And Another Thing

Reprinted from Rhonda Parrish's blog series And Another Thing: More about Candas Jane Dorsey each Friday in May related to the release of Prairie Starport: A Story Collection in Celebration of Candas Jane Dorsey

Candas as Role Model

By Robert Runté

I confess when I was younger, I found Candas a somewhat intimidating figure.

She was, after all, courageously following her bliss to live the life of a writer; whereas I had cowardly chosen employment for which one might actually get paid. I greatly envied her freedom and personal fulfilment, as I toiled 9 to 5 in my government job.

I was astonished by her ability to sit down and write without angst, to produce in twenty minutes a document that would have taken me all day, had I been able to manage the task at all. She was and remains a model of efficiency and effective writing, concise and on target in every instance.

I greatly admired her intuitive leadership skills, among which was the ability to move others to action: anyone who fell into her orbit was likely to discover they had somehow volunteered to sit on Boards, or to organize readings, or to make cold calls for some cause, or to otherwise be doing things they would not, in the normal course of events, have thought of doing.

I was somewhat overawed at her weekly salons in which the artistic elite of Edmonton, and frequently the literary greats from beyond, would sit around her living room debating the nature of writing, the cost of tomatoes, and similar eternal verities. It was sobering to discover that writers were real, that there were more of them about than one would have imagined, and that one did not have to travel to Toronto or New York to meet them.

And, being somewhat socially awkward, I was frequently thankful for her frank advice on a variety of topics concerning how one should move through the world, such as pointing out on one memorable occasion, that my attempts not to disrupt the proceedings had been far more disruptive than the initial disruption.

So.

It is possible that on occasion I allowed my better judgement to be overwhelmed by Candas’ unassuming charisma.

I recall one afternoon attending at her house and, having no response to the doorbell, took the initiative of going round the back to intrude upon the privacy of her garden. I found her sitting next the flower bed examining a bloom with flat, but colorful petals.

“Here, eat this,” Candas said, handing me the flower.

Internally, I dithered. On the one hand, this was well before my culinary horizons had expanded much beyond burgers, and food prejudices being among the most strongly held, I did not wish to eat a flower. On the other hand, I did not wish to appear unsophisticated, and I considered carefully that there was no logical reason not to eat the offering. After all, Candas was hardly going to hand me a dangerous herb or one which she did not routinely consume herself. As in so many other cases, I should follow her lead to experience new things and benefit from our fellowship. And, knowing Candas’ powers of persuasion, I recognized that I was going to eat the flower in the end, and the only real question was whether I would do so after my usual whimpering hesitation, or man up and eat the damn thing as if that were a perfectly natural thing to do.

I stuffed it in my mouth and chewed, hopefully before my hesitation was detected.

Candas watched me carefully. I refused to allow any of my consternation to show on my face.

“Well?” Candas asked.

“What kind of flower was it?” I inquired, once I had swallowed.

She named the variety, though in truth the knowing of it made me none the wiser.

“So?” Candas asked. “What does it taste like?”

“What?”

“Well, I’ve always wondered what they tasted like, but I could never quite bring myself to eat one.”

“What!”

“Would you describe the flavour as ‘delicate’? It’s for a scene I’m writing.”

I like to believe that this was an important turning point in my maturity. As with so many other occasions, Candas had introduced me to an important concept, in this case something about not giving into peer pressure, especially when the pressure was entirely in my own head.

Candas, of course, has always been mystified by any suggestion she is intimidating. She considers herself perfectly normal. Which, considering her accomplishments, is a pretty intimidating standard against which to be held.

 

Robot Surgery

I can't say I was particularly pumped when doctor told me I needed major surgery—until he said, "Oh, and the surgery will be done by robot..."

"Wow! That's great! Woohoo!" I exclaimed. Because as a science fiction editor/writer/fan, I've waited my whole life to be operated on by robots, you know? Because I didn't get the flying cars and I didn't get weather control, so the least I feel I'm owed is a bit of Beverly-Crusher-level medical care.

The doctor was clearly taken aback. "Usually I have to reassure people when I mention about the robot."

When I explained to him—and subsequently, the actual surgeon and his team—about my SF background, they are amused and relieved because, really, that is one hell of a scary-looking robot.

The above photo doesn't really do it justice: I looked around online but couldn't seem to find a good photo of what I actually saw in the operating room, though I have to concede that the thing might have loomed somewhat larger seen from the perspective of lying underneath it on a gurney. From my perspective the thing appeared to be a giant spider-shaped dome with eight legs ending in Edward Scissor hands that took up half the operating theatre. Viewing images later on-line, I am forced to the conclusion that I was interpreting two separate pieces as one--the tentacled-robot pictured above, and the remote control dome. So maybe not quite as intimidating/impressive as my initial impression...but still!

the DeVinci Robot...when I first saw it, the front of the dome (far right, facing the wall) was pushed up in front of the arms (on the left) to give the impression of a single wickedly intimidating robot invader from very bad scifi movie ever...

Having actually had the surgery, I have to attest that I was stunned how little pain I was in. The surgery was 7:30AM to 11:00AM on a Monday, I was up in my hospital room by about 4PM and out the door Tuesday at 4:00 PM. I had proper pain meds in the hospital, and a prescription against need for the next few days, but I was down to Tylenol and Advil within a day or three, which given I had seven new holes in me, a couple of which were several inches long, and was now missing a major chunk of my insides, is pretty astounding. I had anticipated being in severe pain for weeks, but as long as I am reasonably cautious about following the guidelines given on not picking anything up or moving stupidly, I'm just 'sore'. I contrast this to my previous medical procedure, about which my then surgeon had predicted that I 'may experience some mild discomfort', which had left me weeping and wailing in bed for weeks. My family frequently refers to that period to contrast with my wife's, shall we say, more stoic acceptance of pain, so I had always assumed my pain tolerance lower than most. So it was with considerable relief that the pain remained (knock on wood, and with the possible exception of coughing) entirely manageable.

Which is not to say I am recovered. I am still tremendously weak, tire immediately, and sleep most of the day. Walking downstairs to the kitchen remains a significant expedition, and this Facebook post looks to be the major accomplishment of the day, so I believe it when they say I won't be back at work for another five weeks. I am also dreading the follow-up appointment to extract the various tubes still sticking out of me which I am told 'may involve some mild discomfort'. But I've got to say, compared to regular surgery, the robot stuff is to be highly recommended.

And, yes, for the record I know that having a talented surgeon and team of doctors is the key here, and that the actual phrase is 'robot-assisted surgery'. The doctor who referred me to the surgeon and his team said he was the best in the country, and various nurses I met along the way confirmed I was lucky to get him, so credit where credit is due. But given the option, I highly recommend the minimally invasive robot version of the surgery.

The Zen of Comedy

A few years ago I wrote about the Zen of Comedy for Broken Pencil magazine. They had kept the essay up on their website for a very long time, so whenever I wanted to explain the concept to someone new, I would simply point them to that article. Eventually BP took the essay down to make room for more recent articles, and about that time, author Nate Hendley asked to do an interview with me as part of the promotion for his book, Motivate to Create A Guide for Writers and Other Artistic Creators and I covered the same basic concept there. That interview included a few other topics, however, so I am reprinting just the Zen of Comedy principle here in this abridged version:

Interviewed by Nate Hendley

What motivates you to write? Is it the promise of money, fame, power, recognition, self-fulfillment or something else?

I’d have to say that in my case, it’s “something else”.

...

In terms of my own writing, my motivation can be largely summed up as the Zen of Comedy: The principle that nothing so bad can happen to one that it can’t later be turned into a funny anecdote. As a writer, everything that happens to me becomes fodder for my writing. Even the most mundane visit to the dentist or annoying encounter with a bureaucratic clerk can be magically transmuted (thanks to judicious editing) into heroic journeys, righteous battles, and gleeful victories, the better to entertain my readers. Consequently, whereas others often seem to go through life as mere sleepwalkers, the writer remains sharply attuned to his/her environment, ever alert to the detail of plot and character, the possibilities of imagery and metaphor, as we seek to turn our lives into life stories. In imposing a narrative structure on our lives, we heighten our attention to foreshadowing and significance, and in so doing, are often able to anticipate decisions and to find meaning in situations that others may experience as unexpected or soul-destroying. Just as a reader I can almost always see that next plot twist coming, as I write my life, a lot of things become clearer than might otherwise have been the case.

Second, knowing that whatever happens I’m going to get a good story out of it often helps to place my current difficulties into perspective. I learned this principle from Karl Johanson, the editor of Neo-opsis magazine. Listening to his hilarious account of traveling through the mountains to attend the convention where I first met him, I interrupted to ask him why his misadventures hadn’t led him to turn back. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “Even as I watched our van roll down the hill and over the cliff, I knew it would make a great story, and I’d be able to come here and keep you lot in stitches for an hour. And nobody was hurt, so what the hell? And when you stop to think about it, the way it happened, it really was very funny!”

That’s the point, of course. As a writer, one always does stop to think about it, to see the humour in any situation, more or less as it is happening. Karl is one of the most laid back and together people I know, and I can’t help thinking that this is due at least in part to his also being one of the best satirists publishing today. Ever since meeting Karl, I’ve realized that the bastards could never get me down again, because as a humorist, sweet revenge is always but a pen stroke away.

Third, in editing one’s autobiography one is in large measure editing one’s real life. This is hard to explain to someone who isn’t a humorist, but the thing of it is, once one has written up some troublesome incident as an amusing anecdote, there is a strong tendency to remember the anecdote rather than the actual incident. Remember that boring job that sucked the life out of you for the eighteen months you stood it? Out of that whole period there were maybe two funny things that happened—but if those were the two incidents you wrote up in your novel, ten years from now, that’s what you’d remember about that job. And since one is one’s memories, one can effectively edit one’s life to make it way better than it actually was.

Thus, as a writer I’m able to find meaning in the meaningless day-to-day trivia of modern life; can adopt the stance of ironic observer where others would cast themselves as victim; and instead of the alienation that has become the norm in our society, I am afforded a Zen-like detachment.

And all that comes out of the act of writing itself. With the subsequent publication and distribution of my essays to an audience, I collect the added bonus of being able to create a community of readers and correspondents. Who doesn’t feel better about their life when given a sympathetic ear? As a zine publisher, I had a ready-made audience, a veritable convention of barmen to listen patiently and perhaps offer the occasional “Got that right, buddy!” As five or 10 or 50 of my readers responded with relevant anecdotes of their own, and as I excerpted the best of these for publication in the next issue of my zine, we together created the community, identity, and meaning that might otherwise have been lacking in our everyday lives.

I suppose that could be mistaken for seeking fame or reputation, but I was writing for a relatively small readership, so it’s really not the same. It’s not so much seeking fame, of wanting to be a household name, as of just having an audience. I think everyone needs an audience, someone who is interested in what they have to say, even if it’s only their dog. Otherwise, what’s the point of getting up in the morning if no one notices you’re there? Having a loyal readership goes a long way to filling that need.

(Nate Hendley is the Toronto-based author of Motivate to Create: A Guide for Writers and authors. He has also written numerous other books, primarily in the true-crime genre.)