Today I found an almost 17-year-old, very corrupted ICQ chat log. I barely remember this person now, or why I saved this then. Maybe I saved it because a conversation out of context can be beautiful.

S*:Catholicboy,:Rodion 00:28:54Sunday, July 25, 1999ˇ,>Ó<<Ë
ˇˇˇ"System Serif… … ˇ̉˜ˇ̉˜Ó<<Ë
ˇˇˇ"Arial Serif… … Äh
ey you! 

 laa laa laadˇ̉˜ ˇ
ˇ,>hideˇ̉˜
ˇ,>s uˇ̉˜
ˇ,>nder balankets*nˇ̉˜shouldn'ƒt.

Actually I wish I'd get thjee smile off my xface :) 

ǡ,> åi can't believe i justa  admitted this. ack.
ñ†™¥ so. . .æˇ̉˜well... »you were lucky 
that's good 
ˇ̉˜don't be˙ afraid, honey... 
‰˜oˇ,>vˇ̉˜kaˇ,>eryˇ̉˜yˇ,>oneˇ̉˜. 


well. ë õ•Øπ
ˇ,> yeah√ˇ̉


˜ˇ̉˜fÎrom your point of view; maybe that's all that counts. 
‰˜What I wouldn't like you to do is  proceed to that state 
where you'll ask yourself whether things' have gotten weirder 
orˇ,>thisˇ̉˜ worsˇe,> 

ˇ,> ≥yeahΩ«—˜don't be away.  

è I wodnder what you'd tzhhink if I told you somôething like 
this. 

ˇ,> ˇ̉˜ ˇ,> ˇ̉˜ ˇ,>‰˜can I do anything to soothe you?

 ‰~ˇ,> yes, let me take it ¡back.ˇ̉˜If you must; tÀake it 
back then.:ˇ̉˜ okay. Then it's yoDu r tunrrn... Nˇ

,> for what?ˇ̉˜mXake a wish. blvˇ,>‰˜shallgo offline? What 
would you like me to do? –
ˇ,> whatever you feel like⁄

*ˇ̉˜ 4well... you're thinking you've changed the n>ature ofI∆ 
things by telling me anH; yoU'du'‰d like to take things back and 
you can'tR believe you said what you've said... Yo\u're going to 
tell me about change... fpˇ,>ˇ,> íú
doÄneˇ̉˜
(you know, you sähouldn't act the way ayou are acting, becauxse 
îthat's usually my way of acting and I know it too well... It's 
ûmaking me smile, laugh almost, because I know t®here's no 
need to feel 
sorry.)Y≤ou're wonderful. I mean it.
ºˇ,>

I remember now that I actually did use parts of it in a poem that is, thankfully, unpublished. I wonder whose words they were.

In 2010, I completed NaNoWriMo. I wrote a novel called Practice, which was true. It was practice. I’d written two book-length things as a teenager – and I don’t say this to make myself sound impressive. One of them was basically the plot of The Outsiders, except the Ponyboy character was a girl. Plus, these were book-length things for 13-year-olds. By contrast, my NaNoWriMo book was just over 52,000 words, and I was proud of it. It wasn’t until years later that I learned the 50,000 word target was meant to be a jumping-off point, not the end.

But by then I’d given up novel writing anyway. I mined Practice for a short story or two, and asserted I wasn’t the novel-writing sort. I didn’t have it in me. Short stories were my thing, and forever would be.

So I’m not really sure how I knew I would start writing a novel this April. Every day I’m surprised I’m still doing it, that I still have something to write about. I’ve never had this experience before, this entire world just under the surface, waiting patiently for me to haul it up into the light. I can dip my hand down into it, take a few things, return later for more. I can take my time writing certain scenes. I can devote entire paragraphs to topics that would weigh a short story down. It’s an odd sensation, but I’m enjoying it.

That’s not to say it’s easy. It’s not. But it makes more sense in my life than it ever did before, and I want it to stay.

Nothing changes, maybe even me. I wrap my scarf around my neck three times and nestle in. I drive my father’s car in the dark, in the rain, winding my way around random streets, wandering until I run out of coffee. Or I’m an early morning passenger with a bagel in my hand, passing my husband his coffee as we wander together, wondering how our lives will be next year.

He drops me off at the station and the sun is bright. On the train it’s quiet and outside it’s warm and I walk to the place where my friends are waiting, and we spend our time together in such pleasant and easy conversation, and I sit my friend’s toddler on my shoulder and the baby laughs and strokes my hair and I feel so lucky to know her, and to know them all. On the train heading back I lean my head against the humming window, a head full of plans, and it feels like such an end-of-the-year cliché to realize what was always obvious, and nothing and everything seems possible all at once.

Days that feel like older days. Lazy suburban summer drives, windows open, listening to a short story read on the radio. Sitting by the lake for an interminable length of time. Browsing at the bookstore I used to spend so much time in, tripping over the carpet. While my mother looks at religion books, I turn around and consider the wicca books, the angel books, remember my teenage bedroom full of ornate candlesticks I imagined would fit in in an Anne Rice novel. A woman approaches and pulls a tarot book off the shelves. She reads a couple of pages and puts it down. I see her ahead of us in line later, holding an interior design magazine, and I wonder if she was remembering too.

 

I tried for a week and a half to get through 23 pages of an Ayelet Waldman novel I ended up abandoning, but have spent the past two hours completely engrossed in a book based on the Dragon Age video game series.

Draw from that any conclusions you will.

(I was surprised to find the Dragon Age novel has a higher average rating on Goodreads than the Waldman novel.)

My friend Teri has an article in the latest Ricepaper, titled Between Representations: Filipinos in Canadian Literature. Teri’s one of my favourite writers so I am always eager to read anything she writes, but I was especially excited to read this.

She and I are both half-Filipino, and have talked in the past about how we express that in our writing. For my part, I’d say about half of my stories have either fully Filipino or half-Filipino characters in them, but for the most part they’re still pretty “Canadian,” which is a term that I personally find fairly fluid, depending on who’s using it.

In the article, Teri writes about the difficulty in finding portrayals of Filipinos in Canadian writing that go beyond the usual nanny or maid cliché, or address it in a deeper way. With my own characters, I wonder sometimes if having these first-generation Canadians of Filipino background is enough. Shouldn’t they be doing something more? And then I can’t think of what that could possibly be. Do I want to have the characters in there to teach the world about pancit, or maybe about the cultural repercussions of hundreds of years of Spanish rule followed by a shorter period of American influence? Or do I want to have them just there playing their parts in the story, being a little bit Filipino and a little bit other things, like me and all the other first-generation people I know? Maybe having them just there is enough, maybe it’s more than enough right now.

I don’t have an easy answer to these questions, but I do know that not having these characters in there at all seems weird and wrong to me, and I like having them, these little blips of a world that some people might not know too much about.

Anyway, I didn’t intend for this to be a huge post about myself. I highly recommend picking up a copy of Ricepaper and reading Teri’s article! You can order print and digital copies here if you can’t find any in your local bookstore.

Because I’ve been desperately missing the Badlands this winter, here’s a look back at one of my favourite places. First, back in 2007:

bdl01

And in 2011, when you could still go out there and walk around:

bdl02
bdl03
bdl04

I usually visit in the fall, but I think this year I’ll have to go at the very first whiff of spring.

Some of my fondest childhood memories are of playing Nintendo and Super Nintendo games with my brother, and making that long suburban walk to the arcade on summer vacations. In high school and my early twenties, I dropped the hobby for a while mainly due to lack of a console and a lack of funds (and discovering blogging probably helped), but I happily returned to it after a few years. I haven’t looked back since.

I hesitate to call myself a “gamer,” mainly because I associate that word with someone who’s quite serious about it, who enjoys playing almost any kind of game. My husband is more like that than I am, and teases me for being picky about the kind of games I like (and before anyone thinks that’s unfair, I do have to vocalize my bewilderment when I see him playing games that I would give up on in two minutes – so it evens out).

I don’t mean to make myself sound like some video game snob. While it’s true that I can be strangely picky about superficial things such as setting (no space or post-apocalyptic environments for me, thanks) and graphics, my favourite games are the ones with a compelling, immersive story and well-written characters.

2012

2012

When Skyrim (my favourite game of all time thus far) came out in 2011, my husband and I took turns playing. I had slightly more free time than he did then, so I progressed a little further in the main story than him. Many shouts of, “Oh shit, wait ’til you get to this part!” were heard from the living room. The story and world of Skyrim were so engaging that I played it right up until a couple of months ago, when our PS3 gave up the ghost with the Skyrim disc still in it.

And, despite how much I knew I loved that game, I was surprised to find that I actually missed it. I missed almost everything about it. The music, the world, even my character (whose face I spent a long time creating at the start of the game). I had beaten that game long ago and completed all the side quests I’d cared about, but I kept returning to it. If I was anxious or frustrated or bored or even in a perfectly fine mood, I’d pop in the disc and just run around in the game, jumping up to the tops of mountains, firing arrows at giants and bandits from high above where they couldn’t reach me. Returning to that world over and over again was strangely relaxing.

skyrim14

2014

I was thinking about all of this recently because I’m feeling the same pull towards the game I’m playing now, Dragon Age: Inquisition. The first Dragon Age game was my original Favourite Game of All Time. I played it when I was recovering from eye surgery, and while that was maybe not the best thing to do to my eyes, I couldn’t resist (and no harm done, anyway). I remember driving home from a meeting and thinking about the quest I would do next in the game, and how that would influence the story, and how my character’s companions would react. And that to me is the biggest parallel between a good video game and a good book – I think about it when I’m not actively playing/reading, and after it’s over.

And much in the same way that a good book can make you think about yourself and your own life, a video game is a great chance to analyze your own decisions and logic. For example, I have a friend who has no compunction about playing as a fully evil character in the fictionalized environment of a video game, but I can’t do it. And that applies to non-evil things, too. I’m on my second playthrough of Inquisition and making some significantly different choices than I did the first time around, and a few of those choices were actually difficult for me to execute. What do these things say about me? Like with all of my favourite games and my favourite books, I’m right there in the world, seeing how the protagonist’s choices affect people and what happens in the story, and thinking about why I had a particular response to a character or an event. In a game those repercussions are arguably more immediate and less fixed than in a book, which raises the mental anguish potential.

Books and video games are different of course, and games have a long way to go in achieving the same equality standards and cultural significance as books, but I can’t help but see so many similarities between the two. With video games I get to be a writer and a reader at the same time, and it’s wonderful.

Jonna filled the teakettle in the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, looking at her own face, she thought with sudden bitterness that it couldn’t go on like this, these short stories that were never finished and just went on and on getting rewritten and discarded and picked up again, all those words that got changed and changed places and I can’t remember how they were yesterday and what’s happened to them today! I’m tired!

– Tove Jansson, Fair Play