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?