by Mira
Have a Great Day
• Mira, you're in charge of the counselors, right?
Hi Jon. Yes, I am.
• Good, I want a different counselor.
You do?
• Yeah, Paul is okay, but I think he likes me.
Likes you?
• Yeah, likes me likes me. I lost weight from the cancer, so I work out every day.
That's great that you're working out.
• Now, I look hot. Do you think I look hot, Mira?
Um.
• But I don't go that way since that jerk left. Broke my heart, Mira.
Sorry, Jon.
• I like girls now, Mira.
Okay.
• But you know it's not right.
What's not right?
• The FBI. They're using infrared to watch us all the time, and it's not right.
Um.
• They shouldn't be allowed to do that, Mira.
That's true.
• So, anyway, the new counselor, Rachel, could she be my counselor? Because she's cute.
Jon, you know we don't assign counselors to have relationships with clients.
• I know Mira, I'm just messing with you. But she is cute.
Okay, Jon.
• So, I guess I'll stay with Paul then. He's pretty nice.
I'm glad he's nice.
• Yeah, he's okay. He helped me get a place. I like it. Much better than the streets.
That's great!
• Yeah, it's great. But Mira, the FBI listens outside my room.
Oh.
• I stuffed a towel under the door. Think that will help?
I hope so.
• Hold on a sec, I'll get my notebook. Did I show you my new drawings?
Those are good drawings, Jon.
• Thanks, Mira. This is a picture of that counselor Rachel. Doesn't she look beautiful?
She does look beautiful.
• I didn't make a picture of Paul. I hope that won't hurt his feelings.
I think you should draw what you want to draw, Jon.
• I drew a picture of you, Mira. See? You have a beautiful smile, Mira.
Thanks, Jon.
• You could be my counselor, Mira.
I'm sorry, I don't take clients, Jon. But you'd be a great client to work with.
• I would?
Yes, absolutely.
• Okay. I wish the FBI would stop hacking my computer though.
Um.
• My family used to be really rich, and now they track everything we do.
They do?
• Yes, we used to own Canada and they set up a secret society to take our money from us.
Sorry to hear that.
• It would make a great movie, though.
That would make a good movie.
• Okay. Well, I'll go see Paul now. Then I have to go. I've got two groups today.
That's great that you're going to groups.
• I haven't used crack in five months, Mira.
Five months? That's terrific, Jon. Good for you!
• Thanks, Mira. You're very nice.
You're nice, too, Jon.
• I'm not going to use crack today, Mira.
That's wonderful, Jon.
• Have a great day, Mira.
You, too, Jon. Have a great day.
Note: I work in a substance abuse agency. The preceding was a fictionalized compilation of client conversations.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
A Run for Charity, A Run for Hope
In 1977 a young man was diagnosed with cancer. He was eighteen-years-old and an athlete, a basketball player and distance runner, and with the diagnosis of osteosarcoma (a cancer that often starts in the area of the knee) he learned that he would lose his leg.
His right leg was amputated, though within three weeks he was walking on a prosthetic leg. He was given a 50% chance of survival, poor odds that would have been poorer only a year or two before, when the chances were only 15%. These were the mathematics of survival, and the numbers struck him as important. Such advances in treatment could mark the line between life and death.
He endured sixteen months of chemotherapy at a cancer facility. Around him he saw other cancer sufferers. Around him he saw the ebb and flow of hope, the slow touch of despair and the suddenness of loss. Around him he saw friends suffer and die, falling to a disease that touched so many.
When he left his life was before him, a new life to face and live. He joined a wheelchair basketball team and quickly became an all-star, winning three national championships. And yet he wanted more. He remembered those months in a cancer facility, and wanted to find a way to bring courage to others. He remembered, too, his time as a distance runner.
He began to run. He had an odd gait, on his new prosthetic leg, a stride marked by a little skip on his good foot. step-skip step, step-skip step, step-skip step…
He embarked on a 14 month training program. He would run a marathon. And yet even as he trained for and eventually completed his first marathon (a run of 26 miles), he was devising something far grander.
He wanted to give others hope, to give them courage. And he was angry. He remembered friends dying at the cancer facility, and was angry at how little awareness there was of cancer, this disease that killed so many, and shaped the lives of so many more. There was so little money for the funding of research, and yet that research could mark the line between life and death: he had never forgotten the mathematics of survival. 15% to 50%. 15% to 50%. Perhaps with a little more funding the math could be different still: 15% to 50% to 100%. Here’s where the mathematics of survival merged with mathematics of hope.
His vision was large indeed. He would run across Canada. He would run the equivalent of a marathon every day. Every day. He would run from the Atlantic to the Pacific. What he envisioned was a Marathon of Hope, an opportunity to draw awareness to the needs of cancer patients and to the necessity of funding cancer research.
He began on April 12, 1980, dipping his right leg in the Atlantic Ocean near St. John’s, Newfoundland. In the early days he met with wind, rain and snow. Yet he ran.
A marathon every day. By the time he reached Montreal, a third of the way through, he had raised $200,000. Yet he was becoming famous. By the time he entered Ottawa on Canada Day, his story was beginning to reach across the country and around the world. Despite the physical toll of what he was doing, he would not turn down an interview, an event, a chance to speak: any chance, no matter how small, to raise awareness and funding was a chance he had to take. He could not forget the faces he left behind in the cancer facility, the faces on which hope was slowly fading.
And he ran.
The miles piled up. An immense road stretched behind him, and yet an equally long one stretched in front. Yet he ran. No matter the cost. He had shin splints, an inflamed knee, tendonitis in his ankle, cysts on his stump. Yet he ran.
And every day more money came in. In the end he raised over 12 million dollars for cancer research. And yet the end came prematurely. His body was breaking down. Each day he was exhausted even before he started his run. On September 1st, outside Thunder Bay, the 23-year-old had a series of intense coughing fits and felt pain in his chest. He stopped, tried to recover briefly, and continued on. Yet he could not find air, breath escaping him, and the pains in his chest grew.
Driven to a hospital, he learned that his cancer had returned, and spread to his lungs. At last, his run was over. Chemotherapy treatments failed to halt the advance of his cancer, and on June 28, 1981, he died.
His name was Terry Fox.
He had run his last step, but the Marathon of Hope continues. Every year, across the county and world, cities will hold a Terry Fox Run, a race of remembrance. The dream of hope lives on, and each year more is pledged to fight cancer. The Terry Fox foundation has raised more than half a billion dollars in his name for the cause.
Terry Fox was a hero. Not because he had one leg and did something extraordinary. This is too simple, too reductionist. It is not a story about his specialness, but about his gift of determination and hope. It is a story about how a person stepped (or ran) beyond themself. It is about human dignity, about how we can face our challenges, whatever they may be. It is about sacrifice. It is about how someone gave of themself for the greater good of others. Gave everything, even their life.
Whether it is the story of Christ accepting his death on the cross for the sins of others, or Frodo trudging up the slopes of Mount Doom, there is something about these stories that is touching. About determination in the face of death, and the humility to accept such consequences to provide for others.
Martyrs are rare, and yet sometimes their example can touch lives. Thousands of people will run in Terry Fox’s name on September 19, 2010, and I hope to be one of them. I have entered my local Terry Fox Run, and plan to race 10km on my sore little feet. What is that, after what he did? In the end Terry ran 3,339 miles (5,373 km)over 143 days. The immensity of this feat is scary. I can’t do this, can't do so much. I can only do a little. But sometimes much can be made of many little things.
My little thing is to run 10km and to seek pledges in support of cancer research. I know times are tough for many, and I understand if people can’t afford to offer support, or already offer support to other equally important charities. But, if you can give something, it would be appreciated – for those who suffer now, and for those who will suffer in the future, and for one who suffered everything, and gave everything, in the past.
You can donate via this link, or check out the Terry Fox Foundation on your own and support that way.
Link to My Terry Fox page
My sincerest thanks.
His right leg was amputated, though within three weeks he was walking on a prosthetic leg. He was given a 50% chance of survival, poor odds that would have been poorer only a year or two before, when the chances were only 15%. These were the mathematics of survival, and the numbers struck him as important. Such advances in treatment could mark the line between life and death.
He endured sixteen months of chemotherapy at a cancer facility. Around him he saw other cancer sufferers. Around him he saw the ebb and flow of hope, the slow touch of despair and the suddenness of loss. Around him he saw friends suffer and die, falling to a disease that touched so many.
When he left his life was before him, a new life to face and live. He joined a wheelchair basketball team and quickly became an all-star, winning three national championships. And yet he wanted more. He remembered those months in a cancer facility, and wanted to find a way to bring courage to others. He remembered, too, his time as a distance runner.
He began to run. He had an odd gait, on his new prosthetic leg, a stride marked by a little skip on his good foot. step-skip step, step-skip step, step-skip step…
He embarked on a 14 month training program. He would run a marathon. And yet even as he trained for and eventually completed his first marathon (a run of 26 miles), he was devising something far grander.
He wanted to give others hope, to give them courage. And he was angry. He remembered friends dying at the cancer facility, and was angry at how little awareness there was of cancer, this disease that killed so many, and shaped the lives of so many more. There was so little money for the funding of research, and yet that research could mark the line between life and death: he had never forgotten the mathematics of survival. 15% to 50%. 15% to 50%. Perhaps with a little more funding the math could be different still: 15% to 50% to 100%. Here’s where the mathematics of survival merged with mathematics of hope.
His vision was large indeed. He would run across Canada. He would run the equivalent of a marathon every day. Every day. He would run from the Atlantic to the Pacific. What he envisioned was a Marathon of Hope, an opportunity to draw awareness to the needs of cancer patients and to the necessity of funding cancer research.
He began on April 12, 1980, dipping his right leg in the Atlantic Ocean near St. John’s, Newfoundland. In the early days he met with wind, rain and snow. Yet he ran.
A marathon every day. By the time he reached Montreal, a third of the way through, he had raised $200,000. Yet he was becoming famous. By the time he entered Ottawa on Canada Day, his story was beginning to reach across the country and around the world. Despite the physical toll of what he was doing, he would not turn down an interview, an event, a chance to speak: any chance, no matter how small, to raise awareness and funding was a chance he had to take. He could not forget the faces he left behind in the cancer facility, the faces on which hope was slowly fading.
And he ran.
The miles piled up. An immense road stretched behind him, and yet an equally long one stretched in front. Yet he ran. No matter the cost. He had shin splints, an inflamed knee, tendonitis in his ankle, cysts on his stump. Yet he ran.
And every day more money came in. In the end he raised over 12 million dollars for cancer research. And yet the end came prematurely. His body was breaking down. Each day he was exhausted even before he started his run. On September 1st, outside Thunder Bay, the 23-year-old had a series of intense coughing fits and felt pain in his chest. He stopped, tried to recover briefly, and continued on. Yet he could not find air, breath escaping him, and the pains in his chest grew.
Driven to a hospital, he learned that his cancer had returned, and spread to his lungs. At last, his run was over. Chemotherapy treatments failed to halt the advance of his cancer, and on June 28, 1981, he died.
His name was Terry Fox.
He had run his last step, but the Marathon of Hope continues. Every year, across the county and world, cities will hold a Terry Fox Run, a race of remembrance. The dream of hope lives on, and each year more is pledged to fight cancer. The Terry Fox foundation has raised more than half a billion dollars in his name for the cause.
Terry Fox was a hero. Not because he had one leg and did something extraordinary. This is too simple, too reductionist. It is not a story about his specialness, but about his gift of determination and hope. It is a story about how a person stepped (or ran) beyond themself. It is about human dignity, about how we can face our challenges, whatever they may be. It is about sacrifice. It is about how someone gave of themself for the greater good of others. Gave everything, even their life.
Whether it is the story of Christ accepting his death on the cross for the sins of others, or Frodo trudging up the slopes of Mount Doom, there is something about these stories that is touching. About determination in the face of death, and the humility to accept such consequences to provide for others.
Martyrs are rare, and yet sometimes their example can touch lives. Thousands of people will run in Terry Fox’s name on September 19, 2010, and I hope to be one of them. I have entered my local Terry Fox Run, and plan to race 10km on my sore little feet. What is that, after what he did? In the end Terry ran 3,339 miles (5,373 km)over 143 days. The immensity of this feat is scary. I can’t do this, can't do so much. I can only do a little. But sometimes much can be made of many little things.
My little thing is to run 10km and to seek pledges in support of cancer research. I know times are tough for many, and I understand if people can’t afford to offer support, or already offer support to other equally important charities. But, if you can give something, it would be appreciated – for those who suffer now, and for those who will suffer in the future, and for one who suffered everything, and gave everything, in the past.
You can donate via this link, or check out the Terry Fox Foundation on your own and support that way.
Link to My Terry Fox page
My sincerest thanks.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Dangling the Carrot
I just got a new job. This is good. It's at a carrot factory. This is less good. The hours are, shall we say, rather long. This is good and bad. Good, as the pay will be good. Bad, because working eight straight days for 85 hours and spending another 12 commuting eats up a huge part of your life. That's almost 100 hours out of a little more than a week. The pickings are a little bare after that. You scrape a minute off the ground here, find a few seconds around a corner there. Make a little pile and maybe you have a nice shiny hour.
To help myself through this I need, well, a carrot.
Dangle me something and I will chase. And my carrot to survive carrots is, of course, books.
On my only day off (after helping some family members move) I found some time to slip off to a bookstore. A chocolate iced-frappuccino in hand, I wandered. These were much better carrots than the ones I blasted with a water cannon for eleven or twelve hours a day.
So many covers, and pages, and words. So many sentences strung and set to dangle like bright Christmas lights.
I went with no set agenda. Just the lure of possibility, the dream of the unexpected. There's nothing quite like a bookstore -- tens of thousands of little treasure chests all set to be opened.
Be vewy, vewy quiet. I'm hunting cawwots.
I perused. Fingers sliding down rows, tap tap tapping on spines. Some I slide out. A glimpse of a cover. Words on the back. A flip of pages just to get the heft and feel of the book -- a sense of the texture of the pages, of how the book will fold and feel in my hand. Each book has a unique quality, vibrating at its own subtle and unique frequency.
Eventually I splurge, buying two instead of one. I end up with the new trade paperback of Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stair and Peter Ackroyd's Hawksmoor.
Magical carrots. There was something particular about these books, about the covers, the pages, the weight, the feel, the subtle and particular thingyness of the books and the stories they promised. They were the ones. I'd be back of course. One needs more than two carrots over the course of a life. But for now, these were the carrots I wanted. The chosen ones.
Now if only I had time to read.
And what about you? What are your carrots? Do any of you have book rewards? Get this done, succeed at this, survive that, and the new book by your favourite author will be yours? What are your favourite carrot books?
Because everyone needs carrot books. Right?
To help myself through this I need, well, a carrot.
Dangle me something and I will chase. And my carrot to survive carrots is, of course, books.
On my only day off (after helping some family members move) I found some time to slip off to a bookstore. A chocolate iced-frappuccino in hand, I wandered. These were much better carrots than the ones I blasted with a water cannon for eleven or twelve hours a day.
So many covers, and pages, and words. So many sentences strung and set to dangle like bright Christmas lights.
I went with no set agenda. Just the lure of possibility, the dream of the unexpected. There's nothing quite like a bookstore -- tens of thousands of little treasure chests all set to be opened.
Be vewy, vewy quiet. I'm hunting cawwots.
I perused. Fingers sliding down rows, tap tap tapping on spines. Some I slide out. A glimpse of a cover. Words on the back. A flip of pages just to get the heft and feel of the book -- a sense of the texture of the pages, of how the book will fold and feel in my hand. Each book has a unique quality, vibrating at its own subtle and unique frequency.
Eventually I splurge, buying two instead of one. I end up with the new trade paperback of Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stair and Peter Ackroyd's Hawksmoor.
Magical carrots. There was something particular about these books, about the covers, the pages, the weight, the feel, the subtle and particular thingyness of the books and the stories they promised. They were the ones. I'd be back of course. One needs more than two carrots over the course of a life. But for now, these were the carrots I wanted. The chosen ones.
Now if only I had time to read.
And what about you? What are your carrots? Do any of you have book rewards? Get this done, succeed at this, survive that, and the new book by your favourite author will be yours? What are your favourite carrot books?
Because everyone needs carrot books. Right?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The World in Miniature: Babysat by the Man in the Moon
by Matthew Rush
The Quintessentially Questionable Query Experiment
Babysat by the Man in the Moon
Mom drove. Dad navigated. They let me sit in the way back of our funny Peugeot Station Wagon. I sat and watched the grey river below and the green walls above fall away like the world was collapsing in upon itself.
It felt funny when we stopped. Then the entire world rushed back at me as if to say hello. It sort of felt like falling up and made my tummy tickle.
We stopped for Dungeoness Crab at a fancy restaurant with white tablecloths and waiters dressed up like penguins. I loved watching the alien monsters crawl all over each other in the tank. Pincers, eyes and antennae; they clicked against the glass lethargically but I imagined they were ancient warriors of an elder race who fought for honor among the crustacean tribes.
Later my dad cracked them open and I ate their legs. Mom said they were liquid inside until someone cooked them. That was gross but they tasted good with warm butter like runny egg yolk.
We drove into the Horse Heaven Hills for the Eclipse. Suddenly I was on the moon, the furthest reaches of space within my grasp. I reached out and caught hold of a distant star in the palm of my little hand. I was the Eater of Worlds! So I plucked a white dwarf down from Heaven and placed it lovingly into my mouth.
On the way home I tried to watch the grey river flow away below us, but it was dark and I was sleepy.
I yawned, laid back and watched the moon as he chased us across the sky. He looked cold and distant, like grandpa after he got sick, but still he looked down on me and never fell behind no matter how fast or how far we drove. His light was weak and thin outside but when it melted through the window it poured over my face like cool alpine mist. Delightful.
I relaxed as I listened to the tires sing a lullaby against the asphalt. Soothing.
I fell asleep watching that silly old man's face as he followed us across the world, never quite catching up but always watching over and enveloping me in a blanket of silver comfort. Dreaming.
The Quintessentially Questionable Query Experiment
Babysat by the Man in the Moon
Mom drove. Dad navigated. They let me sit in the way back of our funny Peugeot Station Wagon. I sat and watched the grey river below and the green walls above fall away like the world was collapsing in upon itself.
It felt funny when we stopped. Then the entire world rushed back at me as if to say hello. It sort of felt like falling up and made my tummy tickle.
We stopped for Dungeoness Crab at a fancy restaurant with white tablecloths and waiters dressed up like penguins. I loved watching the alien monsters crawl all over each other in the tank. Pincers, eyes and antennae; they clicked against the glass lethargically but I imagined they were ancient warriors of an elder race who fought for honor among the crustacean tribes.
Later my dad cracked them open and I ate their legs. Mom said they were liquid inside until someone cooked them. That was gross but they tasted good with warm butter like runny egg yolk.
We drove into the Horse Heaven Hills for the Eclipse. Suddenly I was on the moon, the furthest reaches of space within my grasp. I reached out and caught hold of a distant star in the palm of my little hand. I was the Eater of Worlds! So I plucked a white dwarf down from Heaven and placed it lovingly into my mouth.
On the way home I tried to watch the grey river flow away below us, but it was dark and I was sleepy.
I yawned, laid back and watched the moon as he chased us across the sky. He looked cold and distant, like grandpa after he got sick, but still he looked down on me and never fell behind no matter how fast or how far we drove. His light was weak and thin outside but when it melted through the window it poured over my face like cool alpine mist. Delightful.
I relaxed as I listened to the tires sing a lullaby against the asphalt. Soothing.
I fell asleep watching that silly old man's face as he followed us across the world, never quite catching up but always watching over and enveloping me in a blanket of silver comfort. Dreaming.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Beneath the Mountain
So what do you do when time is flattened and the hours and minutes are crushed as thin as paper? A few spare seconds leak out the side and you scoop them up and cherish them. But so little time...
The hours seem so boundless and empty at times, ready to be taken up and filled. And yet each one of those hours is so tenuous. So easily torn and blown away on the wind.
What do you do? How do you keep your writing (or editing!) alive when your time narrows drastically? Tips or tricks? Mental philosophy? What keeps you plugging? What's necessary for you?
The hours seem so boundless and empty at times, ready to be taken up and filled. And yet each one of those hours is so tenuous. So easily torn and blown away on the wind.
What do you do? How do you keep your writing (or editing!) alive when your time narrows drastically? Tips or tricks? Mental philosophy? What keeps you plugging? What's necessary for you?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
If You're Digging an Endless Ditch, Bill Schulz is Your Best Friend
Good writing is hard work. Am I the only one who once thought it would be easier?
When I was young, and realized I had some talent, I think there was a feeling of inevitability about success, about good writing. I would read a lot, and practice writing, and there it would be: a bit of great writing of my own.
Yet the longer I live, the more I realize how much work is required. The craft seems to get more complex as we go along, rather than simpler. Revise and edit, and then revise and edit again... It's one hefty ditch we have to dig. And sometimes it feels like we're digging with a spoon.
I think I've known for years that perseverence is often just as important as talent. You need talent, but it won't take you anywhere without hard work. And yet the sheer weight of that work as you progress... you want to be a published novelist? It's going to take effort. Effort on effort on effort.
Doggedness is so important. Not just to study the craft, not just to write day after day. But to face rejection and continue. To face critique and step up to it only to face critique again. And again. Because an agent is going to critique. And then an editor. A copyeditor. Reviewers. Readers. And you simply have to continue writing, digging, working.
And it's harder early on, when you are so uncertain of success (however you define success). How do you keep digging?
Good ol' Charlie Brown, right? There's something a little sad and funny about his determination, and yet there's a joy in his optimism, a sort of hope that is almost heroic. He's always there to take another kick at the ball, though chances at success are slim. All your life, Charlie Brown, all your life.
But he's dogged. He's gonna keep pushing. If Charlie Brown had a ditch to dig, I have this feeling he wouldn't be stopped. Can anyone here picture Charlie Brown putting down the shovel? If there's one thing Charlie Brown won't do, it's quit.
What about you? How do you keep digging? What pushes you through to draft 27 despite everything standing in your way?
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