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.

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.