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Jan 1, 2022Liked by Alison Acheson

Questioning fences

I love how your prompt, got my mind working and got me out of bed kind of early on a New Year’s Day!

Fences about my writing – what are they? Where do I set my edges? I have never thought of this.

I relate this more to painting – I have a certain style: tiny brush, realism, landscapes, no bodies!

This past summer I tried to branch out: big brush only, plein air, abstract, bodies…I am trying to copy a Modigliani body – just to see if I can do it!

I moved the fence! I think I do like the security of some fence, so I can’t quite take it out completely. Or maybe I can eventually? Or maybe there is a style to copy to see if I can do it? Maybe for me, it goes in steps. It was wonderful and freeing to paint en plein air, where you are actually surrounded by the art you are painting – it was wonderfully fresh! It really brought me into the creative moment.

How to translate that to writing? Would I have to know my style? Do I have a style? I would guess my style is somewhat reflective with feeling. It probably translates to small brush moments. And it’s realism mostly, I think. Those are my fences.

How would I move my fences with writing then? Try less feeling, more broad strokes – for example maybe choosing actions over emotions? Maybe looking at fantasy over reality? An action packed dream perhaps? Trying to copy a certain style just to try it on? Writing in a different room in the house – or maybe a different location altogether?

Fences, boundaries, edges…all made to be pushed? Broken? Thank you for this ‘New Year’ insight!

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Jan 2, 2022·edited Jan 2, 2022Liked by Alison Acheson

I named "fences" for my YA book called "The Rat Snake of Baekjae:"

2010; Seoul and Gyeongju, Korea; the life of a 13-year-old girl with a shaman mother and a grandmother with dementia; having trouble making friends at school; meets a snake that comes from Baekjae Dynasty (615 AD) that reveals her ancestry's secret; the story will focus on the main character's growth and less on the historical, fantastical background (ex. shamanism, transformation, and magical instruments).

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Jan 2, 2022Liked by Alison Acheson

I was reminded while I read this of an article in Harper's Magazine in which Terry Gilliam was quoted as saying, “Nothing sets you (or at least me) free creatively like having a set of limitations to explore." Which is to say, you certainly are in good company! I myself have consciously erected "fences'' before sitting down to write every one of my books and have ultimately always found them to be extremely liberating, even if at the outset of any given project they generally seem quite the opposite. This was especially true of my third novel, A Desolate Splendor. Inspired by Cormac McCarthy's Outer Dark (in particular), I determined that I would only allow myself to write the character's actions and dialogue (supplemented by descriptions of the setting for each individual scene) without any interior monologue/exposition at all. Initially it felt like a stone around my neck but as I progressed I began to see that without the means of just telling my readers something about the character, my characters were forced to reveal themselves to the other characters (and to the readers) in their "own" words. As a result, the book became more and more about how the stories we tell ourselves influence our perception of the world and this "revelation" continues to send ripples throughout all of my fiction. In my most recent, Mason's Jar, I decided that I'd limit my characters to actual people I met while living in North Bay for two years - the only exceptions being the titular Mason Lowry and his wife Helene, who I'd already conceived before we'd relocated - an idea suggested to me by my neighbour Ron who opined one time over beers that him and his housemate Dale would make great characters for a book. I heartily agreed and when I started thinking more about the project, which is set in North Bay and the surrounding areas, I began to realize I'd already met plenty of people to fully populate the book. I ended up including sixteen “real” people and it just so happens that because of this "fence" Mason's Jar would become the easiest book I've ever written and I’ve also never felt a deeper connection with any of my casts of characters (knowing that Ron & Dale would be reading it also raised the stakes for me, which generated a sense of urgency everytime I wrote one of their scenes, and that certainly didn't hurt either).

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I love with your definition of 'fences'. I have spoken often on my podcast about the usefulness of having constraints around our creative work. Too much freedom quickly devolves into lack of enquiry.

My current project (SneakyArt of Vancouver) has a couple of important fences -

1. Word count - I want it to be *tight*. Almost as tight as poetry. Not a single, frivolous word.

2. I want it to channel my emotions and feelings around being in this part of the world. For that, I need to tap into my thoughts and stay connected with them as I write.

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author

Maddie, a subscriber, has sent along the following story, written as a result of the prompt!

The paradox of fences

by Maddie

It was a moment like a dream, the coyote’s face was only one metre away appearing out of the bush and mist and looking straight at us, silently. Groucho was startled, too. He immediately put his body between me and the coyote and started to bark. He was never on leash on these mountain walks. He was well trained; a gentle giant who responded well to my silent hand signals and verbal commands. He was eleven years old and for a bernese-mountain-dog-border-collie-mix he was considered a fairly old fellow. He could no longer get in the truck without a ramp and on these walks we both loved, he limped slightly and took hours to recover. But today, seeing that coyote on a path we both considered ours, he left me in hot pursuit. I could hear him barking in the distance, but I couldn’t see him. For once he didn’t respond to my calls and commands. I knew he could find his way home, so after some time, I left as I had to get to work. Sure enough, by the time I was ready for work he came home barking just outside of the electronic fence that usually kept him in the acreage, but this time, it kept him out. I took off his collar, walked him inside our rural property, made sure he was safe and comfortable and went to work. 

I thought about Groucho all day and our close wild encounters on that path: like the time he saw the bear first and silently made me turn around down the mountain, it felt like we tip-toed down silently, both of us in a sort of giddy mood;  or the time he flushed out a startled porcupine who ran fast across our path and up the nearest tree. I didn’t know porcupines could scale trees as fast as that. Ever since that encounter I called that path porcupine hill. 

I loved that dog. I loved his smell, and the way he wrapped his paw around my ankle to get me to go in the direction he wanted. I loved how he waited until he thought I was asleep to get onto the old couch in the porch room thinking it was his guilty pleasure and secret. And most of all, I loved how he would nuzzle into me in greeting.

The day I brought him home, a free puppy at a country farmers market, one of 11 puppies in a litter— an impulsive, instant tug of love— my husband flew into a rage. How dare I get a dog without consulting him? His rage was out of proportion, and I didn’t understand it until two weeks later when he left our home for hers leaving me and the children bewildered and mourning. 

Groucho was always my dog and seemed to know in the beginning-time I needed his companionship. He was beside me always, it seemed, and when he wasn’t, he was waiting for my return. After my husband left, the children and I went to Japan for six months. We started over as a family; now just my two sons and me. While we were gone a friend moved into our house and took care of the farm and Groucho. Apparently he waited outside every day by the driveway when he wasn’t chasing the stellar jays away from the trees. My friend was sure he was waiting for us. 

I worried about Groucho all that day. He was too old to chase after coyotes. He had free range on our 8-acre farm. An electric fence kept him on the property so he wouldn’t disturb the neighbour’s sheep or prized stallions. Where we lived, a loose dog would get shot without hesitation, but that was never a problem as Groucho was easy to boundary train.

 I drove home about dinner time on one of those west coast late afternoons as dark as night and slick with rain. I turned into my driveway and heard a sickening thump... it was Groucho. I hit him with my car. He never slept or waited directly on the driveway, although he often lay down nearby. But today he was in the middle of the driveway, a black dog on the blacktop. Our driveway was long and winding, my nearest neighbour about half a city block away. I guess I screamed so loudly that my neighbour came running. We loaded Groucho into the truck and drove to the other neighbour, a veterinarian,  about 600 metres away. The vet came out of the examining room and said that Groucho was an old dog, and his back was badly injured. I should say goodbye. Oh my. Oh my. Goodbye. Goodbye.

I wondered if the electric fence was a bad idea, it gave him years of freedom to chase birds, squirrels, voles, the odd fox, and play with his best friend—our 30-pound Russian-blue cat, but it meant that he had the freedom to be in the wrong place that night. I thought about the paradox of fences, how they set boundaries, and  how sometimes within that boundary, we have freedom of movement and relative safety. And yet, that night, it meant saying goodbye to an old friend who died perhaps, because of that fence. But ultimately, I know he died because of me.

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Jan 7, 2022Liked by Alison Acheson

A few more revisions.

Donna Lee

Ellrod sipped his coffee and listened to what used to be called the “news”. He wasn’t exactly giving the television his undivided attention. His trombone was on the kitchen table and there was music on the music stand. Ellrod had warmed up but, this morning, feeling unmotivated, he was easily distracted.

On tv, a talking head who was introduced as a heavy hitter from the New York Times was saying that America’s business leaders - he singled out the CEOs of General Motors and Microsoft - needed to take action in support of the rule of law against the far right. “Our last best hope,” he said.

Good luck with that, Ellrod thought. He recalled a recent news story that in 2021 Boeing had donated nearly $1 million to political action groups, many of which supported right wing politicians. Business has already chosen sides, Ellrod thought. At least this guy has finally figured out who’s in charge. Ellrod turned the television off.

Ellrod glanced at his horn and then topped up his coffee. “Alexa, play Cody Wang”.

“Playing Cody Wang from Apple Music,” the device responded.

Ellrod had only recently discovered Cody Wang. A young guitarist from Minneapolis- well, they were all young now weren’t they? - Wang had been pumping out music that combined funky pop, poppy funk, and 70s fusion with hip guitar riffs for over a decade. No one Ellrod knew had ever heard of him.

Ellrod was a big fan. At first he was inspired to go out and buy a bunch of Wang’s albums except, he realized, no one did that anymore. There were no record stores, nowhere to “go out” to. There was Amazon of course but did Bezos need more money?

When he was a teenager, identity was defined in part by the music you listened to. Indeed, with heavy metal, it determined what tribe you belonged to. It differentiated you from, say, the kids who hung out in the school cafeteria and thought they were cool. They listened to David Bowie. Or so it seemed.

In those days, Ellrod’s jazz education was informed by the liner notes of the records he listened to and by the received wisdom of his friends and acquaintances. He recalled Richard the jazz purist and Gord the junkie jazz postman enthusiastically unwrapping a copy of Anthony Braxton’s recent album, Donna Lee, which Richard had acquired as a special order from an obscure downtown record store, the local stores in the suburban shopping malls not carrying cutting edge avant-garde jazz. Richard blew invisible dust off the brand new vinyl record and carefully placed the record on the Gord’s turntable. Ellrod remembered that the second cut on the album, after Donna Lee, was entitled “H-204 3=He/G”. Gord’s small studio apartment contained little more than his guitar and amplifier, his stereo, an ashtray, and a small stack of jazz records.

When he applied to music school, Ellrod was asked about his favorite music. Bartok’s String Quartets and John Coltrane’s Giant Steps album he replied. In hindsight, Ellrod figured that based on the Bartok, they gave him the benefit of the doubt when they accepted him. Bad decision.

And now, it was all just out there, everything, free for the taking, help yourself, and, by the way, now that we have your short little span of attention, please buy some shit from our advertisers. Well, almost everything.

“Alexa, play H-204 3=He/G by Anthony Braxton,” Ellrod directed.

“I can’t find the song H-204 3=He/G by Anthony Braxton on Apple Music.”

Ełlrod poured the dregs of the coffee into his cup. He felt the urge for a cigarette but not so badly he was going to go out into the snow and walk up to the 7/11.

Reluctantly he reached for his horn, blew a few notes to get his chops working, and then turned his attention to the music on his music stand. He set the metronome to a moderate tempo and played the first phrase of Donna Lee. Not too bad, he thought. After nearly 50 years of working on the piece, he was making good progress.

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Jan 9, 2022·edited Jan 9, 2022Liked by Alison Acheson

I was thinking about this a bit more late last night. My story submission involved fences semi-literally, ie fences between people (politics, musical tastes). But that kind of missed the point I realized, although it did inspire an amusing story and pleasant recollection and reflection. And in fact an upbeat ending for once.

My fences are this character, his world view, his experiences and history. A friend suggested I move on from this character, that it was limiting me (more fences) but I’ve recently found new things for Ellrod to worry about. (The friend also disliked the name “Ellrod” which reminded him of L Ron Hubbard. Perhaps he has an engram about that.) I could anonymize Ellrod, turn him into “He”, but I would still be stuck with an old white guy. Write what you know I suppose.

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