Month: March 2013

This Week in Sniderville: 5

Stefanie Snider

This week I got caught up in the wonder that is Netflix. I had some help getting comfy on the couch:

kitties
That’s Jadie in the front and Zoey in the back.

I set up my beautiful new desk.

I watched Rubber, which was nothing short of brilliant.
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From IMDB: “When Robert, a tire, discovers his destructive telepathic powers, he soon sets his sights on a desert town; in particular, a mysterious woman becomes his obsession.” I mean, really. You’ve gotta give it a chance: It’s so much better and much more clever than you’d think. Plus, the gore effects are AWESOME.

I’m still reading The Fountainhead, and just made it past That One Scene That Everyone Talks About. Say what you want about Rand’s heavy-handed philosophy: I’m enjoying reading about architecture, which is not what I expected.

I learned about the magic of makeup: Porn Stars With and Without Makeup (everyone’s dressed, it’s not porn-y)

And my husband reminded me of this video, which is filthy, but makes me giggle uncontrollably. You have been warned.

How was your week?

Tyrannosaurus Desk

Stefanie Snider

I have a new love interest.

He’s tough, and sexy, and weighs about 300 pounds.

This, folks, is Tyrannosaurus Desk:

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I started looking for a proper desk recently, when I decided that a rickety vintage table wasn’t cutting it anymore. I had a few ideas in mind when I set out: something solid, made of real trees instead of sawdust, hopefully with storage. That was it. I mentioned it in passing at work, how I’d looked for something used but decent and hadn’t found a damned thing.

A coworker mentioned that her mom was looking to get rid of a desk, twenty-five bucks if I picked it up. She mentioned some scuffs and dings, but hey, for $25 I was willing to give it a shot.

I fell in love instantly.

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Storage!

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Storage!

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Hanging files!

It’s beautifully crafted – that’s a red leather blotter on top! Plus, as soon as my mom saw it, she said it looks like a “real writer’s desk”. What more could I want?

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(notes: 1. The blind is busted because my cats are assholes, 2. The lighters are for the candle; I don’t smoke. Why two? Why not? and 3. Because the desk is so big-slash-heavy, we can’t get it upstairs to the office, meaning there’s no real purpose for the office anymore, meaning the office is no more. HOWEVER, my genius husband suggested we make that room into a dressing room. Have I mentioned that I love this man?)

Writers: Try a Writing “Sketchbook”

Stefanie Snider

But, you’re a writer, right? Not a visual artist. What the hell would you want a sketchbook for?

I got caught up in YouTube recently, one of those tangled webs of clicking random “suggested video” links, and I ended up somehow at videos of sketchbooks. Page after page, turned for the camera, sometimes with the artist describing their ideas or inspirations. They’re visual candy, and what struck me about them was the freedom of the artist’s sketchbook.

Trying something new, crossing it out, fiddling with styles and colours and composition. Knowing even before you start that whatever you’re trying may be a colossal failure, and doing it anyway. Scribbling out, starting over, playing with ideas. Not caring about the end product, because if it sucks you don’t ever have to show anyone. The sheer joy of a happy mess unapologetic on the page.

Which is why I’ve adopted the “sketchbook” model for writing.

Sitting in front of a cold, impersonal monitor watching a cursor blink doesn’t exactly rev up my creativity. The harsh glow of the blank screen offers little in the way of inspiration. Show me a white screen and I’ll show you boredom, frustration, and occasional panic.

But show me a blank page, put a pen in my hand, and it’s on. Scribbling (even the word, scribbling, describes a freer way to write than the measured clicks of keys) encourages experimentation. Stuck? Doodle in the margins. Plotting? Draw the path of the story. Flash of inspiration? Throw a key word in the middle of a page and weave a web of related points, characters, and themes all around it. Try writing in a different colour (though not red ballpoint, trust me. It’s a bitch to read later). Your “sketchbook” will become art all on its own; ink stains, wrinkles, coffee and crumbs all marking the times and places you fleshed out your story.

At some point, it’s likely you’ll want to type up your story, whether it’s for publication or just to see it in print. I resisted the sketchbook method for quite a while, since it’s double the work: first writing longhand, then inputting every word. It feels like a huge waste of time, if you miss the major benefit: You can always edit your work on the fly as you type it up. By the time your story’s down, you’ve already caught a lot of the simple errors of tense, missing words, and the like. You’re one draft ahead. And if you’re anything like me, you’ll find that the time lost to typing is more than made up by the extra output of a few scribbles here, a few paragraphs there. A notebook can be crammed in a pocket or purse and snuck out almost anywhere in moments of inspiration, which puts you way ahead of the game in terms of production. No booting up, no waiting for apps to load, just uncap a pen and go.

Try it out, and let me know: Does it work for you?

This Week In Sniderville: 4

Stefanie Snider

This week the world lost someone incredible.

Her name was Michelle and growing up, she was my best friend.

I wrote about her before, here, but the anger of that post has been replaced with a deep sadness. She passed away Thursday after a long battle with cancer, and there are no words to express my sympathy for her family.

So I thought I would share some happy memories. I thought I would tell you more about our friendship.

We met in kindergarten. She was always smiling, except for the time that little jerk cut her long hair with play scissors (how he managed, I will never, ever know). We weren’t super close as small children, but I remember watching Pee Wee’s Big Adventure at one of her birthday parties. Over time, we got to know each other better, but interestingly it was only after she moved to another school district that we grew really close.

Suddenly we were spending every single weekend at each other’s houses. We crimped our hair together (remember, it was the 80s). We shared an 8th birthday cake (pink, with cinnamon hearts). She got a kitten named Tigger; I got jealous. She had a little brother, Matt, the bane of our girlhood, always coming uninvited into her room and messing with all our things until we screamed at him and slammed the door. Our parents bought us matching chairs that turned into beds, so we would always, always have somewhere to sleepover.

She developed an interest in figure skating. I begged for white skates and made a laughable attempt to mimic her. She liked Michael Jackson; I learned all the words. I’m forever grateful that YouTube didn’t exist back then, because somewhere there exists a VHS tape of the two of us wearing our clothes backwards and pretending to be Kriss Kross.

My mom bought us a set of “Best Friends” pendants, the kind that start out whole and break apart (I got “ST ENDS”). We did absolutely everything together on weekends, and on school nights we spent hours on the phone telling each other every single minute detail of our days. We even shared an uncommonly-spelled middle name.

These things tell you about the surface of our friendship, but of course it was more than that. It was having someone who would understand you no matter what, someone who always took your side and made you smile again. It was having a second family. We existed in completely different circles (different neighbourhoods, different schools, different friends) but when we hung out everything just worked.

We got older. We grew apart. Slowly we saw each other less and less. Then, until a few years ago, we lost contact entirely. I can’t tell you how much it saddens me that we lost each other over those years. And how much it saddens me to have lost her again, just when we were starting to know each other as adults.

I’m attending a Celebration of Life service for her tomorrow. It’s going to be hard. But I’m proud to attend, happy to honour her in memory. She will never be forgotten.

You’ll be missed, pretty lady.

I’ve decided not to post a photo of her, out of respect for her privacy and that of her family. But picture her like this: golden brown hair, smiling blue eyes, soft voice and full laugh. The kind of person you’d meet and feel instantly comfortable with. The kind of person I wish you’d met.

This Week in Sniderville: 3

Stefanie Snider

I spent the week with that nasty, chesty cough that’s going around. The one that makes you feel like your own lungs are trying to drown you, and your head isn’t far behind. I stayed home from work for two days, thinking I’d take it easy, maybe get a little writing done from the comfort of the sickbed. Instead I laid on the couch whining like a four year old while C patiently brought me food and drink. (In retrospect, I tended to sleep right after that: he may have been slipping me cold meds to make me shut the hell up. Frankly, I wouldn’t have blamed him.)

I read quite a bit, curled in a bitchy little ball in my bed, including Bentley Little’s His Father’s Son, the ending of which I predicted but loved just the same. It gave me fevered clown dreams, though, which were more terrifying than the book itself.

I decided to get a desk. A real, proper, writerly desk that weighs a ton and is beat to hell and back. I want something wooden, something substantial, something I can use as I pen stories and novels for years to come. Pen being the operative, here: my current setup isn’t cutting it. Writing longhand at a rickety chrome-and-formica table makes the whole works shake until I worry that it’ll all fall apart, severing my legs on the way to the floor. I went thrifting with my friend Leslie in hopes of finding a big wooden behemoth to call my own.
Somehow I came home with this instead:
mary

That white horizontal line is the light catching her grooves. She’s lenticular and turns her head when you walk past her. Have you ever seen such splendor? Not for a dollar, you haven’t. I have the feeling she’ll be coming to live in my office.

Also, have this:

How was your week?