Book Spine Poetry - What a clever idea!

I wish I'd thought of it.

Below are three of my favourite book spine poems from the gallery at 100 Scope Notes:








Now - I've got to go stack my poem. . .

Cookies for Thought

Might as well write Moby Dick

"It is no less difficult to write sentences in a recipe than sentences in Moby-Dick. So you might as well write Moby-Dick." (Annie Dillard, The Writing Life)

Unless of course you dream a lifetime of being a chef, and want to open your own bistro and create a cookbook to share your culinary brilliance with the world, then by all means, don't write Moby-Dick -  let me do it!

Inspired by the success of my friends'  recent publications (I have no shame, I will boldly name drop wherever I go, in alphabetical order so as not to show favouritism!!):

Julie Kirkpatrick, The Camino Letters,
Angela Kublik, Home and Away; Writing the Land,
Edeana Malcolm, A Garden in the Wilderness,
Robin Stevenson, Hummingbird Heart,
Arthur John Stewart, Odd Ball,

I turn my mind back again to thoughts of writing.

I thumbed through my well-worn copy of The Writing Life by Annie Dillard, and scribbled out bits and pieces thinking of inspiration:  "You might as well write Moby-Dick" - I can shorten that even further, "You might as well write."

You want to be a writer, so write something.

The character played by Billy Crystal in Throw Momma From the Train had this advice for the writers in his writing class:  "Writers write."  You can't get much more distilled than that.

Write?

Pondering Poetry and Gender

I've been thinking a lot about poetry lately. . . and have been becoming a little obsessed. When I think back to my English degree at Trent University, over twenty years ago, it is my poetry class that made me feel elated. I walked across the Otonabee bridge everyday, and my feet barely touched the ground.

Words and
lines and
thoughts and
ideas and
images and
movement and
particular turns of phrase kept me
           buoyant.
It was a very inspiring time.

When I think about my fellow students gathered around the professor's table, I remember being surprised that so many of the young men owned poetry much more than the women did. Michael called himself a poet, Jordan was actively seeking publication, and Patrick read more confidently than any of the women in the room.

The women in the room?

We liked what we liked and we wrote what we wrote, but without that cockiness that the young men lived. I'm not certain if it is because we were less sure of ourselves, or if it was because my generation still held something of ourselves back when we were in the company of men.  I wonder if that has changed in twenty years?  It does seem like a lifetime ago.

It's something to ponder. It's something I ponder, and I don't have the answers for.

But still, I wonder.

Looking for blue ink on a white page

Today I am a tired mother who wants to be a writer.  Is it really a bad thing that I want to go away for a while to find my writing? I dream of a place where nobody claims a piece of me.  A place that inspires, but doesn't overwhelm.  A nurturing sort of place.

Does such a place exist for a mother of three?

This morning I tried to find a piece I'd written a while ago about my three months in Istanbul.  I thought about reworking it for a literary journal,  but now I can't remember where I placed it.  In the deep dark murky space that is my brain, I picture it written in my lousy handwriting with blue ink on a white page. 

Almost all of my scribbles are written with blue ink on a white page. 

I just went through an entire journal - and stumbled on pieces of writing I'd completely forgotten about - including the beginning of a YA novel that has promise.  Now I will go search through other journals looking for the Istanbul story - though I fear finding other pieces I've forgotten about that will plunge me further into longing for a space to get my act together.

Back at the pen

Dear blog,

I love you, I really do. Please don't feel neglected. . . I still think highly of you!  I just haven't written much.  You know that novel I was working on?  Well, it was interrupted.

Here's what happened:
The big boys came home for summer holidays.
End of story.

My scribbling stopped.  Taken over by frequent swing pushing, soccer ball kicking, and a multitude of bandaiding.

But, I have come back to scribbling, and am hopeful to not stray so far again.

The good news is, I was published this Spring in Island Writer Magazine.  It was a non-fiction piece called, The Crematorium and Other Views.  Not a very upbeat title for someone who proclaims to write children's stories to make you smile!  But, it was well received when I read it at the book launch.  Here I am after the reading:

And there's the book I'm published in.  Oh, happy day - oh most courageous hour!

So dear blog, I do solemnly swear to return to you more often. 

I will also eat cookies.

Love and happy writing,

Carol N.

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.