Thoughts from the Dentist's Chair

Work done on my teeth - I have tetracycline staining as a result of the medication I was repeatedly given as a child. Lovely. I spent two and a half hours with my mouth wide open yesterday - and I kept thinking in narrative.



Photograph courtesy: Otis Historical Archives National Museum of Health and Medicine

Forgive me writer self, it's been over a month since my last piece of non-blog writing.

I got home, and my pen was itchy - or perhaps it was my keyboard. At any rate, I put the boys to bed and walked the dog around the neighbourhood with words spinning around in my brain. I got back home, marched up the stairs, told my husband "i have to write," sat down at the computer and typed for half-an-hour, producing a short story for adults.

I really don't know what would have happened if I ignored that twitchy, itchy, gotta-get-it-down feeling. Would have been one grumpy mom today, I suspect.

So, first draft - half an hour.
Edits - twenty minutes.
Two and a half hours in the dentist chair and a walk with a dog - priceless.

I Dream of Red Brick Houses

I moved away from Ontario in '93. . . but it is still home - no matter how many years pass. The harbour, the ships, the big silver grain elevator, the noise of gulls, the roar of the falls, the red-brick houses (the ones the smart piggy built), the whitecaps on the water. Georgian Bay as moody as ever. Sometimes mercury and imposing. Frightening really, and cold. Other times, blue like the Caribbean making a person speechless with gratitude.


Home is always home, no matter how long I'm gone.

No words written during this visit - but images stowed away on my camera for future inspiration. I did gather courage to speak to the owner of a small press about a children's fantasy/folktale set in the area. Her advice was, "move back, and I can publish you as a local author." Twice she said this. Twice.

So, I'm not local anymore? Even if my heart wanders back with fondness? Even if I build red brick houses in my dreams?

My grandmother once said, "going somewhere, is always leaving somewhere too." I suppose it is the curse of an adventuress spirit. Every time I move, I leave something behind.

"Writing in my Helmet" (Ted Bishop's term)

A few years ago I facilitated a non-fiction book club for seniors at the public library in Edmonton. The little group brought me great joy - not because I love non-fiction - on the contrary, I mostly read fiction - but because I so enjoyed the members of my group. Saul, Gerry, and Louise never failed to show up. We bonded over tea and scones once a month, and everyone got a say in what books we chose to do. Overall, we were the smallest book club ever, and I didn't mind that one bit. When we moved from Edmonton, the tiny book club is one of the things I knew I would miss.

"What does this have to do with writing?" you ask.

Well, it's just that I was thinking of one of the books - Riding with Rilke - and I remembered how Ted Bishop described the notion of writing in his helmet. When he was on the road, he'd be writing in his head - and it was always so good. Perfect, really. But later trying to write it out of his helmet - the moment was gone.

This has been happening to me a lot lately. Whether I'm on a walk, driving downtown, or in a yoga class - my mind is still writing (I'm not very good in the yoga class, obviously). I wonder if this 'writing in my helmet' means that I truly 'think' like a writer. If I can indeed tell people, "I'm a writer; I write." So what if I'm not published yet? That is just a little technicality -after all, every writer was unpublished at some point in their lives, right?

I am the Sporadic Writer

If I had my way, I would sail off to a little island somewhere and write. For a week. A month. Two months. I'd miss my husband and my boys, of course - but I would gracefully suffer loneliness for my art (I say that with tongue in cheek). At the end of it all I would have this beautiful piece of work completed. A world I created. People I breathed life into. Events where I pulled the strings.

It would be like:

The Last 100 Pages Boot Camp.

Or, The Biggest Writer.

Or, The Amazing Novelist

Sadly, none of this is going to happen, and I know that (unless we win the lottery). So, I will continue to be the sporadic writer, grabbing little bits of time when I can.

In the meantime, this writer will continue to dream a little dream of that romantic place and days spent like Thoreau.

The Scribbling Woman

Photo courtesy: The Library of Congress

If you read my last post, you'll see that I'm snatching moments to write whenever I can. Today was no exception. We dropped Kieran off at school, then drove up to the rec. centre. My 5 and 2 year-old boys were playing in the back seat with their toys (in their carseats, of course) - so I parked and grabbed my notebook - jotted down the quick scene that I'd been playing in my head on the drive. Yesterday's writing experience was much more peaceful (Aidan was sleeping). This time I was interrupted by an impatient five-year-old boy:

"Mom, can we go in already?"
"Just a sec, Liam."
"Mom, when can we go in?"
"Hold on, Liam, I have to get this down first."
"What are you doing, anyway?"
"I'm trying to write my book, just one more sentence..."
"Oh, brother."

So, that's what my writing life is like when I try to snatch a few moments to get things out of my head and put them on paper.


Photo courtesy: New York Public Library's photostream.


I closed my book, took the boys into the centre and dropped them off in the babysitting room. I went to the gym and ran on the treadmill for 5 minutes. The scene was still spinning through my head until something new came. I paused the machine, wrote 2 lines, then started running again. A few minutes later, more words came.

When we got home - Aidan was asleep in the car. I took him up to his crib, and got Liam busy working on an activity. Then I went on the back porch and finished my chapter - quite possibly the final chapter. I'm not finished the entire book - there are scenes that need to be written before the ending - but it's helpful for me to know the destination before I get there.

Now, I have to pick my oldest boy up at school - my writing will be on hold until I pack them off to bed. I don't mind - it's just my life at the moment. If I don't write though, I think I'll be very grumpy indeed.

Where does a mother of 3 write?

In the car of course!

Twice now I have hit the road with Aidan and my writing notebook in hand. He falls asleep - I park and write. He wakes up, we go for a stroll. Today, we went downtown and I parked within walking distance of the harbour. I wrote half a chapter before he woke up.

We walked about, saw lots of dogs (his favourite animal, by far), saw lots of gulls, chatted with some tourists, then shared some fries that we bought at a fish and chip stand. We sat on the pier with all the other munchers, and watched the boats bobbing in the water. I was thankful for the opportunity to write, and share the after-writing high with Aidan in such a beautiful place. No wonder so many artists live here.

And good cookies were had by all...

When I first moved here, I contacted the Writer's Society and asked if there was a critique group for authors writing for children and teens. The woman I spoke to said, "no, but if you start one, I'll join." And so I did just that. I attended their main critique group, introduced myself and stated my intentions of starting a group dedicated to children's/teen fiction.

Am I ever glad that I did.

We've been meeting for several months now, and I absolutely love the people in my group. They are talented, inspiring, critical, helpful, and encouraging. All of them.

Tonight I gave them Chapter Nine of my novel for teens. I experienced a flurry of writing a while back - but then had to stop in order to finish the assignments for the class I was taking. It was nice to get my mind back into the novel after a little hiatus. My group pointed out some problems with my tenses and had me examine where I wanted the story to go. They gave some great structural advice on the chapter, and some very positive comments about the book in general.

Now, I can't sleep. I've reworked the chapter according to some of the advice my colleagues have given me. This is good. This is as it should be. I should be kept up at night by novel dilemma's, right? It's two in the morning - I have to be up around 6:00 with my little guy and get the big boys ready for school. Aidan has a Dr's appointment in the morning, and James and I have a tax appointment in the afternoon. No time for naps. . . but like I said, this is all as it should be.


Image courtesy of Olivander on Flickr

Visions from the Next Morning

An early morning walk and thoughts on the novel are spinning within me. I write everything down when I get home - I don't want to miss anything - I'll worry about being coherent later.

Then on the drive to the doctor's I have a few more thoughts - mull them over while driving - scribble them down when the lights are red. My notebook is a mess - but my thoughts are good and sound.

We arrive at our destination with 20 minutes to spare. By the grace of God, Aidan is asleep. I park - roll down the window and write and write and I don't stop until it's time to go.

Life is good - I'm writing again.

Cookies Daughter grew up...

. . . and now writes to feed her cookie habbit.


Photo found on Flickr.

No, not published yet - but am trying to look at writing as the job I love - rather than the hobby I sometimes dabble in. Does it matter if I'm not paid to do it yet? Do I have to be published before I can call myself a writer?

I remember when I was going to Trent University - the young men in my poetry class were ready to call themselves "poets," or "writers", whereas the women were more likely to say, "I like to write - or, I'd like to become a writer, someday." I still wonder what it was in our upbringing that made us do that - and if young women today experience the same thing?

Becoming a writer through the eyes of a 7 year old

Every day I check the mailbox with a little hope in my heart. Will today bring me a wonderful letter from a publisher? Will I be able to wave my letter in the air and hug my husband and my kids and say, "finally, I AM a WRITER!"

I locate my box number. I look at the sky, I want to remember what kind of a day it is - a nice Spring day, or a cold blustery wind - I turn the silver key, and find: a bill from the Bay, a Children's Hospital Lottery advertisement, and Dominoes Pizza coupons.

I turn to my family - they're waiting in the car, as we're on our way out for supper to celebrate my husband's book deal (he edited an education curriculum book) - my mouth is in a frown and I mock disappointment as I climb back in the vehicle.

"I wanted a book deal too!" I say in a put-on whiny voice.

Kieran says, "You know mom, if you don't get your book published, you can just print it out on our printer at home."

He is so sweet. They all are. I love my boys to the moon and back on a railroad track - to them, I already am a writer, I don't need a publisher to say that. God bless my kids, that's all I can say!

Past 10000

Have you ever heard of a Runner's High? Well, I've got a writer's high. I'm so excited about this novel, I am nearly bursting! It's a very personal story, and in order to tell it honestly and as truly as possible (the real bits), I am planning to use a pseudonym. Strange, isn't it? I've wanted my whole life to be published and to be a writer and make my family proud, and now I'm not even going to use my real name!

So, how does one go about choosing a new name? I've been brainstorming names that have meaning for me - and trying out a first name that is a little similar to my own. I don't want anything pretentious or glamorous, but one that seems a natural fit for me.

I'm open for suggestions - anyone see a perfect-fit name for me?

7000 words and adding

I've started on my Young Adult novel, and I'm quite excited about it. I'm writing when Aidan is napping, or in the evening when the boys are in bed.

I have to resist the urge to be too critical. This is a rough draft. It doesn't have to be perfect right now. Just keep writing. Things are rolling fairly well, so I must keep up with the momentum.

Just write.

Keep writing.

Just get it down.

This is the stage I'm at now. I'm hopeful.

Must Acquire Gumption

I am trying to prepare a few manuscripts for submission, I've researched publishers, and am writing cover letters. Soon, I will kiss my stories goodbye and send them out.

I look at the estimated time to hear back from publisher - 3-6 months, and think, "but I can't wait that long." Then I see it may take up to 2 years for the story to be actually published. What a slow, tedious process. Uggh! It makes me wonder if it's worth the effort. But then I think, "of course it is. If you're I writer, you have to jump through the hoops."

Who cares if it takes 2 years or 10. It's part of the process, and part of the walk I've decided to take. Must have courage. Must try.

Wish me luck.

The Energizer Mommy . . .

I have been giving it my all at the gym twice a week with a trainer and my little group. When I can, on the other days, I walk or run. I feel really wonderful after a workout - like I'm the Energizer Mommy, and I can keep going and going, and. . . okay, you get the picture.

Exercise is going well, it's the eating properly that I've been struggling with. I find it very difficult to make healthy food choices - especially when I'm tired. I was up until 4:00 AM on Tuesday, working on my assignment for class, and it took me a few days to recover from the lack of sleep. I guess I'm not 20 anymore! Last night I had to get out of the house, so I went to the Mall. I walked around Winners, looking at clothes (sometimes the thought of trying on clothes and seeing a smaller dress size is motivating for me!). So, there I was trying to get motivated to keep on track, and all I could think of was going to Starbucks to buy a gooey type of square. Something with chocolate and caramel. Maybe a cookie crust. Mmmn, yummy.

I tried to fight the temptation, really I did. . . but all I could think about was the gooey goodness, and I found myself riding down the escalator - floating single-mindedly towards that ultra rich bite that would take me out of the moment and leave me in a spa-like state. My mouth was watering. . . this moment was to die for!

I was getting closer, I could hear the cappucino machines. I could smell the dark roast coffee like a little cloud of heaven. My nose was in the air, and my feet were barely touching the tile floor. I was almost there. So close, so bloody close...

And then, I ran into Laura, one of my new workout buddies. There she was, in the shop right beside Starbucks. Ordering vegetable stir-fry.

Damn.

Away flew my dream of chocolate square elation!! I simply could not go in and order something sinful. Her very presence reminded me that I needed - I WANTED - to stay on track.

Oh, God, I almost hugged her. (Except that I don't know her very well, and wasn't sure if that would be oh, you know, weird.)

We exchanged pleasantries. I told her she saved me from baaaad stuff, man.

I left, went back up the escalator. I was feeling pretty darned good. No gooey chocolate/caramel/cookie-bottom added to my waste, I could go home with my head held high.

Then, as I got off the escalator I noticed the candy machines, and the little Reeses Pieces that I love.

I looked in my wallet, and low and behold, one quarter! It was meant to be - and I thought to myself, "self, go ahead. What's a quarters worth of candy going to do to you?" So, I squatted down. I put my quarter in the little slot. I turned the dial. I heard the plink, plink, plink as the candy was released into the little shute. I slowly lifted the little doorway. I let the orange and brown pieces of wonderfulness fall into my hand. I was just scooting the last few out of the shute and into my palm, when I noticed this man standing beside me.

"Hi."
"Hello there."
"Those look good."
"Yes, they do."
"If I give you a dime, can you give me a quarter so I can get some too?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, that was my last quarter."
"Could I have some, anyway? I really need some of those."
"Oh, okay, sure. I don't mind."

And, I poured them into his hand. All those yummy bits.

Now, here's my question - which guardian angel of mine nudged this man over to take my candy? Hmmn?

Returning to the Old Journey - but Hopeful this Time

I really wish I was better at staying with fitness. . . but it seems like I always fall off the exercise wagon and lose my motivation to watch what I eat. Why is that? I have battled with my weight all of my life. . . well, maybe not when I was 4. I started losing weight in Grade 11, and found I didn't go about it in a healthy way. I had issues. I thought that if I lost weight my life would be great . . . but it doesn't really work that way.

Last August I turned 40, and I was motivated by a fellow staff member to lose 40 pounds in my 40th year. She was able to keep it off, and she looked great. I didn't know her when she was heavier, so I still can't imagine her being overweight. Anyhow, she inspired me. So, I decided to try too.

I lost 20 pounds with diet (weight watchers) and exercise, but this winter I gained 5 back. I'm so mad at myself. Joining the Biggest Loser/Winner is very exciting for me. I love the exercise, and the comradery that is building with the three other women in my group. Our trainer, Shirley, is a great motivator, and I'm thankful that I landed in her group!

I really hope I can continue on this journey without falling back to my old ways. I'm not finding the diet side of this equation easy these days - especially when I'm tired - I crave chocolate and cookies, and have to fight the urge daily (the chocolate wins a little too often for my liking.) Anyway, that is how I"m feeling today in my sleep-deprived state.

A few things that helped so far:

• Realizing that I don't want my tombstone to read: "Carol loved chocolate".
• Trying on clothes, and fitting into smaller sizes. I don't even buy right now, I just try.
• Donating my bigger sizes so it isn't so comfortable to regain.
• Realizing that I shouldn't wait for "someday" to start - I need to live it now.
• Running 5 K and loving it.

Okay, that's it for now.

I've got Sneaky Plans and Clever Tricks....

OMG - have you ever read the Enormous Crocodile to a group of 3rd graders? It is one of the funniest books to share with kids - and I've completely fallen in love with it. I have the enormous crocodile's voice in my head right now as I write this blog post.

So, the question is, what are MY sneaky plans and clever tricks? I'm crossing the road with my stories. I'm contorting myself to do the job. I've started the Kids Fic Critique Group, and have been submitting stories for feedback. Next step - placing them in the envelope, and sending them off with a kiss. In the past, I've been exclusive with my submissions - but not any more. Nope. I'm going broader, baby, and I can't wait. Sneaky plans, clever tricks, and lots of stamps in this girls future. Also considering pseudonym's - because as much as my writing is about following my bliss - it's also about getting readers to pick my books off the shelf. I have a long, unpronounceable last name, and I'm afraid it will scare readers away. What's in a name anyway, right Dr. Seuss? Anyhow, I'm considering names that have meaning to me - I'm not going to go out there and grab a trendy name. I still have family values. I'm not selling out, yet. For now, I'm going to walk the walk and make it so.

Out and about today, thinking

I had a very grand day today. Nothing special - probably mundane to most people - but for me my mind was clicking about making connections and being hopeful.

This is what I did:

1. I spent 5 minutes with Kieran (before school) showing him how to put rosin on his bow. I tried to explain how far to tighten it, how to hold it, etc. All learned by me last night on YouTube (Yahoo Web 2.0).

2. I remembered to pack lunches.

3. I remembered to send lunches.

4. I walked the big boys to school while James stayed with Aidan.

5. I read with a small group of Kindergarteners for 20 minutes.

6. I returned home and did ring around the rosie with Aidan. We did some fingerplays, giggled, read a book, and had a small snack.

7. Aidan and I visited with our neighbour and her therapy dog named Lucy.

8. I wrestled Aidan into the car (he hates to leave his furry friends).

9. We listened to music and drove downtown. I filled up the car with gas, Aidan fell asleep, I drove for a bit and wondered if it was too cold to go to the Wharf.

10. Instead of the Wharf, we went to the mall to get James the shirt he needs for work.

11. Aidan charmed 3 of the Eddie Bauer workers.

12. We met an old woman who admired how good natured Aidan is. He waved at her.

13. We saw groups of adults with special needs shopping. They had workers with them, and it was a completely normal experience for them, and for everyone else shopping.

14. 13 made me think of my dad and how years ago I skipped school to help take him and some other patients from the hospital on a cruise on the Chi Cheemaun from the Owen Sound harbour to Tobermory. Dad and some of the others were in wheelchairs and we took them to the lounge near the bow so they could see out. The other people who were sitting nearby got noticeably uncomfortable and left. It was a day that my heart was on my sleeve - I rarely got to be out of the hospital with Dad, and the fact that we were on the ferry together was monumental in my teenage brain. I wanted to say something meaningful and life-changing to those people. I wanted them to look at people with disabilities differently. I wanted them to see that my dad had a certain dignity, a way of holding his head up high, a twinkle in his eye, and an intelligence that never dimmed. But, I didn't say anything, just gulped it down and tried to forget them (obviously that is not the case as this event took place over 20 years ago).

15. The wistful looking back, and today's ability to sit with Aidan in the quiet noise of the mall, and the realizing of how far we've come in regards to people who are differently-abled made me hopeful for our future. Made me grateful for Aidan's future. And, well, just made me grateful in general.

16. The list went on, but I will not.

A Night at the Roundtable

When I first moved to the West Coast 5 months ago I joined two groups - the Writer's Society and the Children's Literature Roundtable. Both give me an opportunity to pursue my life as a writer of children's fiction - and provide a chance to get out of the house once in a while without the boys.

Last night's Roundtable event was lovely in many ways - I felt like things were finally coming together, and that I was on solid ground. The speakers were Michelle Mulder and Robin Stevenson, and they talked about writing for children, and their experiences getting published. I had met these two months ago at my very first Roundtable night - they chatted with me about living on the coast, about writing, and about our families. I was surprised last night that they remembered me (something in me thinks I am forgettable), and they asked if I was settled in, and how my writing was going. It was nice, you know? Hearing them talk about their journey to become published made me realize that I am closer. Their story could easily be my story.

So, what is the difference between a published author and a wannabee? Persistence, me thinks! I need to do more of the business side of things - writing submission letters, sending them off, and I need to continue to write. If I see myself as a writer, then I am a writer - published or not. Right? Still though, it would be nice to see my books on the library shelf - or rather, not on the shelf - but at the check-out counter, ready to go.

And I am ready, I realize that now. Thank you Roundtable. Thank you Michelle and Robbin. Thank you.

Picture this...

I'm sitting in the Doctor's office - waiting for my physical to begin. I'm wearing a thin blue gown that would get me arrested if I wore it anywhere else but there. I'm waiting, half naked, for 1/2 an hour, sitting on the examining table, swinging my feet back and forth thinking. Thinking: "I'd really like to steal one of those tongue depressers." But I didn't. Then I was thinking of a good opening line for a novel and I thought: "I should write that down before I forget it." So, I'm trying to remember if I have a pen in my purse, and then I'm contemplating writing it on a tongue depresser (they won't mind too much, would they - especially not if my book is any good). I'm just about to hop off the table to "borrow" one of the sticks when I decide I should rummage through my bag for a scrap of paper first. Low and behold, my writing book is actually in there for a change. Then I'm thinking: "okay, it's a sign, this story is meant to be."

I wrote down about half of the first chapter. Developed in my mind 3 of the characters, the setting, and the general plot. I even came up with the perfect title and ran through a list of publishers (in my head, of course) that would consider such a novel.

Now I'm thinking: "is it wrong that I thanked the Doctor for being late?"

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. . . (are living in my closet)

The holidays are on their last legs, the big boys are back to school tomorrow, and my next Masters class begins. Soon, I will be swept up in its momentum, wondering where the lazy days of Christmas went. The tree is coming down, the ornaments wrapped in tissue to preserve them for another year, the Nativity scene likewise put in a safe corner in our little storage closet.

I should come to think of that storage closet as a bunker where Jesus, Mary and Joseph can live together in peace, harmony and good will, uninterrupted by the little hands that reach in to their scene and rearrange them again and again as my children like to do. They will live there until we need them again, and they will return refreshed, but a little weary to remind us what the holidays are all about. About family. About hope. About a life so new and full of possibilities. Maybe I should find a place in my purse to carry these little figurines around so that I can be reminded on a daily basis how important these things are. Perhaps on the dashboard of the car as I rush here and there, so that I can hold the peace closer to my soul when I start to slip into bits of despair about a life spent running errands, and meeting obligations. A gerbil wheel that doesn't seem to rest.

But we all know what would happen then, don't we? We'd no longer see it. It would blend in to the dash, and grow dusty and neglected. Best if we bring it out once a year to recharge ourselves with its renewal. . . . So I'll store them away in their safe little haven and let them go about their merry way, while we go about ours.

The Thoughts I was Thinking Today

Early morning New Years walk on the trail at the bottom of our hill - beneath an arch of leafless branches, and many tall pines here and there reaching up to touch the sky - and my thoughts went like this....

Optimism is a kin to either foolhardiness or denial. We are optimistic that the atrocities of the past will not be repeated today - optimistic that we are better people, less evil, more humanitarian than our forefathers. We're optimistic that we'll learn from history - but we never do. We're no better or worse than them. We're human.

We live in our bubbles, feed our kids, arrange their swimming lessons, music lessons, drop them off at school on time, avoid the morning rush of cars in the school parking lot as we walk up the hill, hope that our kids won't fight at recess, or feel the crush of hurt feelings when they don't get their way, or that they have a good teacher who appreciates them,sees the good in them. We hope that cutbacks don't affect our jobs, and that we can continue the way of life we have been building for ourselves. These 'problems' are so little when you think of people living on the streets, unsure if they will make it through to the morning.

And what is it that has a roof over my head, but not on theirs? Optimism? Hope? Luck? Hard work? Fate? Why am I warm and dry with food in the cupboards and hot tea in my cup?

On our walk my husband was telling Kieran about how poor I was going to school, how I put myself through university and didn't have extra money to buy things that we have now. I told him about having to stand in the little grocery store with enough money for milk or bread, but not both. Having to make the choice, but still lucky that I had a choice. It's hard to explain to kids who have so much that there are children in the world, and in our own community who are not so "lucky".

And at the back of my head I'm always thinking, life can turn on a dime, so be grateful. Be grateful for all you have and be thankful that the problems you have are all you have to worry about.

And when I use the word we, I mean me. I don't want to speak for everyone in the little boat I travel in. This is my own reminder to bow with a certain grace to God and say I am grateful.