My writing is going really well these days. Almost ‘happy dance’ worthy.
At the risk of jinxing whatever forces are at work here, there it is, stated out loud. Well, written in black and white on the page.
I’m a bit giddy about this slow but steady shift taking place. There’s no time to waste wondering why this is happening right now, or worrying about how fragile or temporary the momentum may be. I just tip my smiling face downward and keep on writing.
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I miss people. I miss spontaneous get togethers, unannounced summer visitors and the fun of planning birthday celebrations. Inevitable, I suppose, as a result of months-long, pandemic-induced, relative isolation. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Letting housework slide and lounging for too many hours in front of the television have lost their appeal. Puzzling to me is why even reading is less pleasurable lately. I’ve chalked it up to the fact that it is such a solitary activity and what I want these days is more connection with live people.
Amid my somewhat limiting day-to-day routines, something promising has happened that has me excited about writing again.
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In spite of these uncertain times, I am beyond grateful for so much; to live in rural Ontario, to have enough hand sanitizer to share and for virtual goodnight visits with my grandson. I am grateful too for this moment in history as we witness the world on the cusp of, what I have to believe will be, radical social change.
Hardship has not been part of my own experience of the pandemic. Inconvenience, yes. There have been brief bouts of panic, fear, emotional ups and downs and worry about family certainly. But being able to connect through technology with a small but mighty circle of dear ones has kept me afloat. I have been able to work while quarantining and have a two-person isolation bubble and a full cupboard. These are but a few examples of how my privilege enables me to weather this storm unscathed thus far.
Hardship and heartache are indeed the experiences of so many people world wide and we recognize the roles that inequality, oppression and poverty play in countries’ varying abilities to fight this common enemy.
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I’ve had to cull my collection of books. It is a cringe-worthy task for book lovers but it has been ten years since the last round.
Maybe my age and thoughts of downsizing spurred me to get this done. Or it may have been the COVID 19 virus invasion. My sisters and I have been known to clean house when stressed or anxious.
Teetering between feeling vulnerable one moment and invincible the next is my experience of these worrying times. What was barely imaginable a couple of months ago is embraced as routine today. What a gift social media is right now. It’s beautiful to see the inspiring, loving and joyful ways folks are supporting each other. Not to mention the miracle of virtual get-togethers taking place. A couple of friends and I created a three-woman book club for ourselves.
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“A gorgeous, aching love letter to stories.”
I bought a book based solely on reading this brief, beautiful review on the back cover.
These words comprised Christina Henry’s review of a novel by Alix E. Harrow, The Ten Thousand Doors of January. The intriguing title was a bonus.
What a challenge it is for writers to hit just the right note, find the perfect word in the hopes of moving a reader the same way this phrase moved me.
At the beginning of my very first creative writing class, the instructor made a pronouncement that I remember to this day.
“Success,” he said, “requires either the ordinary use of extraordinary words or the extraordinary use of ordinary words.”
An oversimplified statement to say the least but it sounded incredibly profound to my eighteen-year-old ears. I decided at that moment that the extraordinary use of ordinary words might be achievable for me. Probably because the reverse inferred sophistication, academia and eloquence, all of which was unfamiliar territory to me at the time.
Read moreIt’s Christmas Eve, 1957, so the story goes.
The pilot of a De Havilland Vampire experiences a complete electrical failure on his way home from Germany to England. He is lost in fog and low on fuel over the North Sea.
“It’s a very lonely place, the sky, even more so the sky on a winter’s night. A single-seater jet fighter is a lonely home, a tiny steel box held aloft on stubby wings, hurled through freezing emptiness by a blazing tube throwing out the strength of six thousand horses every second that it burns.”
These words are from Fredrick Forsyth’s novella, The Shepherd, a story my family reads or listens to this time of year.
Fans of CBC radio will be familiar with Alan Maitland’s narration of The Shepherd which has aired on, or close to, Christmas Eve for most of 40 years. Readers may also know that Forsyth has written twelve thriller novels including The Odessa File, The Day of the Jackal and Dogs of War. In recent years he has also written his memoir.
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Damn! The need for radiation therapy was unexpected news for me a few months ago. Treatments were scheduled five days a week for a total of thirty five, in London. It took me a couple of weeks to resolve that it really was the only option in my fight against thyroid cancer.
I decided to drive daily as long as I felt well, anticipating the September and October weather to be perfect. This venture was a means to an end and I would make the most of traveling through pretty, rural Grey County via Grey Road 3.
The drives that were anticipated to be, at the very least, inconvenient, quickly became a comfort – as I was safely ensconced in my trusty Jetta with a world of beauty surrounding me. Turning south on Road 3 every day always brought energy and optimism and this increasingly familiar, quiet country road guided me home again every night.
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I love road trips and I love my life-long friend, Jenn.
Jenn was widowed just over a year ago and when she shared with me that her attempts to be brave and independent included a drive to the east coast this summer, I jumped at the chance to be her co-pilot on the journey.
It would be the second such adventure for us as we’d taken a cross country drive together over forty years ago – before spouses and kids – to Edmonton, Alberta. That trip was in my 1968 Camaro. This time we hit the road in her trusty GMC truck with Border Collie, Blue along for the ride.
Destination: Nova Scotia!
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