galadrielwatson

February 11, 2015

Bookstore Disappointment

Last weekend, my relationship with bookstores changed, and not for the better.

For weeks, I’d been anticipating a visit to the city—meaning a visit to the bookstore—and compiling a list of the books I’d buy. The evening I arrived, I walked out of the bookstore with four books, satisfied that all went as planned.

Until I got back to the hotel and thought about the price I’d paid. It was strangely high—for this particular bookstore chain is known for its discounts, and I hadn’t received any discount at all.

I checked the store’s online site: yes, all four books had serious discounts. In-store, I had paid over $90. Online, the total was only $60.

The next day, I returned to the store and was told the discounts are only available online. If you make the effort to visit in person, you get penalized. I promptly returned all the books and have since re-ordered them online.

Which makes me:

sad that the joy of walking out of a mortar-and-bricks bookstore with books in hand has been diminished.
feel cheap that I’ve been sucked into the world of discounted books, knowing full well the industry needs all the financial support it can get.
wonder if I should break my ties with that particular bookstore chain and—if I’m going to be spending full dollars anyhow—support the smaller guys instead.

And I do love the smaller guys: the cozier atmosphere with lower ceilings, tighter aisles and higher shelves; the loved jumble of books and trinkets; the non-uniformed personnel. But I also love my discount; without the discount, I’d be buying far fewer books and relying much more on the library.

So I think the following will be my modus operandi from now on: when I need a book and am at home in my small town, I’ll feel free to order it like usual. When I’m visiting a city and want to browse—and perhaps come away with a full-priced impulse buy—I’ll visit the little guy instead.

What do you think about the discrepancy between in-store and online prices?

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About the Author

Posted by Galadriel

Hi, I’m Galadriel: blogger, author, reader and resident of a quaint small town in the breathtaking West Kootenay region of southeastern British Columbia. You can also find me on Twitter and Facebook.

February 7, 2015

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Seriously Speaking

Being a writer, and being—at this point in life—so much better at expressing myself on paper than in person, I always get tongue-tied when people ask me, “So what’s your book about?”

I have my elevator pitch prepared, but the words come out rehearsed and flat, my cheeks flushed. After an initial, “Oh, it sounds interesting,” the conversation invariably flutters on to other things. Which is 100 per cent my fault.

So when I hear shows on CBC like The Next Chapter or Writers & Company, I listen in awe as writers talk on and on. How can they have so much to say? And how can they speak so seriously on a topic they simply made up?

For they don’t sound like they speak with a flick of the hand, as I do, shrugging off the book they may have taken years to write. They don’t mumble about the characters as if they’re frivolous inventions.

They speak as if their work, and the characters in it, mean something. As if they’re real. As if they didn’t make the people and situations up, but as if they existed all along—on some higher plane of meaning—and the author was simply a witness, a best friend, the reporter who stumbled upon the story and helpfully wrote it all down.

I’m hoping that this attitude and ability will rub off on me as I do my Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing, where I’ll aim to explore not only how I write, but what I write and why. So that instead of dismissing my work as, oh, it’s just for fun, I’ll be able to expound upon its significance—which it does have; I just don’t know how to articulate it yet.

How do you feel when it comes to describing your work out loud?

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About the Author

Posted by Galadriel

February 4, 2015

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Take It Like a Dancer

Last week, writer Kim Bullock wrote a post about how writers should take critique like dancers take critique: as a necessary, even welcome step up the ladder of success.

And it’s absolutely true.

As a teenager, I myself was a serious ballet dancer, topping off schoolwork with three hours or more of dance class a day, six days a week. And, like Kim says, “Teachers don’t waste time giving corrections to dancers in whom they see no potential.”

I was poked, I was prodded. My turnout was toed further out, the flesh on my rear was pinched. My shoulders were hitched back, my head was cocked just so. Which meant I was one of the lucky ones; the chubbier girls, the girls who only came a few times a week, the girls whose feet sickled, barely received corrections at all.

So why, now that I’m a writer, do I expect to be considered fabulous right off the bat? Why, when the “constructive” criticism comes, do defensive thoughts immediately spring to mind: but I’ll be getting to that…, but I don’t think she’d be…, but no, you don’t understand.…

I may have huffed internally at my dance teacher, but I never pushed back. She had been a principal dancer. She had reams of experience. She would know.

So now that I’m approaching my Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing, I’ll have to keep that dancer mindset in mind. For a few years, I’ll be bombarded with critiques—and will have to fight hard to remember that’s what I signed up for. I didn’t sign up to be praised. I signed up to improve.

Like a dancer without a mirror, in writing it’s too easy to overlook your faults. It feels amazing, so it must look amazing. It feels off, but you have no idea how to correct it. In cases like this, that outside perspective is vital.

Although I like to joke I’m perfect, I’ll have to remind myself I’m not—and that the criticism I cringe away from is actually a praise of its own. For if I were that far off, no one would bother saying a damn thing.

How do you feel about feedback on your writing?

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