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.

Finishing and Starting

It's been a pretty good week of finishing and not too bad on starting either. I finished the socks. Don't the feet for which they were destined look happy? I finished my second submission for my MFA. That means that I am officially halfway through the first semester. I finished setting up the website and organizing all of the materials for the course I start teaching next week. I finished my Out Front pitch, and feel really good about it. What else? Oh yes, I finished (with help) a basket of delicious Ontario peaches.


As for starting. I started on the reading for my third submission, due on October 9. I started de-cluttering my office. Two bags of papers went down to the shredder yesterday. I started making notes for my first lecture on Tuesday. I started thinking about my powerpoint slides for a presentation that I am giving next Friday. I started on a second basket of Ontario peaches. I both started and finished panicking about the weeks ahead.

Aside from all that I've finished and started in the past week, there are many things that I am in the middle of, but I won't get into that.

Pleasant Surprise

Okay, the world is not beyond delivering me pleasant surprises. As I mentioned in my “Rejection” post, the manuscript is still out at my first-choice press. Last week, the returned manuscript from the second-choice press arrived in my mailbox at work. Knowing what it was, I decided to leave it there without opening it. I would deal with it later.

Today when I checked my mail, there was more. The more included a second large-ish cardboard envelope that looked disturbingly like the first. I glanced at it quickly as I gathered up my mail, now ample enough to require both arms. The new arrival was from the US, where the other press is located. The green customs form on this second package said “printed matter.” I could feel my spirits, which were quite good after a pleasant walk in, slipping. I made my way out of the mail room up to my office and shut the door. If I’m going to open something that I know in advance contains “news,” I need privacy. I threw all the other mail down on the desk and looked at the package.

During the walk from the mail room to my office, my mind had been way too active. Why, I wondered, would the editor send it back without even so much as an e-mail warning when we’ve been corresponding by e-mail for months. How severe were the reviewers reports? Where would I send it now? Should it go today? How much do I care about the quality of the press? I reminded myself of my own piece about rejection, where I said that it’s not necessarily a reflection of the quality of the piece. Suddenly, the words “not necessarily” took on a heightened importance. That means it’s possible that the thing is garbage. Stop it, I said to myself.

I groped at the edges of the package, trying to decipher whether its contents was my manuscript. It felt different. Smaller, lighter, firmer, more contained. I took a deep breath and assured myself that I could handle this, whatever it may be. I ripped the strip across to open the package and tore open the cardboard. A fully bound, very attractive book fell into my hands. And one of the pieces in the book is something that I wrote. I was so fixated on fending off a rejection tailspin that it didn’t even occur to me that the package might contain a success. In the future, I will try to regard un-opened mail with less suspicion.

Sunday Scribblings: Fortune Cookie (in bed)

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is "fortune cookie." This one was challenging for me because I've only had one fortune in a cookie that I actually remember, even though I just had Chinese food last week. Here goes:

What you want in a fortune cookie and what you get in a fortune cookie are usually two different things. That is because most fortunes cookies involve what philosophers would call a category error. The error is that the pithy words on the strip of paper inside that strange little cookie almost never tell a fortune. Instead, they give advice or attempt some proverbial words of wisdom. Rare is the cookie that actually predicts your future. Not that I believe in that sort of thing, of course.

My most memorable “fortune” advised me to “make use of the most advanced technology available.” This came in a cookie that I got over fifteen years ago with my msg-laden lunch special at the Mandarin Restaurant on Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge, just down the street from MIT. They must have written fortunes especially for the MIT students who dominated their lunch clientele. This fortune cookie advice mystified me for a long time. But it all fell into place when I discovered that fortune cookies are actually incomplete sentences. In fact, what they leave out is key to unravelling their mysteries. Add “in bed” to just about any "fortune" and suddenly the most bewildering fortune cookie makes perfect sense. This doesn’t mean it becomes a fortune, but it certainly gains some credibility. “Make use of the most advanced technology available….in bed.” Ahhh. Now I get it.

I must have tea

Tea is essential to my writing process. If I don't have a cup of tea, then I cannot write. There is no point in even trying. Which kind of tea depends on my mood. Most days, vanilla rooibos tea or masala rooibos chai with vanilla soy milk is the first cup that I take to my desk with me in the morning. It is sweet and soothing, and most important, it does not interfere with my natural morning energy the way caffeine does. A big mug of masala rooibos chai with vanilla soy milk eases me into the day like nothing else. If I am slow to start, then I turn to orange pekoe with milk for that little extra kick. Some days, I don't want the kick but I want that black tea flavour. That's when I like a good decaffeinated English Breakfast tea.

When I was growing up, tea was a staple in our household. We started the day with it and used it to puncuate the flow of time. Tea after meals, tea with cake in the afternoon, tea when a visitor came, tea if a baby was born, tea if someone died, tea, tea, tea. And so it makes perfect sense to me that I am uncomfortable if I cannot get my hands on a cup of tea.

There are different opinions about how to make a good cup of tea. I'm only going by my personal experience based on 40+ years of drinking tea. First of all, it is absolutely required that you use a teapot. Swishing the bag around in a cup is not conducive to an enjoyable tea experience. Do that only if there is no other option, as may be the case on the train or if you are picking up your tea to-go. There is no reason to do this at home. Loose tea is better than tea bags, but some tea bags will do, and of course they are convenient. If you use loose tea, throw one teaspoon per cup, preferably into an infuser, and use a strainer when you pour it. Warm your teapot first, being sure to dump out the water you use to heat the pot. Use only fresh water, not water that has been previously boiled. If there is water still in your kettle from the day before, give it to the plants. Bring your water to a gentle boil and then pour it directly onto the bag or leaves (putting the teabag/leaves into the water is the wrong way around) . Tea needs to steep for 2-5 minutes, depending on your taste. There are those who will tell you that there is a fixed time for steeping. That is ridiculous. You want to enjoy your tea, so make it the way you like it. Personally, once my tea is steeped to my liking, I remove the leaves (this requires an infuser) or bag. This way, I can enjoy a second cup, which I usually do. Some say that tea tastes the best when it is served in a china cup. There is something wonderful and luxurious about drinking tea out of a china cup, but I am not sure that it is required. Large ceramic mugs have the size advantage going for them.

This picture here shows my favourite coaster, which says, "while there is tea, there is hope." I've set it on top of a painting called "Journey" by Eillie Jean from Coquitlam, British Columbia. The coaster speaks for itself. If you are having trouble writing, make yourself a pot of tea, steep it to your liking, pour it into your favourite cup, and try again.