Yvonne Collins's MySpace Blog |

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Stellar X 2

Until today, Yvonne and I have pretty much been stars only in our own minds. But now we’ve discovered that we’re nominated for The Stellar Book Award— British Columbia’s Teen Readers Choice Award.

And the really great news is that TWO of our books have been nominated – The Black Sheep and The New and Improved Vivien Leigh Reid: Diva in Control.

From now till April, teens throughout B.C. can read, rank, review, and discuss favourite nominees. We hope lots of west coast teens will discuss us, and when they’re done with that, they can discuss the fabulous Susan Juby, who’s also nominated. If we have to lose (but how could we, with TWO books in the running?), we want to lose to Susan.

I’m not trying to influence anyone here, but I love Vancouver and visit often. You guys have the mountains and the ocean, whereas in Toronto, we’ve got… snow. Soon, anyway. The only thing Yvonne and I hate more than winter is… Well, nothing, actually. But now we can look forward to spring and perhaps winning a Stellar.

Enjoy a long winter’s reading B.C. teens — and thanks for making this bleak, late November day starry.

1:29 AM

(Add Comment) |

1 Kudos

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

For the Writers on Your Gift List

Yvonne is a master gifter. She has a talent for choosing unique gifts, wrapping them beautifully, and making the giftee feel special.

For someone raised on practical gift-giving, reciprocating creates a lot of pressure. My parents favoured sensible gifts—vacuums, garden hoses, flashlights, can openers, maybe a sweater to liven things up.

That’s what I’m working against when I’m shopping, and Yvonne has learned to steel herself as she peeks into a gift bag and discovers yet another inspiring find from the housewares department. She always rallies, though, and the duller the gift, the more she raves about its utility later. “I still use those measuring cups,” she says, brightly. “Very handy.”

I’ve stepped up my game since the measuring cup debacle a decade ago, but I can’t keep pace with Yvonne, who’s barely hitting her stride.

Recently, with help from husband Dave, she came up with the perfect birthday gift for a writer: framed “word clouds” of our Vivien Leigh Reid series.

I hadn’t heard of word clouds before, but all you have to do is go to http://www.wordle.net/ plug in your text (in this case a manuscript) and voila:

Introducing Vivien Leigh Reid: Daughter of the Diva

Now Starring Vivien Leigh Reid: Diva in Training

The New and Improved Vivien Leigh Reid: Diva in Control

This is a gift with layers.

First, Yvonne is encouraging me to buy a house with a wall upon which to hang my word clouds. It’s a vote of confidence (AKA a kick in the butt) in my long battle against mortgage phobia.

Second, it’s a visual keepsake of a series we loved writing. Seeing “Annika,” “Darling,” “acting,” “film,” “cut,” and “guys” hanging over my desk will take me back into Leigh’s world for awhile and motivate me to recapture that sense of fun.

Finally, the gift is useful in a way Yvonne never intended. These clouds highlight some words we overuse, because the program gives prominence to those that appear most frequently. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to see “just,” “maybe,” “anyway,” “already,” “probably,” “always” taking up so much space in my clouds.

Luckily, we’re about to revise the first book in our new Love Inc. series and still have time to seek out and destroy as many of those words as possible. It’s not just a matter of good writing, anymore. I have to think about the clouds overhead.

Not that I’m likely to receive framed word clouds for The Black Sheep or Girl v. Boy from Yvonne for Christmas. A master gifter never repeats herself.

7:06 PM

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

Wednesday, June 03, 2009

Summer Slaving – Yvonne’s Resume

June is here and for many, that means finding a summer job. If you’re super-organized, maybe you already have one lined up, but if you’re a procrastinator like me, it’ll be a last minute scramble.

I wouldn’t recommend my approach. It led to career opportunities like selling manure in a garden center and luggage in a mall. I handled a switchboard, did endless real estate title searches and taught kids how to play the organ.

One year, I left it so late that the only one willing to hire me was… my dad. Trust me, getting a ride to work every day wasn’t worth the trade off of spending the best months of the year stuck in a stuffy little office with no one to talk to but my father. The social deprivation was torture for a chatterbox like me and it wasn’t long before the crucial filter that saves us from disclosing too much personal information to our parents malfunctioned. I started blathering on about whatever crossed my mind—including boys. At sixteen, boys crossed my mind a lot.

After a few weeks, I got so comfortable over-sharing with my dad that I didn’t confine my confessions to the office. In fact, I was casually comparing one of my classmates to Hugh Grant when we rounded the corner in a store and found a group guys from school eavesdropping on the entire conversation. Thanks to the insanely long memory guys have for life’s embarrassing moments, I paid for that indiscretion right through senior year. And naturally, the Hugh Grant look-alike ran for the hills after hearing the story.

Fortunately, there were plenty of other crush-worthy guys around, and soon I was back to my old tricks and telling my dad all about “Gavin,” the hottest guy on the football team. I mentioned Gavin’s shady rep and declared myself up for the job of reforming him. (Hey, it can happen—look at Lila and Tim on Friday Night Lights!)

Sounding just like a pal, my father offhandedly asked Gavin’s age. I over-shared that not only was Gavin nearly 19 he was also back for a “victory lap” at school. Like magic, my real dad resurfaced and I suddenly found myself working late and on weekends. It was a total abuse of employer power—and it worked. My quarterback figured out he was never going to score and moved on.

I accused my dad of ruining my life, but looking back it was all for the best. Although Gavin did eventually graduate, his final senior yearbook named him most likely to do jail time.

Besides, my dad made it up to me three years later, when our good relationship landed me my best summer job ever. When I turned nineteen (legal drinking age in Ontario, Canada), my father took me to a fancy hotel bar and bought me my first drink. At the next table was the director of a large social service organization who was so impressed that a teen was hanging out with her dad (not such a stretch when there’s free liquor involved!), that she gave me her business card and offered to get me a job anytime.

True to her word, the next summer she set me up as a camp counselor for single moms on probation. My job was to lead educational programs for the moms and it was tough going at first. I’d led a fairly cushy and protected existence in the suburbs and I couldn’t exactly relate to what the participants had gone through. They knew it, too, and gave me a pretty good hazing. But I stuck it out—and not just because of my empty bank account and my crush on a hot male counselor.

That summer job ended up being the most rewarding of all. Getting to know the women and hearing their stories made me grateful for everything I’d taken for granted in my own life. It also taught me not to judge a book by its cover. By the end of the summer, my “campers” let me know I’d touched their lives, too. I was richer not only for the paychecks, but also for experience.

As icing on the cake, I had a hot new boyfriend I didn’t need to reform at all.

12:35 PM

(Add Comment) |

1 Kudos

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Free Book Friday

Head over to teens.freebookfriday.com to win an autographed copy of GIRL v. BOY or THE BLACK SHEEP.

Thanks so much to Jessica Brody, author of THE FIDELITY FILES and
founder of Free Book Friday, for giving us a chance to describe how we
manage to write together without killing each other. It’s a timely
reminder for us, since we just started working on our new “Love Inc.”
series.

So check out the site and enter to win. We’ve even thrown in a couple of BLACK SHEEP T-shirts for runners up.

  Have a great weekend, everyone!

7:31 PM

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

Saturday, January 24, 2009

The Team Expands

Yvonne and I have a lot in common. We both love long walks, cashmere, Starbucks, and slightly burned cookies. But, as I mentioned previously, we differ in one fundamental way: Yvonne is a dog person and I am a cat person.

Yes, I love dogs—and rabbits and tropical fish and gerbils. I wouldn’t mind giving a ferret or parrot a try.

But for me, these would have to come in addition to a cat.

Yvonne, on the other hand, will probably never own a cat. If pressed, she might say this is my fault.

When we met, she was quite fond of Patches, the cat next door. But once we became roommates, there was a constant string of strays in our rundown neighborhood and I couldn’t say no. Most of them were sickly and needed vet visits and pills or eye ointment. All of them needed new homes.

Then there was Hugo, the one I kept.

Yvonne and I had found a new place in a better neighborhood and I moved in first. When she moved in, she called me at work.

“Your cat is attacking me,” she said. There was a scream and then a click.

He had her cornered in the kitchen when I got home, and was making little leaps at her. It was like a welcoming ritual, only with claws.

They became pals eventually, but Yvonne never fully appreciated Hugo, even after he caught a mouse in her bedroom.

“Your cat, your problem,” she said, stepping over the maimed rodent and locking herself outside.

So when it came time to re-cat last fall, it was kind of Yvonne to play chauffeur. We drove out to the suburbs, where I had located my new orange tabby. I had also agreed to collect his little sister for a colleague who wanted a kitten.

Here we are right outside their first home.

Notice how Yvonne is keeping me between her and the cats. It’s almost like she knew they were about to lose noxious fluids from every orifice.

We were barely in the Mini when Yvonne said, “Do you smell that?”

It was hard to miss, and it got worse fast. There was barfing and yowling and panting and jangling of the crate door. It was hard to believe two tiny creatures could make such a fuss. Although it was a cold night, we hit the highway with the windows down.

By the time we reached my place, there was silence. The kittens were in the back corner, motionless.

“Want me to come in and see if they’re okay?” Yvonne asked, revving the Mini for take-off.

I said I’d take a cab to the emergency vet if I had to. She’d already gone above and beyond.

I opened the door of the crate expecting the worst, but Stella hopped right out. She explored a little, cleaned herself up, and started to purr. It didn’t take long for me to decide that two cats are better than one.

But we’re definitely going to need a bigger place when the dog arrives.

And we may need a different chauffeur if the household expands to include ferret or parrot.

There’s only so much any coauthor should have to take.

9:07 PM

(Add Comment) |

2 Kudos

Friday, December 05, 2008

Kicking Off the Season

Well, Christmas is nearly upon us and Sandy and I have been busy ho-ho-ho-ing and shop-shop-shopping!

Is it just me, or does December always go by at warp speed? Not that I'm complaining, because I'm a sucker for this time of year. Sandy always teases that I spend too much time lingering on street corners that sell Christmas trees, because I LOVE the smell! I love the decorations, the lights, the parties and yes, even the music (though not so much when it cranks up the day after Halloween!).

This December feels extra-special, because we kicked it off with a visit to Bessborough Public School in Leaside, Toronto.

The Grade 8 book club invited us to lunch to talk about The Black Sheep. We had a great time, talking books with the girls over pizza and homemade biscotti.

Thanks to all the girls and their wonderful teachers, Cathy and Tina, who made us feel so welcome. You put us in the best of spirits and after all, it's friends — both old and brand new — who really make this season special!

5:11 PM

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

Friday, October 17, 2008

P-Rated

You may wonder what it is we’re doing when we’re not blogging, which, let’s face it, is most of the time. Regular bloggers we are not.

Yvonne spends a lot of her free time watching cooking shows, something she describes as “food porn.”

I’m useless in the kitchen, but I have my own addiction: pet porn.

It’s been a problem for close to a year now, since my beloved cat, Molly, died at age 15. After a respectful period of mourning, I made my way over to www.petfinder.com to check out my options. With Molly gone, I had the opportunity to get the dog I’ve always wanted.

Now, the dog I’ve always wanted is perfect. It doesn’t yap, growl, eat garbage, have “accidents,” roll in disgusting things, smell “doggie,” or require a huge amount of exercise.

Yvonne, owner of Dexter, a prince among mini-schnauzers, scoffed at my list. “You probably want it to purr,” she said.

Which would certainly be a plus. But I haven’t found a dog that does on petfinder, or any of the other rescue sites I visit regularly.

In the past few months, I’ve considered Akitas to Whippets and every mix in between. I’ve sent some appealing ads to Yvonne, including one for a Jack Russell terrier that was both housebroken and trained to use a litter box. It had a vast repertoire of tricks. “Too high maintenance,” Yvonne said. And in view of my inexperience with dogs, that Jack would have been running my life in no time.

Then along came the perfect little red-headed mutt. I filled out the out adoption form and sent it to the dog rescue organization. No one answered my calls. It was as if they could sense my unrealistic expectations.

Sucked ever deeper into the world of pet porn, checking “my sites” was the first thing I did when I logged on every day. Some dogs were too big, others too small. Some were too active, others had separation anxiety.

Finally I realized I’d fallen into a great time-sapping sinkhole. What I was really doing was procrastinating. There is no such thing as the perfect dog.

So I gave it all up, cold turkey.

And turned my attention to finding the perfect cat.

To my mind, all cats are perfect, but some are more perfect than others. My smoky gray Molly was perfectly devoted to me; unfortunately she loathed everyone else, including the cat-sitter. If I went away, Molly would pull out her fur and refuse to eat.

When she died, I agreed to adopt a mellow orange male tabby from a neighbor. Roberto had a big build and a bigger purr and in less than a week, my parents had stolen him. But that is the subject of another blog.

Afterwards, I casually surveyed vets, friends and colleagues and many agreed that orange male tabbies have the best temperaments.

As it turns out, I am not the only one in on the orange tabby secret. It took time to find one, but persistence and pet porn paid off. I met my orange male tabby last week. I’m happy to report that at six weeks, he’s adorable. Mellow, however, he is not. A blur of constant motion, he was more interested in beating up on his sisters than in meeting Yvonne and me. Still, I’ve decided to take a chance on him.

That said, I’m still in the market for the perfect dog. It doesn’t have to purr, but it must look good with orange.

6:52 PM

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

Thursday, September 25, 2008

I'm out of Jail

No, I wasn’t doing time for a crime. I was doing time on a movie that takes place in a prison. A five week sentence, to be precise. So while Sandy has been bear spotting on pastoral back roads at her cottage, I’ve been wandering cellblocks like these:

So much for the glamour of the film business, huh? This is a deserted old jail a few hours outside of Toronto and a number of films have been shot here, including the recent release, Blindness.

Although it feels a little strange when you first wander the empty corridors alone (especially at night), I got used to it surprisingly quickly. The only area of the jail that I found to be creepy was “the hole” --the place in the basement of the building where they sent prisoners for solitary confinement. Of course, it didn’t help that the basement no longer has functioning electricity, so pushing our equipment through pitch black corridors and first seeing the cellblock by flashlight, added to the effect.

But even with our movie lights burning, the hole is a depressing place. The tiny cells resemble cages in which there is just enough room for a small cot and not much else. There is no natural light down there and no toilets or sinks in the cells. Instead, there is just one community toilet at the end of the hall, which is right out in the open. If that isn’t reason enough to stay on the straight and narrow, I don’t know what is!

Okay, there is one other thing about prison life that scares me straight....the meals. As a passionate foodie, I can’t imagine existing on the gruel they serve in those places. Unfortunately, the catering on our film wasn’t much better. It was so bad, in fact, that I opted out of the lunches altogether and brought my own meals instead. But a girl can only get so creative when she’s living without a kitchen (hello sandwiches, yogurt and cold soy burgers). I thought I was going to get scurvy from lack of fresh fruits and veggies. And now that the movie is wrapped, all I can think about is great food.

To that end, my husband and I went out for a great dinner with my parents. Since it was a rare warm night and the summer is almost over, we opted to dine on the backyard patio, but as it turns out, I wasn’t the only foodie there who was obsessed with thoughts of a good meal...

Normally, I’d find scavenging raccoons quite cute, but on this occasion, nothing was coming between me and my beet salad...and my bruschetta....and my garlic shrimp. The owners of the restaurant managed to scare off the intruders quite effectively with a flashlight, though they nearly scared my mother off too, when four fat raccoons wobbled off across a cable that was a mere six feet over her head.

Despite the urban wildlife, it’s great to be home. And now I’m off to enjoy my freedom in the kitchen, where I’ll be cooking up a storm!

1:51 AM

(Add Comment) |

2 Kudos

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Did You See That?

I’ve needed glasses for a few years, now. Okay, make that ten years. I wear them when I’m driving because I figure I owe it to everyone else on the road, but beyond that I mostly don’t bother. If life is slightly blurry around the edges, that’s fine by me.

It might be a different story if I looked good in glasses. No need to go into detail here about my oversized, misshapen cranium. Suffice to say that even Yvonne had to admit I have challenges in the frames department. I can’t wear contacts, either.

I was managing pretty well until this summer, when I started to notice what I wasn’t noticing. During my typical daily walk at the family cottage, for example, I saw a pair of riders on horseback approaching in the distance. As they crested a hill, however, I realized it was actually four humans and two dogs on leashes.

On the road the following evening, I said to my mother, “Check out that cat. Why is it walking so funny?”

Mom’s eyes narrowed behind her thick lenses. “Because it’s a crow?”

I agreed I should give my glasses a try, at least during solitary strolls on the country roads. Who knew what else I was missing?

The next day my prescription shades revealed distinct leaves on trees that used to be masses of green. The hawk soaring overhead turned out to be an osprey and the reddish blur in the distance came into focus as a deer. It was practically a National Geographic special.

I was heading down the hill that leads to the main road when I heard twigs snapping. Turning my corrected vision to the left, I quickly located the culprit. A black head with small ears loomed over a fence a few yards away. The creature was on its hind legs, watching me with small brown eyes.

Without my glasses, I might have mistaken it for an unusually agile Labrador retriever. With my glasses, I could positively ID it as a black bear. A young black bear, but a bear nonetheless.

Here’s where I saw it:

I’ve read those tips about what to do when confronted by a bear (usually a sidebar with a report of a bear mauling), but I didn’t pay much attention. In the dozens of summers I’ve spent at my cottage, I’ve never once seen a bear. Maybe I missed some that were actually there, but I doubt it. That kind of news tends to get around.

Faced with the real thing, I couldn’t remember what to do. Whistle? Clap? Sing? Crouch? Run? Play dead?

While I weighed my options, the bear climbed over the fence and walked across the road in front of me. It watched me the whole time.

Soon it was behind me, moving quickly up the hill and deeper into the bushes. I continued down the hill, my head swiveling exorcist-style. The young bear didn’t worry me that much, but the prospect of meeting its mother didn’t appeal. (What kind of mom would let her youngster roam the roads at noon in a well-populated area, anyway? There’s a perfectly good garbage dump ten miles down the road. Bear heaven.)

Turning at the bottom of the hill, I headed toward home. Walking a lot faster than usual, if you must know. Practically running.

I was about to cross the highway when I heard more twigs snapping. The sound was louder this time, so I figured it had to be the mother bear.

Out of the bush came the same young bear—or its identical twin. Once again it crossed the road in front of me, this time even closer. It didn’t even look at me. Obviously I am not much of a threat.

Here’s where I saw it the second time:

It took my legs a few seconds to pick up the signal from my brain but when I finally crossed the highway, I saw the same group of people I’d mistaken for horses a few days earlier.

“I’d pick up that Chihuahua if I were you,” I said. “There’s a bear in the bush.”

The man gave me a skeptical look and I wondered how many other annoying facial expressions I’d missed in my years of not wearing glasses.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “The people I rented the cottage from said there aren’t any bears around here.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said, keeping watch over my shoulder. “I’m wearing my glasses.”

And I’ll be wearing them during all my walks from now on.

Cottage country is no place for vanity.

1:16 AM

3 Comments

(Add Comment) |

2 Kudos