About two years ago, I wrote a little quiz called What Kind of Writer Are You? (It was originally for Teenreads.com, but you can also find it here.) It was purely for fun, not the kind of thing I spent long hours doing psycho-anthropological research on. I liked that it was silly. A play on the kind of Personality Type quiz I love and detest. It was written, posted, forgotten. And now it’s come back to haunt me.

Over the past few months, I’ve been struggling with what kind of writer I used to be, and what kind of writer I will be. I used to set out with a rough idea, fiddle around a bit, write a whole lot, scrap much of it, research some more, become inspired, and start the whole process again. That’s how A Spy in the House, The Body at the Tower, and The Traitor in the Tunnel were written. The process had some frustrations and many redundancies, but it worked, fundamentally.

And then I decided that it wasn’t good enough. For my fourth novel, Rivals in the City, I decided to tinker with the process: I was going to be a Planner. Oh yes. I was going to plot out the whole novel, figure out all my turning points, each small crisis, every transition, right up to the denouement. I even saved wee scraps of dialogue (mostly banter, my Achilles heel) I’d surely be able to plug into this orderly opus. And then, when everything was organized, I was going to sit down and crank this thing out. Sure, the writing itself would be less of an adventure. But it would be worth it, because I would be So. Very. Efficient.

You know what’s coming, don’t you? Last week, the whole thing crumbled. I found myself procrastinating, obsessively browsing Etsy for gifts still in the far future, reading blog after blog after blog – all because I didn’t want to write the book I’d so diligently mapped out. In fact, I’d impulsively written Mary into a scene in which she, too, was at an existential dead-end. Worse, I couldn’t figure out how to rescue her. (Here, you may – if you wish – insert a joke about art imitating life and/or vice versa. I would, but then I’d have to look myself in the mirror afterwards.)

I think, however, that I know how to rescue myself. And it involves – *werewolf howl of frustration* – jettisoning the Plan. I’m going back to my messy, inefficient, non-linear ways. And I’m going to write a book I love. Yes I am. I hope you’ll love it, too.

Happy writing and reading to you!

P.S. If you do take the quiz, let me know how you do! Ironically, it doesn’t work for me. Yes, I’m that inconsistent.

And now we have 2 children. The elder goes to preschool, part-time. The (new) baby is never more than a few metres from me, day and night. Basically, the I-must-have-privacy-and-silence-and-a-warmup-ritual-that-involves-freshly-ground-french-pressed-coffee thing is, um, not working out.

Instead, I’m learning to write like thousands (tens of thousands? gazillions? pity no one measures these things) of women have before me: in unpredictable increments that sometimes pop up when I least expect them. For example, last week I dropped off our son at preschool and the baby fell asleep in the car on the way home. I sprinted into the house, grabbed my laptop, hopped into the passenger seat, and wrote until she woke up. The tally? 800 words in 45 minutes. Yes, I’m still feeling mighty smug about that one.

Obviously, that’s a best-case scenario and it certainly doesn’t happen every time I open the laptop. I still have writing sessions where I fiddle with a single paragraph for 20 minutes, or worse yet, check email obsessively and write half a (bad) sentence. But I’m learning.

The other thing that’s changing is when I write. Now, a few evenings a week after the kids are asleep, I ignore the rest of my life (the dishes, the half-read novel, my lovely husband) and focus. I usually log in to Twitter and propose a writing sprint to anyone who’s kicking around. And off I go.

It’s messy and inconvenient and fundamentally at odds with my circadian rhythm (I’m one of those people who likes to go to bed at 10), but it’s working. Mostly. And whenever I feel particularly low about my word count, I think about one of my favourite Victorian novelists, Wilkie Collins, who was a consummate procrastinator.

When Collins was in the middle of a serial novel (a novel published in a magazine in many instalments), he would turn up at the offices of the magazine on the day of the printer’s deadline. There, he would finally sit down and write. As he finished each page, someone would run that sheet of paper down to the printer’s offices, where they would typeset it and finally print it.

It makes me feel queasy just thinking about it.

How do you write? Are you a Collins-esque procrastinator, or a marvel of efficiency?

This fall, Kingston Life magazine profiled eight local authors (including Steven Heighton, Helen Humphreys and Jamie Swift, so I was in awfully distinguished company), had us talk about the writing life, and commissioned photos for all of us. Talk about living the dream! It’s now time for me to update my author photograph, so I asked photographer Scott Adamson for some images from the shoot and he kindly sent me a bunch. My only difficulty here is which to use. Here are my two favourites:

They were both taken at one of my favourite spots in Kingston, and the water I’m standing in is Lake Ontario. And no, the photos don’t lie; it’s glorious here.

Speaking of photos lying, though: with my old author photo, an acquaintance said, “Wow. You look so… good in that picture.” And with the new one, someone else said, “That’s a VERY flattering photo.” (WordPress lacks caps big enough to do justice to her “VERY”.) Both times, I was most amused.

What’s the funniest/most ridiculous thing someone’s said to you about a photo?

4. Kingston WritersFest. This was my first festival as an author, rather than as reader and fan, and it’s hard to imagine a better experience. It was so well organized (I had a handler! She had extra pens slung on her hip!) and attended (great questions from younger readers) that I will be spoiled forevermore.

3. The award. The Canadian Children’s Book Centre’s inaugural John Spray Mystery Award, of course, which I accepted at a swanky Toronto gala in October, with a baby in the crook of my arm. Goodness. The whole thing’s a bit like an opium dream, now.

2. Reading, reading, reading. I just don’t feel like me if I’m not reading. (That’s why I left academia: it sapped my desire to read for pleasure, and that made me intensely suspicious of myself.) Of course, I have reading slumps, and false starts, and phases when the longest thing I want to read is a New Yorker article. But I also have glorious sprints (and marathons) when I’m utterly consumed by a book, torn between the greed of reading it and the impulse to ration it out, so it lasts longer. I had so many of those amazing episodes this year, which is especially miraculous in a year I didn’t expect to read much (see item below). You can also click here for some bookish highlights from the blog.

1. Our daughter (of course). My entire year was built around her: expecting, planning, hoping, dreaming, followed by the bliss, exhaustion, jubilation, anxiety, and all-transforming magic that she brought. She also gave me a gift: a break from writing that, while wonderfully enjoyable in its own lazy way, only sharpened my desire to get back to it.

What were your favourite experiences or things of 2011? What are you looking forward to in 2012?

Elsewhere on the internet, I was on Salon last week, talking about YA book-to-film adaptations: the worst ever, in my opinion, plus one I’d love to see (hi, Erin!).

And my dizzyingly accomplished friend, Jill Murphy, has been ruminating on Rumination, recently (say that 10 times fast). I gave her my $.02, but you should read Jill’s blog for all the other insight and wit you’ll find there.

Do you know what the most beautiful sentence in the English language is, when uttered by busy and normally responsible adults? It’s, “Hi, Mom. What’s for dinner?” Okay, that’s 2 sentences. But that’s where I’m at, right now. I feel very lucky and extremely loved and totally indulged.

I’m reading this:

and this:

And I’ll reflect on these in a future edition of A Reader Reports. But at the moment, it’s raining outside, I’ve just had very hot shower, and I’m eating a steaming bowl of black rice pudding with coconut milk in an almost-silent house. Life may get better than this, but right now I just want these few minutes to last as long as possible.

How are you faring, this November? What’s new with you?

I mean, I wouldn’t want to sit next to this character on a long-distance bus ride…

I had an fantastic Hallowe’en surprise yesterday when this was delivered to my door:

Food52 is a place where anyone can join to enter their recipes in contests (or you can just hang out, comment, and drool over the gorgeous food photography). They give out lovely prizes and compile the winners into cookbooks such as this one. The site is now extremely competitive; casual cooks beware! But back in the days when things were, shall we say, still in my league, I won a contest with my recipe for Overnight Steel-Cut Oats. It’s here, now, in the first Food52 Cookbook and I’m absolutely tickled.

What did you get up to for Hallowe’en? Were there any surprises – pleasant or otherwise – in your day?

One thing I loved (still do) about yoga is that it’s a form of meditation in action. These days, however, I get my meditation-in-action in different ways. Cooking is pretty frenzied, with one child “helping” and another yodelling in the background. Ditto baking. But look what landed in our back garden today!

Two cords of seasoned firewood. And it all needs to go into the shed (that blue building on the right). Stacking firewood is only very distantly related to yoga: both require a gentle warm-up and no special clothing (regardless of what lululemon would have you believe). Both leave you feeling sore and smug the next day. And until things calm down around here, I’ll take my meditation in action wherever I can get it.

What’s your form of meditation in action?

P.S. I recently recorded two audio clips for the nice people at teachingbooks.net. Want to hear them? The first is a short reading from A Spy in the House and the second is a silly one about the pronunciation of my name. Hope you enjoy!

Commenter [about Pink’s video “Stupid Girls”]: Stupid girls? I hardly think girls choosing to conform to society’s norms are stupid. It’s their choice whether they wish to lead or be led. That’s a point of character not everyone thinks like you. And I don’t see girls brooding over the fact that they have to wear tights as fashion dictates. They seem to actually like being part of the normal fashionable crowd. And from what I’ve heard from a teacher and girl, they wear it to attract boys.

Ying: The idea of freedom of choice is a tricky one. We consider ourselves to be independent, thinking individuals with a range of options. Yet we don’t choose in a vacuum; we’re influenced by thousands of factors in our environments, our histories, and our characters. People (not just girls) may choose whether “they wish to lead or be led”, but that apparently simple choice is deceptive. We choose (or are influenced) at every moment; not every choice is conscious; and although we can justify our “choices” as much as we please, it’s foolish to deny that we’re influenced by our surroundings. I think that’s what Pink is getting at, in a crude way. One can “choose” to act/dress like a so-called “stupid girl”, but whatever the decision, the “stupid girl” image exists and it is powerful.

And “they wear it to attract boys”? A lot of girls – “stupid” or not – would disagree with this. Many would say that they’re doing it for themselves, not others. We’re back to the problem of “choice”, all over again.

C: [about Katie Makkai's poem, "Pretty", included in the "Pretty Pink Girl" post] That Katie Makkai person seems to be going through PMS, because I don’t see why the faults of a single mother should indict our society and media as brainwashing the youth.

Y: Three points, here. First, Katie Makkai is a performance artist and in that video she’s performing anger, not going off on an uncontrolled rant. This is key. Second, the accusation of PMS is based on crude stereotypes and bad science. Not all women experience PMS; of those who do, it doesn’t necessarily manifest as emotional imbalance. Third, Makkai is making a point about physical perfection. Her poem is less about a specific mother and more about the pressure to be pretty – however one defines and tries to achieve it. The mother in the poem is a symbol.

C: Were educated enough to see through [media brainwashing], if anything my one blaring memory of high school was our teachers warning us about the evils of media. Were well informed to make our own choices, if some girl or guy decides to start obsessing about attaining some picture of perfection in her head then that’s her fault for not having the sense to see through it.

Y: Again, we consider ourselves sophisticated and media-savvy but studies continue to demonstrate that we fall for marketing guff all the time. It works. That’s why marketers spend so much money on it. When blaming individuals “for not having the sense to see through it”, we’re blaming the victim – a person who is clearly less savvy than we consider ourselves. Do we just leave the naïve to fend for themselves and congratulate ourselves on our superior intelligence? I hope not.

C: But I’m kind of envious of women, you certainly have more choices that us guys that’s for sure.

Y: That’s something that needs to change, too. I want to live in a world where men and women have equal numbers of genuine choices.

C: Men on the other hand well…you can say the days of male domination are at an end.

Y: The statistics – on salaries, on domestic violence, on gender imbalance in positions of power – say otherwise. Have you seen the Daniel Craig/Judi Dench short film commissioned for this year’s International Women’s Day?

C: Though I don’t mind homosexuals I’m just not comfortable with them, which I think is the norm among men. It’s just not natural (And hence why I’m a part of the bigger problem too, lol). I can see my ignorance but I can’t deal with it, its just the way things really are.

Y: It’s difficult grappling with prejudice, and acknowledging one’s ignorance is the first step in dealing with it. But the idea of something being “natural” is itself an illusion. There’s a long list of things that were formerly thought “natural” – from the sun orbiting the earth to white-skinned people being more intelligent than others – that we now know to be utter nonsense. What we consider “natural” is specific to our time, place, and culture.

Whew. And now back to you, readers. I look forward to your comments.

In this case, a Facebook friend shared a link to a terrific slam-poetry performance. Then I read Peggy Orenstein’s Cinderella Ate My Daughter. After that, generous friends gave us 3 enormous bags of sweet, tasteful, hand-me-down clothes.

And you know what? Our girl isn’t even born and I’m already experiencing Pink & Pretty overload. I avoid the pink aisles in children’s stores. I know that Barbies, Bratz, and yet more bumptious dolls await. And I’ve noticed that clothing for small girls is relentlessly – even furiously – feminine: pink and purple, frills and tucks, flowers and hearts. Depending on the day, I sigh, shudder, or rant.

What I’m less certain of is why this bothers me so. Little boys are equally stereotyped: blue and more blue, trucks and dinosaurs, “action figures” (can’t call them dolls, or society will collapse!) and toy guns. But to me this seems less dangerous, less toxic, less generally loathesome. Also, less compulsory. Am I under- or over-estimating boys, or being unfair to them in some way?

These questions churned in my brain as I read Cinderella Ate My Daughter. The pretty/pink conundrum torments Orenstein, too, as you’ll see if you read her book (I recommend it). And here’s where I think Orenstein really gets it right. She says:

It would be disingenuous to claim that Disney Princess diapers or Ty Girlz or Hannah Montana or Twilight or the latest Shakira video or a Facebook account is inherently harmful. Each is, however, a cog in the round-the-clock, all-pervasive media machine aimed at our daughters – and at us – from womb to tomb; one that, again and again, presents femininity as performance, sexuality as performance, identity as performance, and each of those traits as available for a price. It tells girls that how you look is more important than how you feel. More than that, it tells them that how you look is how you feel, as well as who you are.

That’s it, right there – the core of my anxieties, uncovered.

And the slam-poetry performance I mentioned earlier? It’s Katie Makkai’s “Pretty”. I think all girls should hear it – as mine will, one day. (Thanks, Coco.)

—

On a completely different subject, The Agency: A Spy in the House was recently shortlisted for an Agatha! These are readers’ choice awards (yes, named for Agatha Christie) and the members of Malice Domestic will vote for a winner at their April convention. (Check out the full shortlist here.) I’m so very honoured. Thank you, mystery fans!

Other reasons I’m anxious: I’m not the most ceremonious of people. And I hate drawing attention to myself. Oh, and at some level I believe that talking too much can jinx a thing. Yes, I am a ridiculous human being.

So with that lengthy and inglorious disclaimer, I am actually utterly delighted to announce that I’m pregnant. The baby is due in late May, and she’s a girl.

We are thrilled, and nervous, and eager to meet her.

Our son is over the moon (he’s been campaigning for a baby for ages).

And Y S Lee? She’s somewhat dismayed by the drop in energy levels, but promises to be back. Oh yes.