I just received an invoice from U of T demanding that I pay tuition fees for 2008-09. Something's messed up here.

Yesterday Andrea and I went to the hospital to visit her grandfather and went out for dinner with some of her family. I picked up a boatload of movies (Juno, The Savages, Panic Room, Spider-man 2, Southland Tales, The Squid and the Whale) and the ninth season of X-Files.

When we were driving back from Ingersoll a plane was flying in to land at the London airport immediately to our right. I've never seen a plane fly that low from a car before.

I finally procured the key to the new place (though not the front door key, which is key). Andrea and I were able to check it out. It's been cleaned out and painted a very light peach beige. It looks great. I stayed for about 15 minutes just standing in the rooms, trying to figure out what colour I'm going to paint them and where I'm going to put the furniture I'll have to purchase. When I get back from London next week I'm going to spend the week painting. I might see if I can order the bed before I take off for Peterborough, too.

London. Right. The next stop on the summer tour. We're leaving at 2 PM on a ten-hour bus ride. I'll have to make sure I pack some reading material, and my journal so that I can get some writing done. We'll be spending the five days visiting with Andrea's family, partying a little bit and going for a swim.

I read for two hours yesterday and got some writing done. The latest exercise involved going to a crowded place, describing the people and inventing a story for one of them. I saw this guy waiting for the bus after I dropped the car off who was perfect. He was 45'ish, wearing a green Christmas sweatshirt and a pink knapsack, lighting a cigarette right under a No Smoking sign. I've got about a thousand words out of him so far.

Yesterday Andrea and I had a grand day up at Gatineau Park. We had lunch at the Chelsea Pub before driving out to Pink Lake and walking the trail. There weren't a whole lot of people out, so it was nice and private and pretty. Andrea recalled this story she'd read about how a cougar was discovered in the park, so we kept making jokes about the cougar suddenly (and rather unlikely) appearing. We went to the beach for a swim but the rain started up. After resting for a bit in the car we came back into town and I dropped her off.

I've been trying to rig up my iMac for speech recognition. I can verbally ask it the time, day, stuff like that. Last night I added a script that allows me to get a song to play just by delivering voice commands. It doesn't work perfectly, but it's still pretty nice, and gets me one step closer to what I really wish computers could do.

This morning I took the car back and then went by the rental office to drop off first month's rent and grab the keys to the new place. They didn't have the keys, and told me to come back this afternoon. I ran some errands and got a haircut. I decided to come home to read for a bit before I went out again.

I'm tired, but I'll bet Andrea is feeling even more so. Trolley's wedding is in the can and it was pretty spectacular as far as weddings go. Horse drawn carriages, beautiful farmland, and food. Ye gods, the food. I like to eat at weddings. I don't know why, really... it's probably the fact that the stuff is free and quality and I'm in a celebratory mood. Add to that the fact that I wasn't drinking because I had to drive and I ended up eating too much as a result. This wedding had food coming constantly. If it wasn't being served it was scattered all over the end of the tent structure where the reception was located. Yum.

The ceremony was among the more beautiful I'd seen. I dig weddings. One more coming up in September. Andrea had a great time. We're supposed to go to Gatineau Park today but I dropped her off at Christine's last night, so I don't know what kind of shape she's in this morning. I parked the car across the street from the building and spilled the complimentary jelly beans we stole from the table just before I walked in the door. Hopefully no one slips Three Stooges style. They'll probably blame some kid for the mess anyway. What fully grown man would spill purple and green jelly beans on the sidewalk?

Andrea and I picked up the car at the airport, had breakfast at Denny's (I PREFACED all of that reception food with a Denny's breakfast. Jesus.) and then stopped at Home Depot to pick up a tree as a wedding gift. The ceremony ended up being three hours later than we guessed so we bummed around Andrea's apartment until it was time to go. I love driving. It can be a nerve-wracking experience when you haven't done it for awhile, but before long taking the twists and turns to navigate around a city grows on you.

It's going to be a long day. I'd better keep this short.

Yesterday I picked up the last of my paycheques at the Chambers and bought a copy of the latest Wired magazine. When I got home I walked to the post office and mailed the Amazon return along with the RSVP to Connolley's wedding. I took a bath and read for a couple of hours. I started writing based on an exercise that demanded I wrote out of a past work experience, and I ended up with a nifty little story intro that I think I might have the chance of finishing. I'm at a little over 1,100 words. The prose was coming at me pretty quick and I was smiling as I was writing it. It's been a long time since I've experienced that, trying to capture a flow of ideas before they get away. I feel really good about it.

Last night while leafing through Wired I finalized the decision to invent an alias for myself. It's an idea I've been kicking around for a few years now. I've had all kinds of aliases since I started using the Internet, but this will be for my identity as a writer and artist apart from the rest of my life in which an association with that identity might harm me (for instance, at work). More on that later.

Andrea and I are renting a car and heading to Trolley's wedding today. Better get ready.

The Dark Knight was the third film I've seen in an IMAX theatre (outside of documentaries), the first two being The Matrix Revolutions and then 300 last year. From the opening aerial shot of Gotham that pans down lower into the buildings and streets, I lost my breath and didn't get it back for the rest of the movie. "Action-packed" doesn't come close to describing it - the film relentlessly navigates from one harrowing section to the next in an effort to turn your brain inside out over questions of morality, ethics, social propriety and the stability of the forces in the world that people trust. As for Heath Ledger, he gives an unearthly performance as the Joker; a more sadistic, disturbed character has never surfaced in a comic book film. His real-life death casts an incredibly haunting gravity over the entire film as it juts back and forth between poetry and tragedy. And although Ledger's performance is getting the greater focus, Aaron Eckhart's character arc is the best in the film - he is the textbook definition of a tragic character starting out successful and losing everything. The way they set up the Two-Face character is GENIUS and makes the comparison between Tommy Lee Jones' portrayal a complete waste of time. The movie is two and a half hours long but you don't want the characters to go away. It ends on the perfect note to introduce the next film, which can't come too soon.

It's a movie I've been looking forward to seeing for a very long time. I've kept up with the viral campaigns and trailers, greedy to see that next shot of the Joker. To see him brought to life on the screen the way Ledger did is to experience one of the great performances in movie history. Everything came together beautifully and unfortunately.

Yesterday I picked up some books I'd ordered from Amazon, but I'm returning one because I ordered the Spanish version of it by mistake. Also in the package: a couple of books on writing and reading, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain, Fifth Business by Robertson Davies, and Disgrace by J.M. Coetzee. I started reading Joe's book, Gratitude, and got a bit of writing done. Right now I'm at Andrea's drinking coffee. We grabbed dinner at the Royal Oak last night and crashed at her place.

I just talked to my mother and she's scheduled a doctor's appointment for me on August 18th, so I'll actually be performing the move on the 19th if all goes according to plan. She thinks I have a pinched sciatic nerve. Every piece of advice I've received has been akin to this: rest it, exercise it, ice it, heat it, take painkillers.

The net connection I was pirating now has a password affixed to it, so that leaves one piddly little connection that barely works when it does work. Yet another reason why I want this move over and done with. I get the feeling that I'm going to need a vacation after all this vacation time. I already have no idea what day of the week it is, what I'm supposed to be doing, where I'm supposed to be going.

Check that: I'm going to see The Dark Knight tonight. That I'm sure of.

Yesterday was productive. I read for over two hours and finished Galveston, a book about storm chasers who have suffered tragedy in their lives and find each other in a podunk coastal town about to be wiped out by a force five hurricane. I'm going to move onto Joe's book next. I wrote for an hour and produced 1500 words. I'm finding it tiring but I have to keep at it. Yesterday I mapped out the floor plan of the first house I remember living in. It was harder than I thought because it became a process of stringing together memories out of geography. Then I wrote about memories I have of being in the rooms.

I cracked open Reason and started writing a new song. It sounds pretty good so far, and I feel as though I'm further into this one than my first attempt. I'd like to get the backbone written out and apply some bass and maybe some guitar and vocals over it when the time comes, but I really think it's going to have to wait until after the move.

I'm trying not to let the move interfere with my creativity. I'm tired of making excuses for not having any output. Yesterday was one day. I wrote 1500 words, finished a book and starting writing a song. Now it's today. Now I have to do something else.

Yesterday I walked to the grocery store and watched Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey while I ate dinner.

In nine days I'll have a new apartment all to myself, somewhere I can go and sit on the floor and get away from the babbling construction workers that repel up and down the side of the building, passing my window with their hammering and sawing, starting at 8 o'clock sharp every morning. Nine days. I'm going to get a new bed, one that I can actually sit up in. One that's more comfortable, with an actual mattress that I don't have to fold and turn into a couch. New pillows. Glorious. I haven't slept regularly in an actual bed for almost a year. The insanity must stop.

My schedule over the next little while is going to be intense. Let me try and work it out here.

Saturday, July 26th: Rent a car and go to Trolley's wedding
Sunday, July 27th: Trip to Gatineau Park
Monday, July 28th: Pick up keys for new apartment, drop off first month's rent
Tuesday, July 29th: Trip to London
Sunday, August 2nd: Return to Ottawa
Monday, August 3rd - Friday, August 8th: Pack for the move
Saturday, August 9th: Trip to Peterborough
Friday, August 15th: Radiohead show in Toronto
Sunday, August 17th: Return to Peterborough
Monday, August 18th: Come back to Ottawa and perform the move
Saturday, August 23rd: Connolley's bachelor party
Wednesday, August 27th: See Wicked at the NAC

And then there's another wedding in early September. And then I go back to work. Of course, a lot of this is hinging on what days in particular my mother has off for holidays, and when my dad will be able to help me out with moving. I'd better get on the horn with the folks tonight.

Yesterday I spent a couple of hours reading Paul Quarrington's Galveston before grabbing pizza with Andrea. Last night I caught Steve's solo project turned band Mud Lake perform at the Bytown Tavern. I was really impressed with the way he was able to put together the outfit in such a short period of time. Sounded good. I bowed out after the second act, Citizen Folk, and headed home.

I'm not feeling very well this morning. The construction, of course, is an added bonus.

I'm back in Ottawa, though I haven't been back to the apartment yet. I dropped my stuff off at Andrea's and we went out to Gloucester to attempt to see The Dark Knight on IMAX. Despite getting there early the show was sold out and was actually selling out for TONIGHT. It's been a while since I've seen a movie garner such popularity. We grabbed tickets for the Thursday night show and went to see WALL-E instead, which I thought was fantastic and heartfelt and dazzling. I should watch more cartoons.

So. Ottawa. I want to keep the momentum going. A part of me is afraid it will dissipate. It will help, I think, to have a new place to myself. Not just a whole room, but two, three, four rooms. When I get bored of writing in one I can move to the other and worry only about the distractions I make for myself. I'm going to surround myself with things that will motivate me - pictures, words. People. I want to surround myself with people who will care about what I have to to say, care enough to want to help me make it better. I want to remember the three words that I heard repeated ad nauseum over the week at Humber: just do it. Write. Write the thing and fuck everything else. If I don't have output I don't have shit. I have to tap the well inside me and let it flow. I'll worry about containing it later. The other day I wrote a thousand words about a weird memory I have kicking around in my head. A flash of an image I saw on television when I was young. One thing led to another and to another and before I knew it I had words, glorious and awful and exciting and boring words, scattered on a page. I need more. I need to need more.

I need to create a schedule for myself that I can adhere to.

Wake up.
Shower.
One hour: write in journal.
Two hours: read.
Two hours: write.
Two hours: play music.
Live.
Sleep.

Something like that. Take seven hours out of each day to make and absorb art. Get things done. Then get them read.

I woke up at about 8 AM yesterday but it wouldn't take and I crashed until 2:30. When I woke up I watched Roman Holiday with Kim and the last two minutes or so were cut from the TiVO recording. That final Gregory Peck/Audrey Hepburn exchange of witticisms is now something I must search out. It's a pretty great film that would probably drive me nuts if it were released today with different actors, but that's Hollywood's golden age for you.

I took some time and started reading Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft by Janet Burroway, the book that Antanas gave me, which also contains some essays and short stories by various writers. I couldn't help but nod at some of the early descriptions of the writing process and the psychology of the writer, put in ways I'd never heard before and read as very apt descriptions of my personality, like this one from Anne Lamott:

What I've learned to do when I sit down to work on a shitty first draft is to quiet the voices in my head...Quieting these voices is at least half the battle I fight daily. But this is better than it used to be. It used to be 87 percent. Left to its own devices, my mind spends much of its time having conversations with people who aren't there. I walk along defending myself to people, or exchanging repartee with them, or rationalizing my behaviour, or seducing them with gossip, or pretending I'm on their TV talk show or whatever. I speed or run an aging yellow light or don't come to a full stop, and one nanosecond later am explaining to imaginary cops exactly why I had to do what I did, or insisting that I did not in fact do it.

It's bits and pieces like that that I wholly identify with. I'm convinced that the "voices" I hear (which aren't really voices, but very vivid memories of emotion) are not schizophrenia but my analytical mind overtaxing itself, pushed along by feelings like guilt, anger, happiness, and sadness. An experience resonates and I play it over and over in my mind and sometimes actually physically cringe or react at the thought of it. But to me, this is what it's like being a writer. It's taking a moment and making it real, bringing it to the present so that I can apply my own narrative to it and calm the voices down. The problem over the last year or so is that I haven't recognized this at all. I should be writing about these thoughts, not thinking about them over and over. Being a writer doesn't just mean that you write; it means that you experience the world in a very unique way, and each writer has his/her own methods of coming to terms with that experience.

I finished Richard Bausch's Peace and read some more of Life of Pi. I went for a walk a bit later in the day. It was raining outside and I was carrying an umbrella with two broken metal arms, listening to Death Cab For Cutie and Coldplay. I walked up High Park to Dundas and turned to walk south down Keele, the old stomping grounds. For awhile my back and leg didn't hurt at all. I walked by the old site of Gwendolyn MacEwen's childhood home and turned back towards Matt and Kim's place. When Matt got home we cracked open a couple of beers, ordered vegetarian pizza and watched Land of the Dead.

I'm heading home tomorrow. I miss Andrea tons.

Last night a zombie menstruated on me, but I'll get to that in a bit.

Joe's group met for the final time yesterday. We went over the final revisions and exercises. There was a kid in the group named Dan who has cerebral palsy and who received some bad news during the class about his friend, who apparently had a serious accident on a construction site. It prompted some discussion about how great Dan is to be doing what he's doing in the condition that he's in. The guy is really decent, a big fan of music, and he writes columns for a local Toronto indie mag called Tambourine (including a rather scathing one about Econoline Crush reforming. Yikes.). My group was solid on the whole. Nice people. And it's been a pleasure to talk with some older people this past week. I don't have a lot of them in my life and their advice has been well taken. I told this woman Sharon yesterday that I worry sometimes about the way I keep starting things over, and she told me to look at it as a continuation instead of a series of brand new decisions. That sounds simple, but it's a pretty damn good point.

I was awarded a photo of Joe and I for my service as an assistant. It looks really nice and I'm going to hang it up in the new place as a reminder of what I've learned and felt this past week. I also found the bravery to make the rounds and had all of my books signed. The authors, of course, were all gracious and encouraging, especially Wayson, who asked me how long I'd been a writer and wrote me some words of encouragement in my copy of All That Matters: "To David, whose words will matter. Love has no rules. Write on!" Very nice. Back at the office I helped out with some agenda packaging and Antanas Sileika, author and artistic director of the Humber writers program, lent me a copy of an expensive book about writing that he swears by and told me I could hang on to it for a couple of months. It's been a solid week and I think I've formed some relationships that will be very beneficial to me as both a writer and a person.

Okay. Menstruating zombies. Kim and I met Matt after work and we went for burritos at Burrito Boyz, a tiny, cramped order-and-go place near Peter and Richmond. It felt nice standing in that restaurant, I Mother Earth and Our Lady Peace playing on the sound system, where all I had was time and the impression that a new memory was forming. We scarfed down our burritos and then changed clothes in a Tim Hortons. For over a week Matt had been hinting at some Friday night activity that I needed old pants for. It turned out that he had purchased tickets to Evil Dead: The Musical, right in the "splatter zone," aka the second of three rows towards the front of the stage that are bathed in fake blood over the course of the production. He picked up cheap, white undershirts for us to wear. The production was a RIOT, especially since we were both so familiar with the films. The second act started up without any real kind of mess, but sure enough things turned into an all-out gore fest once Ash started slaughtering Candarian demons. One of the demons started bleeding out of her vagina in a picture perfect arc onto the crowd, and it hit me for a good five seconds. Blood rained out of the ceiling, it was spit in people's faces and squeezed out of beating hearts and shot out of pulsating neck wounds. Kim took some pictures afterwards and I'll try and get one or two up. We took transit home and I looked like I had a pretty bad head wound with trickles of blood running down my face. It was messy and awesome and must be experienced.

After we got back to the apartment we sat on the balcony and had a couple of beers before bed. I finally have a day off. I'm going to get some writing and reading done and hopefully take a nostalgic stroll up Keele Street.

Yesterday Alistair MacLeod took the lectern and read a short story entitled "As Birds Bring Forth the Sun" that he published over twenty years ago. MacLeod is 72 two years old, yet he reads with the pressure and the awareness of a much younger man who has told a million stories and honed his approach over the years to keep people spellbound. Without taking a single sip of water during the 25 minute reading, he cleared his throat as if sea water bubbled perpetually inside it before moving straight into the rest of a sentence, sentences that he later revealed he wrote longhand and toiled over to get their proper rhythm and momentum and accuracy one after the other without completing a second draft. Later on Joe told me that MacLeod writes at about the rate of one short story every three years, and when he does he holes himself up in a cabin on Cape Breton and writes until it's finished. His stories, if you haven't read them, are about the magic, horror, humility and joy of living on the east coast of Canada where land disappears into oblivion and nature becomes stronger than man could ever comprehend. It was a pleasure to hear him read and to participate in the standing ovation that followed.

Joe sat with me for about a half an hour, offering me a couple of pieces of advice on my work, but in general our conversation focused more on writing - how it works, how it prevents us from working, what should be given greater attention because it's more important. I told him about every thought I've had about writing over the last year and he responded exactly as I'd hoped, trying to allay my fears and anxieties and convince me that I have to cut through all of the bullshit that doesn't matter and focus on the story, get the writing done, get the ideas down, realize that I still look at people with a great interest that is always changing and needs to be explored and captured on paper. Half of my problem has been not hearing that spoken out loud. You write some stories and live for a year with this voice shouting in your head that no one is reading what you write, no one cares about it, that it's all just a game that people play to get their material noticed, and the characters you think about wither and die in your mind because you aren't giving them enough air to grow and become stronger and speak to YOU before they speak to anyone else. How can you write about people if you can't spend any time really getting to know them? I've got this woman in my head that I'm returning to for the first time in months and months and I have no idea who she is, what she looks like, where's she going. I want to write about her, and if I'm going to do that I have to get to know her. That's what I'm going to devote more of my time to over the next little while, even if it's just two hours a day at first.

Joe said that if I ever had something that I thought was finished I could send it along to him for his thoughts. It means so much. The group had an assignment last night to write a four paragraph story that begins with the line, "'Where were you last night?' she asked." I ended up writing a page and a half of stuff about a woman whose glass eye falls into the garbage disposal after she sneezes. It's called "Gesundheit."

Last night Kim and I watched Talk Radio over beers. Matt came home and we stayed up until 1:30 or so chatting. Today is the last day of workshop and the last day of my tenure as an assistant.

David,

You are a very accomplished writer, and these linked stories, especially the first one, are dazzling. They are sensitive, often lyrical (but never overly), and together they begin to paint a portrait of a wonderful, magnetic woman. Sometimes I think you forget your place, especially in the third installment here (because the boy, albeit an old soul, speaks a language unsuited to him). But you have a great book going here. We'll talk. Bravo.

Joe Kertes

I had pieces of my novel given the once over yesterday and received some healthy feedback. Most importantly, perhaps, I received suggestions for a lot of reading material. In addition to picking up titles by various authors involved with the workshops, I placed an order at Amazon for a bunch of books that should arrive next week.

I made revisions last night to the entire thing and I think it sounds a lot better. I'm meeting with Joe today for a half hour. Yesterday I asked for advice about writing consistently, and he said to just do it, to carve out time during the day for writing, reading and living. I realized that I really have no excuse not to do this. Once I work into a routine, I'll get to the point where it feels natural, kind of like writing in this blog. Joe also mentioned that after awhile, your characters will begin to take on a life of their own, and it's as if they start talking to you and making demands on the kind of people they are and the decisions they'd make. It all sounds great.

I went on my own for lunch to do some editing because I knew I'd be working on revisions in the evening. Olive Senior, Bruce Jay Friedman and Paul Quarrington gave talks in the afternoon, the latter two about writing for television and film. I asked Paul about his thoughts on Bill C-10. I doubt there was a person sitting in the room who supported it, but it was nice to hear it reaffirmed that it's bullshit (removing tax credits for films that are deemed "inoffensive" by the Heritage Minister).

I'd really like to make the rounds for autographs, but I'm intimidated as all hell to do so, especially when I think about approaching guys like Bausch, who seems like a grizzly bear you don't want to provoke. It's actually just kind of nice to hang out with these people and view them in their natural social environment. Too many animal comparisons. Alistair MacLeod, the man, is giving a reading today. These next couple of days should be quick.

I feel a bit bad because Matt has been working an insane amount this week, and now it looks like he'll be working through the weekend. We won't get to spend much time together. More than anything I hate to see the guy wear himself out.

I showed up to class about 15 minutes early. Joe mentioned that he read my material and said that I was a terrific writer, though my stuff isn't flawless. Nice praise. My piece is being looked at today, and I'm ready to hear about it. Though I've always found writers workshops a bad idea, I'm beginning to see what really justifies their existence: people actually READ what you're writing. They ENGAGE with your ideas rather than simply telling you that what you're writing is "good" or being impressed that you can write a story when it really isn't something they'd be interested in.

Lisa Moore talked yesterday about writing groups and I was jealous of her words. I've known writers and never experienced what she was talking about - people taking each other to task, being relentless, helping each other, never being competitive, and always prepared to take the wind out of a colleague's sails. She told a fantastic story about how Michael Winter wrote her a fake acceptance letter that gave her backhanded praise when she was waiting in the wings to hear from a publishing house. I'm becoming aware once again that I have to TRAIN myself to read, to pick up a person's book or story, get through it, acknowledge how it makes me feel and tell them. I've believed in the importance of this since University but I needed to be told. I needed to hear it, not say it. I needed it to be reinforced. I needed a writer to tell me the truth.

I had lunch with a woman named Stacey who has travelled around and worked in different countries and makes it sound easy. We exchanged great words about how getting older means you care less and less about being introverted and socially awkward and are perfectly willing to sit and listen. I have had that nervous feeling in my belly a few times this week because I essentially know no one at the college except for Kim, but each day has been a fantastic experience because I've grabbed food and sat down at a table and talked to people. It's so refreshingly easy.

Reps from ECW and Anansi came in to speak about smaller presses. Karen Connelly gave a talk on poetry, the power of words and literature she was currently enjoying. Afterwards Kim and I picked up some groceries and watched a documentary on wild mustangs still roaming the mountain foothills of BC. Matt came home with a copy of Wonder Boys, which was a movie I HAD to see this week for the 900th time.

Three more days.

I'm tired this morning. As fulfilling as the days are, they're pretty long. I find myself having to edit a couple of stories each night while also working on stuff of my own. Last night I had to write a pitch for my novel and came up just shy of 300 words, which is probably too short, but I've never really had to write anything of the sort before.

Yesterday was the first workshop class, and it went pretty much as expected. One of the writers handed out maple syrup. Joe talked about writing and made some great points. We got into the pieces and kicked some ideas around. I thought I might have offended one of the writers by making a general point about the importance of grammar and punctuation. After I said it she went on the defensive a bit, saying she's been an editor for 15 years and that it's just a first draft. But really. Come on. If you're an editor, write like one. Put the periods and commas in the right place. It's important. I get that people make typos, and I know that a few will pop up in mine, but the mistakes were pretty damned rampant, and if you're bringing a piece to a writer's workshop it should probably look a hell of a lot better. Rant over.

I had lunch with this woman named Susan from our group, who is in her early 70's and is a child survivor of the Holocaust. Really interesting lady. She gave me some sage advice about life, stuff I don't usually get a lot of. After lunch I saw talks given by Canadian agent Anne McDermid, and writers Janice Kulyk Keefer and Wayson Choy. Wayson told a story about how a girl in his class one year wrote a story about a young girl who was a victim of sexual abuse from the victim's perspective. He suggested she try writing it from the perpetrator's viewpoint, and once she did, she was no longer that interested in writing because the act had cleansed the baggage she was carrying with her. Kim confirmed later that a lot of people who enter the workshop are people looking for therapy rather than to be published. I think that's one of the most important things I've heard about writing so far. To be published is one thing, but some people really have a strong NEED to do it, even if it means they won't be doing it forever. Another piece of advice: writer's block occurs when the same old tool isn't able to handle the job of moving forward - if you use only a hammer for the rest of your life, you'll treat every problem like a nail.

Matt came home with Thai food and we watched Hitchcock's To Catch a Thief. My leg has been bothering me a bit more than my back lately. No time to worry about that now.

Yesterday was pretty intense. Long story short, I'm actually IN the class I'm assisting now. Joe told me that a student dropped out and asked if I had any material I might want to workshop, and I said that I might, so I'm bringing in pages from the book I attempted to write for NaNoWriMo back in 2006. I haven't looked at that story in months. I read through it last night and didn't recall writing most of it, powering through coffee and tuna sandwiches at the Elgin Street Diner. In a lot of ways that worked tapped me of output. It's the longest piece of writing I've ever produced, it's unfinished, and now it's suddenly back in my life.

To top it off, I have to read through two 15-page manuscripts a night and make notes for the other students. Midway through the week I have to take the comments on my work and apply them to a rewrite to workshop at the end of the week. It's going to be a much busier time than I thought it would, but I'm suddenly in quite the place of privilege.

Yesterday I watched talks delivered by professional editors on the kind of work that gets published and marketed in Canada (read: next to nothing). The group also heard from a very engaging Richard Scrimger on finding your inner child when you're writing as well as Richard Bausch, who I'd ask to sign my book if he didn't intimidate the fuck out of me. He offered ten commandments for being a writer, the last of which demanded that the first nine be ignored if they interfere with the process.

I met Paul Quarrington, who seemed very funny, and told him that I loved Whale Music. I've been talking with some really interesting people about writing. Well, listening, mostly. I've picking up some helpful advice and I'm starting to believe that this dry spell I'm going through is far more common than I thought. It will be interesting to see what else comes from the classes this week.

Matt, Kim and I ordered pizza and watched 24 Hour Party People. I stayed up until 1 AM fretting.

Yesterday I had lunch with Wayson Choy. He introduced himself and I shook his hand. It was a very high school cafeteria-esque setting for the lunch break on the first day of the week. I've never read any of Choy's books, so I didn't have much to say to him, but he seemed nice and thought the chicken was too salty.

Other writers popping up this week: Paul Quarrington, Lisa Moore, Alistair MacLeod. Yesterday I saw M.G. Vassanji give a talk on being a writer as well as some other folks that have come out of the program and had their works published. There was also a joint talk between the writer I'm assisting, Joseph Kertes, and his agent. I'm going to be grateful for these insights. I've missed hearing people talk about the craft. Shari Lapena divulged that she writes on a schedule of 1000 words a day, while Anthony De Sa bluffed his way into getting a manuscript written and accepted in three weeks. Ian Colford said that he was only successful in getting a novel published once he wrote the one he wanted to write, rather than the one he thought editors might want to see. The message I'm constantly receiving is that the quality of any writing is entirely subjective. As a result, writers fail pretty consistently at getting their work out. And successes can take one by complete surprise.

I had a conversation with a teacher of philosophy at Humber about reading and writing. She asked me what I did. I told her I was in between figuring things out.

Kim and I are going to be on pretty similar schedules, and I think I'll probably end up seeing more of her than Matt. Last night I went grocery shopping for junk. Adam came over and we played Gears of War for the XBox while Kim and Matt attended a dinner for the authors and staff at Humber.

I just woke up after spending my first night in Toronto. Matt and Kim have me put up in their "den" on an inflatable mattress, enforcing the reality that I will never again sleep in an actual bed in Toronto. This morning is my first at Humber and I should be leaving fairly soon. I really don't know what to expect. As far as I could gather from Kim, I'll be spending the mornings this week helping out with a writer's workshop (aka being the writer's lackey) and then I'll have the option to attend afternoon seminars. We'll see how it goes.

The trip yesterday was okay, though the air conditioning on the bus wasn't operating, and we had to switch buses once we reached Peterborough. My back hasn't enjoyed lugging a suitcase around. Once I got a bit settled the three of us went for dinner at Mackenzie's and rented Be Kind Rewind, which is quite honestly one of the most bizarre films I've ever seen. I don't know that I can recommend it, but it certainly works on the level of exhibiting a genuine love for movies and filmmaking.

On the way back from the restaurant we found a box full of board games on the side of the road. I grabbed Cranium and Matt grabbed Balderdash.

The writer's workshop I'm helping out with is being led by a man named Richard Bausch, whom I've never read. I went to Chapters yesterday and picked up his latest book, Peace, and I'm planning to read it on the trip down. It's set against the Second World War, and I typically really enjoy books and films that comment on that time period.

I stopped by Shoppers and bought a heating bag for my back. I used it a couple of times yesterday, along with a freezing bag. If it doesn't get fully better I'm going to see a chiropractor. It's not too bad right now, but even sitting here typing is uncomfortable, and I walk with a slight limp on my left side.

I slept a lot at Andrea's yesterday. Her room feels like the most comfortable place on earth, especially with her in it. I'm going to miss her for the next week or so. I am looking forward to seeing Matt, though. He's a guy I need to talk to every now and again. Now more than ever, probably.

I'm feeling more decentered now than I thought I would after moving back to Ottawa. I thought I'd have a clearer picture of where I wanted to go and what I wanted to do, but it's more jumbled than ever. I think I'm just in the process of finally convincing myself that I'm the kind of person that doesn't need to be in any one place to be happy. That's the kind of person I've always wanted to be. I want to experience everything life has to offer. Right now it's a week-long job in a different city. Next it will be having my very own apartment for the first time. After that, who knows? I'm going to admit this to myself right here and now: I'm probably not going to stay in Ottawa. I'm not looking for a place I can call home and be done with it. I'm looking to expand my definition of the word and apply it to something bigger.

Construction started at 8 AM this morning, so I came over to Andrea's to finish sleeping. Ash said that the work is going to continue into October. August can't come soon enough.

I've been feeling very tired lately, probably because I've been so used to staying in one position. Tomorrow I'm heading to Toronto for a week or so for that job at Humber. I hope my back can take it. I'm looking forward to it, anyway. Should shake things up a bit. Plus it will kill time.

I got back into Reason last night and had a closer look at automation. On my way to Andrea's this morning I picked up another paycheque at Publications. Should be one more coming.

Gonna murder me some construction workers.

I spent yesterday at Andrea sleeping and eating pie and ice cream. We lazed around in her bed watching Blades of Glory and St. Elmo's Fire. Days can't get much more perfect.

I'm starting to wish that the balcony construction workers would meet with some sort of "accident."

On the subject of apartments, I spent some time at Andrea's yesterday. Her room reminds me of the room she had on Lees and I want to barricade myself inside it for a week and not leave because her bed is so comfortable and I feel so secure there among her stuffed animals.

My back pain has localized to an annoying charlie-horse type pain in the back of my left leg. I can move around pretty freely if I don't think about it too much. I just have to keep stretching the area and not allow it to force me into walking funny.

I'm not having the greatest morning. Between the balcony construction, the off chance that someone JUST started using the dryer at 9:45 AM on a Tuesday and the fact that I want to be out of here by 1 PM so that the landlord can subject the apartment to "inspection," I want to burn this place to the ground. I think some meditation is in order.

No more posts like yesterday. It was just anger that should probably have been directed elsewhere. A lot of the time I feel as though I already know the answers to the questions I'm constantly asking myself. I can't help thinking that this is a really significant time in my life, that decisions I make now are going to affect the kind of life I have for the foreseeable future. It's exciting and scary and infuriating and kind of disappointing all at once, but I'll get used to it.

I walked to Tim Hortons yesterday, about a 40 minute walk in total. It was the time of day when the setting sun turns everything gold and Appels + Oranjes by the Smashing Pumpkins sounds too true for words. I'm heading over to Andrea's now.

Started reading Life of Pi by Yann Martel. So far it's not what I was expecting, but I really do dig his style.

I shut down capitalsyn.com. I'm going to see the repercussions in little ways, because I've been storing images and such on that server. I managed to grab everything from the site and put it on my laptop, so it's there if I need it for anything.

I've been able to do things by myself over the last couple of days - dressing, showering, dishes. My goal is to actually get on a bus and go somewhere tomorrow. I need to get over to Andrea's. I hate to think that she's over there working all by herself.

I'm trying really, really hard to not feel sorry for myself, but I think not being able to go anywhere has made it difficult. Why in the world haven't any of my close friends asked me how I'm doing? Seriously? I get laid up for a week and nothing? What the hell is wrong with that picture? I'd like to think I'm pretty diplomatic and understanding over matters like this, but I just can't figure it. Is it because most people don't know? I haven't raised a big enough stink?

And look at Andrea. She had to move in this weekend with zero help. Nobody offered to lend a hand. She's having the most stressful weekend of her life and nobody seems to care. Where is the lapse? Did she ask for help too late? Is she choosing the wrong mode of communication?

When it comes down to it, I don't have day-to-day relationships with most people. Other than Andrea, I don't have a close friend who's more or less aware of how I'm doing. Is this the case with everyone? If you suffered an injury, who would be there by your side to help you out? Are you confident in what you consider your good friendships? Am I being totally unfair?

I had a bit of a spotty time getting out of bed, but I still think I'm getting better. I'm going to try exercising the muscles in my lower back today with stretches. I made it outside for a walk down the block and back yesterday. It was nice to get out of the recycled air of the apartment.

Maintenance workers removed the railing of the balcony and it looks dangerous out there. At the same time, the view has never been better.

Andrea's hard at work on getting her new place in shape. Her uncle is coming up and helping her move the bigger furniture in. I'm sure she can't wait until it's over and done with. I just wish I could be of some help.

Today is my mom's birthday. Must be a good son and call, though I don't really want to tell her I messed up my back.

Back still hurts. Yesterday I caught a trio of classic Canadian shows on TV: Danger Bay, The Beachcombers and King of Kensington (which featured a cameo from John Candy). I had a long conversation with Ash and later Andrea about this and that - people, places, plans. I'd like to think that this incident is going to mark some kind of turning point for me. I'll certainly never look at walking straight the same way again.

I received some more information about helping out with the writers' workshop in Toronto. I'm scheduled to leave in a week. It's my strongest motivation to get better. I'm certainly glad this didn't happen while the Senate was still in session. There's no way I would have been able to make it into work.

Andrea is moving the big stuff into her new apartment tomorrow. I wish I could be more of a help. I haven't even been outside since the hospital trip a few days ago. Hopefully I can give it a shot when she comes over later today. I need to get some exercise if my back is going to be strong enough to support me. Painkillers is one thing, but I don't want to turn into jelly.

I've been reading Joan Didion's The White Album, a collection of essays that typically uses 1960's California as its muse. I don't always have a clear idea as to what she's referring but I do like her attraction to how things like highways and aqueducts and shopping malls actually work. She travels extensively, exploring the world of Marquez' One Hundred Years of Solitude, quoting the first line of that text, one of the greatest of all time:

"Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice."

The White Album opens with a line that may be as great:

"We tell ourselves stories in order to survive."

There is something of great importance here in which I am trying to instill belief.

Things are progessing slowly but surely. Last night I was able to make myself dinner and actually get into bed from a standing position. Today I'm going without a table by my side for easy access. I need to get up and move around periodically because the longer I stay in one position the harder it is to get out of it.

Andrea's cousin Amanda, who's been up for Canada Day, crashed on the couch the last couple of nights. Yesterday we watched Star Wars Episodes III and IV on Spike. I'm home alone right now waiting for Andrea to get back from her new apartment. She's getting her cable hooked up today.

I'm going to try to shower on my own later today. Tomorrow I might try going ouside for a bit. Baby steps.

I have rest of my Percocet prescription - 34 pills in total, which will see me through the next six days. It's still very painful to walk, but I haven't had a spasm yet today.

Andrea showed up at around 2:30 AM last night and crashed. Her cousin slept on the couch. We were rudely awakened several times by the balcony workers. I really hope they're almost finished out there.

Not much else going on. I'm sitting on the couch. Should be here for awhile. Yep.

I threw my back out helping Andrea move yesterday. It serves me right. I've had a sore back for months and it was pretty much the last straw. I hobbled home afterwards and tried to rest it, but it got worse to the point where I was suffering spasms that would send me to the floor in pain. It's seriously been the most painful thing I've ever experienced.

Some folks came over last night to hang out and we watched Batman Returns. I could barely make it to the washroom on two occasions. When I tried to get to bed I collapsed again and had to physically pull myself up into bed from the floor. When I woke up this morning I tried standing up but it wasn't happening. Ash called a nurse and she told me to head to emergency. I couldn't make it down the stairs, so Ash called an ambulance and the paramedics loaded me up.

It's been a day of firsts. I've never taken an ambulance to the hospital before. Not in the back, anyway. The paramedic asked me a few questions. I'd taken painkillers including a Tylenol 3 and they'd had no effect. Once at the hospital I was eventually loaded into a room. First time in a hospital bed. The doctor checked me out. More questions. The bottom line, I pulled a muscle and the tension is causing the spasms. She prescribed me Percocet. I took two at the hospital and in half an hour I was able to get up and walk around. I got into a wheelchair to wheel out and wait for Ian to pick us up. First time in a wheelchair! On the way back we picked up part of the prescription. The pharmacy is waiting for confirmation from the hospital to issue the rest.

I must say that Ash and Ian have been super people since I hurt myself. They've been getting me things, helping me out with the hospital trip, just generally making sure I'm okay. Ash stayed with me at the hospital and brought my stuff. They made me dinner. I told Ash earlier that I sometimes think about what would happen to me if I found myself in a situation where I'm left kind of helpless. I wonder who I can count on in such situations. I really appreciated their support.

The doctor said I should be okay in five to six days at the most. No partying for me tonight. But hey, Andrea's coming over later. I couldn't ask for a better Canada Day.