Under My Skin

Under My Skin

a deep dive into a

messy entanglement

semi-affectionate

and feudal devotion

counterbalanced with

pre-dawn escapism

pays a pittance in love

an extensive campaign

to shirk lasciviousness

for swoony romances

furthers the confusion

and demands dangerous

commitment to mockery

deliberately designed

it alphabetizes the body

disregards the assumptions

overruled by fugitive pieces

a long walk into a dark room is

a small cache of surprising finds

to exalt the ache and sting

of someone walking away

I’ve got you under my skin

**

A writing exercise has presented itself to me in the past 24 hours. I am happy to report that I am about halfway there. The first draft at least. I've been pecking at it since finishing this romantic little verse this morning. Just something to stretch my creative muscles. 

I'm quite excited about my current undertaking and hope it turns out as nifty as I imagine it will. 

Can't wait to share!

In propinquity,
Nic

Prettiest Peony

Prettiest Peony

it is arduous to conceive

the prettiest peony shares

its light iridescent name

with a flashy French actress

an expert self-mythologizer

the same protean character

who accessorized with dead bats

traveled with her own private coffin

and a champagne-eating alligator

the prettiest peony resembles an

old-fashioned apple blossom rose

soft ruffled petals edges a trifle lighter

heirloom double pink heaving blooms

often freckled with sprays of carmine red

adorned with handsome deep green

foliage and a fully poised stem

gracing sunny gardens and elegant vases

the prettiest peony is not childishly egotistical

wouldn’t dare bully its coterie of lovers

or scratch the nerves of its affectionate recipient

Sarah Bernhardt with her counterfeit speech

eccentric consumptive appearance tinted

with an evident inability to obey all the rules

lavishly lends her name to the prettiest peony

a courageous perennial not a sterling biography yet

captures her stirring vitality to incite an admirer

that two such opposites should collide

is the greatest conundrum

**

I love peonies. I think they are beautiful. I discovered that one of the prettiest peonies was named after an infamous female and found the contrast striking. Enough that I put my lazy pen to paper and dared to write about it. I’m not sure I’m satisfied with it yet. I am certain there will be some tweaking at a later date but it is fun to read aloud and for the imagery to come alive in my mind.

I’ve been pecking at this for about a week or so, in between fits and starts with my current short story (whose main character still remains nameless). It’s not perfect but it’s pernicious in a sense. The real human Sarah Bernhardt was a fascinating female figure who defied all reason in a male-driven era. Her legacy and the flower don’t really have anything in common other than the name. Maybe because they often refer to the flower as fragrant and showy? Likely.

That’s all for today, folks. Sun is setting and I’ve still got to prepare my lunch for the old 9 to 5 tomorrow. Oh, but the weekend looms …

In propinquity,

Nic                                                                                                                                      

In Limbo

In Limbo

there are extenuating circumstances

palliative conditions not felt by anyone else

like unreciprocated desire for example

it culls stormy weather in the radical middle

of profound sadness and the lightness of contentment

I cannot seem to find the trajectory of my dented pattern

the impatience of having to wait for someone to endow

the impaired notions of memorizing romantic proverbs

for luck

why can I not enjoy the pleasant feeling of oneness, harmony

why can I not put this particular melancholy into wistful words

and accrue eager detractors with the lure of licentiousness

but we all know extravagances wane quickly in the glint of morning

I am sojourned in limbo waiting for a sovereign man

I am abided by minted annulment anticipating love

**

I had some time to play with words today.  I finished this little mess of a poem. I would reveal my inspiration but then it might ruin your interpretation.  It comes from a deeply personal place and for some reason I had reservations about sharing it.  Sometimes, what goes into a poem can make me feel insecure when it should be empowering.  It does empower and help to release the stress of a dilemma once I let it go and share it, put it into the ether.  So, that's what I've set to do today.

I am still working relentlessly on a pile of notes for my short story.  I cannot seem to get my act together, get out of my own way long enough to get anything done.  Perhaps once the renos at home are complete and my writing space is my own again and not cluttered with the downstairs mess I will be able to focus and carry on.

Fingers crossed.

Until then, one day left of the work week and I can cap the week off with a show at The Marquee with my buds.  Deertick, Adam Baldwin and Jessie Brown. I'm looking forward to a little rock to relax me.

In propinquity,

Nic

Preposterous, but delightful …

Preposterous, but delightful …

be eloquent, your true imaginary best

procrastinate, pen the perfect sentence late

be essential, collect a slew quantifiable accolades

adjourn, to muse on the publish or perish superlative

be cagey, reveal your sensibilities on third impression

intend, smile and perform tongue twisters in silence

do not be haunted by looming long shadows

do not be frightened of staggering contradictions

do not be repetitive, snappy or sound phony

be superstitious, about hubris and about hilarity

position, be coolly deliberate and be elegant in clarity

be contradictory, situate yourself aesthetically on the verge

sustain, selfishly replete with outstanding inventive narratives

do not be a clichéd carbon copy

be preposterous, but delightful

**

I haven’t been writing much these days but that doesn’t mean that something isn’t brewing.  I have a folder as thick as my head full of notes and snippets of conversations, thoughts and descriptions for my pending story.  Yes, I did write the first page or so that I’ve since added and subtracted to but I’m still uncertain on exactly how to proceed.  In the meantime, I’ve accumulated a stack of material that is begging to be molded into a story.  The characters are full figured (fictionally of course) and active but I’m being cautious instead of anxious.  I like these women, new female characters, creative people (yes again, I know) and I want to do them justice; funny that I ended up writing a poem about one of them today.  The title is almost how I feel about her (Tilda).  She is indeed preposterous but delightful.  This poem is a nod her and my gratitude for her presence in my imagination and whispering to me.  I can’t wait to share her story.

I know it’s only a wee update but the poem perked me up today and I wanted to share.

In propinquity,

Nic

If I Should Fall Behind

I have been unusually neglectful of The Paper Teapot of late.  My work life, private life and sleep deprivation are preventing me from being my best self, my creative self.  I even sat down the other night with a glass of wine and attempted to write a poem that has been nagging me since I was in the thick of the crowd at the Blue Rodeo concert (which was amazing!).  I tried working it out and ended up writing another new poem that reading it back now I see is absolute trash.  It seems I have lost my groove again.  Darn.  The timing couldn’t be worse with two characters waiting in the wings.  They aren’t talking to me I think because I am not fully present and am instead distracted by those pesky things called numbers and details and worry for a family member.  I haven’t been sleeping well but I do try keep busy and productive in other ways even though I’m not creating: reading, letter/postcard writing/concerts/artist dates.

I have some things to do today but later my goal is to reconstruct the sucky poem to make it something worth posting.  I was successful in acquiring some new stationary that is fun and I can’t wait to use it all up so there’s an excuse to go buy more.  I found Duly Noted again after they moved from Quinpool Road downtown to Brenton Street.  That is a good thing!  I also bought a new pen and it was used on a giant pile of mail anxiously awaiting the mail man tomorrow.  It was a peaceful thing, amassing that pile, destined for a few special mailboxes.

Friday night I ended a rather long work week with an excellent triple bill of rock ‘n’ roll at the Seahorse Tavern:  The Navy Brats, Adam Baldwin Band and Gloryhound.  I was content to be in the underground, sweating out the week’s toxins with a gaggle of rock-heads.  My ears were happy to be full of noise other than ringing phones and my self-loathing while trying dearly not to make mistakes while learning new tasks.  The Navy Brats in particular were outstanding.  Organic, from the gut, honest rock fodder.  I loved them and will keep my eyes open for any future shows to attend.  I really loved watching Adam Baldwin whip the crowd into shape with his set.  I also loved looking around and watching faces in the crowd belting out the lyrics of his original material that can be found on his recently released ep.  And then there was Gloryhoud, back home after working on their new record on the west coast.  We are always happy to have them home to rock us and they never disappoint.  I fell into my bed content and filled up with the goodness that comes from a solid rock event.  Music is a good healer.

Oh and I almost forgot.  I ordered myself some fun business-like cards for writing last night.  My uber talented photographer friend Shelley Wyman (be sure to google her and peek at her work) posted on Facebook about her order and hers were stunning.  She designed her own but I opted for a design that was available on the site for my first try and will work on something else for the next time.  I ordered a pack of 50 with a few different designs.  They contain my contact info and blog website.  You know they do come in handy when you meet someone who is also an artist.  It happened to me one night when I was at The Carleton.  I got talking to someone at the bar and either of us had anything appropriate to swap and instead wrote website addresses on bar napkins.  This will rectify that issue.  I thought about it then, making business-like cards and Shelley’s post kicked my arse to get ‘er done.  Now I wait patiently for my order to arrive in the mail.  Pleased as punch and look forward to seeing them.

I have blogs to catch up on, a poem to fix and a new story to write plus a handwritten review for Ruthie since she sent me a copy of her latest work.  I look forward to tucking in and offering my thoughts much like she did with Town & Country.  I felt so proud of my efforts on that story after reading her response.  I am happy the work resonated and I also love that my circle are seeing themselves in the women I wrote about.  They grew upward from the love, influence and impact my friends have on me.  Friends are electric and should be celebrated, the true friends that find their way to you.  They are the reason magic exists and that is worth putting into words.  Even if it is through the worlds and wisdoms of fictional characters. 

Coffee is gone, CD has long since ended.  Time for me to face this Sunday and make it matter.

In propinquity,

Nic

There isn't always an explanation for everything ...

Now that I am finished ‘Town & Country’ (the writing part of it anyway), I have started paying attention to the rumblings of some new characters of the male persuasion, Alf Minor and Joshua Fox.  There are other faces also appearing but I am taking the time to pay attention to Alf and Josh’s whispers first.  I’ve been listening to them actively.  Alf woke me from my sleep last night to tell me a few things so I’ve tonight I plugged my headphones in, turned on some old music and started surfing and researching some of the things that will take their story to the next phase, the actual meat and potatoes, the writing.

Alf is the older of the two characters but I can’t tell if this is his story or Josh’s tale.  They are both vying for my attention and so I need to be certain as to which angle I take.  It has to be the right one to stay true to the story they want to tell me so I can re-tell it to you.  I have a feeling it’ll take some time to sort out but I have nothing but so I’m good to go.  And, now that I have the proper tools for my craft, I can be as prolific or as relaxed as I want to be.  The forecast for this coming Saturday is rainy, so guess what I’ll be doing during the day?  You guessed it, creating!

This Sunday I have a special artist date planned for myself, a play.  I’m going to see ‘Having Hope At Home’ at Neptune Theatre.  John Dunsworth, widely known as Mr. Lahey on Trailer Park Boys is among the cast.  I’m really excited to take my seat in the balcony and get lost in it.  Nothing more amazing than a story playing out live and in person, right in front of you.  It’s truly amazing.  I’ve also got a week before I get to see Blue Rodeo live.  It feels like it’s becoming a tradition to see them in the cold winter months.  Our seats for this show are incredible.  On the floor, in front of the stage, only a few rows back.  The following night I’ll be off to see Wintersleep at The Marquee.  What a busy weekend that’ll be!  And, then it’s Vince Neil and Platinum Blonde.  My 2014 is off to a great start when it comes to live shows, theatre and music.  Those experiences will all build my confidence and my passion for writing, sounds corny but it really does.  The energy, the lights, the action, the sweaty crowds – they feed me, make feel whole and alive.  Some people feel zen when they do yoga or make smoothies, I am zen, right in the core of my being, when I’m present at a show, watching artists make history and add to the soundtrack and chapters of my life, fuel me, so that I may be able to come sit here at this table and bang out a story.  It’s all full circle.

So yeah, Alf and Joshua are next.  It’s brewing, percolating, forming into something I will eventually be able to share with you.  And, if I haven’t mentioned it yet, the working title: ‘Elder Hemingway’.  That’s all I’m giving up so watch this space!

Must retire to my boudoir and drink red wine.  That’s what you’re supposed to do on Thursday night, right?

In propinquity,

Nic

Saturday Solace

So, here I am in my neighborhood Starbucks.  I am drinking coffee, writing on my laptop and feeling the weight of the world separating from my psyche.  This day, a grey Saturday, is vital for re-energizing my creative spirit.  I am moments away from finishing the first draft of my epistolary tale (still struggling to title the beast) and I am both elated and terrified.  It is the first piece of prose that I have ever finished that is over ten pages.  It clocks in at thirty one.  I’ve been working on it so long I feel like I need eyes so I’ve enlisted a friendly reader for a test run, someone whose opinion I trust.  I think sharing this monster will be helpful, to see what I’ve missed and what I should omit.

It took a long time to realize the story’s ending.  And, when it revealed itself I was quite taken aback.  I hadn’t expected that kind of ending but alas it is not my story it is Imelda and Brucha’s tale and I have to be true to their days.  But, the burning question STILL remains, what the blazes is this story called?!  It will come, it always does but I am so used to writing with something that is already titled.  This is something new for me.  I already have the title for my next piece so you can see why this is such a conundrum.

This whole life with a laptop thing is most excellent.  I bought a travel bag for my goods last night, something shiny, red and swanky.  In addition to the freedom it brings from being chained to a desk, it allows me to be outwardly inspired because I can write in coffee shops and wherever the wind blows me. 

I think I may try my first ever fish taco today before I venture home.  It’ll give me more time to muse on a title and today is one of those days where something new is just what the doctor ordered.  It’s been a long week of work and worry and restless nights so I am taking comfort in the little things, the creative things and new tastes, experiences and not missing the moments.  I may even dance tonight.  We shall see.

In propinquity,

Nic

From the Desk of a Blocked Writer

Uh oh.

I had the best of intentions to write after work last night.  I wanted to write.  I arrived home, ate a quick meal of Sunday leftovers, curry and naan bread, threw on my jammies with fuzzy slippers and fired up the computer.  I plunked my notes and the pages of ‘Burden’ on my desk to continue on.  In all of that aspiration, I spent a full hour gazing at a blank screen, mocked by the slow blinking cursor.  Admittedly, ‘Burden’ is a slow moving train and I’m really still listening to the sisters for the crux of the story, of why they appointed me to tell it.  Certainly there is a purpose, as with every story, the characters want and/or need something.  

I am six pages into their lives.  It wavers back and forth between the present and the past to highlight the behaviours and believes of each woman.  I think.  I hope.  Honestly, I am having a bit of trouble tapping into Judy’s personality because at first she’s such an asshole for lack of a better word.  It’s hard for me to write her meanness, her lack of humanity and her coldness.  I accept the challenge of course and understand it comes from somewhere but I’m still waiting to hear.  As for Helen, she’s endured a lot growing up alongside Judy and so she’s coming from a completely different perspective.  I feel myself on her side and I need to straighten out and be objective and be fair to my characters.  Not favor one over the other and I feel like Helen is soaking up my empathy at a rapid pace and I’m saving my disdain for Judy. 

Maybe this is why I hit a brick wall last night.  I tried to work out the block, determining whether or not it was just because I was tired from a long haul at the day job, or if my desk is too cluttered, or maybe it’s just my noodle is messy.  Whatever it is that caused me to fall flat on my face, hindered my creativity for a whole night.  I worry it will spill into today too.  I’ve been writing steady for a long time and it was actually painful to be mute, to be without one single thought or flash or note scribbled.  I tried music and pacing, I tried reading my pages aloud, and nothing.  Finally I closed up shop, watched a bit of TV and allowed myself to breathe.  I glanced once more at the pages when I crawled in bed but I didn’t want to jinx myself, get a sudden burst of thoughts and disrupt the night’s sleep I desperately needed.  So, I tucked into Elspeth’s book, her self-published gem, ‘Sole’.  I am grateful to her vivid characters for making me forget my writer’s ache and entertaining me to the point that even when my eyes were heavy and close to sleep I was still squinting to read.

I don’t expect a lot to happen writing wise today but I think I’ll continue to fill the well and see what happens.  I have Zumba after work so perhaps the hip shaking exercise will loosen some of the resistance.  Tomorrow evening I am attending the book launch for ‘Fallsy Downsies’ by Stephanie Domet at The Carleton.  I finished it yesterday on my commute home.  I savored the pages to extend my time in the story because I loved it so much.  If you’re looking for a good read, buy the book and meet Lansing Meadows, follow his tour.  I am hoping the launch and reading will further inspire me and help me get back on track with ‘Burden’.  Right now, I feel like it’s a big old mess.  But, I’ve been here before and I’ve come out the other side in one piece, overcoming obstacles and achieving some sort of success in the name of finishing something. 

I hope my uh oh turns into a yee haw soon.

In propinquity,

Nic

Look At Us

Look At Us

you saved my life

one evening beneath the stars

no signs to guide us

just your clever words

your confidence

keeps balance in the world

I am again with you today

saving your life in the sun

with the lure of writing

opening up before us

the wide expanse of the sea

the broad flight above the bay

between earth and cloud

between space and wet sand

we are right to marvel

we are right to travel

forward

together

look at us

look at you

look at me

our voices loud and laughing

sailing off beyond a mast of trees

mapping out colors with wings

skimming the tops of our heads

by some saving grace of heart

of starry nights and sunny morns

our presence upon this surface

faces the glory of light in which

we are made

**

My wonderful writer friend Haley will probably kill me for posting this but I found it today and feel like it needs to be shared.  She and I did a writing exercise based on the enclosed photo and mine came to me poem form.

I am working on 'Burden' and this sort of melted my heart thinking of my characters and their circumstances. It seems as fitting as it does opposing.  Eventually that will make sense, as in, when my story is complete.

I hope she will forgive me, after all, I'm pretty cute.

In propinquity,

Nic

Too Much Happiness

Too much happiness, it’s an Alice Munroe title but it’s also been the global reaction to one of Canada’s most esteemed writer’s Nobel Prize win for Literature.  It’s especially happy news for women writers, for Canadian literature and in particular, the short story format – which Munroe excels and has also re-invented with her indelible command of the English language and her propensity for building unforgettable characters.   It is exciting news for me; I am Canadian, a woman writer and someone who has been working hard to be good at short story writing.  I don’t know how far I’ve come in that goal but it’s a blessing just trying.  It’s also a joy to see someone as treasured as Alice Munroe acknowledged for her stunning work, for her dedication to a craft I respect and love.

I read a fantastic interview with Ann Close, Munroe’s editor since the late 1970s and she said some wonderful things that struck me.  On Alice’s work she said: “Her work as the quality of making you think she’s just writing for you.  It’s fiction written from the inside.”  And this:  “Alice writes about the smaller parts of growing up, or marriage, or you’re leaving somebody.  She often gets things people don’t often write about.”  Such lovely things to say about an incredible woman and writer.  High compliments.

One other thing that seeped in while reading her interview was a comment she made about writing.  She said this:  “If you aren’t writing something you really care about, it won’t work.”  She is absolutely right.  I’ve been thinking about that statement, going back over my previous stories and applying that premise.  It’s true and I realize the reason that I finished any of them was because I was writing about subjects and for characters that I cared for deeply.  And they worked.  So, next time I am wondering why something isn’t panning out, I’ll keep that tiny assessment in the back of my noodle and apply it.  And, I can’t remember who said it so I’ll paraphrase and agree that when you read Munroe’s work, she seemingly goes anywhere she wants and we go with her.  I love that ideal, of a storyteller having free reign to take you anywhere they want to go and a reader willingly follows.  That’s symmetry, chemistry, literary fate. 

I regret not posting about this sooner but I’m having internet issues at home and would rather spend my writing time working on original work.

In terms of what I’m writing right now, ‘Burden’ has me perplexed but in a challenging and positive way.  I’m about five pages in and I have absolutely no idea where it’s going but I’m taking it all in stride.  Judy and Helen, sisters, are such different creatures, such opposing personalities and complexities.  The story is told from Helen’s point of view but I wonder how different it would be told from Judy’s, who is the contentious sister.  I am too deep now to change the voice and Helen is the one who asked me to translate but the devil’s advocate in me wonders.  It’s taken some interesting avenues and thrown me into places I’ve never been before emotionally and these women have also taught me a few things thus far.  That’s a good thing.

For now, I am putting my literary fate in Helen’s hands and have agreed to go anywhere she wants to go.   Seems that little notion works both ways.  Hmm …

In propinquity,

Nic

Steinbeck Wisdom & Other Meanderings

I was afraid to fall asleep last night and because I was I had a wicked restless night and was ornery when my 6am alarm sounded.  See, I was all set to wade my way through three stories that have been waiting in the wings AFTER Rudy’s was completed.  I started doing some work with Ruth Moody and that seemed to be going well and I was also making good notes for ‘Other Pearls’ but then I fell asleep Sunday night and that’s when things went sideways.  When I woke up Monday morning, story number four was present; it came in the form of a dream.  I was washing my hair and there they were plain as day in the front of my mind, the two sisters and their story.  The crux: one sister’s burden is the other sister’s blessing.  I don’t want to give anything else away or it would detract from the impact of the read.  The working title is ‘Burden’ and while there are three main characters, it is told from Judy’s voice, the sister who receives the blessing from Helen’s burden.  I won’t disclose information about the third character but she is what represents the burden/blessing. 

It is exciting to embark on this new journey, into a new world, getting to know new people and what motivates them.  I think part of my being overwhelmed is knowing that I will be soon training to move up and take on new responsibilities at work while my co-worker goes on maternity leave and I’m trying desperately to use the time wisely before I go deep into the left side of my brain.  Part of me is afraid I’ll have little time and/or energy for creative pursuits but I think once I am trained and settle into a routine I’ll bounce right back.  That’s my hope.  In the meantime, I have four new stories to write and I am starting with one that will likely pack an emotional punch.

Who knows, maybe once I’m finished these four, I’ll start going back through the ones I’ve written, edit them and maybe look into submitting them somewhere.  I may need an editor though.  That’ll be an undertaking.

It’s raining sideways today.  It’s grey, gloomy and there’s risk of getting caught in a swirl of autumn leaves. I’m content to be inside working, with cozy socks under my desk and green tea in my cup.  There’s also a bowl of Halloween goodies on my desk I brought in for everyone.  Since I have Zumba tonight and I’m generally trying to do better, I’ll work hard at resisting the sugar.  And in all of that, I’ll be hanging out in my noodle with the sisters.  Listening.  Observing.  Taking notes.

In propinquity,

Nic

On Writing 'Too Much To Contain'

One of the things I’ve learned through writing prose all these months is that it is true what they say, that writing is very likened to a muscle.  The more you exercise it, the stronger it becomes.  Meaning, the more you write, the better you become.  I don’t know if I’m better exactly but I’m firming up in my understanding of how to listen to my characters and to plot out their stories, arrange the words into something beautiful, cohesive and pleasing first for them, then myself and then friendly readers.  This current story is anything but beautiful, empty of pleasure and reaches a grim conclusion.  It’s new, difficult territory for me but it was the story I was told so it is the story I will share.

The psychology and tactics of ‘Too Much To Contain’ boil down to human atrocity.  By nature, I have a champion’s compassion for all things living, but this current antagonist threw me for a violent loop.  The basic aspects of creating good, strong characters is to make them feel like a real living breathing human being instead of a list of attributes etc.   In this case, I fleshed out a monster and allowed the decisions he made he his own instead of censoring it for a more feel-gooder.  The germ of the story came in a dream, the crux of the story, a flash of a chaos that scared me so badly I had no choice but to write it down. 

There is a silver lining, a blessing.  As I started to write, I discovered it was more my protagonist’s story than the evil culprit.  In saying that, I was somewhat relieved to know I didn’t have to dig as far into his twisted psyche as I originally dreaded.  Don’t get me wrong, I had to spell out the whole terrifying scene and it chilled me right to my bones but not having to write it from his perspective made it manageable.  I fear some might see it as a cop out but it’s essentially how the story was delivered to me, it’s my job to relay it.  I’m grateful, I ain’t gonna lie.

I’m almost finished the actually story.  I have a few scenes left to write and some housekeeping to do.  I’m writing everything entirely out of sequence so it’s again like assembling a jigsaw puzzle.  I initially challenged myself too to write song lyrics but I’m not sure that’ll happen or if they are needed, maybe.  I’m still looking for a fitting ending, one that won’t have people hurling stones at me for making them say, “That’s it!?’  It really isn’t that kind of story.  I hope to find a way to end a mournful story on a positive note.  That’s the optimist in me, you know?

David Bowie’s ‘Cat People’ has been on constant repeat while I’ve been writing this one.  Fever Ray’s ‘If I Had A Heart’ and Placebo’s cover of Kate Bush’s ‘Running Up That Hill’ have also been useful.  To get in the proper frame of mind to write violence, I queued up a big Marilyn Manson playlist peppered with a few other songs fellow writer and confidant Kiersten Bree Johnston has been using for inspiration in writing something especially dark.  These musical tools have been life-savers, pardon the pun, they have really helped me through the struggle of facing the big bad.  I just hope the finished product resonates.  It was an absolute exercise of will and courage, writing this story and for some you might read it ago think I’m a cry baby but believe you me, it took everything in me to compile.  I look forward to what my critics have to say.  Eeek!

Question, who turned off the summer heat?  I no likey.  Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming.

In propinquity,

Nic

Words Fallsy Downsies in 1982

Word On The Street was FANTASTIC!  What a gorgeous day I had wandering around the Halifax waterfront, mingling with gentle souls, drinking coffee, fondling and buying books, enjoying everything literary.  I also took in two dazzling author readings by Halifax’s Stephanie Domet and the infallible Jian Ghomeshi .

Stephanie Domet engaged us with an animated reading from her impressive and forthcoming novel “Fallsy Downsies”.  I am currently reading her first novel entitled “Homing” and I am deeply in love with her writing style and her storytelling skills.  She has a fresh, vibrant voice and I admire her passion for her craft.  I’ve been reading her work for years, when she wrote for The Coast and am enjoying her creative writing.  It is evident from her characters, her story structure and themes that she pays careful attention and applies a great deal of love to the pressure of her pen.  She will be launching “Fallsy Downsies” on October 23^rd at 6:30pm at The Carleton, I look forward to buying a copy and having the chance to say hello.

Stephanie also had the pleasure of introducing Jian Ghomeshi who was this year’s headliner in the CBC More Than Words tent, set to read from his chart topping, recently released in trade paperback, creative non-fiction effort called “1982”.  I finished reading it on Friday so I would be primed for this engagement and it made his reading that much more compelling.

“1982” is a heartfelt account of an Iranian-Canadian teen, obsessed with Bowie, in love with an older girl, a music obsessed New Waver coming of age in the 1980s.  The universal themes of the book are noted as the triumphs of outsiders and a love for music.  What kid didn’t feel like they totally didn’t fit in in high school?  What kid didn’t fall in love with someone they thought was cool and perhaps out of their league?   I identified with some of the emotions and insecurities he shared but most of all I shared his passion for music.  In the book he talks about how when he was a kid, to go and buy music was such a labor of love.  These days, when you like a song, you can click a button and it is yours.  In the 80s, it was literally a pilgrimage.  He describes the long journeys to acquire a record and that story choked me up because I saw myself in it, climbing on a bus in Eastern Passage to make my way to Barrington Street to Sam The Record Man.  Entering the store was just like heaven, multiple floors worth.  If you wanted music then, you had no choice but to travel for it.  And believe me; you had to love what you were in pursuit for to make that trip.  Just like Jian and his pal, I would buy my record, get back on the bus, devour the liner notes and memorize every last inch of the artwork before I even got back to my stereo to listen.  When he talked about this portion of the book yesterday, I filled up again, with nostalgia, with gratitude that I was fortunate enough to live at a time when music was exciting and sacred and sad for the kids that came up after me who will never understand the impending joy of such a jaunt.

Jian Ghomeshi is described as polite and inclusive as an interviewer but the same can be said for his presenting style.  He spoke to an ardent audience yesterday, enjoying a harmonious exchange inspiring a great deal of laughter, introspection and an all-around feel-good atmosphere.  Jian is dedicated to his work, a proud Canadian and a humanist through and through.  He is also six times more beautiful in person than he is on TV.  He lifted hearts yesterday, tickled funny bones and made everyone’s day he came in contact with.  Not a bad day’s work, eh?  I absentmindedly left my copy of the book on my nightstand so I had him sign the back cover of my writing book instead, the book I bought for myself at the Leonard Cohen show.  I apologized for forgetting but thought since it was the year of encountering all of my favorite Canadians, it seemed fitting to have him sign something Cohen.  I also expressed to him the same as I did here, about how that passage of his book moved me to tears thinking about my former self.  It seemed to touch him but I am sure he hears that often and it must feel good to know he has put something into the world that isn’t only universal but emotionally monumental to like-minded people like me.

(You can see the top of my head!)

It was a perfect day.  I hated for it to end but the feeling of contentment and peace lingers. 

On the writing front, I’m knee deep into ‘Too Much To Contain’.  I took myself out for a bit of an artist date on Saturday and worked out some details and wrote them out later that night in my writing room complete with the music that I need to fuel the difficult range of emotions required.  That is still proving to be a challenge for me.  My heart tends to be too big and soft to conjure acts of violence on the page.  I am trying.

                             

I am back to the grind today, working for the man.  The weekend already feels like it is a million miles away but my heart is still full.  I love that feeling.

In propinquity,

Nic

Page 51

I decided to do a writing prompt today since it’s been a full day that I wrote the first 1001 words of ‘Too Much To Contain’.  I was busy yesterday at work and then went straight home to get ready for the first my first Zumba class of the fall session.  For the next 11 weeks, that will be my Tuesday night.  I did also stay up last night for the first episode of Sons of Anarchy but midnight is too late for this gal to stay up on a work night.  DVR will be it from now on.  

Today’s prompt was to take the closest book to you, turn to page 51 and make the first sentence your first line.  The closest book to me was ‘The Best of American Poetry 1988-1997’.  I turned to page 51 and found myself in the middle of a poem called ‘Garbage’ by A.R. Ammons, the line:  in your end is my beginning.

Here’s what I wrote (in poem form, again):

Page 51

in your end is my beginning

the sway of your wide-spread panic

a catalyst to compose my courageous soul

a Heartslave no more to an artless saboteur

unobstructed by the confines of strict margins

in your end is my beginning

a grave and liberating righteousness

sweet shock of escaping a miserable condition

to proceed from nowhere is an unnamable light

to advance without apprehension is peace

in your end is my beginning

in my beginning you end

**

That’s what ten minutes gave me today and while writing that I got a flash as how to begin writing the last scene of my story.  Crazy how that happens.

Back to work.  Back to scribbling.

And, on this anniversary of 9/11, remember to remember.  Remember to love and be peaceful.   Remember to be gracious and kind.  Remember those gone too soon and those left behind to mourn.

In propinquity,

Nic

Woman Troubadour

Woman Troubadour

she has been accredited

with many miracles

woman troubadour/articulate activist

a champion of narrative poems

on the subject of love & adventure

devoted herself to nursing broken hearts

never afraid to contract beauty from loved ones

woman troubadour/delicate hand-writer

watches the sun wind down

while the rest of us nest tentatively

the chorus of shared friendships

give way to a wide open margin

mutual sentences of loneliness & poverty

navigating the blueprints on pure instinct

woman troubadour/crowned felicity

never deceived

never betrayed

kindness & courtesy make every impression

on her remarkably advanced reasons to grieve

to know nothing of heart’s cold draught

is to single out the meaning of indifferent wind

woman troubadour/frequent flier

conquering faces by diminishing belongings

the beautiful multitude of singing in silence

your city expired in a war fought for justice

a woman with the fragrance of redemption in her hands

her message & the sky lowered

her expression & the ground swelled

milks tenderness dry

wrinkles the embers

do not cling to her button-down neckline

do not caress the complications of moonlight

woman troubadour

melodious matron

lives vicarious

through your tears

breathes miraculous

into your fears

with every intention to escape with a song

she grows too fierce employing impractical instruments

**

I kicked back into gear with ‘Large-Hearted’ yesterday and again today while it is slow at work.  Writing two stories in one has proven to be a challenge and I’m not exactly pleased with one of them.  I love the bulk of the whole story but the secondary tale has me at odds with word play.  I can’t seem to get it to flow the way I want it to.  I know what it is I want but it’s coming out like a big pile of dung. Gah!  I will continue to press on.  One word, one sentence at a time, right?

I finished this poem this morning after seeing a tweet by Carmen Townsend last night.  She shared a you-tube video of Patsy Cline’s ‘Walking After Midnight’ and it made me recall this one week where I was afforded a string of days where I was home alone.  I carted the stereo down into the kitchen along with a stack of CDs, my writing gear and a cookbook.  For one blissfully solitary stretch, I wrote and baked perfect apple pies from scratch and sang along with my musical friends at the top of my lungs, something I don’t do often because I’m not known to carry much of a tune.  But, it was peaceful.  I spent time with Joni Mitchell, Diana Krall, Tracy Chapman, Norah Jones, Ricki Lee Jones, Courtney Love, Stevie Nicks and Patsy Cline.  I think of that time fondly as I could easily spend my days that way, squirreled away with the company of music, Muses and confectionary delights.  I don’t mind being alone until the well needs to be re-filled.  In the spirit of my soulful sisters, songstress angels, poetess influences I wrote ‘Woman Troubadour’.  It reflects the spirit, strength, courage and wealth of all creative women and the gifts they give and their brave hearts.  

I tweeted in reply to Carmen that I often hum ‘Walking After Midnight’ and she then said it was attached to fond memories of her Mama.  I love how music does that, for women, for the world.  It’s powerful.  Wonderful.

Back to working on my story until it’s time for my afternoon commute where I’ll get lost in my book while singing a pretty tune under my breath.

In propinquity,

Nic

How To Write Good

I saw this the other day and saved it to share here.  After reading, 'avoid alliteration always' I busted a gut and couldn't stop. I'm still plugging away at my projects and writing poems while managing daily life and other sundry affairs.  I keep conjuring up humorous tidbits to throw in 'Other Pearls' (which is Binnie Blessing's story and partly my story).  They are adding up but the trick will be fitting them in their proper place.  I am still a little unnerved by the fact that I'm not writing pages of story and still jotting but I'm still being creative, thinking and feeling, listening and observing.  Those things still count.  I've also been blessed with another bit of Ruthie's prose to read.  I hope to find time this weekend for reading that and doing some serious writing.  Oh, and I still haven't tried the haiku I threatened to write.  Maybe I'll do that tonight.  

Short and sweet today.  Like me.  Be good.

In propinquity,

Nic

More Ideas Than Time

You know that saying, 'when it rains it pours'?  It applies to my current creative situation.  I've mentioned before that half way through writing 'Large-Hearted' came to a sudden stop.  Then, while fretting over looming writer's block, I culled a new story idea from a dream I had.  Afraid to write it out though.  It's heavy and it scares me.  The visuals are frightening.  All the more reason to commit to paper, right?  May be small potatoes to some who will read it but to me, because of the subject matter and setting, it's bone-chilling.  And THEN, while falling asleep the other night I met a NEW character who spoke up, wanting her story to be told.  I went from being barren to bonkers, zero to sixty, no time flat.  I mean yikes!  Help me, Rhonda!

Long week this week.  I had to come home today and throw on my sneakers, grab my music and go for a long sweaty walk to blow off some steam, just to be quiet, just to breathe.  It served me well.  I arrived back to my door calmer, with a bottle of wine in hand and my gratitude for the weekend fully intact.  My kitty is curled up at my feet, Gord Downie is crooning it's been a long time running from my speakers, I have a glass of wine and the window open watching the sun set behind the clouds.  I hope to write a little bit but it's weird because I keep waffling back and forth between them, writing bits and bobs on each one.  I'm certain I'll loose my marbles.  You wait and see.  I did spend some time yesterday reading essays by Ray Bradbury about the creative process.  That also doesn't help because I want everything to be written  YESTERDAY.  I swear, I need a writer's retreat.  A month in a small cottage with a computer, a cellar full of wine, cupboard full of tea and a bowl full of fresh fruit.  Add a deep bathtub, a cozy bed and a necessary but modest library of books, writing essentials and music and I would write you the world.  My dreams are lofty but isn't that what dreams are supposed to be?  I think so.

Happy weekend!  Be happy.  Be good.  To yourself.  To others.

In propinquity,

Nic

Fill Your Paper

I've got no poetry today.  I'm working on a few little things but they are still seedlings and as far as prose is concerned, I'm at a standstill with 'Large-Hearted' as well as brainstorming other new pieces.  It's ok for now though, I was thinking since I'm feeling strained, it was time to crack the books.  By that I mean read a bit.  I was mulling over choices for my next purchase when suddenly I receive a large envelope in the mail, Ruthie's latest short story!  Perfect timing me thinks.  It's fantastic and so I rushed home today to put pen to paper and wrote all of my thoughts and gushy feelings to her.  I was so excited that it's already in the mailbox waiting to be picked up!  

What else this week, oh, Alice Munro is retiring.  Bummer.

Also, if you could, keep my best friend's mom in your prayers.  She started her first round of chemo this week.  Sweet June deserves all the love and positive energy you can muster.  

Oh, I keep threatening myself to a Haiku challenge.  I can't write them for beans.  Maybe while I'm brainstorming, jotting and praying I'll work on the little beasts.

Short and sweet today, like me.

And before I forget, Sheree Fitch released a non-fiction piece on Fierce Ink Press today.  She is worth reading and supporting.  Check it out.  There is a Kindle Edition and an EPUB.  It's an important piece and some of the proceeds are going to a good cause.  

In propinquity,

Nic

PS - Isn't the above Wordsworth quote marvelous?

Fretful Woman

Fretful Woman

a fretful woman

a wild azalea

veering toward blessedness

smeared in a thick film of devotion

draped in soft sheaths of loyalty

she can see the moon blindfolded

above the luxurious spring woods

but you are impossible to convince

& you remove her from time

your irrepressible need 

to have the upper hand

has become everything for nothing

she

a fretful woman

a wild azalea

has become the thunder of the storms

has become a torch song of burning love

you with your cigar

her with her wine

an exemplary fantasy

a fretful woman

a wild azalea 

has overcome every poem she's written

because of your reactionary philosophy

because of the changes in the weather

a fretful woman

survives

despite you

**

Forbearance.  I’m fortunate to be a patient creative.  My current foray is taking it’s good old time materializing.  I’m still listening for the whispers, the answers, with my eye on the world for outside inspiration.  Zelda Grady, the narrator of ‘Large-Hearted’ is still looking for clues, for answers and I trust that when she has more to share, she’ll share.  It’s also a dire challenge to write a story within a story.  I’m literally writing two stories at once.  I fear I’ll be editing for a very long time and I may even outsource the task to a willing participant to make sure that I’m not missing any of my mistakes this time around.  I’ll pay in a bottle of wine or a reasonable substitute (chocolate, coffee etc) if you’re willing.

I finished this girl power/self affirming poem this morning when I was supposed to be cleaning my room.  There’s always tomorrow.  Writing comes first, right?  I broke open my treat I bought at the Freak Lunchbox yesterday, a Cadbury Curly Wurly, streamed Matt Epp’s new record (which I will OWN tomorrow when I go to his show!) and finished playing with the structure and the lines, adding and subtracting and tidying it up.  I sat back and re-read and found myself nodding, that’s how I know it’s time to share.  Poetry sometimes cuts into my prose writing but I don’t altogether mind because I am writing and there’s no rush, I’m not under any deadlines and I’d prefer a story to come slowly so I don’t feel rushed.  I am certain that Zelda has my back so I’m quite content.  I do look forward to you all being able to meet her.

Lovely Saturday.  It was hot and sunny when I woke up this morning.  It’s a little overcast right now but I am hoping that it’ll brighten up again and get out of the house and be out in the world.  I’m enjoying my four day weekend.  Passport business was completed yesterday as well as a few other things I can’t get to when I’m working weekdays until 4:30pm.  I had a good lunch at The Lower Deck, pecked at my story, did a crossword in pen and nursed a red beer then got my hair cut.  I bought myself a leave in conditioner from the ‘Milkshake’ line that smells like chocolate.  It’s delicious and is lightweight which works better for my hair.  I can’t wait to shower just so I can spray it in.  Nom.

ONE MORE SLEEP UNTIL MATT EPP!!!

Happy Saturday to you.  Sing at will.  Hug people.  Read a poem.  And have fun.

In propinquity,

Nic

10 Steps To Becoming A Better Writer

Aside from Chuck Palahniuk’s excellent writing advice he dispensed to me in a handwritten letter: ‘Never be afraid to look like an asshole,’ the best advice to follow is to write.  The following rules apply, it states you must do your work, you must apply yourself and if you do, whether you want to or not or feel you have nothing to say, every word counts.  Every. Single. One.

If you ever question yourself (or others about yourself) whether or not you are a writer or an artist, you most likely are.  Steven Pressfield, in his amazing book The War of Art says this:  The counterfeit innovator is wildly self-confident.  The real ones are scared to death.  (Btw, I mention this book as suggested reading for ALL creatives.  It’s an important book and when in doubt or creative crisis should be referred to.)

After I finished my last short story, I was nervous.  I’ve been so overwhelmed with ideas and thoughts and characters and stories that they were coming faster than I could get them down on paper.  I am certain, in the flurry to record everything; I missed a few bits and pieces.  Nevertheless, I have been truly enjoying the process and the influx of fiction invading my noodle and taking up all of my time.  It’s certainly better than wasting precious time on things that dull or spirit and with people who try and break it.  This writing adventure has centered me and caused me to re-evaluate a few things and to take better notice of what matters.  For me, it’s staying true to myself and listening actively and intently to the songs of others.  And by others, I mean my friends, friends like Joseph Whistle, little Charlie Roop, Mr. Wincey, Harriet Weeks and Augustus Cade.  I write for them.  And for me.  But, the key is to write.  There were days I wrote one sentence, one paragraph, one word.  Eventually, I amassed a whole story.

Just write.  What’s in you.  Every day.  One word at a time.

I can’t wait to see where ‘Large-Hearted’ takes me. 

And the weekend is once again upon us.  Once I make it through this day, I plan to get caught up on sleep from the mind-numbing insomnia I suffered for days on end.  Some of which could be blamed on marathoning ‘Game of Thrones’ to catch up to the devastating ‘Red Wedding’ episode everyone was freaking out about.  As discussed with others already, the cutting off of Jamie’s hand and the bear scene were just as disturbing to me.  The wedding, while I knew would be brutal still left me speechless, more-so he killing of Robb Stark’s pregnant wife.  I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to un-see that; that more than anything else terrified me.  I also started reading The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, a heavy ambitious book that has so far been good.  I’m not very far into it but I can tell it’s going to be profound.  For something uplifting, I have a Matt Mays show tomorrow evening that is now going indoors because of Storm Andrea Whatshername.  It’ll be my first show at the Cunard Center believe it or not but I just look forward to having my ears filled with the sounds of a White Falcon and a kick drum in my chest.  Some people do yoga …

Happy Friday, amigos!

In propinquity,

Nic