mood for a Nancy Drew marathon?

Or perhaps the company of a dear, old friend?

**********

ETA: No!  He tricked me again!  The 72 hour wait is off...stay tuned.

Dear reader...I don't know why I feel so inclined to keep you abreast of the situation with my praying mantis.  I realize the vast majority here probably wish I would never mention such things, yet somehow I'm filled with a sense of obligation to keep you informed.  I secretly assume you are dying to know.  

I really am worried he won't make it through this next molt...a missing limb hardly seems like an advantage when busting one's way out of an old exoskeleton.  

I guess we will cross that bridge if we come to it.  

a few things

I'm up to my old tricks again, dear reader.  It's my favorite time of the year, Reading Week, wherein you get to visit your local elementary school and read stories to the children.  

As usual, I chose Fantastic Mr. Fox. 

Typically I'm not someone who seeks out the spotlight.  In fact, I have a weird paranoia about it which manifested itself during my recent stint as a church choir director when people not only had to look at me, they did so while I was waving my arms around and looking like a complete twit.

But when people are watching me because I'm reading to them...?  

Well.

That I could do all day long. 

A few other items of interest:

Do you remember the mystery bugs promised me (whether I wanted them or not) by the owner of Bugs In Cyberspace?  Well, they arrived and they're fantastic!  I'll tell you more about them (whether you want to hear it or not) soon.  

I'm still floundering about with the revision of my novel.  But Caroline assures me it is everything she ever hoped for in a story.  So I guess I will make at least one person very, very happy.

And finally, M.F. McDowell, who married a childhood friend of mine, has taken his thrilling and suspenseful television project La Fontaine, to Kickstarter to raise funds for the filming of the series.  The pilot won Best Drama at the Banff Media Festival Pilot Competition and has been nominated for various other awards.    It's an amazing grass roots effort, filmed in the valley where I grew up, and I wish him the very best with this venture.