Category: Books
Saturday, Aug 23, 2025 | Adventure, Art, Backyard, Birthdays, Books, Chores, Dream, Driving, Exercise, Family, Friends, Fun, Holidays, House, Job, Mothering, Peace, Photos, Reading, Source, Space, Spirit, Summer, Writing, Yoga |
Back yard, new “room,” eldest used this a lot to hang out with friends. Eldest is moving to Montreal in less than a week to start an MA at Concordia (in English Lit!).
We made the annual trip to the farm, a bit later than usual, because a) I got sick as soon as school ended and b) the youngest had a soccer tournament. So this marks mid-July. No homework was burned, but we had a lot of fun playing Dutch Blitz around the kitchen table. We filled the bedrooms and a tent. It was ridiculously hot.
Our first week at the cottage. I’d gotten a reasonable amount of writing / editing done during the week between farm and cottage, so I didn’t put pressure on myself to do a lot of “work.”
We hosted guests — family — and we squeezed a lot of people into what amounts to 3 bedrooms and a bunkie. Still very hot. Ideal for kayaking and swimming. I got some good thinking done while out on the lake. Returned home inspired and with a map for finishing the final third of Begin.
Immediately upon returning home from the cottage, I did a mountain of laundry and didn’t unpack my bag. Took off solo to stay at a friend’s cottage for a few nights. She made me dinner, and I spent an entire day (and evening) writing. Made enormous progress. Ate really good vegan meals. Soaked in Lake Huron. Forgot to take photos. I woke early on the final morning and sat in bed reading Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres till it was time to sort myself and head home. Lots of reading this summer. Reading upon waking is such a summer luxury … could be a Saturday luxury too, now that I think of it. What translates from summer to fall?
This will seem like a minor accomplishment, but I am very proud of the fact that I cleaned the front porch. It was a boiling hot day and I scrubbed green mold till it was (mostly) gone. In the proud-of-it category, I also helped my mom with her move home after months at a rehab hospital, and took my dad to a bunch of medical appointments, and got my youngest up to camp for a counsellor-in-training program, and went to the dentist. I did not get a new job (despite some efforts in that direction; as I approach a return to the library this Monday, I’m feeling like all has turned out as it should).
Got my youngest back to camp for a week of practicum. Saw a lot of rural Ontario from inside an air-conditioned vehicle this summer.
My second youngest celebrated a big birthday, several times over. There was the ice cream sandwich celebration. There was also the family dinner out celebration and the made-her-own-birthday cake celebration, and probably a few more I’ve forgotten. She will be living at home this fall, going into her third year of university. We’ll have a small cohort of the two youngest kids and the middle-aged dog, and hopefully a lot of their friends will drop in and hang out and stay for supper (my favourite favourite thing about being a parent is feeding a bunch of young people a spontaneous meal; literally nothing can make me happier).
Eldest moved a bunch of stuff to Montreal with his girlfriend. Luckily she has a vehicle. He will be taking his bike to Montreal, but won’t have a car of his own.
Second eldest will have a vehicle – our little “chub-chub.” They’ve just moved (in the opposite direction and across a national border) to start a PhD in Medieval Studies at Notre Dame. South Bend, Indiana does not have the same public transit infrastructure as Montreal.
Somehow, despite birthday dinners and moving and appointments, I got myself back to the farm with my friend Tasneem for a few days to finish the novel revision. Mission accomplished, and in good company. We even went to Lake Huron for an evening swim. It was very hot.
Last week before work, back at the cottage with a slightly different configuration. A bit of hosting, multiple hot dog meals, my dad tagged along for the whole week. In my favourite chair in the back bedroom, I finished-finished Begin, going through every word with a fine-toothed comb, and when that was done, I sent it to my editor. Good job, sailor Carrie.
Oh summer. I’ve soaked in the lake every day that I possibly can. I’ve journaled, and done art therapy, and eaten some fantastic peaches and tomato sandwiches. I’ve done yoga on the dock, spin classes, weight classes, pilates, and walked with friends. I haven’t water coloured as much as I’d hoped, but perhaps that will start again this fall, when I have a small and captive but appreciative audience of kindergarteners, and a bulletin board to decorate.
My library hours this fall will give me an extra two hours each afternoon to write, and I aim to do so. It’s been delightful this summer to find strategies for writing and surviving the writing (it’s physical, my body gets incredibly restless sitting for hours, and my mind writhes with discomfort to be in-between and in-the-unknown; what I relearned this summer is that it’s all okay, so long as I release that energy in positive ways, and trust the process.)
My favourite interchange this summer came when I was helping my mom up our front steps. She said, “You are so strong!” and my second eldest exclaimed, “Yes, isn’t she?” I felt seen and honoured, as I am this very moment in time; and that will change, but for now, I am filled with gratitude for the strength, physical, mental, spiritual, that helps me steady myself, and even sometimes, because I’m so very very fortunate, those around me. What privilege. What a luxury.
The sun does its work, even in the hallway of a school. This was the bulletin board outside the library when I’d taken everything off from the past school year. What will replace it this coming school year? It’s just one of the little things I’m excited to discover, and looking forward to this fall. Let the brainstorming begin.
xo, Carrie
Sunday, Jun 15, 2025 | Adventure, Art, Books, Confessions, Current events, Dream, Family, Friends, Fun, Good News, Job, Library, Lynda Barry, Peace, Play, Publishing, Reading, Sleep, Source, Space, Spirit, Summer, The X Page, Word of the Year, Writing |
When and how to begin with BEGIN?
BEGIN is the title of my next novel. I can’t even write that sentence without attempting to delete or amend it. BEGIN is the title of the novel I’m writing. But even that sentence requires amendment. It is the title of the novel I was writing (last touched in March), and will be writing again—though I haven’t dared open the manuscript for months. I can’t let myself visit the pleasure of it in the tiny jags of time available, just right now.
I will begin writing BEGIN again this summer. Soon.
My library job ends in two weeks.
As does my time-limited stint as “producer” (hapless producer, one feels at times) of the X Page Storytelling Workshop, season 6. Season 6???! Tickets for the performance are available here—it’s called “The truth is …” and it’s playing one night only at the Registry theatre in downtown Kitchener, Wed, June 25th, 7PM. Please come for stories, for the stories are life-giving.
Look for me when school’s out in two weeks. I’ll be running out the doors with the kids, slipping off my sandals, standing in the grass, and maybe then, maybe then, my writing of BEGIN will begin again.
How will I parcel out my time? What do I need to write this book?
I have a publisher—Simon & Schuster Canada. (Yes, it’s official.)
More importantly, I have an editor—the brilliant poet and novelist, Katherena Vermette.
I have a pub date—fall 2027 (though those are always tentative).
I need a few intangibles, if I’m honest.
Health, sleep, sweat, rest. Dedicated time. Ear plugs?
Relaxation, intensity, hunger, delight.
Belief. Trust. Confidence—that too, especially that. You know this, don’t you, fellow writing friends? Maybe to that, I need, too, companionship that’s quiet and reassuring, and that would like to join in collective writing and drawing exercises after breakfast, before the work of the day begins …
I imagine for myself a near-hermit’s devotion to the hours, immersion in the subject, the playful giddiness that takes over when I’m making something that feels new or powerful or unexpected, that surprises me with some unearthed truth.
I can’t wait to begin.
Because I hope, I hope to finish what I’ve started. I hope to make good on what I find in the digging.
xo, Carrie
PS If you know of places to rent/borrow/sneak into that would make for good writing intensive spaces, please let me know!
PPS The image at the top was spotted in Chicago, which I visited a few weeks ago with one of my kids, who was presenting at their first academic conference.
Friday, Jan 24, 2025 | Adventure, Art, Big Thoughts, Books, Confessions, Exercise, Friends, Fun, Girl Runner, Good News, Lists, Music, Organizing, Peace, Prizes, Publishing, Spirit, Success, The Candy Conspiracy, Weather, Winter, Word of the Year, Writing |
My to-do list for the next hour—
roast a pumpkin
write a blog post
Soooooo… the Canada Reads adventure is over for Girl Runner. It was truly lovely while it lasted. Here are the books that were chosen for the 2025 shortlist. Check them out!
I had advance warning that I wasn’t on the shortlist (call it reading the tea leaves; nobody reached out to inform me otherwise, but there were logical signs).
Ergo, my plan for “surviving” yesterday’s announcement (and I do say that tongue-in-cheek!), was to throw myself with gusto into my usual Thursday routine. I walk with a friend at 6AM, head to a pilates class at 7AM, spend the day at work in the library, come home for a bit of a nap and some laundry, then return to the gym for the evening with my daughter who is also a gym rat. We do weights, spin, and blissful slow flow yoga to finish it off, then come home to eat a late supper and completely unwind. I love this routine. It’s the only evening I spend at the gym, and the physical exertion helps me grind out my emotions about the week, empties my mind, and takes me deeper into my body, which connects me to the world. I feel very alive and purposeful on Thursdays. So I wasn’t worried about the residual effects of the announcement, in all honesty.
And then. My day took a turn. Literally.
Midway through our walk, my friend and I dashed across a busy street to beat the traffic, and I stepped in a pothole, turned my ankle, and heard a series of snaps and pops. Having turned my ankle before (playing soccer), I knew exactly what was going down. The walk home was painful and longer than we would have liked, but my friend entertained me with conversation and it felt okay to keep moving and putting some weight on that foot. At home, in the front hall, I briefly debated continuing to pilates class, as planned, and then a voice of reason spoke (strangely enough, it was my own voice, out loud), and I said, “What would I tell a good friend in this situation?” And I replied, “Do not go to pilates. Take off your boots and take care of yourself.”
So that’s what I did.
To summarize, that is how I spent yesterday. I took care of myself.
I booked off work, made an appointment to get the ankle checked, dressed in comfortable clothing, elevated the leg, iced the ankle, surrounded myself with reading material, snuggled with the dog, drank tea, did not do a scrap of laundry, and rested. A day on which I’d strategized to distract myself from potentially painful feelings became a day of reflection. And it was good. It was needed, I think.
For years, when I “failed” to achieve some goal, particularly related to writing, I’d be overwhelmed with shame, expressed like this: I’ve disappointed everyone. I’ve disappointed my publisher, my editor, my agent, my family, my friends, basically everyone who cares about me. Yesterday, this thought rose up, in ghostly form. You’re a disappointment. You’ve disappointed people [in this instance, by not making the shortlist of Canada Reads].
“That’s interesting,” I replied (out loud! As if talking to a friend!). “Tell me, assuming that’s true, what could you have done to avoid disappointing them?”
After a pause, during which I scrolled backward in time through all the choices that were mine to make regarding this particular “failure,” I said, “Not write the book?”
How funny that sounded.
“Maybe,” my wise interlocutor self said, “maybe you’re the one who is disappointed, not everyone else?”
Hmmm… And in that moment, I gave myself permission to feel disappointed.
Ahh. That’s what it feels like. It feels different from shame. It’s sadness, a big sigh, letting go of what could have been (the imagined version, of course, which is never the same as what is).
“What are you disappointed about?” my wise questioner asked.
And out poured my feelings of loss: I thought it would have been really fun … to get to experience new things, meet new people, have some interesting conversations, make new connections … add a little zing of adventure and the unknown into my comfortable routine.
“Yes. That sounds disappointing. It’s okay to be disappointed …. Did you know that?”
Maybe, in fact, I didn’t know that. Maybe this has been a valuable revelation.
It’s disappointing, but it’s not the end of the world, or the end of my career as a writer, of the end of anything, except this potential experience.
Relief and ease poured through me. I read the opening chapters of On Freedom by Timothy Snyder, learning about the German words for body: Leib and Körper, and feeling seen and known. (As I understand it, in Snyder’s reading, a Leib is a body that is alive, limited by mortality, yet free to choose; a Körper is a body that is dead, or seen and treated as an object by others or even by the self; there’s so much more to these ideas and as soon as Kevin got home from work, I peppered him with observations, which I tend to call “revelations!” As in, “I’m having a revelation!” Which happens far too often for them to qualify as such, see above; but that’s how I relish seeing things—as constantly changeable and unfolding and re-forming and illuminating.) Anyway… I also napped for awhile. My ankle ached and turned purple.
By evening, I was restless.
Today, I woke wanting my ankle fully healed. Revelation: healing doesn’t happen overnight.
Slow down, dear friend. Take it one step at a time. Literally.
xo, Carrie
PS If all goes as planned, the roasted pumpkin will be turned into a peanut stew by suppertime.
Thursday, Jan 9, 2025 | Books, Girl Runner, Good News, Library, Publishing, Word of the Year, Writing |
Well, this happened!
I have no idea how it happened, though I’m inclined to think it was all Aganetha’s doing. Aganetha, you may be the lead character in a book called Girl Runner, but your youth is only a piece of your story. You are a woman who endures through all seasons, and who is still running even if only in your mind as your days near their end. You are a character who must have come from me, somewhere inside, or through me, as if channeled; however it happened, I learned from your experiences, your innocence, your fierce fight, your pride. And I learned from your existence in a book that changed my life.
A few days ago, I was contacted with a confidential and completely unexpected heads-up about this news, and I kept it close, almost like I used to keep my Easter candy, tucked away in the back of a drawer, to look with pleasure, but not to eat. I enjoyed, then as now, sensing the presence of a treat, knowing that it was there, and wanting to savour the experience.
Today, I spent my day in the library reading Owl Moon by Janet Yolen to classrooms of children, who seemed as enchanted by the poetic language and the night-time adventure as I was. And then I came home and shared this news. I felt, I feel, such delight. I’m thinking about Aganetha, and remembering the process of writing Girl Runner, and thinking about our great good fortune, me and Aganetha, together. A book that is ostensibly about a young woman, a girl, seems more and more to be about her older, aging self; about endurance, longevity, a spirit that moves and pushes continually onward, restlessly, and through pain, and awe, toward a sense of peace and purpose and belonging.
xo, Carrie
Read the story on the CBC here.
Sunday, Mar 24, 2024 | Art, Big Thoughts, Books, Fire, Francie's Got A Gun, Girl Runner, Manifest, Peace, Play, Publishing, Source, Spirit, Success, Writing |
I’ve been thinking about a book of linked stories that I wrote around 2014-2015, immediately before and after publishing Girl Runner, the novel that at this point in my career seems likely to be my biggest hit, as it were. Girl Runner sold internationally, was translated into a number of languages, and people still invite me to come to their book clubs to discuss it (which means it’s being read, which is quite remarkable, honestly, for a book that celebrates its tenth birthday this year). In short, that book changed my life; but not in ways that I could have predicted, and I’m curious to re-read stories written in the aftermath of success, because what I remember from that time is that I did not feel successful. I felt estranged from myself. I was stressed and under pressure. I fully expected to build on the success of Girl Runner to publish more and bigger; but nothing came. It wasn’t that I was blocked—I wrote a lot—novel drafts, short stories. It’s that what I wrote wasn’t … well, it’s hard to say this out loud, but it wasn’t what was wanted.
I don’t know if I have a gift for writing, but I have a love for it, and a desire to do it—and so I write. For a little blip of time, a decade ago, I could imagine that the foundation was set, and I could spend the rest of my life writing and publishing books, and, crucially, making a living from that work. This hasn’t been the story, though; this hasn’t been the arc of the plot. I’m no longer grieving this as a loss; but I did, and I think a version of that grief is contained in that short story collection (which I titled Why Give Yourself Away?). Why Give Yourself Away was so unwanted, perhaps so unlikeable, that an editor made the assumption I’d submitted the manuscript in order to break a two-book contract. Yikes. When I heard that, a few years after the fact, it was real blow. Because I’d been serious—that book of stories was exactly what I wanted to write and to publish at that moment in my career. I’m not commenting one way or the other from this perspective—was it better for my career that those stories remain in my attic, or would they have been a worthy contribution to my overall published work? I have no idea. Francie’s Got A Gun probably wouldn’t have existed had that project been published, for the plain and simple reason that I wouldn’t have needed to write Francie—I walked through fire for Francie, and that’s something you only do when the need is obsessive and otherwise insurmountable. Writing Francie was a feat of endurance and single-minded optimism. Not hope—hope is softer and more organic, elegant. Francie exists because I was irrational in my need for her to exist.
(And perhaps I love Francie all the more for it.)
Nevertheless, those old stories intrigue me. I wonder what’s captured there—a mortifying self-pity? A Karen-like whine that the world isn’t bending to my will? Something’s in that collection that made an editor cringe. Yet I recall the stories in my mind as almost magical; maybe writing them was medicinal. It got me through. As writing always seems to. It gets me through.
What fascinates me about structuring a narrative is how crucial the unravelling is—the when and the shape of the viewpoint. Am I more ruthless when following a linear structure? I suspect so. Those stories were linear. The project began as an attempt to record in immense detail a single day, on the day that it was happening. The narrator (a version of myself) was unsparing to the point of cruelty to herself. But if I were to return to that narrator now, wouldn’t I see her actions differently? In returning—in recasting the structure as circular—forgiveness, gentleness, curiosity can’t help but creep into the perspective. I have kind feelings toward my younger self. Sometimes, I pause to thank my younger self for her courage, her wild leaps of imagination, her insistence on becoming, and for her mistakes.
If I am fortunate, I will grow old, I will become elderly, and I will thank all my younger versions of self for their persistence and doggedness and belief that everything they did mattered. No matter how small. No matter the visible result.
Think of everything you’ll do in your day that is unseen or unnoticed or unrecognized. Hold a few of these in your mind for a moment, cup your hands around the small actions, gifts and gestures. I did not know the answer to the question Why give yourself away? when I was writing those stories, but the question itself landed differently in my ear at that time. I thought I was giving away pieces of my life to fiction or poetry, or flaying myself open as a means of creating art, and you know, maybe I was, and maybe that’s exactly what it meant at that moment to give myself away.
I won’t rewrite those stories. They stand, as they were, of that time. But I might write a new book with that title. Maybe. Honestly, who knows? I circle, I alight, I take flight.
Why give yourself away? The question lands differently in my ear now—I hear giving as ongoing life-affirming generosity that returns to you a thousand fold, because now I believe that my self is formed of a deep well, a source that is infinite, and that source is love. Unconditional ocean-like, star-like love. “Not the sad edge of surf, but the sound of no shore.” I can’t always access this love, nor am I always in tune with it, but that’s okay. I’m moving in that direction; I’m circling it, in fact. The tree in Francie represents that circling motion—accumulation of experiences, young/ancient core protected and held by rings of capacity.
Why give yourself away? What choice do you have? What you keep, what you hold tightly and cling to, will wither and harden, or pain you for being unspent. The hours are brief, and what you give will be returned to you in another form that you likely won’t be able to see, but you’ll feel and know because those around you will respond to it. If what you give is harmful, you’ll know that. (And by the way, I believe that even if what you’ve given is harmful, by giving it, you’ve opened yourself to the possibility of change—to give is to transform.) If what you give is greater than yourself, you’ll know that too.
This is not about giving everything to everyone, spilling your guts or breaking boundaries: Love the self you are giving away, meet yourself in unconditional love, begin there and expand ever-outward.
Why give yourself away? Because it’s how you find your way back to your source. But that answer is a bit too long.
Because, love.
xo, Carrie
Wednesday, Aug 16, 2023 | Adventure, Big Thoughts, Books, Confessions, Francie's Got A Gun, Friends, Fun, Green Dreams, Interviews, Meditation, Peace, Publicity, Source, Spirit, Summer, Work, Writing, Yoga |
Yesterday, whilst braving the mall in search of nice jeans for work (you have to try on jeans, you cannot order them online), I stopped by the Indigo bookstore and signed new paperback copies of Francie’s Got a Gun. And then this morning, I biked down to the CBC-KW studio for a live interview on our local morning radio show. It was fun; in fact, both experiences felt easier and lighter than promotional work has in the past.
Biking home, I was bursting with gratitude. Gratitude to all my wise counsellors, therapists (official and otherwise) and friends. Gratitude to an ongoing meditation and movement practice that reminds me to breathe and be inside my body. I would not wish to suggest that I am content with my life all of the time. But I am ever more at peace with what I can and cannot give and receive from being a writer. Let my writing be ever more integrated into the fullness of the ordinary; integrated, not elevated. Integrated and enjoyed and appreciated.
Getting to be alive, to breathe and move and help and hug and hold and care and learn and grow and fall and be held—what I hope for is the chance to say THANK YOU for all of this through writing; but there are other ways to say thank you, too, which I’m getting to know and appreciate all the more, through every day ordinary experiences. “Ordinary Wonder Tales,” as per the title of my friend Emily Urquhart’s wonder-filled book of folklore mingled with memoir.
My sense of purpose and gratitude is activated through my job-job, and elsewhere in other points of connection, the little confluences and bumps and unexpected interactions that come along the way, especially as I’ve been willing to be in the world. Listening. Asking questions. Acts of service and kindness. Kindness to myself radiating outward. Paying attention. Solving small problems. Lowering the bar. Prayer. “Joy snacks.” Presence.
Caring.
I know caring isn’t super-cool. But when have I ever been cool?? (If you want to feel very old and very not-cool, go to the mall, go into a store selling jeans, and try on a bunch while asking for sizing advice from a genuinely kind young man who is approximately the age of your own children, and you will actively achieve humility.) In any case … the truth is that I really do care about the people I’m with and the energy I exude.
And I’m thankful, heart-deep, for the wonders of getting to be alive in this broken, challenged, grieving, complicated and beautiful world. I’m in awe of what we get to do here on planet earth, in the little scrap of time we’re given. It’s kind of amazing, isn’t it?
xo, Carrie
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