Beginnings and endings: writers, editors, and readers

The painstaking line-by-line editing process: Mum read from her iPad
and called out the changes, which I then made on my laptop.   #Teamwork 

One of my favourite stages of the writing process is the end of it. When I am satisfied after many drafts and much revision, and I add FINAL to the file name and send it somewhere, and then add it to my SUBMISSIONS master list. Then the next stage begins — the WAITING stage: Will the editor like it? If it is published, will the readers like it? Will they like it enough to comment on it?

In my view, all these stages and psychological states are part of the writing process that begins with an idea, proceeds through the ‘getting it onto the page’ stage, and is completed when it, one way or another, lands in readers’ hands. 

Not every piece does, of course — land in readers’ hands. A piece I have written about the waiting stage has yet to be accepted by an editor, so this stage of that particular writing process is dragging on, though I continue to hope that one day an editor somewhere will like it enough to publish it. And I am at the beginning stage of a new idea, trying hard to get it effectively onto the page; it's a handbook on “How to be a Writer in Four Steps" — and it's slow going, but I'm determined to see if I cannot shape it from beginning to end. 

In the meantime, I am celebrating the completion of my mother’s memoir about meeting my father. While I was visiting her in Edmonton, Mum did a painstaking line-by-line edit of the manuscript, we printed a couple of trial copies, corrected a few annoying typos, and I had copies printed of the final version. As with any creative project, it is most satisfying to see the finished product, to step back and bask in the reward of effort and skill having produced a fine result.

Now that the story is out in the world of family and friends, conversations are happening. My sister and I have both asked Mum for more details about certain episodes and several readers have told Mum that they are inspired by her work to begin their own life-writing project. That is most gratifying, and, I would suggest, one of the most powerful impacts that our own life story can have: To nudge someone else to tell theirs. The resulting ‘book’ need not make the New York Times bestseller list for it to be a roaring success. A simple copy job at your local printshop or electronic distribution of a pdf file will ensure that the story of your life lands in readers’ hands who are keen to learn more about how you came to be who — and where — you are today. And that is what life writing is all about. 

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Announcing publication of the much anticipated

Looking for More

Winnipeg, Manitoba: A & A Press is delighted to announce the publication of the latest entry into the collection of memoir writings by Anne Le Rougetel. This volume recounts Le Rougetel’s life in post World War II London — earning her living, meeting her husband, and emigrating to Canada in the early 1950s. But this memoir is more than family tales. Le Rougetel paints a vivid picture of post-war living, complete with food rationing, living quarters devoid of 21st century domestic comforts, and a society bound by long-standing social conventions. The writing is lively, with fresh dialogue and details that evoke both the historical era and the personal moment. Advance readers’ comments include: a “fascinating account” … “brilliantly written” … “as if you were talking to me directly”. It is said that this will be Le Rougetel’s final entry into her boxed set of life stories. Who knows. Stranger things have happened than another year unfolding and another story taking shape on the page…. Enquires may be submitted c/o fiveyearsawriter at gmail dot com. 

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Below is a short excerpt from Looking for More; it takes place during my parents’ very early days in Canada. They lived in Montreal but, for Dad’s job, spent some weeks in Kingston, Ontario, where they experienced camping for the first time.

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from the Afterword of Looking for More: — 

On my first day in Kingston, when hordes of mosquitos chased me out of a leisurely morning in the park, I took out my resume and a reference from Miss Pank, and walked up and down Kingston’s main streets knocking on office doors asking if they needed temporary summer help from a highly trained secretary. Nobody was interested, until the friendly young manager of an insurance company, who seemed to think it rather a joke, said he did, and hired me. When I asked my new colleagues how to write a dollars and cents amount in figures, they stopped being in awe of my English accent.

In England I would never have dreamed of knocking on doors like that. In Canada, I found it easy and natural to adopt the role of pioneer, eager to make a start in this new country.

The boardinghouse had few comforts and no place to socialize. So that first weekend, Colin bought an ancient Chevrolet from a dealership for one hundred dollars and we rented a cheap cottage by a lake. Everything in the minimally equipped kitchen, including the counters, was greasy to the touch. It took many, many kettles of boiling water to make us want to use anything.

Next weekend and all others until we left Kingston, we chose to camp, sleeping in the car and using our own minimal cooking equipment — for each of us a mug and bowl, a knife, fork and spoon, and a pie plate (the rim keeps eggs and bacon from sliding to the ground, when sitting on a log balancing the plate on our knees). We also needed a kettle and a frying pan, plus a gallon jug for drinking water. And a blanket for each of us for warmth at night. I stretched out on the front seat, Colin had the back. We didn’t know about federal and provincial parks, we just camped anywhere that didn’t seem to be private property. Old quarries were good, not much undergrowth to harbour mosquitos. It was all rather rough and ready, and we loved it — the first of a long line of camping weekends and holidays.

Mum relaxing after a job very well done.

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Land acknowledgement: I respectfully recognize that I live on the original lands of Anishinaabe, Cree, Oji-Cree, Dakota and Dene peoples, and on the homeland of the Métis Nation.