Sylvanus Now Contest: The book, the winner and the last entry

I have been looking forward to this day and being able to give a copy of Sylvanus Now away to someone. Thanks to everyone for participating. It's been fun to read your submissions.

Before we get to the draw, I'd like to tell you a bit about the book.

I finished my own copy (in case you thought I was sending out my used one) of Sylvanus Now on Wednesday. One of the things that makes writing great is a writer's ability to create another world for us. That is something Donna does with great skill.

When I read one of her books about Newfoundland in the 50s and 60, I feel as though I've been transported to a previous century. For those of us who remember growing up in that era, the place and life Donna describes is somewhere outside of most of our experiences. It is this life -- the life in Newfoundland's outports -- that she brings to us in a way that no other can.

When she writes about the collapse of the fishery, her prose doesn't slip into sermonizing, as it might. Instead, she captures the anguish and utter stupidity of it all with a dexterity that had me racing through the pages with my heart in my throat.

In the pages of Sylvanus Now, you'll discover the heartbeat of something we've lost that's been recaptured for us to experience.

I believe it is a rare writer who can perform such a feat.

Thank you, Donna. I am looking forward to your next book next year.

Now, without further ado, may I have a drum roll, please? (I guess that technically counts as further ado, but, hey, this is my blog!)

My hand is dipping into the container and... the winner of the Sylvanus Now contest is..... Carla!

Congratulations! I hope you enjoy the book as much as I have.

For everyone, if you haven't already, begin to explore the works of Atlantic Canada authors. (If you aren't sure where to look, check out interviews on this blog done with Ami McKay, Linda Little, Maureen Hull and, of course, Donna.)
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And now the last submission for the contest. This one isn't eligible because it comes from my partner Pat, whose words I have promised not to edit -- even if they embarrass me. That was the deal. I think it's kinda sweet that he -- a guy who doesn't usually write -- would make the effort to send something in. So, here it is: Pat's view of things.
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Living with a writer

by
Patrick McCarthy

Being a creative person is a wonderful gift. Sharing ideas, art, music and writing for others to enjoy. To most it brings a few hours of pleasure.To some it brings a life changing insight never before realized. Not everyone gets to see the other side of the page though. That's where the the time agonizing over ideas, characters, just the right phrases and creating the all important hook, occurs.

I have been discovering that side for the last year and a half. Now, I never read a book where I don't think of the author's journey to get that book to print. The long and winding maze that brings frustration, disappointment and heartbreak before jubilation. I don't think the general public realizes how much heart and soul goes into toiling for weeks, months and years to do something that is a passion. It has to be a passion or it would be just plain insanity!

I have discovered, over the last four years, what it's like to be living with a passionate, creative person. I feel the frustration and disappointments right along with her. I also feel my own disappointments and frustrations, even jealousy.

Disappointment when I come home after work and find she is on a creative roll, I know I'll have to wait longer to enjoy her company.

Frustration when that may be the case for days or weeks.

Jealousy when writing becomes another partner that demands all her time.

I can sympathize with others who are in the same position as I am, but I can also hope that they enjoy being there as much as I do.

I have discovered that there is no where else I would rather be. I enjoy being with someone who is so full of life and I am totally in love with my beautiful, creative writer.

Sylvanus Now Contest: The Reasons

Here is the second of today's entries.

The Reasons
by
George Carveth

My friend and I chat through the night into the early morning. We talk about everything, anything. After a particularly spell-binding conversation I found I could not go to sleep until I had written a poem, something I'd not done for a long while. After a bit of polishing off it goes and the ensuing conversation revolves around writing.

Do I write?

No, not really anymore.

Why not?

Nervous laugh: defense mechanism. That question's as difficult as answering why I started writing in the first place.

As a child I loved to draw -- I loved colors to be exact. My father was blind and what good were my drawings to him? Was it that simple: a boy seeking his father's approval, looking to communicate in the most effective manner possible? Is there a better reason? Maybe there is no reason. I just happened to have away with words and enjoyed playing with them, more so than with toys--though I loved toys very much.

Ideas, however, did not break, but grew, took on a life of their own. Their articulation was limitless to me, unlike G.I. Joe, who couldn't even straighten his fingers.

And so, there are two of perhaps many reasons I began to write, though where the truth lies is up to the reader to decide: I became more concerned with tone, images. I continued to write, fill volumes of notebooks, all through high school and into college. Looking through them now, I cringe mostly and laugh sometimes. I laugh again when I think that I was convinced that I would be a writer -- a poet to be precise, after I graduated.

I was editor of the college literary magazine, The Writers' Revue. And what happened after college? I became a printer for the next fifteen years, scribbling verses frantically, albeit with less frequency, throughout my breaks and lunches. I fell in love a couple times in those years. I drank and fought, became a parent in those years. I wrote less frequently.

Why did I stop? I honestly don't know; but if I did I probably wouldn't admit the reason. Why don't I call my friends more often? Why aren't I a better person? As you've read above -- I'm more concerned with other things.

Sylvanus Now Contest: Payin' for your Raising

As today is the final day of the contest, I will post any entries received.

This one is from Travis Erwin, a big Texan with a heart for women's fiction. This was originally published on his blog in May, but there was no rule against that. (I don't like having a lot of rules -- as a general rule.)

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Payin' For Your Raising
by
Travis Erwin

I've decided that writing a novel is a whole lot like becoming a parent. As I get serious on my, as-yet-untitled fourth novel, (all unpublished at this point) I am reminded just how tough the process can be.

Conception - This is the fun and exciting part. Daydreaming and coming up with story ideas is as exciting and blissful as sex. Every plot, or potential child, is full of potential. With every new idea and twist and turn I interject I can visualize literary agents beating down my door, editors vying for the rights, book clubs and Oprah clamoring to read my words, best-seller lists. Hollywood itching to convert my manuscript into film. Would be parents, visualize their unborn as the next Einstein, or Payton Manning, or Bill Gates, future president, or (feel free to insert hero or heroine of your choice). No writer sees his book as just another rejection letter and no parent sees his child as a crack addict.

Birth - Reality sets in when that great idea hits the paper in the form of words sentences and paragraphs. Or when you have to slip out of a nice warm bed to comfort a crying baby at three in the morning. Then you realize that some of the stuff in your head just doesn't work in print. You stare at your first couple of pages and say this is crap. The stench makes you gag like a first time dad changing a dirty diaper. Oh, but there are those moments. That one great metaphor you come up with, or that exciting new dimension to one of your characters. It's kind of like that first time your child reaches up of their own will and touches your face. You realize -- Hey, I created this and the cockles of your heart turn all warm and fuzzy. What is a cockle anyway?

Terrible Two's - Okay, so a manuscript can't throw itself on the floor kicking and screaming. It can't yell no and kick you in the shin. But a novel in the beginning stages of life can be unruly just the same. Characters that do not develop the way you envisioned. Secondary characters who develop too well and threaten to override their supposed stronger and more interesting rivals, YOUR PROTAGONISTS. Plots can suddenly wither and stop growing. Complications arise that make your entire storyline implausible or simply ridiculous. Like a young child testing the boundaries this first rough draft stage is a writers test to see if they remain focused and take a story from beginning to end.

Going to School - Potty training is over. You've laid the groundwork for you baby but now it's time to send them out in the world. Kindergarten or critique group. First grade or a contest entry. Is it any harder to have somebody say I hate your heroine and the plot doesn't make sense, than it is to hear your child bit little Timmy Smith, or I had to send him to time out because he refused to sit down and listen? But just as you child needs the attention and guidance of classroom so does your novel. That is not to say you want a teacher to raise your child, or someone else to write your novel, but sometimes it takes that objective unbiased person to take a look and say this needs to be changed.

Graduation - I haven't gotten this far with my own children as they are still young, but I can imagine how proud I'll feel when it does happen. I have experienced that surge of pride of finishing a novel. Three as a matter of fact. It is quite an accomplishment to hoist that four hundred page stack of paper after it has gone through my critique group and half a dozen readers, and say I did it. I finished a novel. That is when it is time to send it out in the world on its own via query letters to agents.

I'm Only Guessing - Just as my children have not reached the graduation stage yet my novels have not progressed beyond the solicitation stage. But I correlate getting an agent with being accepted into a college. Sure there are the Ivy League of literary agents and then there the community junior college ranks of agents. I'd stay away from the online technical and vocational agents since they are likely to charge you fees for things such as editing and what not. Then I'd associate an editor as grad school and so forth. I think you get my idea. So you send your little charge out in the world and if you are talented, lucky, and persistent it is accepted, everyone loves the little guy and before you know you are grandparent. Yes, that truly is how a sequel is born.

Sylvanus Now Contest: What writing means to me

Here's a submission from JK, my blogging buddy from Florida. You can find him here.

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What writing means to me
by JK

Chances are you're going to read this and conclude that my story isn't unique. I'm o.k. with that. I'm not pretending to solve any great mysteries of the universe. The great western philosopher George Carlin once said (or something like it), "Even if I'm one in a million, there are a thousand people just like me." Even if my story isn't new, I hope it bears repeating.

You could say that without writing, I wouldn't be the person I am today. I know that's an awfully strong statement. You might think it's an exaggeration.

It's not.

Growing up I was the shy, quiet kid who wished he could blend in with the background. I didn't think fast on my feet, I often had the wrong thing to say on the tip of my tongue, and I didn't make fast friends. Kids can be cruel, and I tended to be the defenseless sap who made an easy target.

Alright, it wasn't quite as bad as it sounds. I had a few friends in the neighborhood. Growing up in "God's Waiting-room" (Florida in the '80s) had it's advantages. Since there weren't many kids around, most kids couldn't be choosy about their friends. The handful of kids in my neighborhood were stuck with me.

If being a kid was hard, high school was worse. A couple of those neighborhood friends found a better friend in drugs. A couple more found better, more interesting friends in girls (and who blame them?). I had a few high school crushes myself, but I didn't have the courage to do anything about them. By my junior year I felt like a poster-boy for teen angst, and I started losing interest in school. When it was time to sign up for classes for my senior year, I decided I was tired of advanced classes. It was time to do a little coasting. I was tempted to fill my schedule with fluff, the classes the other eighty percent were taking.

I don't remember how it started, but somehow I got into a conversation after class with Mr. Brown, my A.P. American History teacher. I probably hadn't said more than a few words to my teachers all year (beyond "here" at roll call), so it seemed odd he would pull me aside to talk. Registration for next year came up, I told him my plans (with half-hearted justification), and he was disappointed. I don't remember his exact words, but he said something to the effect of: "John, that would be a real shame. I always look forward to reading your essays on my exams. You don't always get all of your facts right, but you're a good bullshitter. The way you write, you'd do well in college. It would be a shame if you didn't at least try." My first thought was, does it take one to know one? But Mr. Brown wasn't the kind of teacher who gave out a lot of praise in class, so his words stuck. (Hopefully he won't get the chance to read this and take it back.) It gave me just enough of a boost to keep going, to try... at least a little.

My senior year of high school came, and I developed a big crush on my anatomy lab partner. After performing major surgery on a dead cat for a semester and a half with this girl, I decided my last chance at happiness in life was slipping by. I didn't think she was dating anyone at school, so I pulled together all of my self confidence and asked her out to prom. As it turned out she wasn't dating anyone at school... she was dating someone at another school... and I was crushed.

Prom came and went, and the girl that had become one of my best friends continued to date some mystery guy. I cursed fate. I couldn't help but wonder if my fear had caused me to put off asking her out, missing my one chance at happiness. (Wasn't being a teenager hell?) Before we graduated and parted ways (perhaps forever), I felt like I had to tell her how I felt. Anyone can ask a girl out to prom. All it requires is a pinch of interest and a little courage. With teenage wisdom at my side, I decided that I should lay it all down on the table. Ah, but I couldn't trust my voice to get it all out, so I sat down to write. I stayed up late one night, pouring out my heart and soul onto a half a dozen sheets of notebook paper. I attached a cover sheet to my little essay, calling it: Life as I Know It. I asked her to read it in class the next day. Now to be clear, I didn't want her to read it IN class. I thought she'd just take it home and read it at her leisure... preferably sometime when I wasn't around. It was all part of my cunning plan... give it to her right before a lecture started so she'd have to put it away, and hopefully forget about it for a while. Shows how much I knew about people, girls, and this girl in particular. She flipped the cover, dove right in, and I was horrified. I wanted to chicken out. I wanted to take it all back. I wanted to get back on the cliff after I'd already jumped. I was sure I'd made a terrible mistake by putting my thoughts down on paper; a permanent record of my feelings... laying myself bare. This was a level of trust I hadn't shared with anyone, and I was sharing it with a girl who had pledged her affection to someone else.

She finished reading it and said it was nice. NICE? Nice is for friends in class, not soul-mates. Once again I was crushed. Once again I felt I had foolishly brought it upon myself. I felt like I was a victim of every after school special I'd ever seen.

We remained friends, but after graduation we did go our separate ways. I went away to school, to one of the big state universities, and she stayed home to go the local junior college (due to cost, not ability). She continued to date the other guy, but we still got together every couple months when I was home visiting family (yeah, sure I was). Sometimes we went out with other friends, other times it was just us. She talked about marriage, and I thought about jealousy. She talked about her fights with the other guy, and I played the role of the good friend, as I thought it should be played... often explaining why I thought their latest love spat was nothing to worry about. Oh the humanity! More than a year went by this way.

One weekend she came up with a friend for a college football game. We spent the day together with friends, and afterwards I drove her home. On the way she said something that rocked the foundation of my life. While I know now that I came from a loving home, being young makes it easy to ignore what you have... and I felt unloved and unwanted. She said something that night changed it all. She asked me if I still felt the way I did back in high school, when I wrote "that thing." It was a loaded question... and it went off.

We've been married for thirteen years now and have two wonderful children. She's the love of my life.

While I don't think of myself as much of a writer, and I don't count on it for my livelihood (nor do I aspire to), writing has been a big part of my life. It's possible that this is really a story about overcoming fear, the difficulties of adolescence, or the influence good (and bad) teachers can have over our lives. But as I look back, writing was one of the things that didn't let me down. It brought me a little self confidence when I was lacking. It helped me open up to someone when I was too shy to do it in person. (My wife says it saved her from marrying a jerk.) From my earliest journals to blogging, It has been like another friend. It was always there when I needed it. It always listened and it never judged. It was my conduit to the world when I was too afraid to engage it in person.

I wonder what my life would have been like if a teacher hadn't thought to compliment me on my writing. I wonder if I would have gotten the attention of that girl in high school.

Even if all of this is slightly exaggerated, at a minimum I think writing helped me find my out of my shell. Life's been a wild ride since (by my standards anyway ;-)

Sylvanus Now Contest: Pen and Ink

Here is Carla's submission for the contest. Carla is a member of my writers' group and I'm delighted to have met her.

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Pen and Ink
by
Carla Taylor

Pen Whew! I just licked the envelope to seal my congratulatory note to friends who recently became grandparents. My right hand is cramped and sore…it hasn’t held a pen much in the past weeks, months, can it be years? My handwriting looked more like scrawl than the lovely swirls we practiced back in grade school…in the 1950’s. Do they still do that? Anyway, my friends-who-hate-email will soon have a heartfelt hand-scribbled message in their lovely brass mailbox that hangs next to their front door…much prettier than the Inbox to which most daily mail is sent these days, mine included.

I jumped on the email train as soon as my kids set up the computer, turned it on, and clicked on Outlook Express for me. Eventually, I learned to do all that myself. And then I emailed everyone I knew…actually badgered friends to get email addresses. Over time, I realized that I was no longer writing full sentences or trying to keep thoughts together in paragraphs. I could pass on information or set up a lunch date in quick phrases…efficient, time-saving, and convenient.

When, however, it comes time to ‘snail mail’ a proper Thank You note, or add a personal thought to a birthday card...my Mother drilled these niceties into me as I grew up way back in the mid twentieth century…both my composition skills and the execution of words by hand onto paper are a daunting challenge.

I started my fiction writing years ago with a lovely Shaeffer cartridge pen and nice clean thick lined pads of paper. Sometimes now when I reread some of those pages, I sigh at the neatly scribed words (even the cross-outs are legible!) flowing down those pages. I’m not sure why I’ve kept them for they are definitely not literary masterpieces. Perhaps they’re just gentle reminders of the beginnings of my journey to author a book worthy of sharing. Now I have several partially-finished works stored in My Documents where I keep them as I’m creating them on my computer. I still have writing pads and lots of pens. Maybe for their aura and good vibes? I think, though, that my pride and joy…that finally finished manuscript…will roll neatly out of my three-in-one printer. I really hope that it’s soon.

Sylvanus Now Contest: The doubties

Here is the next entry in the Sylvanus Now Contest sent in by my dear friend, Becca. Becca is the kind of friend I can call (I haven't yet, but know I could) at 3 a.m. (okay with the time zone difference that'd only be 10 p.m. her time, but you know what I mean) and cry and rant about some new heartache and she'd be supportive even though she'd know that in a month I'd have forgotten all about it. I miss the days when she lived closer and I could jump in my car for a 12-hour road trip to do the same. We'd sit on her front porch drinking beer and watching the river flow by.... But I digress.

Becca is also a new blogger. You can catch her at: http://jedsmommy.blogspot.com/ (or Don't get me started...)

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The Doubties
by
Becca Luczycki

I was not doing it for the attention then, and I am not now…

When I was in college, by roommate used to accuse me of saying my writing sucked and I wasn’t sure what kind of grade I would get on a paper I had just handed in, just for the attention. “You know you always do well,” she said, “Just stop saying that.” It used to piss her off because she could spend twice as much time are me and not do well.

And I did always do well. Well, a large majority of the time. But I wasn’t saying it for attention or affect (or even effect, whichever one is correct there). Every time I handed something in, the “Doubties” would immediately start to clamor at the back of my brain.
You know them, you’ve heard them too; They scratch at your cerebellum and whisper stuff like “It sucks, it really does, you just thought it was good while it was spewing out of your fingertips and into the typewriter” (Yes, I had a typewriter in college, didn’t get a computer until grad school and even then it was DOS-operated).

It still happens to me now. I finish a piece for work and the minute I hand it over to the other editors I start to get anxious, even if I sent it to a very good and honest friend and took it home for my man to read to first, and they both told me it was very good, I still worry until I see that A grade (or these days, until I see very few scribbled comments when it comes back form my colleagues.

What IS that? Why can’t I (why can’t we all) just understand that if we are doing this for a living, or hoping to one day, that we are probably pretty good at it? Why can’t we just tell ourselves, okay, it might need some revision but overall it’s pretty darn good? Why can’t we be proud of ourselves without external validation?

Geez, now I am about to hit the send key on this and I am wondering if it’s what Colleen was looking for when she started this contest, if the other blog readers will agree, if I am really supposed to participate because I write for a living but not fiction…? Anyone need any extra Doubties? I’ve got some to spare.

Sylvanus Now Contest: Racing across the paper

The next submission for the Syvanus Now Contest is from Caitlin. Her poem reminds me of what being 15 (or almost 15) was like. It is a gift to remember.

This is about her first experience reading her work in front of an audience. It took place at a writers' workshop taught by Ami McKay last month at Ross Creek Centre for the Arts.

Racing across the paper
by Caitlin Peace-Williams

I'm so nervous. My hands are shaky and sweaty. Ami calls my name and I stand up, knees knocking together. I slowly walk to the stool and sit down. I take several deep breaths and start to read.

My voice wobbles at first. I stop and take another breath. I start again.

Tears are pouring down my face in terror, but I continue reading. I pause to wipe the tears off my face and Diane comes and hugs me.

"Thanks" I whisper. I start to read again. I remember the time I spent writing my poem. My pencil racing across the paper, thinking about it. I love writing.

I finish my poem and everyone claps. I walk as quickly as I can off the stage and I am enveloped in hugs from my whole camp. We stand there for a moment embracing. We break apart and the next person goes up. I cry for a few more minutes. I’m so proud of myself. I did it!

This is the poem I read:

Caitlin: An Inventory of Being.

I am Caitlin
I am almost fifteen
I am free-spirited
A person

My favorite color is blue
sky blue, ocean blue, just blue
My favorite piece of art is art itself

I love dancing in the rain
and slow dancing
but no other kinds of dancing
I love to watch people dancing

I love reading
I would read constantly if I could
But I can’t
I love drinking tea on sunny afternoons

I love slipping into a pair
of warm underwear,
hot from the dryer
its like a blanket for my butt

I love playing catch with my dog
her expression as
she brings back the ball
is priceless

I am boy crazy
my room is plastered
with Orlando Bloom posters
his face watching me

I am musical
singing like there's no tomorrow
I am creative in the kitchen
My works of art disappearing into my mouth

Your hair is like honey
my mother told me once
it’s soft and clean
and frizzy sometimes

My life is like a merry go round
always moving, turning, spinning
sometimes stopping for a moment
I am forgetful

I am a Peter Parker in
a field of superheroes
I am always laughing
loud, silent, loud and silent at the same time

My humor is my own
with my parents humor incorporated
my parents lame humor
incorporated

I love kisses, sweet kisses
on the cheek from my girlfriends
good night kisses, good morning kisses
Kisses-till-your-lips-are-sore kisses

I love sailing the smells
the sounds the taste of
salt air in my mouth
the feel of wind in my hair

I love running, the thump
of my shoes, the dog’s tag jingling,
her paws padding the road
I always get my ideas running

My favorite quote is
"The greatest thing you'llever learn is just to
love and be loved in return"

The saddest movie
I've ever seen is the Titanic
I cried for an hour,
love stories make me cry

I wear what ever I want,
I wear the physics tie because I feel like it
I have a shirt that says "I'm not opinionated,
I’m just always right"

My belly button is adorned
with a pink and silver ring,
it reflects the light
when I go sunbathing

My biggest secret is one
I can’t tell you – It’s something
I promised not to do
I haven't broken my promise

Sometimes I’m a stranger
to my self. I like to be alone;
I like to daydream; I like
curling up with my teddy bear on rainy afternoons

I love watching Jane Austen movies with my Mum,
and listening to my Dad play guitar.
I like watching my sisters jump on our trampoline

I like to watch people
I like to watch people watch TV
I like to watch my eyes in a mirror
I like soft music

I like pretending to listen to music
while actually listening to peoples’conversations
I like hot showers

I love skinny dipping
late at night and
early in the morning
I like getting dressed up to go to the movies

I love going to sleep
listening to the ocean
I like going camping in
Cape Breton

I love going swimming
the cool water washing over me
I like going in hot tubs
and having girl talks

I like talking on the
phone for hours,
talking about problems,
listening to problems

I remember why
I did the things I regret.
I love Dragon Flies

Sylvanus Now Contest: Ten Thousand Hours

Here is the first entry for the Sylvanus Now Contest. It's by Gail Lethbridge, a wonderful writer and columnist with the Chronicle Herald. She can be found hanging out here.

Thank you, Gail! Your name is in the draw.
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Ten Thousand Hours
by
Gail Lethbridge

Cognitive neuroscientists estimate that it takes 10,000 hours of practice to achieve mastery over an artistic endeavor like music or writing.

Let's do the math on this. Ten thousand hours is 416 days if you work 24/7. That is just over a year and one month of nothing but writing. No time for sleep, breaks or eating, just writing.

Clearly this is not possibe, so let's break it down further. Say you worked eight hours per day with no break or lunch. This would mean that 10,000 would take you 1,250 days to complete. That is almost three and a half years with no weekends, holidays or days off. (Aren't online caculators great.)

Perhaps this would be possible for the aspiring writer who is single minded and brutally dedicated.

But what about the aspiring writer with a job, a young family, a partner, friends and extra curricular activities? Short of breaking the space-time continuum, how does this writer carve those 8 hours out of the busy life?

Even four hours or two hours per day would be a stretch the writer who juggles a life. And with each compromise, the 10,000 hours will take that much longer, seven years, 14 years, 20 years.
If the mathematics of this seems mind boggling, then think about the ergonomics of those 10,000 hours. How would your back, neck and shoulders feel after that much time hunched over a computer? What about the stinging eyes? The numb fingers?

And if that's not enough, think of the economics. Divide the annual wage of a writer into 10,000 hours and work out the hourly rate. On second thought, don't do that.

But even if you could manage the math, the ergonomics and the economics of the 10,000 hours, what about the problem - the central paradox - of balancing life with writing?

Is it not the family, the job, the partner, the friends and the extra curricular activities that provide the material for the writing? If a writer sacrifices any or all of these these non-writerly activities in order to lock herself away in a small room and write, is she not sacrificing the very heart and soul of her writing?

What would she write about? Writing? That's depressing and even moreso given the purpose of this contest.

Of course, this paradox is not complete. If it were, there would be no writing, or at least no writing worth reading.

It's self-defeating to think of those 10,000 hours. And it's self-defeating to think of the math and the ergonomics and the economics. But they are truths; the hard, miserable truths of writing.

And still, we write. I wonder why?

The Sylvanus Now Contest

All right my darlings... as my autumn equinox gift to you all, I'm launching a contest.

For those of you who haven't met her yet, I'd like to introduce you to Donna Morrissey. (If you have already been introduced to Donna's work, you are welcome to join in too.)

I am offering a copy of Sylvanus Now -- already ordered for you in trade paper -- to some lucky person.

All you have to do is write something about writing. Easy right? It doesn't matter what. It could be why you write or why you don't, something about the business, the importance of written language, the lost art of letter writing, why you hate communicating through email... whatever. You don't have to be a self-described writer to enter either.

Minimum: 250 words; maximum: as long as you'd like (within reason; let's not get crazy.)

Contest opens right now and closes on September 29, 2007 at midnight (Atlantic time)

All entries will be posted.

All entrants will have their names dropped into a hat and drawn on the 30th. If you win, I'll email you and you'll have to provide an address where I can send you the book.

Please send your entries to me at ideas.chg.world@ns.sympatico.ca. (This is an old account I don't use, so only your lovely entries will go there.)

In case you need further enticement, here's some information on Sylvanus Now, copied from Penguin.

"The time is the 1950s, and the place is Canada’s Atlantic coast at the edge of the great Newfoundland fishing banks. Sylvanus Now is a young fisherman of great charm and strength. His youthful desires are simple: he wants a suit to lure a girl—the fine-boned beauty Adelaide—and he knows exactly how much fish he has to catch to pay for it. Adelaide, however, has other dreams. She longs to escape the sea, the fish, and the stultifying community, but her need of refuge from her own troubled family leads her to Sylvanus and life in the neighbouring outport.

"Set against the love story of Addie and Sylvanus is the sea, the Great Mother that is on the cusp of cataclysmic change. Caught between his desire to please his wife and his strongly independent nature, Sylvanus must decide what path his future will take."

Commonwealth Writers Prize: Shortlist 2006
Thomas Head Raddall Fiction Award: Winner 2006
Atlantic Book Awards - Booksellers' Choice Award: Winner 2006

So get writing, have fun and Happy Equinox!
Colleen

3-Day Novel Contest

So, how about it? Think you can write a novel in three days?

I'm giving serious thought to entering Vancouver's 3-Day Novel Contest. Sounds like the sort of gruelling exercise I'd be up for. The writing takes place over the Labour Day Weekend and is open to writers around the world. Outlining and research can be done ahead of time, if desired, but actual writing can't begin until midnight. September 1. If you're interested, let me know. We can encourage each other during the writing period.

All the info is here.

Colleen