Sacred writing time & space

Writers need to make their writing time and space sacred. I’ve heard this time and time again, from a variety of sources. And that’s fine and dandy (to use one of my grandmother’s phrases) if you can manage it, but there are many writers, myself included, who find that permanently claiming time and space for writing is extremely difficult. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t use at least the spirit of this idea when we write.

TIME

It’s ironic that I began writing on this topic five days ago, meant to sit down and finish it later that day, and have instead come back to it, first three days later, and then today, having written nothing in the meantime. I think that making time (as opposed to “finding time”) is the key, setting aside time in which I’m not doing laundry, or homework with the boys, or editing, or answering email, or marking papers, or the myriad other things that manage to creep into my so-called writing time. I’d love to be able to be one of those writers who can just schedule their writing time, and keep it scheduled. But that’s just not feasible for me at the moment. Work, family, school, and kids’ activities all have their impact on my schedule, which can change at a moment’s notice, and that’s just the way it is, at least for the near future.

For those writers, like myself, who are crazy busy, I think it’s more quality than quantity that counts. Taking those small, still moments when they come, embracing them, and just writing. That’s the key, as you never know when the next one might come. So if you can set aside a sacred time, by all means do so, but if you can’t, make sacred the few moments that you can carve out in which to write, whenever and wherever those moments might come.

SPACE

In our house, claiming space is very much like staking a territorial claim of sorts. If you don’t keep your territory defended, others will surely invade and overrun it. My writing space, the small doorless room off the back door of our elderly house, is a prime example. It’s the only convenient place to put things when people walk in the door, which means that it rapidly becomes home to sparring gear, hockey equipment, onion bags of soccer balls, school papers, and other random stuff. If I don’t keep my desk clean, the rest of the family rapidly takes it over, which makes it rather difficult to have a clean working space. So I do what I can to keep things tidy, and to at least have enough space in which I can physically write. It’s a constant battle, but one that I maintain for fear of completely losing my space.

Which leads me to wonder if that sacredness of space applies to the act of even temporarily laying claim to a space. It might be transient, like a camping spot, but it’s yours, at least for the time being. While I’d love to be able to have a space of my own that has an actual, physical door with which to keep everything else out, that’s not in the cards at the moment, as space is very much at a premium in our house. So, for the time being, I’ll continue to defend my small space, which may not have the sacredness of some writers’ inner sanctums, but at least it’s mine!

Fear and Possibility

Writing holds possibility, but there’s fear there, too. Some writers can admit it easily, and others can’t. I’m a firm believer in the idea that you need to name your demons before you can exorcise them. Inherent in the fear of possibility is the idea that we somehow won’t manage to show up on the page, that we won’t have any ideas, that what we’ve got to say is utter tripe, that no one will ever want to read what we’ve written, and that we’ll be ridiculed for what we have managed to write. I think a lot of my fear, the primary source of my road block to writing, is making time (not finding time). Making that time requires that I assign writing a higher priority than I normally would, making space for it in my life … not always easy when others don’t always see its value. During the busy winter months, making time to write is difficult, but I’m beginning to see it for what it is, an investment that must be made, and not something to put on the back burner for the elusive day when I “have more time.”

But it’s words on the page that matter most. That’s what I keep telling my students when I teach writing. Even if all I write is “I can’t think of anything to write,” that’s enough. And I’m always amazed, looking back, at what I’ve been able to write when I’ve squeezed in a few minutes, somewhere, somehow. As a primary example, I had a poem published last fall, a poem I literally scribbled on the back of a boarding pass in the Denver airport last year while my youngest son was in surgery in Phoenix and while I was trying to get there for when he woke up (which didn’t quite happen, but that’s another story).

Rambling aside, that blank page (or blank screen, if you write on a tablet or computer) can be a scary thing. There’s always the possibility that my brain’s empty, that everything idea in it has somehow managed to dribble out my ears in a macabre stream, leaving me a hollow shell. When the boys were wee, there were days that’s literally what I felt like, as if I’d been hollowed out, made empty, capable only of changing diapers and endlessly rocking our colicky eldest to sleep that never came. Deprivation, on so many levels, not just sleep, ruled my life, and paradoxically brought me joy at the same time. All of my writing from this period shows that paradox, in a variety of forms. In A Year of Writing Dangerously, Barbara Abercrombie mentions that there’s no way to hide who we are in our writing. That’s certainly true for my own writing. I can’t keep myself out of it, even if I wanted to, and I’m not sure that I do want to, as there’s value in those experiences, in the trials, tribulations, struggles, and outright battles that have taken place, both physically and mentally, over the years.

There is no safe journey to writing, to getting words onto the page. There’s introspection, memory, and lived experience, and there’s imagination, inspiration, hope, and love, all melted together into a chimeric muse that both torments and inspires. Writing isn’t easy, and I don’t necessarily think it should be, but it’s a necessity, as essential to who I am as my kids or breathing. Writing isn’t something I choose to do. It’s something I have to do, almost as if it’s an itch that’s just begging to be scratched. The only cure is to write.

Reflections

It's been almost two months since I posted ... not because I didn't have things to talk about, but because of a distinct lack of time (due in part to family commitments, work, and a nasty viral bronchitis that's pretty much side-lined me for the past 3 weeks).  This has been quite the year, with some significant ups and some even more significant downs.  I'm glad to be moving forward, with all that the new year, and the promise of a new start, brings.

I have a lengthy list of blog posts to write and share, an even longer list of writing projects for 2014, and a bit more writing time this go around, so here's hoping for a more prolific (and consistent) writing year.

So here's to the year that was, and to the year that will be.  Happy New Year, everyone!

Small town living

I had another post almost set to go when inspiration struck.  In talking with @MattKruchakCBC  the other morning about suburban sprawl and moving to a small town, I couldn't explain in 140 characters why moving out of the city was one of the best decisions we've made.  So rather than finish the article I was working on, this essay on small town living got written.   

Small Town Living

When we moved from the city to a small town seven years ago, I don’t really think we knew what we were getting into.  Or, at least, I didn’t.  I grew up in a Vancouver suburb, so moving to Main St. in a small Saskatchewan town was a bit of a culture shock for me.  But I had the perception in my mind that we were making a change for the better, and I can say now that I wouldn’t move back to the city, not unless it became an absolute necessity.

What drew us originally to a rural town was the cost of housing, which was substantially lower than in the city.  We were able to afford a larger house, on a significantly larger piece of property, than we’d have been able to afford in the city at the time.  And we’re not tied to a big mortgage, which means that we’ve been able to go more places and do more things than we might otherwise have been able to do.

There’s a sense of community here that I had never experienced in any of the cities in which I’ve lived.  People know each other, and look out for each other.  The disconnect that some people experience—particularly larger cities—from family, from friends, and from neighbours just isn’t here in a small town.  We’re not “bowling alone,” to use Robert Putnam’s phrase, and there’s a depth to our social capital that I’ve never seen elsewhere.  To put it bluntly, we’re invested in our community, and invested in each other. 

That investment can certainly have its down sides.  Yes, there are disagreements, and long-standing feuds that newcomers will likely never understand—like why the Town and RM councils seem to have difficulty working together.  But we can’t all agree on everything.  And it’s difficult, at times, for this socially-liberal, fiscally conservative feminist to see things from others’ points of view.  On the plus side, I’m getting better at biting my tongue when saying something just won’t do much good, which is a valuable talent to develop.  And people do know everyone’s business, at least to an extent.  When we got a new cat, a stray kitten found not far from the ferry road, people across town knew within minutes.  Although that’s partly my “fault,” for posting on Facebook that we’d retrieved it.  But, in all honesty, the intimate details of our lives are still intimate, unless we’re inclined to share.

In light of sharing, the saying “it takes a village to raise a child” comes to mind.  Living in a small community has reinforced my belief in this concept.  In the early summer, there were packs of small boys running rampant through my yard, and if my boys disappeared, I had a pretty good idea of where they’d gone.  We know their hockey coaches, their Kindergarten teacher has visited our house, and they’re already beginning to contribute to volunteer activities within the community, this year helping to get toys sorted and cleaned for the Christmas Miracles initiative, along with delivering suppers to Mrs. Claus when she gets so busy she forgets to eat.  They have many wonderful, positive role models in their young lives, which is a blessing, to be sure.

We’re relative newcomers to this small town, which is close to celebrating its 105^th birthday.  We live in the “Newton house,” even though our last names not Newton, we won’t ever be part of the town’s inner circle because our grandparents weren’t community founders, but we’re still a contributing part of this small community.  We work to keep tradition alive, doing odd things like giving out wieners (!) at Hallowe’en, serving on various boards and committtees, and generally contributing to the community’s social capital.  We may not always agree with our neighbours, but we’ll always be here to lend a hand … and I think that spirit is one of the most important gifts we can give our children.   

And chaos ensues!

I've been meaning to post, and every time I've thought I might have a few moments, something's happened.  Whether it's one of the dogs absconding with the little green army men, the boys staging a full-scale Star Wars / Angry Birds / Skylanders battle in the living room, or the recent mouse invasion (which we so are not going to talk about), I just haven't seemed to have much time.  Add to that the boys' fall activities, which are almost all into full swing and, well, it's been busy.

No, let's rephrase that:  in reality, it's been a crazy few weeks around here, which isn't unusual, except that those weeks have included the publication of two major projects that have taken up most of my "spare" time over the past several months.

Wolves and the River of Stone

This month will see the publication of Eric R. Asher's next book, Wolves and the River of Stone, the second in the Vesik series.  If you enjoyed the first, you're in for a treat with this book ... with lots more of Damian, Foster (everyone's favourite fairy), and lots of action, along with the obligatory American Civil War references.  The cover reveal just took place (awesome, isn't it?), and the official book release is slated for October 22.  Oh, and before I forget, here's the back cover blurb:

Philip, Zola’s boyfriend from one hundred and fifty years ago, is not nearly as dead as we thought. I really wish he was. Not only has he kidnapped Zola, but he’s raising an army to scour humanity from the earth. Hopefully the local werewolf pack will help. What could possibly go wrong?

Wolf Willow Journal

In addition to the editing for Eric's latest book, we've been busy putting together the first issue of Fish Creek Press' literary journal, Wolf Willow Journal.  The issue was released online last night, and ebook versions were released earlier today.  We're certainly excited to see the work of so many talented authors between its pages, and under our imprint.  Here's to many, many more wonderful issues!

Revisions, and why we do them

It's that time of year again, where teachers and students get down to the business of learning.  As many of you know, I teach writing.  And part of writing, and of teaching writing, is revision.  I have a fairly short assignment that I'm doing with one of my classes, one for which I asked students to submit a draft last week so that I could go through and suggest changes.  Only about half the class sent drafts to me originally, then I had a few stragglers submit theirs after the initial ones were returned.  I still have yet to see about a quarter of the assignments.

After the first batch of suggestions and edits, I told students several times to re-submit their work so that I could go over it again.  Less than half of those who submitted have done this, but more are trickling in now that I've begun to hand those back.

Those that haven't submitted drafts by now are out of luck, as the assignment's due next week and I don't see them again until Tuesday.  Of those who've only submitted a first draft, several have asked why they'd need to submit again, considering, as they put it, "You've already corrected all the mistakes, so why bother?"  Then there's the third group, some of whom are horrified to receive a second edited / commented draft that seems to have more writing on it than the first.

I think I'm going to have to put a handout together on the stages of editing, explaining what instructors (and editors) are looking for in the various drafts of a document.

Personally, I like to do at least four sets of revisions.  The first set focuses on larger problems, the most significant of which are barriers to reader comprehension.  The second set focuses on logic, flow, and (for technical writing) accuracy of content.  The third set involves a closer look at document flow, and a first-pass detailed edit.  It's not until the fourth set of revisions that I'm looking to do a detailed copy edit ... and that's if we've managed to get to this stage, as sometimes I have to do two or three passes looking for and fixing barriers to comprehension.

The long and short of it is that multiple edits are needed, especially if you want to produce the best possible document, whether it's a technical report, a poem, or a novel.

Rejections

I'm in the process of making final selections for the upcoming issue of Wolf Willow Journal.  It's been an interesting process, and one that I'm really enjoying.  But I'm fast approaching the point at which I'm going to have to send out a bunch of rejections.  And I'll admit that there's good work that's been submitted that I likely won't accept because it just doesn't fit with where the issue is going.

I was reading a post on one of my Facebook groups yesterday, where an author was bemoaning the fact that she'd sent a particular piece out five times, and received five rejections.  She was ready to give up.  There were the usual "editors have no idea what they're doing" responses, and there were the "I had to submit 200+ times to get x published" responses.  I've had work accepted the first time I've sent it out, and I've got other work that's been submitted numerous times, to no avail.  That seems to be the way it goes, with publishing.

So, what next for the poor writer?  Perseverance and belief in yourself are one key.  Making sure to do thorough market research is another key.  Submitting the best work you possibly can is another, and one that I harp on again and again because, well, it's important.  But none of these guarantee publication.  That's up to us fickle editors, unless you choose to self-publish.  But do remember that a rejection isn't necessarily a critique or comment on your work ... sometimes, it's excellent, but it just doesn't fit.