Laura Roberts, Button Tapper

I first heard about WordCamp Montreal a couple of days ago, and although I do use WordPress on this blog and to run my online magazine, Black Heart, I wasn’t sure whether or not I should attend. After all, it sounded way over my head, tech-wise, and as geeky as I’d like to think I am, I wasn’t sure I could handle two days worth of presentations on creating websites with WordPress, tweaking designs and code, and otherwise not absorbing information that has nothing to do with my purpose in life, which is writing (as opposed to building websites). And although $30 definitely isn’t a lot of money for a two-day conference (in fact, it’s seriously cheap, especially if you’re a student, as it’s only $25), I also don’t like to waste my time and money on things that won’t benefit me.

However, my friend CT Moore is giving a talk and mentioned that there will be several “101″ types of classes offered, including his “WP-MU 101: How to Install and Avoid Common Mistakes.” Additionally, he informed me that it would make a great networking opportunity. Aha!

So, I have just signed up for a media pass (newly instituted, after I emailed to ask the organizers if they had one; thanks, Sylvain!) and will be attending WordCamp Montreal (July 11-12) as a WordPress user, professional content creator, and media representative. I’ll be posting here and on the Broken Pencil blog about my experiences at WordCamp, and if you’d like to grab a pass while there’s still time (they’ll be selling online until July 9), feel free to join me!

Dear Canada,

It’s July 1, the day that Canadians celebrate their country, for better or for worse. Also known as “Moving Day,” here in Montreal (obviously, a separatist plot to ruin the fun of the oppressor’s holiday; how much fun can you have lifting heavy things for yourself and ten of your closest friends while the meter runs on the rental truck? aaaaaaaand GO!), I’ve always been a bit ambivalent about this particular holiday.

Probably because I’m not really Canadian.

Oh, sure, I seem to “pass” pretty well, having lived here for the past 7 years. I may have even developed the distinctly Canadian accent, throwing in the occasional “eh?” for emphasis. But underneath it all, I’m just a damn Yank, straight out of enemy territory, and I am always willing to compare Canada to its southern neighbour when some Canuck starts to get all pointlessly patriotic on me, having assumed I was “one of us.”

See, here’s the thing: while I may not be the type of American that Canadians love to hate (you know the ones: the kids from Boston here for the legal drinking age of 18; the ones that refer to Canadian dollars as “funny money”; the bastards who make a point of always saying, at any given moment, “Well, back home we do it like this!”), and I’ve certainly never been the flag-waving American who loves her country enough to defend it against all criticisms, Bush big and small. Still, when Canadians start to get all uppity with their generalizations, waving their Canadian flags and taunting the U.S. like a giant bull, I start to feel my nostrils flare and my inner Brooklynite rise to the surface. And then, beware!

During my time in Canada, I’ve found that there’s a lot of truth to the concept of Canada as “U.S.A. lite.” Want to get your hands on some of the latest technology? I’m sorry, that’s not available in Canada. Want to see the arty film from that hot American director? Sorry, you’ll have to wait about a month (or longer) for its Canadian release. Want products that are cheap yet well made? Tough luck, honey, you live in Canada. And god forbid you might want to enter a contest if you live in Quebec, the epicenter of all bureaucratic red tape!

Don’t get me wrong: I [heart] Canada, the little country that could. I admire the way your socialist forefathers set up a national healthcare system that, for the most part, seems to work. I enjoy your indie arts scene, which often gives America’s a run for its money. I like the way even big cities here can feel like small towns. But hot damn, Canada, get with the times! Why aren’t you making a fuss about this NAFTA crap and how you always get the short end of the stick? Why don’t you ever stand up to an American leader and tell him his foreign policies are just plain wrong? Why won’t you admit that your healthcare program is as imperfect as any other government-run system and get some kind of committee together to try to fix it already?

I could go on, because no nation is perfect, but I won’t, because today is supposed to be a day of celebration. Canada, you’ve come a long way, baby. You’ve (mostly) put an end to all the nature writing that once passed for literature here; you’ve been making a name for yourself as a country of environmentalists; you’re starting to get the hang of viewing yourself as a player in the world economy.

There’s just one final question I’d like to ask you, Canada: when are you gonna grow up and be a REAL nation, and give that Queen of England the boot? I mean, it’s not like she’s your mom or something. Can’t you say no to her? You’re not afraid of her, are you? Or do you just really like having an intermediary, with this whole Governor General thing? Seriously, Canada, are you really gonna be a protectorate forever?

Anyway, happy birthday, Canada. For better or for worse.

Cheers,
Laura

P.S. For an interesting take on the Canadian identity, and its relationship with the national literature (popularly known as “CanLit”), check out Steven W. Beattie’s latest blog post, “Like a big book club,” over at That Shakespearean Rag.

One of my favourite films is Fight Club. Part of my enjoyment obviously comes from the hot man-meat on screen (how can you turn down a ripped Brad Pitt & Edward Norton combo?), but on a deeper level, I think it’s a great movie because you can watch it again and again and always find something new in it. It’s rich with detail. And, quite frankly, this is probably the only film version of a story that’s better than the book. (Sorry, Palahniuk, but it’s true.)

Anyway, why do I mention this? Because at one point, Tyler Durden gives a list of things that you are not, one of which is: “You are not your job.”

I have always taken issue with this one, among all the others. I will agree that I am not my bank account, my grande latté, or my fucking khakis. But not my job? I like my job; I’m a writer, and I get paid to write things. This has always been my goal in life. So how can I not be my job?!

I think that the sentiment is not so much that you are not what you do, since, after all, what’s left of a man or woman if they don’t own their actions? Rather, the phrase “You are not your job” is really about separating your work from your self. There’s a difference. You may be trying to get your writing out there, for instance, but you’re not necessarily seeking the personal attention that often comes with it. You want your work to be noticed, judged, enjoyed… but not your personal life. YOU are not YOUR JOB, no matter how intimate (or autobiographical) that job may be.

I’ve been thinking about this recently because I am sometimes approached for interviews, and as I am a generally affable person, I often say yes. Until I think about the unintended consequences, which are that:

• I will have less time to devote to my work; and
• I will have to portray a fictional character that is not ME but MY WORK.

Since I usually write about sex, people seem to think that I’m a sex fiend, or a sexpert, or both, and I am faced with the dilemma of how to portray these types of characters as some version of my public persona. As Susie Bright says in her book How to Write a Dirty Story:

When you write about sex, it’s a little bit like stepping into a phone booth with your Superman costume. As you emerge with your spicy new story in hand, you’ll be treated not only as a writer, but as a political activist, a Planned Parenthood rep, and a naughty Dear Abby, all rolled into one.

I have, again and again, had to tell people that I am just a writer who is interested in the subject. I am certainly not an expert, as I don’t have a background in education, medicine, or even professional sex work. I’m not a sex researcher or a guru. And although I may have a number of tricks and tips up my sleeves, I’m certainly not going to simply give them away!

So I guess my point is this: if someone approaches me asking for favours, like doing an interview that takes up my time and doesn’t offer much in return, I’m not interested. I’m not in this for publicity or fame. I’m a writer because I like writing, and I like communicating, and I like trying to put words on paper in ways that are meaningful and true. Not because I like giving interviews or spending time away from my keyboard (although everybody needs a break now and then). Every time I have agreed to do something that had more to do with fame or publicity than with writing—even the stuff I felt I was doing as a favour to someone else, because they wanted to borrow my small amount of fame for a good cause—it has turned out badly. So I won’t do it anymore. It just isn’t worth it, to me.

I am not my job, and I’m finally okay with that.

After browsing around Jim Munroe’s No Media Kings site, I must admit that I am all fired up about indie publishing, self-publishing, and doing whatever it takes to get my work out there, in front of readers.

Full disclosure: I just sent an email to Véhicule Press asking if they’d be interested in publishing my sexy Montreal guidebook. They’re a cool small press located here in Montreal, and their publishers (Nancy Marrelli and Simon Dardick) have printed excellent books like the Cheap Thrills guidebooks and Bill Brownstein’s Montreal 24: Twenty-Four Hours in the Life of a City.

But, as Ariel Gore points out in How to Become a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead (which I just ordered online, because we’ve all still got a lot to learn), you have to get your work out there, no matter what.

No. Matter. What.

To me, this means blogging regularly, writing my column, applying for writing gigs on a weekly basis, and pitching stories to new venues. I sent a pitch to Maisonneuve magazine last week. One of these days I may even get up the gumption or the chutzpah to pitch the New York Times. I would rather aim high and fail than aim low and succeed. Which is not to say that getting my work printed in smaller venues isn’t useful; it is. It’s just that the New York Times has way more readers, and lots more potential for a publisher to read something I’ve written and be smitten. And I’d rather take a chance on getting published there, no matter how out of reach it may seem, than just be content to be published at all.

Getting published is funny, because no matter how many times you get a “Yes,” you still get excited. No matter how many times you get a “No,” you’ll keep sending your stuff out. Does it mean more when you get paid? Yes and no. Yes, because you might be able to keep pitching to that publisher, and therefore keep getting accepted and keep on getting paid. No, because you’ll always have a bigger goal, another wild and crazy dream to chase down. There’s always something bigger, better, higher to reach for.

So, I’m working on my book, and I’m getting my stuff out there. I’m plugging away on the stuff that pays my bills (though perhaps I should be devoting a bit more time to that), and I’m always making new plans, revising my goals, looking to the future. I’m getting my stuff out there, little by little, and I’m making a name for myself. Maybe I will never be Salman Rushdie or even Paul Auster, but I’ll keep on whittling away at it, keep on learning new things, keep on writing, and keep on truckin’.

Which reminds me: I have a manuscript I owe to an author. Time to get that emailed back to him.

Just a quick post to let you know what’s been going on with some of my many different projects.

• As part of the research for my Sexy Montreal guidebook, I’ve been scheduling interviews with various people involved in the sex industry. A lot of these have been going into my “V for Vixen” column, so if you like what you’ve been reading there, or have ideas for other people or groups to profile, let me know!
• As mentioned in my summer reading list post, I got to read an advance copy of Douglas Coupland’s latest novel, Generation A, and I’m writing up a review of it for Quill & Quire. My favourite line was definitely “buttery carb dildo,” in reference to corn. For the rest of the goods, you’ll have to read the review!
• I’ve been joining various affiliate programs, so you may have noticed the appearance of a few more ads on the right side of the Black Heart website. I’ve got lots of plans for bringing you guys awesome new content as a result of some of these partnerships, so don’t be shy about clicking those links!
• Speaking of Black Heart, I’m also teaming up with the awesome Andrea Hausmann for a new photo feature on the site. The Pin-Up of the Week section is going to present local burlesque performers, musicians, artists, actors and various other celebrities and cool people, all with a sexy pin-up approach. It’s about both personality and sex appeal, as always, so if you think you deserve to be profiled, get in touch!
• A Radio-Canada documentary director recently approached me to see if I’d be interested in working with him on a show he’s producing about modern etiquette. I’m going to do an interview on the subject of sexual etiquette, but I don’t want to give anything away, so I will just say stay tuned for more news on that.
• Finally, I’m scheduled to perform some of my patented erotica readings at Jeffrey Gandell’s “Clamorous Sundays” event on July 12 at the Green Room (5386 St-Laurent, metro Laurier). The event is also featuring the poetry of Bryan Sentes, the music of Nina Nielsen and your host Jeff Gandell with stories and projections. Doors open at 8:30 pm, and the show starts at 9 pm, so c’mon out and hear me talk dirty to a bunch of horny strangers!

Oh, and this has nothing to do with me or my projects, but if you’re in Montreal you should probably know that The Girlfriend Experience, starring adult film star Sasha Grey, is finally out in theatres. It’s currently playing only at Cinema du Parc, cus that’s how they roll.