Five Years a Writer

“Are you Katy’s little sister?” “Are you related to Katy?” “You look just like Katy!” I heard these comments for much of my early life. It wasn’t until I spent a year in France after high school, on my own, no family with me or gone before me where I was staying, that I realized it was possible for me to be me without my older sister as reference point. That year, I stepped out of the shadow of comparison and came into my own. An associate of mine told me of a horrible experience she had had with a professional writer whose feedback to her on a short story was, “This is terrible writing. You may as well give up right now.” My associate put down her pen for several years before having the courage to once more pick it up, and it took more time still before she dared share her writing with anyone for feedback. When I was about 11, my French teacher was Monsieur Caillé . I loved him more for his red hair and beautifully groomed beard than I did for his classes, but when my best friend’s m...

I had returned the students’ assignments and was back at my desk at the front of the room awaiting their questions. What came, almost immediately, was a shriek from one student — one of the most promising students in this particular class: “You tore my work apart!” Ah. Oops. Yes. This is sometimes the reaction to feedback on writing that demands respect, to writing that is clearly going somewhere but hasn’t yet arrived. I talked with the student and persuaded him that my detailed comments were an indication of the quality and potential of his work. It took quite a bit of talking on my part, but he was, eventually, persuaded. In the long term, that writing helped him win an award. At the ceremony, he told me he had realized how valuable my feedback had been for him. I’ve been remembering this particular experience recently, because I have dived into the public pool of writing in two ways: my piece on Brevity Blog was published last week, and this week I’ve signed up for a month of writ...

Netball: like basketball, only harder No one would call me athletic these days, but in my middle school years in England, I loved to play sports: tennis, field hockey, and netball . I enjoyed the fun, the energetic running down the pitch or across the court with my teammates, and even the occasional victory in a match.  One time, my class was practising netball in advance of a competition and I was scoring lots of points, which means I was getting the ball into the hoop that does not have a backboard . My performance was good enough that the coach picked me to be the goal shooter in an upcoming match. This turned out to be unfortunate, as my performance during the competition did not match my scoring streak during practice. What might have been skill turned out to have been pure luck.  These days, my sport is writing, my moves are fingers on a keyboard, and my performance is more even. Unlike netball, which I abandoned after that school year, I have persevered with my writing,...

My mother and I were talking about the astonishing number of people who were queuing up to pay their final respects to Queen Elizabeth II, lying in state. During our conversation, Mum dropped the heretofore unknown to me fact that she had done the same thing when King George VI died. Below, she tells the story.  Witness to history  by Anne Le Rougetel Last week we were saying, “The Queen is dead! Long live the King!” In 1952 we said, “The King is dead! Long live the Queen!” Seventy years later,  from my current home in Canada, here is how I remember that time when I was living in England. My mother, stylish in the mid-50s. My father, equally so. In 1952, I was living in northern England, in a small town close to Liverpool. The morning of February 6th, I was standing in my kitchen. It was chilly and I was keeping count of the sacks of coal being delivered to our outside coal cellar. Suddenly the wireless program, which had been runni...

From my corner of the world this past week or so, I have witnessed raw grief, quiet sorrow, and naked ambition, and it has me contemplating the place of dignity in our life these days. The horrific mass stabbing on the James Smith Cree Nation in Saskatchewan brought raw grief to a whole community and those of us beyond. The death of Queen Elizabeth II brought quiet sorrow to her family, obviously, and to those in the world beyond who feel some connection to her as queen or as woman. The election of Pierre Poilievre as the newest leader of the Conservative Party of Canada brought joy to his supporters and trepidation to those of us leery of populist politicians. In his words and on his face during his acceptance speech, I heard and saw a naked ambition that will fuel his run to be Canada’s next Prime Minister. I know that colonialism seeded the violence on the James Smith Cree Nation. I know that the role of the monarchy in 21st century Canada needs to be considered and discussed. I kno...

It’s a steep climb down to the water, but it’s safe via the steps and the ramp, the grade notwithstanding. Much safer than the original staircase had been, rickety and rotten in places. It had been a brilliant idea to get rid of that contraption and replace it with the short staircase and longer ramp — an altogether easier engineering feat down the 20-or-so-foot cliff face to the lake. Once at the bottom, one arrives on the enormous rock that supports the swim ladder. Though it doesn’t sit true against the rock, it has not moved one inch in the decade-plus that we’ve been using it to get into the lake for swimming. That ladder is as if part of the rock: timeless, solid, reliable. Last summer, the lake was low (see photo) but this summer, the lake is high — so high, the top rung of the swim ladder is often under water, while last summer the very bottom rung was clear. Last summer, the swimming was not appealing, but this summer the dips into the lake for a refreshing cool-off have been...

Beginnings are exciting, though we don’t always know that that ‘first’ of whatever it is — that start — will evolve into something more: the beginning of…well, the beginning of whatever it is that continues on. So it was with my relationship with Val. Introduced by our mutual friend, Randa, I was immediately drawn to Val’s energy and spirit of adventure (she had been leading women on wilderness canoe trips for several years) — and her fiercely Scandinavian-red hair (see photo, from 1997). Among other things, I also liked her politics and her sense of humour. We were both encumbered by existing primary relationships, but that fact did not dampen the sparks that flew between us. Over the next few months, the realization dawned on me that the very unknown properties of a relationship with Val were more appealing to me than the very known parameters of my existing situation. But how to move? How to change? Then Val wrote me a letter professing her love and commitment, and I saw the future ...