A few questions to spark a writing oriented discussion:
Seminar Question #1
Our writing is often influenced directly or indirectly by the people and events around us. We write as an outlet for understanding our world and the relationships in our world. The question for today is:
Is it more important to safeguard the person depicted in a piece of writing - poetry or fiction - by not relaying these events, or to honour the writing as an art that needs to be shared? How would you approach this dilemma if there was a topic/person you wished to write about, but knew that the people involved may be hurt by it being published?
I have such a poem that I am still hesitant to show to the person who is depicted, my birthmother, but also felt a strong need to honour and share with others:
My Life Up North
She had told the girls, my half-sisters,
to stay inside with Pop.
That's what she called her boyfriend's dad.
She wanted some time alone with me,
our black hair reflecting the sun on a Prince George day.
Mid-July, no wind, and the heat making my throat dry.
So I only listened.
We held hands, walking along the main road,
and when we stopped to kiss - daughter and almost mother -
three teenage boys riding by in a jeep snapped their necks.
We sat across from each other in a nearby McDonald's,
not her favourite, but waht she could afford.
Her unkempt hair pulled into a low ponytail
reaching down her back.
Her missing teeth,
the lines around her eyes speaking for themselves.
The fact she was only 40.
Those who didn't know her would think she was hard as nails,
but I knew how softly she spoke,
and none of it kept her from smiling,
alth0ugh at times she laughed at the devil.
She told me about her father.
The day she came home sixteen and pregnant,
trying not to care. He soon bundled her into his lap,
while she apologized for me.
How he may have been disappointed, but never angry.
How he must have held us both,
thinking of her end and my beginning,
and cried with her.
She told me about my birthfather,
how he played the guitar, wrote poetry,
and threatened to punch her in the stomach
when she was eight months along.
In a panic, she cried, "I think I felt it move!"
And he drew back his fist and went out for a beer.
She had been drowning ever since
her older cousin
first made her aware of herself before she was ready.
The tender mounds on her little girl chest,
the place between her legs
where only misery and pleasure came from.
The place that made her forget everything above her heart.
Now, four children later,
and a man in her house who I've seen
pull her hair when she teased him,
wrapping it like cable inside his fist.
The way I've seen impatient passengers on buses
pull the cord,
wanting to end their ride and move in a different direction.
He wouldn't let go until she put her words into reverse.
Often she props herself up in the corner of her kitchen counters,
a place she feels protected or invisible,
the same place I felt most at ease
in my own home, for years.
I watch as she rolls her paper cigarettes from a box of tobacco,
lights the end, and sucks vacantly on the fumes,
trying to fill some small place.
published in A Mother's String by Ekstasis Editions
This is really a tribute poem to her, albeit gritty because that is real, but also tender and compassionate. This poem was a way for me to know her more intimately and understand her journey, as well as to explore my own role in the events of her life and how these events shaped us both.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
A Christmas Story
by Andrea McKenzie
Jaime drove the steep mountain road, covered with snow, with her five-year-old daughter in the passenger seat. There had been a snowstorm the week before, the time when she would usually head up to the tree park. She looked at her daughter who was peering eagerly out of the window. That was where Jaime used to sit every year her own father drove her up this same road; it was their winter ritual to drive out into the white wilderness, only the two of them, and search for the best Christmas tree. Jaime smiled to herself. She felt as though her father were tagging along with them in the back of the her pickup truck. He had been dead for a year. The big “C”. Funny how a diagnosis that began with the same letter of a holiday that gave him so much joy, killed him. She didn’t enjoy the irony. The two girls bumped their way along the road, hitting twigs and clumps of rock and hardened snow. She recognized every dip and lunge in the path, her body moving with the healthy shocks of the vehicle. She remembered her father’s voice, and could almost hear it now, as they drove.
“Remember Jaime,” he would say. “We need to find the best tree we can. Santa works hard all year round to get ready for Christmas, and he travels the whole world in one night and sees every little boy and girl’s house. We want him to remember ours so that he will come back.” This wasn’t meant as a threat that Christmas might not come again, but a lesson in rewarding hard work. “He sees lots of trees, and he must be tired. Let’s make sure our tree is special for him.” He would add, as soon as he saw the worried look in her eyes. Then her face would brighten and nod vigorously. Jaime gave her daughter the same speech today, as it was her first time Christmas tree hunting. They had been in the truck for an hour, singing Christmas carols. Her daughter’s favourite song was O Christmas Tree since she just learned it at school. Jaime mused how much more special and meaningful it was to take her daughter out in to the nature of winter, to see the deer observing them from their fir tree shelters at the side of the road, rather than drive into a crowded parking lot only blocks away from their house and survey cut trees for their fullness of branches and lack of human tampering.
She remembered years ago being either taunted or envied by the other kids, telling her it was illegal to cut down non-commercial trees, so said their parents who had never handled a power tool. Even at her young age, she knew it was not a crime to take one tree a year. She and her father mourned the clear-cut mountain faces, and she was taught to use both sides of a piece of paper and then recycle.
“If we have to cut down trees,” he told her. “We should at least honour their gift to us. The gift of life.” He taught her how much the trees gave back to the earth – oxygen for them all to breathe and providing houses for all animals. All people seemed to do was exhaust all of their resources. “We need to protect our wilderness, our place of solitude and serenity. The cities we are building are too hostile.” She grew up understanding this and wanting to live in the trees. She envisioned a forest community. Again, Jaime felt her father’s presence, as she tried to explain the car trip to her daughter, Molly, when the little girl asked, “if it is bad to cut down trees, then why are we going to?”
Jaime began to tell her a story that her father had told her. ‘Have I told you the squirrel story, Molly?”
“No.”
“I haven’t?” Jaime began in mock surprise. “Well, you’re going to like this one. When I was your age, your grandpa went up to the mountain to get a tree, just like we are doing, and he found the best tree available.
“He brought it home and began to put on the trimmings, when he started to hear a small voice in the tree.”
“What did the voice say?” Molly was young enough to accept anything her mother told her, but she listened with a sharp ear.
“... the voice said ‘this isn’t my home. Where am I?’ and your grandfather looked farther inside the branches of the tree and saw a squirrel looking back at him, petrified.”
“Squirrels can’t talk!” Molly protested.
“Well, this squirrel was very smart and used to city folks going to the woods. So, he picked up a few human words.” Molly wasn’t sure what to make of her mother’s explanation, and still sat with her arms crossed in defiance. Soon, though, her arms relaxed as her mother carried on.
“Then what happened?” she asked, and her mother smiled.
“Well, you can imagine how surprised Grandpa was to find a talking squirrel in his tree! He also felt very bad for the little squirrel because he didn’t mean to take him from his home. So he said to the squirrel, “I’m very sorry Mr. Squirrel, I didn’t know this tree was your home, and it is the best tree I could find for Santa.”
‘Santa?’ replied the squirrel, ‘Who is he? And what does he want with my tree?’
‘Oh no,’ Grandpa said, ‘he doesn’t WANT your tree... but he will leave gifts under it for me and, he does such a good job, I wanted him to see the best tree.’
‘Gifts?’ said the squirrel, growing more curious and interested, ‘what kinds of gifts?’ And this stumped poor Grandpa because, the truth is, Christmas isn’t really about the gifts. It’s a tradition, but everyone seems to go about making a fuss and giving everyone stuff that they would like, but also lots of stuff they don’t really need. He tried to explain this to the squirrel.
“Yeah, like all of those socks I got last year,” said Molly with a face.
“Well honey, you actually did need those... but do you think you really needed all of your toys?”
“Well, I guess not,” replied Molly reluctantly. Again, her mother smiled and smoothed her daughter’s hair.
“So the squirrel said, ‘gee, do you think Santa might leave something for me? I mean, after all, this is MY tree!’”
“Well, we can leave him a note – I’m sure that he would! What would you like?” Grandpa asked. The squirrel thought about this for a moment.
‘You know, the snow came early this year and I didn’t have much of a chance to gather my nuts for the winter. Do you think he might bring me more nuts so that I can survive until spring?’ Grandpa thought that was a very reasonable request, and so he began to write a note to Santa and put it on the tree. ‘There!’ he said, ‘Now Santa will know that you need more food Mr. Squirrel.’
‘Now I guess it is okay for me to keep your tree for Christmas,’ Grandpa said, feeling satisfied, but the squirrel had something to say.
“What did the squirrel say?” Molly asked again.
“The squirrel said, ‘wait a minute... you have to promise me that you will only take a tree once a year, and when you do you have to plant a new one. We don’t have many best trees any more because they are always disappearing and we don’t know why.’”
“Your forest friends, you mean?” asked Grandpa.
‘Yes,’ replied the squirrel. ‘Santa or no Santa... you can’t just take trees without any thought. They make our homes and give life to the Earth. They are not just our homes, they make a home for you, too!’
‘Yes, they certainly do,’ reflected Grandpa. ‘I will plant a new tree every Christmas, I promise, and thank you for allowing me to borrow your home.’
Then the squirrel was happy. It was Christmas Eve and Grandpa told the squirrel to go into his branches and sleep or else Santa might not come. The squirrel did as he said.”
“In the morning, did Santa leave nuts for Mr. Squirrel like Grandpa asked him to?”
“The next morning, Grandpa woke up to find another note and Mr. squirrel was gone. The note read ‘Dear Sir, thank you for taking care of Mr. Squirrel and his tree. I have given him a winter supply of nuts and a new home. If you look outside your window, you will see it.’ So Grandpa looked outside his window and saw a beautiful fir tree and Mr. Squirrel inside, busily putting away his winter supply. He went back to the note – ‘Mr. Squirrel explained to me the pact you made and I want to thank you for the tree. I understand they are needed, but I hope most everyone will remember they are living things and take so long to grow.’
“So, Grandpa and the squirrel had a Christmas tree,” said Molly happily.
“That’s right, and you know what? Grandpa decorated that tree, too, every year for Mr. Squirrel right outside his window.” Molly was pleased with this story, whether she knew thought it was true or not, it didn’t matter. She knew how special Christmas trees were. They continued to ramble up the road in their truck, and finally Jaime pulled off to the side.
“We’re here!” she chimed. “Are you ready to find the best tree?”
“Sure,” Molly said, “but we better check for squirrels, too...” she added this in a serious tone, and her mother gave her an equally serious look and a nod.
“Absolutely.” Then they trotted off for a short distance into the snow.
“What about this one?” Molly suddenly called out. She found a medium-sized tree that looked to be a few years old. A perfect size for her.
“Good eye, Molly,” exclaimed her mother, and began to steady the tree and chop it down. Then, from her pocket she took a pine comb and a shovel. “Help me.” Molly knelt down in the snow and took the shovel from her mother.
“Dig deep into the ground, sweetie. The deeper the roots are, the higher the tree will grow.” Molly did as she was told. Then she took the pine comb from her mother’s hand and placed it gently in the ground.
“That’s your Christmas tree,” she said. Molly grinned. Then the carried the tree back to the truck and hoisted it into the cab. Mother and daughter sang Christmas carols all the way home and that night they decorated the tree and prepared snacks for Santa. Before bed, Molly placed a folded note into her stocking.
“Don’t read it,” she told her mother with the same serious face.
“I won’t,” promised her mother. She meant to later, but she was so busy wrapping gifts that she forgot about the note. Finally, she went to bed exhausted and full of anticipation for her daughter’s Christmas morning. She awoke to a cry of something other than joy.
“Mommy! Look!” Molly bounded into her bedroom with a look of surprise and worry.
“What is it?”
“Come look! It’s the tree!” Jaime followed her daughter out into the living room to find the tree in shambles. Their 6-month-old cat was in the corner chewing on some tinsel and batting at assorted tree ornaments.
“Oh no!” she grabbed the cat firmly and took the tinsel from its mouth, nearly getting scratched. She was so exhausted, she didn’t hear the tree come down in the night. They began to survey the damage. The presents were still intact and nothing else seemed ruined. Actually, the presents had been moved to another corner of the room and piled neatly, much to Jaime’s confusion. Molly went to her stocking and opened her note.
“He was here!” she shouted.
“Yes, honey. Santa was here. He wouldn’t not come just because of the tree.”
“No, not just Santa.” Molly’s mother was further confused by this remark and took the little note from her daughter’s outstretched hand. This is what the note read:
Dear Jaime,
Thank you for the beautiful tree. While I was here your pretty cat got excited and jumped into the tree. Perhaps he was a little afraid of me. I moved your parcels, but I didn’t have time to clean up the tree. I am sorry. You have a beautiful daughter. I wish you both a very merry Christmas.
Love Santa
Then Jaime read the bottom of the note:
Thank you, honey, for teaching Molly all of the things I taught you. Love Dad.
Jaime almost dropped the note, and the emotion began to well up in her eyes. Molly looked at her, smiling.
“Don’t cry, Mommy. Grandpa is with Santa,” She sang.
“Yes,” said Jaime, smiling at the half-drunk eggnog and cookie crumbs she had left out the night before. “I believe he is.”
Jaime drove the steep mountain road, covered with snow, with her five-year-old daughter in the passenger seat. There had been a snowstorm the week before, the time when she would usually head up to the tree park. She looked at her daughter who was peering eagerly out of the window. That was where Jaime used to sit every year her own father drove her up this same road; it was their winter ritual to drive out into the white wilderness, only the two of them, and search for the best Christmas tree. Jaime smiled to herself. She felt as though her father were tagging along with them in the back of the her pickup truck. He had been dead for a year. The big “C”. Funny how a diagnosis that began with the same letter of a holiday that gave him so much joy, killed him. She didn’t enjoy the irony. The two girls bumped their way along the road, hitting twigs and clumps of rock and hardened snow. She recognized every dip and lunge in the path, her body moving with the healthy shocks of the vehicle. She remembered her father’s voice, and could almost hear it now, as they drove.
“Remember Jaime,” he would say. “We need to find the best tree we can. Santa works hard all year round to get ready for Christmas, and he travels the whole world in one night and sees every little boy and girl’s house. We want him to remember ours so that he will come back.” This wasn’t meant as a threat that Christmas might not come again, but a lesson in rewarding hard work. “He sees lots of trees, and he must be tired. Let’s make sure our tree is special for him.” He would add, as soon as he saw the worried look in her eyes. Then her face would brighten and nod vigorously. Jaime gave her daughter the same speech today, as it was her first time Christmas tree hunting. They had been in the truck for an hour, singing Christmas carols. Her daughter’s favourite song was O Christmas Tree since she just learned it at school. Jaime mused how much more special and meaningful it was to take her daughter out in to the nature of winter, to see the deer observing them from their fir tree shelters at the side of the road, rather than drive into a crowded parking lot only blocks away from their house and survey cut trees for their fullness of branches and lack of human tampering.
She remembered years ago being either taunted or envied by the other kids, telling her it was illegal to cut down non-commercial trees, so said their parents who had never handled a power tool. Even at her young age, she knew it was not a crime to take one tree a year. She and her father mourned the clear-cut mountain faces, and she was taught to use both sides of a piece of paper and then recycle.
“If we have to cut down trees,” he told her. “We should at least honour their gift to us. The gift of life.” He taught her how much the trees gave back to the earth – oxygen for them all to breathe and providing houses for all animals. All people seemed to do was exhaust all of their resources. “We need to protect our wilderness, our place of solitude and serenity. The cities we are building are too hostile.” She grew up understanding this and wanting to live in the trees. She envisioned a forest community. Again, Jaime felt her father’s presence, as she tried to explain the car trip to her daughter, Molly, when the little girl asked, “if it is bad to cut down trees, then why are we going to?”
Jaime began to tell her a story that her father had told her. ‘Have I told you the squirrel story, Molly?”
“No.”
“I haven’t?” Jaime began in mock surprise. “Well, you’re going to like this one. When I was your age, your grandpa went up to the mountain to get a tree, just like we are doing, and he found the best tree available.
“He brought it home and began to put on the trimmings, when he started to hear a small voice in the tree.”
“What did the voice say?” Molly was young enough to accept anything her mother told her, but she listened with a sharp ear.
“... the voice said ‘this isn’t my home. Where am I?’ and your grandfather looked farther inside the branches of the tree and saw a squirrel looking back at him, petrified.”
“Squirrels can’t talk!” Molly protested.
“Well, this squirrel was very smart and used to city folks going to the woods. So, he picked up a few human words.” Molly wasn’t sure what to make of her mother’s explanation, and still sat with her arms crossed in defiance. Soon, though, her arms relaxed as her mother carried on.
“Then what happened?” she asked, and her mother smiled.
“Well, you can imagine how surprised Grandpa was to find a talking squirrel in his tree! He also felt very bad for the little squirrel because he didn’t mean to take him from his home. So he said to the squirrel, “I’m very sorry Mr. Squirrel, I didn’t know this tree was your home, and it is the best tree I could find for Santa.”
‘Santa?’ replied the squirrel, ‘Who is he? And what does he want with my tree?’
‘Oh no,’ Grandpa said, ‘he doesn’t WANT your tree... but he will leave gifts under it for me and, he does such a good job, I wanted him to see the best tree.’
‘Gifts?’ said the squirrel, growing more curious and interested, ‘what kinds of gifts?’ And this stumped poor Grandpa because, the truth is, Christmas isn’t really about the gifts. It’s a tradition, but everyone seems to go about making a fuss and giving everyone stuff that they would like, but also lots of stuff they don’t really need. He tried to explain this to the squirrel.
“Yeah, like all of those socks I got last year,” said Molly with a face.
“Well honey, you actually did need those... but do you think you really needed all of your toys?”
“Well, I guess not,” replied Molly reluctantly. Again, her mother smiled and smoothed her daughter’s hair.
“So the squirrel said, ‘gee, do you think Santa might leave something for me? I mean, after all, this is MY tree!’”
“Well, we can leave him a note – I’m sure that he would! What would you like?” Grandpa asked. The squirrel thought about this for a moment.
‘You know, the snow came early this year and I didn’t have much of a chance to gather my nuts for the winter. Do you think he might bring me more nuts so that I can survive until spring?’ Grandpa thought that was a very reasonable request, and so he began to write a note to Santa and put it on the tree. ‘There!’ he said, ‘Now Santa will know that you need more food Mr. Squirrel.’
‘Now I guess it is okay for me to keep your tree for Christmas,’ Grandpa said, feeling satisfied, but the squirrel had something to say.
“What did the squirrel say?” Molly asked again.
“The squirrel said, ‘wait a minute... you have to promise me that you will only take a tree once a year, and when you do you have to plant a new one. We don’t have many best trees any more because they are always disappearing and we don’t know why.’”
“Your forest friends, you mean?” asked Grandpa.
‘Yes,’ replied the squirrel. ‘Santa or no Santa... you can’t just take trees without any thought. They make our homes and give life to the Earth. They are not just our homes, they make a home for you, too!’
‘Yes, they certainly do,’ reflected Grandpa. ‘I will plant a new tree every Christmas, I promise, and thank you for allowing me to borrow your home.’
Then the squirrel was happy. It was Christmas Eve and Grandpa told the squirrel to go into his branches and sleep or else Santa might not come. The squirrel did as he said.”
“In the morning, did Santa leave nuts for Mr. Squirrel like Grandpa asked him to?”
“The next morning, Grandpa woke up to find another note and Mr. squirrel was gone. The note read ‘Dear Sir, thank you for taking care of Mr. Squirrel and his tree. I have given him a winter supply of nuts and a new home. If you look outside your window, you will see it.’ So Grandpa looked outside his window and saw a beautiful fir tree and Mr. Squirrel inside, busily putting away his winter supply. He went back to the note – ‘Mr. Squirrel explained to me the pact you made and I want to thank you for the tree. I understand they are needed, but I hope most everyone will remember they are living things and take so long to grow.’
“So, Grandpa and the squirrel had a Christmas tree,” said Molly happily.
“That’s right, and you know what? Grandpa decorated that tree, too, every year for Mr. Squirrel right outside his window.” Molly was pleased with this story, whether she knew thought it was true or not, it didn’t matter. She knew how special Christmas trees were. They continued to ramble up the road in their truck, and finally Jaime pulled off to the side.
“We’re here!” she chimed. “Are you ready to find the best tree?”
“Sure,” Molly said, “but we better check for squirrels, too...” she added this in a serious tone, and her mother gave her an equally serious look and a nod.
“Absolutely.” Then they trotted off for a short distance into the snow.
“What about this one?” Molly suddenly called out. She found a medium-sized tree that looked to be a few years old. A perfect size for her.
“Good eye, Molly,” exclaimed her mother, and began to steady the tree and chop it down. Then, from her pocket she took a pine comb and a shovel. “Help me.” Molly knelt down in the snow and took the shovel from her mother.
“Dig deep into the ground, sweetie. The deeper the roots are, the higher the tree will grow.” Molly did as she was told. Then she took the pine comb from her mother’s hand and placed it gently in the ground.
“That’s your Christmas tree,” she said. Molly grinned. Then the carried the tree back to the truck and hoisted it into the cab. Mother and daughter sang Christmas carols all the way home and that night they decorated the tree and prepared snacks for Santa. Before bed, Molly placed a folded note into her stocking.
“Don’t read it,” she told her mother with the same serious face.
“I won’t,” promised her mother. She meant to later, but she was so busy wrapping gifts that she forgot about the note. Finally, she went to bed exhausted and full of anticipation for her daughter’s Christmas morning. She awoke to a cry of something other than joy.
“Mommy! Look!” Molly bounded into her bedroom with a look of surprise and worry.
“What is it?”
“Come look! It’s the tree!” Jaime followed her daughter out into the living room to find the tree in shambles. Their 6-month-old cat was in the corner chewing on some tinsel and batting at assorted tree ornaments.
“Oh no!” she grabbed the cat firmly and took the tinsel from its mouth, nearly getting scratched. She was so exhausted, she didn’t hear the tree come down in the night. They began to survey the damage. The presents were still intact and nothing else seemed ruined. Actually, the presents had been moved to another corner of the room and piled neatly, much to Jaime’s confusion. Molly went to her stocking and opened her note.
“He was here!” she shouted.
“Yes, honey. Santa was here. He wouldn’t not come just because of the tree.”
“No, not just Santa.” Molly’s mother was further confused by this remark and took the little note from her daughter’s outstretched hand. This is what the note read:
Dear Jaime,
Thank you for the beautiful tree. While I was here your pretty cat got excited and jumped into the tree. Perhaps he was a little afraid of me. I moved your parcels, but I didn’t have time to clean up the tree. I am sorry. You have a beautiful daughter. I wish you both a very merry Christmas.
Love Santa
Then Jaime read the bottom of the note:
Thank you, honey, for teaching Molly all of the things I taught you. Love Dad.
Jaime almost dropped the note, and the emotion began to well up in her eyes. Molly looked at her, smiling.
“Don’t cry, Mommy. Grandpa is with Santa,” She sang.
“Yes,” said Jaime, smiling at the half-drunk eggnog and cookie crumbs she had left out the night before. “I believe he is.”
Saturday, December 9, 2006
Week One
First of all, thank you to everyone for your comments and helpful suggestions, both on and off my blog site. I really appreciate the feedback, and simply knowing that my site is creating a small buzz. I look forward to watching the energy grow, connecting with writers.
I would like to take advantage of this space to build some discussion, so I thought to create topics around the writing and publishing process - the blood, sweat and bruises involved in our craft (not to mention the finger dents and ink stains we are all familiar with).
This week was pivotal, in as much as completing the first draft of my novel, Turnstiles, that I have been working on since I returned from a two-month solo back-packing trip around Western Europe and the U.K. in 1998. I didn't believe I had really experienced enough to write a full-length book until I saw more of the world (and developed a keener and more mature eye for social issues in the world). Now, as I've been told, comes the real work. I'm going to revel in this part until the start of 2007... then I'll start tearing the first draft apart, where needed. Naturally, the main question is always 'so, what is your book about?' Here is a synopsis of the book:
Turnstiles is a novel with elements of social commentary. The main characters are three youths (aged early to mid-twenties), each representing a social ill that is an increasing problem in society. Marty is a street person, Wil is a wealthy aristocrat, and Evelyn (aka Yvonne) is a prostitute. The novel is not political in any way, but it does speak to these social problems through the smaller scope of each character’s individual trials. There is a struggle that exists between the need to serve one’s own needs and to participate in the larger social scheme that is expected. Marty and Wil are both trying to fit in to the world, but on their own terms. They are naive characters, searching for an Eden-like state of being, who develop their views of the world and themselves through broader experience, travel, and social interaction. They achieve these new perspectives by switching their fortunes.
Marty is an idealistic youth who leaves British Columbia to live in London, England. He travels to London with little money and no concrete plans. Eventually, he runs out of money and is forced to panhandle because he doesn’t want to join the workaday world, which he views as socialism and materialism. Wil is a Londoner and aristocrat who recently lost his wealthy and estranged father. In his father’s will, Wil was left an astronomical amount of money, which has already been deposited into his account. In desperation, he makes out an unsigned cheque of this amount and randomly gives it to a street person, who happens to be Marty. Evelyn is a character who, in the midst of regaining her independence and inner strength, indirectly connects and motivates Marty and Wil. Turnstiles weaves a story that brings discovery and healing for each character by way of a journey.
Last week, poet laureaute Carla Funk said to me "you're always writing, aren't you?" I had to answer "yes". I took her comment as both a profound compliment and an attribution to my status as an emerging writer in my community. Writing is such a natural act for me, I don't often acknowledge the scope of my published work or the volume of work I commit to. It is true, though, if I am not writing an article, I'm writing a poem and if I'm not writing a poem, I'm writing a journal entry, and if I'm not doing that, I'm either thinking or writing about my fiction, making notes, and when I'm not doing any of the above I am either organizing more article ideas, or simply jotting down two lines of morning ghazals with a pen in one hand and mug of tea in the other. It is funny that I don't consider myself to be prolific only because I don't have 10 books under my belt and am not churning out a poem a day. Isn't it strange how we view ourselves in our passions?
I would like to take advantage of this space to build some discussion, so I thought to create topics around the writing and publishing process - the blood, sweat and bruises involved in our craft (not to mention the finger dents and ink stains we are all familiar with).
This week was pivotal, in as much as completing the first draft of my novel, Turnstiles, that I have been working on since I returned from a two-month solo back-packing trip around Western Europe and the U.K. in 1998. I didn't believe I had really experienced enough to write a full-length book until I saw more of the world (and developed a keener and more mature eye for social issues in the world). Now, as I've been told, comes the real work. I'm going to revel in this part until the start of 2007... then I'll start tearing the first draft apart, where needed. Naturally, the main question is always 'so, what is your book about?' Here is a synopsis of the book:
Turnstiles is a novel with elements of social commentary. The main characters are three youths (aged early to mid-twenties), each representing a social ill that is an increasing problem in society. Marty is a street person, Wil is a wealthy aristocrat, and Evelyn (aka Yvonne) is a prostitute. The novel is not political in any way, but it does speak to these social problems through the smaller scope of each character’s individual trials. There is a struggle that exists between the need to serve one’s own needs and to participate in the larger social scheme that is expected. Marty and Wil are both trying to fit in to the world, but on their own terms. They are naive characters, searching for an Eden-like state of being, who develop their views of the world and themselves through broader experience, travel, and social interaction. They achieve these new perspectives by switching their fortunes.
Marty is an idealistic youth who leaves British Columbia to live in London, England. He travels to London with little money and no concrete plans. Eventually, he runs out of money and is forced to panhandle because he doesn’t want to join the workaday world, which he views as socialism and materialism. Wil is a Londoner and aristocrat who recently lost his wealthy and estranged father. In his father’s will, Wil was left an astronomical amount of money, which has already been deposited into his account. In desperation, he makes out an unsigned cheque of this amount and randomly gives it to a street person, who happens to be Marty. Evelyn is a character who, in the midst of regaining her independence and inner strength, indirectly connects and motivates Marty and Wil. Turnstiles weaves a story that brings discovery and healing for each character by way of a journey.
Last week, poet laureaute Carla Funk said to me "you're always writing, aren't you?" I had to answer "yes". I took her comment as both a profound compliment and an attribution to my status as an emerging writer in my community. Writing is such a natural act for me, I don't often acknowledge the scope of my published work or the volume of work I commit to. It is true, though, if I am not writing an article, I'm writing a poem and if I'm not writing a poem, I'm writing a journal entry, and if I'm not doing that, I'm either thinking or writing about my fiction, making notes, and when I'm not doing any of the above I am either organizing more article ideas, or simply jotting down two lines of morning ghazals with a pen in one hand and mug of tea in the other. It is funny that I don't consider myself to be prolific only because I don't have 10 books under my belt and am not churning out a poem a day. Isn't it strange how we view ourselves in our passions?
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Announcements
I have completed the first draft of my novel, Turnstiles. Here is an excerpt:
The train was slowing down, and the relentless, hypnotic message in the click clacking of the wheels could almost be deciphered. As soon as the train was in the station, Martin and Evelyn stumbled through the passenger door like newborns coming into a strange world. Once they stepped foot on the dirty platform they were disoriented, but kept running. As they came into the terminal, their mad dash dissipated into a jog so as not to bring unnecessary attention to themselves. Although their appearances brought notice, they were perceived as a young couple running to catch a taxi, rather than fugitive-types fleeing from a pursuit on their lives.
... The queue inched forward, person-by-person, going over the edge. Martin shuffled down the human conveyor belt until he, too, had to state his destination and was handed a ticket. This rectangular piece of paper, which could be torn so easily, was his passport to a new life or an extension of his old life. Even though his daily regimen in Hyde Park had been tethered and desolate, it was a familiar place. And more than twice today, Martin had questioned himself of what he was doing. Why he was doing it. Oddly enough, there were no real answers and he could no longer justify his doubts.
“Track seventeen,” the man in the conductor’s hat announced sharply from behind the counter. When asked about his destination, Martin squeaked, “Paris.” Not because he ever had the desire to stroll through the streets of Paris, but simply because he knew about the Chunnel. Paris would not be a far journey, geographically, and he was taking baby steps. He spoke no French – but he knew how to be silent and still make his way. Martin sat on one of the rickety benches that lined the platform on track seventeen. They were planted like telephone poles until they miniaturized and disappeared. He looked to his left and remembered he was at the end, or the beginning. Those seated at the far end perhaps believed the same thing, he mused. He had no luggage with him. An elderly couple seated on the bench next to him acknowledged his youth, and smiled. He wondered if they were marvelling at him, thinking to themselves, 'must be wonderful to be young and free,' and remembering, even though they were headed in the same direction. He smiled back, not really understanding what he was smiling about. The train he was waiting for could be taking him to the end of the earth.
The train was slowing down, and the relentless, hypnotic message in the click clacking of the wheels could almost be deciphered. As soon as the train was in the station, Martin and Evelyn stumbled through the passenger door like newborns coming into a strange world. Once they stepped foot on the dirty platform they were disoriented, but kept running. As they came into the terminal, their mad dash dissipated into a jog so as not to bring unnecessary attention to themselves. Although their appearances brought notice, they were perceived as a young couple running to catch a taxi, rather than fugitive-types fleeing from a pursuit on their lives.
... The queue inched forward, person-by-person, going over the edge. Martin shuffled down the human conveyor belt until he, too, had to state his destination and was handed a ticket. This rectangular piece of paper, which could be torn so easily, was his passport to a new life or an extension of his old life. Even though his daily regimen in Hyde Park had been tethered and desolate, it was a familiar place. And more than twice today, Martin had questioned himself of what he was doing. Why he was doing it. Oddly enough, there were no real answers and he could no longer justify his doubts.
“Track seventeen,” the man in the conductor’s hat announced sharply from behind the counter. When asked about his destination, Martin squeaked, “Paris.” Not because he ever had the desire to stroll through the streets of Paris, but simply because he knew about the Chunnel. Paris would not be a far journey, geographically, and he was taking baby steps. He spoke no French – but he knew how to be silent and still make his way. Martin sat on one of the rickety benches that lined the platform on track seventeen. They were planted like telephone poles until they miniaturized and disappeared. He looked to his left and remembered he was at the end, or the beginning. Those seated at the far end perhaps believed the same thing, he mused. He had no luggage with him. An elderly couple seated on the bench next to him acknowledged his youth, and smiled. He wondered if they were marvelling at him, thinking to themselves, 'must be wonderful to be young and free,' and remembering, even though they were headed in the same direction. He smiled back, not really understanding what he was smiling about. The train he was waiting for could be taking him to the end of the earth.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Monday, December 4, 2006
Archived Articles
Caldwell reels in readers with new books and old bestsellers
Four siblings reunite with lost father through journals:
Diaries hold more than memories for WWI soldier's four children
Blind 92-year-old launches travel book series: Seeing the world past the words
Wine -- women -- and writing: This wanderlust author refuses to settle
Pioneering vet tells story of a very full lifetime
The Call of Women in the North: Author Toni Graeme records their voices
Turn-of-the-century Japanese author is celebrated for the 100th anniversary of sharing his dream
Humane author explores second chances for incarcerated souls through writing
Lost and found: author tells of discovering her father's true identity shortly before losing him
Life lessons: Octogenarian author taps into ageless knowledge, love, and the miracle of life
More than one lifetime achievement is realized by a long time celebrated author
Author and WWII veteran asks "would you like to spend 1400 days with me?"
A senior pool of authors are plugging into a new wave of publishing
A Time of War: Veterans write about their trials of love, allegiance and anguish overseas
Creative Magic
Late Bloomers
Rubicon Chapbook Press
ArtsReach
PATH project
Tent City: The Right To Sleep
Four siblings reunite with lost father through journals:
Diaries hold more than memories for WWI soldier's four children
Blind 92-year-old launches travel book series: Seeing the world past the words
Wine -- women -- and writing: This wanderlust author refuses to settle
Pioneering vet tells story of a very full lifetime
The Call of Women in the North: Author Toni Graeme records their voices
Turn-of-the-century Japanese author is celebrated for the 100th anniversary of sharing his dream
Humane author explores second chances for incarcerated souls through writing
Lost and found: author tells of discovering her father's true identity shortly before losing him
Life lessons: Octogenarian author taps into ageless knowledge, love, and the miracle of life
More than one lifetime achievement is realized by a long time celebrated author
Author and WWII veteran asks "would you like to spend 1400 days with me?"
A senior pool of authors are plugging into a new wave of publishing
A Time of War: Veterans write about their trials of love, allegiance and anguish overseas
Creative Magic
Late Bloomers
Rubicon Chapbook Press
ArtsReach
PATH project
Tent City: The Right To Sleep
A Mother's String
ISBN 1-894800-69-9
A Mother’s String (poetry) $16.95
published 2005 72 pages
A Mother’s String is about the lessons we learn in love and patience. It is about the family ties that bind even in the absence of those we are bound to. The poems are haunted by the memory of homes lived in or wished for. In them we remember our younger selves who have still to learn how far we can climb, how far we can fall.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Poems
A Lesson In Love
Love was something you made your parents believe
before you went to bed.
I made a boy chase me,
pedalling faster and faster
in the rain.
Splooshing his thin legs through puddles
I laughed
and later he kissed me.
Love fell from my tongue,
just a word I had heard.
I drew heart-shaped lines
when I was nine. "I love you."
How his face flushed
and his eyes gaped
wide and strained, like dry egg whites.
I was too big for my body.
I haven't learned love.
Hands and lips.
He said love after denting my mattress
and licking my ear.
What did he love?
It was just a word that needed to be heard.
I said it back.
What was I saying?
I was too big for my body.
I said it back
published in A Mother's String by Ekstasis Editions
Kheda
The bamboo trees reaching like jail bars in the jungle, kheda
a place pretending to tame wild things.
I see the giants grazing on palms
a family of prisoners restrained
forgetting their freedom.
This is how we box nature, to make it tidy
and bring across continents like television sets
for viewing.
A section of wild land and ivory
shrunken beneath hot sun.
A depletion in the earth.
* Kheda - an enclosure or corral for the capture of wild elephants
published in A Mother's String by Ekstasis Editions
Love was something you made your parents believe
before you went to bed.
I made a boy chase me,
pedalling faster and faster
in the rain.
Splooshing his thin legs through puddles
I laughed
and later he kissed me.
Love fell from my tongue,
just a word I had heard.
I drew heart-shaped lines
when I was nine. "I love you."
How his face flushed
and his eyes gaped
wide and strained, like dry egg whites.
I was too big for my body.
I haven't learned love.
Hands and lips.
He said love after denting my mattress
and licking my ear.
What did he love?
It was just a word that needed to be heard.
I said it back.
What was I saying?
I was too big for my body.
I said it back
published in A Mother's String by Ekstasis Editions
Kheda
The bamboo trees reaching like jail bars in the jungle, kheda
a place pretending to tame wild things.
I see the giants grazing on palms
a family of prisoners restrained
forgetting their freedom.
This is how we box nature, to make it tidy
and bring across continents like television sets
for viewing.
A section of wild land and ivory
shrunken beneath hot sun.
A depletion in the earth.
* Kheda - an enclosure or corral for the capture of wild elephants
published in A Mother's String by Ekstasis Editions
Saturday, December 2, 2006
My Initial Entry
Welcome to my first blog site. After much time and contemplation, I have finally decided to carve out my own space in the ever-expanding world of the Internet. I am a child of the 80's and, although I have become Internet savvy (out of sheer necessity and curiosity) over the years, it has taken me awhile to succumb to this new world of communication.
I prefer to hold private phone conversations inside my house and I have never text-messaged anyone on a cell phone. That being said, I am a writer and communicator at heart and, as I develop my writing craft and publish my works (poetry, freelance articles, fiction), I realize the benefits of being able to showcase my works for feedback and word-of-mouth in both the writing and non-writing community.
So, here I am. Geronimo! Blog sites have always seemed somewhat surreal to me, as they are essentially public journals. On the other hand, so is poetry. I believe the goal of a writer is to touch another heart and mind with ideas through language and imagery, which I aim to do on my blog. I hope to see comments from familiar and new voices. I also trust that any works I post will be respected as copyright.
I prefer to hold private phone conversations inside my house and I have never text-messaged anyone on a cell phone. That being said, I am a writer and communicator at heart and, as I develop my writing craft and publish my works (poetry, freelance articles, fiction), I realize the benefits of being able to showcase my works for feedback and word-of-mouth in both the writing and non-writing community.
So, here I am. Geronimo! Blog sites have always seemed somewhat surreal to me, as they are essentially public journals. On the other hand, so is poetry. I believe the goal of a writer is to touch another heart and mind with ideas through language and imagery, which I aim to do on my blog. I hope to see comments from familiar and new voices. I also trust that any works I post will be respected as copyright.
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