Category: Writing

Notebook exercise # 1

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I am sitting outside on my own front porch.

Every few seconds, a car or truck whizzes past, either accelerating as it speeds away from the nearby stop sign or slowing as it approaches. A few cars ignore the stop sign altogether. Now a large cargo truck wheezes past, white with black lettering. In its deceleration it makes a sound like a human cry. A bicycle, red, passes, with its cyclist turning the pedals at a leisurely pace, face inscrutable as he gazes down, away from the sun.

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I can hear the hum of machinery from the nearby construction site that is our downtown core. The steady beep-beep-beep of a vehicle forever in reverse. A neighbour shuffles past and does not see me, screened as I am behind the green lilac leaves, which are shaped like teardrops. A light breeze lifts the leaves, and my own loose hair, and my little dog barks from inside the house, growling and yapping at what I now see is a yellow guide dog, strapped into a harness and leading a tall man, who is wearing a backpack, hat and dark glasses, toward our perilous intersection. The man was smiling faintly and gazing slightly to his right, toward our yard. Behind him, about three paces back, a young woman walked, wearing a bright sundress and a floppy hat. Did she know the man? Was she following to keep him safe or staying politely behind him because to pass him would have been to disturb him?

A rustling of fallen leaves. A fat grey squirrel with bushy white-fringed tail inspects our bed of lavender. Earlier, when I was describing the blind man and the woman he may or may not have known, a friend bicycled past — at least I thought it was a friend, but found myself squinting through the leaves to make out her face under the bike helmet. She was wearing grey flowing pants cut short above the ankle, and I thought, those look like pants my friend would wear; but it wasn’t real confirmation. A girl with bleached blond hair and a stocky upright gait passes, holding a white phone to her ear. And now, a couple holding hands, the girl talking, the boy saying nothing. He rubs his head with his free hand. They are not near enough for me to determine their ages.

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I have forgotten how lovely it is is to sit and record for no purpose at all, only to slide more deeply into the moment, to sit as if immersed in a quietness of the self. A stillness amidst all that is moving and passing me by.

A garbage truck stop, redolent with the smell of rot, sweet and persistent, even after it has turned the corner. What does it smell like? Garbage? I stop and think for awhile, but can’t come up with anything but sweet rot and stink. I can see in my mind’s eye a kitchen, a darkly lit particular kitchen that seems to have come from a dream not from a memory, with a crock lined in newspaper, and filled with blackened moist vegetable peelings, beside the sink; sweet stink.

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A brittle leaf falls from high overhead, clunking as it passes through the still-green leaves of my lilac, scuffing on the paved path where it lands. A rotund woman in hot pink with a checkerboard skirt eats handfuls of something out of a stiff plastic bag — nuts or seeds? — while she glances at our garden, expressionless. And my dogs set to howling as another dog, a beautiful black lab, tap-tap-taps patiently along the sidewalk in front of our house, leading a young woman with her fair strawberry hair stuck up in a bun at the top of her head, a baby which can’t be seen asleep under a quilt, and strapped to the front of the her chest. The young woman does not hear my dogs’ fuss, because she is plugged into white earbuds.

When the mailman arrives, not long after, I sit perfectly still and wonder whether I should alert him to my presence, but he speaks immediately to the dogs, talking to them through the glass as they bark frantically — “Hello, there, friends! And how are you today!” He flips the lid of our mailbox and is turned and away in an instant, and I watch him walk our stone path, and duck around the back of our truck, his step lively, his manner bright, his form short and plump, jolly as an elf. He has not seen me at all.

xo, Carrie

A funny thing happened

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A funny thing happened yesterday morning. I started reading old blog posts, from 2009/2010, and F and CJ sat down and read along with me. They loved the photos, but they also loved the snippets of dialogue and descriptions of our daily life — adventures in which they played starring roles as 1 and 4 years olds. We were in stitches laughing and remembering. I mean, I’d almost forgotten about our “cooking with kids” experiment, and how we would hold family meetings using a “talking crayon.”

I’d forgotten, too, how openly I wrote about my own writing struggles. This was a quiet and difficult time in my writing career. I was three years away from publishing The Juliet Stories, and five years from having published Hair Hat, at the time, my only book. Yet I shared when I finished a new draft of a manuscript — even though the manuscript would ultimately be sent back to the drawing board by my kind agent. I shared when I felt aimless and unsure. I shared the small joys, too. I didn’t seem afraid to let others see me fail.

I’m much more afraid now, I understand. 

Why haven’t I shared my ups and downs since publishing Girl Runner? Why hold my cards so close to my chest? I would like to be as brave as my former self. I would like to tell you when I’m excited about a new manuscript, even though it may never be published.

I am excited about a new manuscript, even though it may never be published. It sprung from out of an abandoned idea, and tapped me on the shoulder, and I worked on it in a torrent of concentrated obsession for the past number of months, in locations that seem woven right into the book, in my mind: beside several different soccer fields, sitting in my little white car, or the camping chair I keep in the trunk, or at a windblown picnic table, and in a cool calm classroom in New York State that allowed me to find an ending. I wrote some of the book by hand. I drew cartoons of the main characters. I drew sequences and storyboarded scenes. It was fun. It was super-fun.
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And I want to share that with you, whether or not the manuscript is ultimately destined to be published. Because it’s part of the story.

Because the writing felt like play. Because I’ve had a sense of well-being as I’ve worked on this manuscript, and that is a good, good thing. Because I’ve had a sense of spaciousness, of enough, but not too much, these past few months.

Now to go walk the dogs around the block with my Fooey and CJ, who have grown to the enormous ages of 11 and 8. Wow. I love that I can learn from my former self. I love that my kids have this virtual scrapbook to flip through, if and when they’re interested. And I’m glad, glad, glad it’s still summer.

xo, Carrie

PS Home again. CJ led us in an around-the block heptathlon. He got gold, Fooey got silver, Suzi took bronze. DJ didn’t appear to have Olympic ambitions, and I blame my sandals for my poor showing. That, and the late-afternoon inertia. We were having a grand old time right up until CJ stepped in dog poo (not ours) on the sidewalk, which Fooey found disproportionately amusing, which in turn put CJ into an even worse mood. “This is just a bad day,” he said, although he did take my hand as I tried to cheer him up, to no avail. By the time we reached our back yard, he was so mad that he took off his hat and kicked it into a small tree. The hat-kicking had a salubrious effect on his system. He and Fooey are friends again, and they are playing at the dining-room table with a craft kit dug up from heaven-knows-where that can be used to make miniature cakes and pastries, and probably, also, a major mess. What is this stuff? “It smells terrible,” says CJ. “Don’t worry,” says Fooey. “We’re using it all up.”

Thank you, Lynda Barry, bless you, Lynda Barry

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How to sum up an experience like Omega, you ask, sitting in your office, once again, with a dog curled alertly at your feet? A child has just rushed in to tell you that she has gotten to 7 juggles (of the soccer ball, with her feet) in the “summer juggling camp” organized by your husband, to keep your children active and entertained, while you were away. 

You were way for six days, but it could have been months. It could have been that you fell down into a different world, unrelated to your own, as vivid, as real, but somehow without connection to your own. You crossed a drawbridge that let itself down, into a small, contained universe which you inhabited almost like you’d become a child again.
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You drew pictures. You wrote by hand. You went to class. You ate meals provided for you, and you compliantly accepted the food that appeared, eating something called “chickpea scramble” for breakfast every morning, almost obediently. You napped on pillows under a table with your fellow classmates. In the evening before bed, you went to tuck shop and bought a snack. You swam in a swampy seaweed infested lake. You laughed till you cried with your friend. You had a camp name. You were, in fact, a child at camp, again.

There were marvellously awful moments, such as when you struggled in full-on sun, sweat pouring off you, to erect an enormous, ridiculous tent, while the campers nearby reminisced about recently hiking the Appalachian Trail, popping up their compact tents in mere minutes. You almost cried, running in the heat to seek out duct tape—for the love of God, duct tape!—to repair your ridiculous and broken tent. And then you slept in luxury on a queen-size mattress, inflated with a motorized roaring machine that irritated those hardier neighbours who had recently hiked the Appalachian Trail.

There was the morning you rose at 4AM to attend a two and a half hour kundalini yoga class, that consisted largely of sitting cross-legged whilst chanting under the instruction of a tone-deaf guru.

There was the heat, the thunder storm, and the morning you had to take the rain-soaked tent down and pack up in the mud, only to be confronted by a breakfast of turmeric-soaked lentils immediately afterward.

But this was bliss.
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It was blissful to spend hours every day writing and drawing. You didn’t know you could draw. You didn’t know you had characters inside of you, their faces waiting to be seen, their hidden emotions so certain on the page, present in a few quick lines you’d sketched there. After class, you would find your way back to the classroom to work—writing and drawing, drawing and writing. Determined as a child. Delighted as a child. You would want to thank this genius teacher, whose genius is her delight in the process, and her generosity. There was no waste in Lynda Barry’s class. Time was honoured. It was honoured with work, and it was honoured with rest, and it was honoured with delight in what you were all making, individually and together.

You went on this adventure, and you came home again.

But you’re still there, you think. Half of you is still there, safe and bewildered and surprised and elated.
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Thank you, Lynda Barry.

xo, Carrie

Welcome to my office

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20160721_115700.jpg“I don’t see why you have an office, Mom, when you’re so happy writing in the car.”

My laptop was the best investment I’ve made, writing-wise. It comes with me to the pool, to the backyard, to the couch, to various soccer fields, to parking lots, and of course, to my pocket-sized car, aka the Chub-Chub.

I spent this past week driving my eldest daughter to a soccer camp about an hour away. That meant I had to stay for the day, which, trust me, was all part of my master plan. In this way, I carved out a writing week (or four days), mostly spent sitting in the back seat of the Chub-Chub. I napped there. I ate snacks there. I read stories there. And I wrote there. Next week, I’m off to a writing workshop in New York State, where I will be an anonymous participant: camping with a friend in our family’s enormous ten; eating vegetarian meals; doing yoga at dawn (if the mood strikes); and writing, of course.
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On Sunday, I put that tent together all by myself. I was perhaps unreasonably proud of the accomplishment, as you can see from my body language, above. I’m not mechanically minded and this is the sort of endeavour I happily off-load onto to Kevin, but I did it with a little help from a YouTube video (an elderly couple lifting up a tent that vaguely resembled ours), and a lot of thinking, and some jumping and throwing (the tent is very tall and I am not, and getting the fly on is really a two-person job). It took over an hour, I will confess. In the end, I observed that seeing behind the scenes to the mechanics of production does not inspire confidence. I preferred not knowing that this airy structure over my head was made merely of thin rods and poles stuck through nylon sleeves. There is knowing, and there is knowing. There is knowing in a theoretical, yes, dear, way. And there is knowing in a visceral, I hammered those stakes myself way. And the thunderstorm that threatened the afternoon seemed much more threatening when I’d built the damn tent myself, and knew its materials intimately.

To be responsible is to be forced to confront vulnerability. That is my observation about growing up, generally. The older I get, the more fragile the structures around me seem. The more tenuous. The more invented, in a way. What I mean is that the security of everything I hold precious and dear, even my beliefs, is supported by a certain level of cognitive dissonance, but also by the suspension of disbelief. To dig in, to help build, to get my hands dirty, to make or unmake, is, for me, to witness the complexity and arbitrariness of experience, of life itself, against which there can be no absolute assurances of safety and security.

All of this from putting up a tent in our back yard.

And, also, from sitting with my laptop and thinking and thinking and thinking.

xo, Carrie

PS Yes, I have my voice back. It is weak and a bit raspy and rough, but it exists, and I am once again in the world, where it is so much easier to participate with working vocal chords.

Scenes from the annual burning of the homework

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I miss you, blog. I do. But I’m pouring all of my writing time—and there is never quite enough—into writing of another sort, just now, so I have little left for you. I have the feeling you are durable enough to manage any absence. I also have the feeling that you are a metaphor for how to manage a packed life: in order to do what you must do, in addition to what you want to do, you have to choose what not to do, too. You have to prioritize.

Magical thinking is not so magical, as it turns out. It doesn’t work, for one thing. And for another, it tricks the mind into believing that the perfect circumstances may arise, just around the corner, perhaps tomorrow, when you will accomplish that thing (whatever it may be) that you’ve been meaning to do, intending to do, nay, longing to do. Magical thinking can magically think you right out of ever doing that thing.

Time can be expansive, it can open up most generously and patiently; but not always, not infinitely, not forever. Our time here is brief and it is precious.

I’m choosing less blogging. More writing. I’m choosing less email. More writing. I’m choosing more running. Less beer. I’m choosing more playing. Less cooking. I’m choosing more love. Less worrying. I’m choosing today. Not tomorrow.

xo, Carrie

New chapter

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Last Sunday, I posted this photo along with the following caption on Facebook: I have been given these two notes and told to wait in my bedroom while the gifts are being hidden. Meanwhile in the bedroom across the hall, the eldest child is still asleep; and down the highway, the second eldest child is playing a soccer game in Oshawa. I’ve already walked the dogs, fed a neighbour’s cat and planned today’s soccer practice, and I’m wearing running gear in hopes that it will inspire me to go for a slog/run in the sunshine later this morning. What are you doing for mother’s day?

Here’s what happened next:

Daughter opens bedroom door, hands me a note, which instructs me to look for a remote control toy car in the bedroom she shares with her brother (oh yeah, we mixed up the bedroom configuration again: the two eldest get their own rooms, and the two youngest are sharing; I agreed because they came to the solution together and everyone agreed).

Anyway… I walk to bedroom, find remote control car, which has note affixed to it: Follow me!

Son proudly but silently picks up remote control car and heads to the front stairs.

Daughter: (admonishing tone) Those are the wrong stairs!

Son looks confused, drops remote control car, car tumbles as if in slow motions down to the bottom of the wrong stairs, breaking into pieces as it goes. Moment of shocked silence.

Me: It’s going to be okay.

Daughter: (to her brother) You’ve ruined everything!

Me: We can fix the car!

Daughter and son: searching for lost batteries, can’t find last one.

Me: Can I help you look?

Daughter, downstairs, closes door to area that may contain secret surprise. I find missing battery, put into car. Car doesn’t work.

Daughter: This was his idea!

Son: (silently trying to get remote control car to work)

Daughter: We should go with Plan B! That’s my plan! Not his plan!

Me: (tapping car, shaking car) I think the car is working now. (car moves several inches, stops dead)

Daughter: (retreats to nearby room where the secret surprise is waiting) It doesn’t matter anymore. Everything’s ruined.

Me: (quietly to son) What was Plan B?

Son: (whispers) I don’t know, but I think we were going to use string.

Me: (louder to daughter) Should we come down the other stairs instead?

Daughter: It doesn’t matter!

Me: (smacking car a few more times) It’s working again, let’s just keep going.

Son: (silently maneuvers car through doorway, I follow, into room containing secret surprise)

On the table is a jar of freshly picked tiny spring wildflowers from our backyard, and a paper bag with a gift that son has carefully carried home from school on Friday. It is a clay bowl, the fourth one I’ve now received for Mother’s Day. Apparently there is a kiln at school, in the basement, it is reported to me. The clay bowl is full of notes detailing all the things I can now get for free: 1 free help clearing the table, 1 free walk the dogs, etc.

Me: But this is lovely! (sits down)

Daughter: (bursts into tears) I don’t even have a gift for you! Because I wasn’t in school on Friday! [she was sick] And then he had to do his plan.

Me: But you picked these flowers! And these notes are from you, aren’t they? Or is your brother supposed to give me all this free stuff by himself? (joking tone)

Daughter: (wiping tears) No, they’re from me too.

Me: All I really want for Mother’s Day is to see you having fun together, and it sounded like you had so much fun planning this….

Son: (a bit miffed) You already have four of those clay pots?

Me: (shouldn’t have mentioned it) Now I have four. I only had three before. (pause) I guess this will be my last clay pot.

END SCENE

So … the construction of the above scene may give you a hint as to what I’m working on now, perhaps foolishly, definitely without provocation. I just want to do it! I’m writing a play. It is not a play about Mother’s Day, it is not autobiographical, and I have no idea what will happen when I’m done writing it (assuming it’s any good), because a play is meant to be seen and performed, not read like a book. And what do I know about that?

In unrelated news that my brain wants to make related, the Canada Council has just announced a juicy one-time grant in celebration of Canada turning 150 next year. The grant is called the New Chapter. I would love to figure out how to participate by pitching a project that would “encourage public engagement in the arts” and “promote outreach locally, nationally, and internationally.” (Not sure I entirely get what that second clause means in practical terms.) I want to be a visionary, but my strength is doing stuff, not making stuff happen, not pulling together a bunch of disparate pieces and spinning them into something like the amazing Terres des Paroles arts festival I participated in while in France (which would be an example, to my mind, of what a New Chapter grant could and should be used for here in Canada) … where X artist from discipline A works with Y artist from discipline B: i.e.  writers and actors collaborate to create performance pieces in small Canadian museums; or actors perform readings from books; and it all happens in small towns.

Is anyone out there applying for this grant? I’m curious to know whether artists even know about it. It sounds like an opportunity for collaboration. And just thinking about it makes me feel a little bit lonely and disconnected, in all honesty. I can’t seem to imagine who, what, where, when, and most of all how …

xo, Carrie

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