Category Archives: About Writing

The election is like a cancer diagnosis Part 2

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So, if the election is a cancer diagnosis, what happens now? Again, I should know.

Like I said in Part One, for most of us, it’s too soon to call in MAiD. (But I defend your right to do it.)

It’s easier to find any fight left in you if you have some help. Some community. Some solidarity. Some fellowship. Some sisterhood. Look for it. It’s there. This is something I know for sure.

But first you have to get up. (I saw this reel this morning, and I liked it.) Getting up might be metaphorical. Maybe you actually can’t get up physically. That’s ok. Maybe you can get up mentally or emotionally.

When you’re ready. But don’t take too long. Because the antidote to despair is action. So get up.

When you get a cancer diagnosis, you need a lot of help. If you’re lucky, you’ve got a deep bench already. I don’t usually go to sports analogies, but this one works. You need people who will drive you to the hospital, drop off casseroles, pick up the walker you’ve had to rent and drop it off to you. You need someone to help look after the kids. That kind of thing. If you’re really lucky, you’ve got some people in your life who will talk straight with you. Treasure them. And when you are able, do the same for them.

But what happens if everyone gets a cancer diagnosis at the same time and we all need the casseroles? Well, look around. There are models.

The disability community has been showing us how to do this forever. Mutual aid built around radical acceptance. That’s what you need.

Look around some more. The climate action folks have been doing this forever. In the most hopeless circumstances, they work. And they have made progress. Look at the progress. Don’t get too mired in the defeats.

Look around. Look at the LGBTIQ community. Solidarity in action, love in action. And look at how to do it with JOY.

There are many other places to look. What they have in common is empathy. Kindness. Grit.

People are already doing the work. You are not alone. Join them, or recommit. Redouble your efforts. Maybe that group you thought was “too radical” is just what you need now. Maybe stop working for people who only want a wee bit of change, just enough to make themselves comfortable. Look for the people trying to make everyone better.

Start a mutual aid group in your building, on your street. Talk to your neighbours. Go to the community centre. Maybe you can be that subversive voice in the knitting group. Do it. Knit little hats for the babies of all the teen moms (there are going to be more and more). I love knitting analogies more than sports analogies. And cooking analogies too. It doesn’t have to be hard or fancy or perfect. It’s ok to drop a stitch. It’s ok to burn the edges of the lasagna a bit. Maybe lasagna was too hard to do. Make something easier. Throw the ingredients on a sheet pan. Keep it simple. Start a knitting group and bring the sandwiches. You are needed. When you have the energy, you are still needed. And when you don’t have the energy, you are allowed to rest. Do what your heart calls you to do, do what you can, and do it until your last breath.

You do not have to accept the unacceptable. The hardest work will be to set boundaries, recognize the gaslighters. You are going to have to let some people go. You are going to have to say no to a lot of nonsense. Fascist-adjacent is just as bad as fascism. Don’t make excuses.

Read Timothy Snyder’s book On Tyranny. Lesson One is “Do not obey in advance.” Do not alter your moral compass to adjust to their misaligned North. You know where North is. It hasn’t changed. Hold fast to your true north.

We are in this together. You are in it with other people. Reach out. Start knitting. Knit this broken world together again in a whole new unexpected shape. Not by yourself. Just add some stitches. It will help.

There is still life after the cancer diagnosis. It might not be the life you wanted or thought you deserved. Grieve. And then, keep going.

The Next Book

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A box full of notes about ”Alice,” my (maybe) next book.

People ask me about my next book, and I appreciate their faith that there will be one. Such optimism! Even referring to Patterson House as my first novel is optimistic. But with recent news that appears to be pointing at the demise of the publisher of PH, I wonder.

I love writing. I love interacting with readers. I love giving readings. I love being in the company of other writers. And I love books—libraries, book stores, my own bookshelves, perusing the shelves of others! The smell of a book when I open it. It’s all great.

I do not like the business of books, particularly that awful time when I have a book complete and I am seeking a publisher. The book business is hard and getting harder.

For a long time, I searched for an agent. An agent would be helpful for me, especially given my brain injury. I need someone to handle the business of my writing. That part of the work holds me back. Agents are hard to come by. I had three close calls when I was shopping Patterson House, all with variously heartbreaking endings. So close.

Now, like so many others, I go it alone. But that’s not really true either. I have a group of incredible writing friends that I rely on for feedback, for business advice, for commiseration, for shared joy at success. I’m grateful to all of them.

Will there be a next book? Probably. I have a project I’m into that I refer to as ”Alice.” I can’t think about publication. That feels like too much right now. If a book is written and no one reads it, does it still count? I think so.

Single Family Dwelling

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Overheard— “Yeah, this old lady lived there forever. Her garden was incredible. Like, you would stop on the sidewalk to look at it. Then she died. There was some sort of problem with the house. I don’t know. But these crack-heads moved in and it took, like, fifteen years to get them out. By then, the garden was ruined.”

I wonder— Did her garden offer a respite, a brief solace, a minute of uncomplicated pleasure, to anyone? Did someone notice the daffodils peek up from the soil in the spring, stare deep into the heart of a rhododendron, or watch a bee gather pollen? Did the scent of lilac help someone sleep? Did anyone look out to the yard through that cracked bedroom window, see a bud or a bloom or a leaf and wonder, if only for a second, how am I connected to all of this life?

Historical Fiction is fiction. And fact.

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Copy edits and fact checking are going on now for PATTERSON HOUSE and I suddenly realized I forgot an author’s note, which is a pretty typical thing to put in historical fiction. Who doesn’t like a little chat about sources and accuracy, something to the effect of this is history AND fiction, and how it is not possible be 100% accurate when I have inserted a completely fictional family into the mix? I have messed with the space time continuum. I have violated the prime directive. These actions leave marks.

Do I know who owned the Phoenix Block before it burned to the ground in the Great Fire of 1904? Well, yes, I actually do. But for the purposes of this book, it was William Patterson. Why? Because the imagery of the Phoenix is just too good to throw away.

Mr. Newton Wylie actually was a real person and a leader in the prohibition movement. And he really did break his back. I did not make him up. Or did I? Do I know if he was married or if he was the kind of man to notice a woman’s hat? No. No I don’t. But his name was too perfect to set aside. Mr. Newton Wylie is part of my PATTERSON HOUSE world now and welcome to him.

Bishop Strachan was certainly a real person. Do I know if he would have helped marry off a cousin in England? I do not. But this is what historical fiction is like.

What I like about historical fiction is the possibility of anchoring the story in real events. I believe it lends a story authenticity. What I also like about historical fiction is making the story up.

Somehow, I will get that into my author’s note.

The Phoenix Block, burned to the ground after the Great Fire of 1904

 

 

 

PATTERSON HOUSE is on the way (knock on wood)

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Inanna is going into production of the fall schedule. PATTERSON HOUSE is finally going to see the light of day. September 27, 2022 is the publication date.

It’s been a journey. In case you ever wondered if you should keep going, if you ever wondered if your work would ever get finished and get “out there”, here are a few of the things that happened along the way to writing my first novel.*

After starting the work in 2006, I realized I did not know what I was doing. I gave up several times. I took courses. I joined writing groups. I got help.

I turned several ideas into short stories. I published unrelated short stories and other work. Smaller things. I learned.

I realized I had too many characters.

The main character changed. It was supposed to be the young Constance, but Alden took over, which is so like her, and I had to acquiesce.

I gave up again.

I moved to Boston and decided that was a good time to resurrect the book and figure how to write a novel while getting an MFA, which I did. Meanwhile, Elaine and I edited an anthology about menopause because all that was happening too.

This brings us to 2016.

I had an agent interested. I promised her a full MS in four months. I wasn’t quite finished, but knew I could be in four months.

Then I was in a car accident and got a brain injury. That journey is described in IMPACT. The TLDR version: I had to learn how to do a lot of things again, including read.

Three years later, to no one’s surprise, the agent very kindly said she was no longer interested.

I found another agent who seemed very interested and suddenly our movement towards a contract faltered. She had decided to leave the business.

I found a third agent, who was even more effusive than the second. While we were negotiating the fine print of the contract, she left the business, which I learned about on Twitter. I began to wonder if I was the common denominator here. Was my novel driving people out of publishing? Luckily, I had not yet signed because although the agency promised to take care of her clients, they did not.

I gave up looking for an agent.

I started submissions. There were rejections. And near misses. Perhaps the best/worst was when a house told me I was ninth on their list and they decided to publish eight books that year. Seriously, why even tell me that? I mean, thanks? I guess?

And then acceptance! I signed with Inanna. I had worked with them in the past (Writing Menopause) and was excited to do so again, especially with Editor Luciana Ricciutelli, who I first met in 1998 and had always admired.

The pandemic started and Inanna, like so many other presses (both small and large), delayed their entire schedule. Lu sent a multi-page email detailing the situation. Totally understandable. Even major movies were being delayed. No one knew what was going on. Meanwhile, I was working on IMPACT. I had a lot to keep me busy.

Then the unthinkable happened; dear Lu died. A tragedy for so many people. And my book was, understandably, delayed again. A minor thing in the context of the loss of such a wonderful person.

There was one more delay after that. Probably for the best since IMPACT was coming into the world and with my brain injury, I’m better doing one thing at a time.

The September 27 date comes with some cautions; paper shortages, shipping containers, etc etc etc etc etc. Recently, I heard of a YA writer whose container full of books landed in the Pacific somewhere. I couldn’t read on. My heart goes on to them. Anything can happen.

But for now 16 years after I first had the idea for this novel, Inanna will publish PATTERSON HOUSE. I can’t wait to share this last leg of the journey. It’s been a long time coming.

What’s the lesson here? Keep trying. Sometimes things take a while. Knock on wood.

* ”First novel” is the MOST optimistic phrase I have ever uttered.

 

 

Writing Trauma

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I’ve been working on a wee craft essay on writing about trauma. It’s a strange piece that has been on and off my desk for about a year. I’ve done research and am shocked by how little has been written about how best to convey trauma. It would be a great topic for a creative writing class, and one I would really like to teach. (Anyone want to give me the gig?)

There is lots of writing about the therapeutic benefits of writing about trauma for the writer. We all know it can be a great relief to get it all down on the page. It is a clarifying experience. But that’s not what I’m interested in for this essay. There’s not much (any?) craft advice about writing techniques that can be used to convey trauma.

I’m developing a few theories. Here’s hoping I find an audience for the essay.

We are all the walking wounded. We are all traumatized. That’s why there is such a thing as a trigger warning. We know we can be set off again. How do we write about traumatic events and experiences in a way that does not spread the trauma around? If we agree that traumatizing or re-traumatizing others is not desirable, (and maybe we don’t agree) what can we do to convey the gravity of the traumatic situation without doing harm to the reader? Is it possible? Are the techniques we can use different if the trauma is recounted as part of real life in memoir or as part of the experience of a fictional character?

If you have thoughts, let me know in the comments. I’m getting back to the essay tomorrow.