A Novel Called “Love Traffic”

Love Traffic
The first edition of my self-publish novel, Love Traffic

I probably wouldn’t have guessed the year right without looking at the inside cover, but in 2006 I finished a novel and released it to the world on lulu.com, a print-on-demand website. I had one copy printed for myself. Soon after I was holding my “first book” in my hands. It didn’t look as professional as a Penguin paperback or even as good as your average local small press trade paperback, but it was close. I mean, it was a book and my words were in it. People could hold it in their hands and read the story I’d written, if they bought the book.

But why would they buy it? It was hard to imagine someone browsing through lulu.com for a book to buy. If people had $10 and wanted to buy a book, they would be on Amazon, or at their local bookstore, not on the website full of self-published novels.

Indeed, after a while–six months, a year, I can’t remember–no copies of the book had been sold. I occasionally took a look at the copy I had received and I wasn’t happy with the layout. The main issue was that the type was quite small. The indentations were also too large.  I must have also thought the cover was a little cheesy (now I like it), because I redesigned it. I also wanted to make a few changes to the text. Just a few. I wasn’t thinking at the time of rewriting it. I’d already worked on it for two or three years while teaching full-time.

When I was finished with the new look, I uploaded the documents to Lulu and “demanded” a copy of the new version, which was larger: 8 1/2″ x 5 3/8″,  whereas the first “edition” was 6 7/8″4 1/4″ x The new version looked a little better than the first. Mainly, though, it was just different. Both felt pretty good to hold in my hand.

Back cover of first edition of Love Traffic
Back cover of first edition of Love Traffic. The second paragraph is quite frank about the theme of shyness, which the novel itself evades.

After admiring it for a couple of weeks, I gave the second “edition” to a writer buddy. He congratulated me on finishing a novel. He said that it might not be my best work, but that there was a section that he loved. I think he said that it was “like something out of Dostoevsky”.

The part he liked was actually a flashback to a couple of years prior to the main timeline of the novel, when the main character, Warren, goes to stay with his parents for a few days at the end of his university semester. He hasn’t seen them in half a year. During that time he started to become very self-conscious in social situations. When he gets home, he’s embarrassed to discover that he can’t look his parents or younger sister in the eye without blushing. He doesn’t know why he is like this and he’s too embarrassed to mention it to anyone. His family has noticed a change in him, but they don’t discuss it either. He returns to school. Very gradually, over the next couple of years, his self-consciousness lessens.

The novel begins a few years after the worst of his “self-consciouness attacks”, as he discovers online dating sites. He’s is understandably drawn to this safe method of “meeting” people. Although he doesn’t get to know many women in his real life, he ends up being able to have a few intense relationships virtually. The question that I wanted to hover over most of the novel was whether online dating would draw him further from or closer to the real world.

Inside Title Page of Love Traffic
I was reading Lawrence as I was finishing the novel. I thought this quote showed the timelessness of the themes in my story, which is firmly set in the early 2000s.

Every year or so I pick it up and read a few pages. Often, I find a typo, in which case I dog-ear the page for future reference, just in case I decide to do something else with it. Sometimes I think that I should throw it away; other times I wonder if I should try again to get it published. I had sent it to a few publishers and agents before resorting to self-publishing, but I received only form rejections, except for one agent, who, in response to the synopsis in my cover letter, wrote something like, “It sounds like quite an inventive tale”, before adding that he wasn’t interested in reading it. He was actually the agent of a friend of mine, a woman who wrote a well-received novel at about that time. I didn’t mention that I knew her. For various reasons I’m glad to have resisted that temptation.

I have been thinking about the novel more over the past year. I must admit that I haven’t sat down and re-read it from start to finish, but when I dip into it here and there, I’m not embarrassed by the writing–although there have been moments in the past when I’ve been tempted to throw away my copy and delete the files. Honestly, my destructive impulse probably came out of my frustration at not getting the novel published, rather than dissatisfaction with the novel. Now, older and a little less fiery than I used to be I have different feelings about it. The novel was started before my daughter was born and finished, I reckon, near the birth of my son. Even then, it was dealing with the types of experiences that were in my past–finishing university, finding your first job, getting into your first adult relationship. Now, the period in which I worked on the novel is also well behind me. It almost feels like the work of a different person, definitely a younger one. Perhaps this is why I finally feel slightly generous toward it.

I am trying to decide the best way to republish the novel. I could put it back on Lulu; I could put it up here, chapter by chapter; I could send it out again to publishers (just to see what would happen). I’m not sure yet how I will do it, but my gut feeling at the moment, even literally at this moment, is that sharing the novel in some way is the right decision. The story is bleak and out of necessity open-ended, but it’s a pretty honest piece of art that I worked hard at. To keep it hidden–and I know this sounds a little dramatic–feels like keeping a part of myself hidden.

It’s not entirely a coincidence that the scene that my friend liked was, loosely speaking, a flashback. The novel came out of my own experience. At the time of writing, I was uneasy about this. Given how uneasy, it is funny how feebly I attempted to hide the autobiographical elements–by using masks and transformations and splitting up personalities. Mainly, though, my method for hiding the personal stuff was to avoid the most painful truths–one of which was excruciating shyness. That is why the most autobiographical part of this book, the Dostoyevskian part, was stuffed into the backstory.

It is played down, but, interestingly, it is there. It isn’t integral to the plot, but I suppose I needed to put it into words. I suspect my friend, who is older and gentler than I, sensed my need for cathartic purging, which is why he mentioned that part of the book, to show that he had read and felt it.

I didn’t sit down today knowing that I would get into this theme (isn’t that a handy euphemism for “the dark shadow of my childhood”), but I find it interesting that I’ve ended up here. Maybe that is why I have a soft spot for a novel that on the surface seems to be about a girl crazy guy who among other life mistakes falls for a porn star (that part’s not autobiographical, honestly). Shyness was the great monster in my life when I was younger. Morrissey turned shyness into a catchy tune, but I think it’s hard to make a gripping novel out of it. Still, I would like to write about it more. I think I’m almost beyond the stage of being embarrassed about being shy, which I always found to be as debilitating as shyness itself, half of the vicious circle. I think it has been tackled, but usually using subterfuge, metaphor, switcheroo. I’ve wondered if shyness isn’t largely what Kafka is writing about, if its not the thing about Hamlet that we struggle to put our finger on, the same for Holden Caufield. Something to ponder further another day.

 Love Traffic wasn’t the first novel I finished–that was A Jar of Minnows, my MA thesis–but I held it in my hand in the from of a book, something meant to be read, by others. I’ve said “held it in my hand” three times now. It must be important. It did–it does–feel good in my hand. And the pages I re-read hold my interest. I can’t help but wonder if they would hold anyone else’s.

A Random Page of Love Traffic
A randomly opened page of Love Traffic. Not bad (but two little typos).
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I Don’t Want to “fail better”

A few minutes ago I was on the verge of writing a different sort of post than this. I was going to write about the number of rejections I’ve been getting from literary magazines. I would have included a screenshot of my Submittable account, which shows the twenty-four submissions I’ve made in the past few years and the word “declined” beside all but the two most recent, which are still under consideration. I was going to laugh it off and maybe speculate about whether or not I should give up writing because I just don’t have the natural talent for it. But just as I was about to take the screenshot, I thought, This is really pathetic. I felt a prick of self-respect or reason or something and almost started to blush at the idea that I was on the verge of pseudo-celebrating my own failure.

Perhaps there is a time and place for that kind of attitude, but you also have to take yourself seriously. If you’re just laughing about your failures, you’re not learning from them, you’re not giving yourself the opportunity to actually develop and start to write for a real audience, even if that audience doesn’t exist yet.

For me, laughing off failure is a kind of perverse acceptance that has left me feeling as though I’m on the sidelines, out of the real game. I took up residence in the land of failure. I even started to write for the land of failure. In this land there are no real readers, no opinions, no ears, no hearts, no hope. It’s a ghost land.

Think about how you might call across a field to someone who might hear you. Compare that to calling across a field to someone whom you know is out of the range of your voice. One voice is full of urgency and power, the other is not. In the land of failure you write like the person who is calling to no one.

Becoming stuck in the land of failure is not entirely the writer’s fault. It’s an occupational hazard. There are not enough readers for all of the writers. There are not enough spots on the team. Not enough jobs for all of the applicants. And yet one goes on writing–but into a void, where the words reach no one. They are never stress-tested, fact-checked, or refuted. They exist in their own la-la land where irrelevance and insignificance can persist without any reality-check.

If I were to read through my texts that received twenty-two rejections on Submittable, and if I were unflinchingly honest, I think I would find many examples of these land of failure characteristics, which are sometimes the result of self-indulgence but more often laziness (which is probably at the root of self-indulgence anyway). The tendency for land of failure writing to have these weaknesses is somewhat understandable. To put it in psychology-textbook terms, there is no reward for the artistic effort when there is no reader, whether from pay or from praise.

But looking at the reasons why writing is a challenging occupation is not all that productive. It might be true that those writers who have a readership are, indeed, fortunate to have the motivating rewards that come with a readership, but envying them doesn’t help me write better. Similarly, while it could be helpful to realize when I’m in the land of failure, spending too much time looking around, half-admiring it and painting it, only prolongs the amount time I spend there. I really just have to pack up and move back over to where the action is and elbow my way back into the game, cheesy metaphors and all.

The Samuel Beckett quote “fail better” is often used to inspire people to be more determined, and I have consciously espoused it a few times myself, but looking at it now I wonder if it’s such good advice. I always thought of it as ironic and humorous, which is probably why it appealed to me. It laughs off failure. Perhaps, there are times when it’s constructive to laugh off the current failure, but then you have to get serious. Maybe instead of “Try[ing] again. Fail[ing] again. Fail[ing] better”, I should “Do it again. Do it better. Succeed.”

But I’m making myself cringe with these inspirational quotes and I’ve spent enough time writing about how I should be writing. I think now it’s time to go and do it.

Current First Chapter of New Thing

This is what I have as the first chapter of my current novel-in-progress. I’ll come back to it again–and again, but at the moment I’m building a little ways further of the trail. These are the pages I always see, though, when I first open the document. 

Ed went up to the door with thin notebook in his hand. The man who answered was a few inches shorter than Edward. Wisps of pepper hair had been stretched neatly across the top of his head. He wore a white short-sleeved t-shirt, tucked into tightly belted pants.

“Calvin?”

“Yes.” He took a quick look at Edward and invited him in. The apartment was nearly empty. Edward was led into a room with a sliding glass door that opened onto a porch and a tiny yard. Plastic boxes were stacked in one corner. In another a small desk held with a monitor and keyboard. The computer tower sat on the floor.

“So, Edward,” Calvin said. “How long have you been making videos?”

He kept his answer simple: “Three years.” He tried to read Calvin’s reaction, but it was a fairly inscrutable nod.

Calvin pressed his fingertips together and cast his eyes toward the floor. “I wanted to speak with you about an idea. I’ve been thinking of starting a Youtube channel about yoga. I would be in the videos. I would put a new one out each weekday maybe. They would be short, just a pose or asana each day. Something like that. What do you think?”

Calvin didn’t strike Edward as a particularly engaging presenter, and there were probably already a few hundred yoga channels on Youtube, maybe thousands. “I think it’s a pretty good idea, sure, but there is probably a lot of competition.”

Calvin downplayed the competition. Yoga was very popular and there were a lot of people willing to watch a video that had some intelligent substance to it, not just pretty people wearing trendy tight clothes. Edward politely conceded the point.

The fingers came together again and Calvin pondered the parquet floor. “Okay, Edward. Let me ask you: would do you think about partnering with me on this? You would do the production. I would do the content and I’d be willing to split the revenue fifty-fifty. Of course, there won’t be a lot at first, but if we stick with it, I think we could really have something. Is that something you would be interested in? What do you think?”

Edward opened his mouth to speak, although he still had not found words that were both polite and honest.

Calvin jumped in again: “Obviously, we wouldn’t get together every day. We’d film ten or so episodes at a time and then put them out each day.”

“It’d probably be more like five,” said Edward. “It takes longer than most people think, especially if there are just two of us.”

“Okay, five, but we wouldn’t have to get together every day. What do you think?”

Edward straightened his spine and rocked to the side. “Ahhhhhhhh, I don’t think I would do it as a partner, but I would certainly do it and charge you a day rate.”

Calvin looked as if he’d just had his heart broken. Edward found the reaction excessive. A few moments earlier he’d found Calvin to be naïve and slightly pitiable. Now he began to dislike him.

“What’s your day rate?” Calvin asked.

Edward knew that Calvin would be surprised and disappointed, but he answered with a certain amount of pleasure because he was eager to let Calvin know how much his services were worth. “For a regular kit of equipment, it’s $400 a day.”

Calvin’s eyebrows registered his amazement and incredulity. He looked out the window.

“So we could do only a week of shows for $400. That’s only about eight minutes of video,” he added, as if the math would reveal the extravagance of Edward’s prices.

“That’s only for shooting,” said Edward. “There would also be editing.”

Calvin laughed a little. “How much do you suppose for the editing?” he asked with an amused smiled.

“You have to cut the footage together. Add an intro, I imagine, music, render it out, upload. It would be more work to make the first one and then it would go a little faster for the others. I would have to think about it more, but let’s say the first five episodes would take two to three days to put together, say 20 hours, maybe more. The next weeks a little less.”

“What’s your hourly rate?”

“I think it’s about the best you’ll find. My expenses are much less when I’m at home editing. For a recurring job like this, I could do it for $25 per hour.”

“So the first five shows would cost me how much, roughly?”

“Four hundred plus twenty-five times 20. That’s four hundred plus five hundred. Nine hundred.”

“Oof, oh my god. How long is it going to take me to make nine hundred dollars on Youtube? That’s the question.”

It wasn’t really a question for Edward, but he had an answer. “Realistically? Ten years. Five to twenty years.”

“No, no, no,” said Calvin. “I know it won’t take that long. But still, I guess it looks like I’m going to be working with a student. It won’t be the same level of equipment, but you have to start somewhere, right?” He looked directly at Edward. It was a challenge, perhaps a bluff, but still a challenge. Could Edward let the job slip into the hands of “a student”?

“There’s a lot of stuff on Youtube that looks pretty crappy and gets millions of hits,” he acknowledged.

“That’s the thing, Edward. That’s the thing. I didn’t want to do something that looks crappy.”

“Well,” said Ed, bored and eager to leave, “you know my prices now. I’d be happy to work with you if you’re interested.” He slowly made his move toward the front door.

Calvin followed. “I’m interested. I’m interested. I just need to get some content … need to get a pilot, like on TV. Anyway, I guess you’ve made up your mind.”

He didn’t make eye contact again until they shook hands goodbye. Calvin acted as if Ed’s price had wounded him. It was manipulation, Edward could tell, and it usually worked on him, but he was trying to be tougher. He wished Calvin all the best and walked to his car.

A Book in the Hand is Worth … A Blog Post

My novel has been “out” for over a month. We had two launches–one at the college where I teach and one at the Blue Met Literary Festival.

My novel has been “out” for over a month. We had two launches–one at the college where I teach and one at the Blue Met Literary Festival. Small presses don’t have much of a budget for marketing so there have been no steps taken to thrust the book into the spotlight–either by subtle or bold methods. I don’t even think my press sends out review copies. So the book’s reputation is going to have be propelled by word-of-mouth/finger/thumbs.

IMG_1925

There have been no published reviews yet, but I have received kind notes from a few professors who work at my college, as well as a writer friend who is halfway through the book.

I’m not sure I’m particularly eager to have the novel reviewed. I guess it depends on the review–not whether the review is glowing or critical–but whether it is superficial or serious. Thoughtful reactions to art give the art some identity. At the moment the books is floating–like a newcomer arriving at a party, wondering what role it will play in the gathering.

My own feelings about the novel are probably fairly typical: they vacillate. Some days I think it is a poor effort and that the time I spent on it was wasted; other days I’m satisfied that I hit the mark that I was aiming for; ocassionally I read a few pages and think, “If someone else wrote this I would be impressed and wish that I could write like this.” (I know this last sentiment is a little vain, but I can assure you that I experience it very rarely.)

It’s a concise, third-person novel about a family living in present-day Montreal. The focus is mostly on the main character, Will, a project manager at a plastics company who receives a poor performance evaluation at the beginning of the story. He spends the rest of the novel coping with the challenges of fatherhood while attempting to redeem himself in the eyes of his boss. Along the way there are temptations and conflicts.

After one of the readings I gave, an audience member, who happened to be a poet, said that there was something mystical in the scene I’d read. I was glad to hear this reaction. I’m not sure “mystical” would be the word that I would use, but I think I know what he was referring to. I mention this because, to me, the story is about more than career challenges in the twenty-first century. It’s also about, or it’s supposed to be, courage, forgiveness, salvation, beauty, self-awareness and empathy–to invoke a few hefty themes.

I tried to create beautiful, honest music with a few, simple, quiet instruments. I hope there are a least a few pages in this short novel on which I was half-successful.

The novel should be available through the usual online mega-retailers, or you could go straight to the publisher’s website.

If you’d like to stay tuned for writing-related news from me, you can of course read this blog, or you can follow me on Facebook or Goodreads.

On Flashbacks

There’s a movie in which Chevy Chase plays a wannabe writer. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen the entire movie, but there is a scene at the beginning that I will always remember. Chase’s character has given his wife his novel to read. When he asks her what she thinks, she starts to cry and says that it is terrible. She says something like, “In the first five pages there are three flashbacks, two flash forwards and I think there’s even a flash sideways.” Ouch.

I imagine that most writers can sympathize with this scene insofar as handling time can be tricky and we all get ourselves into trouble sometimes. Hopefully, we tidy up the narrative before publication, though.

How tidy should the narrative be, though, in a novel? My own novel currently relies on flashbacks (for lack of a better word). It’s hard for me to keep track of them at this stage of writing, when I still haven’t settled on what exactly my story is, and I have been very tempted lately to restructure the novel to avoid the flashbacks. I would just start it in the past and tell everything in chronological order. That would keep it simpler for me and the reader.

But there are arguments against this approach. First of all, there may be important backstory that doesn’t really fit into the dramatic structure. A character’s childhood is important, but every hero’s story doesn’t have to begin at birth (or before). Sometimes it is better to focus on the main action and use a flashback to fill in a detail as needed.

At first this argument struck me as the most important, but I actually think there is an even better defence of flashbacks. At any moment we are influenced and propelled by something that happened before. Our pasts are alive within us. When a character walks around in this moment, she is also carrying the past inside of her. Backstory is always present and the past and present speak to one another. This I think is why using flashbacks (and again there is no doubt a better term) seems to suit my novel. My character has in some ways re-started his life but his old life hasn’t left him. The challenges that he faces in this phase of his life are heightened because of the significance of his past.

The flashback, looked at in this way, is I suppose related to stream of consciousness. The novel, way more than the film, can capture inner life. One way to evoke this inner life is through stream of consciousness; another is by using clearly demarcated flashbacks. Flashbacks are a little more methodical, but overall, they have the effect of charging the narrative with the significance of the past.

Or so I am hoping, though I am doing my best to avoid flashing sideways.

Rubber to Paper

My novel will be launched in a couple of weeks and I still haven’t entirely committed to a new project. Last summer I wrote about eighty pages of a new novel, but this past semester and a half I’ve been too busy to work on it. That kind of time away from a project is, for me at least, deadly. I’m having a hard time imagining myself picking up the thread in a few weeks when school is finished. I find myself getting more excited about fresh ideas instead, perhaps even a nonfiction project. One crazy idea that I’ve been mulling over for a couple of weeks is to take a year to drive around North America following the bicycle racing season and then write a book about it. It’s the kind of book I’d enjoy reading, I think. It might start something like this:

The car is loaded. My wife and kids come out of the house to say goodbye. I’m about to commence my year as a full-time non-professional middle-aged bicycle racer. I will race my way from Montreal to New England, down the east coast, over to Colorado, then Nevada, California, up the west coast, dipping back through the midwest, then wending my way back up to Canada and across Ontario to Montreal. I will race on asphalt, gravel, dirt and sand. I will train between races in some of the most popular cycling areas. I’ll sleep in hotels and campgrounds and perhaps, if I’m lucky, on a few couches. I’ll try to become a stronger cyclist, learn everything I can about racing and life, and have as many adventures as possible.

I feel selfish and sad as I hug my wife, daughter and son goodbye. But they’ve told me repeatedly that I should do this trip. We’ll talk a lot, and if everything goes according to plan, I may be able to fly home around Christmas time.

Something like that, maybe. But I wouldn’t head off for a year and leave the family. I’d need to keep my home base here and just drive to the races as they came up. Perhaps in the winter I would go down south for a month or more. The family could join me at Christmas and maybe March break … in Florida or California, during the cyclocross season. Hm … Now I just need to find a publisher that will give me a nice advance so I can afford to take a year off work.

Oh, well, it’s nice to think about.

An Essay About Nothing

Marking is probably the most tedious part of teaching, especially if you teach English. Reading essays that were written under duress by the average teenager can be aggravating. One of the the types of essays that makes me wince is the essay that can be boiled down to one sentence or less. If it’s a 750-word essay, 20 words will express a meagre idea and the rest of the words introduce, repeat, re-state, reintroduce and conclude that one, little, often misinformed idea. Sometimes these essays even look competent at first glance, and sometimes the students even think they’ve written a good essay, even though there are no signs of constructive thinking.

Teachers are partly to blame. There are a lot of English teachers who teach essay writing as if it were a matter of filling in a template. In reality the message they are sending is that it is possible to write an essay without really thinking. I understand why teachers do it: they want to help, and perhaps it is helpful at a certain stage of learning. But I hope the teachers are also pointing out that it is an extremely limited approach to essay writing that students should aim to leave behind, like training wheels.

Today, after having read an number of these empty vessel essays, I decided to write one myself to show my students how it is possible to say nothing even if you sort of follow the typical five-paragraph essay template (pox on the teacher who first decided this was a good form to follow). I wrote my essay about something concrete–ants–to make it easy for them to notice the flaws. Since they are novices at discussing literature, most of them can’t really tell the difference between nonsense and insight in an interpretation, but ants and colour are concrete and hopefully they’ll see what I’m getting at … if I show it to them. I haven’t decided yet if my lesson verges on cruel. Humour can cause collateral damage. I also wonder if some of them might absorb the negative qualities of the essay and put them into practice. I don’t know. What do you think? Here’s the essay:

Brad Eksample
Prof. Darwin
Entomology 101
February 9, 2017
                                           Essay #1: an analysis of the carpenter ant
            There are countless insects in this world and a wide array of colours. Therefore, strictly speaking there are many possible colours for an insect to be. The average person has their opinion, as do scientists and there are even many pictures. When speaking of the ant, it is important to say which sub-species. In this case, it is the carpenter ant. As this paper will discuss, the carpenter ant has a colour, the colour black, and that is the best colour for it to be.
            Firstly, the carpenter ant has a colour. If the carpenter ant had no colour that would be truly strange. However, having said that, there are some ants that are nearly invisible, but that is partly because of their size: they’re small. The carpenter ant on the other hand is pretty big, for an ant. Most of us have seen at least one or two crawling about, maybe inside your house or maybe just outside. Hopefully, not the former. Overall, because it’s pretty big most people can see the carpenter ant and see that it has a colour.
            Secondly, the carpenter does indeed have a colour and that colour is black. There are some people, many actually, who would say that black is not a colour, but for the purposes of this paper we will avoid philosophical discussions about what is colour, especially since the Webster’s dictionary’s first definition of the word colour is “of the color black ” (Webster’s Dictionary). The Webster’s Dictionary spells the word colour without a ‘u’ because that is the American spelling, but they mean “colour” and the meaning is the same. For the purposes of this essay, I caught twelve carpenter ants and each and every one was black, meaning 100%. Therefore, carpenter ants are black.
         Thirdly, black is certainly the best colour for a carpenter ant. There could be many reasons for this, but at the end of the day the question to ask is why? Why be any other colour? Being black suits the carpenter ant just fine, and has since back in the day. There remains no question then that as far as colour goes carpenter ants should be black.
            In conclusion, as demonstrated there are a lot of ants in this world and a lot of colours too. Our concern today is the carpenter ant and as has been proven, the carpenter ant is the colour that is commonly known as black. As further proven, this is a suitable colour for such a species. There are many species, as we all know, and they have all adapted in their own way, the carpenter ant being one of them.