Part 2: The Birth of a Writer

People who know me are constantly saying they, "don't know how I do it." Some have even asked me how I do it, meaning how do I raise a family, work a day job, be an active part of the community and find the time to write. I've found this a hard question to answer as there's no real "how" to it, and "because I have to" doesn't convey anymore information than replying to the question, "who are you?" with, "I'm me."

I began writing and drawing at a young age. I bore my own children young, birthing my first at 20. There was a period of 10 years where my writing and my children shared scant space. My writing starved, but my children thrived and my creativity found outlet in changing knitting patterns and sewing quilts, adding my own mark to everything I made. This happened for many reasons, not because I was sacrificing myself for my children, but rather I couldn't figure out how writing fit into the mold of who I was supposed to be, what I thought was excepted. I didn't know how to be both and would later find I didn't in fact know myself.

During my abstinence, my writing obstinately tried to break out of the drawer where I'd shoved it; calling to be set free - to breath. And when I could no longer resist, I began the physical act of writing again, embarking on a surprising journey of self-discovery leading to more than a half-starved writer. It was the beginning of an inner awakening, the realization of who I was and it resulted in my becoming the whole person I was born to be in more ways than one. Along with this came the knowledge of how close I'd been to losing myself permanently, my identity and how deeply I'd been buried. One can't discard or reject a part of ones self without consequences and I'd been doing that for years - every time something about who I was didn't fit into the perception of who I should be. We tell our children they can be anything they want - but do we actually mean it. Does society really support it?

I don't regret this time, it simply was. When I think of the path my life might have followed if I'd kept writing when I was first married and had children I know my writing would not me the same as it is now - it would lack the depth and knowledge of my experiences within the drawer. Just as people who bear children when they are older parent differently than those who bore theirs earlier in life, my writing would have developed differently.

Birthing babies, never mind raising them, takes time and is hard on your body. A doctor will tell you it takes about 3 years for your body to recover after having a baby, he doesn't mean from the delivery. My children are 3 years apart, but I could swear my body didn't really recover until my youngest hit 6 or 7. I don't know if there is such a thing as recovery after birthing a story. Unlike being pregnant, writing breeds more writing. I heard an editor once refer to this  phenomenon as having a disease, once you caught the writing bug you couldn't stop. I view it as a blessing. When you experience starvation for awhile you don't take it for granted anymore.

No two writers write the same, every artist's work is distinctive to it's creator in some way and yet takes on a life of it's own; two pieces only being alike in the same way all children are children.  Each of my children is uniquely individual with their own characteristics, likes, dislikes and temperament. This can also be said for each of my stories. Most develop in the womb of my mind in a similar fashion, but they all differ in essence, design and their needs during their up bringing. Some are easy and others I have a more difficult time with, those ones fight me all the way with temper tantrums and arguments, but they're often worth it; they're the ones that teach me something and help take my writing to the next level.

I've always been delighted by a newborns perfection - one doesn't expect they won't be, but the tiny fingernails, exquisitely formed features, downy hair is all so absolutely without fault or blemish - it's amazing. And I know when a story is done because I get that same feeling. I can examine it, take it apart in every detail, read and reread it and remain almost in a state of disbelief that this piece of work originated in my brain and came from my hands - indeed, that I wrote it.

Some writers wait until their children are grown to take up the pen; for me, waiting almost killed me - I cannot do that again. Instead, I'm among those who manage to find a way to birth and raise stories along with children synchronously. There are many challenges to overcome and many hurdles to vault to accomplish goals and achieve some kind of balance between it all. I don't believe it's easy for any of us. I do it because both make up a large part of who I am and what's important to me; knowing in the end both my stories and my children will step into the world and if I've done a good job they will stand on their own.

Carrying, birthing and raising a story is as much as part of me as carrying my children was when I was expecting. There are sacrifices, decisions and priorities. It's physically and emotionally draining and one learns to live with being tired some days. Insomnia often strikes as the story begins mid-night calisthenics with ideas flowing forward as it stretches and kicks me into getting up and madly writing in my notebook. I know from experience if I don't do this and just enjoy the feeling of all these great thoughts I'll spent the next 3 weeks trying to recall them and they will never be as vivid or as perfect as this moment of clarity, no two moments, sentences or thoughts being alike. And so I write them down and later tweak them, rewriting them and adding to them until they are complete whole beings.

I loved being pregnant. I love my children; to create is to breath and to write is akin to being with child - It's simply part of who I am.

Note: The black and white photo's ones I took of my youngest son playing at the park (summer 2009). The colour photo of me at the bottom was taken by my friend Jerome. 

Roots

It is very satisfying to discover the roots of a story. But, until now this weekend, I never really thought of characters as having roots other than the ones I deemed necessary for the story.  I have recently been reading "The Art of War for Writers," by James Scott Bell. It's full of strategies, tactics and exercises. What I like about it is that it's written in short sections which are easy yo fit into my day. It reminds me of things I already know and it gives me ideas on how to structure my writing time and things to try which will improve my skills. The exercises are very much open ended and apply to whatever project I have on hand.

On one section it mentions getting to know your characters by having them tell you about themselves, pg. 116. The first draft of my novel is incredibly rough and as I'm beginning work on it again, I wanted to get to know some of the characters a bit better. In order to do this I asked Lila, one of the main characters, to write me a letter and tell me about herself and her family. Especially as I came across some pointers in "The Art of War for Writers" about inner and outer conflict as well as outer action and inner reaction and I need to know my characters a lot better to make that work to it's fullest.

I discovered that one learns interesting things when actually conversing with ones characters, despite making them up. I was surprised to learn that Lila is the main character, Mira, in another short story I wrote about 5 years ago which is currently sitting in pieces because I have been unable to sew the pieces back together. She told me this was her story. She told me her father left and went back to England when she was 4 and that she only saw him in bits and pieces and never understood it until she was forced to spend a summer with her paternal grandfather after he died, when she was 11. The story, "Changing Tides," is about how she came to understand him and found her roots. She also told me she's pissed off that I put her in a novel with Sauri. I love it when my characters surprise me :)

About the photograph: The roots of this tree grow beside the trail going up Tunnel Mountain in Banff, AB. 

Words

Notes. How can one begin to describe the sound of a tune, the pitch, the tone so clear to our ears? The background chorus of a song. O-ee-o-ee-oo-eee. The feeling of the deep rich notes reverberating up from the diaphram with an emotional power so great it threatens to break through your chest and carry you away. Music that profound expression of emotion beyond words, tears, joy, and depth of being.

Purple. Yellow. When mixed these too colours make a golden brown. The more yellow the golder the brown, the more purple the richer the brown. Add black or white and you get various shades. From these two colours come shades to numerous for words. A painting for a thousand unspoken words, it speaks to our eyes.

Art. Music. Talent. Each set apart by their own limitations. The frame work which informs and defines them as rules define athletic skill. What would be the skill in playing basket ball if there were no rules by which to govern it? The very guidelines of the game allow the player to delight us with his skill in mastering the elements, twisting the variables, bending the game to his advantage stretching the bounds of his skill to make that impossible shot.

Black ink. Pages. Flat. Words. They break from the boundaries of the page to touch our hearts and enlighten our thoughts.

Welcome

If I've found if a cure for writers block (ps there is no such thing) it's a walk with my dog, a bike ride out in the fresh air, a swim, a run, or just heading out to the coffeeshop to relax and soak up the local colour. The act of letting go of that half written screen of text seems to allow fresh details to break through and a new perspective to emerge.

This is a blog all about the sometimes quirkiness of life as a writer, different aspects of writing and ideas I'm trying out. I will also be discussing things which inspire my writing and help to keep me focused and motivated. Feel free to add ideas or comments to any posts. I look forward reading them.