The Blog of Love

Trial by Hair

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 23:45:49 PST

Getting hair coloured is becoming more and more of a production as the years go by. Luckily, I'm in good hands.

The colour itself has the consistency and temperature of yoghurt. I remind myself that I asked for this but I feel self-conscious about the process every time. Chris the hairdresser is awesome, low key fast & pro every time. I'm just self conscious about how I look during the process. I always imagine myself taking before, during and after photos, but I never do it. I think that I wouldn't want to embarrass or distract Chris from his important work. The man has a job to do and a schedule to stick to.

Halfway through applying the colour, the top of my hair is slicked down flat and the untouched ends with their faded old colour curl out and up like two big upturned wings of hair. I start to snicker when I realize that I resemble Flat-top from Dick Tracy (the movie, not the comic book).

Now I'm apparently so grey (white to be precise!) that my head must be heated under a dryer in order to open the cuticles and 'push' in the colour, so Chris puts a plastic bag on my hair and a metal clip on the front which looks odd and feels odder. Not a good look for me.

While I'm wrapped up in plastic like I have an expiry date, I must sit under the noisy magic helmet for 20 mins slowly heating my hair (and scalp and maybe brain) to some requisite colour-penetrating temperature. It's a great time to get some important writing done. Or this.

A little bell goes ding and I say that my egg is done. Nobody laughs or seems to notice. Oh well.

After the hair dryer, I sit back in the barber chair with the plastic bag on my head for 20 more mins. My scalp is all hot burning and tingly. When the bag comes off there's a rush of cool air and it feels like my brain can breathe again. Chris brings me a coffee. I feel rewarded.

The shampoo is the best part. Period.

Chris gives me an awesome cut. When it's finished, it looks great and I feel pretty damn good about it.

Remembering...

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 16:04:09 PST

Watching the Remembrance Day Ceremony on Parliament Hill today, I was reminded of how much sacrifice Canadian soldiers and their families have endured over the past century. It's something about which I have no direct experience, and yet with all the conflicts going on in the world today, something about which I need to remain aware.

There is military service (and "pseudo-military" service) in my family. My maternal grandfather and namesake, Ernest Huntley Clarke, applied to join the Canadian Expeditionary Force in WWI, although he was discharged on medical grounds soon after applying. After that, he joined the RCMP, and served at posts all over western Canada over the next 30 years.

My Dad, James Evan Love, enlisted in the Canadian Army in the 1940s, missing his chance to go over to Europe during WWII. Someone had measles or smallpox, so his entire group went into quarantine, during which time the war ended. He served as a Military Policeman, and distinguished himself as a very good marksman in various competitions. Later, Dad would join the RCAF and study radar and communications, flying in planes like the Hercules and the Lancaster Bomber.

One of his other sons, my brother David, also served for many years in the Canadian Navy. I'm sure that there are also Uncles and cousins who've worked in the military, and of whose stories I am ignorant.

Watching the ceremony from Ottawa, seeing the faces of the veterans from WWII and onward, I was struck by the amazing variety of eras, cultures, conflicts and generations that were represented. Yet, when a voice called "Attention!", it looked like the whole assembly, hundreds of veterans and personnel, adjusted their stance in unison. With all that cultural and temporal diversity, there was still a common understanding of duty and personal sacrifice.

Not crossing that bridge...

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 22:35:26 PDT

I've only ever mentioned this story to a few people. It's one of those sad and embarrassing episodes that is uncomfortable to tell, and yet, important to talk about.

When I was about 10 or 11, my Grandfather came over from Victoria to visit with us. While in Vancouver, he stayed at the old Alcazar Hotel (long gone now, I believe). Poppy, as my sister and I called him, was formerly a Corporal in the RCMP, and by all accounts, a gentleman and as they say, "a stand-up guy".

My mum wasn't with us, so I assume this was during a time when she was temporarily under some Doctor's care, perhaps at Riverview or somewhere else. As kids, we just knew that Mummy wasn't well, and that she was away and we really didn't know when she'd be home again.

We all went for a car ride in Dad's 1968 Plymouth Valiant. Dad was dressed in a white long-sleeved dress shirt, no tie, and dark dress slacks. Normally, he'd wear a coloured or patterned shirt and roll up the sleeves, so the white dress shirt meant that this was a somewhat formal Sunday event. Kim and I were dressed in nice clothes as well. For the life of me now, I cannot remember if this "Sunday drive" included a visit to see our Mother, but it's a distinct possibility. My Mother would be the first person Poppy would want to see, and a major reason for his visit to Vancouver. My Mother was always very dear to Poppy, and he to her. For all I know, as genial and respectful as my father always was to his father-in-law, there might have also been a bit of tension between them, or some resentment from my Dad, seeing how much his wife idolized her father. (I can only speculate, and will never ever know.)

Anyway, Dad drove us all through town, with Poppy in the front seat and Kim and I in the back. The day was a clear and cool, with sunlight coming through the occasional cloud. We drove quietly through the West End of Vancouver and into Stanley Park. This was probably my first look at Stanley Park, and I enjoyed seeing how green everything was, and how many trees there were.

Dad seemed very quiet and didn't say very much at all. I thought his mood was strange. I didn't realize what was really going on with him.

As we approached the Lion's Gate Bridge, I saw Dad look in his rear view mirror and say something. Just before the bridge, Dad pulled the car over to the side of the road and stopped. A Police Officer came up to his window and said something to him, and Dad went into his pocket and handed over something. We all got out of the car.

Dad's face was down, and his expression was very dark. We stayed by the car with Poppy while Dad was led over to the police car. The policeman put Dad's hands behind his back. I saw the glint of the handcuffs and heard the clicks as they were fastened around Dad's wrists. My Dad had been arrested for driving drunk. I'm certain that he was deeply ashamed of himself. Back then I felt so disappointed in him, and also sad for him.

The bottom had completely fallen out of our strange Sunday family drive, and we stood by the side of the road with the cars rushing past and no more sense of purpose. Kim asked Poppy something, and then Kim and I began finding a way to place or distract ourselves until a cab would come and take us home. I don't remember Poppy getting angry or even saying much at all. He kept his opinions to himself for our sake.

Thank god Poppy had been there with us. I loved my Dad, but this time, it was Poppy who was the one I looked up to.

I hate Sinatra... except when sung by this other guy...

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 21:25:45 PDT

It seems like all the local Starbucks have begun playing old swing era crooners like Frank Sinatra, Perry Como and Tony Bennett. I'm not a Sinatra fan, especially when I've heard "New York New York" numerous times, with each Americano, over the past two weeks.

But there's one exception: I loved hearing Sinatra when he was sung by this other guy...

Here's the story:

My wife Grace and I were sitting in our local 'bucks, crowded on a Sunday, with chattering patrons, and the same Frank playing on the speakers, yet again.

As Frank started unrolling into the second verse of "New York New York", I started hearing voices behind me. Above them, one weak voice, getting louder, singing along "Top of the Heap! A-Number-One! King of the Hill!", getting louder, and the people behind us chanting along, going "Yeah buddy! Right on!" It was a mentally challenged man, out with his housemates and his care workers, standing up with his arms outstretched, singing for all he was worth in his happy little voice, as if he was belting the chorus out right in the middle of Times Square. "Newwwwww Yoooorrrk!"

As the song ended we were all smiles, and Grace and I, and all the singer's pals and their care workers gave him a nice little round of applause. It was a sweet moment, watching someone else's unbridled joy at the act of singing...

To me, much better than anything I ever heard from Frank Sinatra...

Wiggle out of that corner, writer boy...

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 21:27:35 PDT

Joseph Campbell wrote about "The Hero With a Thousand Faces". I just had an image of my next novel having a few faces too - maybe not a thousand, but perhaps half a dozen or so.

Okay... three. I got three.

1. Framework: The Laws of my Universe

My story has a skeleton, a framework, a basic structure upon which everything else is mounted. For me, this structure helps to define the "physics" of the world in which one or more events take place. My particular framework has a few premises, such as "you can't fly or change the laws of physics", "people are born, live, and die", and many other premises that make the world of the story resemble my own reality to a large degree.

Psychologically, in some cases, dreams or imagination can be just as real or have as much impact on my characters as their waking experiences.

Real-life experience, or research that results in plausible actions and events - cause and effect - is what drives the creation of the framework, and helps to determine it's structure.
Thank God for Google. I do not know how people researched things before it.

2. Believability: Dancing on the Edge

Once I've have established a plausible-sounding story framework, I feel that any fantastic-sounding elements which I introduce don't need to be overly fantastic in order to surprise, or hopefully entertain, my reader. I think that this juxtaposition of expectations is similar to how the same middle-tone colour can appear to be darker or lighter in tone, when placed next to black of white. In other words, context is key. But how much unreality is tolerable? How much camp and wit is acceptable? How many cliffhangers can the reader stand? That kind of exciting stuff rarely happens to me. How much unbelievability is believable?

3. Dialogue and Characterization: "What are you lookin' at, Bub?"

How should people talk and behave and react to the things that happen to them? Admittedly, this is largely subjective territory, although in some ways, this aspect, which encompasses things like culture, age, society, "life" experience, and strong plot-lines, is connected to and driven by (or perhaps just interacts with?) the "Framework" aspect and the essential laws of my world.

Sometimes, this aspect of writing becomes easy and almost automatic, and for me, occasionally emerges almost spontaneously, almost from within itself. Some dialogue or setup scenes emerge in a blur, like raw material forced through a die into an extrusion that seems to have just the exact profile that's needed at the moment - a "Fuzzy Pumper Writing Factory". This experience is a major high in the process for me, emotionally.

At other times, writing is like digging a well with your fingernails - a real tough claw through very hard and stubborn territory. That's where I end up questioning myself as a writer, questioning my raw material - my past (that well that appears too dry to give me anything useful at the moment), and questioning my endurance as a writer. At these times, writing feels like a real elusive bitch-goddess... That's when I find myself going back to do more research, or seeking inspiration from other writers or from stories in other media, or just dropping the project for a little while.

But man, when I can get it so I can see that character's face, smell their hair, their cigarette smoke, and can see right through their skull into their minds, it feels like I know exactly what to say for them. When that happens, the well runneth over, and the paragraphs seem to grow and grow.

That's when it's fun to write.

Once upon a time, there was a boy with a song...

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 21:05:52 PDT

Once upon a time there was a boy
Who put his past on display for others to see.

"My life made me different, special" he sang.
"There's nobody else quite like me."

As he grew older, wiser too,
He learned that what he'd thought of himself just wasn't true.

People are unique, beautiful, intricate things,
Worthy of story and the songs that we sing.

But singing has been done over countless years,
Infinite songs sung to infinite ears.

So, no matter what you sing, your song isn't new,
No matter how hard you try.

But if you come up from the heart,
you may find that your true tone resonates and makes someone else ring.

Solos are nice, but the boy learned
that nature wants us to sing together.

Some words for my old man, for Fathers Day...

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 22:06:07 PDT

My Dad was possibly born in the wrong era: I think there was an adventurer in him, or a cowboy of some sort, trying to live a black and white life, while contradictory and complex psychologies and modern mental illnesses swirled around him. My Dad always told colourful, exciting stories of his past, that made him out to be the hero and the good guy. He was an MP in the Canadian Army, and flew in big planes when he was in the Air Force. In his heart, he was conservative and authoritarian, and in his best moments, he was firm but fair.

On the outside, people in our neighbourhood would probably see my Dad as a fairly quiet, silver-haired older man (my friends' Dads were in their forties, when mine was in his late 50s), and someone with a serious, lined face which got softer as you approached it up close.

To me, as a kid, Dad was the toughest, strongest man on any block. Physically, he could take care of himself using his voice, his head, or his hands. Even when there was more than one guy against him, swinging bottles at him, he would walk away the winner. When I was nine, we lived in a rough neighbourhood. When he had to be, my Dad was a fighter, and I was so proud of him.

When I was 11, Dad become a single parent when my Mum almost died, and went to stay in a succession of hospitals. Dad always knew what needed to be done in most situations.

When I was 13, I got a bad case of chickenpox that kept me home from school for a couple of weeks. Then, he was the nurse, dabbing calamine lotion all over me until I thought I would throw up. Past this age, I stopped kissing him goodnight - not because I didn't love him, but because we understood that it's okay for little boys to kiss their fathers, but men don't kiss like that.

As I got older and more self-sufficient, he got frailer and more dependent. When I was 17, I was by his side when he suffered a heart attack and multiple strokes, and a fractured hip. We were both scared as hell for him, yet he found the strength to say "I love you boy" to me from his temporary bed in the ER. He became helpless for a while, and had to learn to walk as part of his stroke rehab. He was learning to get back on his feet (literally) and I was getting on my feet, acting the part of a responsible young man. I started looking after the house as best I could, and he learned to walk and talk and move his limbs. We were reversed.

The sad part of Dad's physical downfall was that it came about as a result of years of alcohol abuse, smoking, stress and poor health. The lesson he taught me indirectly was that to live my life the way I wanted, I must take better care of myself than he did. He also taught me that addiction is a mysterious and bewilderingly powerful thing. After he was "healed" and back home after his many months of rehab and therapy, he began drinking again. Within months, he had another stroke, and was back in hospital, this time for good.

By the time I was 18 or 19 years old, I was aware of my Dad's weaknesses: how the same temper that gave him strength against other bad men, was a horror when brought to use against his wife or me and my sister. We learned that sometimes, his drinking or his temper meant that we could not trust him, or feel safe around him. I learned that addiction is a bitch, and the strongest man I knew was also the weakest man I knew. As I witnessed how he let himself lose control to his addiction, I vowed that I would never be that weak in that way.

Now, at 43, and after years of reflection, both loving and resenting him posthumously, I see my father as a fascinating composite of the best and worst traits we all posses: a complex man who could be gentle and loving to little children, animals, or those closest to him, and a man with a fierce pride and temper which could seem insurmountable when challenged.

At his best, he was an intellectual trapped in a blue collar, with an ability to explain aspects of electronics, RF or particles like mesons to his curious son. He was literate enough to quote Will Rogers, tell me about a Jazz trumpeter he liked, and to know the lyrics of some musical theatre on TV. He was silly, laughing along to Blazing Saddles or Wile E. Coyote.

At his worst, he was alcoholic enough, unhealthy enough, and probably depressed enough to permanently ruin his relationship with my sister, and never reflective or honest enough to admit to his own weaknesses. The hero that I had as a little boy was still inside him somewhere, but years of stress, poor choices and bad living eventually overshadowed all that dreamy, good stuff.

In his last years, Dad seemed to find his peace living semi-paralyzed and bruised, in a small room in a private hospital in Burnaby, where I'd visit him every week. Often, I'd cycle over in time for the 7:30 pm snack of sandwiches and tea, and we'd chat and watch some TV, and later I'd help him find something which he had misplaced.

He couldn't really take care of himself at all anymore, but he had 24 hour care if he needed it. In a way, his earlier life choices had taken away his later choices as well as his responsibilities. Sometimes, when his old ego and sense of self-importance would flare up, his dependence upon others would frustrate the hell out of him. Other times, he appeared relieved to not have to make decisions or deal with the stresses of life anymore.

Up until the time he passed away in 1989, Dad was one of those story tellers whose tales got bigger and better each time he told them: "The older I get, the better I was", as they say - that was my old man. Often, I would arrive outside his little room to find him sitting in his wheelchair with his chin propped up on his good hand and a dreamy grin planted on his face, probably dreaming of some adventure that had happened somewhere else, way back in the day when he was still someone's hero.

Wherever you are, old man, Happy Fathers Day. I still love you.

A short biography of James Evan Love

That faint artistic thread...

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 06:32:13 PDT

As I've slowly, gradually backtracked through my family history a little, I've come to see a number of artistic abilities in my relatives. This became one of the first commonalities that told me I shared some kind of values with someone else: the artistic urge.

That lousy lost feeling, growing up...

When I was in my tweens (like, 11, 12, or 13), I didn't know much about my family history. Perhaps this is the same for many kids from a dysfunctional family background: the sense of not belonging, the detachment from family, or sense of "being different". On the other hand, maybe that was just what was going on for me... As a kid, a sense of belonging felt important, and it never seemed to materialize in my life to that point. I always felt like a bit of an outsider to the world around me, like I didn't fit in, or was not fully integrated. I wasn't part of it - just watching it.

I saw lots of disparate pieces of life, but could not draw them together into any sort of cohesive whole relationship; there was no overall structure or system that bound life together for me. Stuff just happened, and it was hard to make sense of it all.

I also had no religion, nor any real spirituality. I didn't (and still don't really) believe in god, and saw many organized groups as havens where misled suckers consoled and supported each other. As I have grown older, and learned more about religion and spirituality, I've developed a healthy respect for religious belief and a healthy skepticism of much of organized religion. (I have great respect for another's right to believe whatever they wish, so long as they harm nobody else while doing it.)

I liked rationalism and science a lot. Practical, scientific inquiry always made some sense to me, and nature continues to awe and impress me. I'd never seen a club for atheists (why would people who don't believe in something need to come together in common cause?), and science and rationalism were everywhere I looked for them. Affiliations seemed useless.

The closest thing that ever approached a sense of the mysterious or spiritual for me was the peace that I experienced when drawing, or when absorbing myself in some literature, including pulp fiction and comic books. Something fascinating and special happened whenever I drew, coloured or looked at art that I liked: a feeling of calm, and happiness, a sense of peace. That's as close to a spiritual mystery as I have ever gotten then and since.

In the family...?

I had always known there was a little artistic flair in my Mother's family. My mother, Angela Huntley Clarke, was a talented amateur singer and pianist, and had acted in amateur theatre productions with the Victoria Gilbert and Sullivan Society in the '50s. Something in her loved music and expressing herself.

My Mum's father, Ernest Huntley Clarke was a prolific amateur photographer, documenting his life, his wife and his only daughter with hundreds of stills and moving images over the course of 40 or 50 years. "Poppy" (as my sister and I called our maternal grandfather) was also a dabbler in oil painting, and we had a few little landscapes he'd done in his later years, in his cramped little basement studio. I still have Poppy's old Walter Foster art instruction books in my bookshelf.

My mother's cousin, Shirley Nash (nee Marks) has always been a passionate oil painter in traditional still life and landscapes, and taught and encouraged painting privately for many years, in her community in Apple Valley, California.

As for my Dad, James Evan Love, although I never saw him play an instrument, apparently he could read music a bit, and could carry a tune. My Dad's brother's wife, Palma Love (nee Lovstad) was an incredibly skilled self-taught painter, who made many oil studies of local boats, and harbour and river scenes (including water traffic along the historic Skeena River) for many, many years, from her home up in Prince Rupert, BC.

To refer to my eldest sister Maggie as "quite musical", would be an understatement. Maggie has taught music to elementary school kids for years, and in her previous career, picked up a couple of Junos. Her partner, Bill Usher, has four of his own, and according to my brother Dave, this collection, sitting in their livingroom floor, is affectionately referred to as "The Clutter".

Maggie's eldest, Michael, is a musician as well, and has recently worked as an actor. My sister Kim, writes poems for herself and for friends.

For my own part, I feel very fortunate to have been able to develop a love of doodling and colouring into a professional career that has expanded on those basic impulses in shape and colour, and has projected them into modern media, in pursuits like web or graphic design. On a more personal front, fiction and storytelling has become my favourite art form in recent years.

So, there is this tendency, this artistic thread in my family, this need to create and express in some tangible way, whether it is for entertainment or as part of a profession, or whether it's for pure personal, emotional, or spiritual completion.

In that way, I think that I feel more connected than ever to my family, and to a lesser degree, somwhow connected to a long line of artists and designers going back through history, who, I expect, also probably had their own personal creative and spiritual revelations by making art.

My novel, "Owe Nothing", is now available for purchase at Trafford.com:
http://books.trafford.com/08-0266

Writing the novel was fun! Marketing it... not so much.

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Sat, 30 May 2009 16:00:19 PDT

...but that's life, right?

In my naivete, back in the heady days April 2009, I imagined that the act of publishing my novel "Owe Nothing" would automatically bring some level of attention, and - more importantly to me - some new readers.

Money is great, but to me, it's a by-product of the other success: popularity.

Back in 2008, as I slowly reached the final editing stage and started thinking about the publishing process, I wondered how and if my little book would make some kind of splash in "the market". I barely understood what "the market" is, much less had a plan for penetrating it successfully.

(Hm. Let me rewrite that last bit...)

...much less had a plan for joining it successfully.

(Better.)

A few things I've learned or opinions I've formed since April 17, 2009, when my book first went live on the Internet:

I probably expect too much from the webbed world, for my sporadic e-marketing efforts. As with my personal web projects, I am throwing a pebble into the sea, not a boulder. The initial splash and it's ripples won't be noticed amidst all the other motion of the ocean.
In many ways, it is the author or their personality or reputation that are being marketed, more than the work itself. Am I prepared to market myself in this way? I've certainly had a life worth telling. Is that the hook that will get people's attention?
I only need between 100 to 1000 fans. There are, I don't know, millions of authors out there, vying for attention! Good god - how would I ever be heard in a room that size? I am trying to find smaller groups, more targeted to me and my stories. "Sniper marketing", instead of a weapon of mass promotion. (Gee, I hate that metaphor.)
Physically, books have a long lifespan. In popular terms, less so, unless you can stir up their relevance in some way. A book can be a flash in the media, and then linger in old age in discount bins and archives for many years. Maybe all I can hope for is that copies of my book will outlive me...
I want feedback, commentary and reviews. Me and my jangly nerves survived the critiques back in art school. I'm ready. This is all part of the growth and refinement process. But, I must go out and make an effort to solicit the feedback I need. It won't come to me, and many ways, won't come for free.
At the end of the day, the story's the thing. I'm not in this to be a marketer or a salesman for my own wares. I'm in this to try and affect people and connect to them by telling my own story, thinly veiled behind some entertaining avatars.

Casting a play with composite characters

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Mon, 25 May 2009 10:09:35 PDT

My first novel, Owe Nothing, was finally published on April 17, 2009. This is, of course, the achievement of a personal goal that took me years to accomplish (I write slowly). It's also an accomplishment in how it has allowed me to continue writing about my family history, using surrogate characters instead of directly writing about the real people.

Owe Nothing takes scraps and bits of my own personality and embeds them into the main character, a twenty-ish young man named Jack Owen, and to a lesser degree, his father Jim. Jim embodies little pieces of my Dad (also Jim) and of my brother David. Aspects of my sister Kim live on in the characters of Jack's older sister Kelly, and in Regina Coffey, whose struggles with her abusive partner Ted form a central theme in the book. Old men look back with regret on the mistakes and losses from their past, women struggle in abusive relationships, and young people try to learn about who they are and where they are going in their lives.

The list goes on and on and on through the dozen or more characters that appear throughout the novel. Structurally, it represents the method and challenge that I put to myself when originally embarking on this long writing project: How can I use the memories, emotional energy, joy, anguish, smells, temperatures and opinions from my scattered memories, and form them into a cohesive and compelling story.

Almost like a form of psychological recycling; taking images and impressions from my past, reforming and refocusing them, and spinning them out there in a new form. My hope is that it will result in a story that others will recognize and enjoy - something that resonates outside of its pages.

Near Death, and Taxes...

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 23:49:29 PDT

So, a number of months ago, I was walking to work along Broadway - a fairly busy street - enjoying a crisp, sunny morning. As I approached a driveway, I glanced at an SUV that looked like it was going to pull out in front of me to enter the street. I was sure the driver saw me approaching, and would wait for me to pass. As I crossed in front of the SUV, it started nudging out into the road, and I found myself leaning over the hood, with my feet sliding along the asphalt.I skated like this for a foot or two, hitting the hood with my hand, and immediately, the driver snapped her head to me, and a look of horror crossed her face. Obviously, she hadn't noticed me at all! I must have crossed in front of her hood just as she was checking for oncoming traffic from the opposite direction.

She slammed on the brakes, and I took a breath, stepped past, and waved her off as if to say "don't worry about it". I was adrenalized but otherwise completely unharmed, and wanted to get along to work as quickly as possible. I figured from the woman's facial expression that she might never drive again, and I decided never to assume anything about motorists.

Flash forward to last week: my wife and I were at our local H&R Block to have our taxes done. We were looking forward to seeing the same lovely lady who has prepared our returns for us for the past few years. Sure enough, she was there, and we greeted each other happily, and sat down in front of her desk.

Then she took a second look at me and started saying "Oh my god! It was you! Oh my god!"

I started to realize what she meant: She had been the driver of that SUV that had very slowly run into me! She said that she was so sorry, and that she really didn't want to lose me as a customer - especially not like that! I replied with something cute about how death and taxes always seem to be related to each other.

I saw her again just this morning at her driveway. She was pulling out and I was almost walking past. There was an obvious need to keep our eyes out for each other now, with this little scary moment in our past. She greeted me with a huge, warm smile and enthusiastic "Hello!" and held her hand out of the driver's side window for a handshake, which I happily returned. I said "I saw you!" and she said "You too!" I told her that it was always nice running into her.

Who Watches the Watchmen? We do - Again.

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 13:57:59 PDT

"Watchmen" is the movie I waited for with anticipation for years. Alan Moore's dark, complicated and apocalyptic story of flawed good and evil - and the difficulty in telling one from the other- became a benchmark, a high water line, for other comic book writers to emulate throughout the eighties and nineties. It was unnostalgic and unsympathetic to the plights of its characters, and utterly uncompromising in its realistic portraits of damaged men and women running around in strange costumes in the wee hours of the night.

So, in addition to being a total Watchmen fanboy, I was happy to learn that Watchmen (like Fantastic Four and other recent superhero movie franchises) was filmed here in Vancouver. Reading director Zack Snyder's blog back in 2007, I'd also learned that a major portion of the city street scenes were filmed on a backlot located somewhere on South-east Marine Drive, near where the southern edge of the city meets the Fraser River. Unfortunately, I had no idea where the set was located, having only seen a couple of promotional photographs on the web.

Yesterday, my wife and I decided to see the Watchmen a second time before it left the theatres for good. Driving from our Starbucks-of-the-day, passing the corner of Byrne Street and Marine Drive, I noticed a large paved lot in front of a warehouse. Standing up on the lot was what looked like half-completed buildings on some sort of construction site. On second glance, I saw completed storefronts, sidewalks, signs and light posts. It had to be the Watchmen outdoor shooting location!

A security guard in a truck honked at us, and waved us off - in other words, it was time to leave!

As we were driving off, I saw the following words spray painted on the back of a set piece: WHO WATCHES THE WATCHMEN?

We did... twice in the theatre, and now from behind the scenes.

Relates Links:

Watchmen Movie Photos
Watchmen Backlot
Watchmen Locations (IMDB.com)
Watchmen FAQ

"Owe Nothing" is now published!

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 20:45:16 PDT

"Owe Nothing" is now available for purchase
at Trafford.com

After a part-time effort that took six years to write, and over a year to edit and publish, I'm very excited to have finally reached this stage!

I hope you will take a chance to enjoy Owe Nothing!

Join my Owe Nothing page on FaceBook:
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?v=info&edit_info=all#/pages/Owe-Nothing-a-novel-by-E-John-Love/81433960464?ref=ts

Is Fiction a "Do Over" of Real Life?

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 23:21:06 PDT

Since 2002, I've been writing fiction (well, trying to write fiction), and over the past six and a half years, I've cobbled together a fairly extensive cast of fictional characters, all inhabiting a world that has numerous similarities to my own - but better.

Surprise, surprise.

In my first book, titled Owe Nothing, my main protagonist (there are a few of 'em) is named Jack Owen. Jack is a slang or familiar form of John, or so I have been told throughout my life. (Given that I was apparently named for my grandmother's brother, John Edward, who was my Uncle "Jack", I take it as gospel.) So, Jack is a twenty-ish version of me. Kind of. Or, the me I almost with I could have been when we briefly lived in motels.

Jack's Dad is named Jim, after my Dad. He's about 55-ish, and his main issue is that generally, he questions how he got to this stage in his life with apparently so little to show for it, and with such a weak and tenuous relationship with his son (so he thinks). I'm 43 - not so far behind Jim's age that I couldn't imagine his predicament. Both my Jim and his son Jack are in a kind of life path rut, but while Jack is near the beginning of his journey, his Dad is closer to the other end.

Jack has an older sister named Kelly. I drew a lot of inspiration for Kelly from my sister Kim: her love of animals, her tenacity, and her ability to defend others to her own deteriment. A seconmd character also represents qualities of my sister: Regina Coffey, who suffers through an abusive relationship, and struggles to assert herself while raising her two sons with very little income. Regina is a survivor, but not a prosperer in life.

The world of "Owe Nothing" is a 2001-2002 version of East Vancouver, with a few curious throwbacks or hold-overs from the '70s left intact. The main incongruity is that the two large, neighbouring motels in which much of the story takes place exist at all. The Mountain View Motel (where Jack's family lives) and the Peacock Court Motel (where Regina Coffey and her sons live) were real places, both bulldozed sometime in the mid-1980s, I believe. The motel culture of Kingsway in East Vancouver was dying even when I lived in it briefly, as a kid in the mid-1970s. It was grimy and harsh in places, but also lively and friendly - like a motor-hotel version of a low rent, big city tenement project.

More to come...

Join my Owe Nothing page on FaceBook:
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?v=info&edit_info=all#/pages/Owe-Nothing-a-novel-by-E-John-Love/81433960464?ref=ts

A Good Room to Work In

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Sun, 28 Dec 2008 16:51:07 PST

A good room to work in is both a luxury and a necessity, at least if you feel that you're someone with something to say, or someone who needs somewhere to store your thoughts and ideas when you're not using them.

A good room to work in is a haven, a safety zone, and a refuge where you can reflect on the past, face your fears and look at yourself with serious intentions for minutes at a time. Perceptions, waking thoughts and even your own breaths are all fleeting and transient, making your desk a kind of shrine to remember yourself by.

A good room to work in can also be a shrine to important memories of people and places. I have created many images of my late parents there. When I think about it, I realize how much I hate the phrase "my late parents". In my own small ways, through images on web sites, on my walls, and in sketch books, or by journals or in my fictional stories, I will try keep them alive somehow

Maybe then, my good room to work in is also a meeting room - a place to commune with the people and things that have made me.

My Life Between Man and Machine

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Sun, 28 Dec 2008 17:10:05 PST

The Animatronic Andy Warhol...
To me, the ideal symbolic merging of creative imagination and technological processes.

It has just occurred to me: I've spent a great deal of my life caught between man and machine.

My father was an electronics technician for many years. My mother was a performer, an artist. Each of them and their tendencies and backgrounds have influenced me. Although it sounds like a sexist stereotype, my father was usually the calm, rational one - the authority, the controller of my family. My mother suffered from depression - possibly bipolar disorder- alcohol addiction. She could have small bursts of creativity, and be spontaneous, energetic and fun. Dad was the responsible one who kept things running as they needed to. I'm sure that this is where my man-machine dichotomy was formed.

Growing up, I always wanted to know how things worked, and so I would would take things apart to see, only to be unable to put them back together again, and get chastised for "breaking my toys".

All my life, I also loved creativity and imagination. I loved to draw, to colour, and to read picture books or newspaper strips, and to have someone's images and words transport me to another world where my imagination could run free.

Early Ideas of Man and Machine

Since I was old enough to recall, images of human-shaped robots have been a source of fascination to me. When I was four or five, my Dad bought me a fascinating metal walking robot toy. It required four D cells and weighed a ton. Most amazing of all, it walked upright, shuffling forward by sliding its feet one at a time, kind of like a hospital patient in thin slippers. After a few steps, it would stop and doors on its chest would swing open, revealing little guns that would blaze ("rat-a-tat-a-tat!"). After strafing the living room in a 360 degree pivot, it would close its chest and begin striding forward again.

As a kid, I was fascinated by the excellent mechanics of it, and the light-up excitement and cool sound effects. My Dad said he bought it for me at the Rosetown Fair. (Looking back, I figure that it must have been some kind of import from Japan or somewhere. They always make the coolest robot-shaped toys.)

Pre-teen Robot Boy

As a pre-teen, I became a huge fan of the TV show "Six Million Dollar Man". Many of the plots were dumb or a bit predictable, but I was really watching the show to see the electronic stuff that was implanted inside Steve Austin. I wanted to see them roll up his fake skin on that bionic arm and show me the wires and circuits inside. He was a man, but also a machine - a CYBORG ("CYBernetic ORGanism"). I didn't know what Cybernetics was, but I knew that he was a step beyond a human-shaped machine - he was a blend of man and machine under the skin.

The late 1970s and early 1980s were a great time to be a science fiction fan. Many science fiction TV shows and movies (most of all "Star Wars") featured at least one android or robot, and usually in a humanistic shape.

My Mom, as a Cybernetic System

In 1981, my mother was admitted for long-term care to the Riverview Psychiatric Hospital. She had suffered permanent brain damage as a result of kidney failure after extreme alcohol abuse. I understood that she had almost died, and that her brain had been irreparably altered. Her memory was altered - memories from most of the past five years were apparently wiped out - and her personality was also different. She seemed a bit more simplistic and direct in her wants and how she expressed them.

By 1984, I had begun to see her as "a broken system" - a burned-out circuit. It was painful and difficult to picture her as a person first and foremost. I loved her in a child's longing, loyal way, but she had never connected with me very well, and I could never recall her speaking more than a few words to me at a time over the years. We never had a discussion in any way. So, in a way, she was probably not humanized enough in my heart and mind, and this remote objectivity and de-personification of her probably served as a convenient screen for me to hide behind. It was probably easier to think of my mother as a broken system than a hurt, scared and lonely woman whom I knew had trouble remembering me and whom I was supposed to love.

The Image of Animatronic Andy

Around 1984 or 1985, American pop artist Andy Warhol was recreated as an animatronic puppet in order to portray him in a "no man show". The image of the robot's pale eyeless rubber face mask layered over the bare steel skeleton stuck with me. It reminded me of my mother's pale, scarred skin, her pure white, short-cropped hair, and her impassable, sometimes blank facial expression. Sometimes, I couldn't read her at all. Occasionally, a prolonged, direct eye contact would be my reward for persevering through a visit with her. It was rare to know if she recognized me at all.

I began to draw images of her face with empty, black holes where living eyes should have been. It has been a recurring image in my head - my internal image of her.

Art School Cyberneticist

In 1985, during my Foundation (first) year of studies at the Emily Carr College of Art, I learned how to use graphics software to create images, and I became a fan of the pixels that made up the images on the computer screen, and a fan of the electronics (or the ideas behind them) that painted the pixels in the first place. I started teaching myself a little programming, and then studying how computers and electronics had been used to create art and interactive, shared experiences.

As I continued to take more of an interest in computers, electronics and artificial intelligence (or "artificial rationale", as my instructor Gary Lee Nova called it, insightfully), I appreciated more about how far A.I. still had to progress, and also how over time, as A.I., robotics, and other technologies progress and converge, we will get closer to building a useful human-shaped helper. This is a big reason why Honda and other major manufacturers have spent so much time and effort developing Aibo and other anthropomorphic, walking robots: they are developing the synthetic Butler's and nursemaids of the future, for an age of Japanese baby boomers.

Throughout my senior years in art school, I studied cybernetics (essentially, the study of systems), and with the help of my classmates and instructors, I developed ways to connect myself even closer to computer graphics by mounting joystick parts on my hands and arms and wiring them into the game ports on Atari 800 and Amiga computers. I wanted to get closer than a keyboard and a mouse, and connect in a more direct way.

And Today...? What Will These Robots Think of Us?

One piece of art that expresses the issues in the "evolving" (hee hee!) of a synthetic race, is "AI - Artificial Intelligence", developed by Stanley Kubrick and directed by Steven Spielberg.

I still think it might be really cool to have a bionic hand, and even cooler to make friends with a robot. Maybe one that's just as interested in me as I am in it. Then, perhaps the "man-machine interface" would be the relationship itself.

About Plucking Old Strings

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 22:49:12 PDT

As I slowly evolve my second novel, a question that has come up in my mind:

For how long can you mine old emotional veins - pluck old strings - in the service of creating compelling stories?

This question stumps and almost staggers me. When will I run out of gas, and have nothing interesting left to say? Without that, I'm dead as an artist.

I can't see the future, and by myself, I can't answer this question, but the prospect is scary as hell.

Ironically, why would I worry about this when I still haven't even begun the career as a writer? The first story is yet to be published, and I have little idea how good or bad it is as a work. Maybe it's premature to even worry about this... Maybe. All the same, I've got to go there.

What Strings Can I Pluck?

There are a number of themes I can harvest for telling stories of fiction:

A life's potential lost because of manic-depression and alcoholism. What is a person worth? What are they obligated to accomplish?
A father's/leader's loss of control - loss of power and leadership - because of bad choices, age, depression and chronic guilt. Can he redeem himself and his integrity?
A young girl's sense of betrayal because of physical abuse; the horror of the loss of family security. Can she find security and strength?
A child torn between loyalty towards one parent or the other, and fear and insecurity towards each of them. Is the child trapped?
The joy of finding surrogate parents in friends and relatives...
What do you do when your hero becomes a villain right before your eyes? How can you love someone close to you and hate them at the same time?
Why do people carry childish jealousy, envy and pain within them throughout their life? How does it affect the people around them?

...okay, so there is some meat on those bones, I admit, as long as I do a good job of it. But still... there's some insecurity.

However, a recent biography gives me some hope for my creative process in the long-term.

The Life of Cartoonist Charles Schulz

Schulz is the creator of "Peanuts", Snoopy and "good ol' Charlie Brown". He's probably the most famous cartoonist of the post-war era. In the book "Schulz and Peanuts: A Biography", author David Michaelis illustrates how a man can mine insecurities, painful losses, and personal defeats, and weave them into character traits, phrases and attitudes that can fuel a small world that people in countries all over theworld have visited for over50 years.

Schulz' Peanuts characters looked like children, living in a world of invisible (or at least off-screen) adults, and yet as a kid, I knew that his kids were telling truths in a sophisticated, grown up kind of way. I didn't understand all of it, but looking back, I think there was angst, cruelty, power issues, depression, love, fate, philosophical pondering, and flights of fantasy, all played out with subtlety and intelligence. There was depth and heartfelt emotion.

I think that Charles Schulz built a world for himself in which he could say the things that he needed to say, to express his truths, through the personas of the little people he created. The fact that he was still expressing these feelings dozens of years after the fact, tells me that he had resonant, meaningful things, unresolved meaningful things, to say. That they resonated with such a large audience for so many years tells me that he was very talented and committed to his art.

There are a lot of crappy, shallow daily comic strips being published today - the three panel equivalent of cheap, rim shot jokes. Schulz and other significant artists, were able to get beyond that, and extend what is a very limiting medium into something better.

I think that if Schulz' material hadn't come from a powerful reservoir of personal experience, it wouldn't have been so good for so long. This gives me some hope for my own efforts.

Walking into Art School.

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 22:50:36 PDT

Back in 1984/85, I went everywhere with a cheap felt pen and $1.99 sketchbook that I'd bought from Shopper's Drug Mart on Davie. My high-school art teacher, Mr. Prinsen, had impressed on me the importance of keeping a sketchbook, and I tried to be that guy.

1000 sketches of people's faces and the backs of heads on the bus on the way out to Coquitlam to visit my Mother in Riverview. Once, when she wasn't awake, I got a very nice sketch of her sleeping. Slowly, my hand became able to do what my eyes saw. It was a goal that started to give me a sense of control and accomplishment.

Getting There...

Once I decided to apply to Emily Carr College of Art, it became a major obsession. For weeks, I worked on drawings and sketches that might help my portfolio. An older guy named Les Gallus was a practiced illustrator and gave me some advice on prepping my portfolio, plus a little practical tutelage on how to improve a few pieces. He also showed me his portfolio: a collection of slides of 2D and 3D pieces from some art program on the prairies, I think. Les never seemed to have that much interest in actually working for a living, but I never held that against him. He was a super friendly, helpful person, who helped me get a couple of sketches published in the Community Arts Council magazine, and whose advice and support bolstered my confidence. I was scared as hell of going to art school. All I knew was that it had to lead to better experiences than those I'd already had.

When the interview day came, I remember literally walking across Granville Island from my summer job, over into the school's entrance, entranced. My interviewers had been a black haired man named John (whom I was convinced was humouring me - my insecurity at work), and an older, gentler bald man named Dennis, with whom I immediately felt comfortable. I also saw an energetic and slightly authoritarian bearded man in the hallway whom I would later learn was the school's Dean, a gentleman named Tom Hudson.

Weeks (or months?) later, I received my acceptance letter in the mail. I couldn't believe it. At that moment, it was the biggest positive thing that had ever happened to me. I was living with my Dad in an apartment on Hornby Street, although I can't remember if during this time he was home, or if he was in hospital.

I felt like I'd just squeaked through the portfolio interview process, but who knows how. If it's possible, I think I felt simultaneously proud and ashamed of my portfolio pieces - a series of pen and ink drawings and sketches - mostly scribbly portraits of my face and my friends and family, plus a couple of felt pen "pointillist" attempts done in Grade 12. "This art school must have some kind of quota system for taking in new students" I thought later. My East Van neighbourhood felt a long way away. I was 19 and still very, very green in my views.

Being accepted made me want to sketch the people and things around me even more - I felt I needed to prepare myself for a massive new challenge, so I tried to bolster my meager skills however I could. I took a life drawing session down on Granville Island, and blushed a little at the young woman who posed naked while we all scratched away on large sheets of paper. She saw me blushing and smiled at me, so I smirked and blushed some more. Dad would never approve of this, so I never told him. Years later, when I recounted a similar experience in Life Drawing class, he practically lost his temper. "What the hell do you need to draw a naked woman for?!" he almost yelled. "Why not draw fruit!" I almost doubled over laughing at him for that one. My dear old Dad didn't get it at all - not back then. (He got it later, and eventually was 100% on board.)

In what could only have been some subconscious act of self-defeat, I actually slept in on Registration Day! I showed up hours late, in a panicky state, mentally berating myself with every put-down I knew, feeling sure that I had just fucked up the first good thing I'd ever done before even getting a chance to do it.

I wandered around the school for a few moments, not knowing where to go or who to speak with, but soon enough, I saw a familiar face, Dennis Rickett, the older bald English gent who had been one of my interviewers. I explained my predicament to him, and within a moment, I was sitting with two Foundation Instructors, John Wertschek (my other portfolio interviewer) and Sam Carter. Soon enough, they had me slotted into my Foundation classes, and I felt immensely relieved to have my situation sorted out.

Going There...

Like every new school I've ever entered, my art school smelled unique - vaguely like acrylic paint and freshly cut cardboard. This was the Emily Carr College of Art and Design in September of 1985.

The white walls, blue doors and window frames and lego-like IKEA flooring hinted at a modernism that I wouldn't be familiar with for a year or two. Boys and girls with punk hairdos and black leather jackets strutted together looking like and talking about lifestyles that I was sure were foreign to me.

My first class, on the morning of my first day at Emily Carr was Creative Process, with John Wertschek. It felt like some alternate universe version of homeroom in high school: a bunch of young people blinking at each other across wide work tables, not knowing what to say. This was the first time I saw my classmates, and I could tell I wasn't the only young 'un in the room. John had set his room up with black walls, low lighting, and some nice Chinese paper lampshade hanging low over the massive table in the middle of the room. We did an exercise he called "The Rock Game". Everyone took a turn placing or moving a rock on the table. I didn't "know" what the hell I was supposed to do, but I felt something out of it, or at least I thought I did... I tended to worry about things in my life a lot, but that didn't help you in the rock game. You pretty much just had to do the game. I decided the rock game was very cool.

A Pantheon of Heroes, Villians, Gods and Monsters" or "That Wonder Alternate Reality"

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 19:53:46 PDT

I think that the modern mythologies and worlds that have been created by comic book writers, artists and publishers are nothing short of amazing. They are also worlds that I love to escape to whenever I can.

Little People Talking in Word Balloons.

My earliest memories of reading are the word balloons in the Sunday colour comics section of the Times-Colonist newspaper. I remember the smell and touch of the thin paper sheets, spread out on the fireplace hearth in Poppy's house (my maternal grandfather), at 1002 Cook Street in Victoria, BC. I would be laying flat on my belly with my noise an inch away from the paper, poring over every detail - immersed in some abstract world of various levels of meaning. I was engaged by the colour printing and fascinated by the sometimes crappy registration of the colours, which revealed to me the layered process that created the images and words. I read it all with curiosity and conviction, as if it were my personal bible. Many of the words I didn't understand, but I usually could infer the meaning by looking at the pictures.

The little rectangles of the Sunday colour comics, or the even tinier, more cryptic ones in the dailies, portrayed a small, safe world, full of familiar characters in familiar poses, doing and saying familiar things. It was a welcoming, non-challenging world of boxes - like pretty little presents served up by some unseen hands. I knew that the authors, whomever they were, were not speaking to me specifically, but were doing something like talking through their words and drawings. They were telling me their many stories. And from it, there was that same, warm comfort that I had experienced from hearing a bedtime or school-time story: "Oh boy! A story! What fun!"

Occasionally, I wondered who it was who drew and spoke through "Peanuts" (who was "Schulz"?) or "The Lockhornes". When I was five or six, much of the humour, sarcasm and double entendres of more the subtle newspaper strips, like "B.C." or "Rex Morgan, M.D." absolutely confused me.

Ah, Sweet Sarcasm and Scary, Grown-up Stuff

I have that same maternal Grandfather, Poppy, to thank for my becoming aware of other more mature forms of comics. Thanks to him, I got my hands on my first "Mad Magazine" and on Warren monster mags like "Creepy" and "Eerie". These were probably tossed in the trash by my Dad or my Grandmother, but it was the photographer's eye, and even more, the mischievous little boy in my dear old Poppy which brought me those little glimpses of a more daring, more grown-up and less saccharine world. Thanks in part to Mad (and more likely to my parents), I probably called my sister stupid for the first time, and used a disrespectful, sarcastic tone of voice when speaking to her. After this behaviour earned me a few raps on the head from my Dad, the sarcasm didn't seem quite so empowering.

The Warren mags showed me glimpses of men in mysterious space helmets blasting monsters while protecting voluptuous, scantily clad women. Most of this was beautifully rendered in stark black and white line art. The stories felt just a little dirty, and much more interesting and serious than the shallow Sunday funnies.

The darker, grittier themes really resonated with me as I got older. My earliest comic book memory was of a Batman comic that I thumbed through at a corner grocery store in Langley, around 1972, when I was about six. It might have been illustrated by Neil Adams - it was in his era - but the dark tones and sombre mood showed me that little colour comic books could have an adult level and depth of character as well. At the time, I didn't know why they appealed to me so much, but I just knew that I liked them.

Five or six years later, I rediscovered "Creepy" magazine at a local grocery, and knew I had to have it. Over the next few years, I bought "Creepy", "Eerie", "Vampirella" and "Famous Monsters of Filmland" as often as I could, and amassed a collection of 50 or 60 such magazines. After the Warren mags ceased publication in the early eighties, I began collecting Heavy Metal with much the same fervor.

Heavy Metal brought me back to that same mysterious, bad boy feeling that I'd enjoyed years before with Eerie, but this time, I could understand all the stories and the dialogue, and enjoyed it all in luxurious full-colour artwork by artists such as Bilal, Mobius, Corben, and McKie. I collected dozens of these mags too, and occasionally I will still pick one up today.

High School: A Good Place to Study Comics

Later on, to my great delight, I discovered that my high school library carried many hardcover books on the topic of comics and comic artists. I began to learn more about the origins and development of many famous heroes, and some of the culture that brought them into being.

I learned about Superman's genesis as a character, and the mythology of how he came to Earth as a superhuman protector of the world. I also learned about the Fantasic Four, and one of my all-time favourite characters, "Galactus, the Devourer of Worlds". The classic Stan Lee/Jack Kirby story arc from the sixties showed me that little colour comics could contain immense scope in their plots, with grandiose and complex settings like alternate realities, and Gods walking the Earth, and abstract, massive-scale themes like the destruction of the world. With vague references to Neitcheism, Religion and Nihilism, the FF seemed to be written for dope-smoking college philosophy students. It was all served up with that blend of pathos, soap opera melodrama and bombastic exposition that characterized a Stan Lee Marvel tale. For pure energy and bang-per-buck, stuff-per-panel quotient, Marvel kicked DC's sorry ass up and down the block back in those days. The John Byrne era of "Fantastic Four", in the mid-eighties, is to me a high point for that series - a high-water mark both artistically and thematically. "THOOOM!" is still one of my favourite words.

The Best Panteon of Gods and Heroes

The more I read comics, the more interesting, god-like characters I discovered. The Marvel and DC Universes each have their own creation myth, and are crammed full with hundreds upon hundreds of beings, possessing varying degrees of superhuman abilities, comprising a vast pop culture mythological hierarchy. It's so complex now, that it makes the Pantheons of Greek or Hindu dieties seem like a laundry list, and has done a lot to confuse and even alienate some new readers.

All in all, I suppose that all this would make pop culture - more specifically comics - my true religion.

Feel Like I'm Walking Ten Feet Tall

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 17:42:07 PDT

Happy I'm floating
Around on my feet now
You make me go dizzy
I'm weak at the knees
I feel like I'm walking
Round ten feet tall

Well you say I'm faking
And I say don't worry
The way that I bubble
There's something in the make
I feel like I'm walking
Round ten feet tall

Right, the chemistry is right
This boy has reached his height
The feeling just goes on and on...
From strength to strength
I'm ten feet long...
I feel like I'm walking
Round ten feet tall

How to become a writer, Part 2.

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 21:35:06 PDT

How to Become a Paperback Writer, in 16 E-zee Steps: Part 2
Note: I didn't say "popular paperback writer" or "good paperback writer".
Just so you know, you were warned...

Need to catch up? Read Part 1...

I am currently stuck at...

14. Here I am, waiting, waiting, waiting...
In late May, I submitted my final, proofread manuscript and my finished cover design artwork and in early June I uploaded related notes and instructions to the Publisher via email. So they now have everything needed to start creating a first draft for me to review and approve.

I have learned that a Printing Technician at the publisher has now finished assessing my materials - probably to see if they can get my draft composed within the 2 hours labour that my Publishing Package specifies. But, progress is happening: I have been assigned my ISBN number. Woo hoo - it's a book.

So, thus far, not much hand-holding through this process as far as I'm concerned (he said, wearing his "worried customer" hat), but now it's *completely* out of my control, so I must wait patiently while other people do their job...

I look forward to the next step...

Earnest Angley's Cathedral Buffet and Life of Christ Display

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 21:40:57 PDT

Out of boredom and curiosity, I did a Google search for 'earnest oh" (the name of my avatar in Second Life), and came upon "Earnest Angley's Cathedral Buffet and Life of Christ Display".

Holy Cheesey, saw-them-comin'-a mile-away Batman! This is a monument to kitsch that makes other kitsch look pretty good...

How to become a writer, by john.

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 23:48:14 PST

How to Become a Paperback Writer, in 16 e-zee Steps:
Note: I didn't say "popular paperback writer" or "good paperback writer".
Just so you know, you were warned...

Get laid off from your day job. Nothing motivates more than the fear of not having an income or a future.

In 2002, I was laid-off after my employer, a small high-tech firm, ran out of money. Pending new financing (which was never a sure thing), I was back in the job market. After a fairly aggressive job search for the first month or two, I needed some kind of creative project to keep me from going totally loony. I decided to start writing a spoof or parody/social drama of the detective/adventure thriller genre, featuring a cast of low-income, East Vancouver characters. I took structural inspiration from Ian Fleming's James Bond thrillers, which have been a favourite of mine since I was in my teens.

Sketch out the motivations of your characters. Build the world in which they live.

I started scribbling in a notebook, perched on the side of my bed mornings or nights. I tried to pin down the most significant characteristics of my key characters, basing them on traits from real people in my life. Some traits would be exaggerated to help identify a "type" or class for the character (good guy, bad guy, helper/friend, victim, observer).

Start writing. Keep doing it.

Kinda self-explanatory, but really the most difficult and time-consuming part. I had to just plunge into things on the page and not worry much about structural issues, just to get something down.

Step back and check for realistic frames of reference: time, place, pacing and organization.

As my story evolved and became more complex, I discovered that I really needed to pin down a time frame within which the whole story would take place. I needed to be certain about which events would be happening when, if they'd overlap or interact, and how long (realistically) each event would take to happen. Basically, my hope is that if this kind of detail is tended to, it creates a foundation of realism that can support more fantastic or less-than-likely situations.

Whenever I was outside an area of personal expertise - if I wasn't sure about some fact or technical detail (like a detail in some character's past career), I'd find someone I could ask about it. In my case, I needed some terminology, procedures and place-names for a character who had retired from the military. I am fortunate to have a brother with a military background, and who has friends with similar backgrounds. I ended up with more information than I could use, but something of it will be useful in future stories, I expect.

See Step 3. Also, see Step 3.
Despair may set in. Don't give up.

I started my initial writing and character development back in September of 2002. I got as finished as I could with a "final draft" by February of 2008. That's basically five and a half years of on-again-off-again effort.

Take a break from writing the story, and look at other aspects of the projects.

Occasionally, it was refreshing for me to spend a little time researching on the topics of publishing or book design. Almost all of this was done online. I ultimately decided to self-publish, primarily so that I could *ensure* that my novel would see the light of day under my own terms. I visualized a book being created - a physical novel being in my hands at the end of it. As I got more convinced that I was evolving an engaging work, it became easier to visualize it in some kind of finished form.

Sometimes this was an inspiration. Other times, it was a distraction. Don't take too much time off from writing like this, or the damn thing will never get done!

I was going to self-publish, so it was time to pick a publisher.

I looked at AuthorHouse and Trafford. I selected Trafford because they are Canadian and local to me. You can make your own decision.

When you think the story is done, it probably isn't. Be your own critic.

Take a break from it for a few days or a week. Then, read it through and see if you feel the same way.

Repeat Step 9 as many times as it takes until you feel that the story is bullet-proof.
Hire a Pro Editor and have them do Step 9 too.

I've written enough technical stuff in my career to know that even when I think it's rock solid and has been double-checked, someone else will always find something I missed. I'd much rather be informed of a mistake by a pro on the inside of my project, than by a customer on the outside.

Close the deal with the publisher.

Read everything carefully, phone or email to ask questions about anything you aren't sure of, and finally, sign the contract, and pay the money to do the self-publishing thing.

I like the design part too. Make it a good-looking book.

Even at the edge of some burnout on the project, I decided to create original illustrations and a book cover design for my novel. I decided that people may look more favourably upon a novel that has an attractive, engaging and colourful cover. I wanted my book to look different from the other self-published books. I researched source imagery on the web, and got out the pencils, India ink and paper. And a scanner. And Photoshop. But that's just me.

Here I am, waiting, waiting, waiting...

I have now submitted my manuscript to the Editor, and have begun the cover design artwork myself. I expect to hear from the Publisher before too long, so that I can get a little hand-holding through the rest of the publishing process.

If all goes well...

In a couple of months, I will have a bunch of books with my name on them, and my words in them. I intend to take a good long whiff of that lovely "new book smell" - savour the smell of success. It smells like... victory.

So, is it selling? How well? Who's buying it? Anyone?

Who can tell what will happen here. I'll update this later...

The Power of 1000 True Fans

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 22:42:01 PST

I got this originally from Darren Barefoot's blog - a report on the original topic by Kevin Kelly - and a fascinating and empowering concept...

From Kevin Kelly's blog:

...the actual number may vary depending on the media. Maybe it is 500 True Fans for a painter and 5,000 True Fans for a videomaker. The numbers must surely vary around the world. But in fact the actual number is not critical, because it cannot be determined except by attempting it. Once you are in that mode, the actual number will become evident. That will be the True Fan number that works for you. My formula may be off by an order of magnitude, but even so, its far less than a million.
I've been scouring the literature for any references to the True Fan number. Suck.com co-founder Carl Steadman had theory about microcelebrities. By his count, a microcelebrity was someone famous to 1,500 people. So those fifteen hundred would rave about you. As quoted by Danny O'Brien, "One person in every town in Britain likes your dumb online comic. That's enough to keep you in beers (or T-shirt sales) all year."
Others call this microcelebrity support micro-patronage, or distributed patronage.

The Christmas Spread...

noreply@blogger.com (E. John Love) — Sun, 30 Dec 2007 18:48:25 PST

It's feeling like with each Christmas season, my list of cards and gifts for relatives and friends gets just a bit smaller.

Stuff I'll miss or regret this year:

Christmas Gift Exchange and dinner with my sister and her kids. This will be my number one Christmas bummer from now on... I miss them all so much.
Buying presents for my parents. They're long gone (but always loved and never forgotten...)

Stuff I'm looking forward to and am thankful for this year:

Christmas Gift Exchange and dinner with my wife's family (they're really my family too). This is the best time, with lots of laughter, jokes, silly faces and funny photos. I can't wait.
My first cup of Egg Nog and my first mince meat tart. Those tastes often "lock in" the old Christmas feeling...
Christmas Eve or Christmas morning: on one of these, my wife and I will exchange our gifts.
On Boxing Day, my wife and I will do our Boxing Day tradition: Watch a movie trilogy - either Lord of the Rings or Star Wars.

...well, at least the "thankfuls" outweigh the "regrets". I'm going to suck it up and donate some money and unwanted goods to the needy. Doing something for someone else is the antidote to feeling blue over your own little problems.

No matter how bad you feel, there's always someone else who is doing worse than you, so help them already...

As for the somewhat shrinking card and gift list, I'll add a few new friends to that too...