Inspiration: (noun)

He's about five foot ten, faint green eyes, with an eloquent, kissable mouth. His face is tremendously expressive, yet subtle, as quick to register humour as it is to show wrath and determination. His hands, too, speak volumes: criss-crossed by scars, burns and ink stains, adorned with long fingers rendered flat and numb from hard labour, and though they have a natural tendency toward artistry and tenderness, now he more often folds them into fists or jams them into his pockets. He's moody but observant to the point of paranoia, frustrated and hyperactive, plagued by nightmares, anguished by unrequited love...When his accusing eye gleams on a foggy night, the heart trips and the guilty tremble...

And I confess! I still lose sleep at night, fantasizing about who's going to star in the made-for-TV movie based on my bestseller. Of course, I guess the John "Mummer" Stillman series still needs to land a buyer before we get that far, but a girl can dream!

And just once, I want to step into the subway, catch someone in the act of reading a book I wrote, and sign it. Random acts of autographia.

Don't get me wrong. I meant what I said about writing for the love of story (and audience). But even without fame and fortune (ha!), there are still some good old fashioned selfish reasons why I love to write.

First of all, writing is mental exercise - for me, writing can be anything from a nightly constitutional to a 100-metre dash to a full-out triathalon. And like exercise, it usually starts with a lot of complaining, but the more often I do it, the easier it gets. There's also the sense of accomplishment (a.k.a. self-satisfaction) at having shut off the TV or video games or Facebook and created something.

And like exercise, it's very slimming. The writer's craft is the art of meaning as much as possible and saying it as powerfully and economically as possible. When practiced, this skill tends to carry over into other facets of your life. For me, I find that after a tough and honest morning of editing, my brain is charged with moxie, oxygen and endorphins. At work I'm more likely to see through jargon, systemic panic and red herrings, and I'll be more likely to find the root cause of any problem that comes up. The solutions I find are bound to be a lot more daring and creative, too.

But I think the one thing I enjoy most about being an active writer is the curious way it turns your brain inside out. It sharpens your senses. It makes you thoughtful.

If I'm having a tough day at work and I take a walk around the block, I'll get some fresh air and exercise. It settles me down. When I get back, I may even have the solution I was missing all along. But elephants could have been parading down the street and I wouldn't have noticed.

But if I've been writing and I walk around the block, I am in the world. I hear the birds. I notice which flowers are in bloom and which ones have gone to seed. I watch people pick tokens from change purses to put in the fare box, while the bus driver checks the rear view mirror and glares at teens cavorting in the back seats. Times like those, I wonder, "What would happen if these people were trapped on this bus with a man who suddenly lurched to his feet and started to glow?"

From the sidewalk, I peer through windows and marvel at the artwork on walls, or admire the warm colours of a foyer, and I wonder what kind of people live here - are they happy? Are they overworked? Did they earn this wealth, or are they Old Money? Do they have some loner who rents out the basement, but is in reality a reluctant time traveler...?

I smile as passersby converse with home owners, and giggle at women in high heels and tight skirts as they try to wiggle out of their boyfriends' low-slung cars with their dignity intact. On the street, no conversation is private. Everything is fair game, from the disheveled woman who sells postcard watercolours and speaks only in grunts, to the cub and cougar who sit knee to knee on the terrasse, to the philosophical shouting matches at the cafe.

I pass by the Greek Consulate and listen to the sounds of the outdoor party, wondering, "how do people get invited to these things?" and "what happens when they're there?" Even as I walk, I have my easel before me and my brush in hand. There's a word for this kind of giggle ("laughter arcs and bounces over the gaggle of conversation") versus that kind of laugh ("a bolt of laughter strikes the room mute"). I record the music of the ebb and tide of natural conversation, and memorize the accompaniment of tinkling silverware and clattering dishes. I spy the obligatory black dresses and suits and ties, and while it's all very sleek, I wonder what would happen if someone dared wear scarlet or purple - or yellow, or green!

I collect these impressions like shells and robins eggs and take them home with me, maybe to use in some story, maybe not. I paint the world in action and sound - vocabulary is my impressionism, and open air is my inspiration.

But most of all, because I'm writing (even if I don't have a pen and paper in hand), I am, in effect, making memories. We judge the fullness of time by the number of our memories; the more mile markers, the further we seem to have come. I don't feel like time is passing me by anymore. I have something to show for the time that has passed.

So get outdoors, dear writer. Turn off the TV, put on some shoes, take your coffee outside. Engage strangers in conversation. Listen. Smell. See something you never noticed before. Frame this moment in words - and when you have some words, find better ones. Share with someone your impressions, so that they can effectively replicate in their mind's eye what you see. Even if you never touch pen to paper, you won't regret the experience.

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Inspiration: (noun)
1) The process of being mentally stimulated to do or feel something, esp. to do something creative.
2) A sudden brilliant, creative, or timely idea.
3) The drawing in of breath.

Vanquishing the Gottamonster and the Nevergudy Nuff

The next person who asks me "So what's wrong? Why haven't you been published?" gets a free smack upside the head. After eighteen years and a lot of writing, my answer is, "It doesn't matter. Stop asking and go away."

What is publication but the act of seeking some stranger's validation that you are a writer?

Pause here. This is not a blog about making fine wine of my sour grapes. I still have a goal to accomplish. This is about refining that goal. You can write in order to be published, or, you can entertain someone with a good story. The difference is subtle, but oh, so important, especially in a world where all you need is a registered domain name and basic computer skills to publicize your work.

Writing can happen in the absence of publication. What a liberating thought! I can write whatever I want, as badly as I want, because you ain't never gonna read it! If it's any good, I'll edit it, change the names to protect the innocent (and/or the guilty), and then I'll let you read it.

So, in the spirit of taking a long, healthy step backwards, I've concocted 10 survival tactics for myself as the unpublished author - and who knows, maybe they'll help you too.

1. Banish the Gottamonster. This animal gorges itself on your guilt. When you're not writing, you've "gotta write." When you're writing, you've "gotta write better than that." Banish "I gotta get published" from your creative vocabulary. You've "gotta" go to the bathroom from time to time. You've "gotta" eat. You've "gotta" sleep eventually. You don't "gotta" get published any more than Rebecca Black's "gotta" make a make a new music video. Publication is a want, not a need.

2. Starve the Nevergudy Nuff. This parasite thrives on your despair and self-doubt, and it will do anything to stay alive, even if it means lying to you. Quickly turn on him and say "It doesn't matter! Go away!" Or, take him to the book store and show him all the other authors who were Nevergudy Nuff and still got published (you know, the ones that have wooden characters, bloated narration, and eye-popping logic errors). He'll choke on his own indignation and pass out. Or, you can befriend him by patting him on the head and saying "there there, it's okay." After all, you're writing for the love of a story, and Being Gudy Nuff doesn't count. He'll be so confused by your self-assurance that he'll fall down and forget what he was doing.

3. Read stuff you loved as a kid. When you were small, you said, "Tell me a story," and that's what authors did. It's so simple, isn't it? Something appealed to you, and something they wrote satisfied. Go back and find out what it was.

4. Remember your priorities. You're not here to tell a "scenery" or an "angst". You're here to tell a story. Everything else should revolve around that. When you edit, it's the same thing: the scenery, the angst, the really-awesome-image-I-just-described - everything that you write must propel the story forward. (Here, an affectionate nod to both Tobin Elliott and Michael Lorenson. I do listen.)

5. Make a muse. There needs to be a story-teller and an audience. Imagine: you're sitting under a shady tree on a riverside rock, late in spring. Facing you is someone who is awestruck by what's happening in your story. Maybe your companion is a child, maybe a young adult, maybe an older person. Maybe they remind you of someone; maybe they're a character from another book you wrote. Whenever you pause, they say, "Really? And then what happens?" Here, I'm going to go against the mainstream and suggest that you simply make up this person. You're a writer, after all - you should be able to create an imaginary friend who may or may not agree with you; they may have a sarcastic streak, but they should always be enthusiastic about what you have to say. If they lose interest in your story, I'll bet you buckets of money the story itself is uninteresting. But if you write for someone real, you may lose your story - and your creativity - if they grow up and move on, leaving you and your stories behind. What would happen to Peter Pan if his Lost Boys grew up? And just look what happened to Puff the Magic Dragon! Real or imagined, you need a muse, because without an audience, a storyteller is nothing but a lonely old booger sitting in the corner talking to himself. (Go on, tired soul, click the link. I'll still be here when you get back.)

6. Surround yourself with readers. Surrounding yourself with published writers is like one used car dealer asking business advice of the car dealership next door. No matter how friendly they are, how supportive they are, how helpful and full of sound advice they are, regardless, other writers are your competition. You will always measure yourself against them. So long as you are unpublished, you will think of yourself as less clever than they are; even when you are published, they'll still be better than you because they've been published longer. Stop that! You're feeding the Gottamonster and the Nevergudy Nuff! Yes, learn from them, yes seek advice from other writers (published or otherwise), but for sanity's sake, for every writer you know, meet three readers, to balance "we want" against "you should." Besides, wouldn't it make sense to hear what the customer wants, before stocking your store? Be aware of what's out there, and learn what it is that draws the reader to them. Hear it directly from the reader.

7. Listen to stories around the dinner table. A couple of months ago, over a cup of tea, my Uncle David told me about how he saw a locally well-known homeless man out on the street holding up a picture frame. There was nothing in the frame, except his own head and shoulders. He would stop and look out at the world through the frame. People crossed the street to get away from him, and he would laugh at them. But what makes this story is that my uncle went up to him and asked him about the picture frame. When was the last time you went up to a crazy-looking homeless person and engaged him in a conversation? Do you know anyone who would? Character study, people! This is where story-lings are hatched! Parachute down from your ivory tower and listen.

8. Watch your language. "I need to work on this story." "Another plot hole? Great, more work I have to do." "This needs even more work than I thought." It took a really long time to realize that writing had become "work." Remember, writer: in your world, the words you use become reality. As for me, because writing had become a job, I was therefore working full-time (paid) plus part-time (unpaid), for a sum total of no-time-left-over. Yet all the hoity-toities told me, if I wanted to succeed, I had to approach writing with a solid work ethic - therefore, if I wasn't getting published, I wasn't working hard enough (and boy, was the Gottamonster getting fat). But I didn't need any more work! Especially since it wasn't earning anything and it wasn't doing the dishes. So you know what I say? Stuff it. From now on, what I practice is "regular playtime." I'm going to play with characters and plot and do something totally outrageous and unexpected, and if I need something to shake up the story, maybe I'll even have someone streaking across the field wearing nothing but his hand and a great big grin.

9. Highlight the good stuff. Oh, dear writer, I know thee well. It's editing season somewhere. In one hand, you have a red pen, and you're underlining, scratching, scribbling, even ripping through the paper in your efforts to expunge badness from your writing; in the other hand, you have your aching forehead. For the computer-age author, your pencil case is full of delete buttons, backspaces, and CTRL-A + Delete. Stop that high school stuff right now.

Whatever happened to props for a job well done? Why can't we give ourselves check marks for awesome sentence structure, or smiley faces when the thing we wrote made us laugh? Go out right now, buy a stack of dinosaur stickers and put one somewhere on every page, so that when you go back to delete stuff, you remember what to save. If you're virtual, then use highlight functions, memos, clip art and sound bites of wild applause. (Just remember to remove them again when you're ready to submit.)

10. Validate yourself. What's with this whole "I so want to be published" thing anyhow? How many times have we been told to stop using passive verbs? And don't try to mask your declaration with some "I will be published" hocus pocus - it's still the passive voice. Instead, commit to short, concrete, active thoughts, like "I shall write," and "I am writing!" and "I will send this off to a publishing house/agent/magazine/contest before X-date". It's healthier than waiting around for people to do something to you.

Repeat after me: "Published or not, I am still a writer. As long as I write for the joy of a story, I am still a writer. I need no one else to validate this for me."

Writing is all the proof you need to show that you're a writer, but it's the audience that gives the story purpose, and it's the audience that gives you a reason to write. The final step is getting that story out to the audience - and it's this hope will carry you through the drought of non-publication.

Returning to Sherwood

Weeks have gone by since I’ve written anything; months have gone by since I’ve written anything worth writing about. But it feels as though it’s been years since I’ve written something I enjoyed.

There was a time when I could hardly wait to finish work or school. I felt like I was seeping stories – as if the ideas were springing forth like a sudden and profound nosebleed, and the only way to keep from making a mess was by pinning the words betwixt pen and paper.

Even when the writing was sloppy and the story at its weakest, there was something utterly appealing about the characters. Each time I sat down to write, it was like I was coming home to a private inn, inside my own head. Here, brawling pirates laughed alongside merry-making kings; film-noir detectives played pranks on interstellar explorers; and even the most brooding of soul-sucking vampires could lift his earthenware mug and clack it against that of his neighbour. I may not have been one of them, but I was heartily welcome.

Fiction or no, I was witness to their lives and their loves and their practical jokes.

In some way, I felt obligated to write down their stories before they were gone forever. And I loved it.

But something, somewhere along the line, has changed.

Recently, I’d been reading The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood, by Howard Pyle. Periodically, I’d sigh at the descriptions of the English countryside as it unfolded spring leaves, or mellowed under the summer sun, or crisped in autumn’s frost. I smiled at the hijinks of Little John when he was dressed up as a monk, and I laughed aloud at Robin Hood’s embarrassment when he had the stuffing knocked out of him – a feat witnessed by some of his merriest men, who leaned against their staves and snickered up their sleeves.

At the end of it, I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to lose myself in the clean and scented Sherwood Forest, but the door was closed and we were bid adieu. And even though I can pick this book up again at leisure, I believed the author when he advised his beloved reader that, the book being finished, we were now obliged to part ways and leave Sherwood behind us. My heart broke when the story was done.

More than anything else, to me this is a story of good people and less-good people – because even the Sheriff of Nottingham and the greedy Bishop of Hereford have a sense of humour – and it’s about kindness and cleverness. It’s about goodness.

Once upon a time, when I wrote, I could hide in the rafters of a cottar’s hut in fictional Allua and breathe in the scents of roasted breadnuts. I could taste the spindlefruit pie, the one garnished with gentlewhite leaves. I could even sample some of the cold and crystal-clean fa’ood cider while screaming urchins ran amok around the table, much to their parents’ mixed delight and chagrin. I could step outside, blinking against the crimson glare of an evening sun as it splayed its dusty rays between the barred shadows of green and black trees. I could watch yellow-white grain bow in scalloped waves as a mild summer breeze combed through the rows with invisible fingers, and I could freely fill my lungs with the savoury air.

And as I wrote one fresh page after another, I snickered at the pranks between king and knight, and laughed at the good-natured squabbling between unlikely friends. I cheered when my harassed champion rose to his feet with growing power and righteous indignation. And I wept when I overheard the lullabies as mighty heroes sang their dying children to sleep.

There was a time when they were as real to me as anyone in this world. This world exuded light, sound, smell and touch; characters interacted as dynamically and loudly in my head as shoppers in a real-world mall on Boxing Day.

There was a time when I cared about my characters, and about my readers. I would use one to broadcast a sense of life and goodness to the other. I would follow in Pyle’s footsteps, and make a new Robin Hood. And in the pursuit of the goodness in fictional characters, I found it in real life.

But there seems to be a wide and subtle interlude between Then and Now; Then, life and writing were one and the same; Now, my writing holds no delight. Then, to stop writing was like holding my breath; Now, it feels like an empty and pointless labour.

And it isn’t just writing, either. It’s like something in me has died, sometime between Then and Now – something delicate, precious and fleeting. This half-remembered thing once cared, and was aware, and sought to soothe the pain of others with spontaneous joy and bold adventure.

This morning, perhaps inspired by Howard Pyle’s lyrical prose, I thought, “I have become as soft as a dull broadsword, useful to none but as a bludgeon.”

Without knowing it, I think Pyle reached out and grabbed all of us – those of us adults who were paying attention, at least – and told us why we wept and sighed at the thought of Sherwood Forest. It’s because we’ve grown up, and the world has changed us.

Throughout the story, right up to the very last chapters, Robin Hood was a man full of kindness and good humour. He had killed and repented, it’s true; but despite his guilt (or because of it), he had become a gentle man, passionately in love with his world and his freedom in it; and his esprit-de-vie was infectious. He shamed the greedy without stripping them of their dignity; the good, he set free. His was the laugh of an utterly carefree, but caring, man, and despite his ever-ready weapons and skills, his hand was always stretched forth to help, to heal or to thwart, whichever was needed at the time.

Until the end.

“Now, had Robin Hood been as peaceful as of old, everything might have ended in smoke, as other such ventures had always done before; but he had fought for years under King Richard, and was changed from what he used to be.” – Howard Pyle.

He’d had the wise-child beaten out of him in the Crusades – or, more likely, under the weight of another man’s authority. He had succumbed to reality. This parenthetical thought – that our Robin Hood was no more – that was what made me cry. Can you imagine our brash swashbuckler trudging into battle with broadsword and blood-soaked helm, with ragged, smelly and loud common soldiers at his side? Can you imagine him, slashing and hacking and murdering for the hollow glory of another man?

Robin Hood came home a changed man, and it broke his heart to know he no longer fit in Sherwood Forest. Killing had come easily, and many men – friends and foes both – died because of it.

Yet, for us, this doesn’t have to be the end. So long as we live, the story goes on.

What has fallen dormant can come alive again; what has faded can be painted afresh; and while we may have left Sherwood Forest, we need only retrace our steps back to the Greenwood Tree, blow the bugle three times and live there again, free and alive.

I need only to find the way back.

Vox Populi - an essay

I don’t often get political, so I’ll try to be brief. I probably won't succeed. When I actually have something political to say, I take care to say exactly what I mean, in as many words as it requires.

Here in Canada, it’s election season, and we are surrounded by an age old drama: a farce and a lottery wrapped up in the flags of democracy. I see the same political polka in most of the “democratic” states.

The genetic make-up of each “democracy” varies somewhat from country to country, but here (as I see it), to win a seat in the House of Commons, two or more people advertise their names, faces and virtues in order to win the popular vote and work in the government for a few years. They shake hands, they make some promises and they debate over topics that seem important to the people in that riding. To maximize their popularity, they slander their opponents with an astonishing and hypocritical eye for detail. After several weeks of posturing and hopeful grins, the candidates sit back, biting their nails, and wait for the results to come in. Then, some people to come out to the voting booth to make a simple X in the right circle on the right slip of paper. The candidate who has the most X’s wins a seat in the House. This is the defining attribute of “democracy” as we know it, and that’s where the “democratic” part of the process ends.

Now, the political party that has the most electoral winners gains nominal control of the country, and the leader of that party becomes the Prime Minister - the chief executive of the country, under the authority of the Monarch of the United Kingdom. I say nominal here, because in some cases “party with the most seats” does not infer “party with the majority of seats in the House.” A minority government is that state wherein the winning party has more seats than any other party, but all the other parties, if they could actually get along, could band together and outvote the ruling party.

Post-election, when the government actually sits down to do some work, bills are introduced for debate with the hopes that they become law. The political parties bicker over the details and call each other idiots; then, they all sit down and vote according to party policy (and if they don't, look out). Sometimes, bills are passed and handed over to the Senate for a final sanity check before being handed to the Governor General for the official seal that turns idea into law. (And yes, “sanity check” is written tongue in cheek – but my diatribe about the Senate should be reserved for a much later date).

Sometimes we even get good laws – don’t get me wrong. Every once in a while, something is passed through Parliament that actually makes sense. If you took the time to read and understand some legislation, you’d see that yes, these laws were proposed by rational people, refined by rational people, and passed into law for a good reason. Most law, after all, is crafted after somebody has already done something stupid, and this process helps the institutions of law and order to prevent future occurrences – or at least to backhand those people who follow a bad example.

Yes, I’m oversimplifying an enormous and complex social organism. Am I criticizing our “democratic” government? No. Things could be a lot worse. In fact, my own free sarcasm is a key indication of good government – anywhere else, and I could be ostracized, denied access to certain institutions, or punished up to and including being put to death. That’s why I love this country. I don’t have to burn any flags to acknowledge my freedoms; I can say thank you, instead.

What I am criticizing is the word we use to describe this government.

In a true democracy, representatives are elected from among the people, by the people, to represent the people. This is the simplest definition of democracy.

Democracy does not exist in North America. It existed briefly, while George Washington was in office. In his farewell address, he begged his peers not to follow the European example of bipartisan politics.

“They serve to organize faction; to give it an artificial and extraordinary force; to put in the place of the delegated will of the nation the will of a party, often a small but artful and enterprising minority of the community, and, according to the alternate triumphs of different parties, to make the public administration the mirror of the ill-concerted and incongruous projects of faction rather than the organ of consistent and wholesome plans, digested by common counsels and modified by mutual interests.

However combinations or associations of the above description may now and then answer popular ends, they are likely in the course of time and things to become potent engines by which cunning, ambitious, and unprincipled men will be enabled to subvert the power of the people, and to usurp for themselves the reins of government, destroying afterwards the very engines which have lifted them to unjust dominion." – George Washington.

As the Democrats and Republicans have since shown us, he didn’t get his wish.

What we have here and now is an oligarchical lottery, and I say this for three very good reasons.

First, when we get a job we’ve applied for, we don’t say we “won” a new job. So why do parties “win” elections, except if it’s some kind of a game? And, the more tickets (votes) you have, the better your chances of winning the pot – therefore, lottery.

Second, we do not vote for a representative of ourselves (with the exception of independents, but more on that in a moment). We vote for a member of a political party. We subscribe to the values and promises of a political party that seem best aligned with our own political views. When you vote for a party of people who represent the aims of that party, that is “rule by the many”, not “government by representation.” That is an oligarchy.

Third, if there was a democracy, representatives (i.e. someone representative of its constituency) would actively and continually seek out and represent the opinions of his/her riding. Granted, in a society as big as ours, this represents a logistical improbability. We can’t have a referendum on every single bill in the House of Commons. But when was the last time you received a phone call or a letter from your Member of Parliament, post-election, soliciting your advice or your opinion?

And yes, non-politicos (i.e. lobbyists) can sway the opinions of the party. But this is not democracy either. It’s ideology. It is the passionate plea on behalf of a cause or an idea – and not necessarily the representation of the will of the majority of the population.

Here, I had originally thought to make a point about wealth distribution and tax breaks, comparing the size of the lower and middle classes against those few who seem to hold all the power – but that’s an argument that’s been beaten to death. Outside of Michael Moore interviews or documentaries, this is one of the best summaries of the situation in the US, from Senator Bernie Sanders. Watch either of these two links, and I won’t need to make the point at all. It may not be as extreme here in Canada, but we’re enduring the same pressures and the same symptoms as our American allies. (And remember folks - just because I may like how he makes us stop and think about the What's and Why's of his commentary, doesn't mean I'm backing him. There are things he says I don't agree with, too. But he seems genuine in wanting to represent the majority of Americans - which is the whole subject of this essay.)

In short: when you compare the number of Haves against the Have-Nots, it’s hard to believe that the popular opinion has won the day, especially when it comes to issues like tax breaks for the tiny upper class, and budget cuts for social programs like education and daycare, used by the other 80+% of Canadians.

Originally, I’d thought we had mistaken capitalism for democracy. Not so! In capitalism, what sells is the best value product, made as economically as possible and sold for the lowest price possible. But, as with fashion consumerism, we tend to shop for name-brands and shy away from bargain independents, even when it costs more and provides less. In this day and age, we seem to be more swayed by charisma than by conviction or common sense. If that weren’t the case, we wouldn’t have shows like The Hills or Jersey Shore.

Need further proof that we live in an oligarchy?

Have you ever heard someone ask “why are you voting for that party?” when that party (i.e. the Green Party) is guaranteed a minority of seats in the House of Commons? Does it matter, if I’m voting for what I believe in? “If you vote for this small and wimpy party, the bigger and meaner party will win in the end! Vote for us (the lesser evil) instead!” Et cetera, ad nauseum.

Have you ever heard the term “throw-away vote” especially when someone expresses support for an independent candidate? It’s a grassroots question designed to sway you toward a more popular party. It’s like someone smacking the Tim Horton’s coffee from your hand and demanding you switch to Starbucks, regardless of your personal tastes or budget. We’re in this oligarchy because we enforce it ourselves, and I'm at a loss to understand why.

In a true democracy, each person has a right to vote for a person who best represents themselves; the majority of people, therefore, are represented by a candidate selected from among the people, by the people, to represent the needs and values of their community. In a democratic government, the elected officials continue to represent those who elected them. They debate on an issue-by-issue basis, on the merits of the arguments raised and not by party dogma.

I’m not saying that this government is the most dysfunctional in the world. I have no socialist delusions about an egalitarian utopia either. History has also shown us that mankind is no more prepared for socialism than it is for true democracy; and the panoply of opinions in this country require us to have leaders banding together to present a unified, managerial direction for everyone else.

Complaining? No. But I am relabeling the government system we already have, in order to express my doubt in how democratic our “democracy” is.

And the reality is, the vox populi is weak because we don’t vote, en masse, according to our collective conscience. If we actually cared about democracy, we the voters would eliminate party politics.

The point is, after being beaten senseless with “proof” that one party leader is dumber or more dangerous than another, I am challenging myself to actually meet, greet and question all of the candidates in my riding, then to make an informed – and wise – decision based on the candidate’s own merit. And then, I want to hold my representative accountable to the needs of my community, regardless of their party.

I challenge you to do likewise.

So we don’t have a true democracy yet. That doesn’t stop us from acting as if we do.

Ode to the Paperback

For her next birthday, I bought my mother an eReader, just as she'd hoped. (It's okay, she already knows. It's what she wanted, since I wasn't able to afford her Plan A birthday present this year.)

I half-scoffed at the idea, myself. I love my paperbacks, and I stand united with other starving artists who have a hard enough time reaping any rewards from their efforts.

But I'm also drawn to emerging technologies. So naturally, not having one myself, I had to give the new eReader a test run. (Y'know, in case she has problems with it. Beta testers, y'know?...Yeah...)

This particular model came with 100 books preloaded, some of which I had already read, some of which I had been meaning to read. I thumbed through the list and found "The Picture of Dorian Gray" - and yes, I wanted to know how the book measured up against "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen." (And what a weird sensation, using 2011 technology to read about 1891 London.)

And boy, did I feel guilty about it. Was I actually enjoying myself? Me, who had yelled so fiercely against the total financial unfairness of eBooks? After all, eBooks are, by design, cheaper to make - meaning that publishing houses and their writers earn less.

On the other hand, why am I still paying up to $10 for a book that requires neither paper nor printing press? It's an overglorified email, for crying out loud! I can spend $2.00 more and get the same book, in print, on sale at my local bookstore - you know, where people work and make a living.

Video killed the radio star, and eBooks are strangling the bookstore.

But, perhaps influenced by the philosophical prose of Oscar Wilde, I realized that this was a book stripped of its covers and gloss, and there I had in my hands the raw essence of the story that had been written. By taking it out of its trappings, the story had been reduced to its ideas and words.

And there is something to be said about convenience. Heading on a train next week to Toronto, I have every intention of traveling light. Instead of bringing a few bloated books with me (which often tangle up a hand I need for my luggage), I can stuff 100+ books into a device no more than an inch and a half thick and fits easily in my purse.

On my iTunes, at the moment, I have over 18,000 songs. Think of that for a moment - if I had a CD for every 15 of those songs, I would have 1,200 CDs taking up very precious space in my apartment. Yet I can pick up my laptop (and all 60 days of music, played end to end) and go to Toronto, or take it with me on a plane, or go to the cafe...And in a pocket of my laptop bag, I can store thousands of books. War and Peace, Don Quixote, Three Musketeers, and Moby Dick, all occupying the same shelf space with thousands of other titles - and still be able to zip up my laptop bag.

On top of that, I can sneak a peek into books like Harry Potter, Hunger Games and Twilight and without being laughed at. After all, no one can see what book I'm reading. I could be reading Winnie the Pooh, and no one would notice the difference. (For the record, Peter Pan is next on my list, right after Robinson Crusoe.)

On the other hand (I declared on Sunday, holding my coffee in one hand and the eReader in the other), there is something to be said about old fashioned viral advertising.

Imagine seeing a sophisticated, 30-something young man at a local coffee pub when he is engrossed in a copy of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. It speaks volumes about the author AND the reader.

Think of it - despite the fact that colonialism has slipped from everyday North American consciousness, people are still reading Conrad's book 110 years later. There must be something good about the story - something enduring. After reading a lot of sub-par material in the last few years, I crave something that can stand the test of time. That guy is reading it, and he seems to be enjoying it. Maybe this is something I want to read as well!

And think of the reader! Is he a student? Did he go back to school? Does he have no friends? Does he really enjoy reading? Is he a writer, trying to improve his craft? Is he smart and interesting, and does he think so? What does he see in this book? What fascination does it hold for him? (And why did it bore ME to tears? Did I miss something?)

Doesn't it beg old-fashioned conversation?

But replace the book with an eReader. That same young man could be reading some tawdry shoot-em-up, or the stock prices, or a dry psychology paper for an upcoming exam. Boring. And he's probably too busy to be interrupted. No need for conversation here.

And what reader, as child or adult, doesn't love going into a used book store, to be embraced by the dampened silence and by the scents of secrets and buried treasure? To run one's fingers along the spines of books is like caressing the lips of some sad Greek statue - you can't help but wonder what grief and fleeting joy these momentary mutes mean to whisper.

Stand in the middle of a bookstore - especially a used book store - and imagine: no two volumes are the same. Scrolling through a filtered search menu online doesn't convey the same sense of enduring human accomplishment.

And what if you met your favourite author (assuming you can't simply turn your phone around and snap a picture of the two of you in a buddy-hug)? Where could he or she sign? Signing increases the value (and re-sale price) of the printed book; signing an eReader only makes a mess of the screen.

For the record, video didn't kill the radio star. If anything, there are more independent artists out there now than ever before, thanks to the invention of the mp3. For better or worse (because "indy" does not always equate "good"), technology has enabled creativity, despite politics and popularity.

But getting a new Arcade Fire CD as a gift from a friend is far, far more precious than getting a gift card for iTunes. Possession becomes a touchstone of memory of time, place and friendship.

And the most powerful force of memory-evocation is that of smell. Hold an eReader, and you smell nothing but plastic. But open a book you had as a child, and you have entered a time capsule. To me, there is no better aromatherapy than opening an old, well-used and well-kept book.

eReaders are a convenience. Printed books are a treasure - one of increasing value as they inevitably become more rare.

And the sighs and dreams of the reader are captured between the pages of a book in print.