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  • Ethical Aspects of Animal Husbandry
    Ethical Aspects of Animal Husbandry
    by Craig Terlson

    A collection of short stories where the humour runs dark and the slipstream bubbles up.


    ...imagine if Raymond Carver called up George Saunders and Joe Lansdale, and they all went drinking with Neil Gaiman.

  • Correction Line
    Correction Line
    by Craig Terlson

    “… it's clear that Terlson is way ahead of the curve in terms of crafting an engaging premise that reaches for elevated territory and reinvents enduring archetypes of action and suspense.”  J. Schoenfelder

    "Sometimes brutal, often demanding and always complex, this novel will repay the reader who likes their assumptions challenged and is happy to walk away from a book with minor questions unanswered but the big ones definitely dealt with! It’s likely to satisfy those who enjoy Hammet and/or Philip K Dick and who like their fiction very noir indeed."   Kay Sexton


    "I love a novel that you can't put down, and this is one of them."  L. Cihlar


The Art of Heavy Lifting

Okay, it's hero time again, no, no, not George Saunders, the other guy. On a sentence by sentence, pure writing form, I think Richard Ford is probably my biggest influence. That's not to say I write like him - but who does? He is one writer that I love to read slowly, just to soak in his words. There's a Globe and Mail interview that asks writers who writes the best sentences – for me, it's always Ford.

I also love to listen to him in interviews. He has lost most of the Southern accent (at least to my ears), but he has a voice that is so full of integrity somehow. Maybe that sounds weird or pretentious. But Ford is the guy that makes me want to be a better writer, and like George Saunders, a better human.

His book, Rock Springs is my favourite short story collection of all time (and not just mine, it shows up on a lot best of lists). In an interview from Smokelong Quarterly, I said it was the book I obsessed about the most.

But to cut to it, Ford acts as my writerly conscious. Whenever I'm feeling a bit underwhelmed by what I'm writing, or attempting to write, there can be the temptation to just say, "ah well, good enough. Let's just get this puppy done."

Where I grew up we were always getting "puppies done" – sporting games that needed finishing, holes that needed digging, beers that needed drinking (those might have been called dead soldiers instead of puppies - because, dead puppies? Ew.), and generally tasks that just needed getting done were sometimes referred in that way. Let's get that puppy done.

I digress. In a nostalgic way.

I picture Ford over my shoulder, or maybe even on my shoulder, gently chastising me in that wonderfully sonorous voice, really Craig? Is that good enough? Are you writing something that matters? Because if you're not, then why aren't you. There are plenty of other careers or pursuits that one can attend to. In fact---

All right all right all right, RICHARD. I got it! I need to do better. I need to do the heavy lifting.

People ask me if I find writing hard. Or more often, they are about to embark on their own writerly quest (hey, I've got a novel in my head, and I just need to put it down on paper.). It's not that hard is it? I remember the Samuel Jackson character in an Elmore Leonard movie (Get Shorty, Jackie Brown, maybe?), waxing on how writing is easy, you just put down the story and then you get some other dude to put in the punctuation and shit. (Wrong - see below)

Edit - Geez louise, I can't believe I got this wrong. This great piece was done by the amazing Delroy Lindo in Get Shorty - talking with John Travolta about screenplays. "That's what you do, man, you put down one word after the other as it comes in your head. It isn't like having to learn how to play the piano, like you have to learn notes. You already learned in school how to write, didn't you? I hope so. You have the idea and you put down what you want to say. Then you get somebody to add in the commas . . . where they belong, if you aren't positive yourself. Maybe fix up the spelling where you have some tricky words. There people do that for you. Some, I've even seen scripts where I know words weren't spelled right and there was hardly any commas in it. So I don't think it's too important."

Well, Delroy, and the dude with the novel in your head, here's the deal. It's hard. No wait, it's really hard. No, better, writing a novel is probably the single hardest thing I've done. Heavy lifting? Yeah, get ready. In fact, maybe you should stretch.

Another writer that I admire deeply is Don DeLillo. He was asked once why his books were so hard (DeLillo can be dense, and difficult to read, especially if you are looking to breeze through a narrative.) He said, "truth should be hard."

Now maybe you think that sounds a bit much. But I don't think he was being pretentious or arrogant – if you are a writer, and have attempted to do the required heavy lifting, you know exactly what he was getting at. Ford (in the interview below) downplays his own intelligence, saying that writing is a physical act for him because he's not very smart. And he says other writers might be more deft, make things look easy. He also quotes Hemingway's, never let them see you sweat. And Ford says, I don't want them (the reader) to see me sweat, but I don't mind sweating. In truth, writing requires a helluva lot of sweating. You better have some towels on hand.

There was an animated meme going around where two big-headed creatures spoke in robotic voices – and one told the other they were going to write a novel. And it would be easy, and he would make millions of dollars, and it would only take him a few days to do it. Maybe you saw it. Or maybe after viewing, you heard the collective cry of all those authors that were reliving those cocktail parties where people, upon finding out you were a writer, went on to tell you about the novel they had in their head.

Seriously – all these people with novels in your heads. What's the deal? Isn't there someway we can tap into that? An Amazon of the mind. New this fall, the book in Bob's head. Plug it into your MindReader © if you want to download it directly from Bob's head.
Hmm, I may be onto something. Yes, that is my copyright symbol, so back off that puppy.

So dear blog reader, what's the lesson here? Writing is hard as fuck. Hmm, that doesn't sound that helpful. Can you lighten that up a bit? No. 

I guess, this isn't a cry for writers to be lofted up, or placed into some hard workers club – there's lot of people that are hard workers, in different ways, mental, physical, emotional. My wife worked as an ER nurse for ten years. You want hard? No, this is more of a know what you're signing up for when you begin to learn the art and craft of writing. And it's my admonishment to myself, when I slack off, and try to get my lackluster, or even semi-lustered work out the door. For me, that rich voice of Richard Ford is always telling me gently, but insistently, you can do better.

Here is a fairly recent interview from the Danish literary festival, in Copenhagen, Denmark (called the Louisiana Literature Festival – after the Danish museum), where he talks about the heavy lifting. It is only 12 minutes, and definitely worth the time - but if you want to jump ahead to where he talks about this it's around the 7 minute mark. But then stick around for his story of the first serious art he encountered - sitting on the amp of Howlin' Wolf.
Now, that would be a story.



Simple and interesting. Advice to a young writer.

I recently came across a list of advice to a young writer – it was the standard: read lots, shut off the TV, get a good thesaurus, learn the rules before you break them... all good stuff. A couple of new ones on the list caught my attention (or ones I had not seen before):

Find what interests both you and others.


These ones gave me pause, and then I went, yeah... that's right. The interest one might seem common sense, but I think I'm only finally learning it now. When I look back on some of my earliest works, I was big into what interested me, but I didn't give a wick about the reader. Hey, if this bores you, then move along buddy. Go find something in the romantic post-apocalyptic fiction section (is that a genre? Most likely. I love you Bob, but the world has ended. I love you too, Sue. See you in the radioactive desert later.)

Definitely you need to write about what interests you. I mean, if I'm boring myself, then sure as shinola I'm boring the crap out of everybody. I also won't finish anything I start.

Digression alert.

I have come to see the main difference between professional writers and wannabees is that the pros finish stuff. As simple as that. If I meet one more person that says they have a whole novel in their head and all they need to do is write it down, I'm gonna poke my eyes out with a burnt wiener stick. So here's maybe the most important advice I can give anyone wanting to become a real, honest-to-Pete, writer: finish shit.

Digression complete. For now. (More on who Pete is, later)

Back to the interest thing. In that first draft you gotta keep yourself interested, but it is in the rewriting where I start to look outward to a potential reader. It is really one of the hardest things to do. Are you able to judge objectively what is interesting to others? How do you take that step back?

I hired an editor for my latest novel (coming out this May, 2017 btw!!!) I hired her because I was having a hard time creating that objective view. I knew something was out of whack, but I didn't know what. One of the things that she pointed out, in her substantive edit (not a copy edit), was where she lost interest. She was too nice to say I was boring her – but that's what she meant. One of the main goals of the novel rewrite was to address those less interesting parts, or just cut them right out (which I ended up doing).

Often, we just can't see the boring parts. This is when you need another pair of trusted eyes. By trusted, I mean someone that you know is a skilled reader, but also someone who won't hold back. If all your beta-readers can say about your work is they like it and it's good (kinda like asking your spouse how she feels, and she says fine. Well, you know there is more under the surface of that).

I really do want someone to tell me - you know that whole chapter bored the complete shit out of me. I've read more interesting Algebra problems. It means I got some fixing to do.

Here is where the adage of putting a work in a drawer for a month or two really plays out. But sometimes even that isn't enough. I've said before how we all need editors - God, how we need them - but I guess I'm clarifying here, that the need is not just about fixing your misplaced modifiers, and dangling participles (I've heard you can get a cream for those.) Moreover, editors can tell you what interests them.

I just used "moreover" in a sentence. I feel like I've accomplished something here.

The other point about simplify also struck me. As talked about in a previous post, just like George Saunders I also had a Hemingway boner for the first five (ten?) years of my writing career. It's why I loved Carver and Ford and anyone that could strip stories, and better yet, sentences down to their simplest forms. Kill those modifiers on sight! I laughed when Saunders in an interview said that during his Hemingway phase a lot of his stuff sounded like this:
Bob went into the Walmart. It was pleasant.

Of course, when I revisit Hemingway, I see that he wasn't all that simple in his language. Sure, he cut to it, but the layers in the writing were deeply complex - his whole iceberg theory thing. So to simplify, even in terms of Hemingway-esque prose, means more than just sentence structure and word choice.

I'm just riffing here, but I wonder if it has to do with asking yourself: So what is this story about? Don't give me all you serpentine bullshit about the human condition. Just tell me what this is about. Simply.

Again, this is not a simple task. In fact, I think I've spent the last 16 years trying to figure it out. In an interview with my publisher, they asked me about my revision process.

As I gather comments, and my own insights from leaving the manuscript rest for a while, I begin to revise by asking two main questions: “Why?” and “Is this true?”

This idea of making something simple reminds me of an anecdote I heard about the chef Marco Pierre White. To paraphrase... when asked about making something simple, like an egg. He said, "simple does not mean easy." Those are my quote marks, and TBH I'm not even sure it was White, but let's say it was. The whole point of the deal here is to create a simple beautiful story, or even just one sentence - Hemingway said (and this time I know it was him), “All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

Sounds easy right?

Oh, and make it interesting while you're at it.


Here's MPW putting some poor chefs through the wringer... about eggs.




Pants or no Pants... that is the question.



Settle down, we're not talking pantaloons, trousers, or skinny jeans. A while back I came across the distinction of two different kinds of writers: Pantsers and Plotters.

Something I nabbed off the net best describes the difference:

Simply put, a plotter is someone who plans out their novel before they write it. A pantser is someone who, “flies by the seat of their pants,” meaning they don’t plan out anything, or plan very little. Some people call themselves “plantsers,” which means they’re in a little of both. In reality, most people are plantsers, but some tend to lean heavily to one side.

(Thanks to thewritepractice)

Hmmm, so which way do I lean? Or lean heavily - hey, is that a weight joke?" Let's not go there. I'm pretty much always a pantsers until I run into the perennial pantser problem (the PPP): oh shit, I wrote myself into another corner.

And just to add, the title of this post has to do with that feeling when you get into that corner that everyone can see you sitting there, with nothing to say, and wearing nothing but your tighty-whiteys. For god's sake man, put on some trousers and be decent! There might be kids reading.

Okay, I digress... weirdly.

Anyway... as much as I love the thrill of never knowing what comes next, the danger is you start going down a path that seems very cool and twisty, and then proceeds to get darker, foggier, murkier... and you get the idea. While over at Mr. Plotter's house, he's just completed his third novel this week because he knew exactly how that sucker went, chapter by chapter. Sigh. I just can't do it. I've tried. Damn that Plotter and his efficient ways.

A couple of my fave pantsers Joe R. Lansdale and Stephen King swear by the pantser motto - or so they say in interviews. Now, they are both hugely prolific, and probably have become masters of getting in and out of writing corners. Or like most of us, they simply bang their head against the keyboard until something emerges.

I don't want to run down my plotter pals (PP's), as they are way more efficient and professional in their techniques. Or so I am surmising. I am guessing that a lot of sci-fi, fantasy world-builder type authors have to be plotters. You can't just land on a planet and start shooting stuff, or eating stuff. Oh wait, that is the plot of most of the first generation Star Trek episodes... so maybe you can start doing that.

In truth, I'll admit to a bit of plotting (plansters alert) while writing my novel, Surf City Acid Drop. Even though, the novel originally was released serial fiction style on this blog, I did sketch a few scenes ahead of wherever I was in the story. I am currently working on the sequel to that novel, and I'm doing a bit of the same. I love the thrill of writing like your hair is on fire and only words can put it out (image above: the true pantser way). But in planning crime fiction, I need to be a few steps ahead of my protag, just to lessen the amount of corners and road blocks that I create for myself.

I haven't mentioned George Saunders yet, so it seems like about that time. My hero of late is a known pantser - though, I don't think I've heard him use the term. For him it is about a deep listening to a story, both to know where it going, and to know if it's any good. In an interview he decribed the process like watching crystals under a microscope, if you let them grow, they could turn into the most beautiful formations. I'm paraphrasing the quote, but basically it was about letting the subconscious be your guide - at least in the first draft. Then Saunders goes through 100 drafts (I am never sure if that is hyperbole), to hone the story into that perfect vision of what grew under the microscope.

I guess I am sort of in that plantsers camp - yet leaning heavily on the pantsers side. I think it was Lansdale who said that he'd totally bored by plotting. Why would you want to know everything that has happened before you wrote it?

So, I'm headed for those corners. Hopefully I can get better at writing my way out of them.

Here's a seasonal bedtime story written and read by George Saunders to Stephen Colbert.







So who do you sound like?

I have this nasty habit of explaining music in terms of who the artist (or band) sounds like. Oh, you know, it's kind of a Beck meets Jack White and has a baby with Aretha Franklin. (hmm, that would be a cool sound).

I say nasty habit, because I never know if I am honouring or insulting the music. One of my favorite local bands, no longer around (Western States), in my mind were a dead ringer for Wilco. (See: all things I obsess about: here they are on Colbert.)

Love, love, loved all of the Western States, especially the lead singer and main writer. I had the luck of attending one of their album releases, where I met the lead guy, and asked him - so, who are your influences? I waited for him to say Jeff Tweedy and the Boys, but he didn't. He said, Neil Young. But, but... Okay, well, Neil is amazing. But don't you think you guys sound kinda like Wilco? Especially early Wilco?

"Oh yeah, sure. But it's cooler to say we were influenced by Neil." 

Huh. I guess I landed on the insult button there. Though, I still wonder what he meant. Sure, Wilco was influenced by Neil (damn, who wasn't?)... but, but, but. Own your influence man!

Okay, before I get too indignant. Let's talk about this in terms of that big buzz word for writers: VOICE. As in, you gotta find your voice... man. I think it needs a "man" at the end.

When I started writing, I was majorly influenced by Salinger, Carver, Marquez, and for sure Hemingway. I had what George Saunders referred to as a "Hemingway Boner." (now there's a literary term for ya). So while I searched for my voice, I was looking for it somehow within these influences. Problem is, I just end up sounding like an imitation-Hemingway. A faux, ersatz, lesser, stinkin-up-the-joint version of Papa H. actually. 

I watch a lot of writer interviews. Hey, I don't get out much! And over the years, I've come to understand this imitation phase as natural. Saunders had that Hemingway boner for a long time, until he finally figured out it was fake. Someone, maybe John Gardner, said that you need to read all the Hemingway you can get your hands on... and then read all the Faulkner you can, to get Hemingway out of your head.

I think what I've realized is that the voice thing will come along, and you need not force it. I was really struck by a Tobias Wolff interview I watched tonight on the treadmill (yeah, yeah, see above comment) - in the interview he is asked a question about voice. It doesn't help that the interviewer is kinda nerdy herself. But it was refreshing to see a great writer and teacher like Wolff (who incidentally was Saunders' Prof at Syracuse), respond by saying that voice was overrated. And writing doesn't really work that way.

I've had a lot of writer/reader obsessions over the years. Read this blog, you will find them. And I have seen my own work as a writerly stew of the people I read. If someone happens to comment that my latest novel sounds a bit like Richard Ford, well, I will proceed to bear hug that person, and possibly offer to buy the next round, or three. But I think, more importantly, I am starting to understand that my writing is not some French reduction of Ford, DeLillo, and a shot of Carver (hey, I'm a cook, I'm allowed the metaphor). Moreover, my work is staring to sound like, well, me. For instance, I actually use the word "moreover" when I talk - and not just for effect! (I think.)

Why isn't there a compound word "lessover". Like when I want the next thing I say to mean even less than the thing I just said.

I digress. Usually.

So while it might be good to know who you sound like in the beginning - we all sound like someone. It is better to sound more and more like yourself. This is way harder than you can imagine. Saunders remarked that rewriting makes him sound even more like himself than he is.

And there is nothing lessover about that.
Deep? Yeah, I know.

The interview below is around a half-hour long, and looks like bad cable TV (that opening!) - but it is worth it for the wisdom Tobias Wolff shares. And yes, that interviewer is kinda geeky. But I listen to writer interviews on the treadmill - so what the hell do I know?




Obsession, Altman, and the Art of Story

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about a certain Robert Altman film -- there was a time when all I thought of was Altman films. Well, maybe not all, but let's just say things got a bit obsessive -- just as they did with Sam Peckinpah, Don DeLillo, and the music of a certain Chicago band, which will remain nameless (WILCO).

What can I say, I'm a bit of an obsessive guy. One of my guilty pleasures is reading film criticism. I can disappear quite deeply into the minutia of what a certain scene in an underrated Peckinpah classic means in philosophical, sociological, and all the "cals." So there was a time when Altman was "it."

The film I've been thinking about (because geeky folk like me don't say "movie"), is McCabe & Mrs. Miller. The death of Leonard Cohen sprang the memory, since that was the first time I was really struck by his music. Sure, I knew Bird on the Wire, Suzanne, and the one K.D. Lang sings the most -- but it was the music of the Altman film that nailed me. I found out recently that Cohen didn't write the songs for the film, but in a way, Altman wrote the film based on the songs. If you dig around on the net, you will see what I mean. But whichever way it was, the film is a masterpiece. Not when it came out though. It was mostly panned except for frequent Altman cheerleader, the New Yorker's Pauline Kael. And Kael was right (and as usual, she was brilliant, so fricken' brilliant.)

I haven't seen the film in a few years because I have to be in the right mood -- that mood being super melancholy, or willing to become that way. It's a very sad film, Roger Ebert says it is one of the saddest in his glowing review. I actually tried to find Kael's review, but it is seemingly impossible. If someone knows where I can find it, please send me a link.

But what I know and remember of the film, is that when McCabe wanders into the town (like some Joseph looking for a manger... as Cohen sings) the people living there are not just some people that are sitting around on a film set, waiting for their chance to say their scripted lines. Rather, these people have been there for a very long time, just waiting for a story to happen, or maybe just for life to continue in its damp, muddy, dirty, underlit way. Other reviewers, Ebert or Kael, I forget which one, have also noted this.

This opening scene of McCabe & Mrs. Miller relates to how a story is formed... in the best of ways. My favourite blurb of my favourite book also relates here. Don DeLillo's Underworld is a beast of a book (900+ pages) and also happens to be my favourite book. I don't say that to be some sort of pretentious literary sort, this novel brought together everything that I loved (okay, obsessed) about DeLillo, and the rewards of that challenging read were huge. Michael Ondaatje blurbed the book, which went something like: a great novel teaches you how to read it. But in my memory Ondaatje, also said something about trusting an author to take you into town, and explain what you see, and what you will learn and feel. This is paramount in a DeLillo book, where the reader might be somewhat fearful to tread (or just damn confused).

Walking into an Altman film, or a DeLillo book, is like that. You need to trust, that if you just go awhile, you will be okay, things will become clear... or clear enough. This is the sort of trust I need as a writer when I begin a story. I need to trust that the story will talk to me, take me by the hand and tell me what it is about. 

When I began as a writer this kind of trust was hard. Ok, it was fucking impossible. I had so much to say, and to impart, and to teach, and, and, and... It took me a long time to learn that writing this way was akin to driving up my truckload of manure and dumping my shit onto poor reader's head. There. Got it now? Aren't I clever? Next.

I stole the manure metaphor from George Saunders (current obsession). And it nailed it for me.

I digress. Often.

The art, and craft, of the story is to be able to trust where it will take you as a writer. It's actually something that is very hard to do, and it takes a long time to learn it. Ask any writer, and I think you will get a version of this process.

So while I think about John McCabe (Pudgy McCabe!) wandering into that barely built, greasy, wet town, full of people who have inhabited the place for so long... I think of my own work-in-progress, and how I need to trust that it will eventually speak to me about where it's going. Um, please... just a hint, a nudge, would really help.

Here's some more Saunders on the relationship between the writer and the reader.