Coming Up For Air
Can’t quite believe it’s been two months since I posted here. They’ve gone by in a blink while I worked flat out on getting ready for SiWC registration opening on June 2. I got there, and am very proud to have presenter and workshop information all available on the site along with registration options and all the other goodies you’ll find, like our contest, hotel information, awards and so on. With a wonderfully successful first week of registration under our belts, things have eased off just enough for me to remember that there are other things in my life. So it’s catch-up time. I’m terribly behind on personal correspondence, for one thing, and haven’t so much as looked at my WIP in three months. Ack! So today, I tackle the blog, the correspondence and, if I’m lucky, reading the printout of my MS that’s sitting here beside me, reminding me of the pleasure to be found in working on it. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a three-month hiatus from writing before. I’m a bit frightened about what having done so will mean. Will the words still be there, waiting for me, or have I let myself get too rusty to get back into it? I certainly hope it will be the former, because the latter’s too awful to contemplate. Guess we’ll see. My good friend karen says it’s a good thing to have put the WIP aside for so long, because I’ll come at it with fresh eyes and make it stronger. That sounds good to me! Have you ever taken a long break from writing? How was the journey back into it? Share...
Time keeps ticking…
I’m a first generation Canadian on my mum’s side. Mum was born in Scotland, and she, her parents, her aunt and uncle, and her grandmother came to Canada in 1957. These were the relatives I grew up with, the people I consider my closest family, the ones we spent Christmases with and whose homes were always my favourite places to visit. Most of them are gone now. Of the original immigrant family, only my mum and her aunt are still with us, along with mum’s cousins, born in Canada. My great grandmother, the inimitable “More Grannies”, so dubbed by my sister and me, was born on December 23, 1887. She died just 19 days shy of her hundredth birthday in 1987, when I was a teenager. Every year when I was a kid, her daughter, my lovely great aunt Lily, with whom she lived, hosted a birthday party for her. The guests were always the same: friends, family, and neighbours, many of them Scottish or English immigrants, too. I’m reminded of those parties every time I hear “The Old Sod” by Spirit of the West. There’s a line in there that puts me back in that red-tiled basement party room every time: “There’s a bar in the rec room in the basement of our house…” I loved those parties. They were always happy times, with singing and dancing and a spare room nearby lined with tables laden with treats, and I remember them through the eyes of a kid who loved people watching, loved listening to the grown-up conversations and watching the adults get goofy. The room did, indeed, have a bar in the corner. I played junior bartender many times, long before I was old enough to have tasted any of it (and I wouldn’t have dared!). Lily and Pat’s friends who came to those parties are faces I saw all through my childhood, some just there and some at other times through the year. I was too young for them to be my friends, too, but they were there, a part of the tapestry of my life, and I had a great affection for some of them. Two of them have died this year, one just last night, and I’m saddened by their loss. Florence was a tall, deep-voiced woman who was always invited to sing at any party, and always obliged. She died earlier this year. Last night, we lost Anne, whom I’ve known my whole life. She was in her mid-eighties and was very ill, so her death wasn’t unexpected, but it made me sad, anyway. Up in my daughter’s room, there’s a tattered, disintegrating old baby blanket, THE blanket, the one she wouldn’t sleep without for years, preserved from further destruction by being zipped into a mesh laundry bag, so she can still see it. That blanket was a baby gift from Anne. The days of those basement parties are long past, but I remember them. I wish sometimes we could flash back in time so my daughter could share some of those experiences. But I’ll tell her the stories until she rolls her eyes because I’m repeating myself AGAIN. That’s my job as a mother, right? Share...
Wherever you go…
I’ve been meaning to post this for a few days, but didn’t get around to doing it. Do you read Ev Bishop’s blog? If you’re at all interested in writing, you should. Yesterday, over a decadent piece of cake (well, two… we didn’t want to share!), my friend kc and I got talking about this particular blog entry and how much we were touched by it, and how much we enjoy Ev’s blog generally. I think you will, too. Check it out. Share...
13000 days
I mentioned in my earlier post that I’ve been catching up on blogs and finding inspiration in other people’s writing lately. Ever thought about how many days you have left in your life, if you’re lucky? Read this. In the interest of full disclosure, it happens to have been written by my husband. But I read it for the first time just now, and it fit so well with some of the things I’ve been thinking about and having conversations about lately that I had to share it. Share...
Writing Through
I’ve been in a bit of a frustrating writing spot lately. It’s one of those times when the disconnect between my brain and my fingers seems particularly noticeable. I have all this great stuff in my head, but when it comes to actually putting in in words, I fail badly. What comes out is not only not brilliant, but just plain bad. It’s a little like when golfers simply lose their swing for awhile. They know how to do it right, but for whatever reason, they just can’t. Until they can again. I’m hoping “can again” comes soon. While I wait for my swing to come back*, I’ve been catching up online, reading blogs I’ve been behind on and finding inspiration in the writing of others. My daughter has Spring Break this upcoming week, so I’ll have a few days without a lot of computer time to absorb a bit of real life, too, which is never a bad idea for writers. And, of course, I’ve been working steadily on my other job, coordinating the Surrey International Writers’ Conference, and writing something – no matter how awful it might be – every day, because I figure I never know when it’s going to click again. Besides, not writing is not an option. What do you do when you lose your swing for awhile, in whatever your work or hobby may be? *this is entirely metaphorical, as I don’t actually have a golf swing. At least not one that can actually make contact with a golf ball. Share...
The end of publishing?
From A Novel Woman via a member at the Compuserve Books and Writers Forum: Share...
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