Blog
Questions and Fiction
by
Guest Blogger / May 23, 2006
Yesterday was a dreary, rainy holiday here in Vancouver. I hope any readers from BC found something warm and restful to occupy their hours.
Thanks to those who sent in new questions.
"What is your process when you're writing a story - Do you use a computer to dump your thoughts down on the page, or are you a pen-and-paper guy? Do you prefer the comfort of your own home or do you go to the kinds of haunts that your characters would frequent for inspiration? Lastly, what are you working on now?" - Jordan
My process is not a very novel one. I keep a tiny notebook around, and I constantly write in it. Sometimes concepts, often lines. When I feel I have the skeleton for a story, I go back through then notebook and try and pull one line, or concept, for each scene. I type these out, then work from this skeleton. The actual stories are always written on the computer, though. I have slow, terrible handwriting.
I also always write at home. Often very late at night or in the very early hours of the morning. And my computer faces away from the window. I'm easily distracted. It amazes me how some people can write at coffee shops or in parks or behind a DJ booth or in the reptile house at the zoo or whatever. Even when I have total control of the environment, I still have trouble concentrating.
I'm currently working on one short story, hopefully for magazine publication, and a novel, hopefully for somewhere other than my hard drive. I'll talk more about that at the end of the week.
"From all the stories in this collective book which one is your favourite and why does it appeal to you more than the others?" - Que Banh
That's a tough question to answer. I think they all appeal to me in different ways. I can tell you my mother's favourite is 'Home Movies.' I can tell you I dislike 'Going Through Customs.' But I don't know which is my favourite. 'Ma Belle' is special to me because I do feel genuinely sorry for its characters, and because it's about the dark, romantic heart of Montreal, my hometown. So, with a gun to my head, I'd pick that one.
On a side note, I think people usually respond to questions like that by saying, "I couldn't pick a favourite, it's like asking a parent to pick their favourite child." Not how my family operates. My great grandmother Millie, to whom the book is dedicated, would always respond the same way when one of her many descendants asked who her favourite was: "You."
I decided to post today one of my stories that isn't included in the collection. It's a microfiction, which means it's--very small. There are two or three of these in 'Indigenous Beasts.' I guess this one is a little weaker.
My Fifth Girlfriend
My fifth girlfriend, Cynthia Desjardins, was an insomniac. She was very proud of this. There were countless times when I would overhear her, at a party or a dinner or any occasion where she could get a monopoly on the conversation, casually describing the agony of spending night after night awake by herself. I've always welcomed insomnia, when not accompanied by nervousness. It allows you to get so much done. But for Cynthia, it was both greatest weakness and claim to fame.
Her father was from France and her mother was from Spain, so you can only imagine. Brown hair, which she kept short and pixie-ish around her ears, and a nose so slightly upturned I could never restrain myself from nibbling on it. A protractor couldnt replicate her curves. Her one flaw was a very bad skin condition, a kind of psoriasis that stretched from her belly up to the hollow between her breasts.
One Saturday morning she woke me up very early - she, of course, had not been sleeping - and we climbed the CN tower to see the sun rise. We stood there, shivering high above the city, cups of coffee balanced cautiously between our mittens, and watched as all Toronto slowly turned from gray to gold.
She left me for one of the professors at her grad school, a professional soccer player turned Italian scholar. They were eventually married, although I was not invited to the wedding. He came to my apartment to help her move out, and was straining to lift one of her many, many boxes when his nose began to bleed. She told me about this later, apologetically, on the phone. It still felt horrible, though. to come home alone for the first time in months only to be greeted by a stripped bed, a silent apartment, and Guiseppe's blood all over my kitchen.
Send more questions!
- Nathan Sellyn
http://www.myspace.com/nathansellyn
