Five Years a Writer

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, tho...

Beyond capacity Remember in May:   Those pin-neat rows go rogue in summer heat. Fine beauty in June. Come July, gay abundance.  Next up, chaos. By September, I look no more. Aficionado of the planning, I am caught by the glory of the seeds in January catalogues. The tilling and toil never mentioned. NOTE: We were late getting the tomatoes planted, so we are behind on the  harvesting date, too. It will likely be two or so more weeks until red-ripening happens... #patiencerequired NOTE: This prose poem was published on 50-Word Stories in early July. You can read it here , unillustrated.  ........................................... ................................................................... To receive my weekly blogpost in your inbox, email   fiveyearsawriter at gmail dot com .  Simply put SUBSCRIBE in the subject line.   Land acknowledgement:  I respectfully recognize that I live on the original lands of Anishinaabe, Cree, Oji...

I had no memory of where the white walrus had come from and couldn’t remember why I had it in the first place. It was only in conversation with my mother about the memoir she was drafting that its import came to light. My parents had married in England in 1951, then emigrated to Canada in 1953. One of Dad’s good friends in Montreal had ended up working on the DEW line in the Arctic and had brought the little soapstone carving back with him, having bought it directly from the sculptor up north. When Mum moved out of the family home after Dad died in 2015, I was given the walrus. Mum mentioned the walrus in a recent conversation with me and I laid my hands on it immediately, with enthusiasm. Now the walrus had meaning for me, for I knew its origin story within my family. In my view, that is what life writing or memoir writing is about: Working our way towards knowing and understanding the stories in our family and of our life. The stories I am learning via my mother’s memoir writing are...

Staining the deck that overlooks the lake Without fail, something needs doing. If it’s not the door that won’t latch, it’s the deck that needs staining, or the eavestroughs that need cleaning. The trick is to do the task while keeping one eye on the view. Whatever the work is here at Clifftop Cottage, the view is the reward.  Our home is in a just-off-city-centre neighbourhood, close-quartered to neighbours, so the expansive view across the lake at the cottage not only figuratively lowers my shoulders, it physically slows me down and opens me up. We are fortunate to have this place, and I am grateful for it.  I knew nothing of the “cottage lifestyle” when I moved to Manitoba in 1989. Growing up, my family had tent camped, which I enjoyed, and, in our early years together, Val and I did that, too, and we enjoyed it. Once, even, we bike camped our way around a trail in Riding Mountain National Park — all our gear and ourselves on two bikes. But, eventually, we decided to trade t...

I have never had a yearning to be a mother, but I have always loved caring for a cat, and I have written about the various felines I have owned been servant to over the years. Today, I offer a snapshot of what it’s like being at the cottage with our cat. It’s written from two perspectives, a technique I often use in the writing classes I co-teach to switch up the point of view as a way to gain a deeper understanding of a scene or situation. The setting is the same; the voice is different.   Bird-dogging the cat Patience. Space. Suspended time. Thoughts and reflection. Sometimes boredom. But always love and concern for the cat, and amusement at Holly, our cat. Her antics. Priorities. Proclivities. For long stretches, nothing but nothing but sitting and watching. And waiting. The both of us. Then. She pounces. Comes up with...nothing. Another day, that same pounce in a different spot produces a catch. My four-legged creature triumphs over that other four-legged creature. So it goe...

Many years ago, I wanted to do something different, so I taught myself to play the harmonica. It was a bit arduous and I didn’t get that far, although I managed a passable rendition of Jingle Bells. After performing the song for my long-suffering colleagues, I set the instrument aside and have not picked it up since.   Earlier still, I applied for a position as ‘policy analyst’ with the provincial women’s directorate. Though I didn’t really know what the job entailed, I thought the work would be a good fit for my communication skills and my politics, so I was pleased to get an interview. That pleasure evaporated in the face of questions about briefing ministers on complex matters and preparing contingency documents about hypothetical situations. I barely understood the questions, never mind was able to answer them; nonetheless, I was invited to complete the written portion of the assessment process. Those questions were equally opaque to me; after a valiant effort, I wrote a note s...

A very short story -- for fun, and as a caution to keep our wits about us at all times.  Also, it's another 'not accepted' submission of mine, and I am learning that re-purposing such pieces into my own distribution channels is a smart way to breathe life into my writing process.   SPLAT Esmé had lingered ten minutes longer than  she should have with the delightful Pierre.  Now she ran for the bus  to make the morning meeting.  Blind and deaf to the ambulance  racing down the street,  she crossed against the red.  Brakes shrieked.  Siren silenced.  The morning meeting  no longer mattered. ~~~ More and more writers are choosing to get their work out into the world by self-publishing their books or essays in e-formats of some kind. While once frowned upon as ‘vanity publishing’, this new approach to reaching readers is gaining traction. Articles abound about how to self-publish your book , the pros and cons of doing it...