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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Burning planet. Second Waves. Spiking numbers. Anti – science. Conspiracy theorists. Mental illness. Financial stresses – you get the picture. I would say we’ve got all the materials in place for one big-ass, nasty dystopia. Read more
An early Thanksgiving in Canada, with the prospect of another Covid-19 shutdown looming over us, has brought on the “winter blues” a few weeks earlier than usual. The common phrase “it gets dark so early now” has many people beginning to hibernate. The colour display this weekend on the back roads of Grey County was breath taking. Yet my morning musings seem to draw me unwillingly into the yawning void of the future.
In two months the first year of the newest pandemic Covid-19 will be logged into each of our ship-of-life books. The world moved incredibly fast in my life time (1946 – 2020) and it seems destined to continue to do so. As maudlin as it may seem I keep struggling with the question:
“What am I leaving behind?” or put it another way “What of me lasts?”
Read moreI never thought I’d experienced writer’s block, assumed it meant you couldn’t think of anything to write. For me, there was always something flowing out my pen, even if it wasn’t great literature. One sunny day this summer, I was procrastinating on my writing and picked up a book I’d been gifted: Write. 10 Days to overcome Writer’s Block. Period, by Karen E. Peterson, Ph.D.
I quickly learned what I thought of as “resistance to writing” was in fact WRITER’S BLOCK!!! Who was I kidding? I was constantly fighting writer’s block. There are many real things to keep us from writing: day jobs, kids, partners, parents, social obligations. But the real demons can often be found in our own heads.
We dream of having a block of fully un-interrupted time where we are immersed in our writing and hours go by without our noticing. Or anyone interrupting. We are able to achieve the illusive “creative flow”. But the reality is, though we may have those days from time-to-time, most of our writing happens between things.
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Before Covid-19 hit, one of my favourite writing spots was the local café. I loved seeing friends and neighbours, watching people chat and order their coffee, while I wrote. I have this unique skill, this ability to ignore everything around me and get fully engrossed in my own made up world. I took pride that some of my scenes were so engaging, I could disregard the rest of the world and fully immerse myself. I remember these times fondly.
Since March, with the cafés closed and my writing space stolen, I’ve been displaced. I’m nothing if not persistent and so I took to writing at home. The best time was early in the morning, before my family arose. I would claim the couch in the living room, coffee in hand, doing my best to shoo away the cats and dogs vying for my attention. This was heavenly, until my teenage children woke. Then they invaded, turning on the television, complaining about missing laundry and overall… just being their noisy selves, so I would stop writing.
This summer, my teenage son decided to move downstairs, leaving his bedroom upstairs empty. So… I’ve begun to dream of a writing space. Read more
Don’t get me wrong. I love summer time. Strangely enough, I especially enjoyed it this year. It became a time to reconnect with friends in outside spaces, to play charades on the driveway under the stars, find new kayak paddles in crystal blue-green water and to weed my flourishing Covid-19 garden.
But I’m kind of exhausted by summer. Like an excellent party – it’s great fun while it lasts but the clean up the next day is daunting. I’m canning my garden bounty (turns out that 40 tomatoes plants are too many), experimenting with a dozen ways to eat zucchini and discovering that not everyone loves cucumbers. Sadly, my writing got shelved during this time of outside merriment.
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Where is your special place for quiet and solitude? For reflecting, reading, to just be.
Is it somewhere close by where you can easily go pretty much anytime you want? Or is it someplace further afield that you can only visit once or a handful of times a year?
Mine is my backyard. Which has been especially convenient during Covid 🙂
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Ah, 2020.
So much mis- [ and dis!]-information! And still so much truth remains unknown. So much has been conveniently hidden. Masked.
Let me give you an example. Yesterday I learned the street I lived on in Toronto was named for a ruthless slave trader. What a shocking revelation for a very exclusive Canadian neighbourhood!
So now that city officials have that knowledge, what will they do with it? Change the name entirely? Leave things as is? Put up an educational plaque to remind people of a dark and cruel part of Muddy York’s history? We’ll have to see. Meantime, for a murder mystery, what a great motive. Imagine a respectable leader of the community learning the family’s fortune has been based on slave-trading. What would that person do to keep that knowledge form being widely spread? And on the other side, how tempting it might be for someone to try and blackmail the respectable citizen! Another motive!
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