They’ve torn down my old boarding house – and it’s so strange to see it…gone. It’s been dredging up a lot of memories for me and many other former residents of MacNeill House.
I went to Branksome Hall with my twin for our last year of high school when our parents had moved to England. Contrary to our concerns, Branksome and the boarders welcomed us warmly, and we are still friends with many of those girls today. More than from our other high school – the regular one we attended for years and loved too.
Branksome is where we became city girls, and learned to think about the globe, act in plays that felt like professional productions, and debate. I believe my average jumped 16% just from the nightly required two and half hours of study. I got into every university I applied to. And I attended no less than 5 formals/proms in gorgeous dresses thrust upon me by my generous roommates.
Branksome belongs to that mystical time when we eased out of girlhood, but not too quickly. Since then, I’ve loved any drive down Mount Pleasant where I could point out the window of our old room, which we had kept open all year and learned to let the roar of traffic lull us to sleep. It’s vanished now, along with the luggage room and the trunk of books I left down there, always thinking I would go back one day and collect them. I know they are building something new and wonderful, but I will miss that window to the world.
In an effort to stay focused on the writing drive generated this summer and push forward, despite it being September, and June such a long way away, I have been reaching out and connecting with other writers and friends from the Humber School for Writers 2012.
It’s hard to believe that it took place more than two months ago – and the diverse reports back seem at odds with the experience of my own small group. Most of us found the period afterwards to be pretty prolific and the writing came flowing out. In my case, pages got edited/revised. Others found themselves blocked and unable to write.
I also managed to start writing some brief vignettes for a new project, so I met my vow of at least beginning to write something new, before summer’s end, even while I am still mired in revisions for the big novel manuscript.
Positive Writing News for Me:
I met one writer friend to catch up over a great dinner, and she took a nice chunk of my novel to read and give feedback on. Her feedback was wonderfully encouraging and specifically helpful in suggestions.
I hosted two other writer friends who will form a more official writing group with me, and we will meet regularly to exchange and workshop sections of our novel manuscripts. I like them and admire their writing, so it seems like a perfect fit.
I participated in a reading for writers, hosted by another alum of the Humber School, where everyone in attendance was invited to read some of their own writing. I regretted not being able to stay for the whole event, but it was an excellent idea, and I hope these continue throughout the year.
In other news, I’m working on another scene/index card revision. We’ll see if that yields any sizeable segments for slashing.
“School teachers measure their lives in Septembers and Junes.” I quote/paraphrase my friend and colleague JHay in this, but it will not surprise any educator to hear it. In an ecological setting, we school teachers were also reminded of how we measure our lives by the natural world, trees, and the changing appearance, and then disappearance, of leaves.
I just spent a wonderful week meeting and prepping for the new school year with my work family, and trying to summon up how much I love September (and always have), and how oddly that contrasts with the melancholy that surrounds the dwindling days of August. I understand that I should be enjoying August as it unfolds, but every day that passes is one closer to summer ending and the tyranny of the alarm clock’s returning dominance.
Still, the life of a school teacher has many benefits, besides just the joys of teaching and, hopefully, inspiring kids to ongoing lives of curiosity and learning.
So, I had to add my own gauge by which school teachers measure their days, their years, their lives. And Gretchen Rubin is absolutely right – “The Days are Long, but the Years are Short.” We measure them by the students, whether boys or girls, because the students (like the leaves on trees) change in appearance, they age, and move on. But we don’t. Not us. Unless it’s in the going. Honestly, 25-45 is pretty much the same age as far as our students are concerned. And when I look around at my colleagues, I don’t see them any differently than I did 11 years ago. But those boys: boy oh boy, have they grown up! (from pre-kindergarten to high school and beyond).
I’m thinking about trees differently these days, as I try to stay rooted in my different realities. And about how trees are lovely at any stage or age.
My initial alarm at homecoming to the sight of weeds approaching my waist (and sadly this is not a first for me) has abated as I contemplate the parallels between my current editing efforts – and in every respect – I still have plenty of weeding to do. This is what happens when you are:
A) Away all summer &
B) Not a gardener.
These are before pictures of the ‘garden’. I haven’t the heart to add ‘during’ pics, as it’s a work of considerable magnitude! Despite hiring an able-bodied young one from Rent-a-Son, diving in myself (getting a few clod-fulls of dirt in the mouth for my efforts), and my husband’s many hours at it, the weeding of the garden is far from finished. Perhaps I’ll put the during and after photos up when all’s done.
It might be harder to photographically document my weeding work on the editing front, but I will endeavor to do that too. The current approach – going from a written copy down to more cue cards, will, I hope, help me to cut more content on a larger scale.
The original manuscript was 507 pages. It went down to 474, and is now in the 440’s range. Still more weeding required. Hopefully all that pulling won’t leave too much more dirt in the mouth.
I have big plans of writing in detail about the 3 Incredible Writing Conferences/Workshops/Retreats I attended this summer, but right now, it seems appropriate to show you what I was just served…very fitting, considering I was editing p. 430 of 474, and I’ve been at this manuscript since Time Immemorial.
Thanks, Becks Beer for acknowledging the many hours this labour of love has taken and will continue to take! (Becks has a limited edition of ‘artistic’ labels – this one finding me just now was fortuitous happenstance!)
We waited until we had been together for 10 years to get married – but I think we knew pretty quickly. Two Canadians meet in an Irish pub in Tokyo (Paddy Foley’s in Roppongi, in case you’re wondering) – that’s a ‘meet cute’ if ever there was one. First remembered conversation:
Him: “Will you marry me?”
Me: “What’s your name again?”
Despite plenty of unconventional twists, it’s all worked out remarkably well.
Newfoundland wedding was a week-long party. We still haven’t been back to Tokyo…
Must get that trip in the works.
This is my writing surface for the week. A polished board room table that could sit 16 – all to myself! Take a closer look at the view below.
This is my view for the week. Can hardly believe my luck. It’s turning into a wonderful week – great company among smart interesting people and lots of solo time to focus on my own writing. A lake to dive into any time the brain cells start to stagnate and good food to boot.
It’s a pleasure to be a founding attendee! Ralph Sneeden and John Casteen have done a great job of getting this retreat up and running.
My ‘Whatever Clock‘ is a prized possession – the gift of a former mentee, who gave it to me just as I was embarking on a year off in September 2008, an unpaid sabbatical, where I would have to answer to no clock for 12 glorious months. It is still mounted in Texas, where I spent a large part of that year off, and now spend a chunk of every summer with my husband – and only set an alarm clock if I have to catch a flight. (for example, tomorrow I have a 5:38 a.m. flight to Portland, Maine, where I will be attending the Damariscotta Lake Writers Conference in its inaugural year – so, yes, I will definitely be needing the alarm for that, along with a 7:00 p.m. bedtime)
During that year off, I ended up writing two book length manuscripts, one clocking in at about 200 pages and the other a whopping 500. Clearly, words were flowing. I read at least two books a week during that time, on top of the writing, and it was all about the love of language, the storytelling, getting it all down, with just those 26 letters of the alphabet, which according to Tim O’Brien (who was a mentor at The Humber School for Writers – can’t believe it was just a few weeks ago), that’s all we’ve got, so we better get them
write – oops – right.
I updated the appearance of my Blog, which was starting to feel a bit like shag carpeting, or feathered Farah hair compared to other people’s. I kept the blog title as Moving Meditations. Still seems apt, since I am always going somewhere – never staying in one place. Often those transitions between places provide the time to consider things. When I come to Texas now, it’s for shorter stints. I know the school year is waiting, growing impatient, and will soon take over my time, but I am always hoping to slip back into that unplugged ‘Whatever Clock’ mode, where the words take over. It’s harder now, because instead of flying through early drafts, I’m deep in revising/editing territory. Frankly, it’s less fun – and returning to the places I inhabited during that blissful year of full-time writing has, instead of immersing me back in the land of letters, gotten me somehow stuck in and worrying about the world of numbers, and wondering whatever happened to ‘whatever’?
Here are just some of the numbers that are sneaking in and wrestling far too much brainpower from my typically wordwise consciousness:
# How time on the clock is ticking by at an alarming rate
# How many days/hours/minutes/seconds of summer vacation are left?
# How many pages can I edit in one day?
# How many words can I cut from each page?
# How many pages can I cut in total and still tell the story?
# How many laps/lengths can I swim? (70 for a mile a few times this week)
# How many times can I make a wish because I catch the digital pool clock exactly as the numbers all line up?
(1:11, 2:22, 3:33, 4:44, 5:55, 11:11, 22:22, 33:33, 44:44, 55:55)
# How many reps/lbs can I lift on the barbells?
# How many minutes on the treadmill, at what speed, and at what incline?
# Is that really the size of my bridesmaid’s dress?
# How many inches will it need to be taken in?
# How many grey hairs are there now? Ok, at least I can still count them.
# When will the temperature drop below 100 degrees Fahrenheit so I can breathe?
# How many bugs will I have to encounter in Texas?
# How humongous will said bugs be?
# What is the IQ of supernatural sized bugs?
# How many hours of sleep am I losing to said gigantic bugs?
# How many American dollars are there in my wallet?
# How much have I racked up on my credit cards on writing retreats, books, gym, etc.?
# Do I have the numbers of my passport, bank, frequent flyer, etc. cards?
# How far from this city to the next one?
# How many more airplanes, and how many more minutes up in the air?
This last concern leads me spend most flights quietly chanting in a mantra-ish fashion a few lovely and lyrical quotes that seem tailor-made:
“Men weren’t meant to ride with clouds between their knees”
Five for Fighting ‘Superman’
“I’m up on the airplane, making a deal with God, inspired by gravity”
Indigo Girls ‘Airplane’
“What seems dangerous often is not – black snakes, for example, or clear-air turbulence”
Amy Hempel ‘In the Cemetery where Al Jolson is Buried’
Ok, by recording all these number concerns, it is my hope to push them out of the forefront and get back into the story, the world of words. Achieve flow. Leave the number crunching for a future me to worry about. Wish I had a quote for that.
Tomorrow will be the last day of my full week workshop at The Humber School for Writers. They aren’t blowing smoke when they tell us how fortunate we are. I don’t think many of the close to 80 participants would find anything to argue with in that. Sure, we’ve paid for the privilege, but we’ve gotten incredible bang for the buck.
It’s hilarious to my group, being mentored each morning by none other than @MiriamToews, when she asks us if we aren’t exhausted and overwhelmed, and if we have actually attended any of the afternoon ‘extra’ sessions. We attend every last one, and with remarkably few dud speakers, we are indeed overwhelmed, but only in the best way possible.
This week, we’ve been lucky enough to hang upon the inspiring words of the likes of Tim O’Brien (The Things They Carried), Richard Scrimger (Me & Death), Eva Stachniak (The Winter Palace), Bruce Jay Friedman (Splash, The Heartbreak Kid), Joe Kertes (Gratitude), Wayson Choy (Jade Peony), Johanna Skibsrud (The Sentimentalists), Esi Edugyen (Half Blood Blues), David Bezmozgis (The Free World), Alistair MacLeod (No Great Mischief), and finally, our mentor Miriam Toews (A Complicated Kindness, The Flying Troutmans, Irma Voth).
I should also mention the articulate and appealing Craig Payette, Nick Garrison, and Janice Zawerbny who come from the Editing/Publishing World. They gently hacked sample offerings to pieces and made clear what would make those samples better. Every morning we spend workshopping our works-in-progress with our small group and our mentor and after lunch, the afternoon involves talks from other incredible author mentors, agents, and editors.
I have filled pages and pages with helpful notes from these meetings, but just as worthwhile have been the interactions and connections with other like-minded writers. Our ‘student’ readings last night were impressive enough that three hours locked in the room (extending our full day to nearly 12 hours) frankly flew by. I feel privileged to have enjoyed this opportunity and am now ready to dive back into the main manuscript for what I sincerely hope will be the last summer. Thanks to everyone at the workshop for making it what it was. Sad that tomorrow is the last day!