Utnapishtim 3 (Trois)

A long, long time ago I bought an IBM ThinkPad on eBay and named it Utnapishtim (Utni, for short).  Utnapishtim is the guy who survived the flood in the Mesopotamian flood myth, and the gods offered him the gift of immortality.  (His wife, too.  She bakes him bread.  Sounds thrilling.)

I figured the laptop would last forever, since he'd obviously take on his namesake's mythical traits.  Surprisingly enough, it didn't work.  No bread, either.  Well, I should mention that Utni's still alive.  But his battery is dead, his bios battery is also gone, and he can't remember his own name.  Very sad and geriatric of him.  (Makes you wonder how the real Utnapishtim is doing.) 

So forth I went and purchased Utnapishtim II.  Utnu, for short.  He was a cute little iBook G4, and I loved him oh so very much.  I wore out the letters on his keyboard. Once, he got sick and I panicked.  This is the conversation I had with the tech guy (TG):

Me (calm) : "Yes, he hasn't been booting since yesterday."

TG (confused) : "He?"

Me (embarrassed) : "Um, yes.  I have a strong affinity with him."

TG (redefining reality) : "Ok.  So it, um, he doesn't boot?"

Me (worried) : "No.  He screams."

TG (polite but difficulty adapting) : "Screams?"

Me (wishing didn't feel Utnu was own person) : "Um, yes.  Well, he beeps three times.  Yes.  And he has kernel panics."

TG (back in realm of comfortable language) : "Those aren't good."

Me (too much information?) : "No, because when he panics, I panic.  It's really not a good scene."

TG (good old scout try) : "Oh.  Yes.  I can see that.  Well, ok, well, ship um, him in, and um, he'll see a, um, doctor.  Yes.  A laptop doctor."

I also sent him flowers while he was at the laptop hospital.  To Utnu, not the tech guy, though I hope he enjoyed them, too.  

Utnu at his favourite Second Cup.

When Utnu was geriatric, we went on a date to a Genius Bar at the Apple Store, and were informed that he was a good geriatric computer, but dying nonetheless.  He soon after clunkered out, after 3.5 years of fateful service.  I cried, I'll admit it.  To be fair, the unfinished Sorceress of Shadows was also trapped on him.  My brother, bless his patient technical soul, recovered all my information, but Utnu had some terrible issues and became Zombie Utnu (mostly because my brother wrote that on him).  Utnu was mentioned in the acknowledgements of Destiny's Blood.  He worked countless hours on it, too.

I needed a replacement quick - my manuscript was due soon!  So I ran out and bought a cheap netbook.  I named him Thoth.  He was cute, but he wasn't part of my Utnapishtim lineage.  I was convinced Thoth would die the day after his one-year warranty ended.  I was wrong.  He died three weeks after it ended.  Very sad.  Mostly because, once again, I was on a tight writing deadline.

But, possessing wicked laptop death powers of prediction, I had already started saving for Utnapishtim Trois (which is three in French.  Being bilingual gets me more options for cute nicknames!)  Utnapishtim Three, you see, would make Utni, which already existed.  Utnapishtim Trois, however, makes for a cute Utnois.   Not only had I started saving for him, but I'd gone to meet him a few weeks beforehand.  It's couth to meet your laptops at least once before bringing them home.

Utnois is a cute MacBook Air, 11 inches.  I always hesitate with first generation beasts, but he was so cute I simply couldn't resist.  He's extremely light, I enjoy the keyboard, he has wicked battery life and did I mention he was cute?  I signed up for the best warranty I could find, which covers replacement batteries, a necessity since it's one of those annoying integrated ones.  And, if this first generation clunkers out within four years, I get a whole new one!  Not that I want Utnois to die.  Oh no.  Not for 3.99 years, anyway!

So welcome to the family, Utnois!

That was just a photo op.  Utnois does not sleep with kittens.  Utnois is not pro-fuzz.

Holiday Special!

'Tis the season to be chilly...

Amazon.ca has run out of copies of Destiny's Blood, and shipping is now scheduled for after Christmas (gasp!).  Well, that simply won't do.  To compensate for this unfortunate turn of events, and to encourage you to give this wonderful read to your loved ones, I'm offering a super duper fantastic discount thingy.

Buy Destiny's Blood from me for a straight $20, and I'll ship it to you for free!  The book will be signed and include a bookmark (awesome, I know!)  Contact me at web@mariebilodeau.com to settle the deal.  I accept PayPal, cheques, money orders and cash payments in dark alleys.  Order soon - shipping for Christmas is guaranteed only until December 14!

Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble are still stocked for the holidays on the American side, but if you'd like your very own signed bookmark to include with the book, fire me off an e-mail and I'll merrily mail one your way.

About Destiny's Blood: 

"Marie Bilodeau knocks my socks off. She's got an amazing eye for detail and a sumptuous narrative voice. Destiny's Blood is a winner -- another home run from one of Canada's best new authors." -- Robert J. Sawyer, Hugo Award-winning author of WAKE


Layela Delamores wants nothing more than to settle into a quiet, peaceful life, running a small flower shop with her twin sister, Yoma. But Layela is tormented each night by terrifying visions that she cannot remember when she wakes. When Yoma vanishes, Layela is certain that her nightly visions hold the key - but only her sister's thieving friend, one of the last survivors of the ether races, can unlock them. Layela suspects that her friend isn't telling her the whole truth, instead sheltering her from her own visions.

Ripped from the safety of her flower shop into a universe of smugglers and assassins, Layela must pursue her sister across space in a desperate bid to overcome the destiny of destruction foretold in her dreams.

But without full knowledge of her visions, Layela has no way to prevent them from coming to pass. And the fate of a whole world is on the line: the mythical First Star is on a path to self-destruction and the annihilation of all life.

Unless Layela finds a way to stop it. But to stop it would mean sacrificing her sister.

Or herself.

Ottawa Storytelling Festival

Last weekend was the Ottawa Storytelling Festival, following a one-year hiatus so that it could be revamped and refocused.  Pat Holloway, Festival Co-chair, Caitlyn Paxson, Managing Artistic Director, and all of the festival committee should be proud of what they accomplished.

Thursday night featured Ivan Coyote, a storyteller and writer from the Yukon.  She was amazing, and what was even more amazing was the audience.  New faces abound, and the old Mayfair Theatre was almost full.  And the numbers kept coming out.

The Friday night line-up included a cabaret show, which was a brilliant stroke.  What better way to infuse the Festival with energy?  And again, the audience was diverse and fun.  I told a ghost story, with some singing and dying, and I loved the set-up.  (Little “squee” moment here: lots of listeners told me they loved my story, including tellers that I now worship. It's a great honour to have respected, world-renowned tellers tell you they like your style.  And so I “squee!!”)

Saturday saw Ben Haggarty's and Sianed Jones' re-imagining of Frankenstein, and the Ottawa Steampunk folk came out in full costume, earning the honour of being called the best dressed audience the British performers had ever seen!   They were followed by Tim Tingle, a Choctaw storyteller who can draw both laughter or tears with a single sentence. 

Needless to say I loved this year's festival.  I wish I could have gone to everything, but the main problem with being in an artistic environment is the ever-present and wild creative energy, and so I ran away to write.  The muse wasn't knocking.  She was beating down the door.  I'm sure my publisher won't complain. 

I can't wait to see what's in store for the next iteration of the Ottawa Storytelling Festival.  Make sure to keep an eye out for details, and to check it out.  In fact, check out any storytelling event in the region. The Ottawa Storytellers are making leaps and bounds into a more creative and current telling, offering a diverse array of stories and styles, while still maintaining its traditional stories and venues, as well.  This is an important diversification which allows storytelling itself to evolve into an art form that's accessible, striking and, more importantly, that draws in a wider audience.  

Stories don't exist without listeners, and I couldn't be more proud of the Ottawa Storytellers for expanding the reach of its stories, and for ensuring that both the new and traditional tellings have a place on the many stages of our beautiful city.

Ticks and Talks

(After reading this edge-of-your-seat tale, check out the update here.) 

I was totally going to illustrate the tick story.  It was going to be great.  See, I even started:

 

But then I remembered that I couldn't draw.  I figured it out out when I couldn't draw legs for me or a body for Roomy, since she was sitting down at the time and that proved too complex.  And I look pregnant, and my skirt is see-through, and there's just something generally wrong with all of this.  

But the tick looked kinda cute.  See?

Darn cute.

So anyway, I got home from a weekend away at a cottage and stretched (that's pretty accurate in the picture), and Roomy, whose got loads of hair (as depicted), asked if I had a bobo on my belly.  I looked down, and I saw some blood, and legs.  Yes, little moving legs.

Whispering "eeewww" ever so gently, I shuffled towards Roomy, who looked closer and then backed away.

"I think it's a tick," she said.

And right she was!  Roomy managed to pull out the tick with tweezers, a needle and her health card.  Well, most of the tick, anyway.  Which was pretty awesome of her as she's terrified of spiders and ticks are in the arachnid family (or so one of my friends informs me.  Note accuracy of drawing - I put in eight legs.  Eight cute legs.)

The next morning we trekked to the clinic to get the rest of the tick out, but it was too full so we went for breakfast instead.  Priorities!

On Tuesday morning, I was ousted from work to go get it checked out.  I went to a nearby clinic, waited for a bit, and the doctor called me in.  She was an adorable older woman with red hair complete with white roots, and she sat me down in front of her.

"What can I do for you, dear?"

I leaned in, eyes wide.  "I have a tick!"

"Is it still in there, dear?"

Leaned in a bit more.  "Most of it's out.  I think."

"Well, why don't you show me."

I backed up, so I wouldn't knock her down lifting my shirt.  I showed her the wound on my white belly.

"Oh yes, there's definitely something in there that's not you.  Do you want me to take it out?'

Now see, at first I thought that was a trick question, kind of like when the dentist asked if I wanted Novocain, and I thought "hey, if he's asking, then LOTS of people must get three cavities filled with absolutely no anesthetics, so I can do it, too!", and I said no, and I saw stars, felt my spine shrivel and witnessed the tunnel of darkness closing in on my vision, and I've just generally been haunted by my own stupidity ever since.  Now to show I CAN learn, I totally said "um, yes?"

So she took out this nasty needle and froze me, and with first surgical scissors and then a scalpel, she cut my tender tender belly flesh and pulled out the tick bit.  Which she showed to me.  It was little.  A paw, methinks.

The best part was the doctor having to call Telehealth Ontario.  As she's only had to deal with one tick in her (long) career as a doctor, and she hadn't heard of ticks near Westport, she wanted to make sure there were no health advisories for rampaging Lyme disease or people turning into zombies and stuff like that.  

Telehealth Ontario, it turns out, wasn't aware of ticks in that area, either.  So they've no clue what wonderful bacteria this bibitte has gifted me with, but they're very curious to find out.  Depending on "what happens to me," as was kindly put, they might put out a health advisory.  

Maman, I'm moving up in the world!

In the meantime I'm putting this super duper antibiotic cream on my belly hole.  The cream is called Bactroban, and must be said in very dramatic inflections.  It even has a theme song, now!  

All's good on the bug front, though.  My biggest concern is my unfortunate reaction to band aids.  The red welts are not the cutest thing I've ever seen.  

After all this sexy talk, don't forget the cabaret show tonight!  I'll be performing in the Vernacular Spectacular, a part of the Ottawa Storytelling Festival, starting at 10pm at St. Brigid's Centre on St. Patrick's.  Don't worry, I won't be telling the tick story.  But there will be some singing!

See you then!

Chasing Story

I recently spent a few days at a cottage in the middle of the woods with storyteller Ruthanne Edward and poet Kathryn Hunt, prepping for our upcoming National Arts Centre show The Warrior Queen: Chasing Boudicca. 

For a few days we were isolated, just the three of us, and we read books and poems, created a story arc, divvied up work and ran around in the woods with our canine companion, Willow.  We stared at the stars and imagined generations long vanished doing the same, we sang songs and danced, and we sat around fires as we pondered burning towns and lost battles.

Then on Monday I had the honour of being invited to tell at John Abbott College near Montreal.  One of the students asked an interesting question: what's your favourite part of storytelling, aside from the actual telling?

After spending a memorable few days chasing stories, it was easy enough to provide that as an answer.  It's always fun getting to know the structure of the tale you'll be telling and trying to remain true to its nature while adapting it to your particular style (or, in some cases, ignoring its nature completely.  Depends on the purpose of the show, really.)  It can take up to a hundred stories before finding one that resonates with the teller and demands to be told. 

For my recent Shenkman Centre Show, Beyond the Fields we Know, I had to find some science-fiction and fantasy stories.  Easy enough, right?  I mean, I write the stuff!  Alas.  I had lots of sci-fi stories in my repertoire, but they weren't quite hitting the mark for me.  I had to enlist Roomy's help to find another story, since she's an avid short story reader, and it took quite a few before I read one I knew I could tell.

Reciting poetry by the fire.  And my stripy socks.

There's this amazing flow of energy and words when you read one of those stories that you know you can tell well.  It hardly means that learning the story will be easy, but it will certainly be worthwhile and memorable, for both the teller and the listener.  Well, that's the hope, anyways.

So chasing story is an amazing part of storytelling.  It takes time and dedication to find the right story, but the magic created when telling them makes the efforts worthwhile.  After a few days of immersing ourselves in Boudicca's story, I can say without a doubt that the January 20^th show will be completely kick-ass! 

And then I came home to deal with a tick.  Oh, yes.  But that's a post for another day.

A Whole Decade, eh? No Kidding.

I recently rambled about being invited back to my alma mater, Wilfrid Laurier University, to participate in a Religion and Culture alumni panel.  The idea was to show arts students a slew of career possibilities and that there was indeed life after an arts degree.  We were four, and it was great hearing the three other panelists, Jason Shim, Christine Mckinlay and Elysia Guzik, describe their post-degree experiences. 

But the oddest thing of all was that I was the old foggy.  I'm 32, so I haven't encountered that issue often.  All of the others were more recent grads, from 2007 and 2008.  And I have to admit, they had impressive experiences to share, so kudos to them for their ambition and time management techniques!  Two years after graduating, I'd held about ten jobs and wasn't even writing seriously yet.

The sheer act of being back on campus triggered some (rather rare) self-reflection.  Which then, of course, triggered a ramble.

I'm not overly concerned about my past.  I'm lucky in the fact that the only loved ones I've lost are pets, and I'm still in contact with all of my close family and friends.  I see the past as a road I traveled, and I hooked what was best of it along the way and I hope never to shed those things. Those are friends, family, hopes, dreams... the rest can stay on the road, with occasional (and sometimes unwanted) visits, of course.

But after ten years, plunging back into a place where you did so much growing up does stir memories.  Not necessarily of events, but rather of who I used to be.  Hopes and dreams I didn't even realize I'd left behind came back for a visit. Illusions surprised me, too, of who I was and what I could do.  And I hate to admit it, but some of that youthful optimism, heck, a lot of it, has gone to the wayside without my noticing.

Don't get me wrong, I think I still fit the "optimistic" definition in most people's dictionary, but wow was I wickedly more optimistic ten years ago.

I stopped and pondered, for a few brief seconds: was that loss a bad thing?  Maybe out of self-preservation or because of the simple realization that you really can't go back again, I decided it really wasn't.  I've been tempered by real-life experiences, by a journey that may have claimed a few dreams along the way, but that seeded many, many more.  What used to be dreams turned to plans, immediately removing that shiny glow, but adding actual results, too.  Many of the things I used to say that I would do I've now done, and the road is only wider from here on, and I have a much clearer idea of where it's leading me.  And, more importantly, of where I want it to lead me.

Optimism is still present, sure, but a more realistic optimism.  I may no longer believe I can change the world, but I do firmly believe I can change someone's day for the better.  Those beliefs are backed by the knowledge that I've done so before, and I intend to continue doing so, even if I have to hand out balloons to everyone in multiple shopping centres (try it someday.  Helium balloons make everyone happy, in my experience.)

And the best of what I had then I still have, like my friends.  I still have myself, too, and the core of what's always made me.  That was an important realization.  The filters through which I perceive the world may be a bit dustier and the light might not penetrate quite as well, but the system is tested and true and it gets regular cleanings.  I hate to quote the old saying "the more things change, the more they stay the same," but for the first time in my life I really felt that way about my life, about me, about my choices.  And it was at first scary, and then neat.  Looking at the road behind me highlighted how far I'd come and the lovely journey I'd undertaken.  And I still love it.

Being a bit more forward-looking, however, I can't help but turn back around and see the mountains of coolness coming my way.  Mountains that I'm sure I can climb nicely if I prepare, and it's all still in the works.  Shows, books, short stories... so much to do!  But I guess that was one of the main messages of the panel at my university: we're all works in progress.  It's lovely.

But, unlike me, my projects have very real deadlines and I can't tell a "still in progress" story!  So onward.  Thanks to my co-panelists and everyone else at Wilfrid Laurier University for a memorable, pleasant and striking stay.

Con*Cept and Ahead

I spent the weekend in Montreal at Con*Cept, and I had an absolute blast reconnecting with old friends and making new ones.  Friday night, Erik Buchanan and I held a double book launch, which was well-attended and fun.  We served chips and warm pop, and gave away some prizes.  It was fun sharing "reading space" with Erik, since he's an actor and gives a heck of good reading!

The con was great fun all around.  I participated on various panels with a bunch of talented and hilarious people (including Violette Malan, Karen Dales, Tad Williams, Jo Walton and David G. Hartwell), and gave two storytelling shows.  One of them was my first French show ever, and I loved it.  I told stories my father had told me as a child (and as an adult), and it was fun revisiting these old friends.

The concom was wonderful and well-organized, and I can't thank them all enough for their hard work and for a great con.  I'll definitely be participating again next year!

Oh, and I was honoured to be made an honourary klingon.  Two of my favourite souvenirs from Con*Cept are my Klingon Empire symbol and a hand-drawn sheep.  And all the lovely memories, of course!

Now's the time to move ahead. With my recent car problems, I've had to back out of World Fantasy Con, which makes me sad on many levels.  But I'd be much sadder having to strip my licence plates on the side of an Interstate when my car died.  In that light, it seemed an easy choice to make.  So the 2010 con season is already over for me, though it was a good one.

My next plans include two big storytelling shows and a novel to write, so the rest of the year beckons!  Onward, and all that good stuff.