Experiences

I always hear the advice to, "write what only you can!" To write the story that only you can tell, the story that's deep inside your soul and just begging to be told. To write the story that you would want to read.

I love this advice; I think it's valid and helpful because writing something you're interested in and passionate about will always turn out better than writing something that you think others will want to read. That's what brings diversity to the realm of stories--if we base our writing on what we think (or know) others already read, then every book would just be the same.

HOWEVER. While I'm all for writing the book you'd want to read, sometimes...I don't want to. I just want to cut to the reading part.

Now, I like reading and writing about the same amount. (Actually, scratch that. I like reading more because it's less work and the gratification is more instant.) I will happily work to write more stories about things that I find lacking in the ones that are already around. But writing a story myself doesn't provide the same feeling as reading one by somebody else, y'know?

Writing and reading are both about discovery--but reading is about discovering something that's out there, the thrill of finding something that you never knew existed. Writing is more about discovering what's inside you--the aforementioned "story that only you can tell."

Does any of this make sense? (I'm trying, here.)

Writing is more about getting the story right. You have this story, this idea, this sliver of a universe in your mind, and you have to do it justice. You have to. And so this results in a lot of trial and error, as you work your way through and learn more about this world that you've created and these characters that you've invented to live there.

Reading is about finding what already exists. Someone has--hopefully--already gotten the story right. If they have, it's like a friend on your couch with a warm cup of coffee in their hands, telling you about all the crazy shit that went down in the last couple weeks. They pull you in and make you care, and on their best days, they give you something to relate and identify with.

With reading, the excitement comes from following an unfamiliar path. Someone else did all the hard work, so now all you have to do is stroll on down and enjoy what they've done with it. With writing, you're the one doing all the hard work--and that's the exciting part. You choose where the path goes, and if you pick a route that doesn't work, you block it off and change course. You choose what the hiker sees, what exists for them to explore. And by the end of it, you know the whole place backwards, forwards, inside out and upside down.

So sometimes, I'm feeling adventurous. I want to put in the work, I have a decent strategy to do it, and I'm excited to turn everything in my head into something more concrete that can be enjoyed.

And other times, I just want talk the easy road and enjoy someone else's story.

As a writer, my first instict is to fill a void in the literary world myself. I notice something missing, so I immediately think that I should be the one to fill it. But at the end of the day, I get a different kind of satisfaction from finishing a story than I do from reading one--and, understandably, I don't get the same kind of satisfaction from reading my own stories.

Ah, the struggles of a writer.


Until later,

- Justyne

Review: Two Generals by Scott Chantler

Hello, friends! Today we continue the streak of readings taking straight from my course syllabi with Two Generals.

Based on journals the artist found among his late grandfather's things, Two Generals is about Law Chantler and Jack Chrysler, two officers in the Highland Light Infantry of Canada. In 1943, the two friends sailed the Atlantic to fight with the Allied forces in WWII. Primarily a story of friendship, it tells the untold story of two unknown men, the tragedy and trauma of war, and the brief glimmers of light they managed to find along the way.

I'll be real with you, guys: I almost cried reading this book. It wasn't the book I was most excited for going into my Canadian Comics class, but I'll be damned if it's not one of my favourite titles coming out of it.

While this is a story set in war times, it is not a story about war. (Does that make sense?) There's a lot less emphasis put on the actual fighting, leading the focus more towards the characters just being people, as opposed to fighting in the war. In fact, everything is more or less quiet and uneventful until the final act, leading to one big, huge, and tragic climax. It's very well paced, and gives the reader a better sense of the characters' personalities without being too caught up in the excitement of battle.

Chantler also makes good use of colour throughout, drawing emphasis towards trauma and significant events using a powerful red. The rest of the book uses a more sepia tone, almost reminiscent of an old photograph. The art style itself is super simple, but still effective--he doesn't skimp on the details when needed.

As serious and tragic as the overall situation was, it wasn't all bad. Chantler chooses to emphasize the light hearted, even funny moments throughout his grandfather's experience. Things like the entire infantry adopting a crew of farm animals, or realizing that half their group never learned how to ride a bike. The absurdity in something so real is refreshing and I found myself giggling from start to finish.

Until, y'know, everything went to shit and I almost cried.

I have no major complaints with this book, to be honest. Final rating: 4.5/5.


Until later,

- Justyne

Micro Fiction Monday: Shooting Star

It flashes by in a single streak against black—the world’s only evidence of magic. Over in half a second, and the sky turns back to darkness.

Most people miss it. They’re too blinded by the city lights, or too caught up in dream world to notice the spark of wonder above their heads. Those who are lucky enough to catch that glimpse don’t even see the stardust in their hands; they brush it off like dirt. They carry on with their lives, oblivious to what they gave up.

But some people know. These people are few in numbers, dwindling down as time goes on, but they still exist. They see the light for what it is. They catch the stardust, cradle it in their hands, and don’t dare to let it go. They bottle it up, seal it tight, and wear it around their necks--not as a trophy, but a symbol.

They kiss that bottle and make a wish. Because the people who believe, who see the possibility in a small vial of glitter...

Those people conquer the world.

Why I (Almost) Never Read Adult Fiction

If you've been paying attention for the last, oh, almost two years or so, you'll probably notice that most of the books I read are YA. I can count on one hand the number of times I've read books that classify as adult fiction (not including classics, or books read for no other reason than a school curriculum) on one hand. In fact, I'll list them for you right now:

1. Pinch Me

2. How to Fall in Love

3. Attachments

4. Landline

5. On the Other Side 

6. Maybe Someday

7. November 9 

8. The Help

9. Heat Wave

...Okay, so maybe I require slightly more than one hand. But still, compare these 9 books to the other 192 on my Goodreads read list. Statistically, I tend to lean towards the YA spectrum. There is a reason for this: 99% of every adult fiction book I've pulled off the shelf has been about a character who is 30-ish years old, facing Real Adult Problems surrounding marriage, kids, careers, etc--things that I can't really relate to, because I'm a forever single 22-year-old who can't even be trusted to make a proper dinner once a week (let alone every day).

Now, I don't want to say that I'm "growing out of" YA. That statement implies that, as a Certified Grown-Up™, my interests and I are somehow above the level of YA fiction. I don't believe that this is possible. I remain firmly behind the stance that anyone can enjoy YA fiction, or middle grade fiction, or children's picture books, and I also firmly believe that anyone who thinks otherwise is a condescending a-hole who can put their equally condescending opinions in a certain place where the sun don't shine.

But I digress.

I may not be growing out of YA, but lately I've been struggling to find books that follow characters closer to my age range. I've been sticking to the older end of the YA protagonist spectrum, but the oldest character you're likely to find headlining a YA novel is 18--19 tops, if you're lucky. But I stick around, because that's still closer than the 30-and-up protagonists that plague every other corner in the bookstore.

It is, of course, entirely possible to enjoy a book, regardless of the protagonist's age. Most of the time, it doesn't really matter--all I care about is that the tone of the book fits in with the mood I'm in. And I'm not less likely to enjoy adult fiction. Look at Rainbow Rowell--she wrote both Fangirl, a YA novel, and Attachments, categorized in adult fiction. I read both, and enjoyed both equally.

But I'll be damned, I want more books about 22-year-olds! I want more books following university and college students! I want books about people in their fourth year realizing they've hated their major this whole time. I want books about people who go on gap years, who go on vacation and just never come back, because who really needs responsibilities, anyway? I want books about people who genuinely have no career plans, and people who are just flying by the seat of their pants, because sometimes that's an okay thing to do. I want more books about people my age.

Maybe I'm not looking hard enough.

Until later,

- Justyne

Review: Louis Riel: A Comic Strip Biography by Chester Brown

School is back in session, and I'm in three different English courses, which means I have a crap ton of academic-related reading to do. As such, most of my reviews will be about books I read for class--including this one. (And, bare with me, some of them might sound a bit more academic after discussing them in class for so long.)

Louis Riel: A Comic Strip Biography is...well, exactly what it says it is. For those of you non-Canadians who are unfamiliar with our history, Louis Riel was a Métis politician back in the 19th century. He helped found Manitoba (the province I live in now), and lead a couple rebellions against the Canadian government for their mistreatment towards the Métis while establishing the Canadian prairie provinces. If you want to learn more about him, you can...well, you can pick up the book, because it does a pretty good job of getting everything across.

Louis Riel is either a hero or a traitor, depending on who you ask. But what I was most impressed about in terms of the book was how Brown managed to, like, not take a side. I mean, he takes a side to an extent--he definitely villanizes the government, and thus sympathizes with the Métis cause. But in terms of Riel himself, he just kind of portrays him in a neutral way. He's careful not to over-embellish his positive traits or his negative traits, and creates the much-needed but often-missed unbiased portrayal of an historical figure.

The reading, though, was a little...dry. This was not written to be light hearted and fun--it's an educational text. The narrative has been changed and shifted slightly from true events, but all changes are recorded in Brown's note section in the back. The comic is very text-heavy (although it does have its silent sequences, too), and the panels are very strictly laid out in a three-by-three grid pattern. Unless you are genuinely interested in learning about Louis Riel and Canadian history, you might not have a fun time with this book. (It does have its moments, though.)

Final rating: 3/5

Until later,

- Justyne

Micro Fiction Monday: Dot, Dot, Dot

Sometimes, in cartoons, the artist likes to use an ellipsis to portray an awkward encounter. You know, that little “dot, dot, dot” thing? Cartoonists will leave it hanging in the middle of a panel, with no speech bubble or narration box or anything. It emphasizes the silence—it makes it louder, more awkward or tense, et cetera.

If my life were a cartoon—which, sometimes, I swear it is, because it is just so ridiculous—there would be one big, fat ellipsis staring me in the face right now. Like, I can practically see it. In my entire life, I don’t think I’ve ever encountered such an awkward silence in my life.

And all I said was, “Hi.”

Okay, back up. How do I explain this as briefly and as clearly as possible? Long story short: I had a best friend. Once. Past tense. But we were pretty good—I dare say amazing, together. We had the telepathy thing going on, the whole shebang. You wanted gross fast food at 2:30 in the morning? You had someone to drive you there, without question.

And then I, the genius I am, decided to move away. I chose a different school a million miles away, and suddenly, that was that. No more telepathy. No more late night take out. No more 3 AM emergency phone calls.

Nothing.

I’ve long since acknowledged that what happened was my fault. I picked the school over him. I chose studying over him. I chose my new friends over him. And eventually, I became his second choice, too.

Fast forward to now—I’m a college graduate. I’m back in my hometown, if only for the summer. And there he is—four years older, but still just the same.

He says hi.

I say hi.

Dot.

Dot.

Dot.

Micro Fiction Monday: Stubborn

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you, uh...did you need any help?”

I huffed as I shifted the weight of the dozen or so books in my arms. Behind my massive stack was a girl, wearing a blue t-shirt and a staff lanyard around her neck. She was staring at my books, a basket extended hesitantly towards me.

I smiled. “No thanks, I’m good!”

She blinked and nodded. “Alright. Sure.” It took her a moment before she moved on, still glancing over her shoulder as she went.

The line in front of me shifted, and I shuffled forward to follow. A Shakespearean play slid uneasily on top, and I nudged it back into place with my forehead.

Another staff member—this one a guy, with his hair slicked back into a bun—walked past, before doubling back. He looked my selection up and down and cocked an eyebrow. “Did you want a basket?”

“Nope!”  I said, ignoring the quivering protest of my arms. “I’m okay, thanks.”

He opened his mouth and took a breath. “Really,” I said. “I’m fine.”

He shook his head and moved on.

The line moved once more, keeping in pace with the eternal wait time that had been prevalent all afternoon. I could see the front, now, along with all four frazzled and exhausted cashiers. When it was my turn, I shuffled forward and dropped my load onto the counter with a crash.

The cashier looked at the books, then back up at me. “We charge $2.95 for bags,” she said flatly.

I hesitated, staring at my books in contemplation. Finally, I sighed. “Do it.”