Category: being present

Summertime . . .

It’s the season for backyard BBQs and camping under the stars . . . for walking barefoot on the grass . . . for buying lemonade from the pop up stand down the street . . . and for friends who come to stay.

We’ve had several sets of out-of-town company this summer and I’m so grateful. Life’s busy. It’s easy to put things off. So when people I love come to visit I’m always thankful they took the time. One set of friends was in the middle of getting their house ready to sell but decided to come and spend a weekend with us (we did mention tequila in the invite). Another set of friends was flying from Ontario to BC and their primary destination was the Okanagan. They decided to detour to Victoria for an in-person catch up.

These are friendships that go back decades, to my teens and early twenties. We’ve kept in touch over the years, sometimes sporadically and sometimes more regularly, but whenever we reconnect in person, it’s like no time at all has passed. There’s an incredible gift in that, a joy in having a kind of shorthand with a person, a sense that you  know the core of each other and you like what’s there. And though we connected this time in summer, when the living and the laughter both come easy, both of these friendships have been through some figurative winter storms. However, like any true friendship manages to do, they not only weathered the storms but became stronger for them.

A few minutes after waving good-bye to Keith and Carol-Anne, I happened to wander onto Twitter where I saw an agent calling for submissions. One of her biggest wishes: to find stories where friendships are front and center.  Stories where friendships aren’t the afterthoughts of our lives but the cornerstones. Where differences are respected and even celebrated. Where pure loving kindness prevails . . . stories where friendships last and last and last.

From summer to winter and back to summer again.

Because while it is the season for backyard BBQs . . . for lemonade stands and for walking barefoot on the grass . . . friendship – honest, to-the-bone real friendship – knows no season at all.

Slow Living . . . Slow Writing

The universe has such a sense of humor.

A few weeks ago I started reading The Art of Slow Writing by Louise DeSalvo. Literally within a day of cracking chapter one, I accepted three rush writing jobs. I used to take on quick turnaround projects fairly often, but it’s been a while since I’ve done it. In this case, two of the jobs were for editors I knew and respected (and I’d written for them before so I understood their needs) and both were on familiar subjects. The third job was a referral from another writer on a subject I knew nothing about, and one completely out of my comfort zone. Deciding that I needed the challenge of stretching myself and learning something new, I took it on too.

Soon after, my world became a frantic, one-note song. As Louise DeSalvo waxed on eloquently and with great passion about the joy, the need and the benefits of slow writing, I wrote faster and faster. My focus became insular, my thoughts revolved around the jobs I had in front of me, the looming deadline, the fact that I couldn’t let these editors down. Write, write, write. Quick, quick, quick. One of the jobs became problematic; another simply took longer than it should have because the subject demanded considerably more word space than I’d been allotted.

As one week stretched into two and my deadline loomed closer, my attention to the outside world – family, friends, Team Sheltie, the garden, even the hour I normally devote to making dinner – faded along with my patience, my serenity, my ability to focus on anything beyond the work. My self-absorption was complete.

I saw it happening. When emails and calls to sources weren’t returned as quickly as I expected (or wanted), my inner toddler began to pout. I pacified her, dug deep and stayed in adult mode but, in truth, I expected the world to speed up right along with me.

There’s a reason for that. As DeSalvo points out in her book, we are a society in ‘hurry up’ mode. We’re conditioned to expect, appreciate and reward speed. Rather than putting a letter or a card in the mail and waiting a week or more for it to arrive, emails can be delivered electronically in a minute or two. Text messages are even faster, pinging their arrival in mere seconds. It’s a far different world than it was before air mail. Back then, overseas mail went by ship and could take weeks, months even, to reach its destination. In the sixteenth century, DeSalvo says it could take years to receive a reply to a letter you sent to Europe.

DeSalvo believes we’ve internalized the idea that the only things worth doing are those things that can be accomplished quickly. Writers, particularly those writing commercial fiction, equate their worth with the speed of their output. In the world of sales, reps are rewarded by how quickly they land the client. World leaders are judged on what they can accomplish not just in their full term, but in their first one hundred days.

Don’t get me wrong, fast isn’t always bad. A delicious stir fry can be made and served in fifteen minutes. A heartfelt apology can be delivered in five. Reading haiku takes mere seconds. So does saying ‘I love you.’

I’ll take on tight deadlines again. I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie, probably from years spent in radio and TV news where putting together a story for that hourly (or daily) newscast was, well, a rush. But I’m not going to ignore or think less of the writing I do that requires time and attention to come to its full potential. I’m not going to stay in hurry up mode as a matter of routine.

As my sat down to write this blog, Mr. Petrol Head gave me a ‘just because it’s Wednesday’ gift: he came home with a Bluetooth speaker, something I’d lusted after for a while. So I’m writing this to music. So far I haven’t heard a single one-note song. One-note songs apparently aren’t all that common. I’m guessing it’s because playing a one-note song – living a one-note song – means missing out on the beauty of life’s orchestra.

And who would want to miss out on that?

Writers and Walking

Today is National Walking Day which makes it a perfect time to talk about writing and walking. I’m not talking about the benefits of walking and writing at a treadmill desk, though I love mine and recommend you try one if you get the chance. Instead I’m talking about writers who walk as part of their writing life.

First, a quick reminder of body chemistry. Walking, like many other forms of exercise, improves blood flow. It makes the heart pump faster and that sends more blood and oxygen circulating throughout our body and brains. Scientists also believe that regular walking promotes new connections between brain cells and helps prevent brain tissue from withering with age. In short, walking is good for us. And long before scientists were espousing its benefits, writers seem to know it.

William Wordsworth, for instance, was a celebrated walker; his poetry is filled with walks through forests and up mountains. His friend and essayist Thomas De Quincy estimated that the poet walked nearly 180,000 miles during his lifetime, an average of six and a half miles a day starting from about age five.

Virginia Woolf depended on walks through England’s South Downs to “have space to spread my mind out in.” Henry David Thoreau walked three or four hours a day sauntering through woods and fields to collect his thoughts and help inform his prose. When Charles Dickens couldn’t sleep at night, he’d walk London’s streets until dawn. Even when insomnia wasn’t a problem, he was a walker, declaring “If I could not walk far and fast, I think I should just explode and perish.”

Danish writer Soren Kierkgaard wrote in the morning and walked the streets of Copenhagen in the afternoon, mentally composing paragraphs and working through new ideas. After the walk, he’d head back to the desk to get his thoughts down on paper.

Ernest Hemmingway also walked as a way to work out issues in his writing. “I would walk when I’d finished work or when I was trying to think something out,” he wrote in A Moveable Feast. “It was easier to think if I was walking and doing something.”

Henry Miller believed most writing is “done away from the typewriter, away from the desk. I’d say it occurs in the quiet, silent moments while you’re walking or shaving or playing a game or whatever.”

One of my favorite passages on walking is found in If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit by Brenda Ueland (the book is highly recommended, by the way). She writes: “I will tell you what I have learned myself. For me, a long five-or six-mile walk helps. And one must go alone and every day. I have done this for many years. It is at these times I seem to get re-charged.”

More recently, Orson Scott Card was quoted as saying that it’s “worth the time to take an hour’s walk before writing. You may write a bit less for the time spent, but you may find that you write better.”

And if that’s not enough incentive, how about this last quote from the prolific and successful J.K. Rowling who says, “There’s nothing like a nighttime stroll to give you ideas.”

Night or day, walking isn’t only good for you it’s also good for your writing. And that’s something to celebrate on this, National Walking Day.

Having Fun While Pursuing Goals

bicycle-1209682_640Last week, as part of an inventory for the New Year, I wrote a few lists:  things I love and activities I love to do; places that make me happy; my strengths and the things I’m good at; and some accomplishments I’m proud of. I called it my joy inventory and I did it to psych myself up for my annual goal setting session.

Goal setting is all well and good but achieving those goals can be an insidious business. It’s a little like going on a cycling trip. The planning stage is great. You sit down with a cup of coffee and surf travel sites or read guide books. You dream about where you’ll go, what you’ll see. Departure day comes and you’re psyched. And the trip starts out great, it really does, and you’re taking in the scenery and enjoying the daily work out and the feeling of accomplishment. The destination is an eventual goal but the journey is what it’s all about. Everybody knows that including smug little you.

At some point along the way, however, possibly after a day of bitter rain or being forced to detour up a grueling hill, pedaling becomes a chore. You aren’t covering as many miles as you expected to and you’re running into roadblocks as well. Your ass hurts, you stop taking in the view, and the only accomplishment you care about is getting to your destination. So you put your head down and you pedal. You pedal and pedal and pedal on. The trip, you decide, was a terrible idea and clearly not yours. You’ll never do it again.

Until you do.

It’s a lot like goal setting. If you set goals this new year, there’s pretty good chance at some point over the next twelve months you’ll curse yourself out for not reaching your goal fast enough or you’ll get discouraged when you hit a roadblock. You might even decide goal-setting isn’t for you. And maybe it isn’t. But pacing yourself and learning to enjoy life while you work towards your goals helps prevent disappointment and burnout. At least that’s my theory. I’m going to test it out this next year.

I’m going to make time for the activities I love to do. When crap happens and I feel beaten down, I’ll pull out my list of simple pleasures (most of the things I love are simple pleasures) and renew myself that way. If I get discouraged and feel my goals are out of reach, I’ll skim my list of accomplishments and remind myself that I’ve achieved other goals in the past and I can do it again. If I get a bad review or a rejection, I’ll revisit my list of strengths and tell myself I can handle this new challenge too. And at least once over the next year I’ll visit one place that makes me happy and renews my spirit, even if that means I’m only a few miles from home.

I’ve done my joy inventory. I’ve set my goals. And I’m pedalling with optimism into 2017.

Happy New Year and Welcome to 2017!

joywordAt the beginning of a new calendar year we often ask ourselves what we’d like to accomplish in the next twelve months. I do and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. But when I sat down the other day to think about how my next year will shape up, it occurred to me that there’s something I need to do first.

I need to take inventory. Retailers do it, generally once a year. They check out what they have left in stock, look at what’s sold and what hasn’t. Other businesses review their business plans on an annual or even semi-annual basis. Some do a SWOT analysis (looking at their strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats). I’ve done the SWOT thing with some writer friends several times and it’s a great exercise, especially in a group setting with people you respect and trust. But my next writing retreat is months away so I’m taking stock – taking inventory – on my own this time.

And my inventory list is focusing on joy. Why joy, you ask? Because between Christmas and the New Year I had coffee with an artist friend who confessed she’s feeling burned out. She’s normally the gung-ho sort, always up for a challenge, always creating new things. But she admitted she’s pushing herself to create, and the idea of doing more in 2017 left her feeling exhausted. I can relate. 2016 was a bitch of a year and I felt burned out by the end of it.

I’m pretty sure joy is one of the antidotes to exhaustion and burn out. It certainly helps fill a well that’s close to dry. So if you want to do a joy inventory along with me, grab a pen and paper or sit down with your laptop and open a new file.

We’re going to make a few lists. Don’t groan. It’ll be fun. And since it’s 2017, we’re going to limit each list to 17 items.

List 17 accomplishments you’re most proud of. Do it fast; don’t overthink it. It doesn’t have to be something you accomplished this year. And don’t limit yourself to professional accomplishments either (For example, I’m proud that after ten years we managed to grow a kiwi on our vine in 2016. It speaks to our tenacity and patience).

Note down 17 strengths or things you’re good at, both personally and professionally.

Next, jot down 17 things you love. Come on, this one’s easy. I can think of 17 things I love to eat, for heaven’s sake. Your list might include discovering a new writer. French press coffee. A hot bath on a cold night. The smell of sweet peas. The sound of church bells. The touch of a kitten’s fur.

Then write down 17 things you love to do. Think out of the box. What about travel? Star gazing? Meeting a friend for lunch? Needlepoint? Fixing an old car? Doing your taxes? (okay, maybe not taxes).

Finally, list out 17 places you’ve been that make you happy. If you have trouble with this one, add in a few places you’d love to go that you know would make you happy.

That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now you have a sense of what brings you joy and a written record of your proudest accomplishments. Next week I’ll talk about how to use the joy inventory when it comes to goal setting.

 

This Little Pinkie Went to Market

finger in bandageGrocery shopping is an extreme sport. Who knew? I had too much on my mind last week (too many story ideas colliding in my brain; more about that in another blog) and I was in a hurry to get everything out of the cart and onto the counter at the checkout. Unfortunately, my baby finger took the brunt of my impatience because I tried to leave it between the spokes of the cart when I walked over to talk to the cashier.

I didn’t know such a little appendage could twist quite that way. Or hurt quite that much. Mr. Petrol Head wasn’t impressed with my whimpering, possibly because the finger looked pretty much normal there for a while. And how much damage can you do to a baby finger anyway, he asked? If the swelling and stormy colors are any indication apparently quite a bit. I’ll spare you the ugly. Just take my word for it. So today, after three days of splinting it to the neighboring finger (at the doctor’s suggestion), I took myself off for an X-Ray (also at the doctor’s suggestion). I don’t think it’s broken (from a grocery cart? Hardly possible) but that little baby is not happy.

Meantime, I have some pretty new office supplies waiting for when it feels better. It may not be back to school time in my house anymore but September is always a good time for a fresh start.

School supplies bottom border on a chalkboard background

It’s all in the Details

Mule DeerOne morning last week, I was walking Team Sheltie down an urban street about a block from home. The sun was up but it was early and hardly anybody was around. The dogs were charging ahead, in tandem, heads down and on the scent of something. They didn’t see the deer. I didn’t see it either until the subtlest of movements caught my eye. A leaf caught on the wind, a squirrel? I glanced into the yard I was passing and there it was – three arm lengths away and partially hidden by a hedge. It was so still that for a second I thought it was a deer statue (a nearby homeowner has one). Then I saw its ear twitch. It was the subtlest movement, hardly noticeable, but it was enough to tell me I was closer than I’d ever been to a wild deer.

In the moment before I walked on, one thing stood out. Not its size, or its stillness or the flash of fear that flickered in its brown eyes (though later I’d think about all three). Instead what captivated me was the softest whip of chocolate fuzz that I saw on still-forming antlers. That single detail summed up everything I needed to know about the creature in front of me. It was a sweet, young deer, harmless yet vulnerable. The sight also brought an unexpected rush of emotion because it reminded me of the down of my children’s hair when they were infants.

Details, in life and in novels, speak volumes. And those antlers did.

Taking in the View

mountainimageWhen mountain climbers reach the summit, they stop to take in the view. They might even rest a while, have a snack, and reflect on how the climb’s been going so far. That pause, I am told, not only refuels them but also provides helpful perspective.

Writers aren’t much for taking in the view. We’re not inclined to look back either, at least not the writers I know. And I include myself in that group. We’re all about the next set of edits, the next re-write, the next book, the next challenge. It’s good to strive, and to look ahead. But I think we miss out a little bit when we don’t stop to take in the view.

A few years ago, I was in a library getting ready to talk to a group of high school kids. They were still in the classroom; they hadn’t arrived yet. I organized my set up on a table at the front of the room and then I left to get a glass of water. When I walked back in, it was like I was seeing that table for the first time. All those books . . . and I’d written every single one. I remember feeling almost startled. And then satisfied. And then, as I scanned the table, somewhat reflective because each book was a signpost along my career path.

Last week, Orca Book Publishers and Munro’s Books hosted a spring book launch. It was a welcome opportunity to pause and celebrate the release of our books. But since then, I’ve been looking back – not a lot, just a little – and thinking about my career path so far, how things have worked or not worked, what goals I’ve let slide that maybe I need to recommit to, and what detours have taken me in a direction that needs some correcting.

I can’t say I’ve reached the summit – I’m not even sure I can see the summit – but I am taking in the view, both the path that’s in front of me and the path I’ve already walked. I’m having the odd snack as I do it. Taking the occasional rest. And in the process I’m gaining much-needed perspective.

Take a breath, take a break, take in the view. You won’t be disappointed. I guarantee it.

Gifts of a Writing Life

Gold-giftIt’s the season for giving and receiving so it’s probably no surprise that I’ve been pondering the topic in some depth over the last few weeks. In particular, I’ve been thinking about the gifts I’ve received from having a writing life.

There have been many. Everything from the mundane (a love of really good pens) to the profound (a lengthy and life-changing interview with Elisabeth Kubler-Ross years ago). But three gifts stand out above all others.

First, writing allowed me to work and stay home with my kids when they were young. It wasn’t always easy juggling deadlines and revisions and (occasionally) book tours, but, for the most part, I was there before and after school, I was at the end of the phone if there was an emergency, and with a little bit of juggling I was able to pick up the odd volunteer shift for pizza day or the school fair. Speaking of fair, it’s only fair to point out that I did it with considerable support from Mr. Petrol Head who was as close to a hands-on parent as one can be when working out of the house.

The second gift writing has brought into my life is the ability to understand the (sometimes poor) behavior of people. Admittedly, I have a natural tendency to analyze people and try to figure out where they’re coming from anyway, but writing helped me grasp on a far deeper level how character and motivation can sometimes lead to choices and actions that are, well, less than ideal. Life can be challenging. People don’t always behave heroically. An awareness of what makes people tick hasn’t always prevented me from being hurt but it has helped me make sense of things and gain perspective.

Finally, writing has brought me wealth. Not money or new cars or the ability to travel on a whim, but wealth in the form of an abundance of friends. I’m incredibly lucky to have a community of friends and colleagues who get this gig in way non-writers don’t. They’re willing to celebrate the successes and commiserate over the challenges. They understand that writing may look easy but it’s not. That the lifestyle may look glamorous and carefree but that, too, is false. They know that many people have stories to tell but not many people are willing to put in the time and dedication needed to tell them, and tell them well. My writing friends are on the path beside me. Their very presence is a gift. A gift that continues to give and give and give some more.

To them I say thank you. And Merry Christmas.

It’s All About the Tingle, Baby

Woman with Goose Bumps on ArmAuthor Monique Polak visited Vancouver Island not long ago and I was lucky enough to hear her speak. Polak, who is also a college teacher, is the talented author of 17 books for teens, an active freelance journalist, and she’s a dynamic presenter too. The night she spoke to the Victoria Literature Roundtable, she focused on writing for teens. She shared with us how she began her journey, some of the challenges she faced, and what it takes to get to the final draft. Much of what she said resonated deeply. I wasn’t the only author in the audience and most of us nodded our heads more than once.

And when she mentioned the tingle, there was a collective nod from every writer there.

She was talking about the tingle that comes after hearing or seeing something and then asking: ‘what if?’ Like the time Monique heard a local mayor angrily stating that they’d find the person responsible for the acts of arson plaguing their community no matter what it took and ‘that person would pay dearly.’ Hearing that, Monique immediately thought ‘what if the arsonist is his son?’ That’s when she felt the tingle. And the goosebumps rising on her arms or the shiver going down her spine is Monique’s signal that there’s a story to be told. A story she has to tell. It may not be what the publishers are looking for or a topic that’s particularly in vogue, but it’s the starting gate that she’s meant to walk through on her next writing adventure. That incident, by the way, led Monique to write Pyro.

When it comes to the tingle, I’m exactly the same. Whether it’s a conversation I overhear while I’m at the dentist, a piece of trivia I read on a sign outside a provincial park, a few lines in a newspaper story, or even the sight of an owl perching in my pear tree at dusk when I let the dogs out after dinner, the creative wheel starts to turn. If I feel the tingle, I know I have a story idea.

That tingle is more than a clue. It’s an ignition switch, if you will. Kindling to kick start the process. Properly fed and fanned and stoked, that tingle will, with luck, build to a flame that will burn as long as it takes to get the story down, and revise, and revise again.

It takes enthusiasm and optimism to start a novel. It takes a great deal of sustained energy to finish one. And when you start with the tingle, you have much better odds of making it to the end.