Maria wonderfully captured the poetry workshop we attended recently through the Burlington Public Library: Lynda Monk’s welcoming and positive approach; prompts that inspired our writing; our collective “affirmative noises” throughout the session.
Like Maria, I had also hesitated attending, but not for the same reasons. I don’t have a “prejudice against poetry”. I dabble from time to time and submitted my Your House is Not My House poem as pages for a Restless Writers meeting not that long ago. I also don’t hate journalling. While I may not journal every day, I am an “out loud” thinker, and when no one wants to listen, my journal pages are always willing.
I hesitated to participate because my brain prefers the ordinary. On the evening in questions, she said, “You’ve worked a long day. You’re tired. Wouldn’t you rather settle in to a night of watching Derry Girls episodes? Plus, you’ll have to do the dishes if Maria is coming over.”
But Maria had texted and offered to bring wine. So, what was I going to do? Say no? That’s funny. And I’m glad she did – come over, I mean. Not just bring the wine. (That said, Riesling on a Tuesday evening is a nice treat.)
For me, the gift of Lynda’s workshop was allowing in quiet and connection. It was a needed opportunity to tell my work and home brains to take 60, go commiserate about me over their own glasses of wine, and let me enjoy mine.
Lynda talked about how visceral poetry is. That it cuts to the essence, reveals the unspoken and digs into the senses. She shared this quote by Allen Ginsberg, “Poetry slows me down and brings me back to myself.” For me, on that Tuesday, I didn’t realize how fast I’d been moving until I followed Lynda’s instruction to close my eyes, listen to her recite Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese poem and write down any words or lines that stood out to us. That’s when I felt my breath deepen, and my body settle into her voice as I became drawn in by the verse.
And in that open space, she invited us to paint our own pictures through the prompts she provided. “I dwell in the possibility of…” “Silence is like…” or to fill in the blanks, using Jane Kenyon’s Otherwise poem as a template. Some participants chose to share what had sprung up in their writing. Usually, I’m one of them, but on this night, I was with the others who chose to simply listen and absorb.
To me, poetry is about presence and play. Experiencing it and then toying with the words, the shapes, the sounds, the spaces. You can choose the structure of a haiku or dance freely with your own use of the page, colour, fonts.
Toward the end, Lynda summarized our experience in the “5 Things to Practice to Free Your Inner Poet”:
Breathing
Stillness
Listening
Receiving
Giving
These were the reminders I forgot I needed. Through this workshop, I expanded and found new creative energy. Maria opened up her imagination.
I encourage you to give yourself the gift of a writing workshop. Many are free or inexpensive and offered by local libraries or authors looking to inspire other writers. Maybe pick one that isn’t in your usual wheelhouse. You can certainly take one alone, or better yet, invite a fellow writer who never comes empty handed.
When it was done, Maria and I shared what had resonated with us from the workshop. We also shared some of our own verses inspired by the prompts. Maria, who is skilled at bringing levity to the heavy, wrote a a melancholy piece about a solitary meal, mixed with a little gratitude for her cat.
“The cat and I ate dinner,” she recited stone faced. “Not the same dinner. We both had tuna.”
I burst out laughing at her unexpected ending. Maybe you had to be there, but it was hilarious and one of the highlights of the evening! After finding a tissue to wipe my tears, and saying goodbye to Maria, I pondered what may be my next poem: I dwell in the possibility of wine with a friend.
Fellow Restless Writer Andrea and I had signed up to attend a virtual workshop hosted by our local library called “Prompts to Find Your Inner Poet.” I almost didn’t join in, for two reasons: one, I am still working to get over my prejudice against poetry; and two, the workshop was being led by Lynda Monk, a coach, speaker, facilitator, and author who is passionate about journalling – and I hate journalling. (Raise your hand if you’ve ever felt traumatized by Julia Cameron and her morning pages.)
Fortunately, I gave myself a rousing pep talk, convinced myself that it was only for an hour, grabbed a bottle of wine, and headed over to Andrea’s house, so we could attend online together.
The workshop, held last week, was well attended – about 35 people – and Lynda gave a gracious, welcoming, and warm introduction to the workshop. She told us there would be writing exercises (which I was eager to dig into) and that “we are all poets in some way.”
If I had expected the event to be cringey, it wasn’t. Lynda opened by asking us to reflect on “what is poetry?” She described a type of literary expression that is resonant, captures beauty and emotion, helps us feel “aliveness” and connection, and speaks to the “unspoken”: the “spaces in between and around experiences, thoughts and feelings.” She outlined a plain language understanding of poetry that was immediately accessible.
Lynda shared one of her favourite poems – “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver – and asked us to reflect on what stood out for us in the poem. A word, a phrase, a feeling? She shared that the poem evoked a sense of quiet, and that everyone needs to be able to access that kind of quiet in order to write.
She returned to this concept later in the session when she talked about the white space on one of the presentation slides. “Our creative selves need white space, where we can recognize what we have within our hearts to say.”
Throughout the session, Andrea and I would make little affirmative noises in response to some piece of insight that Lynda shared about poetic language. I found Lynda’s approach to talking about poetry, and encouraging each of us to explore new poetic prompts, to be the opposite of cringey. She was engaging, positive, non-critical, practical, and inclusive.
One takeaway for me was what Lynda had to say about the transformative effects of poetry. To paraphrase, poetic writing can transform what we’re feeling into something else (e.g. writing about a negative experience can turn it into a positive one), and poetic writing can transform ourselves, by altering our perceptions about our own experiences and emotions.
The writing exercises were intriguing and fun – Andrea and I agreed we should share the prompts at a future Restless Writers’ meeting.
Take the first line of your favourite poem, and use it as a prompt for your own poem. Lynda used Emily Dickinson’s “I dwell in Possibility” as the line prompt.
Use the structure of an existing poem as a template for your poem. “Otherwise” by Jane Kenyon was the perfect prompt to have us imagining our own alternate lives.
Cut words out of a magazine or newspaper, and paste them into poems in different shapes. (Ahem, an idea for the next Restless Writers’ holiday craft night?)
Create a “book spine poem.” This was another exercise Lynda encouraged us to try on our own time – you take books from your shelves, and make a poem out of their titles. Mine is below.
Principles still missing. How did that happen? The novel cure underland, surrounded by idiots, sediment in streams. Do not disturb the big thing.
I’m thankful I talked myself into joining the workshop, and I’m thankful for Lynda’s generous and gentle approach. It opened up something in my imagination and in my writing that I might have been repressing. I’m looking forward to exploring more poetic writing this spring.
Maybe I’ll even give journalling another go. But no promises.
For our first post of the new year, we thought we’d shake things up by welcoming a guest contributor. Everyone, meet Julie.
Now, in the twist you didn’t see coming, Julie and I don’t actually know each other that well. I couldn’t tell you the day of her birthday or how she takes her coffee – heck, I don’t even know if Julie drinks coffee – but what I do know is that we share a love for our mutual friend M.
M and I go back more than 30 years. Being her friend means there’s always something cozy to eat waiting for you when you walk in the front door of her home. It means being surprised with a little gift she picked up for you, just because. During COVID, she coined the “spirit shimmy” – a dance maneuver she would perform during our Zooms. At any point during the call, M would spontaneously advance on her camera and shake what her mama gave her, giving us a belly laugh and a glorious five-minute reprieve from our collective lockdown funk.
Another thing that’s special about M is that she’s a fervent cheerleader for her friends. This is especially true when it comes to my writing. No matter what I’ve written, whether it be an email, a eulogy or a social media post, she will proclaim, with great enthusiasm, that it is the funniest and most clever. And she doesn’t stop there. She tells people about it. Like a parent who can’t help but pull out their phone to show off pictures of their kids, she’ll say to all walks of people, “you gotta read this!”
And this is how I came to know Julie. She is also on the receiving end of the love and enthusiasm wielded by this petite, emphatic champion.
Over the years, M has said to me, ”you should meet my friend Julie, she’s a good writer like you.” While we have met in person, all too briefly, I never had the chance to read something Julie wrote until last December when M sent me something Julie penned for her family. In short, it was the funniest and most clever. I couldn’t read fast enough to see how it ended and also wished it could go on forever?
Huh. After all these years of thinking M’s take on my writing was clouded by her friendship with me, I had to admit, maybe she does know what she’s talking about.
I loved Julie’s piece so much that I asked her if she’d be willing to share it here and she said yes! I’m going to let Julie take it from here but not before one last shout out to our cheerleader.
M – thank you for connecting us and so fervently supporting the stuff we like to do, for no other reason than that you love us. I hope I have half the potential you see in me.
And now, over to Julie.
This is such a wonderful idea, to build community around writers and stories, and I can certainly agree with Sharon, that “M” is a gift of a human I am indeed lucky to know.
This story came about as we recently lost “Gran E” after 93 terrific years, 26 of which I got to enjoy as having her be my mother-in-law. It was our first Christmas without her and we missed having her as our epicenter very much. I wrote this to read aloud to hubby (the youngest kid of seven and the only boy – that is a whole other story) and our kid1 (22yo) and kid2 (19yo).
Every Christmas Eve we each pick a story from our box of Christmas books to read aloud. We’ve done it since the kids were little and it’s surprisingly poignant to see our adult kids with a little smile on their face, reading their favourite holiday story. I read this as a surprise and it was lovely to feel Gran E with us again, in a small way. Please enjoy, and thank you Sharon for wanting to share!
There are days…squirrel in the house
It started with a phone call, as many adventures can, from a lovely and charming grey haired lady.
“There’s a squirrel in my house,” she said.
I arrived twenty minutes later, flush with adrenaline and a noble desire to help, because the lady was my mother-in-law, and what better way to be cemented as preferred daughter-in-law*, than to rid her house of an unexpected, unwanted guest. *I was her only daughter-in-law…
I forensically assessed the scene. Tiny black pawprints on windowsills. Scuffling sounds coming from under the couch. Eyewitness account having seen something black and fast streak across the room. The thing is, my mother-in-law was no ninny. She was a nurse after the war. She raised seven children. She played a mean game of gin rummy. I didn’t doubt that she was right and a squirrel had fallen down her chimney, getting past the flue, and was now eviscerating the underside of her loveseat.
It was time to get to work. Phase one of the operation involved sizing up my opponent. Instinctively I knew I had the upper hand – I am bigger, smarter, and better equipped than the average squirrel, figuring as I did that my opposable thumbs and executive level reasoning were advantages. That being said, one is rarely prepared for the size of something you’ve only seen out of doors when it comes zooming at your face from under a piece of furniture.
The chase was on.
I settled Gran E (as we affectionately called her) at her kitchen table and closed the french doors to her living and dining room. From her vantage point she could see the back half of the scene and I was thankful she couldn’t see her living room, for the state it soon took on. I donned gardening gloves and commenced phase two – operation exhaustion. I decided to tire the squirrel out, and assess where it was hiding each time I chased it out from somewhere, so I could systematically close off its escape routes. My plan was genius – reduce its options then trap it in a box and take it outside. I did not factor in the herculean endurance possessed by the average Canadian squirrel.
Twenty minutes later I was panting and red faced from exertion and mounting rage. The loveseat and armchairs were all flipped on their backs, to stop the squirrel from scooting underneath them. I had leaves from the dining room table blocking the bottoms of other pieces of furniture, and had taken up a table cloth, which I now wielded like a matador, convinced I could throw it over the squirrel on one of it’s supersonic passes, to slow it down then slam the box over it.
Another twenty minutes later I was breathless as I had repeatedly experienced the surreal sight of the squirrel launching from the flipped loveseat into the air above my matador sheet, sometimes using it for added leverage to soar off down the length of the dining room, like a jet boosted missile. Each time I would gallop after it, trying to chase it into a corner, and as I passed the french doors, Gran E would laugh her hooting chortle like she was watching the best variety show ever.
Another twenty minutes later the squirrel’s path was reduced to a predictable loop and I thought it might be starting to slow. It wasn’t jumping as high, and when we made eye contact, it seemed resigned. On one of it’s streaks past me, I grabbed at it – a move born of desperate reflex, as I was not at all sure what I would do if I found myself clutching a squirrel, but thankfully I only came up with a tuft of hair from the tip of its tail.
Ten minutes later I decided I was a failure and we’d have to burn the house down to get rid of the squirrel. I was sitting in the centre of the living room, all furniture flipped on its back or precariously stacked in a pile. The squirrel was revving his engines in the corner, preparing for lap 1,249 of the space, and in a gesture born of desperation, I threw the box at it.
Time froze.
The box landed perfectly over the squirrel. I could hear its thoughts, because they mirrored mine; “HOW IN THE SWEET NUTTER…”
We burst into action at the same time. The box began skittering across the floor as I leaped to my feet. I could see paws and a nose creeping out as I reached the box and slammed it tight against the floor. In a fluid motion utterly at odds with my natural coordination, I grabbed a magazine and sliced it underneath, flipping the squirrel containment unit with its makeshift lid until it was right-side up, and closed the flaps.
A stunned silence filled the room. All I could hear was what I thought was the clock ticking, but it could have been a burst blood vessel in my head. I eased to my feet, holding the box like a priceless artifact, one hand on the top and another cradling the bottom, and opened the french doors, promenading towards Gran E. She clapped her hands and was about to speak when I saw her eyes widen and she jumped from her seat. “GET OUT” she urged and spun me towards the door. She had seen what I could not, that the squirrel was pulling a Jaws and was about to chew through the side of the box.
I raced to her front door, and in two steps launched the box and its furry contents off her porch. The box hit the ground first, the squirrel once again soaring like a mythical winged creature, to land on her emerald front lawn. It stopped there and sat up, to look around and I swear I saw it contemplate taking another run at me before it turned and disappeared into a hedge.
It took a half hour to restore Gran E’s furniture, and to pose for a photo with her and the clump of hair I’d snagged from her guest’s tail (see below). We laughed about the ridiculous evening we’d shared, and I headed home to rehydrate and stretch. Gran E swore in the days and weeks that followed that a squirrel with a short-ish tail was casing her house and was often on her roof. I believe her, and we agreed if it ever made it inside again, that we’d leave its removal to the professionals.
Dig into your characters’ phobias to add depth, detail, and humanity
Content warning: This blog post touches on some common and not-so-common phobias. If you struggle with a phobia, feel free to skip this post. Also, I recognize that phobias are anxiety disorders and can impact a person’s life in profound ways. My writing here is meant to explore, in a light-hearted manner, the ways that writers can grant characters life and depth by giving them a phobia. In no way is this meant to downplay the very real impact that phobias and anxiety can have.
I have a phobia of bees.
Yes, all bees. Even bumblebees, those guileless panda bears of the apian world.
All stripey stinging insects set me off. In fact, if anything buzzes near or past me, whether it’s a fly, hummingbird, or a slight breeze, I’ll do my little frantic bee-flee dance until it’s gone.
The origins of my fear of bees lurk deep in my psyche, and I may never know why that part of my lizard-brain responds to a buzz. But I have a theory. My phobia may derive from a childhood visit to the local pick-your-own apple farm. I got lost in a “corn maze” and was swarmed by big angry wasps. My young and impressionable self was confused and trapped in a dark, creepy, fire-hazard labyrinth, and attacked by flying monsters. Even though I ended up with only a few stings, the experience stuck with me. No wonder my instinct is to run away.
My friends can get pretty impatient about this phobia, especially if we’re trying to enjoy a lovely summer evening outside on a patio. It’s okay, I get it. I’d be irritated by me too.
Pretty much everyone’s got a phobia – or phobias. Whether it’s bees (apiphobia) like me, or clowns (coulrophobia), dentists (dentophobia), teenagers (ephebiphobia), holes (trypophobia), or books (bibliophobia), a phobia is a uniquely human condition.
For some people, phobias can lead to intense symptoms – from chest tightness, racing heartbeat, and difficulty breathing, to anxiety, confusion, and dread. Phobias vary in terms of degree too. They can be a mild irritation or have a debilitating impact on a person’s day-to-day life, or anywhere in between.
As writers, we aim to create colourful, relatable, flawed, complex, and authentic characters. As you build out your characters, you might want to think about whether or not they have a phobia, and what that phobia means to their life and their story.
Here are 8 ways a phobia can add depth and layers to your characters and your story:
Internal conflict: Your whole story might focus on a character’s struggle to overcome their phobia, which may have been brought on by an unresolved trauma of the past. A detective who comes face-to-face with his fear of confined spaces. A parent who must combat their agoraphobia to keep her daughter safe. A child prodigy pushed into a musical career by over-ambitious parents must fight their fear of loud noises.
Relatability: Some phobias can help to make a character relatable or humanly flawed. An estimated 77% of people have a fear of public speaking (glossophobia), so giving your character a case of nerves before a big speech would make them pretty darn human.
Comedy: While it’s never nice to mock the afflicted, a character’s phobia can give you plenty of opportunities for humour – whether it’s slapstick, gross-out, physical, punny, or ironic. Some of those opportunities are driven by the kind of phobia at play. For instance, trichophoba (fear of hair), decidophobia (fear of making decisions), and chronomentrophobia (fear of clocks) all seem like they could lead to some laughs. Just try not to be mean about it, gosh.
Horror: The opposite is also true. So many horror elements derive from phobias. Spiders, snakes, sharks, clowns, garden gnomes, mirrors, demons, dolls, blood, the dark, fire, sleep – you name it, and there’s probably an absolutely terrifying horror story to write about it. And if the phobia doesn’t exist yet, just make it up. Guaranteed you’ll scare the pants off someone.
Motivation for action: Writers must regularly shove characters into shitty situations to drive the plot and reveal the character’s growth and transformation. Having a character encounter their phobia will lead them to take an action. That action could be retreat, charge ahead, cry, faint, scream, what have you. The action your character takes in response to a phobia can provide a transition into the next beat of the story and provide deeper insight into your character for the reader.
Signature quirk: A phobia can also be a kind of personal branding for your character. Indiana Jones Jr.: afraid of snakes. Indiana Jones Sr: afraid of rats. Ron Weasley: afraid of spiders. Wolverine: afraid to fly. Peter Pan: afraid of growing up. Maria: afraid of bees.
Revelation: Your character’s phobia can be a clue to be unravelled over the course of the story. It could be the key to a shocking childhood accident, a genetic link to another character who has the same phobia, or the real reason why a villain does what she does. Go deeper, and make it matter.
Novelty: If you ever feel stuck for an idea for a story, just google “list of phobias” for instant inspiration.
It’s easy for me to write about a character who’s afraid of bees (or sharks, deep water, or the shrill of my smoke alarm), because that’s what I struggle with. As I proceed with my WIP, I’ll be challenging myself to open my mind to other types of fears that my character could have, and all the ways that I can make my character more human.
Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia (fear of long words), anyone?
I get frustrated when I want something but can’t see the way toward it. I want to write and have something to share with my Restless Writers at each meeting, but lately I’ve been on repeat saying, “I don’t know what I’m writing. I don’t even know what I feel compelled to write.”
They listen and are more patient with me than I am because that’s not one of my best-known qualities.
Maybe that’s why I have this Rainer Maria Rilke quote on my bedroom wall:
Easy for you to say, Rainer.
But, at the last RW meeting, I committed to have a writing date with myself. To create purposeful time to check in and see what might happen. That was yesterday. I found a few hours. Stopped. Meditated. Brainstormed. Scribbled down some letters from the alphabet. Hoping beyond hope my muse would appear and transform the letters into prose.
She didn’t. They didn’t. All I got were random, disconnected words, as if I was playing Scrabble. It sucked.
I abandoned the effort. I went to play the piano and sing a little. Even that didn’t satisfy, so I started watching David Letterman’s My Next Guest Needs No Introduction. The interview with Tiffany Haddish. I didn’t even know who she was, and I didn’t finish the episode.
Later, I went to bed with no progress.
Today, however, I awoke to a rare April 20-degree morning of warming sunshine. With a cup of tea in hand, I cozied up under the trees and with the sparrows in my backyard paradise. With no thought to writing, I randomly opened an old blog I kept about nine years ago and pulled up a post called “Being in Love with Not Knowing. Here’s a snippet:
“..the journey is to decide how we’ll walk our path – in terror of the unknowing, allowing it to paralyze us to stay in one spot, or to become in love with it and embrace the unknowing for all its possibility. The beauty of reaching “no idea” – having absolutely no idea – means you are now open to any idea…Sometimes you need to go through the “I have no idea” stage because the answer cannot yet be given. You have to take one more step and then another one. Let go and trust the path will soon become clear again. Be committed to taking one more step, and with that, become free and open to new possibility.”
Looks like I was channeling my inner Rilke. I read a few more old posts, which led me to read a few others’ posts about writing.
And then it happened.
I wrote!
A new poem released from within. My heart sang as my fingers typed for the first time in months. Look at that. I have something to share with the Restless Writers at our next meeting.
And I’ve published a new blog post!
I had let go and lived my questions. I guess Rilke and my former self were right. Beautiful things can happen when you sit with your not knowing. Maybe not right away, but they do. Release. Presence. Observation. Possibility.
Yes Andrea. Patience 🙄
What do you do when you have no idea what to write? Do share.
It’s been a minute since we’ve said hello on the blog. That is singularly the fault of this RW who was assigned a new blog post back in May. I’ll also lay some of the blame at the feet of summer. From traveling, family-ing, prom-ing, and gardening, to working (including new jobs!), swimming, house-improvement-ing, relaxing, and vacationing – we activated summer mode in June and have not looked back.
You may have noticed one important verb missing from the list above – writing. There’s no way around it, in the last few months our RW endeavours have taken a bit of a back seat to the stuff of life. We’re all feeling it.
So, what are we doing about it?
We’re getting crafty
To help fuel our creative brains, we decided to switch things up for one of our recent meetings and pivoted from pages to paint brushes for an art night. Usually reserved for the holiday season, our Christmas Creatives are an annual event the four of us look forward to every year, where we pick one night to make a craft. We’ve made some gems over the years like these wooden signs, paper stars and even a tree made from plastic spoons. For our most recent endeavour, we decided to keep things simple and stick to painting. With no real agenda for the night, other than to create and eat, I’d say we nailed it. See for yourself…
We’re kicking ass at other stuff
Sometimes, when you feel like you might be falling down in one area, it helps to remind yourself that you’re rocking it in others. While the RWs may not be on top of their personal writing projects right now, they are knocking it out of the park in some other spheres. I asked each of them, “what is one thing you are kicking ass at right now?”
Andrea: Great and tough question. I guess what I’m kicking ass at is taking care of myself physically and getting better at taking care of myself mentally and spiritually – letting go and trusting myself more. I would also say I think I’m good at creating space for my kids, guiding them and finding support for their unique needs.
Becky: I guess what comes to mind for me is getting shit done. I’ve been a master project manager with stuff at home.
Maria: Right now, I am kicking ass at…for the first time in my career, finally being able to say that I’m a professional writer and editor. I’m incredibly busy, but it’s wonderful to be able to do the thing that I’m best at and mono-task.
And for me, I’d say it’s looking after my people. The summer has been filled with big milestone life events, birthdays and rights of passage and I have been front and centre for all of them, cooking up some thoughtful and fun celebrations to make each one feel special.
[Side note: This exercise is tougher than it sounds. Almost all of the RWs said they felt stumped by this question or had to really think about it. Were they comfortable saying they were doing something well? Yes. Pretty well? Sure. But kick ass? That made some of us a little less comfortable. Maybe we need to start a kick-ass corner on this blog to exercise that muscle. Hmmm…stay tuned].
We’re pushing forward
If I’ve learned anything since becoming a RW, it’s that you don’t give up. There are seasons where you will find yourself writing more and sometimes less but you keep going. So, that’s what we’ll do. We’re breaking out our calendars to set a date for our next meeting, where we will continue to connect, encourage and cheer each other on. And eat. We’ll definitely still eat. We kick ass at that too!
I haven’t been pulling my weight. When’s the last time I contributed here? Too long to remember. That’s how long.
The truth is, I can’t find any words.
Well, not exactly true. I have lots of words. Too many words, but they’re all scrambled and jumbled in a heap at the end of my bed. They look like a fall leaf pile, but void of colour. And there’s a bunch that have blown under the dresser with the dust bunnies and in the back right corner of the closet behind the dress I bought for my niece’s wedding I never got to wear because of COVID. I’m sure there are some behind the toilet too. I haven’t checked. And frankly, I don’t want to.
I’m ashamed of that. I wish it was otherwise. I wish the pile didn’t overwhelm me.
I guess I could rake it up, take it to the curb and start fresh, even if I know I’ll keep finding more laying around.
Meh. I’m pretty sure a new pile will form anyway.
I wish the pile and its possibilities could excite me. Entice me to jump in and start rolling around, not caring how many get stuck in my hair. That used to feel fun. Discovering a vibrant, perfectly formed word – the quintessential series of letters that took hold and inspired me to hunt for more. Line them up. Rearrange them over and over again. Play with their shapes and sounds.
But the pile makes me feel tired right now.
Every word looks dry, like it would crunch and crumble to my touch.
I’ve left them too long. I haven’t known what to do with them. So they kept accumulating. I’m pretty sure my husband slipped and swore at one the other day. Frustrated I’m not doing anything with them.
So, here I am, asking you for more time–again. There might be a fresh one in there somewhere. Maybe soon I’ll catch a glimpse of a word I didn’t pay much attention to before that suddenly needs me to pick it up and find a better spot for it than on the floor.
That’s probably why I’ve left them there all this time. Why I keep gingerly stepping around them. Part of me likes them there. A reminder of who I’ve been and might be again.
I suppose there is hope in the pile. I’m just writing to tell you I haven’t found it yet, and I’m sorry.
There are two bits of advice about writing that I return to time and time again when I am feeling stuck with my work.
The first: “Write drunk, edit sober.” This saying is attributed to Ernest Hemingway, that master of brevity and flourish-free language.
And the second: “Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts.” This piece of advice is from Natalie Goldberg in the classic Bird by Bird.
Both of these insights speak to me, because I have a tendency to clam up before I really get going. Maybe you have this tendency too. I am often so caught up in the desire to tell a great story, to dazzle my readers with wit and charm, to surprise them with something unique, that I find it hard to get going. The pressure gets to me, and hello writer’s block. I get stuck striving for perfection and elegance right out of the gate, instead of doing the actual work of writing.
Writing a “shitty first draft” (Goldberg’s term) and writing drunk are not excuses for me to churn out bad, careless work. But it does mean that I have the freedom to write the raw material of the story that I need to write, without the fear of judgment. No-one will see my first draft except me. I have to remind myself to simply get the story on paper, in all its beautiful, terrible, first-glimpse glory—and then shape it into something that someone else might want to read.
Don’t worry about perfection or form or style or commas. Produce the beginnings of something that excites you. Write fast and sloppy. Let your characters do whatever they want. Use simple language and un-fussy descriptions. And write every day or as often as you can manage it, until you have a lovely messy first draft in your hands. Save the polish until later.
Writing is hard. Getting started is harder. Allow yourself the freedom to churn something out, poke around in the mess, and see if you can create something shiny and beautiful from it.
When Maria returned from out west, merely months ago, we thought we were finally done with video calls. Then COVID happened. Now all four of us reside inside of Zoom. Our meetings have become more or less check-in’s instead of a loosely structured event like normal, but they’re still happening. A small win.
As the pandemic has evolved, each of us have experienced it differently. There have been some pretty significant disruptions to our work lives, family lives, and our financial security. Yet, we remain connected—we are in this moment together.
We’ve been doing our best to stay strong, stay positive, and stay home. I’d like to think as writers, we might understand social isolation a bit more than others. In fact, we make a point of forcing it upon ourselves on a regular basis, because how else would we get our pages done? Ah yes, pages. Those bloody pages!
For those of you who are actually writing, there are some fun pop-up call-outs out there. Like this one! A Canadian publishing house in northern B.C. is hoping the extra time people have while isolating will result in some great writing. Muskeg Press has put out a call for submissions for stories written during the COVID-19 pandemic. The Publisher is compiling a book and paying authors of the chosen stories $350. Deadline is June 30.
Restless Writers? Are we up for a new writing challenge?
Pandemic Reflections
Times are tough, but we’re doing okay and have much to be grateful for. In an attempt to find new ways to connect, as well as an excuse to check-in on my pals, I posed a few questions to the Restless Writers. Here’s what they had to say:
What is the book getting you through COVID right now?
Andrea:Just finished The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, by Rachel Joyce. Somewhat sad, but also hopeful and uplifting. I need a new one now, otherwise I’m about to start watching Outlander, which I hear is good Chic Porn.
Maria:It’s not so much books but magazines. I am reading and re-reading issues of The Walrus.
Sharon:I had the accidental good fortune of signing out a whack of library books just a few days before the shut down and they’re not due until August! I’m just finishing The Reader, by Traci Chee, a YA novel set in a world where reading is unheard of. It’s provided a much-needed outlet to wind down.
What is the #1 insight you’ve had while in isolation? (or something you’ve learned about yourself during this time)?
Andrea:How interesting other people’s homes are when we connect on Zoom! And (for real) how important face-to-face connection is. I’m worried people will think distancing is normal after this is over. That would make me sad. We can’t keep doing virtual meetings thinking it’s the same thing.
BJas:I like social isolation. A lot. And, it’s probably not a good time to pitch my book about a pandemic. I am also blown away by the everyday unlikely heroes and small business superstars. There is so much good happening, and it inspires me to do more and be better.
Maria:Every day brings a new reflection about how people manage through hard times, and how much we need other people and community. Even the self-described introverts, like me. Maybe in The Before Times we took that connection for granted. Watching the stories about how Nova Scotia is coming together right now to help everyone who is hurting makes my heart break and soar at the same time. I for one hope that we all come out of this a little stronger and a little kinder.
Sharon:SO much, but one of the things I know I will take with me from this time is a gentler stand point on the bad stuff. I’m not saying everything happens for a reason but sometimes there is a nugget of goodness planted in the unpleasant that we just can’t see in the moment. e.g. Did living on one salary for 2+ years suck, have me stressed and lashing out on more days than I’d like to admit? You bet. BUT, has that same experience, which taught me about budgeting for what’s important, letting go of wants and making a meal of noodles last three days, provided me a leg up in this quarantine? Darn right. Shitty stuff is still going to come at me post pandemic but when it does, I’m going to trust a little more, even if I can’t see all the pieces.
What is the FIRST thing you want to do when this is all over?
Andrea: Hug all my friends and family.
BJas: Go for a really long drive with the top down and deliver birthday presents to family and friends, while playing Lana Del Ray.
Maria: First thing is a haircut. Second thing is a cocktail in a real live bar.
Sharon: Hang out with my dad. In the same room.
Writers, we hope you are safe and well, and finding time to write and connect with what matters to you most. Family, friends, music, art – the very best of company! I leave you with this, a list of six daily quarantine questions, published by Brooke Anderson at Greater Good Magazine, intended to help you check in with yourself. Such a great reminder of the power we each hold to do better each day, for ourselves and others.
Lastly, a huge thank you to our friends on the front-line, essential workers, and volunteers for their dedication in keeping our families safe during this uncertain and challenging time. From all of us, thank you for everything that you do.
I have jumped in something new. Something exciting. Something scary. And I LOVE it.
It’s scary because it’s a re-entry into a world I have been away from for the past nine-years. It’s also scary because I’m allowing myself to be exposed and vulnerable with a group of people and a director I don’t know, as we explore the art of solo theatre together.
This is exactly what I’ve needed. I’ve been writing my friggin’ play for years now – while balancing kids and a full-time job (you know the drill). I’ve been making progress, but for a while, it’s been feeling like the show has been missing a certain je ne sais quoi (and/or I’ve been hesitating putting it out there for fear of judgment).
It got to the point where my fellow Restless Writers said, “Um, Andrea, what is going on with your play. Are you going to workshop it any time soon or something?” Followed up by my husband a few days later saying “Yeah, what is happening with your play?”
So, with a good smack on the butt from my accountability team, I knew I would have to shake things up if I was going to gain any momentum.
Well, momentum I am gaining, my friends. I am working with a master in one-person theatre – Tracey Erin Smith. She is the Artistic Director of Soulo Theatre, the creator of hit shows, and the writer and performer of many of her own solo shows. She’s brilliant, insightful and visionary, and she’s taking no prisoners!
If I wanted something to rock my world, this is it, on so many levels. She’s guiding our group of seven to each create our own 10-minute autobiographical show. It’s writing, acting, playing, soul-searching, self discovery, with what feels like a bit of therapy tied in altogether. And it’s not for the faint of heart. If you’re not all in, don’t bother.
But that’s what makes it magical. We’re a group of committed individuals who want to go on a totally new journey, doing something we’ve never done before, and see where it can lead us and how it will change us. This is why I LOVE theatre. It’s always a stretch. It’s always uncomfortable. It always changes me a little bit.
I had been stuck in my writing because I wasn’t stretching. I was comfortable and staying safe. And we all know good writing – and good theatre – doesn’t work if it’s safe. That’s our job as artists. To push boundaries…but we can’t push them if we’re not pushing ourselves.
So far, over the past four weeks, I’ve been nauseous, shaky and exhilarated. I feel alive and present in a new way, and it’s making me a better writer and performer FOR SURE!
So, your turn. Stop for a second and think. Are you a little stuck or maybe a bit too cozy in your routine or your writing? Are you pushing yourself creatively? Have you done anything recently in your own life to stretch yourself? Is there anywhere that you feel “all in?”
Find something that scares you and go for it. Jump in. Your readers will thank you.
When Maria returned from out west, merely months ago, we thought we were finally done with video calls. Then COVID happened. Now all four of us reside inside of 
Writers, we hope you are safe and well, and finding time to write and connect with what matters to you most. Family, friends, music, art – the very best of company! I leave you with this, a list of 
Andrea
bjas
Sharon
Maria
Restless Writers 