Robert J Wiersema

So, further to the theory that news (good or bad) tends to travel in threes, I must say I'm having a pretty fine day this summer Thursday.

First off, I was pleased to see that there's a new review of Before I Wake up at amazon.com — the first consumer review I've seen of the US paperback edition which has been out for a couple of weeks. It's the sort of review an author likes to read about his book…

Secondly, and also the sort of thing an author likes to read, is a just published profile in the Martlet, the student newspaper at my alma mater the University of Victoria. The fairly forgiving piece and the accompanying photo are both by Jillayna Adamson.

And thirdly (and the sort of thing an author really likes to hear): I had an email from my agent asking to which address they should send the royalty cheque from St. Martin's in the US.

Those are magic words: royalty cheque.

It's a pretty momentous day: Before I Wake has officially earned out its advance in the US, prior to the recent paperback edition. Woo hoo! Champagne here I come!

Mark your calendars, Vancouver folks — I'll be doing a reading in mid-September at UBC downtown.  I can't say for sure, but I suspect the event might mark the public debut of part of the next book.  Or a new short story.  Hmm… so many possibilities…

Press release from UBC Robson Square with all the details:

The Robson Reading Series presentsJacqueline Turner & Robert Wiersema

The Robson Reading Series acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the UBC Bookstore at Robson Square, and the UBC Library at Robson Square.

Which, as far as titles stolen from the song currently playing (Captain Kidd, for the record) go is probably a little misleading, perhaps whetting ones appetite for debauchery and, well, wickedness.

Sorry to disappoint.

Instead, I want to talk about an early influence on my life as a writer.  A work that shaped my perspective on what it might mean to be a writer.  No, not Garp.  Not this time (run a search if you haven't been regaled with my Garp-as-key-to-the-meaning-of-life story).  No, this time I'm referring to that seminal work of cinema arts, Back to the Future.

Yes, that Back to the Future.  Michael J. Fox.  The Delorean.  The uncomfortable Oedipal moments.  The creation of rock and roll…

So what does that have to do with me, you might be asking yourself.

There's a moment, near the end of the movie (and if any of this is spoilers for you, I'm sorry, but, dude, seriously?), when Marty McFly has righted the future and brought things into balance.  There's a box on the counter, and his father opens it, revealing a stack of glossy author copies of his new book.  Yes, the hopeless high school geek has become a novelist, and all it took was… well, time travel.

I remember watching that scene in the movie theatre in the summer of 1985 and, I'm sure, gasping out loud.  Marty could keep his hot girlfriend and his new truck and his brother not serving time — that, right there, that box of author copies?  That was what I wanted.  That was MY future.  It was just a matter of getting there.

Funny the things you remember, the things that influenced you.  And what had me thinking of this as I rode the bus to work with the boy this morning?

Two things.

First, I'm expecting some packages in the mail in the next few weeks.  Apparently the German edition of Before I Wake has just been published (according to a lovely email from a German librarian).  And the Greek edition is due out this month.  And the American paperback comes out in less than two weeks (July 22, to be exact).  So I've got the thrill of opening those packages of author copies to look forward to (and to take the edge off the relentless work on the new book).  I'm not even going to try to deny it — it really is one of the most thrilling things you can imagine, seeing your words in print.  Seeing a stack of books with your name on them all.  And seeing your words in different languages.  And with different titles (the German title, Das Engelsmädchen, apparently translates as The Angel Girl).  So far, it's a thrill that hasn't diminished one bit, and continues to exceed even my Back to the Future inspired fantasies.

The second reason this comes to mind, though, is perhaps the more significant.  Two days ago, my friend Elizabeth Genco tore open HER package, her comp copies of her first graphic novel Blue, which is on sale this month.  I couldn't be more thrilled for her — she's been a good friend and a strong supporter ever since our very strange meeting in Atlanta in 2004, but more than that, she's a fearsome mind, a tireless creator, and a genuine old soul.  Her website describes her as "writer/taroist/fiddle player and busker", but that's really just the tip of the iceberg.  My copy of Blue is on order — yours should be.

Congrats, E - you deserve it.

So I'm not going to.
I mean, I'll fully cop to being neglectful of this little corner of the internets. Almost three months between posts? Awful. Unforgivable, really. I wouldn't be surprised if both of you, faithful readers, have moved on to greener pastures.

Assuming you haven't, however, there is an explanation for my lengthy absence. A couple of explanations, actually. Not excuses — genuine explanations.

So let's see, what have I done since last I posted? Hmm… I've gone to Miami, the Canary Islands, Morocco, Valencia, Barcelona, Cannes and Florence. I've spent a week in Rome. I've spent ten days in Toronto. There have been meetings with editors, publicists, fellow writers and CanLit stalkers. There have been interviews and radio shows and photo sessions, and more to come. There has been prize-jurying and gala-going. There have been family reunions and lonely weekends. There have been Atlantic crossings and staggers across the Strait.

Oh, and the book is done.

That's actually the main reason for my lack of blogging (and it's certainly formed a sub-text… counter-point?… one of those things… to all of the above activities) — the book is done.

Well, done-ish.

If you've been reading this site with any regularity (yes, you two), you'll have a sense of how I write: fountain pens. Notebooks. Almost illegible scrawl. Which is a perfect system for me, even putting aside its charming old-fashionedness, simply because it works.

Except… I've now, with two books in a row (three if you count the short stories) made the SAME mistake. That is, not typing as I go.

Which means I have a done book, a couple of looming deadlines, and 1400 pages of manuscript to type. 1400 pages of my scrawl to transcribe. I'd hire it out to someone, but I can barely read it myself (resulting in my ending up making stuff up to fit the context as I go, usually), so it really all falls to me.

You would think, after the first time this happened (with Before I Wake) I would have learned my lesson. Think again. And let me tell you, 1400 illegible pages takes one hell of a long time to type. Just how long? I'll let you know when I'm done.

So that, in a nutshell, is my explanation for not being around these parts (and I see there's a little house-work to be done, site-wise, when I've got a free moment, as well). The writing took over my life in a significant way, leaving me little in the way of energy or intelligence for these sorts of posts (all appearances to the contrary, they do require at least a modicum of both), and the typing is taking up — almost literally — all of my time.

So, no apologies, just explanations. And my word that I'll be back when all of this gets tucked away. I know, I know, you can hardly wait. Thanks for sticking it out.

I've just awakened (and I mean JUST - the sleep glaze is still over the eyes, softening the hard corners of the world.  Though that doesn't make those corners any softer when you walk into them because your eyes are blurry.  But I digress…)

I've just awakened from a dream in which I was in Toronto.  It was a series of meetings, lunches, dinners, offices, friend's apartments, etc.  And in EVERY situation, I was explaining to people why the book STILL wasn't finished.  My mantra seemed to become "Nope, soon.  Soon." while trying to look cool and unfazed.  My agent, my publisher, my editor, my paperback publisher, my friend the basketball coach (hold on - what the hell was he doing there) — everybody looking at me so understandingly, while I could practically hear them thinking, "Uh huh.  Flake."

I woke up terrified.  And feeling oddly like I wanted to vomit.

The funny thing?  I came out of this dream at around 5.30 am, having decided, rather groggily, to sleep in a bit today, what with it being Saturday and all.  Apparently my subconscious felt that I should be writing…

Which is what I'm going to go do RIGHT NOW.

(Re-reading this, I see now why I don't blog first thing in the morning…) 

I just finished watching (via the miracle of DVR), this week's episode of Without A Trace.

Now, it's not a perfect show.  Some episodes are better than others, some not quite as good.  But it's generally a pleasurable experience, with highlights usually coming from Anthony LaPaglia and Poppy Montgomery.

If this week's episode is an indication of what we can expect from post-strike tv, however, count me out.

Jesus, what a mess.  Bad acting, bad casting, bad bad bad writing.  And not just bad — stupid.  And insulting.

I spent most of the episode rocking gently in place, arms folded protectively across my chest, mewling a little inside.

Awful.

And indicative of a larger shift in my viewing of late, but that's another post for another time.  

The in-house bestseller list for my UK publisher Pan MacMillan is… interesting… this week.

If you had told me, even this morning, that I might someday appear on a bestseller list — even an internal list — alongside Cormac McCarthy and Graham Swift, I would have scoffed openly.

So now I'm just going to giggle maniacally and blog about it…

This is probably going to be important over the next few days, as I try to get some thoughts together, so I might as well get the awkward confession out of the way early: I'm a Springsteen fan.

A big Springsteen fan.

Now, I know a number of much more dedicated Springsteen fans, fans who make even me say "Whoa - that's hardcore", but I suspect when it comes to the more normal realm, I'm pretty out there myself.  I'm the sort of guy who, upon hearing that Springsteen will be coming to the Pacific Northwest, asks not "I wonder if I should go over to Vancouver if he plays there this time" but rather "How many shows will I get to see on this leg of the tour?"

For the record, for the 2008 leg of the Magic Tour, that number is three: Portland, Seattle and Vancouver.

I'll be writing more about the shows in the next couple of days, but I thought I should share a bit of something that happened after I got home this afternoon (after a thousand miles, 6 hours in line-ups, 7.5 hours of concerts and more beer than a mortal man should be drinking in such a limited span of time (and that's not even getting into the gin & juice, a new personal favourite).  A little perspective, I think…

…courtesy of my 8 year-old son Xander.

Now, Xander doesn't really get my occasional Springsteen obsession, why every couple of years I disappear for a few nights with some of my oldest friends, travel thousands of miles to not see any of the cities I'm visiting, no museums, no galleries, preferring instead to wait in mobs of hundreds of people outside stinky arenas.  That lack of understanding is
certainly forgivable - hell, I don't really understand it myself.

I was just getting us ready to walk to his choir, though, and he was asking me about the last few shows, so I thought it was an opportune time to try to get across the sense of Springsteen in concert, to maybe put my madness in a little perspective for him.  So I told him about how my hands were bruised (from too much clapping along), how my feet were tender (from hours spent on a hard arena floor).  And then we got to my voice.  Or lack thereof.

"And I think I ripped a vocal chord," I said.  "Or something else in my throat."

He looked at me, horrified.

I couldn't help smiling.

"How did that happen?" he asked.

"Well, on Saturday night in Seattle, after playing for two hours solid, he came back for the encores."

Xander was nodding.  He knows all about encores.

"And he started off by playing a song that nobody was expecting to hear. One of my favourite songs.  And the noise in that arena - you should have heard it.  It was like a bomb went off, everyone was screaming so loud.  I was screaming as loud as I could."

He looked at me like I was insane.  Perhaps this whole "explaining it" thing was becoming counterproductive.

"But then…"  And I drew it out for dramatic effect.  "Without even stopping the first song, he started another song.  Now this song, I never thought in a million years he was going to play.  I hadn't heard it live in twenty years.  So when he started playing it, well, I thought I had been screaming as loud as I could, but apparently not.  And that's when I felt
something pop in my throat, and I could taste blood in my mouth…"

"Dad," he interrupted, without a moment's hesitation.  "That's because most people only go to ten.  Dude, you go to eleven.  That's like… one more."

So maybe he gets it a little bit after all.

Okay, I confess — I'm a bad blogger.  It does seem that the flurry of posting in February was, in fact, as I had suspected, over-compensating for the then-forthcoming Northern Voice panel.  And since then?  Nada…

To the disappointment of many.  Or, a few.  Or, one, at least, as my brother-in-law took pains to point out over Easter dinner.

Here's the thing, though: I don't mean to let it slide.  I like blogging.  But there are some days where it feels like a tremendous amount of intellectual challenge.  Mock not!  Mornings when I'm getting up at 4 am to write don't leave an awful lot in the way of brain cells to rub together.  Throw work into the equation, and it's a wonder I'm not a gibbering idiot (which, were I to blog, you would know was not the truth, as it would be apparent I had begun to gibber long ago — case in point, this sentence).

At any rate.

I was going to post, one day last week, about how a good writing day is like sex.  There were metaphors, and references to foreplay, and a rhythm that would have been all but irresistible…

And then I was going to post about how some writing days all I can picture is myself (viewed from above) at the base of a very, very, very high wall, which is covered in red scrawl.  And as you zoom in on me, you realize that my hands are bloody, and I'm writing that scrawl in blood…

Apparently neither of those (from consecutive days, no less) got posted.  Or written, for that matter.

So instead I'll leave you with a bit of news.  Readers of this blog (both of you) may recall that I was nominated for an M Award last year for Fiction Writer of the Year (the M Awards are the arts awards presented by Monday magazine here in Victoria, as voted on by their readers).  Suffice it to say, I didn't win (curse you, Bill Gaston!).

It turns out, I'm sort of nominated again this year, in two categories.  First off, I'm nominated for Hardest Working Person in Victoria Literature, which pleases me to no end.  I'm not going to win (nominated against Carla Funk and Jill Margo?  Hell, I wouldn't even vote for me), but IF I did, I'd have to dedicate the award to my faithful partner in the promo department here, Colin Holt, who makes sure that everything runs smoothly, and contributes immeasurably to the illusion that I'm organized, efficient and … well, good at what I do, I suppose.

And secondly, Bolen Books Reading Series is nominated as best Victoria literary event, to which I say, woo hoo!  And, again, thanks Colin.

But make no mistake, on the off-chance we win?  I WILL be picking up the plaque.  And posting it in my office.  Ironically, of course.

It has been noted by some of this blog's more astute readers that the flurry of postings this week might, just possibly, have something to do with my participation on the 'writers who blog' panel at this weekend's Northern Voice conference.

What can I say?  I've spent my life as a not-quite-tall person — I'm used to overcompensating for my shortcomings.