On Assignment, Research Trip, and Safari

Tomorrow is departure day and except for actually putting things in the suitcase, I'm all set to go to South Africa. That means that the to-do list is almost done. The amazing personal revelation I've had these past couple of weeks, once again: deadlines are extremely motivating for me. But, as I have said before, I am not an adrenaline junkie. So why do I do this to myself? Something to contemplate on the 11 hour flight from Heathrow to Cape Town.

This is a multi-purpose trip.
1. Relationships are always a priority for me; life would be empty without them: It's an opportunity to see family members whom I haven't seen in years (January 1989 was my last trip back), to spend lots of time with my parents and my nephew, who live nearby but not near enough that I see much of them, and to introduce my spouse to my birthplace.

2. Creative work: I consider myself "on assignment" both for next semester's work for the MFA and for the radio documentary. There's lots of overlap between these projects since there is a "neither white nor black" race theme running through them (on account of my being born "Cape Coloured" in South Africa). I'll be collecting material for both, and have high-quality audio recording equipment with which to do so. I'm also bringing the laptop and intend to do some writing "on location."

3. Scholarly research: I am in the midst of setting up a collaborative research project with a feminist researcher in South Africa. We're getting together next week to brainstorm the shape of our project.

4. Going on safari: Never been to the parks before, so this part is also exciting beyond words. Next week, we'll be spending a few days in Sabi Sands Private Game Reserve. Kruger National Park is in the upper northeast corner of South Africa, and Sabi Sands is in the lower southwest corner of Kruger.

5. Road Trip: We're spending some days before Christmas on the Garden Route.

May everyone have a safe, happy, and restorative festive season. "See" you in the new year!

Sunday Scribblings #36 In the Last Hour

Today's Sunday Scribblings, asking us to write about "the last hour," could be an invitation to get really philosophical or apocalyptic. Like, if you knew you had a just an hour to live, what would you do in "the last hour"? But it's also an opportunity to be quite literal and that is what I am choosing for today because in the last hour I finished grading term papers. Therefore, in the last hour, as anyone who has ever taught an essay-based course will attest, I have been set free.

Like Descartes looking to break out of his dogmatic slumber, I sat by the fire on this cold winter day with the last of the term papers of the academic year. Unlike Descartes, I was experimenting for the first time with on-line submissions. No paper. Just my trusty laptop, a reliable website to download students' papers from, and Word's wonderful "track changes" function. The experiment worked. So, in the last hour I have decided that the e-submission, e-return is the way to go. In the last hour I have also had a most luxurious cup of masala rooibos chai with soy milk, eaten two handfuls of giant cashews mixed with raisins, and fended off a late-afternoon nap (which I fully plan to take in the next hour).

In the last hour, I stayed fully focused in the moment, doing exactly what was in front of me and nothing else. Nothing else (other than sipping the tea). It was a good hour. But probably not what I would choose if I thought, even for a slim minute, that it was going to be my very last hour.

I'm So Pumped!

I went to the CBC today to meet with the producer of the radio documentary that I am making for Outfront. Wow, wow, wow. First of all, the building itself is something else. I can't say it's beautiful but it's, well, it's the CBC, so we Canadians just love it as the embodiment of an institution. Look:


Then, they gave me a special pass so that I could go into the CBC, past the security guards and up the elevator. It was like being granted passage into some top secret agency. Then I spent the next two and half hours with an amazing producer who wanted to talk about nothing other than my creative project for the entire time! And he liked it and he encouraged it and he helped me make it better. And they're going to pay me for it. Pay. Me.

And I got some nifty recording equipment, loads of micro-disks (or whatever they're called), and a training session. So here's what is going to happen. I am leaving next week for the international portion of the tape-collection, working on scenes that I can only get in South Africa. When I get back, I listen the tape in real time and "log" it. That means I document track by track what is on the tape, what scenes etc. Once that's all done, it's time to come up with a narrative structure for my story, ending up in chapter titles that capture the dramatic arc of the piece. Then we get to start editing to shape the tape into my vision. When we have it roughly the way I want it, the producer takes over and does the final edit. It will be my piece. The final version requires my approval.

All I can say is, I am so very, very pumped.

Sunday Scribblings #35: Nemesis

This week Sunday Scribblings prompts us to write about Nemesis. So here goes.

Envy. Remember Amadeus? Salieri was so keenly aware of Mozart's genius that he (Salieri) let it consume him. Why can't I be so gifted, obsessed Salieri. How can this vulgar brute produce music of such divine inspiration? As depicted in the film, Salieri's envy of Mozart took both of them down in the end (not sure how true to the facts that rendition is, but nevermind). The thing of it is, you can't envy someone without admiring their talents or whatever it is they have that you want for yourself. But you can admire someone without envying them. So where does the envy come from? It has to come from wanting what they have but somehow thinking that you are incapable of having it too and that without it, you are in some way inferior. So envy is pernicious, the downfall, ruin, undoing of Salieri because Salieri allowed his own gifts to be diminished in the face of Mozart's.

I experience this sometimes when I read gifted authors. Rather than just enjoying their work, I let their talent diminish my own, as if unless I can write like them, I have no right to write at all. That can really put the stopper on flow, and we all know how important flow is to creativity. There is a lot of creative space in the universe. Enough that it's not necessary to begrudge others their gifts and talents.

I don't want envy to be my nemesis, but I do fear it. I am not a visual artist, so I can't draw envy, but if I could, it would really, really ugly. And green, of course.

Flower Petal

Well, the flower petal shawl is done, blocked and has even been worn once. I love it. The Italian plum pure peruvian alpaca was the perfect choice for it. The pattern was, as promised, a great first lace project. I made a few small mistakes, but as they say in the knitting world, a mistake helps to verify the authentic hand-made character of the piece.





I've also purchased kidsilk haze for the Rowan birch shawl project that Bug and I are going to embark on together in January. Much as I am drawn to reds and purples, I went for the new "hurricane" blue this time and splurged on an extra ball to do a practice swatch.



The verdict on lace knitting: I like it, I like it. December projects: socks-in-progress and a sweater that I started last year.

Auto-Pilot

Two weeks until I get on the plane for South Africa and I am already on auto-pilot. There is just way too much happening all at once right now. I have made a decision, however, to set Saturday aside as a day that is dedicated to my creativity. In addition to taking time to revise my workshop pieces for the January residency, I am going block the lace shawl that I started back in October. Tonight I knit the last point on it and sewed in all of the ends that needed sewing in. Photos will be taken, I can assure you!

It's probably time to make a list, too. That can wait until Sunday.

In Praise of Outlines

Outlines are the best. I just put the finishing touches on a course outline that I have been developing for a few weeks now. Actually, I've been thinking about the course for a lot longer than that -- at least a year. Completing the outline is like a huge weight lifted off my shoulders. I now know exactly what the students will be doing to earn their grades, how much each assignment/task is going to be worth, when it will be due, and what we will be reading at each class meeting as well as what the unifying theme for each meeting will be. So, I haven't even taught the class yet but now I have no worries about it. I just need to show up prepared every day. The hardest work has been done.

So that got me thinking about how I use outlines in other parts of my life, and especially my writing life. Like I said, I have been thinking about this course for a long, long time, but only once I got the outline on paper does it feel as if it has come together. When I was working on my philosophy manuscript (for seven *$#&%!! years), I slapped together quite a few outlines. But none of them felt authentic. I knew that I wasn't going to use them. One fine autumn day in 2005 (we're talking six and a half good years into this project), I was walking home from the university where I had spent a pleasant afternoon in the library. The air was fresh and the street was quiet but for the sound of my own breathing. Suddenly, the entire layout of the book presented itself to me from introduction to conclusion and everything in between. I picked up the pace. As soon as I sat down in front of the computer and wrote the outline, naming each chapter, dividing the book into sections, and putting the title at the top of page. I printed this off and posted it to the wall. In that few minutes, what had been a burden in prospect became ultra-clear. With the outline taped to the wall in front of me, I spent the next few months just filling it in. I knew exactly where I needed to go with it because I had a true sketch of the whole. Showing up at my desk became an exciting journey once I had a map, even though the map was just a schematic.

Lately, I've felt overwhelmed by the memoir. I know that this is, in part, because I have no outline. But nor am I ready to produce one. Outlines emerge when the time is right. But when they do, for me anyway, they take me far more than half way there. The stress lifts and I just need to show up at the page (or for class), ready to do what I said I was going to do. Before that, I need to keep throwing myself at the project from all directions and trust the my outline will appear. Maybe it's time for a walk.

Sunday Scribblings #34: Hero (Supererogatory Action)

In moral philosophy we sometimes talk about a category of action called “the supererogatory.” Supererogatory actions are heroic. They are not required, it’s not the case that anyone has to do them; they go beyond the call of duty. But they are not forbidden either. They’re optional. But they're very good. Very, very good. Now, the thing about this particular moral category that we have to watch out for is that sometimes, because it is human nature to be lazy about doing what is required by morality, it is easy for us to slip into thinking that when we do what we’re supposed to do, we’re doing something especially laudable, supererogatory, heroic. But remember, supererogatory acts are more than what we're supposed to do. We can be morally good without being heros.

For example, imagine a household in which there is a father and a mother and two small children. Imagine, further, that both parents have day jobs. Stretch the imagination still a little further to picture that, usually, at the end of the day, the mother gets the meal on the table, cleans up the kitchen, and gets the kids ready for bed. Except on Fridays. On Fridays, the big treat is that Dad picks up pizza and a DVD on the way home from work and makes a salad and puts the dinner on the table and disposes of the box and puts the glasses in the dishwasher, gets the movie going, puts the popcorn in the microwave, and eventually gets the kids ready for bed and reads them a story. Sometimes, when Dads do this sort of thing, everyone jumps up and down with praise. Wow, isn’t Dad wonderful! He takes over every single Friday night! Hello! This is not heroic. In fact, this Dad is not doing his fair share of the domestic labour. And when Mum goes out to her book group for the evening once a month on Wednesdays, Dad is NOT, I repeat, he is NOT, babysitting. He’s a parent. Parents spend time with their children. He does not deserve a hero cookie. If anyone deserves one, it's the mother. She's doing more than she should. That’s just one example. It’s nice to encourage people, but let’s remember that doing what you’re supposed to do is not heroic, even if lots of others don’t do it.

For more writings about heros, heroines, heroism and the heroic, see this week's Sunday Scribblings.

Show, Don't Tell -- Oh Really?

I made it through the phone call with the guy from the radio. It was great. He probed about the question driving my project -- what do I want to know? How will I be changed? He emphasized the importance of showing the story through scenes and developing a plot. "Above all," he said, "in radio documentaries we do everything we can to show, not tell." This is all starting to sound very familiar! He asked me exactly the same questions that my advisor has been asking me since July.

I can do this!

Nerves

I finally heard from the producer of my radio piece and we have a phone call set up for tomorrow morning. I am so nervous! He wants to know what I think is "at stake" in the piece. It picks up on one of the themes -- racial identity -- around which I am organizing my memoir. But I don't really know what to say. He says that for the radio, it needs to be built around scenes. I can do that on paper, but I'm less experienced (that is, not the least bit experienced) with the radio. I am going to listen to a few sample shows tonight, and definitely tune in to the program this evening at 8:43 p.m. I feel as if, if the phone call goes badly, he will just pull the plug on the whole thing.

I also had a nervous-making e-mail message from the editor of a potential publisher of the book. I've sent him sample chapters, which he skimmed. He is a really careful reader with a great eye. Just skimming the three chapters he has come up with ideas for changes that would improve it. That means re-visiting the manuscript. At first the criticism made me feel bad. But then I decided that for one thing, it is constructive, and for another, it was quite generous of him to provide it given that he knows that I am not even sure whether I will be giving him a shot at the manuscript. So I printed his comments and will think about making some changes if I end up sending him the manuscript for review.

These two interactions really got my nerves and anxiety flowing. I think it's because these are people in the industry who get to decide what to accept and what to reject. That's a lot of power. A lot of power over me.

Once again, it reminds me that just doing it is not enough for me. I am glad that I am doing it, of course. It's better to produce than not to produce. BUT, let's face it: legitimate writers get published. I want to be legitimate.

Thank You!

I am fortunate to have a gifted and generous friend, and a gifted and generous relative. Together, they have helped me to personalize the look of my blog in a way that I never could have done by myself. Thank you, both. I love it! TI

O "K," O "K"

Bug tagged me with a meme on "K". "K" is a tough one. That's why you get 5 points for it in Scrabble. I'm still kind of new to this meme thing, and don't know how long I'll cooperate with it (does that make me a bad blogger citizen?).

10 wonderful things that start with "K":
Knitting
Kid silk haze
Kissing
Kaleidoscopes
Kites
Kant (Immanuel)
Kudos
Kindness (especially random acts of)
Kneading dough (very sensual)
Karma (the good kind)

5 bad things that start with "K"
Killing
Kicking
Kidnapping
Kryptonite
Karma (when it's bad, it's really bad)

Reflections on First Semester

I sent my last submission of the first semester of my MFA out on the weekend. What a great experience it has been so far. The main assignments were two craft annotations per month and 15-20 pages of new writing per month (revising a previous submission for this last month). Here's what I can say about the impact of the past few months on my writing, in no particular order.
1. My writing has improved but I am much more aware of how much I have to learn.
2. I've developed a real respect for feedback and have learned to value and even enjoy constructive criticism of my work.
3. My awareness of the craft has sharpened, particularly when I read other writers.
4. I learned that I can write new pages on a regular basis and be effective in my "day job" at the same time.
5. It's been amazing to become a part of a small but supportive writing community (the Mutual Inspiration Society -- you know who you are!).
6. I love writing more than ever, even when it's tough going.
7. I've not yet found the heart of the memoir, but it is coming and I am trusting the process.
8. I'm starting to catch glimpses of ways to combine skills that I already have in the career I am already in with a new direction that is more supportive of my creative writing.
9. There is nothing glamourous about the writing life (at least not at this stage).
10. One of the finest pearls of wisdom that my advisor got into my head was "reveal significant moments in the story for maximum impact." I used to tell way too much up front. Now I am learning to craft scenes so that I pace the release of information more effectively. That makes re-writing especially fun.

I am really excited about the January residency!

Walking in the Night Spray

It is an incredible November evening out there and we just got back from a beautiful walk. The leaves are all down and the air is cool, but not cold. It is raining, but not the kind of rain that needs an umbrella. Instead, it is a gentle spray that feels fresh against rosy cheeks. And the tiny drops on the evergreens in the yard glisten from the light of the street lamps, like sparkling, perishable diamonds.

When we got to the gate it was too soon to let go of the mist. So we stood outside. And stood a little longer. And said nothing. And said nothing in the silent night rain.

Sunday Scribbling #32 Morning

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is "morning."

I love the comfort of my bed, but morning is my favourite time of day so it's hard for me to stay in bed. I get up early so that I can make the morning last as long as possible. The quiet calm of morning is difficult to capture at any other time. I like to ease my mind and body into the day, and early rising makes that possible. Today, for example, the morning isn't even over and I've already meditated, written my three morning pages (a great morning habit that I first discovered when I read Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way), done yoga, had breakfast, winterized my motorcycle for storage, and bagged 15 bags of autumn leaves. I can still make a cup of tea and put the finishing touches on my fourth submission and send it off to my mentor before lunch. Time is so expansive in the morning, especially on Sunday. I highly recommend the morning to anyone who hasn't tried it yet!

When to Stop Revising?

How do you know when to stop revising? I am revising a piece right now for my final MFA submission of the semester, and it just keeps on growing and growing and growing. I am adding scenes, but am not sure if they all work, or if they are making it worse. I've rearranged some of the action. My advisor has been consistent in urging me to think about how to present something for maximum impact. Still kind of groping around in the dark there. Since I can't figure out when to stop revising, I have decided to stop at noon tomorrow. Whatever I have by then, that's what the submission will be. It doesn't need to be perfect, just good enough. I expect to have to revisit this piece several times. I'm quite sure that a whole different perspective is going to come once I've been to South Africa. I also plan to submit at least some of it for the January workshops. I am so excited about the January residency!

I did send something to the CBC Literary Awards on Tuesday. Their word limit was 2500, so I just picked three scenes and arranged them in a new way, re-wrote them for "maximum impact" and sent them in. I'm less concerned about winning than I am about developing the habit of sending stuff out.

I did hear back from a second pubisher who wants to look at the philosophy manuscript, but I haven't heard back from the first yet. So now I don't know what to do since Editor Number Two wants "a clear shot" at it for three months. I take it that means no one else should have it at the same time. Rather than agonize, I am going to take it all as good news and deal with it after the weekend.

Now, back to revising.

Progress Report(s)

1. The Writing Group: I am having a disappointing time of things trying to get this group going. I handed out flyers at that writing event last week, and the library is posting my notice in ten branches. I have yet to distribute copies to the local bookstores, but will do so after this week (this week is kind of spoken for, what with the Monday deadline). But only one person has responded. Now, she is very enthusiastic and seems like a good fit, but we need a critical mass of people if it's going to work. One of the comments I've heard is that people can't commit to twice a month (even the one who is interested said this). But all of the input I've had from those in writing groups seems to suggest that twice a month is the way to go. What would be even better would be to find an existing group.

2. Philosophy book manuscript: Publisher still has it and expects the reviews to come in sometime in November on the assumption that they are going to be late. Just following up made me nervous. I can enjoy the sense of accomplishment as long as the manuscript remains out of my hands.

3. Fourth Submission: Annotations are done. The revision is going slowly but I like what I've done with it so far. The main comment was that I needed to add scenes ("show, don't tell" of course). So I've added some scenes. And based on Bug's formula for how to spend your time, I've spent a lot of time re-reading the original draft, making notes in the margins, and planning what is going to be expanded into a scene. I had planned to submit something to the CBC Literary Awards but the deadline is tomorrow. It's the first year of replacing the travel writing competition with creative non-fiction, including memoir. We'll see how things are by the end of the day tomorrow. I've got a few meetings tomorrow with some time between for writing.

4. Ideas to pursue. I have had a number of ideas since that seminar I was at last week and the experience with Linda Hirshman's fee. First, I am going to look for markets where I am already an expert and so have some credibility. Today I received a nice looking magazine called Academic Matters, which is a "trade" magazine for Canadian academics writing about issues of general interest to other academics (e.g. academic freedom, which is this month's theme). It's got a circulation of 14,000 readers and it pays. So I've started keeping a file of potential markets (this is probably an obvious thing that most freelancers do, but I feel inspired by the fact that I've started one!). Second, I have been invited to speak at a "Feminism is for Everyone" themed Awareness Day. For free. But the exposure is a good thing. Third, at the publishing panel at the summer MFA residency there was an agent from an agency that specializes in non-fiction and likes to work with academics who are trying to write more accessible books. I am going to work on a package to send them indicating a couple of ideas that I have for more popular versions of some of what I work on in my research. Fourth, the people at last week's seminar mentioned using your research to produce more than one thing (again, seems obvious). So I have decided that I am going to write an essay based on what I come up with for the radio documentary. And I am going to submit it to a market that pays, even if they don't pay a lot. Fifth, I didn't know that Bug taught a course on freelance writing. I am going to pick her brain when I see her in January! Same goes for FC, who not only teaches writing but freelances for a living (or at least for a good part of her living).

Sunday Scribblings #31 Bedtime Stories

When I was growing up, bedtime meant story time, and I am so grateful to this early exposure to books and stories. The hands down favourite in our household was Caroline and Her Friends, a collection of several illustrated Caroline stories by Pierre Probst. It was filled with captivating stories of Caroline and her animal friends. When they were in Germany, they wore liederhosen. In the Alps, the blew alpenhorns. It was a large book (14 x 10 inches) of sturdy paper and colourful, detailed illustrations so vivid and alive that I wanted to jump right into its pages.

The well-worn book survives in a delicate, tattered state, stored in the basement of my parents' home. Its blue cloth binding is coming away from the spine. Some pages are torn or missing. It is out of print. Used copies of this now rare collection, published in the UK, show up on ebay from time to rare time, fetching auction prices up to $1000. Its American counterpart, The Golden Treasuring of Caroline and Her Friends, also appear irregularly on ebay, with the highest bid ranging between $300 and $1000, depending on the book's condition. The stories were orginally published published in France, in French, in the 1950s. A French collected edition was released as recently as 1997, under the title Les Amis de Caroline.

I recommend that anyone who wants their children to fall in love with books get their hands on anything in the original Caroline series, whether in French or in English. Most book sellers sell individual stories for modest prices, but they do not compare to the anthologies. If you can find a collection, snap it up immediately. They will introduce you and your children to the magical journeys of Caroline and her friends, and are sure to recruit them as readers.

For more scribbles about bedtime stories, check out this week's Sunday Scribblings.

What Kind of Writer Do I Want to Be?

Last night I went to a panel discussion/seminar type thing put on by the local chapter of PWAC (Professional Writers' Association of Canada) about "developing your writer's toolkit." It was, as I had hoped it would be, a learning experience. PWAC is an organization for freelance non-fiction writers who, get this, earn a living as writers. And you know what? They're ordinary people. They pitch ideas, they send queries, they follow leads, they keep their ears to the ground for good material, they have business cards and letterhead with their names on them (followed by "professional writer" or somesuch), and lots of them sell hundreds of stories a year!

It was exciting, and it got me thinking. What do I want to write? What do I have to offer as a writer? I thought that narrowing it down to creative non-fiction instead of poetry or fiction (both of which I do like to dabble in) was step forward. But even once you get into non-fiction, the possibilities are endless. You've got your newspaper articles - features, news stories, reviews, columns and opinion pieces - you've got your magazines and trade publications, you've got your memoirs, self-help books, how-to books, travel books, cook books, collections of personal essays. Even within magazines, there is a huge range from the literary to the news-oriented, from the cultural and political analysis to the entertainment reviews. So what they do, the people who do this for a living, is keep their eyes and ears open for new markets and then query, query, query. Rare is the professional freelancer who will write an article that has not been accepted first. But it all seemed like such a schlep to me. I can't imagine a life of pitch after pitch after pitch.

So what else is there? A department at my university is looking for co-sponsors to throw in some money to bring a speaker, Linda Hirshman, whose agent makes her arrangements. Linda Hirshman is the author of a number of books, most recently a controversial feminist "manifesto," as she likes to call it, called Get to Work. On her website, she describes herself as a retired feminist philosopher. She got her PhD in 1994, two years after I did. The reason the other department needs co-sponsors is that Linda Hirshman's speaking fee is $7500. Okay, now, I am also a feminist philosopher (I wasn't previously a trial lawyer, of course). I also have views -- informed ones -- about the kind of things Hirshman writes about. Maybe that's the kind of writer I want to be, the kind that actually makes a difference and can command a decent fee for speaking. You know, they always tell you to write what you know. Well, if I know the same sorts of things as she does, maybe I can write the same sorts of things and sell them. Get to Work was a bestseller!

And then there is the whole question of writing with dollar signs in our eyes. This cannot be good for creativity. This is not what I want to be doing. But there is something legitimating about getting paid for what you do. I really picked up on that last night at this seminar. The people on the panel were no different as people from anyone else in the room. But they were getting paid to write, and that gave what they had to say about writing a kind of legitimacy because, in getting paid, they have become legitimate writers.

I don't know exactly what I want to write, but I do know that I want to get paid for it.

Annotations -- Done!

Okay then. I am ready to focus on revisions of my own writing now that I have completed the craft annotations on Eudora Welty's One Writer's Beginnings and The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty. I did learn a couple of techniques by reading her with the annotations in mind, so they served their purpose. When I sit down to revise I am going to think about establishing minimal character and place at the beginning of a scene, and then letting the action of the scene dictate what else needs to be revealed. I am also going to use the idea of inherited traits to develop my parents' characters and my own at the same time in the memoir. Eudora does this to great effect in her memoir.

I am glad that I have these behind me now because I find that when I am reading and thinking about the annotations, I am not spending time on my writing. That concerns me only because I know how important it is for my process to keep the momentum going. I have been gripped during this time by surges of creative energy but no time to pursue them (I've got some reasonably helpful notes as a result though). I am going stop now because there is simply no need to undermine today's accomplishments by lamenting that they are not something else. The road is long and every step takes me forward.

Oh meme, oh my!

A meme from Writer Bug.

Fill in what you've "done". (Note to Mum: stop reading now) :
(X) Smoked a joint
(X) Done cocaine
(X) Been in love
( ) Had a threesome
(X) Been dumped (didn't want to be with him anyway! So there!)
(X) Shoplifted (As a kid, and only once!)
(X) Had feelings for someone who didn’t have them back
( ) Been arrested
(X) Made out with a stranger (How many hours do you need to know him before he's no longer a stranger?)
(X) Gone on a blind date (Met R that way)
(X) Had a crush on a teacher
(X) Been to Europe
(X) Been to Canada
(X) Been to Mexico
(X) Seen someone die.
(X) Thrown up in a bar. (And then passed out on the floor of the bathroom and had to be taken away in an ambulance. On a class trip. Age: 16)
(X) Met a celebrity. (Does Noam Chomsky count as a celebrity?)
( ) Met someone from the Internet in person.
( ) Been moshing at a concert
( ) Gone backstage at a concert
(X) Lain outside in the grass and watched cloud shapes go by
(X) Made a snow angel
(X) Been lonely
(X) Fallen asleep at work. (I have a special chair for that)
(X) Fallen asleep at school
( ) Used a fake ID
( ) Been kicked out of a bar
( ) Felt an earthquake (But I have felt the earth move ;) )
(X) Slept beneath the stars
(X) Been robbed
( ) Won a contest
(X) Run a red light
( ) Been suspended from school
(X) Had braces
(X) Had deja vu
(X) Totaled a car. (Two of them within six months of getting my licence.)
( ) Stolen a car
(X) Hated the way you look
(X) Witnessed a crime
( ) Been to a strip club
(X) Been to the opposite side of the world
(X) Swam in the ocean
(X) Felt like dying
(X) Cried yourself to sleep
( ) Sung karaoke
( ) Paid for a meal with only coins
(X) Had a one night stand
( ) Been a cheerleader
(X) Sat on a roof top
( ) Talked on the phone for more than 6 hours straight
(X) Stayed up all night.
(X) Not taken a shower for three days. (Sailing is good for that)
(X) Had more than 30 pairs of shoes at a time (does that include boots?)

List Update

Things are actually getting crossed off the list, but not quite as rapidly as I had planned. I am ready to write my annotations on the Eudora Welty books (both of which were to have been completed by now). That is tomorrow evening's task.

The shawl is knitting up well. I had the good fortune of being a passenger in both directions this weekend, travelling with friends who didn't mind if I knit (it's always polite to ask). I got in three full hours of shawl knitting each way. That was about all I could accomplish over the weekend since I was at an annual meeting that left no time for other things. I am on row 111 at the moment (there are 146 in all, plus 25 rows for each point).

The flyers for the writing group are ready to go. Today I printed 10 of them onto green neon paper. I've also printed up a bunch of smaller ones to distribute at a publishing workshop that I am attending on Wednesday evening this week.

Class is prepared for tomorrow; all papers have been graded.

I have made extensive notes concerning the revision for my next submission, and the creative wheels are really turning there.

The IS project is shaping up.

I did 20 minutes of cardio today.

The balance of the bulbs are still in the shed and we are expecting rain or wet snow tomorrow...again.

There is a window of opportunity (in which no rain or snow is forecast and the temperature is going slightly up) for the final trip to the gas station with the motorcycle on Wednesday -- fill it up, throw in some fuel stabilizer, run it with the fuel switch off until the carburator is empty, take out the battery, and cover it for the winter.

I've joined Soul Food Cafe and am finding it a little overwhelming. Still eager to explore.

Yoga class at 6:30 tomorrow morning.

Sunday Scribblings #30 Good

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is, simply, "good." It's a dangerous post for a philosopher, so I decided to keep it good and simple. Have a good weekend everyone.

The Good List

Good start, good friend, good life, good food, good mood, good car, good house, good sex, good pen, good legs, good sound, good vision, good dreams, good drugs, good writer, good knitter, good lover, good ink, good change, good mango, good pond, good talk, good restaurant, good game, good scissors, good label, good slogan, good chardonnay, good jump, good marriage, good pregnancy, good walk, good song, good morning, good afternoon, good day, good evening, good fight, good try, good dog, good book, good photo, good trip, good reason, good season, good chocolate truffle, good one, good feelings, good girl, good woman, good man, good boy, good childhood, good feminist.

Goodness me the list could go on and on.

Good night.

Learning from Eudora

This is the look of my day today (slightly behind Tuesday's list, but it is possible to catch up):


I am enjoying Eudora Welty a lot. She has a great gift for setting scenes and bringing her characters alive. Here's one thing I have noticed so far about her short stories: nearly every one of them begins with a character either speaking or doing something in a setting. In the very first sentence, she establishes the character and the place.

For example, the first sentence of "Lily Daw and the Three Ladies" is: "Mrs. Watts and Mrs Carson were both in the post office in Victory when the letter came from the Eilisville Institute for the Feeble-Minded of Mississippi."

And "A Still Moment" begins: "Lorenzo Dow rode the Old Natchez Trace at top speed upon a race horse, and the cry of the itinerant Man of God, 'I must have souls! And souls I must have!' rang in his own windy ears.

And my so-far favourite, "Why I Live at the P.O." starts like this: "I was getting along fine with Mama, Papa-Daddy and Uncle Rondo until my sister Stella-Rondo just separated from her husband and came back home again. Mr. Whitaker! Of course I went with Mr. Whitaker first, when he first appeared here in China Grove, taking 'Pose Yourself' photos, and Stella-Rondo broke us up."

"No Place for You, My Love," starts out: "They were strangers to each other, both fairly well strangers to the place, now seated side by side at luncheon--a party combined in a free-and-easy way when the friends he and she were with recognized each other across Galatoire's."

For fear of this post starting to seem like an annotation, I just have to say that when I noticed this particular fact about Eudora Welty's stories, I took note. There is no running start here. No confusing period in which you don't know where you are or who you're dealing with. Nonetheless, she hasn't given away the game, either. I have struggled in my own writing with setting the scenes and, more seriously, introducing my characters. Watch how Eudora jumps in with both feet in the opening of "Petrified Man":

"Reach in my purse and git me a cigarette without no powder in it if you kin, Mrs. Fletcher, honey, " said Leota to her ten o'clock shampoo-and-set customer. "I don't like no perfumed cigarettes."

Right away you know that the speaker's name is Leota, she's a hairdresser, she's in her salon in the morning, wants a cigarette (which she keeps in her purse, alongside the powder), is good at asking for what she wants, and her customer's name is Mrs. Fletcher. It's also a good bet that they're in the South somewhere and Leota didn't go far in formal schooling.

Anyway, I love that ability to bring a story alive immediately. There is a lot of good craft "advice" in Eudora Welty's short stories. Today, I will read her as a teacher.

New Look

I have not finished Welty, though I have made good progress. Instead, I have freshened up the look of my blog (not on the list). I felt a strong need to de-clutter, hence the more minimalist template.

Okay, I'll Make a List

Another member of the Mutual Inspiration Society (Bug) has inspired me to make a list. The next submission date, the final one for this semester (hard to believe) is Monday, November 6. I've got two books to finish reading so that I can write my annotations, earlier work to revise in light of excellent comments from my advisor, and a couple of new scenes that I need to write so that I can get feedback before I change advisors in January. I also have to get going on my interdisciplinary project, which I have been neglecting. So, here is my list:

Tonight: Finish Eudora Welty's, One Writer's Beginnings, as well as her short story "Why I Live at the P.O."

Thursday: Write first draft of annotation on Welty's memoir.

By Sunday: Finish reading ten stories (that's enough, isn't it) from The Collected Short Stories of Eudora Welty and write first draft of annotation on it.

Monday October 23- Saturday November 4: Revise earlier work and incorporate new scenes.

Wednesdays between now and then (3 of them): work on interdisciplinary project, which is the syllabus for my "Globalizing Feminism and Feminist Theory" course next semester and send draft to IS supervisor for comments. (I have already chosen and ordered the main books for that course).

Other to-do:

Start exploring Soul Food Cafe.

Plant the rest of the bulbs (25 tulip bulbs to go; so far that squirrels have left the first 25 tulip bulbs and all 70 crocus bulbs alone).

Use the lace shawl knitting project for breaks.

Incorporate at least 3-4 cardio sessions (20-30 minutes each) into my weeks.

Post flyer for writing group (thanks, FC, for the sample from which I have borrowed liberally) at the library and local bookstores; make copies to take to "Developing Your Writing Toolkit" seminar.

Sunday Scribblings #29 If I Could Stop Time

Sunday Scribblings is asking us what we would do if we could stop time. If I could stop time today I would keep on knitting my lace shawl until finished. I have found my rhythm with the pattern and am loving every minute that I spend on it, even when I have to undo rows. Then I would do what needs doing in the garden, finish reading the book that I meant to finish reading this weekend, and prepare for this week's responsibilities at work.

Since I cannot stop time, I am setting the knitting aside, having an abbreviated session in the garden, and doing a minimalist job of prepping for the work week.

If I could have any superpower, I would like to be able to function at full capacity on two hours or less of sleep per night.

Writing Groups

Whenever I hear other writers refer to their writing groups, I am filled with longing. I would love to belong to a writing group. Since starting my MFA, I have had my first taste of what it is like to have other writers read my work and take it seriously enough to offer me constructive criticism. It's a great feeling and I am always inspired and encouraged by the new writing community that I have tapped into. I am relishing the experience of developing friendships with like-minded souls.

Still, it would be something else altogether to have a group of local writers to meet with on a regular basis -- I'm imagining monthly -- to read and discuss one anothers' work-in-progress, maybe take some time to freewrite, celebrate our successes and encourage each other to stick with it. But I don't know how to find them.

I'm considering starting my own. In a couple of weeks, I am going to a seminar on query-writing. I thought I might make up a flyer explaining that I would like to start a writing group and am looking for 4-5 (what's a good number?) others to be in it. I'm not sure, at the flyer stage, how specific to be about the kinds of writing or the kinds of writers that I am looking for. I think that a combination of fiction and non-fiction writers could easily work, as long as they were all serious about the craft. That is the other requirement. But how do you determine how serious someone is about the craft? I wouldn't want to require that they have published (I haven't!), but I do want people who have some publishing goals in mind.

If anyone does respond, I need to be prepared with a list of interview questions so that I can determine their suitability. At the same time, I don't want to be overly controlling because though I want to start the group, I have no desire to run it. Once it is up and running, it needs to be a joint effort.

If you are in a writing group, how did you find it or start it? What format do you use? How often do you meet? What questions do you think are helpful to ask prospective members?

Snow Report

It is early for snow, but we did a get a little bit. See it here, clinging to the Japanese maple:


It's just a little weather blip. Not only do we not usually have snow that stays in October (certainly not mid-October) but, for all the downsides of climate change, the reality is that we are supposed to be experiencing global warming. We haven't even had a chance to rake the leaves and plant the bulbs. This afternoon, not one person I passed by on the sidewalk had so much as a scarf on -- I certainly saw no gloves, no hats. A few people fought a feeble battle with the elements using their umbrellas. We are a community in denial.

I am going away for the weekend. By the time I return on Sunday, I want this weather situation to be resolved.

I'd Rather Be Sailing

A friend of mine said to me this evening that she would see me tomorrow afternoon "as long as it isn't snowing too much, 'cause I'll be on my bicycle." "Snowing?!" I said. Gimme a break. Is this because I didn't plant my bulbs on the weekend? Summer is well and truly over. I do hope that we get one more little break in the weather because I have not taken my bike in for its last oil change (more on the bike in a minute).

I mentioned that we usually spend the summer sailing on this:


But for the past few months, it has been in various stages of this:

And we don't expect to have it ready for next summer either. So we have instead had to settle for:

This one's mine:

I do think it's a beauty. But it is not as comfortable as the sail boat. Not by any stretch of the imagination. And though at first I felt super cool on my motorcycle, I am now more aware of my sore butt, the hot road, and cars and transports blasting past me on the highway. On the sailboat, by contrast, I feel at ease. I can knit or read or write or even sleep while we are travelling. I can pack more than one change of clothes. I don't have to worry about it falling over. Parking is even easier on a sail boat. Just drop the anchor (well, okay, there are sometimes issues with how well the anchor is set and whether it is dragging, but that is not my department) and make some lunch.

After one boatless summer, I can say this much: I miss the boat. I can't wait to get it back. I will not be going on another two week road trip on the motorcycle again. Ever.

Still, I am not quite ready for the snow. And I did plan to take one more ride somewhere before that final oil change.

Want to Sabotage a Relaxing Evening? Knit Lace

I put in a good, long day at work today. It was the kind of effort that I feel deserves a reward. My reward: an evening completely off, to do exactly what I want to do, with no expectations for accomplishment. I started by making french fries (the baked kind, Bug) and a salad with mixed greens, arugula (my favourite green), blue cheese and dried cranberries. I used to think that you had to eat fries with burgers or fried fish, but I have since come to think that if I just want a salad and fries, that's okay too. R is out on a personal-time night (we do this sort of thing), so I didn't have to share my fries.

Next, meditation. Meditation, which I usually do at the beginning of the day, is qualitatively different in the evening. Of course, I lit candles. During the meditation, every effort to clear my mind was thwarted by a drift towards the idea of starting a new lace knitting project. I want to knit a shawl with the pure alpaca that I bought from elann.com awhile back. I did the recommended meditation thing, which is bring my mind gently back to nothingness, but it consistently wandered back to the shawl. So when the timer finally went off (finally!), I hauled out the pattern (elann's flower petal shawl), the yarn, and the needles, and set to work.

I have started this shawl several times already. It is very simple (see the photo; it's from the elann.com website). The pattern says it's a great first lace project. But for some reason I can't get beyond the first twenty rows. Tonight, I actually had the wrong number of stitches by the end of Row 11. The thing with lace pattern repeats is that you only find your mistake at the END of a row, when you've got the wrong number of stitches for the final repeat. It's also really hard to un-do lace rows. This particular shawl has 146 rows, and then another 22 rows of "fishtail points." And I cannot get past Row 11. I have ripped it all out and am back to empty needles. If I try again, it will be my fourth attempt. Give me cables, give me intarsia, I could probably even pull off fair isle if I liked it, but lace? Will I ever be able to knit lace?

Sunday Scribblings #28 An Assignment

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt was an assignment.

You are an eleven year-old, blond-haired, blue-eyed, bicycle-racing cherub. Your yellow locks curl down to your shoulders. Like Puck from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, you’re making mischief on the centre of the track, as the grown-ups speed around you in a blur round the velodrome. It’s Saturday race night – no brakes! no gears! – and a fifty degree slope at either end. And you are never bored as you await your time to shine. You pull your older sister’s hair and run away. You lie on your back on the mat and pretend to turn pedals in the air. You giggle and squirm. You high-five the adults when they finally slow down and upclip their feet after a race. There you are, walking like a chimpanzee, trying to get the attention of the racers who have no time for you. Now it is time for you to don your yellow helmet, #2 and slow pedal your way around the centre until it’s your turn to sprint. Now you’re on the track doing your warm-up laps, gaining momentum. The whistle blows and when you cross the start line you move down to the shortest circle at the bottom of the slope, up off your seat on the straightaways and fearless on the turns. Your bike wobbles with the effort and your legs are running away from you with the pedals. The crowd is cheering you, partly as a mascot, partly as a wonder-boy, partly as the future of bicycle racing. You flash past us across the finish line and the clock stops on a very respectable 11.91 seconds. We’re not trying to rush you, but we can’t wait to see what you will be like in five years.

Thanksgiving

In Canada, this is Thanksgiving weekend, culminating in Turkey Day itself on Monday (mind you, this vegetarian only eats tofurkey!). As a kid watching soap operas with my grandfather, I used to get really confused when everyone sat down for "Thanksgiving" dinner on a Thursday in late November. "What are they doing?" I said to my grandfather. "Don't they know that Thanksgiving was ages ago -- and it's on a Monday?" Where our American friends associate Thanksgiving with the beginning of the festive season, in Canada we have quite different associations. In my part of the country, it's about autumn leaves ablaze with their most brilliant reds and oranges, the harvest of squash and yams and rutabagas, unpredictable weather. At my parents place on the lake, where I usually spend my Thanksgivings (though not this year), we've had everything from a dusting of snow in the morning -- sure to melt by lunchtime -- to balmy weather that allowed us to take our late afternoon hors d'oeuvres down to the dock so we could savour the last unexpected gasp of summer. This year we're at our own home for this long weekend, just the two of us, planning to visit the lake next weekend instead. We're skipping the feast. Taking it easy. Going to the velodrome to watch bike racing tonight. Going to see our favourite junior hockey team play tomorrow afternoon. Putzing around the garden and planting some bulbs. And, of course, giving thanks to the universe for the fullness of life. I completed my work for the deadline a day earlier than my personal deadline. So today -- the first day of a three day weekend -- I am experiencing time as expansive and utterly nonthreatening. Hope everyone has a happy Thanksgiving, whether on Monday or in November!

Until Deadlines Do Us Part

I love my husband a lot, and I love his company. But when I have a deadline…look out. Would you please get out of my way? What? You want to spend some time with me this weekend? Go on a date Friday? Don’t you know that I have a deadline coming up?

[Yeah sure, like he doesn’t know … I’ve only reminded him every day for the past ten or so not to count on me, especially this weekend]

He did a good thing this week: he took a holiday without me. This is good for at least two reasons. One, said deadline, of course. Two, he went to visit family. Need I say more. I’ve had all this time to work on my writing uninterrupted. All kinds of time…Every waking hour that I’ve not been teaching, sleeping, eating, doing e-mail, blogging, doing yoga, talking on the phone, attending meetings, or reading (well, I had to do some reading for my submission) I have dedicated to writing. I have also had some excellent sleeps this week.

My DH is returning on Friday. The deadline is Monday (psst: my secret personal deadline is actually Saturday. But the last time I shared with him that I had a personal deadline, he became Mr. Enforcer. As it approached, he said, you better be done by Friday. You said you would be done by Friday. I’m counting on you to stick to your word… I didn’t actually give him my word. Anyway, I am a reasonably quick study, so this time I didn’t mention the Saturday deadline). I will do my best to be happy to see him when he comes home on Friday, even though I would rather (in the sense of “rather” that is responding to the facts as I see them, not to what could be if I had planned a bit better and the new writing had come more easily this month) be left alone for just one more day. Not that I don’t miss him, of course.

Yoga Hangover

I am one tired yoga student today. I am also aware of every single muscle and joint in my body. I hauled myself out of bed this morning for my usual 6:30 a.m. Tuesday morning yoga class, shlepped in the dark through the rain, not feeling quite recovered from the weekend yoga marathon, and took my place on the mat. What really needed was a supportive practice or a long savasana, but no, a full hour and a half of forward bends and standing poses is what was on today's agenda. What I would love to do right now is go back to bed. But I have office hours in less than an hour and am teaching a three hour philosophy class followed by a one hour extra discussion section this afternoon.

Holistic approaches be damned: I'm taking a couple of advils.

Yoga Intensive

For eight of the past twenty-four hours, I have been doing yoga. And I've got three and a half hours to go tomorrow morning. It's called an intensive. I am fortunate to have stumbled into Iyengar yoga just over seven years ago. You've heard of wine snobs. Well, I'm a yoga snob: I see no reason to do any other kind of yoga.

The centre where I go for instruction is wonderful, and my teacher is committed to making it possible for us to study with some of the best Iyengar certified teachers in the world. These senior teachers have been practising for over thirty years, have studied directly with Iyengar at his centre in India, and have achieved their certification through the many levels required in order to be able to claim their particular title. Every few months, one of them comes to our centre to do workshops or weekend intensives. That means three hours of yoga on Friday night, five and a half hours on Saturday, and another three and half on Sunday. My teacher is excellent, but these senior teachers really take it to the next level. I always come away from an intensive with a sense of possibility. So far this weekend has been no different. I have discovered that I can do things I never thought I could.

I remember when I was in my twenties and I joined my first gym. I was really into aerobics classes and weight training. We used to laugh at the women in their thirties and forties doing yoga. "They don't even work up a sweat" we used to say. What we didn't realize was that, first of all, they often did work up a sweat, and second of all, yoga is about much more than just doing a workout. It's a life practice that steadies the mind as it improves the body. I highly recommend that you try it, and if you don't know one kind from another (as I didn't when I first began), make your way to a certified Iyengar instructor. [p.s. that's not me in the photo; the pose is called "urdhva mukha svanasana."]

My List of Likes

Repeater and Writer Bug (with a little extra prodding from Shelly) have inspired me to post my list of likes. It's interesting to me how these lists evolve over time. But there are lots of constants on my list. Here goes, in no particular order:

My fountain pens, fresh good quality paper, ink, notebooks in general, gardens (including mine), yarn and shopping for it, choosing a new knitting project, knitting, yoga, meditation, R and our beautiful relationship, inspirational reading especially about writing, writing, early mornings, morning pages, sleeping especially in our cozy bed on the sail boat while we're at anchor in some quiet cove in the North Channel, sailing, walking, autumn, going out for dinner, cooking, fresh figs like the ones I remember from my grandfather's tree, Lake Huron, family, friends, snowboarding, staying in hotels, reading, getting together with my book groups, blogging, reading and commenting on others' blogs and the whole blog community thing, going to movies, hockey, my motorcycle, photography, tea of all kinds, chardonnay and bubbly, fresh flowers, vacations, cats especially MOTH and Storm and Pi, rainy days, fresh snow, that chill in the air in late September mornings, dinner parties, the energy and optimism of young feminists, afternoon naps, a good day of writing, handwritten letters from friends, letters of acceptance re. submissions, old family photographs, the clean lines of contemporary design, stained glass, colour, philosophy, simplicity, inspiration, that feeling that everything is exactly the way it is supposed to be right here and right now...

What's Real Writing?

This week I’ve been working on new writing for my next MFA submission (October 9). I’m chipping away at it but most of the scenes that I’ve written need to be scrapped. I’m back wondering what counts as real writing. I like to think in terms of process, but when there is a product deadline, this ideal becomes challenging.

Every morning, I do my three longhand morning pages. These are more like journal writing, and even though I would say I put about 750 words on the page every morning, to me they just don’t count because they won’t be published and they are just meandering, rambling, stream of consciousness “brain drain.” Priming the pump, I guess. I can’t live without them but they’re not real writing.

Then there’s the blog. I feel as if I have an appreciative audience (thank you!!), but is it real writing?

A few times a week, I do free-writing. Lately, I am getting prompts from a helpful craft book suggested by my advisor, Pen on Fire: A Busy Woman’s Guide to Igniting the Writer Within, by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett. The thing I like most about this book is that she makes it seem possible. Anything that keeps that sense of possibility alive is worth reading. DeMarco is a big fan of free-writing to a timer. Last night’s exercise involved listing events in your life that are difficult to write about – low-points, embarrassing moments, regrets. Then pick one, set the timer, and write about it as a scene. I did. The timer went off and I kept writing. I was really in the flow too, with my favourite fountain pen filled with appropriately dark ink from a brand new jar. By the end, I had a rich and textured scene about an excruciating period of my adult life that I would rather not re-visit. No plans for that piece. Not real writing. This is what happens with a lot of my free-writing.

So I decided to turn to some real writing. And that’s when I wrote those scenes that are headed for the trash. Of course I know that no writer writes keeper material every time she or he sits down to write (except for, reportedly, Bertrand Russell who wrote one perfect longhand draft of everything). But there is that defeated sense of having wasted my time if I don’t end up with something whose use is immediately obvious to me. I want to trust the process, I really do. Maybe I need to start thinking in terms of the recycling bin rather than the trash can. Meanwhile, writing friends, tell me: what is real writing to you? My apologies for today's angst.

Next Time, Write It Down

I had a great idea for a blogpost this morning in that twilight state between sleeping and waking. It was truly inspired and part of me said, write it down. Instead, I drifted back to sleep. Didn't write it down. And now I can't remember it. I know that the title had two parts to it. Maybe it was some sort of compare and contrast. Next time, I'll write it down. That's why writers are supposed to carry around notebooks (I do, but I often forget to use it). That's why we're supposed to leave paper and pen at the bedside. For awhile--I mean for about a week--I used a digital voice recorder. The MP3 part has kept my attention; the voice recorder part didn't. I never got over the self-consciousness of talking into the mike (I hope I get over that before I make my radio documentary).

Not every idea that comes in the night will survive the test of full consciousness, but it's worth taking note nonetheless. Today, I'll end with a joke (qualification: it's a philosophers' joke): The night before a philosophy exam a student had studied as much as she thought she could. She decided that sleep would serve her better than more Aristotle. In the middle of the night she had a dream in which she had philosophical debates with Aristotle, Descartes, and Kant. In each debate, she said something so brilliant that it shamed the great philosophers into destroying their entire body of work, rendered irrelevant and ridiculous by her insight. The groggy student knew that this idea of hers would be the key to an A+ on her exam (to say the least), so grabbed for a pen and paper and scribbled it down before falling back to sleep. Come morning, she woke up and recalled, with excitement, that she had the answer to all philosophical questions written down on the paper beside her bed. She reached over and grabbed the notepad. In nearly illegible script she read: "Yeah, well that's what you think!"

Sunday Scribblings #26: Instructions

I decided that whatever this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt was, I would try to make it birthday-appropriate.

How to Celebrate Your 42nd Birthday

1. Tell someone who cares that you would love some fresh cut flowers, and that they need to include fig-coloured cala lillies. (Thanks, Honey!)
2. Declare that you will not be cooking today. After all, it's your birthday. You should be served.
3. Start the celebration a few days early, being sure to include your favourite food. In my case, this meant french fries on Friday night.
4. Buy yourself a flat of fresh figs, to be intermittently eaten and admired for the next few days.
5. Set aside a huge chunk of the day for uninterrupted writing - the fun kind, not the stressful kind. That can wait.
6. Meditate in the morning.
7. Add something healthy to your routine. I need to do some cardio. Today, I'll add 20-30 minutes on the cross-trainer before I do yoga.
8. Appreciate the weather if it's good; ignore it if it's bad.
9. Take the time to read other people's instructions and leave them comments.
10. Browse a knitting book and decide on a pattern for the new shawl project.
11. Don't be upset about the paucity of cards this year. The older you get, the less they remember and the less you remind them.
12. Older folks always say that the forties were their best years. Remember that throughout the day.
13. Don't do the laundry, plant the bulbs, or deal with any unopened mail.
14. Admire your surroundings.
15. Go out for dinner and then to see Looking for Angelina, the true story of Angelina Napolitano, who was sentenced to death for murdering her husband with an axe as he slept on Easter Sunday, 1911, in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario.
16. Remember your commitment to aging gracefully.

Don't Do as I Do...

Any teacher who fears that she is losing her humanity and compassion need only go back to school to get it back. Today I received comments from my advisor on my latest instalment of new writing. I was doing the quick first pass through the comments when I got to the last one, which said, “of course I can’t wait to hear more about xxx.” Well, the thing is, there was a whole scene about xxx in the piece that I meant to send. The piece I got back from my advisor ended on page 16. Where were pages 17-21?

Now I’ve had several students over the years who claim to have turned in the wrong draft. Did I listen to their pleas for leniency? No, that wouldn’t be fair to the other students. They should be more careful in checking over their work before they turn it in. They should proof read. What a persnickity bitch I’ve been for the past fourteen years! It is soooo easy to hand in the wrong file. I hereby resolve to be more forgiving, even giving students the benefit of the doubt (at least from time to time).

The Artist's Way

Writer Bug has just started doing Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. I loved it when I first discovered it about four years ago. I had so starved myself creatively in the preceding years that I did every single task for each of the twelve weeks of the course. It was a liberating experience that was the first step in getting me to where I am today, taking myself more seriously as a writer. The two main tools that Cameron provides are the morning pages and the artist’s date.

Morning pages are three longhand pages, to be written daily, first thing in the morning. They don’t have to make sense, can be on anything, and are for my eyes only. I love the feeling of sitting down to write pages every morning, usually with my favourite fountain pen or one of my little dipping pens, and in my favourite notebook (I’ve got an ample supply of these and will be quite lost if they get discontinued). When I’m done, I give myself a little sticker at the end of the last page. This month it’s Winnie-the-Pooh. It may be a small thing, but I always liked getting stickers, and since no one else is giving them to me these days, I give myself one every day.

The artist’s date is a little excursion with yourself and no one else. This is an opportunity to replenish the creative well. Cameron suggests a weekly date with yourself for at least one hour. I’ve come to realize that I am quick to dispense with the artist’s date, even though it is a mere hour. Some weeks, when I am very busy, it seems impossible. But those are the weeks I need it more than ever. Artist’s dates don’t have to be elaborate. Cameron suggests going to a museum or a gallery. I like to go to a café with my notebook, order a decaf latte, and do some writing. Or browse at a bookstore or a yarn shop. Or go for a walk, especially now that it the trees are starting to display their fall colours (Photo credit: Michael Yamshita, National Geographic). Last year, when my schedule was a bit freer, I took elaborate artist’s dates that included two hours on the train each direction (excellent knitting opportunity), a trip to an amazing yarn store, and an afternoon at the ballet. I’ve also planned weekends on my own at a retreat centre on the lake. Spending a couple of days in silence is incredibly restorative. This weekend I’m doing a mini-retreat, one day of silence at a local retreat centre. They provide my meals and a comfortable space to roam, including beautiful grounds and cozy lounge areas. Those are exceptional. Sometimes, for me, an artist’s date can be a trip to the grocery store. Anyplace that I can wander, on my own, without anyone trying to get my attention counts.

I know I'm neither the first nor the last to recommend Cameron's tools. But I can testify that they have worked for me, and I am extremely thankful to have stumbled upon The Artist's Way. Have fun with it, Bug!

Sunday Sribblings #25 Google Magic

Sunday Scribblings asked us to research something on Google. I do a lot of research for a living, so I was initially resistant. But I LOVE google. I decided to research something way out of my usual range. French fries are my favourite food, but other than that they’re deep-fried potatoes and they taste good, especially with ketchup and vinegar (the Canadian way), I don’t know a lot about them. So I set out to get some information. Here is what I found:

• The French claim that fries (or frites) originated in Paris in the mid 19th Century on the Pont de Neuf.
• Belgians also take credit for inventing fries. Belgian historian, Jo Gerard, claims to have proof that fries were invented in 1680 in the Belgian region of the Meuse.
• In Belgium, they call them Belgian fries.
  
• In Belgium, as in the Netherlands, they like to dip their fries in mayonnaise.
• Some people think that french fries got their name, not because they're actually french, but because when something is cut into lengthwise pieces it is "frenched" (as in french-cut green beans). So, "french fries" are "frenched and fried potatoes."
• Fries are called by a variety of names throughout the world and in different languages, including: fries, frites, chips, friet, pommes frites, patates frites, papas fritas, pomfritter, papas a la francesca, batatas fritas, cartofi prajiti, man fa rang tod, piniritong patatas, patat, patat frites, vlaamse friet, pom fri, kentang goreng, gamza reekim, frytki, freedom fries
• Different cuts include: waffle cut, shoestring, curly, thick cut, chunky
• In Quebec, French Canadians invented poutine, which is a dish with fries topped with cheese curds and smothered in gravy.
• Until 1990, McDonalds' fries were fried in 7% cottonseed oil and 93% beef tallow, making them higher in saturated fat than the hamburgers. When public pressure moved them to switch to vegetable oil, they had to add "natural flavor" to them (see Eric Schlosser's, author of Fast Food Nation, article in Harper's).
  
• And this amazing fact, not exactly about fries, but probably the most facinating piece of information I came upon in my research: 90% of the money Americans spend on food buys processed food.

Among the best fries in Canada are available from chip trucks. I'll leave you with my own recipe for oven-fries: if you want to make your own, you don't have a deep fryer and/or you're health conscious, I suggest that you pre-heat your oven to 450 degrees F, cut 4 or 5 medium potatoes (skins on) into lengthwise thirds and then cut each third into four slices, toss them in olive oil (about 1-2 tablespoons), and spread them in a single layer on a baking sheet (a silpat works best for this). Bake for about 20 minutes, until golden and crispy, turning once. Enjoy!

A Little Acceptance Goes a Long Way

I'm still ready to explode with joy after getting my first acceptance of a non-philosophical piece EVER! I get to make a radio documentary! Last week I made a pitch to a radio show called Outfront. Here's what they say on the website:

Outfront is the show where you get to make radio. In other words: Your stories, your radio show.

So, how do you get on Outfront? Simple. Send us your story idea! If we accept it, we'll set you up with recording equipment and teach you how to use it. One of our wonderful producers from across the country will work with you to get you story to air. And, bonus, you'll get paid for it!

Now the thing of it is, Outfront is not on just any old radio station. It's a show on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation's, Radio One. The CBC is a much-loved and revered pillar of Canadian society. It's like toques and bagged milk. Aside from Hockey Night in Canada, CBC TV is known to be lame, but CBC radio is a cut-above. To say that it's Canada's version of NPR doesn't quite do it justice, but it comes close.

Now, I have shared here before that I am quite used to rejection. Also, as yesterday's post indicated, I'm feeling myself in a bit of a slump, funk, pit (albeit a shallow one, nothing like the abyss of disaffected youth). I was about to go out the door when I decided to do a last-minute check of the e-mail. There, in my inbox, was a message with the subject heading: "Your pitch to Outfront." Oh, I've seen this kind of thing before. So I was immediately beset by the usual symptoms. My heart started thumping more loudly. I began asking myself whether I was in any state to take a rejection with equanimity. I debated, briefly: do I open it now, or later (the answer is rarely, if ever, later)? With no envelope to hold up to the light, my index finger poised to right-click, and bracing myself for bad news (I need to re-read that post of mine where I said I wouldn't regard unopened mail with such suspicion), I went for it.

Rejections, I have come to know, are typically a lot shorter than acceptances. So when I initially eye-balled the brief paragraph before me, I felt a wave of defeat. I read on:

Thanks for sending us your pitch. Our producers would like to proceed with your piece, and one of them will be in touch with you soon to discuss next steps. So sit tight!

I look forward to hearing your story.

I read it and read it and read it again. Their producers would like to proceed with my piece! She looks forward to hearing my story. Rarely have I ever being so emotionally overcome, so taken with joy (okay, okay, I did sob all the way down the aisle and all the way through my marriage vows).

I am excited about the opportunity to bring the story to radio, and I am thrilled to have (finally) pitched something that is of interest. A few more of these acceptances, and I just might start feeling like a real writer.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Please Stay Calm

I’m already off coffee, already doing yoga and meditation in the morning, already writing my three longhand morning pages a day, already getting plenty of sleep. I’m not in unreasonable debt, have a ridiculously (even menacingly) secure job, not planning to move anytime soon, and all of my loved ones are alive and well.

But I’m feeling kind of tense all the same…Maybe I need to do like Writer Bug and take a day to restore the balance.

Writing: Work or Fun?

Last week I was telling some friends just how much I am enjoying my creative writing program. I’m not procrastinating (much), I’m getting a lot of pleasure out of the readings and the writing. It just doesn’t feel like work. You really can’t go on in this vein about anything before someone tries to rob you of your joy. And so it was put to me: “Well, it wouldn’t be so much fun if it was your work, your career. You’re only enjoying it because you don’t have to do it.” The implicit suggestion, of course, is that if I ever tried to make a living as a writer (which my friend knows full well I aim to do), I would no longer enjoy it. Hrmph! Is that so? I don’t think so.

Ray Bradbury is one of my favourite authors. I love his short stories and I was absolutely and positively transformed by his collection of essays Zen in the Art of Writing, which is about, among other things, the joy of writing. The most inspiring thing about Ray Bradbury is that he found writing simply delightful from day one, and continued to revel in the adventure throughout his career. He says things like, “I write all of my novels and short stories…in a great surge of passion” and “the more I did, the more I wanted to do” and “everything I’ve ever done was done with excitement, because I wanted to do it, because I loved doing it.” He says these things and I believe him. A couple of years ago, around the same time that I wrote that science fiction short story I talked about in Sunday Scribblings, I read Bradbury on writing. Keeping his words firmly in my mind, the story consumed me for the entire time that I was working on it. Its plot took crazy turns that I never suspected it would. I was in a constant state of anticipation, waiting to see what would happen next. I couldn't wait to get to it every day. Bradbury helped me find the joy in writing at a time when my material aspirations and impatience for a “writing career” had sent my creative spirit running for cover. Writing was threatening to become "work" in the negative sense of the term. Bradbury helped pull me back from that precipice.

Whenever I read Bradbury on writing, I am reminded that writing is an adventure. A writer can make anything happen on the page. Anything! Bradbury recognizes that, according to popular opinion, writing is supposed to be: “difficult, agonizing, a dreadful exercise, a terrible occupation.” But for him, often in the grip of an idea that won’t go away until he has written it, “it is a grand way to live.” This does not mean that writing is always easy and effortless, but if it's starting to feel like drudgery, it's time to take stock.

I will not let the sceptics rob me of my joy. If the sense of fun and adventure goes out of my writing, I’ll re-read Bradbury to get it back, then sit down and write something in a "surge of passion."

Sunday Scribblings #24: I will never write...

This week’s Sunday Scribblings pushes us to write, or write about, what we never imagined ourselves writing. For me, this is a great prompt for rooting out thoughts that limit me in my writing because they scream in my ear: “don’t go there.” Don’t go there because you can’t, you shouldn’t, they won’t like you if you do, you’ll embarrass yourself, you have no talent in that area, you have no idea how to get there, you won’t be taken seriously as a writer if you do, only crazy people go there, only gifted people go there…

A while back, I was having lunch with a friend who writes beautiful and elegant short stories, some of which have been published in small literary journals. She told me about two people she knew. One woman she had met in a writing class and judged to lack talent was making money hand over fist writing greeting cards. Neither of us could see ourselves feeling rewarded by writing greeting cards (I still feel that way). The second was an old friend who she’d recently reconnected with and who, she discovered, was an avid hobby writer. Every night when he came home from work, he would settle in at his computer and write wild stories in the genre of speculative fiction (which, I take it, is a blend of horror, science fiction and fantasy). He had never sent anything out. She encouraged him to try. Within a few months, he had placed two stories and been paid over $1000 for each of them. Up to now, my friend had been paid only in copies for her literary work. “Maybe,” she said, “we need to think outside of our comfort zone.” I agreed, and had a blast writing a science fiction short story that summer. Pleased with my effort, I showed it to another friend who is an established writer and usually very encouraging. Her reaction: “I didn’t realize you were interested in writing for young people.” Ouch. It wasn’t really intended as a story for children. I never went back to it, even though I know full well that a first attempt is hardly going to set any sort of standard for future possibilities. And anyway, who says I can't write for children? I just never thought about it.

Despite how much fun I had writing the sci fi story, and despite how much I actually enjoy reading in the horror and sci fi genres (Ray Bradbury is one of my favourite authors, and I love reading Stephen King novels), I have never thought of “going there” in any serious way. Why not? Others do, why not me? It’s for the simple fact that I have placed a limit on myself by saying: I do not have the imagination required to do “that sort of thing.”

Comedy is the other kind of writing that I don’t think of myself as capable of because, again, I’ve decided that I’m not really all that funny. I would love to know how to make people laugh, but bad humour is worse than none at all, and so I back off from it. I am always a bit chuffed when I’m told that some scene that I wrote was funny.

And what about writing for television or movies? How does a person go about doing that? I admire good scriptwriting, both for tv and films, but it has always struck me as a mysterious world that is even harder to break into than the published word. So I’ve never thought of myself as capable of writing for television or films. Again, I consider this a limit that I have placed on myself for no good reason. I may or may not enjoy that kind of writing. But why rule it out in advance? As I become more and more serious about writing full-time, I see that there are a wealth of possibilities out there for writers who are willing, as my friend said, to “think outside of our comfort zone.” Of course, there are no guarantees that I can do it, but if I am convinced that I can't do it, then I've pretty much set myself up not even to try, thereby guaranteeing that it won't happen.