Word by Word
October 2004
Monday, October 4, 2004.
noon
How'd it get to be October? I'd probably have a better idea if I wrote in here more regularly wouldn't I?
Ah, but I've been busy. Saturday was a very satisfying Plum writing session. We've lately been using the time to update each other on various projects we're working on, and then we write for at the least an hour, on whatever we want. I added more ideas to what's been percolating in my brain for a while now, in among all the distractions, and I think I have a long project, actually two, cooking; one fiction, one non. But I'm not going to talk about them beyond that in here, until they've achieved a little more form. I don't want to jinx the process. And they may have to just simmer for a while, so I can concentrate on the great moving project, else that'll take forever too.
Yesterday though I went off for the day with my second child, on a hike up the Stawamus Chief. We are not rock climbers, or maybe I should say I'm not, and my daughter isn't yet, so we went up the trail behind. I remember going up the Chief when I was about 15, and not since, so it's been a while. I don't remember any staircases, so there's been a bit of work done to make it more accessible, but it's still a scramble up top. We went up the second peak (there are three I discover). I think maybe it was the first peak I went up all those years ago, but my daughter wanted to go up the second, so up we went. Near the top there are a few hair-raising bits to get past, but more help in the shape of chains bolted into the rock, so there's something to hang onto. Someone hauled a ladder up there too, which makes another place possible without ropes and pilons. The view is grand from the second peak, looking down on Squamish, north up towards Whistler, and south towards Vancouver. But I think that the first peak may have the prettier view of Howe Sound. I'm not sure of that though, because I declined to climb up and find out this trip. Not that I didn't think I could make it up another hill. The problem was coming back down. When your muscles are not used to it, down is surprisingly difficult. I have stiff muscles today, and I expect them to be worse tomorrow. But my goodness, it was an enjoyable day.
Wednesday, October 6, 2004.
7 pm
I've been moving stuff the last few days. Quite an enterprise, starting to shift the ridiculous pile that has built up over twenty or so years living here. I swear I've been getting rid of stuff along the way, but it doesn't seem to have made a dent. I'm kind of appalled. I put an ad up in a women's shelter to get rid of a few bulky things, and a young woman came by for an old tv. She said she was starting over, and didn't have anything except her vehicle, so we went poking around in my garage, and then loaded things in her van. We stopped when it was full, though she said she'd come back for a couple other things. Hasn't yet. But today I filled my car with cardboard recycling and some more boxes of old toys, and other useful (for someone else) stuff, and dropped it at the Salvation Army over by Main St. It's the one I remember shopping at when I was a kid, so it feels the right place to take things.
I've been feeling very fortunate with all that I have, and perhaps also a bit chagrined that I have so much. It's good to get a reality check from time to time.
I've also been sorting out my son's affairs. I didn't want to be involved; seems to me he ought to be able to do this himself, and he would, but the property management folks where he's moving insist on having a parent's name on the lease. So, today I started filling out an application form for the place he'll be staying. This is the first time in thirty years I've done that; forgotten you have to beg for a place to live. Another reality check. I hope they'll accept me! It occurs to me that my income isn't what it once was, since I quit working and started writing for nothing (monetarily speaking, thus far). I find he also needs to arrange insurance. I remember details about BC's rental policies, but know nothing of Alberta, so don't even know what's unreasonable. However, I will facilitate, and next time out, he'll have a track record, and really can do it himself. Right?
Writer's Festival is in a couple of weeks, and I've volunteered to do some pick-up and delivery of authors; I've been given a tentative list, and so went to the library to pick up books by the people I think I'll be driving. I've read two so far, on called Asylum by Patrick McGrath, described in the guide as an acknowledged master of gothic fiction. I guess that means creepy stories, which this one is, but I don't mean the writing. There are a lot of things going on in this story around madness and obsession, lots of layers well-written. It was good, if unsettling. So what did I read next? A mystery by Val McDermid. She isn't on my list, but I know she is coming to the fest, and have heard people say she's good. (A Scot, how can I resist?) I spotted the Mermaids Singing at a neighbour's yard sale, so picked it up. This story was even creepier, but also a real goodie. Maybe not the best choice for reading in bed though. Drifting off to sleep contemplating serial killers isn't probably the best idea for a healthy dream time.
I've placed holds on a couple more, and they're ready for pickup, so I'll see whether the other writers on my list are a bit more encouraging re: the human condition. Just for contrast.
Monday, October 11, 2004.
noon
Happy Thanksgiving. We had our dinner yesterday, a very successful party.
Saturday was a Plum reunion morning, with Yvonne back from her adventures in France and England. And in the afternoon my daughter and I went for a very soggy slog up the Grouse Grind.
So it's been a busy weekend, and a busy week before. I managed to give away a phenomenal amount of stuff out of my garage to a woman who is starting over; I gather that she has left an abusive relationship, and had to abandon belongings. She has three kids too, and was happy to clear away the toys and books that had collected in my garage, as well as a few pieces of furniture I don't need anymore. This was great, because taking the stuff helps me, and obviously getting it helps her.
Now I'm packing things to take along to Calgary for my son to use. I'll pick up the van this afternoon, and we'll stuff it tonight and set off tomorrow. Big changes. And I woke up this morning with a sore throat. I'm going to make a quick run to the drugstore for some echinacea, and see if I can't evade getting sick. It might explain why I was so tired last night though. Can't have been working all day and then all the wine I drank.
Sunday, October 17, 2004.
9:30 pm
Long week, in lots of ways. I've been to Calgary and back, traveled over 2000 kilometres, all with my nose running, not from crying about the youngest moving out, but because I caught a nasty cold. On Tuesday, my son and I finished packing the van I'd rented with all the stuff he figured he'd need for his sojourn in Calgary. That day we drove all the way to Revelstoke before stopping for the night. It was just a bit too far, which meant that the last hour was driving through darkness, which was okay, but I admit to anyone that I get kind of stupid driving when I'm tired, and it doesn't help to have my head stuffed up, and be unfamiliar with the roads. At one point just before Revelstoke, my co-pilot asked "Is that a moose?" and I said yes, as I swerved around a very large ghostlike shape at the side of the road. No antlers, so it was likely female. The only really goofy thing I did though was have trouble turning left into the motel's lot; I couldn't tell where the driveway was exactly, and when my son mentioned "there's someone behind you" I swerved again, which was really stupid, but like I say I get stupid when I'm tired. The car behind us finally got around me, and except for honking for an exceptionally long time, carried on his way. As I parked my son said "enough driving for you tonight, Mom." No kidding.
The next day we set off for the final stage of our journey, through Roger's Pass, down into Golden and then up to Kicking Horse Pass, where I stopped in Field for a bathroom break, and then on to Banff, where I figured I could find a latte. I'm developing a theory that if I get a latte at the right time of afternoon, I'm saved from a bit of the stupid-ness that sets in. Day two took only four and a half hours, which may explain also why driving into Calgary was uneventful; no one honked at me.
Soon we were parked outside the boy's new home, a duplex close to the university. His friends came out and unloaded the van in no time, after which I went and settled in at the Travelodge, just a bit further down the road. After a decent interval I came back to pick him up and we went out for dinner; then I took him back to his house (what a strange thing to get used to) and I went back to my room to try and get some sleep. I have to admit that driving to Calgary is a lousy way to treat a cold, and I decided that I'd give myself a another day before trying to drive back home.
The next day, Thursday, I took myself out for breakfast before picking up my son one last time, so we could visit Ikea and London Drugs, to get him some stuff we'd not known to bring. One more meal together, late lunch, a hug goodbye, and the deed was done. So I went back to bed. Besides ER and Survivor, I watched weather reports and sipped my neo citran, and tried to get a good night's sleep. Didn't though. There's some combination of stuffed nose, extreme tiredness, and separation anxiety on my part that interfered. As soon as I close my eyes, I start thinking about my kid not sleeping in my house, but in his own. There is nothing rational about this; I know he's fine, in a good place. And that he needs to be on his own. I remember moving out at the same age myself. Still it's hard to sleep. Menopause, right?
Friday morning I drove back through the Rockies. On the way east they were bare, but on the way back home, they had changed to snowcapped; graphic reminder of weather meaning something in the mountains. Then on to Kamloops where I filled up with gas, and then I thought, hmmm, four hours and I'm home, so I kept driving. I had a stack of CDs on the (empty) seat beside me so I just kept plugging them in. The whole trip is just amazing. So many miles (kilometres) of road, snaking through mountain passes and valleys, long lines of trucks and cars rumbling back and forth across the country, and the overwhelming weight of all that area where hardly anyone lives. Just that ribbon of highway. I think I felt it most strongly roaring up the Coquihalla out of Kamloops, where the path snakes right across the tops of the mountains, and you can see for miles. It's lonely and it's beautiful.
I almost made it out of the mountains before dark, but not quite, and got another taste of weather that means something. Racing down from the toll plaza, the day grew quickly dark, as clouds grew thicker and the sun, wherever it was, went down. So of course it started to rain, and I found myself driving through patches of fog, and rain. Not good, but I find that if you keep someone in sight ahead of you, and follow their tail lights, visibility is somewhat improved. Not a pleasant driving experience though, and I turned off the CD so I could concentrate. I've driven the Coquihalla enough times to know what it's like, but it always surprises me the steepness of the descent into Hope. This time I also noticed that the road is downhill all the way to just a few kilometres east of Chilliwack, where suddenly the rain lets up, and the road is clear. Whew. So I stopped to pick up a latte, before popping Jack Johnson into the CD player, and pretended I wasn't ridiculously tired as I drove the rest of the way home.
Now why didn't I stop in Kamloops or Merritt? Because I wanted to sleep in my own bed, which I did. Calgary to Vancouver in just under twelve hours, counting stops. Sheesh, I must be nuts.
My house feels very strange. Quiet. It's a new era.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004.
7 pm
The cold is starting to go away. I'm still barking, but don't feel nearly as bad as I did last week, driving. Maybe it's because I haven't been going on any six or twelve hour drives the last couple of days.
Last night I started a new class; it's not so much that I need a writing class, as that I like the company of other people thrashing about with the same sorts of problems. It looks to me like the next few weeks with these people are going to be very good. The class is called The Writing Habit, and as that's what I've been trying to develop, I figured it'd be a good fit. Especially as a friend is one of the two running the show, and there are two other plums along for the ride.
In one writing exercise we did, I came to a realization about what kind of habit I'm likely to develop. It was when I was thinking about the way I read. I can go days, where I read articles here and there, bits and pieces out of different books. I might even sit and find stuff in the dictionary. Then I'll pick up a novel, and whoosh, I'm gone. Kind of like the drive from Calgary. Which might explain why I don't really think a long drive like that is as insane as it probably is. I find it very difficult to ration myself once I'm in to a book, and so read late, and find excuses each day to read early as well. Maybe that's how I'm to work into writing. Fits and starts, and then something will grab me, and off I'll go. I just have to keep at it. Part of the idea of the class is to work on a project, and I do have one, percolating in my brain, but pretty amorphous so far. We'll see whether I can bring it out as the weeks go by.
It makes me think that my project of selling the house and moving somewhere smaller will in the end help me in this writing path I'm on. Because I will have fewer distractions, and less to worry about. It'll be interesting to see how I work too with only one child/young adult in the house.
Today I am a volunteer for the Writers' Festival, and picked up three authors from the airport this morning and have just come home from driving three more down to the Gala dinner at the Vancouver Club. It looks a pretty swank place; needless to say I've never been inside. Today has felt very busy, and I'm looking forward to putting my feet up, and maybe falling into another novel.
Friday, October 22, 2004.
11 am
I haven't fallen into another novel, but a memoir called Nothing Left Over, a quiet little book by a woman (Toinette Lippe) who worked for years in publishing in New York. It's another book about trying to live a simple life, figuring out what's necessary, what's not. I picked it up at Book Warehouse, remaindered, an irony I guess, as she talks about always choosing to edit books that seem necessary, and when they land at Book Warehouse, well, often it's because they're not. I'm conflicted when I wander into that store, as I find the piles of neglected books rather daunting. But then, the store does well, so I suppose I could just look at it as a way to provide a wider audience, as people who can't afford premium prices, can pick up lots of goodies at the Warehouse.
Not that I'm trying to plug the store. Because I do think of the writers with their meagre royalties.
Yesterday was my last shift driving authors about. My car has started to act up, which is some form of Murphy's Law, but I pretended it was fine, and it behaved for my last airport run. Sometimes it won't start, but it's not a battery problem. There's a wire loose somewhere, and if I'm persistant turning the key, eventually it starts. (It has an appointment for Monday, to figure it out. Hope I make it through the weekend.) Kindly, the car showed no sign of it's malfunctioning as I loaded two tired writers into my car yesterday. One was an extra I found, Frèdèric Boilet, a comic artist he told me, though our conversation was limited, my French being worse than his English. He was supposed to be met by someone from the French Consulate, but wasn't, so I took him along with my expected author, Patrick McGrath, whose book Asylum I read a little while back. McGrath had lived in Vancouver in the early 70s so was interested in what had changed. Granville Island has changed. In the early 70s it was all still industrial, belching smoke and grit. Not the scene you find down there now.
The day before I had Wayne Grady and Merilyn Simonds in my car. Grady asked if I was a writer too, and I said yes, but not an 'author'. "Not a published author," he said. "So that's the difference." He said he only uses the term author if he's already said writer in a paragraph, so as to not be too repetitious.
It's another irony, the aura around authors at a festival, when the usual part of their lives are spent in rooms by themselves, writing, and for most of them, figuring out how to make ends meet. At the festivals they are treated with great respect and people (me) are happy to rub up against that aura. I'm just impressed to see all these people who can not only write, but finish their stories.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004.
12:30 pm
I'm scratching my head a bit at the way I do things. Fits and starts. I keep thinking I need a routine, but do I? Yes, no. If I ever establish one, I'll let you know whether it works for me.
Last week was extremely busy, but in a very good way. I went to a good many writers festival events; some I paid for, but I took advantage of my volunteer tag to get into things too. I soaked up a whole lot of good language, and felt quite a letdown on Sunday, realizing that it was over. I'm back to figuring out how to organize my time by myself.
I've scheduled myself into two classes about writing, both of which are along the same theme really, though the titles differ. One is half through, two more Saturday mornings to go, and it's called So You Wanna Write a Novel. Well, I do, so I signed up. Mostly I'm looking for organizational tips I think. How to get myself started, and how to not get daunted by the size of what I think I want to do. (I know, page by page.) The other class is The Writing Habit, in which we're working to establish the habit of working on whatever long project we have. In this class (which runs for six more weeks) I thought I'd work on a non-fiction piece, which may also be a very long project (ie book). But now I think they may be part of the same thing. I didn't bring along anything of mine to read last night, because I was so disorganized (incoherent is what I called it). Though I did succeed in getting all my notes tucked together into one folder, which is a start, I guess.
Disorganized, and needing to form a habit. Most of my habits seem to form themselves. Chewing on my cuticles; that's a habit I didn't need to work on forming. Mid-afternoon lattes; that was an easy one to form too. Checking my e-mail. I do that easily. I've broken the habit of sugar in my tea and coffee.
But I haven't formed the habit of writing every day yet, though I do have the habit of thinking about it, and then feeling guilty. I always mean to, and then don't, thinking I've nothing to write really. Which is the point of course. By writing, I find what I want to say; something always trickles through my fingers onto the page, or through the keyboard and into this space. It's kind of magic really. I'm moving my fingers right now, and by some miracle words are forming on the screen in front of me. Cool, eh?
My challenge for the next while, is to try and keep all my projects moving. The clean-up process in the house has begun; I've delegated (paid for) the painting, and currently my son's vacated bedroom is transforming itself. My daughter will move in there once it's done, and then I'll be moving furniture around, and getting more walls painted on the main floor of the house. Sort of a domino effect going on right now. And the house is a shambles with stuff waiting to go back into the empty bedroom, currently piled up in the living room. I'm trying to establish a routine or habit midst potential chaos. But, as with the writing, one domino at a time. Right?
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