Five Years a Writer

Amanda across the ages: about four; in my early 20s (hair!); and now, in my mid-sixties. During my university days, a roommate and I planned a party. We invited people to come over on a Friday evening to celebrate our new apartment. The time came, the place was ready, and we waited. And waited. No one showed up. No one. Not one person. While this hardly counts as trauma, it was disappointing and it scarred the party-planner in me. I’ve never wanted to repeat the experience of all that buildup and expectation followed by all that letdown. I have hosted the odd large-group gathering since then, but I have never been able to shake the spectre of that no-show Friday evening from so long ago. February is my birthday month, so that spectre is particularly vivid as I consider how to mark my birthday. Short story: There will be no party. The longer story is more complex. Living in this world, I am part of what goes on in it, however minuscule my impact on it, or contribution to it, might be. T...

Well, here we are, in the new tomorrow. Hard stuff going on   there always is These days   so much of it Wishes are easy   blow on the dandelion Resistance is hard alone is impossible Hands are warm two   by two by two But... How do you see them?  Use them?  Connect through them? Her hand Her hand fits nicely with mine, the perfect size one for the other’s,  but indoors only, never outdoors. The most natural act in the world  hand holding  is not natural to me, to us. This inhibition, this constraint dates me — us — as old,  as older dykes who lived — have always lived — in the shadows.  Bolder these days, we live beyond the shadows but do we hold each other’s hand outside? Beyond these walls? We could. (There are laws.) Do we want to? (There is acceptance.)  We might. (We know ourselves.)  Perhaps it takes more than knowing,  than being able to,  even after all these years,  to feel nat...

There is no executive order and sharpie signature for the arts.  There is only hard work and persistence  to create imaginative responses to the world in which we live.  That is why The Valiant Theatre crew is back with our second fundraising event  on Saturday February 8th -- an evening of eclectic local talent,  ranging from improv theatre to singer songwriters  and sitar players.  To me, it will all be new. But what will feel like coming home is the energy of the artists transporting the audience into an evening-long world where joy exists by  creating music and laughter, comedy and joy -- together.  UPDATE : We have raised just over $30,000 of the (minimum) $100,000 we need to bring 376 Logan Avenue back to life. We continue to do the hard work of trudging through City permits and engineer reports; oh, what artists must do to have a community place to perform! We are committed to checking off every last detail before opening the doors t...

Friday morning was dark and cold when I got up extra early, thanks to Holly, the cat, wanting a pre-dawn feeding. At almost seventeen years of age, she is not to be ignored when she yowls and I indulge her needs. I feed her, then make my first cup of tea and see what of interest might have landed in my email inbox overnight.   On this Friday morning, I was happy to see a link to a writing podcast that I often don’t make the time to listen to. The topic caught my attention as it is rare to hear anyone discuss it: the special place of handbooks in the writing and publishing world. Of particular interest to me as, a couple of summers ago, I drafted a handbook titled “How to be a Writer in Four Steps” that offers my best thoughts on how to establish a writing practice based on my own experience doing precisely that over the past few years. The manuscript currently sits at draft 14, in a 3-ring binder on my bookshelf. Maybe this podcast would inspire me to take it down and dust it off. ...

The other day, a friend asked me "What has it been like not having the cottage in the background of your mind in this first winter without it?"  I sat with the question, pondering, reflecting, considering. I was glad to have been asked as it caused me to think deeply on this matter, and now I wonder how universal my response is to a wrenching decision that was, I know, also the right decision.  Here's what I wrote in response to my friend's question:  The cottage is in the back of my mind, always. I think of it with longing and love, and also with relief and regret. All the time, all those feelings. Two opposite things can be equally true. I love that place — Clifftop Cottage, on the cliff overlooking Lake Winnipeg. I regret that we no longer own the cottage, but the deeper river of regret that runs through the memories and the longing is that Val and I are no longer young, we are no longer those two young wilderness women able and wanting to take on everything it mea...

December 31, 2024: Slow down… Many, many years ago, a new friend asked me what I did, and I replied, I am a writer. She laughed, right to my face, and said, But you don’t write! After a second of stunned silence, I realized she was right. I did ‘do’ writing at my job but outside of work I didn’t do much of it. Today, that exchange remains vivid in my mind for both its sharpness of tone and clarity of vision — not mine, but my friend’s. Her blunt statement shattered my self-delusion and, while it set me back, it also gave me a defined moment in time against which to respond and from which to build a different narrative. It’s taken several decades, but I am solidly there now. I no longer doubt my identity as Writer. The other day, after creating a collage that captures my intentions (~ resolutions) for the new year (see above), I went back through all the many collages I have created over the past six or so years. Many of them include encouragement and admonitions to write. Then, in May ...

I used to make a big deal about my one cup of brewed coffee in the morning. Grind the beans. Heat the cup. Measure out the coffee. Prepare the one-cup drip machine. Set the timer so I wouldn’t miss the coffee at its just-brewed finest. Add cream. Enjoy the full rich deep flavour. Ahhhhhh — now, that’s a good start to the day. Then, after a routine physical checkup, I got my cholesterol numbers back and realized I had to cut back on full-fat eating pleasures, including the 10% cream in my daily coffee. Every little bit helps. Val had already cut back on the full-force caffeine of home-ground beans, exchanging them for a half-and-half mix of instant coffee and a coffee substitute. So I, too, gave up the ground-bean bespoke daily drink with cream for an instant version with a French vanilla flavoured oat-milk creamer. Not so bad. More a coffee beverage than a cup of purist coffee, but satisfactory nonetheless — a whole lot less faff and zero fat. In the days before Covid, my mother would...