A Writing Pilgrimage

I had a hard time deciding what to write about in my blog, this week. There was no shortage of ideas – just a lack of focus.

It’s easy to think that a blog is a series of random thoughts that the author writes down. In fact, if I was a really good writer, my article should have the illusion of being “just an idea”. But for every word I write down, there’s five words that I’ve edited out – consciously and subconsciously – because I’m shaping, sculpting, carving a final product. Except that I don’t know what it will be in the end. Or even if I think I know what it will be, I have to surrender and instead go with what works best for the piece – and not for what I have stuck in my head.

Art – funny how it works that way.

Over brunch the other day, my friend was telling me how she had started taking a pottery class. Her eyes shone and her hands moved animatedly as she talked. She was in love. With pottery, that is.

“It was terrifying,” she said. “People just go in there and create. They don’t know what they’re doing. They just try it.”

And when did the real joy come to her? When she sat down at the potter’s wheel and decided to experiment with the clay – see what she liked. No pre-conceived ideas of what the end would look like. She let go.

Across from the table, I sighed. I was envious. I knew what that was – the joy of playing. That’s what my old blog used to be – when I had a blog under a pseudonym – when I could express, play, explore, with anonymity. What greater joy than to try your hand at poems, stories, ideas - and get feedback - but not have to reveal – well, who you are?

Perhaps, that’s why it took me so long to get into the groove of this blog. My name’s here. And with that – I started to be more concerned about the final product. I had forgotten the whole point of writing.

There is no point. It’s just something I do – a process. We all like to “do things”. Like running in your neighbourhood or planting poppies in your front yard. This is what I “do” on a Saturday afternoon, while others are making home-made cards or putting their tools / spices / DVDs in alphabetical order. Or repainting their basement. Or baking elaborate cakes. It’s not really the final product people enjoy – it’s the doing.

And – that’s why I love to write. Because the lessons in writing – always – somehow – transfer back to lessons in life.

2012 will be a very good year, if I remember to try and live the way I write. To remember – the joy is in the doing.

Last Christmas, I dared to suggest to my mother that we don’t exchange gifts over the holidays.

My father – the ever practical one – wholeheartedly agreed. Save money, save time, save wrapping paper – what could be a better gift? (Well, perhaps cancelling Christmas dinner for our extended family of fifty altogether, but that’s another posting).

My mother, however, was horrified. It was the equivalent of asking her not to cook, or not to call, – in essence, not to love. For my mother, buying gifts is one of her currencies of love.

One of her many currencies, in fact. She also buys cards (even on Easter and still now even though I’m over 35), tells me what to eat when I’m sick, give me leftovers, cooks and then pretends it’s leftovers so she can give it to me, and calls regularly.

My father? Well, that’s a hard one. I had to think about it … he buys me fruit (and by fruit, I mean five pound bags of apples), cuts out articles from the paper on how I can save money for my future, and finds practical household items for me at fantastic prices. Knives, can openers, measuring tape – that kind of thing. He’ll come over and fix things (though this is usually accompanied by a lecture on how I need to learn to fix things on my own) and share (in limited amounts) whatever special dessert he might have bought for himself and hidden in the fridge. Oh yes – and he’ll clean my car because he is disgusted with how dirty it is! (again, accompanied by another lecture).

He doesn’t really call to see how I’m doing. Though he’ll call to see how my career is doing.

(I had a girlfriend whose father used to call and ask how her car was doing. It was his excuse to come over and see her – checking up on the car.)

Once, when I was in the middle of changing jobs (which happens often), my dad couldn’t sleep wondering what I was going to do next. I was touched. He wasn’t too happy about it.

It’s taken me a good thirty years to figure out my Dad’s currency. Every year, I figure out something else that I hadn’t realized was his expression of parental love. But at least he’s consistent. If I don’t get a Christmas gift, I won’t be hurt. It’s when he stops bringing me mandarin oranges that I need to worry.

( I’d be interested to hear from other folks interesting expressions of paternal love!)

My niece asked me what my new year’s resolution was … and I was ashamed to tell her. My resolutions were the same old, same old – eat healthier, exercise more, get more sleep.

Why would I want to hide those goals? Because I wanted her to know there was more to life than what one eats or how many calories they burn. I mean, they are important priorities – self-care and all that – … the building blocks to a good life, but would I want HER new year’s resolution to be to go to bed by 1030 pm?

So, I asked what her resolution was.

“To be better”, she said.

“To help more,” she added. “Without asking.”

To be better – now there’s a goal.

And for me? I think I’m afraid to admit my real goal … As of December 16, 2011 I have no more consulting work.  I am now in a nine to five job that I love and that inspires me. All of the raw ingredients to nourish and foster creative writing. So – why not say what I want out loud?

Who says that artistic goals get any easier with time? Same old fears come back to haunt you  … So, I’ll say it what I said five years ago. This year, I’m going to write more. Write more consistently. And try to be better.

(Thank goodness for ten year old nieces).

In the Harry Potter series, J.K. Rowling introduced the concept of Thestrals. Thestrals were creatures that could only be seen by those who had witnessed or touched by death. And of course, to those who haven’t been touched by death, Thestrals could not be seen at all. At the time I read about it, Thestrals seemed like a simple enough concept. A clever twist for a young adult fantasy novel. But, only recently have I understood how true this metaphor is in real life. 

My mom was diagnosed with cancer at the beginning of December this year. My sister told me on my cell phone as I got off the bus on a wintry night (5:00 pm) and I walked on snow covered sidewalks on my way home. At the time, I felt quite practical about it all. Having worked in cancer prevention and screening, I was very aware of the survival rates of cancer patients and knew that a diagnosis of cancer does *not* mean death. My mom is seventy-two. If she were to live another five years in good health, I would be happy. Unless the cancer had spread widely, (which it hadn’t), this disease would really have no impact on how much time I had in the future with my mother. 

But, cancer isn’t a disease that’s well understood. I had done tons of research around this even before it affected me so personally. Cancer is … as is everything unknown … scary. And for many people, cancer has meant “death”. Or, at least it reminds us that death is around the corner. Unacknolwedged and definitely uncontrolled. And that lurking reminder has interesting impacts on different people.

In University, I took a course in sociology from my favorite professor, and at the beginning of the class he said: ”If there is one class you will remember for the rest of your life after your degree is done, I guarantee it will be this one.” Fifteen years later, he is spot on. The class was “The Sociology of Death and Dying.” [I can't tell you the number of employers who later on looked at my transcript and said "what is this class here?"].

The class examined what it means to die in our society and in other cultures.  I had been immersed in the concepts of death and dying for four months and it was the best thing that ever happened to me. It doesn’t mean I want to die or I’m ok with it. But, I certainly have known that Death is a citizen of humanity. He’s here and he’s not going away. 

So when my mom got cancer, I noticed an interesting trend. The people most comfortable with me and with discussing my mom –  were those who had death touch their lives.  They called and asked directly how she was, asked if I needed anything, and reminded me that I could call on them for help. I loooked at their lives and realized: “ah yes, they’ve all lost a parent. They were not afraid to say what other people were thinking. “

You must be scared.

It is an emotional time.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help.

It’s ok if you think the worst and want to prepare for it.

That doesn’t mean to say that I didn’t have other friends, who had healthy parents, who weren’t supportive. They were. I am blesesed with an amazing circle of friends and family. But those who had lost someone – they had that look in their eyes of “I Know.”

And, they did know. They knew I was terrified. Tired. Emotional. Exhausted. Brave. And tired of being brave. All at the same time.

They see it too, just like Harry Potter. Thestrals, Death, Fear. Whatever.

And although I’m sure they didn’t want to welcome me to their community, it was nice to be welcomed with support all the same.

My favorite stories have been about leadership – unwanted leadership.

John Connor from the Terminator, Frodo from Lord of the Rings. Even Juliet Parrish, the rebel leader from the original V series in the 1980s. Individuals who didn’t want to lead, but had leadership thrust upon them.

And what is good leadership? You’d be surprised what the studies say. Kouzes and Posner, leadership gurus, identified five key components of leadership: Challenging the process; Inspiring a shared vision; Enabling others to act; Modeling the way and Encouraging the heart.

Encouraging the heart? Not quite what you expect.

Having discovered my ambition of wanting to be a writer late in my life, I transitioned through many jobs. MANY jobs. It exposed me to many managers and helped me create my own picture of what an ideal manager / leader would look like.

Gone are the old days of center-stage-all-the-glory Captain Kirk William Shatner leaders. It’s out. Leadership is teamwork now, giving your team members a chance to use their skills. Urge in the new and improved Captain Kirk-Chris Pine style, where the key word is “ensemble” and even Spock, the unemotional one, gets the girl.

The funny thing is, for once, the research studies support my real life experience. I work better in a flexible environment, where I know what’s expected and I’m given the freedom to fulfill it. Where, the manager is “do as I do” and not “do as I say”.

So, I wanted to see if I lived up to Kouzes and Posner ideals. They have a survey you can share with team-mates, people you report to, and people who report to you … to see whether your perception of yourself as a leader matches the reality experienced by those you work with.

The results were insightful. I was much better at some things than I thought (i.e. modeling) and had accurately anticipated that I needed improvement in other areas (i.e. inspiring a vision). It doesn’t mean I want or like being a manager or leader. After all, I’m an introvert. I prefer boundaries on my social interactions. But the whole experience made me look at my own traits (and of course, those of my characters) in a whole new way.

Too bad there weren’t surveys like that for other aspects of life. Then, we could see how much of an “environmentalist”, “artist”, “optimist”, “entrepreneur” we might think we are!

Yes, it’s been ages since I’ve posted, but that’s another blog post altogether. Hopefully, I’ll be posting more regularly from now on.

I’m writing because tonight I will be attending my 20th Year High School Reunion. Yes. Twenty years ago, I graduated high school, fresh, optimistic and ready to conquer the world.

That’s the thing about being a teenager – you think you’re smart. You don’t know that you don’t know a damn thing until maybe …. maybe …. if you’re lucky, eight years later.

What surprises me most about this event is how I’m feeling. Which is: curious. Curious – a mild emotion, not really reflective at all, nor even excited. Just curious. So different from my 10 year reunion. I always anticipated that by the 20 year reunion, I’d feel like my classmates would be so much more interesting, we’d have so much more to share, because – BY GOD – we’d be in our late thirties. And now, I think I’m curious to see if anyone has figured out life any better than they did ten years ago.

What also interests me is who *chooses* to go to their reunion. I had a friend who chose to go to his ten year reunion because he wanted to show one of the bullies / jocks / popular guys at school how much better he was than him ten years down the road. Well, la-de-dah, the bully turned out to be a genuinely nice guy, going around to all of his former classmates and introducing himself. It really ruined my friend’s reunion experience.

So, why do people go? For themselves? For others? For genuine reasons, to catch up with old friends? Or to make new ones? As a milestone? As a writer, I’d be more interested in asking people why they show up tonight rather than what they are doing now.

My life is nothing than what I’d imagined twenty years ago. I’ll be honest. But that doesn’t mean, I would change a thing. It’s kind of neat looking back and thinking – huh, I could never have even imagined this journey. Much better than saying, “my life turned out exactly as I had thought it would.”

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Well … “Women of the Apocalypse” kept a quiet profile, but with steady determination, the book kept selling and garnering interest.  And then, out of the blue, we took the Auroras by surprise and won!

Yes, the 2010 Prix Aurora Awards for the best Canadian science fiction and fantasy of 2009 announced Women of the Apocalypse as the Best Work in English (Other). It was an unexpected but welcome surprise for me and my fellow writers. And, my conspirator and collaborator, Eileen Bell, also won Best Short Form as well for her novella.

So, now what? We won a national award. Wow. Not only that, the selection committee really recognized that we were *truly* collaborative. An editor didn’t select our work and compile it in an anthology. We decided, as a team, what the theme would be. We decided, as a theme, when the product was ready. We decided, as a team, how we would edit one another’s work. Yes, “decided as a theme” is code for “argued, disagreed, debated, agreed, argued again, and came to a consensus” … but they recognized that and made sure we all got our own award.

It’s great to see that collaboration recognized. It’s hard to be a writer. It’s even harder to collaborate as a writer. So, the award is sweet in many ways. The question is … now what?

As of last month, I have a new living room window.

It is a by-product of my new house. Well, the house isn’t new, but it’s new for me.

If we go back nine years, I moved back to Edmonton into an apartment that overlooked the University farm. My living room window then looked over a maze of alleys and streets, houses and yards and a wide expanse of green through which my neighbors tramped, with their dogs weaving around them.

Then, I moved to a condo. My first property. My living rom window sat atop a natural gas fireplace (i.e. fake) and overlooked a small plot of land, a fence and the looming structure of a seniors’ lodge. Once in a while, I’d get a glimpse of a pair of legs and a walker through the slats of the fence. But my company was mostly members of Mother Nature’s brood, rabbits, blue jays and even once – a deer.

But outside my living room window now — there is a neighborhood and it’s completely different. It is a strange dynamic. My living quarters are quieter than I ever had in an apartment or condo, and yet it is so busy outside my window.

People stroll by with their dogs at all times of the day. Seniors walk by slowly, with no real purpose in mind, except maybe to walk (no multi-tasking, how novel is that?). A group of kids play tages across the street, with one little bossy girl intermittently re-announcing the rules every couple of minutes and two pre-teen girls, giggling and laughing, take a couple of passes back and forth along my sidewalk. There was a big puddle. Fun to be in a puddle.

Yes, outside my living room window there is a neighborhood. I never realized how much I missed neighbors until I got them back again.

Who is an Apocalyptic Woman?

 The question ran through my head a dozen times  – no a triple thousand dozen times – these last months as I went on a selling spree for my book.

I sat at the same red Christmas table cloth in different locations – a bookstore, a library, a yoga studio, a used book store – wondering which of these women walking towards my table would be interested in reading about my character.

Dinah – my character – was an independent thinker, someone who wasn’t fearless, but tried to face her fears nevertheless. Someone who was strong, not because she thought it was admirable, but because it was necessary,

I liked my character. But that’s because I created her. And because, like all of my characters, I wanted to be like her.

But – who strolling by me and my fellow authors, my table of books, and my little cash box – also wanted to be those things? Who wanted to be an Apocalyptic Woman?

I looked at the different women – their wardrobes, how they carried themselves, and what kind of Christmas gifts they hauled.

And you know what?

I was wrong. Everytime.

An elderly woman came to our table. Shorter than me (I tower at a whopping five feet). Frail – I could have broken her in two. No way, I thought. No way she’d be interested in our book. I gave her the spiel anyway. Or Billie did. “Oh yes,” she exclaimed. “I can relate to these women. I’ve made big changes in my life, and you can’t look back. You just have to make that change.”

 Hmmph. A smile spread over my face. Good for you, I thought. Smashing my biases into a dozen pieces. I needed that.

Another well-kept lady strolled by our table. Immaculate wardrobe. Her jacket fit her perfectly. She even carried her gloves lightly in one hand, not stuffed in her pockets like most Canadians. Too organized, I thought. She wouldn’t like our book about chaos and dealing with the unexpected. But her eyes lit up when we described the plot. “Oh, I love stuff like that. I’ve been thinking about making a tough decision in my life. And what you as a group of writers have done together is a bit inspiring. I’d like to read what you’ve come up with.”

Clearly, I hadn’t learned my lesson. The woman who I thought was too uppity for speculative fiction was instead a kindred spirit.

They came, one after the other, these apocalyptic women. In all sizes, shapes, and races. They all had spirit. They all shone with dynamic energy. And – the best thing of all – they all surprised me.

No wonder it’s so easy to keep on writing …. I have so many women out there to be inspired by.

Eileen, one of the authors I collaborated with on both Seven Deadly Sins and Women of the Apocalypse, wrote an interesting article on our collaboration at Cheryl Kaye Tardiff’s blog. Check it out!