I listen to the voices. —William Faulkner

While Lizzy is out touring the world via the query process (she's travelling at a leisurely pace and visiting only a few agents at a time), Mags has been making her way into her own story. She's very different from Lizzy. Whereas Lizzy is full of angst and anger, Mags is upbeat and bubbly and sees the good in everyone. Lizzy is disengaged from life; Mags revels in it. Unfortunately, she has recently found herself unexpectedly in a difficult situation. But, she is resilient and resourceful. She will find a way out. I know she will.

Tentatively, this is the opening paragraph. Mags is about to say goodbye to her childhood friends, knows that things will never be the same between them again, and she's struggling with it. So, without further ado, Dear Readers, meet Mags.

I love to laugh. I laugh 'til I snort like a pot-bellied pig. I know it's gross, but I can't help it. Snorting makes me laugh all the harder until I'm bent over with the pain and have to calm down before I die from not breathing. Yeah, I love to laugh. But not today. There's no laughter inside me today.

 

 

“You can experience the same thing over and over again but how you feel about it will never be the same as the first.” ― Lik Hock Yap Ivan

I've been pondering firsts lately. Possibly because, in writing YA, I am engaged in creating many firsts. First kiss, first job, first love. As I've reflected back on my own youth even those harsh firsts—first heartache, first loss of friendship, first time living alone and being lonely—bring a gentle melancholy, a soft smile.

Dear friends of ours had to say goodbye to their little furbaby last week. Sophi, a beautiful little spirit, has been a part of their lives for fifteen years. I have thought about them all week and about how they too are living through firsts. The first night, the first morning, the first walk without her. As of today, they have passed the first week without her in their days. Those firsts are agonizing.

There are still landmark firsts to face like first month, first birthday and first year when the loss will bring a fresh surge of pain. But, our hearts have a way of easing it over time. Eventually, memories of Sophi will bring that gentle melancholy and soft smile.

Firsts. So bittersweet.



The incomparable Sophi.

“The here and now is all we have, and if we play it right it's all we'll need.” ― Ann Richards

My apologies for my absence last week. The one thing that any kind of loss teaches you is that you need to stop sometimes and be in the here and now. So, that's what I did. I drastically reduced my time on computer and iPad and, instead, spent many peaceful hours in my gardens weeding and planting. I took long walks with the love of my life and played with my pups. I took the time to enjoy friends, old and new.

I did send out a handful of queries, but that is all I did in terms of writing. I think I needed a break from it. I write seven days a week and, while discipline is important, time off is essential too. I am feeling refreshed, renewed and ready to dive back into Mags' story. Querying? Well, perhaps I'll hold back on that task until I see if there is any feedback on the few I sent out. I'd rather direct my energy into creation right now. And, when my words are exhausted, I will remember to balance the remainder of each day with those other things that nurture my soul—my husband, my dogs, my friends. And, oh yes, my gardens. J

Nothing Compares 2 U—Prince

I've always loved purple. When I was a kid, I got to pick the carpet for my room; I chose purple shag. My bedspread was mauve as were my curtains. I would choose purple stuffed animals, purple doll clothes and put that Laurentien pencil crayon #5 to good use whenever an opportunity presented itself. I suppose it was inevitable that I would fall for Prince.

I first met his work in Dirty Mind and Controversy. There is little purple prose on those albums. They are raw and they are real. Struggling with finding my place in the world, trying to figure out who I was as a young adult, and exploring my sexuality, the unfiltered lyrics and driving vibe of those albums hit the sweet spot. I listened to them over and over, not knowing yet, that it was the launch of my adult version of loving purple.

When I saw Purple Rain I was sandwiched between my boyfriend and his brother at a drive-in theatre. They ceased to exist. I knew the acting was terrible and the movie incredibly simplistic, but Prince was mesmerizing. My body vibrated with the music and I totally crushed on this man who was like no man I'd ever known, yet personified love and sex. That November, I went to his Purple Rain concert. He proved that his talent was no hype. I was spellbound from start to finish. Nothing has equalled it for me.

His "take me as I am" attitude, showed me time and again that it's okay to be different. More than okay—it's important to accept and rejoice in differences as well as commonalities. He was about connecting on a primal level, about being human and about celebrating that mixed bag of experiences and emotions that defines our species.

I have made no secret of my love of all things Prince, as the friends who sent emails and texts on Thursday, checking in on me, can attest. But, I'm not a gaga-for-celebrities kind of person as a rule. I don't hunt down news of them or obsess about their lives. I don't feel they owe me anything or that they are my friends. Yet, I am devastated by Prince's death. I feel truly gutted.

He has been with me since I was seventeen. Controversy was the background to my first long-term relationship. My husband went to the Purple Rain concert with me, although we went with a group of friends as friends and had no idea that we had a lifetime together ahead of us. But, he loved that show and the music as much as I did and I fell a little bit in love with him that night. Prince gave us the music to dance to, allowing us to release that after-performance adrenaline. Our theatre troupe, our dearest of friends, would squeal at the first notes of Let's Go Crazy and hit the stage. And, when we closed the bedroom door at night, Prince serenaded.

His music has been the soundtrack of my life. I will miss him, this man I never knew. Goodbye my purple friend.

 

“I love my rejection slips. They show me I try.” – Sylvia Plath

You have to have tough skin to be a writer. To be an artist of any kind, really. Heck, everyone needs tough skin to venture into personally unchartered territory. It doesn't matter what you are pursuing, if it's new, it's daunting. I remember auditioning when I first came to Toronto. Only a few times. I didn't like the pressure of competing. I didn't have the guts. Maybe I didn't have the talent. Who knows? I'll certainly never know, because I skittered away like a frightened animal into a maelstrom of jobs.

Eventually, I grew a set. As a result, I've had some amazing experiences and a fabulous career. I discovered that if I worked hard, and stuck to it no matter the ups and downs, good things happened. My dreams unfolded. I have faith that the same applies to writing. I am working hard to improve, not just my specific stories, but my writing in general. And, I am approaching it with the same doggedness I adopted all those years ago.

Still, rejection is hard and it's tempting to put tail between legs and head into the proverbial hills. I've only sent out a handful of queries. I stopped for the reasons listed in my previous posts, but am revving up to begin again. So many of my writer peeps have almost exhausted their lists and are defeated. I am bracing myself for that, but not running. No, I am going to stand tall, keep reading, keep learning, keep writing. I'm holding to my formula: hard work + stick-to-it-ness = success. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but some day.

And, it's not just wishful thinking. I have proof. Check out the sampling of authors below and the rejections they endured before landing an agent or a publishing contract. Because, for those who don't know, querying to get an agent is the first gauntlet. You run a similar one with publishers after you get an agent. But I digress. Back to my belief in my formula. As you can see, it's founded on experience and definitive evidence from the field of writing. J

Cheers to all my writer friends and anyone else striving to reach a goal. We're in this together, and our time will come.

 

Agatha Christie was rejected for years before getting a contract.

Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind was rejected 38 times.

Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen's Chicken Soup for the Soul was rejected 134 times.

Stephen King's Carrie was rejected 30 times.

Kathryn Stockett's The Help was rejected 60 times.

J.K. Rowlings' Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was rejected by 12 publishers.

 

To read some of the defeating comments that writers have risen above, check out LitRejections.

 

 

I like to write first-person because I like to become the character I'm writing. —Wally Lamb

I've had several emails asking me what the heck I am talking about with my revisions—close third to first person. Wha? I forget that many of you are not writers and have long ago forfeited the structural analysis of writing for the vagaries of day-to-day living. You are not wallowing in the debate of the worth of your words. You are out in the world, making your way and working hard. But, I like to think, you are hoping a good book awaits you as a reward at the end of a weary day. That's where my gnashing of teeth and biting of nails come in. And my revision.

I initially wrote Lizzy's story from her point of view but not from her headspace. While the story unfolded from her viewpoint, Lizzy was she and her. It was close third POV but there was still an element of a camera watching. It was also told in the past tense. So she said, he looked, they went. Contrast that with first person present where the action is happening now, and the reader is in her head—I say, he looks, we go.

Once I started the rewrite, I was addicted. I began to see what Lizzy sees, feel what she feels. When I looked at scenes directly through her lens, I found I needed to flesh them out more fully, to delve more deeply into the dynamics of her interactions with others. It has resulted in several thousand more words. I think they're good words. Strong words. Words that better convey the layered agonies of Lizzy's world.

Below is the first page of Cutting to the Chase. The first is my original opening in third person. The second is the revised first person. Hopefully, it lends clarity to what I have tried to explain above. If you feel comfortable, let me know what you think.

 

THIRD PERSON POV

Lizzy lay the steel against her leg, its smooth metal a cool caress. The slight scrape as it dragged across her skin sent a chill down her spine and she shivered, anticipating. Spreading her legs wider, she allowed her hand to slip to her inner thigh, inhaling deeply before edging the corner of the razor into the soft flesh.

She held her breath, riveted, waiting. The first crimson drop hit the water—the silent splash echoing in the small room, shouting in her mind—then it dissipated into watery nothingness, becoming whispers of agony. She exhaled slowly, drawing the blade in a straight path, fascinated as always by the gentle folding away of skin. Like pulling the strip on a Babybel. Except, she was the cheese inside out.

“You’ve been in there 30 minutes!”

She pulled the roll of toilet paper and pressed a clump of it against the cut. The little shit could wait.

“I timed it. Thirty stinkin’ minutes. You don’t own the freakin’ washroom!” The door reverberated from his banging.

“Shut up.” She wiped, but she’d gone deeper this time and it kept dripping. Grabbing more tissue, she managed to smear the blood, the mess looking a lot like her watercolor attempt last week. Mrs. Opal had described it as a sailor's warning, whatever the hell that meant.

 

FIRST PERSON POV

The metal is cool against my leg. I want to put it away, shove it back in the cabinet out of sight, forget it exists. But, I can't. Instead, I tip it and drag it across my skin, scraping slowly. Chills run down my spine, making me shiver. I spread my legs wider, allow my hand to slip to my inner thigh, totally giving in to it, edging the corner of the razor blade in. It's easy. Flesh is soft.

I hold my breath and wait. The first crimson drop hits the water—the silent splash echoes in the room, shouts in my mind—then it disappears into watery nothingness. The buzzing in my head softens Mom's angry words to whispers. I can breathe now and my heart starts to thump normally. The sharp pain eases. I draw the blade in a straight path. I love how the skin folds away. Like pulling the strip on a Babybel. Except I'm the cheese inside out.

“You’ve been in there 30 minutes!”

I pull at the roll of toilet paper and press a clump of it against the cut. The little shit can wait.

“I timed it. Thirty stinkin’ minutes. You don’t own the freakin’ washroom!” The door reverberates from his banging.

“Shut up.” I wipe, but I've gone deeper this time and it keeps dripping. Grabbing more tissue, I manage to smear the blood, the mess looking a lot like my watercolor attempt last week. Mrs. Opal had described it as a sailor's warning, whatever the hell that means.

 

***I submitted my first page to the Secret Agent Contest at Ms. Snark's First Victim. It was an amazing experience. The secret agent critiqued the first pages of forty writers. I learned so much from reading the submissions as well as the thoughtful and thorough critiques. I was so pleased to discover that, not only is the secret agent one I would love as my representative, but she also picked my first page as a runner up—which means she will now definitely be reading my query, first five chapters and synopsis. It makes me feel really good about the hours spent on revising to first person.

 

Somethin's Gotta Give

I apologize to those of you who take the time to find me out here in cyber world, but it's a non-blog week. DH and I tackled the 800 square foot deck this week. Sanding and staining has been a time-consuming task. And, when I'm not knee-deep in Cedar tone #2053, I am busy with the revision.

However, I don't want you to leave disappointed. I give you the girls for your viewing pleasure. See you next week!

You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view. —Harper Lee

Stop the presses! Not that they've actually started, but it's a line I've always wanted to say and have never had the context to use it. Well, now I do. Sorta. I am slamming the breaks on querying Cutting to the Chase for a few weeks.

One of my author friends suggested I write it in the first person point of view (POV). Now, to be honest, she encouraged me to do this quite some time ago. I resisted. I've never written in first person and was overwhelmed at the prospect of a full rewrite in a POV that did not come naturally to me. The story is told in close third POV, so it's almost the same thing. Right? (Insert irritating disqualifying buzzer here.) Wrong.

Her suggestion niggled at me as I continued to read a plethora of young adult novels—all of which are written in the first person. And, I have found myself drawn in, immersed. Unbeknownst to my conscious mind (Because, had I recognized I was doing this, would I have begun to query at all?), I started absorbing how to do it. And, shortly after hitting send on a few queries, I sat down and played with chapter one.

I learned two things immediately. First, I can write in first person. Second, and more importantly, it's worth the extra work. I am really getting into Lizzy's headspace. Scenes that were previously fine are now more than that. They are stronger. They pop.

I love writing so many different kinds of stories but, right now, young adult hums for me. It feels familiar, comfortable, like coming home. It taps into years of work in education and, in a way, helps me remain connected with youth, something I miss now that I have left the field. As for the work that is currently going into switching POV? It is part of the thrill of writing—you never stop learning.

 

I suppose with any good writing and interesting characters, you can have that awfully overused word: a journey. —Alan Rickman

I am sending Cutting to the Chase out into the big wide world. It is difficult to let it go. When writing a story, I am immersed in the world and the characters become very real to me. It is difficult to say goodbye to them. I believe it is why I think of my stories in clusters. Raven's Path, my historical fiction, is the first of a three-part saga. Love Denied, my Romance, is one of an interconnected series dealing with taboo subjects of the Regency era. And, Cutting to the Chase introduced characters that are screaming for their own stories.

I am currently knee-deep in Mags' story, who I met in Cutting to the Chase. I talked in an earlier post about how difficult it was for me to throw her off the cliff, but I did and we are now currently climbing out. Not a quick scale, mind you. There is a lot for her to figure out before there will be any resolution or peace in her life. I am full of angst as I write, but we're in it together, Mags and I, and we will come out on the other side.

Becky's storyline is beginning to blossom too. What started out as snippets and scenes is quickly evolving into a full story arc. I am trying to keep her quiet while I focus on Mags, but she is one determined girl and keeps pushing into my thoughts. So, I capture snapshots to pacify her and hope that she backs off for a bit and gives me some space.

That's two connected but very different stories sprouting from Cutting to the Chase, and I have been quite satisfied with the situation. I mean, three is the perfect number, right? Well, it seems that Stu doesn't think so. He has started to tap on my shoulder and remind me that he too has a life. I've explained to him that writing from the point of view of a teenaged guy might be a bit much for me. He just takes off his cap, runs his hand through those ridiculous curls of his and winks. Says I'm up to it. He's got his own file now, because who am I to argue?

 

 

Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies. —Aristotle

Today is our anniversary. I love. I am loved. Unconditionally. It's why I believe in happy ever afters.

You kissed me

And I didn't know

That in that moment

That singular spectacular moment

My life changed for the better

Forever

My heart, my life, my Keev.

 

(For those curious about our anniversary song...Cathy, Sadie...this year we have chosen Over and Over Again by Nathan Sykes.)

It is not how much we have, but how much we enjoy, that makes happiness. —Charles Spurgeon

I live in a bubble, I really do. I'm not sure when that happened. It wasn't always that way. I am no stranger to life's trials and heartaches. None of us are immune. Yet, more and more I cannot help but think I am the luckiest person on the planet. Although, perhaps my happiness stems from recognizing and celebrating the good things in my life rather than dwelling on the not-so-good things? I have come to believe that negatives can be undermined by positives. So, that means you have to put your positives in the spotlight in order to keep the negatives in the wings…or better yet, to toss those negatives into the gutter behind the theatre of your life.

I used to keep a "grateful" journal. Each night I'd write three things that I was grateful for that day. Eventually, I internalized it and, while the journal still resides in my nightstand, I rarely write in it. Instead, I say it out loud. To my husband. To myself. To the universe. I thought I'd share some things in my life that I am grateful for, that make me want to do a happy dance just thinking about them.

1.       My good health. I begin every day with a thankful nod to it. For, without it, my bubble might pop.

2.       My husband. Best friends, we tell each other "I love you" every single day. More importantly, we mean it.

3.       My two little dogs. They make my heart swell with love and maternal instinct, and they make me laugh every day.

4.       My home. Pastoral, mountain and ocean views, it is an ever-changing watercolour outside my living room window. It reminds me every day that I am but a small part of something bigger, and that helps keep things in perspective.

5.       My writing. The artist in me craves creativity and writing feeds that part of my soul. Add to that 100% support from DH and the time to pursue it, well, how lucky can a gal get?

6.       My friends. Old and new, near and far. They don't allow me to slip into an insular writer's world. Instead, they insist that I come out and play and always reach out when I am MIA too long.

7.       Books. I stinkin' love books. From romance novels to picture books to atlases, surround me, submerge me, freakin' drown me in books. I adore the look of them, the feel of them in my hands and I love, love, love getting lost in them.

8.       Champagne. It's a good thing I am not rich. I would live on the stuff. Mind you, even in my quiet little life there is always a reason to pop a bottle of bubbly.

9.       Chocolate. We enjoy a piece of chocolate every day. It is decadent and delicious.

10.   Gardening. I have always loved planning a flower garden. Now I have seven raised beds waiting for my exploration into vegetable gardening…and a climate that makes this new endeavour oh so exciting.

I urge you to make a list and to focus on the great things in your every day. To the best of our knowledge, we only get one chance at this thing called life. Let's kick up our heels a little and celebrate all things good.

"The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you'll go." ― Dr. Seuss, I Can Read With My Eyes Shut!

It is easy to find articles that put forth the doom and gloom of a failing publishing industry, of closing bookstores, of declining readership and of the lost souls of writers desperate for sales. While these cries echo the crisis/panic approach to all things that seems to be the media norm now, there are always some nuggets of truth hidden in the dramatic claims.

Publishing companies have had to navigate the waters of the digital age and there were some rough currents along the way. And, there is news again this week of another seemingly successful publisher closing down. But, many have found a balance between offering digital and hard copy and are doing well. The dearth of independent bookstores is slowly being refilled with a small resurgence of demand for more intimate and personal environments away from the conglomerate chains. If these things are true, then readership must be on the upswing and, by default, authors beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel.

But, we must not be complacent, we lovers of the written word. We must support the industry if we want to have access to a wide selection of affordable reading material. How? First of all, buy books and read. Then, buy more books and read. Repeat.

What else? Tell people about what you are reading. If you love a book, say so. Get on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, whatever your choice of media, and tell people about the book. Comfortable expressing your opinion in written form? Review it…on a blog, on Goodreads, on Amazon…wherever you can. (Reviews, on online bookselling sites, put those books on the radar and up their rankings for searches.) If you belong to online forums, chat it up. Or join a live or online book club and share it. Tell your local bookstore how much you enjoyed it. If they hear that enough times, they'll start recommending it. Speak to your local librarians. They can support through purchasing and recommending.

And, if you are so inclined, reach out to the authors and let them know you enjoyed their books. Most have websites, Facebook and/or Twitter feeds. Yes, they need to put food on their tables, but who doesn't like to be told they've done a good job?

I try to do these things as much as possible. I share, I praise and I promote. Not because I write, but because I read. There is nothing sweeter than curling up with a good book. I am doing my part to ensure that always remains a possibility.

 

 

“A truly great book should be read in youth, again in maturity and once more in old age, as a fine building should be seen by morning light, at noon and by moonlight.” ― Robertson Davies

Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird was required reading in high school. I was always a voracious reader and I recall enjoying it and the discussions that ensued. I don't remember adoring it as so many others have but, since I remember it well all these years later, it clearly did resonate on some level. The brouhaha around her "discovered" novel did not move me enough to want to read it. But her death urges me to reread To Kill a Mockingbird to see where it fits in my schema now that I'm all grown up and have seen a thing or two in my life.

I've never been big on rereads. There are so many books and only so much time. Yet, lately, I seem to be drawn to check out how I would react now to books read long ago. Can they stand up to the test of time or do they belong to where I was in that moment? I suspect there's a bit of both. I have reread Outlander and thoroughly enjoyed it each time. But, there was only about six years between those readings—not a whole lot of change in my world or psyche in that time.

Last week, I mentioned that I had reread Mary Stewart's Wildfire at Midnight. It is a good story but, truly, it is her Merlin series that I fell in love with. So in love, that I wrote her a gushing fan letter begging her to continue. And, she answered. A measure of her worth as a writer, and of the generous power she yielded to make this young girl feel valuable, lies in the fact that I still have her letter many moves and 38 years later. Her writing has, and will always be, an inspiration for me both as a reader and a writer.

Rest in peace Harper Lee and Mary Stewart. You may be gone, but you will not be forgotten.

What's on your reading list?

It is said that if you want to write, read. It is also important that you read widely. While I do tend to go on reading tangents in a particular genre, lately I find myself consciously following the sage advice of selecting from a diverse range of material. I also have discovered that I enjoy having more than one book on the go at a time. Who knew?

During my blue pencil at the Surrey International Writers' Conference with Susanna Kearsley, she recommended I check out Genevieve Graham as a comparable to my 18th century historical novel. Her novels definitely parallel the time-frame and setting of Raven's Path. And, despite the implication of the covers, these books also challenge the category of romance. They are historical adventure with a strong element of romance, but break the tropes in too many ways to pass as a traditional romance. It is what I hope I have accomplished with Raven's Path. I couldn't read just one and quickly devoured the trilogy. She is dabbling in another era now and her latest, Tides of Honour, is near the top of my TBR pile.

 

I just finished The French Executioner by C.C. Humphreys. As historical fantasy, it was a departure from my normal reading selection. I was engaged from the opening sentence, and following the quest of the warm humorous characters was thoroughly entertaining. I have his Jack Absolute series on my bookshelf and will be delving into those in the near future. As an added bonus, both Graham and Humphreys are Canadian. I love supporting our own.

 

I had a yen to rediscover old favourites and read Wildfire at Midnight by Mary Stewart on my Kobo. Since I enjoyed the French Executioner so much, I think I will need to dig out Stewart's Merlin series. When I was thirteen, I fell in love with Mary Stewart and that series in particular. Yep. Definitely up for some more historical fantasy.

 

I find my time on the elliptical tedious. Reading makes it pass, but it has to be light. My brain is too busy trying to convince me to stop the torture to focus on anything dense. Plus, it must be a Kindle download, so that I can read it easily and change the page with a quick tap on the iPad. My current elliptical reading is a book by a fellow member of the writers' forum I haunt. Hands-On Therapy by TL Watson is pure erotica and, by the end of each session, I'm not quite sure if it's the exercise or the reading that's making me sweat. J

 

I dip into craft books regularly, often revisiting ones that have been most enlightening. I bought Stephen King's On Writing while at the Surrey conference, but have only just started it. It is perfect for bits and bites reading, much like DH approaches his magazines.

 

As I write within such a spectrum of genre now, I try to continue researching much in the way I read the craft books. I have a variety of nonfiction books strewn about the house at any given time, and pick them up when the mood strikes or when I need a change of pace. My latest purchase is The Profligate Son by Nicola Phillips. It is a little different than my usual research books as it is literary nonfiction—a reconstruction of a real Regency-era family from letters and court documents.

 

While I read many a young adult novel in my role as adolescent literacy consultant, I have let my collection slip. Now that I am writing in that genre, it has begun to grow once again. This weekend I plan to lose myself in Dumplin' by Julie Murphy. It has been highly reviewed but probably the best, most telling praise, came from the clerk at checkout. She picked it up and caressed the cover. "Oh, this is so good!" That certainly made it go to the top of the TBR pile. J

 

And finally, the reading material that has not left my side for the last few weeks and makes me smile every time I look at it? West Coast Seeds' Gardening Guide 2016. It is early February and I can read this now and not just dream about spring. This weekend I will start seeds in my new little greenhouse and, get this, I can sow some in the ground by the end of the month! How can I not smile?

 

Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule.—Stephen King

I've been sitting here, drinking in the vista, daydreaming and, basically, avoiding writing the blog. Because, I got nothin'. Zilch, zero, zippo. I have scanned my brain, and I have come up empty. Nil, nada, naught. The well is dry, drained, depleted. So, I will continue to sit and stare off into the distance and, perhaps, peruse the thesaurus for more alliterated synonyms. In the meantime, dear readers, have a fantastic, fabulous, first-class week!

O Canada, where have thy priorities gone?

I am all for being considerate of others and their opinions, on a one-to-one basis and on a global scale. But, there are days that my crusty self raises its ugly head and roars. I had one of those days this week when it was announced that MP Mauril Bélanger was going to try to once again change the lyrics to our national anthem. Because of his recent diagnosis of ALS, I hesitated for a moment to allow the crustacean in me to surface. But, while my heart goes out to him and his family for that awful turn of life, I am not attacking him, but expressing my frustration with the apparent priorities of our government. It is, after all, our tax dollars that pay the salaries for these folks to debate key topics, not to mention to cover the costs that would be incurred should we need to change the lyrics. Personally, the anthem isn't even on my list of concerns for our country. It would be laughable if it wasn't so frustratingly stupid—a waste of time and money when there is not enough of either to go around.

The controversy rests in the line "in all thy sons command". Apparently, it is harming the women of our country and needs to be changed to a gender-neutral reference. I won't even talk about how insulting I find it to insinuate that my female psyche is so fragile that it is damaged by this line, nor about how a country that prides itself on being a mosaic is less concerned about the definitive religious slant in the song, nor about how, as a bilingual country, the lyrics in French (the original anthem for those who don't realize that) do not match the English "translation". These are sandpaper ponderings chaffing my indignation at the lack of common sense and the absence of practical solution-seeking to real issues.

I want to know that my government is hearing the voices of La Loche, a community rocked by more than the recent shootings. Can we spend parliamentary time talking about disengaged youth, about connection and support, about youth centres? Can we honestly, with more than just the intent to make a difference, pursue the events that have resulted in the oppression and suffering of communities of Indigenous Peoples? Help find solutions. Help implement them. They will guide you, my government, if you listen carefully.

I want to know that my government is genuinely concerned about the environment, that they are looking at industrial impact on our natural world. Can we try to focus on ruptured pipelines, fresh water and marine protection, pursuit of clean, sustainable, green energy? It is a challenge. We want everything, but it comes at a cost. My government, how can we ensure that today's price is not paid by future generations?

And, what about our economy? A sagging loonie, the death of job sectors, growing levels of poverty? Can we talk about those issues? Can we spend valuable time and money on finding ways to strengthen our country's financial base, to ensure security for each Canadian family…old and new? I look to you, my government, to help us sort this out.

I have but skimmed the surface of issues far greater than the words in our anthem, words that many Canadians probably cannot quote anyway. Please, my government, let's get our priorities straight. I do not need to see my gender named specifically in the anthem. I need to see my needs, the needs of my fellow Canadians, and the needs of our country addressed in meaningful ways.

With no change in lyrics, I will continue to stand on guard for thee, I really will. Please show me that you are standing on guard for me. For us. All of us.

 

The Road to Raven's Path...and Beyond

When I was young, I lived near Saint-Marie among the Hurons. Anytime someone came to visit, we brought them to this historical recreation of the mission that existed on that site in the 1600s. I experienced the village time and again, soaking in the atmosphere and the sense of history. Even as a child, I felt a presence there and a comforting connection. I still do.

When we moved back to Newfoundland, I asked for snowshoes and a hatchet. I spent many a day trampling through the forest and dreaming at the base of the mountain. I would imagine I was living in the time of the Ouendat, that I was one of them. I think I have always craved a simpler time. Certainly, a more peaceful time than the angst of those teen years.

I happily lived in my illusory bubble until I found a tattered old book about the princess of Terra Nova. It told the true story of the life and death of Shanawdithit—the last surviving Beothuk. A tragedy so heartbreaking that I set my romantic images of the time aside, and replaced them with a lifelong fascination with the intersection in history of Indigenous peoples and Europeans.

In Raven's Path, I had a chance to capture some of my thoughts and feelings. I both vilify and glorify the tribes as well as the Europeans, because that is the essence of all humanity. We cannot neatly categorize any culture despite our continual efforts to do so. Purity and evil do not exist as white and black within any nation. Some humans bear a darker stain than others. Some carry the light. Mostly, we're just grey, neither fully good, nor truly bad. We are all people who dream and desire, who laugh and cry, who hate and love.

Raven is born of my wonderings about those who are lost between cultures. How many children were born because of the strangers that wandered these lands? How did they straddle two worlds? Did they feel like they belonged to anyone? What heritage did they embrace? Eventually the Métis would give many a sense of identification but, by the original definition, the father was European. What if it was reversed and the father was Indigenous and the mother European?

My explorations into the past, both through historical research and fictional experimentation, have also heightened my awareness of Indigenous peoples today. I am excited to live on a new coast. I have much to learn about the tribes here. I am anxious to hear each band's story. But, I am saddened almost daily by the news. The history of abuse. The missing women. And, I am reminded that my life here has come at a cost to many—and that the price is still being paid.

So, I can lose myself in the adventure and romance of the past when I write. That is okay. But, I also have an obligation to think about the atrocities buried in our history, that echo in the harsh reality of today. I must not forget whose land I walk upon and I must question what my role is now, in a modern world. What can I do? What can we do? How can we balance the scales of injustice?

It is a question I ponder. It is an answer I have not yet found.

 

The question is not whether we will die, but how we will live. —Dr. Joan Borysenko

I've contemplated death a lot this week. Not in a morbid way, but in terms of its role in life and, more specifically, in this writer's life. Without a doubt it is prompted by the unexpected loss of two icons, famously brilliant in their fields and quietly generous in their private lives. Why is it that I mourn their loss? Why celebrate that they lived at all? Why does it feel so personal when I've never met them? And, while I've greatly admired them, I'm not sure when I last saw Rickman on screen or listened to one of Bowie's songs.

I think, for me, they exemplify my life's ideal: to pursue what you love with great stubbornness and passion. They didn't listen to naysayers. Nor did they try to conform to trending types. They were, in all of their incarnations, true to themselves and their art. Both were chameleons who challenged themselves repeatedly through change—that ever-constant thing that so many of us fight, when embracing change is what makes us fly. It is why they soared high enough for all of us to take note.

So what is the role of death in this writer's life? It is the reminder that there is only so much time in which to do the things I want to do. That finiteness is a powerful motivator. I will not leave my dreams standing at the threshold. I'll continue to invite each one in. Get to know them. And when I am satiated by those dreams, I will open that door again and see what else is waiting.

I have not and will not live complacently on the sidelines of my life. And, hopefully, when I step off this planet, I will have left some worthy words behind. If not, know that I died happily trying.

The Psychology of Writing

The psychology of writing would have made an interesting doctoral thesis. I read of writer's frustration, writer's block and writer's angst. And writers subject themselves to this daily, yearly…willingly. All for that illusive moment of euphoria, when they know they've chosen the perfect words and wrapped them around an engaging plot. But it is a rare moment, and it is fleeting. It is followed closely by worry about the next words or, worse, doubt about those words that only days ago seemed like gems. Anxiety leads to rearrangement of those perfect words like they were flowers in a vase that just might look a little more balanced if the gerbera were shifted a little here or the baby's breath there.

I confess to being guilty of all of the above. It feels quite inexplicable at times. I mean, I don't have to write. I certainly get to choose what I write. So, why subject myself to the internal anguish? I have no answer to that except that "I must" and that feeling is as baffling as the subjugation to the pleasure/pain process.

This week I have been working on Mags' story, a character I met in Lizzy's world. I started with enthusiasm and then stalled. I have written the first two chapters and several scenes that occur further on. But, as I stare at the computer, I find myself looking for something else to write, something else to do. Scenes for other stories I am writing infiltrate and I grab onto them, getting them down, patting myself on the back because, hey, I'm writing, right?

Finally, I realized what was happening. I like Mags—a lot. She's already had a hard go of it and deserves a little happiness. However, that's not what's coming. I know this. I see this. And, I hurt for her before her pain even begins. As long as I don't write, she stays in a pseudo-happy limbo land. The moment I begin, there is no turning back. She will never again be the same sweet Mags I met in Lizzy's story.

On the other hand, nobody is truly happy living in limbo, including an author. So, I pushed through the reticence and wielded my pen, metaphorically slaying a seventeen year old. Undoing her world. Burying her deep enough in the ugly hole that life can be sometimes, that it will take her the whole novel to dig her way out…if she can. I don't know. I can't see that yet. Perhaps, if I could, I wouldn't have been so hung up on flinging her into it in the first place.

I've changed my mind. I don't think the doctoral thesis should focus on the psychology of writing but the psychology of the writer. Speaking for myself, it is one busy mixed-up world inside of my head. It might make for an interesting study. Here's hoping it makes for interesting stories.  J

2015: Shaken, Not Stirred

Wow. 2015 is gone. Done. Finished. Never to return again. Kaboom!!!...and, fireworks and all of that. For me, it truly was an explosive year, a rollercoaster ride with lots of flash and splash and dips and turns. Absolutely exhilarating.

I am uncomfortable with complacency, always have been. My head lives in the world of "What if?" It has led me through so many wonderful and disastrous life decisions. From my fragile foray into performing with Newfoundland and Labrador Theatre to puppeteering for kids, from waitressing and bartending to ushering folks around the world as a tour escort, I have had so many incredible experiences. My creative heart discovered a home with our theatre troupe, Madcap Players, and my drive to know more, do more, be more, found its place in education as a teacher, a consultant, a post-secondary educator and an administrator. I thank all of you who have been a part of those experiences that challenged, enriched and fulfilled me. I am blessed, blessed, beyond blessed.

Still, it was not enough. It is no secret to those who know me that stumbling across Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series ignited, in me, a renewed passion for reading and writing. In 2008, I began my writing journey with Raven's Path. What a buzz! It is a high so addictive that DH and I sat down and made a plan that would allow me to sniff the sweet blossoms of fresh words on a regular basis. It made no sense to give up a career I loved, a lucrative one to boot, to chase dreams across the page. Yet, that is exactly what I did because, you know, what if?

2015 was our first full year of embracing the new "us". We snowbirded it (that really should be a verb considering the number of Canadians who head south each winter), breaking from the mainstream who head to Florida and, instead, went to Texas—because we met in The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas in 1985. We were ecstatic with the unfamiliar freedom, yet plummeted as we grappled with the lives and the careers we left behind. The rollercoaster had left the platform.

A bitter ice storm and an eight-hour drive that turned into fourteen hours, with many cars—including police cruisers—off the road, changed the trajectory of our lives. DH looked at me the day after that intense drive and told me that I needed to find a house that I wanted…in British Columbia.

Our path has been clear since that proclamation, but it has not been without its peaks and valleys. Goodbyes are hard. Really hard. Hellos come with challenges too. Yet, as we embraced new friends, we also discovered that we have not said goodbye to old ones. In some ways we are more connected than we were when we lived amongst those we love. You make that special effort to reach out. You recognize that it is no longer sitting and waiting for you because you live around the corner. Some of those friendships are glowing brighter because of the distance, some in spite of it.

It's the end of the year, and our roller coaster seems to have eased into the station. Let's step into the bar, pull up a chair and choose a beverage. We'll lift a libation to celebrate the moment, the year, our lives. I'll begin with champagne, but I think it needs to be followed by something a little more complex. Something that reflects the choices we have made. Perhaps something shaken, not stirred.

How about you? What toast reflects the year you have left behind? The year that lies ahead? Whatever it is friends, old and new, I lift my glass to you and wish you the strength to pursue all of the what ifs in your life.

Cheers!