Dear Walter B. Gibson, Hypergraphic Icon...

Dear Mr. Walter B. Gibson (aka Maxwell Grant, esq.);

I understand you were, like, the most prolific guy on the planet, in your day.

On top of that, you were a reporter and magician and you hung out with some awesome people: y'know, like Blackstone, Dunninger, Kreskin, and Houdini, all of whom were the inspiration behind The Shadow.

You, Mr. Gibson, were the principal pulp inkmonger behind that dark and snarky figure who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men, that denizen of pulp fiction, radio plays, movies old and new, that icon of comic books, comic strips and graphic novels, and inspiration of umpteen gazillion toys, trinkets and doodads.




Heck, the Shadow even inspired other huge blockbusters, not the least of which are the Green Hornet and Batman.

Okay, so granted, the Shadow wasn't your original idea, but you sure ran far with it. And I've got a strong suspicion you didn't get to see a lot of cash from merchandising or the film rights, and maybe most people have all but forgotten your name...

But dang it, you're the only person I know of who wrote more than 300 novels in his lifetime. A sustained cruising speed of 10,000 words a day! Almost 1,700,000 words in a single year! That's a rate that would break the average human being! Look up "hypergraphia" in the dictionary, and there's a picture of Walter B. Gibson.

I've got a couple of posthumous questions for you. The first one that jumps to mind is "were you insane", but there's no point asking that, because the answer is self-evident.

But there are a whole bunch of other questions that have been plaguing me since the Muskoka Novel Marathon. I was thinking of you the whole time (when I probably should have been plotting and writing, instead...). After all, I managed to write 56,000 words in 72-hours (and then my eyes fell out), so to me, 10,000 words a day suddenly doesn't seem so unattainable.

But...

Were you any good? I mean come on - 10,000 words a day? On a typewriter? Did you even have time to edit? Did you actually check your spelling, or did you drive your copy editors to drinking?

Did you have a life? A day job? Wikipedia tells me you had been married. So did you ever have to do bachelor-y things, like, your laundry? Wash the dishes? Fix the car? And did your wife ever get tired of your constant clackety-clack on the old Corona?

And did you ever get sick of it? All the writing, the deadlines, the pressures, the constant need to come up with a distinct plot and unique characters...?

As for me, this is the first creative thing I've written since the marathon two weeks ago, so how you could keep coming up with new stories every two weeks...! You once said in an interview that before you were finished one project, you had ideas for the next - but didn't you ever wonder if some day the well would run dry?

Did you ever wish you could throw off the shackles and actually write something of critical acclaim? Have your work recognized for its merit, and less so for its accumulation?

But the question that's been plaguing me all this time: how the heck is a hack like me supposed to compete against a legacy like yours, Mr. Gibson? In this age of Facebook games and blogging and addictive podcasts, can anyone ever leave as lasting and as robust an impact on pop lit as you?

Is it even remotely possible that someone like me could follow in your footsteps? Someone who gets giddy designing databases? Someone who's taken up drumming, dancing and winter camping for "research"? Someone who stands in front of the washing machine scratching her head and wondering why she came into the laundry room in the first place?

Walter B. Gibson, September 12, 1897 – December 6, 1985, Inkmonger and Ideasmith

Someone who can write 56,000 words in 72 hours...?

Who knows? But it'll sure be fun to try.

Mwaa ha ha ha!

For more information about Walter B. Gibson (aka Maxwell Grant) and about the origins of the Shadow - here's a great story by Robby Reed, and an article by William V. Rauscher.

Muskoka Novel Marathon - 1/3rd of the way there!

Wow...even now that I type this, I can feel how much my typing speed has dropped.

At the moment that I type this, I'm "taking a break" from writing at about quarter to two, Saturday afternoon, about 18 hours into the 72-hour marathon. And best of all, I'm a third of the way toward my goal, and ahead of schedule.

I had asked my Aunt Shirley if she wanted to help "sponsor me" this year by making a small donation to the Muskoka Literacy Council. She committed a certain amount (a very generous amount at that). Then, as I was thanking her, I mentioned that I was half-hoping to beat last year's record of 300 pages. She said, "If you do, I'll double my donation." I took her up on it. Then, when it came time to head to points northwest, my aunt asked when the funds were due for collection. I told her I had to bring them with me. So she gave me a cheque for double what she had originally committed and said that it was given "in good faith."

And wouldn't it figure...Last night, I was sidelined by a migraine. Paragraph by paragraph blundered from brain to page. I had to give up past midnight, four and a bit hours into the marathon with only about thirty pages. Things were not looking good.

This morning, feeling groggy and gruesome, I checked the "Boon Board." Mr. Kevin Craig was at page 70 when I walked in this morning just shy of 7:00 o'clock!

But it had exactly the effect I needed. He had a forty page lead, and I had fire in my guts. I would not be dethroned without a fight.

Last night, I was averaging about 1250 words per hour. Now, I'm averaging close to 2000. And best of all, during the lunch break, I caught Mr. Craig looking at my current page count of 100 even, and he uttered something funny as heck and very badly timed ("Uh, she's right behind you").

There's only twenty pages between us now, and I'm finally, fully awake.

And so, rolling over shortly to 2:00 p.m., I jump back into it again, with a goal of at least 150 pages tonight before bed. I've had my pizza, I've had my first pickle, and the first can of Monster Energy Drink is open at last.

Look out Mr. Craig. Mwaa ha.

'Twas the Night before Marathon

'Twas the night before Marathon, and all through my head
Were worries and memories, full of joy mixed with dread.
The Rockstar was packed in the Kia with care
In hopes that yours truly lives up to the dare.

All the year long and all through the whole night,
I thought about this, our weekend to write.
"Who's coming this year," is the first of the set.
"How's Erin and family?" "Quite warm, I would bet."

"Will Martin still nap there?" "Will Paula compete?"
"Can we all go racing? 'Cause that would be sweet!"
"How do we get there? And will it be hot?
"Can we go to Crabby's? I like them a lot."

"And what shall I write? Can I write well enough?
"And how many pages?! Oh man, is this tough.
"Which story to write? This one? Maybe not...
"Oh heavens have mercy - I need a good plot!"

And then I remember what this is about:
It's the volunteer efforts of which I should tout.
The Council Muskokan of Literacy,
Writers assemble to champion thee!

So pick up your pencil and play your first tune,
And say a warm thank you to Ms. Paula Boon.
I thank all of you who help drive this success.
And hope all of our efforts, new readers shall bless.



For more information about the Muskoka Literacy Council, check out their website at http://www.mlch.org/home.htm.

And even if you haven't supported this particular volunteer literacy organization, support one in your local area. This is a rapidly evolving, technologically driven economy, and sometimes, people get lost in the shuffle. Deficiencies in basic literacy, numeracy or computer skills can be insurmountable obstacles when entering or re-entering the workforce.

We help those who want to work. Help us to help themselves to a better future.

The 72-Hour Wonder! Coming soon!

It's getting close to that time of year again, and I'm already in a giddy state of panic-laced joy.

I'm annoying all my friends with reminders that I'm going to the Muskoka Novel Marathon on Friday, July 16th. My mother bought me a jar of pickles to take with me "In case of emergency, like writer's block or Page 301." I've been fasting from all sorts of creativity in the last two weeks, to build up a ravenous appetite for writing. I've been listening to '20s and '30s music the last few days to get me into the spirit of the book's era (and I've been subjecting friends, family and unsuspecting neighbours to the likes of "Lullaby on Broadway," "Happy Days are Here Again," and "Yes, We Have No Bananas" at all hours). And in the trunk of my car: 4 cans of Monster Energy Drink, 4 cans of Full Throttle, and 1 obligatory can of Rockstar.

The portents so far are good. When I arrived at my Grampa's place (jumping off point before heading up to Huntsville), I spotted a photo clipped from the July 7th newspaper: my great-aunt Ruby dressed up like a flapper. Coincidentally: my principal character's name is also Ruby.

But am I ready? Yes and no? Yes, I have everything I need (computer, keyboard, obscene amounts of caffeine), and no, I don't have everything I need (I still haven't actually written down the plot for the book I intend to write).

72-hour marathon implies 72 hours of sleep-deprived typing, interrupted by inconvenient and ill-timed trips to the bathroom, but it doesn't mention anything about the 72 days of hair-pulling and lip-chewing leading up to it!

The questions are making me toss and turn - and I haven't even gone to bed yet. How's the story going to end? Can I make this book better than last year's? Is it going to have enough action? What about the research? Shouldn't I have done more of it beforehand? Are we going to have office chair races again? Who's going to be there this year? Is my roomie going to put up with me and my weird sleeping behaviours? And speaking of whom: is Jacqui going to make good on last year's promise to take a magnet to my computer while other MNM'ers distract me with burgers and fries?

And the two biggest questions of all: 1) can I actually write 301 pages this weekend? 2) HOW did I write 300 last year?

I mean, who in their right mind writes 300 pages (approximately 55k words) in 72 hours? Was I mad? Did I really drink that much caffeine? How fast was I typing, for crying out loud? How many spelling errors per second is that, anyhow?

But what's been keeping me grinning is this: By this time next week, I'll have a new book written. It's a book that doesn't exist right now, but by Monday night next week, I'll have a hard copy in hand. Now how freaking cool is that?

Time (very limited time at that) will tell if I can beat my own record. Stay tuned - I'll post updates as bonus material during the marathon.

Bruised, bitten, and slugged

I know, it's been a while. But I have this thing about writing during the summer. It's the one thing I want to do, and it's the one thing I have the most trouble doing.

My problem: "research."

I want to set scenes in nature? I must get out into nature. I want to write about people? I must go out to patio and people-watch. So, even though I had four days of relatively uninterrupted writing time...I didn't do a whole lot.

And the second most difficult thing to write during the summer is a blog! Well, for that matter, I haven't blogged lately, because I haven't done anything goofy in a while. I was so busy I didn't do anything silly! How boring!

I had four days off, three of them rainy, so, today, this one day of sunshine, I evacuated my island home and went into the mountains of the Eastern Townships. For a while, I managed to stick to the paved bike path, but darn it...I can't resist a good photo, even if it means sticking my neck out. (Ask my mother how far out I'll stick my neck. Once, she held me by the back of my belt as I leaned out from the Johnville bog boardwalk to photograph a mushroom.)

As I am often wont to do, I decided to get in a bit closer for a better shot of the river at the bottom of the ravine. There was a convenient little path leading down to a culvert, which in turn led to a pebbly riverbank. I thought...no signs, no poison ivy, the bank looks sturdy and dry, so let's go for it!

Yeaaaah...

So, first, I squatted down on the righthand culvert bank and stretched out my left leg to the other side. No problem. Eased my weight onto my left foot. No problem. Stood up. Problem.

The edge of my left foot slid down mud the consistency of chocolate ice cream, which made me lean hard to port. My right foot - so excited about the sudden change of events - kicked high and goofy. With my arms flinging around, I slid down the rest of the bank until I was shin deep in squish.

My cowardly right foot, in the meantime, didn't want anything to do with water or mud, no matter how photogenic it was, so it stubbornly shook like a cat's paw and didn't know where to go from there. So, while my arms swung like a speed skater, and with my right leg hoisted and bent like a dog beside a tree, I did the only rational thing I could think of.

I jumped.

Futility at its best.

There were some flatulent noises, a grunt and the co-ordinated flap of two elbows, but I was firmly ensconced in slime and mud.

And then I started falling forward. Insert unladylike shouts of surprise and horror here.

Did I mention the blackflies?

I'm not sure what it must have seemed like to the casual observer, but I suspect it looked like an interpretive dance combining The Twist and the Hokey Pokey. And while I managed to get myself turned around, my dumb right foot still didn't know which way to go.

With no where to go but forward, I planted my right foot where the left foot shouldn't have gone in the first place. When I began to slide again, both feet tried to move at the same time - one afraid to go into the water, one desperate to get out, and with arms pinwheeling, my feet went their separate ways. With all balance lost, the right foot took one for the team and joined its brother in the velvety goo of the river bottom.

Once secure on a drier bank, my right foot dug in, and with two heaves and a lost shoe later, the left came free with more momentum than I had expected, and in a headlong rush to higher ground, I scrambled up the bank with both hands, with my camera swinging from its strap and thumping against my chest.

And then I felt something squirt out from under my hand.

It was fox dung. I kid you not. It was wet, warm, suspiciously carnivorous in nature, and well positioned for calamity.

Not to be outdone by Ma Nature, I washed my hands, stripped off my bucket-shoes and peeled off my socks (laying them far away from the dung), then I rolled up the old jean cuffs to my knees, and I sallied forth into the river like Huckleberry Finn.

Except Huck made it look easy. I looked like the world's worst tight rope walker, and every time a rock dug into my pampered sole, I'd stoop forward and reach for something to catch me - which is a really dumb thing to do when you're in the middle of a river and there's nothing but water under you.

But it was worth it.


Breathing in bird song and clover-sweetened air, I hung out in the middle of the stream for a while. It was a strange sensation: the water was so warm, I didn't feel wet. Work was a bad dream half-remembered from years ago. Writing could wait. For a moment, I had the world to myself, and time had stopped.

Reinvigorated in the spirit of adventure, I carried on downstream (leaning this way, leaning way too far that way, splashing down and stumbling on another sharp rock, doing a one and a half pirhouette, then breaking the law of gravity as I hovered over the water like a sculpture of Cupid - one leg way out, both arms spread, chin stuck out and camera devilishly close to an expensive dunking...). And there, I climbed a tree.

Me. I climbed a tree.

I leaned against the strong boughs and breathed, listening to the red-wing blackbirds, the lap of the water and the pip of frogs.

To capture the moment of peace, I took the most awkward self-portrait ever. Imagine this, if you would:

1. Climb tree in bare feet.
2. Hang onto tree for dear life. Ignore self-preservation instincts and lean.
3. Stick out right arm as far as it can go.
4. Hold camera in overhand grasp, trying not to let the strap, the lens cap or your fingers get in the way.
5. Stick out your right finger two inches further than humanly possible.
6. Press the button and wait for it to figure out what it's trying to focus on.
7. Look introspective and like you're having fun and not like you're scared of doing a face plant.
8. DO NOT DROP THE CAMERA INTO THE WATER.
9. Realize...once you're done, you're going to have to walk back through the creek again.
10. Take picture.

Reluctantly, I quit my post in the willow tree and repeated my Gene Kelly spoof upstream (while wondering if there were any crayfish underfoot), and I returned to where I'd left my drowned socks and shoes.

Ma Nature was waiting for me.

Apparently she was feeling sluggish.

Alas, all good things come to an end, so I shook out my slug-slimed socks, emptied my shoes and struck off across the bike path.

Of course, this being the one day of sunshine in the month of June, the bike path was skillet-like, and I danced on it like a drop of water, shouting things like, "Ooh hot! Ooh very hot! Ooh, nice picture!"

Would I give up another day of writing for re-visit?

The better question is: when do you want to come with me?