Tag Archive: writing


Short version: It was amazing!

Slightly longer version: It was amaaaaaaazing!!

Much longer version: The dictionary definition of “amazing” should refer – at least in passing – to the Dam Short Film Festival (DSFF) held in the beautiful Boulder City, NV. (Not far from Las Vegas.)

I had the absolute, incredible, mind-blowing honour of having my sci-fi short film, “Please Don’t Send Help,” screen at that beautiful festival. They accept only 23% or so of submitted films, and they’re among the top 1% film festivals in the world, out of about 15,000 or so. I first learned about the DSFF through an old friend of mine, Aaron, who lives in Nevada and occasionally volunteers. I’d never heard of DSFF before and I’m ashamed to say that my first thought was, “Well, that’s one goofy-named festival.” Heh. (The Hoover Dam has been a really big influence on that town’s history.) In the end, it was a matter of paying $50 for a submission fee in September – and I’m so very, very glad I did.

The notification email dropped on January 1: I was in! What a way to start the year, y’all. What followed was a frenzy of activity, since the festival began just six weeks later. Found a ridiculously cheap flight deal out of Montreal (thanks, Kiwi.com!), secured a couch to crash on (thanks, Aaron!), and started counting down days…

I won’t bore you with the minutiae and the many, many stories of fun shenanigans that happened in that desert town. Fun was had. Many many new friendships with fellow filmmakers were forged. Great vibes were shared. Much beer was drunk.

The staff, the volunteers, and the locals were so ridiculously, over-the-top friendly and enthusiastic… And there was so much variety among the films. Mine was an experimental 2.5-minute (not a typo; two-and-a-half minutes) short film made with NASA’s archival footage and a $15 budget. It aired alongside films shot on an iPhone in two days, films made with animated paper figures, Netflix-quality student films, and a film on sweatshops (Anuja) that’s up for an Oscar this year! Not every filmmaker was there, but there were still dozens of us, and we all rubbed elbows at the early-morning coffeeshop get-togethers and the almost-nightly afterparties. (Huzzah!)

While we were there, it rained for the first time in 10 months. Such a rarity in the desert… I’d spent 10 years of my life in Nevada, all over the state. I’m not sure if the others truly gathered the rarity of that event.

My film screened during the sci-fi block on Saturday afternoon. The theater was full: probably 250-300 people. It was incredibly nerve-racking. (Also didn’t help that I hadn’t eaten much beforehand…) It reminded me of the first time I did nude modeling: intellectually and logically, you know everything will be okay – but emotionally… Emotionally you’re a wreck, and you keep imagining wilder and wilder scenarios. (Incidentally, there was an excellent film from the festival that explored that very concept! Please enjoy The Bell Never Rings Again, a 15-minute masterpiece by Matthias Fuchez. Hurry, because I don’t know how long he’ll keep his film up for streaming.)

But I digress, eh. The nerves. Yeesh… After my film screened (without any booing or rotten eggs or riots!), there were a few more, and then it’d be time for the official Q&A on stage. I’d spent the entire day mentally rehearsing my answers to the most likely questions, trying to keep it my replies short as possible. (No one likes a microphone hog.) I sneaked out during one of the following film’s credits, went to the movie theater’s bathroom, and did the most stereotypical thing possible: splashed water in my face and gave myself a pep talk in the mirror. Long-time blog readers might know that one of my many, many online nicknames is “Grigorius of Tomsk, Devourer of Pop-Tarts, Victor of Many Battles.

Soooo, yeah, I stood there, in the empty bathroom, trying to psych myself up for the huge Q&A in front of hundreds of people, by staring my reflection in the eye and saying – repeatedly – “You are Grigorius of Tomsk, Devourer of Pop-Tarts, Victor of Many Battles. You got this!” And you know what? That actually helped! (It would be so very, very funny if there’d been a volunteer or just a random guy who stood just outside the bathroom, afraid to go in, wondering what the hell was going on. I guess I’ll never know!)

So, anyway… The Q&A. It was myself and the guy that did special effects for one of the other sci-fi films. Just the two of us on that big stage. Something went sideways during the planning process, apparently, and the entire Q&A ran for just three minutes, not 10-15 like I’d anticipated. Bah, humbug. Still, I got a couple of quick answers and didn’t make a fool of myself. That’s not bad, eh.

I’ll fast-forward here and say that I didn’t win the audience prize for the best sci-fi, but that’s alright – there will always be next year. The festival went above and beyond with their red carpet experience on the awards night. They ferried each filmmaker (or filmmaker team) in a fancy car, ranging from a famous pickup truck to a red Corvette (I got to ride in that one, wooo!), with an actual red carpet, a local pageant winner escorting you from the car, arm in arm, the local media doing a quick interview, and about a hundred people cheering and whoop-whooping at the top of their lungs as you made your appearance.

That was phenomenal. Absolutely phenomenal and over-the-top and brilliant and amazing. (The final afterparty was fun, too!) I say this with utmost honesty and without any exaggeration: that was the greatest week of my adult life. I am addicted now. I shall return. And also, now I’m spending a lot of time looking up other top-rated festivals, as well as those that aren’t in the top 1% but have rave reviews focused on hospitality and enthusiasm.

This festival gave me a ridiculous boost of self-confidence and inspiration. During the flight back to Quebec, and the days that followed, I wrote two new short stories from scratch (for upcoming anthologies) – and I have a great feeling about them! A couple of days ago (the festival ran February 12-17) I chugged my emergency NOS energy drink, sat down with no distractions, and knocked out three new short films. All three were made with found footage, and with sub-$50 budgets. Two of them were drafts I’d never gotten around to finishing, and the third one was something I’d gather the components for but never quite assembled. Well, they’re done now: just need to make a few more tweaks after my beta-viewers’ feedback, and voila – three new shorts I’ll bring to the festival circuit, right after I finish hiking from Mexico to Canada. (Again.) ((My life is very strange.))

I still can’t quite believe any of this is happening. If you’d told me this a year ago, I would’ve called you a damn liar. Making my sci-fi film was just a fun distraction while I waited to hear back from literary agents. (Still waiting!) There are some mighty interesting implications in the fact that it’s literally easier to break into one of the top film festivals in the world than it is to simply find an agent. (Not a publisher or a writing award – just an agent.) I suppose I may have to rebrand myself from “writer who dabbles in editing” to “experimental filmmaker who occasionally writes.” Heh.

Oh, and before I forget – I have my own IMDB page now, woooo! It’s pretty funny how you can add almost anything to your own trivia page.

So… I suppose I’m officially a filmmaker now. Got many many new ideas. Grandiose plans. Strange stratagems… Or, you know, the usual. This is a wild, unpredictable, amazing new chapter of my life, and I am loving it. Here is to many more film festivals, my friends.

P.S.: they’re still processing the red carpet pictures, but you can find the rest on my Instagram here, here, and here!

Dear alphabet agencies…

Dear CSIS, FBI, CIA, NSA, and other shadowy government agencies,

I’m about to watch a bunch of videos on assembling and disassembling an AK-47. Please rest assured that this is harmless research for my dystopian YA novel, and not in any way an indicator of any sinister intent on my part.

We cool? We cool.

Later, gators.

(…yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s gonna land on me on at least two new watch-lists. I need to have authentic details for that chapter, though, so YOLOLOLOL!)

My big adventure this year was to find a literary agent for my debut time-travel novel. That quest led me down some mighty weird rabbit holes…

After polishing, re-polishing, and starting all over again with my query letter, I got the attention of seven literary agents. One requested a partial (the first 100 pages) but then politely declined. One agent requested the full manuscript (full MS) sort of declined, but said she’d be quite interested in reading a dystopian YA novel based on something I mentioned in my query. Four more requested the full MS during the summer/fall (it’s considered impolite to nudge until at least six months have passed), and earlier this week I received a very enthusiastic reply from a literary agent I’d queried in October. He too asked for the full MS.

Normally, there are two outcomes to a full MS request: either a “thanks but not thanks” or an offer of representation. That’s the holy grail for writers, and it sets off a whole new domino chain… (Still, it typically takes a couple of years for the actual book to get published.) This was my fifth pending full MS request, and – thus far – the most enthusiastic one. I expect to hear back from him within a month…

I had some time away from technology two days ago (horrible, I know!), so I sat down and outlined the final 40% of my dystopian Russian YA novel, and split that outline into 22 small-ish chapters. Knowing that the end is in sight makes the whole thing a lot less scary, and far more manageable. If I go ahead and at least try to write up one chapter per day (no matter how poorly), then huzzah – my first draft will be finished in just 3 weeks. I’ve been knocking out a chapter per day for the past two days (today’s total: 2,667 words!), and I rather like this sort of architect-style self-imposed framework. It doesn’t matter how clunky the outcome is, because the first draft’s job is not to be pretty – it’s merely to exist. To serve as the foundation. And after that, you just keep piling more stuff on top of it, and improving, and brainstorming…

And last but not least, during all my research on the publishing industry, I’ve learned something very peculiar. Turns out, you need the full MS when you’re shopping around your fiction novel, but you do not need that when you have a non-fiction book – such as, say, a memoir/exposé about my 11.5 years at Amazon. (If any agents are reading this, drop me a line!) I honestly had no idea this was how things were done in the non-fiction circles. This entire time, I thought you had to sit down, produce a full-length book, much like with fiction, and then go agent-hunting. I really wish I’d learned this sooner… But oh well. What matters is that, after a great deal of research, I’ve assembled a professional-looking book proposal for my Amazon book. It includes the introduction, the first chapter, my self-promotion plan (podcasts and newspapers and all), the outline, and a whole lot more.

Querying a whole new project while the previous project is still in the querying trenches almost feels like cheating, like taking a brand new sports car out for a test drive. (Vroom vroom!) A whole new slate of agents to email… So far, I’ve identified and contacted the eight agents who have the best sales record in the memoir category and the fastest turnaround time when replying to queries. If my non-fiction query letter sucks, at least I’ll find out right away, eh.

…this is all so wild. I finished writing my sci-fi novel less than a year ago, at the very end of December, and I never would’ve imagined that a) a bunch of actual agents would show interest, and b) one of them would request a spec novel based on my dystopian Russian childhood, and c) I’d start querying an Amazon memoir. Oh, and, of course, that I would become a festival-going filmmaker. (More on that soon.) Huh. All that, in less than a year. Life is so random and beautiful…

And now we wait… And write. And write some more.

Done at last

At last. At long, long last. It is done.

A few nights ago, I made the final edit to my brain-baby, my first-ever novel-length work of fiction (science fiction, to be precise), my “Time Traveler’s Etiquette Guide.” I got the idea for it way back in 2015, if not before, and I started to slowly but surely gather the information on all sorts of myths, fun historical anecdotes, and just about anything else I could blame on a careless time traveler. (There’s quite a lot of that, it turns out.) Then I started scribbling my first draft, and then…

Workaholism. Years and years of it. Zero stars, two thumbs down, would not recommend. You can see it even on the sideline of this blog: there were hardly any entries in 2018, and that was pretty indicative of my slump in creativity and, to be honest, overall higher brain function. (85-hour workweeks will do that to you.)

There was another attempt to resume my novel in 2020, when there wasn’t much else to do. Soon enough, the fear of covid and the pressure of negative news extinguished even that.

Ironically, I should credit my slow-paced year at the nearby community college last year with giving me that final push. By the end of each day, frustrated with the pace of school, I would spend an hour writing my novel and an hour studying genetics (thanks for the free course, MIT!) just to feel I’ve done something – anything – productive at all with my day.

And then an old college friend of mine published his own sci-fi trilogy, and that filled me with all the conviction I needed. Finally, here was a real-life person from my own social circle who managed to get a bona fide book deal! Without him, my own novel might not have happened. Thanks, D-Clark!

And so… It’s done. It feels unbelievably strange to no longer have that pressure on the back of my mind, that guilt of procrastinating when I could be writing and sharing my unusual take on time travel with the world. All in all, this 104,000-word novel took me 9.5 years – almost half of my adult life. How weird is that? The other day, a friend of a friend lost his video game account – some sort of MMORPG where you can grow your own empire and level up from a peasant to an emperor. His account got deleted because he instigated an online fight with another player outside the game. He’d spent 15 years of his life on it – his entire adult life. And now it’s gone, deleted without trace. I can’t even imagine what that must feel like… But it’s also a startling contrast: different people spend their free time doing vastly different things. Some exercise to the point of winning athletic competitions or bodybuilding contests. Some build virtual empires that might get deleted with a single click. Some write huge sci-fi novels. Choose your own adventure, eh?

This feels quite strange. I have nearly infinite free time and a bulletproof self-esteem, so I will keep submitting my novel to literary agents until one of them accepts me as a client (hi, agent-friend! thank you for checking out my blog!!) and then helps me find a publisher. I am convinced that at some point in the future, my book will end up on store shelves. (No more Kindle samizdat, not ever.) By having written my book, by having contacted my first prospective book agent, I’ve set in motion a chain of events that may never be undone. I have no illusions of awards or mass recognition, but I will be a published author as the result of my actions, and there’s no way to scuttle back when that happens. One way or another, a whole new chapter of my life will begin.

This sensation is similar to the time I made a very big (and, ultimately, successful) investing decision in 2020, or left my ridiculously safe (but stressful) Amazon job in 2021, after 11.5 years with the company. It’s partly fear, partly excitement, partly realization that once I take this step, there is no going back. It is a unique, terrifying, exhilarating, intoxicating feeling, and it is absolutely goddamn beautiful.

Here is to the future.

My Oxford French mini dictionary has a vagina but no penis. It has sperm but no menstruation. No fucking, only sex, and a pregnancy without a womb.

My Oxford French mini dictionary has honour without traitors, self-sacrifice without self-doubt.

There is a kangaroo but no platypus. There is God but no Bigfoot or Chupacabra.

My Oxford French mini dictionary has heaven and hell without apocalypse, without utopia, without rapture.

In the world of my Oxford French mini dictionary, there are workaholics but no slackers. There is neither heroism nor apathy, only complacency. Obedience without caricatures.

My Oxford French mini dictionary has knives and guns and bullets but no cotton candy, no colouring books, no dollhouses.

My Oxford French mini dictionary has no serendipity or randomness or rumination, only cold consequences. There is neither hedonism nor stoicism. There is only boredom.

There is no unpredictability.

The measurements of life

I measure life in bottles of vitamins. One pill per day, each day, without skipping: a measured and controlled path forward, toward whatever future lies ahead. As each bottle grows lighter and emptier, I move away from the person I had been when I began, toward the person I will be when I consume the final pill. Rinse and repeat. A chain of little bottles, back to back, tracking my progress through months, years, decades. My small ever-present companions.

Each vitamin bottle is the opposite of a time capsule: a known quantity that will disappear by a certain date, leaving behind it nothing but a plastic shell. A known known. An utter lack of surprise and the most banal imaginable method of tracking time. A message in a bottle in reverse.

The previous bottle ran out a few weeks ago. I’d started it before I made the choice, for the second time in my life, to leave behind everything and move to a new country where I knew absolutely no one. I’d started it before I drove across the continent, almost the entire length of the mighty I-90, for four days and three nights. I’d started it before I met her. Before I knew her. Before she died.

The new bottle has 365 pills. The only thing I know for sure is when I will be at the end. But as for where, or how, or even who…

One pill per day, each day, without skipping. Slowly and steadily, whatever lies ahead.