This time last year, I set up a treadmill desk in my office. I didn’t know how it would work out – or even if it would – but I was determined to give it a shot.   More and more studies are pointing out the dangers of regular sitting. Not only is movement healthy, but it engages the brain and it’s always good to have an engaged brain when you’re working.

A year into the practice and I can honestly say that working on my treadmill desk is so much a part of my day that I can’t imagine not doing it.  I walk slowly, probably about 1.5 kilometres an hour, which averages out to around 70 or maybe 80 steps a minute.  And I take regular breaks too, working on the treadmill for an hour followed by an hour at my sit down desk.  I rotate between the two stations two or three times each day, and I usually take a break somewhere in there to walk the dogs too.

After a year, here’s what I’ve learned:

• I need to switch it up. After a month or so adjusting to the technique of working while walking, I began using the treadmill desk almost exclusively for several weeks. And I paid for it.  My feet got sore, my back started to hurt, and my hips ended up too tight. I have SI (sacroiliac) joint issues and I worried that maybe the treadmill desk would aggravate the condition. As soon as I limited myself to an hour at a time on the treadmill, and stayed at or below 3 hours a day, I was pain free. And my chronic SI pain from regular sitting disappeared.
• Shoes matter.  Since I go to the gym I’m in the habit of replacing runners regularly and I always buy high end shoes. It’s even more important on the treadmill. I’m replacing my runners every six months these days.
• Walking does engage the brain.  It’s not a fallacy.  Working on the treadmill also eliminates any tendency I might have to surf the web or check email. As long as my manuscript is open on my monitor and as soon as my feet start moving, my brain moves along with them. Getting into the story and keeping it flowing is easier when I’m engaged in physical activity.
• Walking is easier than standing. The treadmill will sometimes stop when I’m in the middle of a scene and want to keep going. I used to stand and continue writing. I paid for that with low back strain. If the treadmill stops now when I’m in the middle of something, I finish up my paragraph or maybe two (I allow myself five minutes, max) and then I step down and take a break.
• Walking makes you thirsty. At least it seems to make me thirsty. I always have a glass of water or herbal tea beside me when I write. At my sit down desk, I’d often forget to drink it. At my treadmill desk, I never do. So my water intake is up which provides additional health benefits.
• It’s not as hard as you think.  Over this last year, I’ve had people ask me how it’s going and say they’d like to try a treadmill desk but they know they couldn’t do it.  Don’t be so sure.  The pace is so slow after a while the movement becomes habitual. And, quite honestly, if I can adjust to it, anybody can.

 

This Christmas, my kids got together and sprung for a FitBit which I find much more useful than a basic pedometer (mine has a sleep monitoring component which I absolutely love).  With the FitBit on my wrist I’m getting a better sense of how those daily steps add up.  During the week when I write, I average between 15,000 and 17,000 steps or about 10 kilometres a day.

That’s not bad for a day on the job.

 

We’re marking the start of a new year. I’m looking forward to it.  If you’ve stopped by looking for the cyber equivalent of fireworks and champagne, or maybe a cyber rainbows and unicorns, you won’t find them here. Not today. Not this year.

2014 was bookmarked with the death of two friends I’d cherished for decades. One died at the start of 2014 and another one just a few weeks ago.  Their departure has left me in a contemplative state of mind. It’s weird when friends take the celestial highway ahead of us. There’s disbelief and shock. There’s grief. There’s also the sense of one’s own mortality spinning ever closer.  For me, there’s also thankfulness that I was lucky enough to know them.  Bob and Larry both gave me a boot in the butt when I most needed it. They were change agents on my writer’s path.

I met Bob before I’d written anything other than news copy. He was music director at the radio station; I was news director.  He had a wicked sense of humor, and wisdom beyond his years. When things started going south for me and I knew it was time to quit, I told him what I wanted more than anything was to write.

“Why aren’t you?” he asked.

“What if I don’t get published?” I said.

“So what? Do it anyway,” he said.

“I don’t know what to write about.”

“You’ll figure it out,” he said. “Fiddle around. Have some fun.”

I quit the station, spent a few months fiddling around, and then we moved – very suddenly – to Winnipeg.  I met Larry, and his wife, Lois.  We connected through a non-denominational spiritual group, and we met every week to talk about . . . well . . . stuff. The big stuff. The small stuff. How we could be better at all of ‘our stuff.’   By then, I was working in television which fed me rich ego cookies but didn’t satisfy my soul. Since we talked about soul type stuff, I again mentioned my desire to write.  This time, I mentioned a specific story – a time travel romance that was so quirky and out there, I wasn’t sure how I’d sell it.

“So,” Larry said. “What does selling have to do with it?”

“I’d like people to read it,” I said.

“Maybe only five people will read it,” he replied. “Or maybe 500,000 people will. Why should that matter anyway?  What should matter is the joy you have doing it.”

We moved back to the coast. I started that book and I finished it. But I did nothing with it. I started other books, and finished them too. Some were published. One was launched in Winnipeg, and I flew back for the event. Lois and Larry came. Afterwards, when we talked, they asked about my time travel. “It’s written,” I said.  “But I haven’t done anything with it yet.”

“You will,” Larry said. “When you’re ready.”

Whenever I saw Bob, he’d ask about the writing too. He was happy for me that I’d taken the leap and followed my heart. In the last few years, we talked about the changes in the industry and how they were impacting authors. As a friend, he was supportive. As a musician, he could relate. But at the end of the day, for Bob it was about making the music, not thinking about results.

Larry was a musician too. Like Bob, he was dedicated to practising his craft and he loved to perform. Though they never met, both men were all about having fun in the moment, about living in the now. That said, neither of them lived in a bubble. They recognized that love doesn’t pay the bills. They understood my writer’s need to make a living. They acknowledged that some attention had to be paid to the business side of art.  But too much attention to that goal detracted from what they believed was the most important goal of all: telling my story the best way I could and letting go of the results. They weren’t writers – or editors or agents or publishers – yet they taught me an essential publishing truth: the story should always come first. Anything else could be worked out later.

There’s a saying that’s popular these days about someone being the kind of friend you can call up in the middle of the night and they will come and help you hide the body. That, it’s suggested, is a true friend.

Maybe. Or maybe not.

Larry and Bob were true friends, but there’s no damn way they’d help me hide a body. They’d come in the middle of the night – of that I have no doubt – but after one glimpse of that body, they’d pick up the phone and call the cops. Then they’d stand beside me no matter how bad things got and no matter what I’d done. And they’ve love me in spite of it.  They’d do it in the same way they called me out on my fears about writing all those years ago without making me feel small for having them.

Their belief in the people they cared about was genuine and absolute. They saw your best self. Even if your bad self was rocking the dance floor.

In the next week or so, I’ll be heading to Bob’s funeral. It’s a reminder for me to live life while I can. To enjoy my writing process, to have fun in the moment and to let go of the results.

Whether you’re a writer or a reader, or whether you stumbled over this blog by mistake, I hope 2015 is rich with all the things that count: time with whatever work brings you pleasure, time with family who love you unconditionally, and time with friends who can propel you down whatever path you choose with the occasional loving kick in the butt.

It helps if they take calls in the middle of the night. And if they can watch your bad self rocking the dance floor once in a while too. Trust me on that.

  Nikki’s Perfume Journal Entry

SCENT OF HOURS

November 22, 1978

Definition: Chypres

Chypres is a highly original group that is based on contrasts between bergamot-type top notes and mossy base notes. Chypres perfumes tend to be strong, spicy, and powdery.  This perfume group was named after the famous perfume from Cyprus of Roman Times.

 

            I told the insurance company I was sleeping when the house blew up.

            In actual fact, the cold woke me. I stood at the top of the stairs that led to my basement at three A.M. on a morning in late winter, daring myself to go down and find out why the furnace was not working. Puffs of dust-scented air wafted around my ankles. The narrow wooden steps disappeared into yawning darkness, and even when I turned on the light, it wasn’t particularly inviting. I hate basements – spiders and water bugs and the possibility of creepy, supernatural things lurking. Ammie, Come Home scared the holy hell out of me when I was seven, and I’ve hated basements ever since.

Scent of Hours, Barbara Samuel

 

I view story openings in the same way I view the appetizer to a good meal.  Done well, an appetizer primes my palate, hints at what’s to come, and leaves me wanting more.  But while a meal doesn’t need an appetizer to be delicious, a book definitely needs a strong opening if it’s going to be devoured by the reader.

Scent of Hours (previously published as Madame Mirabou’s School of Love)  by Barbara Samuel met my expectations on multiple levels.  Since I love perfume and aromatherapy, the journal entry kicking off the story acted as my primer. I quickly read on.  I told the insurance company I was sleeping when the house blew up. That single sentence impacted me on a visceral level. It hints at what’s to come and it begged me to read on. I quickly understood this is a woman alone having to deal with things she really doesn’t want to deal with (daring myself to go down and find out why the furnace was not working).   It’s the middle of the night, it’s cold, there’s the yawning darkness of the basement and I know from the first sentence that the furnace is about to blow.

Will she be caught in the explosion? Will she get out in time? I needed to know.  That was me as a reader wanting more . . . the gut emotion of the thing.

On a more cerebral level, I’m struck by the sharp contrast between the journal entry talking about perfume, which is sensual, indulgent and sweet, and the harsh reality of a cold, broken furnace in a dark, dusty basement. Contrast doesn’t seem to be talked about much in fiction these days, which is too bad. It’s an excellent, and often overlooked, tool.

From the journal entry describing the strong, spicy, and powdery scent of chypres to the narrative describing puffs of dust-scented air, I realize this is a character who is heavily influenced by scent and the sensuality of her world.  The journal entry also tells me she likes to write, and the reference to Ammie, Come Home hints at a romance, possibly even a touch of the supernatural.

This opening held a huge promise of good things to come.  I was not disappointed. And, yes, I devoured the book.

 

 

It’ll be Canadian Thanksgiving in a few days and my thoughts are turning, as they usually do in the fall, to the things I’m most thankful for. This time last year, I blogged about why I’m thankful to be a writer. And many of those same things (the joy of playing with words; the ability to ask endless questions; regular and mandatory reading; wearing yoga pants and slippers to work) still apply.

But for a pile of reasons I’m feeling more serious this year and it occurs to me that even though I work alone, I don’t work in a vacuum. In fact, I couldn’t do what I do without a pile of people in my corner. And for that, I’m profoundly, extremely grateful.

My long suffering partner, Mr. Petrol Head (possibly to be rechristened My Squirrel Slayer – watch for an upcoming blog) has had my back, along with the rest of me, since I started this gig way back when. Not once has he questioned my sanity, my ROI or my need to bounce endless (and I mean endless) questions off of him.  He cooks, he designs my business cards, he listens to me rant, and he laughs. I love him for all of it. Mostly I just love him.

My kids – Uptown Girl and Teen Freud (the latter needs a rename since he’s left teen hood behind forever; sob) – have made me the writer I am. They’ve helped me become more patient (they may not agree with that), more disciplined and more creative. They’re bright, funny and truly the best kids a mother could ask for. I love them more than life. Even if they weren’t mine, I’d want to spend time with them. Yes, they are that cool. Mr. Petrol Head pointed out the other day that my career has, to a large extent, followed the trajectory of their growing up years. When they were young, I started writing picture books. As they grew, I segued into middle grade fiction. And now I write for teens and adults.

My web guy keeps my site up to date. Thank you Miles Barr for achieving the seemingly unachievable . . .  for returning my panicked emails . . .  and for reassuring me that glitches can be fixed even when they seem unfixable.

My fellow authors who follow the publishing road.  No one else gets it the way you do. I’d be a whole lot crazier if I didn’t have friends like you on the path with me.

The editors I’ve been blessed to know. I’ve been hugely lucky in the editorial department over the years and it shows in all my books. You might want to thank those editors, too. Trust me.

My readers.  A reader was the impetus for this blog. Not a reader of my books, but a medical technician who reads science fiction and fantasy. I was in for a test recently and when he found out I was a writer, he spent about ten minutes talking books with me. Not in the ‘how do I get published? sense’ but the ‘have you read this author?’ and ‘what do you think of this author?’ sense.  His passion was a sharp reminder of why I do what I do and for whom I write (it was also a good distraction from the task at hand but that’s a whole other story).

And last but not least – Team Sheltie.  They sometimes drive me nuts with interruptions and they bark waaaaay too much, but they get me out of the house for several walks a day, they always make me smile and they’re my soft place to land when I walk away from the keyboard at the end of the day.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Virginia Woolf said, ‘a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.’

No argument there. But with all due respect, Virginia, you missed something. Along with money and space, a squirrel-free zone helps too.

We have squirrels in our attic. Or at least we did. It’s been quiet the last few days, though that’s no guarantee. They’ve tricked us out before. We noticed them first this summer. They’d run through the yard taunting Team Sheltie. One took to sleeping on our fence where the sun hit in the middle of the day. I thought it was sweet. We had a house squirrel, I told myself. A totem protector.   How cute is that?

I am so naïve.  So. Naïve.

We no longer have a house squirrel. We have an army of squirrels. They’ve captured the attic and are defending their territory with a vicious determination that makes ISIS look like a group of kindergarteners. Given that Mr. Petrol Head is protective of his family, not to mention the fact that he’d like to keep our roof, our insulation and our wiring intact, he declared war.  He would eradicate the mighty army himself. Just call him the original squirrel slayer.

Just to clarify – our attic isn’t a traditional space where you store clothes and steamer trunks and kids go to play on a snow day. Our attic isn’t accessible, at least not by anybody taller than eight inches.  It’s a narrow space just below the roof where the insulation lives. It is accessed by vents. Vents in squirreldom are known as front doors. And ours apparently have a great big flashing WELCOME sign visible only to squirrels.

After some on line research, the Original Squirrel Slayer got to work. He tried moth balls which squirrels apparently hate. Maybe they do somewhere. Not where we live.  He screened off the vent. The squirrels laughed and chewed through it. He made a ‘foolproof’ one way door out of all sorts of heavy, squirrel proof material and snapped it over the vent.  Squirrelgate he called it. The squirrels thumbed their noses. They pulled a break, enter and repeat. Squirrelgate was breached.

I’d had enough. Call in the experts, I said. Let me try something else said the Original Squirrel Slayer, who was spending more and more time on our roof determined that the rats-with-tails wouldn’t get the best of him.

A new and improved Squirrelgate was created and installed. Things got quiet. We were hopeful. We were sure the army had been conquered.  We were sure we’d won the war.

Then came Saturday.  I woke up to find the Squirrel Commander-in-Chief chewing his way through the screen on our open skylight.  The army was on the move. The attic was no longer enough. The capture of new territory – in the form of our TV room – was the goal.

The Original Squirrel Slayer conceded defeat.  Refusing to accept his new moniker, he picked up the phone, dialed the Squirrel Whisperer and went back to being Mr. Petrol Head.  Some things, like marauding squirrels, are better left to the experts.

 

Over the last week, I’ve been writing material for a series of guest blogs that will upload to various sites throughout the month of September, coinciding with the release of The Art of Getting Stared At ,  my latest YA novel being released by Penguin Razorbill under my Laura Langston name.  A number of questions focused on the book itself but others were more general.  Several people wanted to know my favorite book as a child.

That was a tough question to answer.  I read early and voraciously, and my tastes changed as rapidly as I grew. I didn’t have just one favorite book. I had a series of favorites.  But as I gave the question some thought, it occurred to me that my natural inclinations were obvious early on.

For the most part, even as a kid I gravitated to two types of books:  contemporary stories that dealt with serious issues or over-the-top glamor romps. A close third was mysteries. I was a loyal Nancy Drew fan.

By the time I was 11, I’d fallen in love with a series of Sue Barton nurse books. She had red hair (how glamorous) and helped save lives (how meaningful).  Though it was toned down somewhat, there was gritty realism in those books.  There was also realism in With Love From Karen about a young girl with cerebral palsy, and in a novel called Mrs. Mike about a 16-year-old Boston girl who moves to the Canadian wilderness, falls in love with a Mountie and copes with extreme hardship. At the same time, I escaped with a series of books about Donna Parker who visited relatives in Hollywood, traveled overseas, and talked a lot about clothes.

The serious/light split continued into my teens as I went through an Ann Rand phase, took up with depressing Russian novelists (Anna Karenina was a favorite) and scared myself silly with Sybil.  At the same time, I devoured the rags to riches story of A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford, Once is Not Enough by Jacqueline Susann and any Sidney Sheldon book I could find.

Maybe that’s why when people ask me to name a favorite book or favorite author I’m as likely to say Jodi Picoult as I am Jennifer Crusie. Or maybe Jojo Moyes or Meg Cabot. It depends on the day. It depends on my mood. It just . . .  well . . . depends.

And don’t ask me to name my favorite food either. That’s another impossibility.    

August is usually quiet. I figured this year would be no exception. I’d anticipated time off to catch up on reading, daydreaming, ice cream eating.  Instead, life threw us a curveball in the form of helping my mother downsize and move. She’d been on a waiting list, the opportunity presented itself, and it was one of those ‘if you say no, you may have to wait another two years’ kind of thing.  So she jumped on it.  And it’s all good except free time has been at a premium. I haven’t even gotten out on my bike yet this summer. I’m hoping things will slow down towards the end of the month so I can get out for a ride or two and read a few extra books. In the meantime, here’s what I’m reading right now:

 

Beside the Bed: Keep Quiet by Lisa Scottoline

On the Kindle: Newbie Nick by Lisa McManus

At the Gym: The Firebird by Susanna Kearsley

 

Books read to date 2014: 50

 

For our family, strawberry pie signals the start of summer. My mother-in-law began the tradition years ago with a simple strawberry pie my daughter fell in love with. It’s an easy, throw together dessert that’s way too high in sugar and relies on Jell-O as a key ingredient. If my daughter hadn’t asked me to take over when my mother-in-law stopped making it, it probably wouldn’t have crossed my radar.

But she did so I do and it’s become something of a tradition to have in our house around Canada Day. That time of year when fresh strawberries are at their best.  Served with vanilla ice cream or whipping cream, it mimics the red and white of the Canadian flag, which is another reason I usually make it on or around July 1^st.

It’s funny how fiction and life intertwine. My current WIP features a heroine who wants to be a chef. In the process of planning a special meal with fussy little tartlets for dessert, she’s forced to ditch that plan and make this strawberry pie instead.

Child’s play it is. But child’s play never tasted so good.

 

Mary’s Strawberry Pie

Butter a deep dish pie plate or tart tin and set aside (I use a Pyrex pie plate that’s 9 ½ inches/24 cm across and 2 inches/5cm deep).

 

Crust:

1 cup/240 mL graham cracker crumbs

1 cup/240 mL ground almonds

1/3 cup/80 mL butter

¼ cup/60 mL white sugar

 

In a large bowl, mix together graham cracker crumbs, ground almonds and white sugar. Melt butter. Blend into crumb mix until it appears pebbly. Press mixture into buttered pie plate or tart tin. Freeze. The crust can be made a day or two ahead of time.

 

Filling:

5 cups (1.18 litres) fresh strawberries

3 oz/85 grams strawberry Jell-O

1 cup/240 mL white sugar

1 cup/240 mL water

 

In a medium saucepan, combine Jell-O powder, sugar and water. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Boil vigorously for 1 minute. Remove from heat and pour into a large bowl. Cool to room temperature (I put it in the fridge for a few minutes while I prepare the strawberries). Clean strawberries and remove green tops. Make sure they are dry. Remove cold crust from the freezer. Place strawberries inside the crust, pointed tips up. When the Jell-O mixture is room temperature, carefully pour over the strawberries. Refrigerate for an hour or two until set.

If life unfolded according to plan, I’d be writing this from a villa in the south of France while my personal assistant tracked the rise of my latest bestseller on the New York Times list.  The villa would be luxurious and clean, the pool temperature refreshing, and my muse would be in high gear . . .

Okay, forget the fiction. In reality, if life unfolded according to plan, I’d be on the treadmill writing six hours every day and ignoring the dust, the dog hair, and the dirty dishes.

I’m not. I’m getting some writing done, and I’m doing it on the treadmill, but I’m being pulled in a number of stressful directions which is wreaking havoc on my routine.

A few weeks ago, Trace, the male half of Team Sheltie, had surgery to remove a lump that was supposed to be small, but ended up being much bigger than the vet anticipated. Recovery has been slow and he has needed careful watching, even wearing his fancy T-shirt to stop him licking the incision.  Thank the Canine Gods the lump proved benign.

Then, just after Easter, my 89-year-old mother-in-law ended up in hospital.  Last year she faced life-threatening surgery and was hospitalized for three months (That was a routine killer, let me tell you). She recovered and went home, but she’s been frail ever since. She has also relied on family to get her groceries and take her to various appointments. It’s no small commitment since we’re on the island and she lives on the mainland, about three and a half hours away.  With this latest hospitalization, the ferry trips have started again as we wait for a diagnosis and prognosis. Though I’m concerned for her, I also recognize that we might be facing months of work disruptions and punishing expenses (thank you, BC Ferries).

And in case I’m not feeling committed enough, my mother is scheduled for two surgeries over the next six weeks.  They’re relatively minor in the scheme of things, but she’ll require hands on support for a day or two afterwards, and I’m the chauffeur, caregiver, cheerleader.

Needless to say, I’m distracted these days.

Here are some thoughts on how to cope when life interferes with the best of (in my case) writing plans.

Focus more on less.  Whether your job is writing or something else, when a crisis hits, zero in on what really matters. Your loved one. Your own health. If there’s time and energy left, pick one professional commitment that matters to you. For me, that’s writing. Everything else – social media, emails, reading blogs and professional sites – slides.

Prioritize.   As soon as a crisis erupts, I mentally scan my professional ‘to do’ list and slash it in half. I determine what, if anything, must be addressed immediately. If I’m on deadline, that moves to the top of the list. I contact my editor and alert him or her to the situation. When my mother was hospitalized with a pulmonary embolism three years ago and I was on deadline for an article, I contacted the editor, explained the situation and asked for a few extra days to complete the assignment. She was very understanding.

Stay flexible. When my stepfather was dying from lung cancer, I found it difficult to produce fresh writing but I was able to focus on short articles. Though I wasn’t happy about it, I let the fiction slide for a few months. I’ve never regretted it.

Say no when you can.  This isn’t the time to bake two dozen cupcakes for the school bake sale, or take on a rush assignment. And don’t be afraid to change your mind and say no when you previously said yes, particularly when it comes to personal commitments. People understand as long as you tell them what’s going on.

Keep going.  As frustrating as it can be to have plans derailed, I’ve found some comfort in taking small steps. I might not be able to write 1500 words a day on my work in progress, but with half an hour I can read over the last scene and make a few notes in the margin. I can read up on my setting or research another aspect of the story.  The novel may not advance as quickly as I’d like, but a few minutes a day on peripheral work can keep the story in my mind and make it easier to return to later.

Maintain healthy habits. Easier said than done if you’re spending a lot of time at the hospital or traveling to reach a loved one, but it’s so important. For me, that means eating high quality food, avoiding alcohol and sugar, and getting regular – and that means heart-pumping – exercise. Doing this helps me sleep, and that’s another thing to maintain during times of high stress. Good sleep habits.

Get organized.  Maybe it’s just me but when life is chaotic, I take some comfort in having the basics under control. I like to have a fridge full of food, the laundry done, the grass cut. It’s not always possible, but spending a few minutes every week thinking about meals, for instance, frees me up to concentrate on what really matters.

And finally:

Everything is temporary. This too shall pass. Repeat as needed.