A Million Candles

InkWell Anthology Launch! Brilliance Is the Clothing I Wear Join us on June 17th for the free virtual launch and celebration of our latest anthology, Brilliance Is the Clothing I Wear!

There was no rhythm to his coming and going. His number popped up on her phone, text message waiting. A weather report. Two days later, a photograph of some item of interest. Then a week and a random “hi”. Attempts to keep up a conversation were pointless. Texts shrunk with each reply until they were obvious auto-replies. And then they stopped.

The appearance of a new text which once made her curious – if briefly excited – now irritated her. How do you respond to “Hot out there.” “Quite.” “Indeed.”

Why did he bother making contact if he didn’t want to engage? She raged internally, pulling at her hair and rubbing the sides of her face in frustration.

After a while, she couldn’t stand the randomness, the emptiness of this exchange.

Could it even be called an exchange?

So she blocked his number. And then she felt like a drama queen, so she unblocked it and texted him as if nothing happened.

He was making her unhinged. She was allowing herself to be made unhinged. And in this unhinged state, she understood the meaning of being beside oneself, because she really felt like she was watching a version of herself that she barely recognized continue talking to someone who didn’t know how to care.

Sounds like a great workshop!

We are thrilled to offer a "Stay At Home" Writing Retreat for Black, Indigenous and People of Colour (BIPOC) to come together, write, connect, exhale, explore, and lovingly witness each other’s words. ❤️

Join coaches Kim, Asifa and Mary on March 5-7 for a weekend of writing in the moment, sharing, and getting full-hearted, supportive feedback. Sign up here: http://ow.ly/KC2f50Dl1cy

I love reading Facebook Marketplace ads - there is a story behind every one. As someone who has been darting in and out of the murky waters of the online dating pool for the past two years, I decided to draft a dating profile in the vein of a FB Marketplace ad:

Leather bag for sale.
Fair condition for its age.
Colour's a bit faded but polishes up nicely.
A bit of sagging here and there.
One large rip repaired as shown.
Lots of life left.
Pet-friendly, smoke-free home.
Cross-posted. Fastest pick-up.

Lately I’ve been wondering whether 80’s sitcoms lied to me.

I was pretty sure that adulthood started right after graduation, or, at least, once you landed that first job. You didn’t change jobs all that often, but you hated every one. The problem was usually your boss, who was most certainly a jerk.

You owned a house, no matter how hard it was to scrape up that down payment. The house always needed maintenance that wasn't in the budget.

You married your high school sweetheart. If your sweetheart died or (gasp) left, someone new would come along when you least expected it. That person would be an unlikely match, but they would give you exactly what you never knew you needed.

A family comprised a husband, wife and three kids (usually two girls and a boy). Parenting meant reminding your kids to do their homework or chores, and, once in a while, imparting sage advice followed by a hug.

Women’s support networks were mostly their sisters or moms, and they only ever talked about marital problems. Men had buddies from work, but they didn’t have meaningful conversations unless they were performing car maintenance or watching a sporting event.

And there was always music and a laugh track to tell you what to feel.

The script I was given didn't play out this way. I did a post-mortem and I don't know what went wrong. Was it too much education? Started my family too late? Had too few kids? Worked too much? Was I too sarcastic? Was the laugh track too loud? Or the soundtrack too quiet?

Whatever it was, my life didn't look like what I saw on TV. But maybe it wasn't me. Maybe I need to write a new script, my own script. Because I am pretty sure 80’s sitcoms lied to me.

Free or pay what you can writing webinars!

https://wildwriters.ca/

Home 2020 - Wild Writers Literary Festival The New Quarterly is proud to present the seventh annual Wild Writers Literary Festival on November 2-4th, 2018 in Waterloo, ON.

Play-Doh has a round smell.
It swells like a balloon inside my nostrils and gets lodged there.
I press the turquoise clay into the sun-warmed, front door lock, and the scent mingles with the tang of brass.
I’ve decided that I want to make a key.
Then I can go and come back again.

I don’t know if she has a key.
She’s thirteen – eight years older than me.
She left and I don’t know where she went.
We sit in silence at the dinner table every night, waiting for the phone to ring.
I hold my mom’s hand at church and watch tears run down her face.

I wonder why she left.
And why she doesn’t return.
Or whether she has come back but not come in.
Maybe she watched us from the street for a while.
Maybe she tried the door and found it locked.

On rainy days, I sit at the bay window and wonder:
Where does she go when the wind cuts and the rain pours?
What does she eat when she’s hungry?
Who cares for her when she’s sick or scared?
Who does she kiss goodnight?

I know the desire to run, but I don’t want to know the answers to those other questions.
So I’ve decided to make a key.
Then I can go and come back again.
But the play clay hardens in the lock
And all I get for my trouble is more trouble.

A little bit more levity for these difficult times. This is a microfiction piece I created for a contest based on the following criteria: genre - comedy; action - dropping something in the ocean; word - appetite.

---

Poseidon gripes to his seagull-attendant about the cruise ship blocking his view of the sunset.

“I may develop an appetite for man-flesh,” he snarls, striking the hull with his trident. The boat sways and bobs in response to the godly blow.

He hears a shout from above and then a plop. Something sticky drips down his cheek.

Outraged, he looks up. A circular object is impaled on his trident, red liquid running down the handle.

Outrage turns to triumph. “A sacrifice to appease me!”

“A jelly donut, m’lord.”

Poseidon’s smile crumbles, as the donut slides off the trident and disappears beneath the waves.

“My donut!” He roars.

Sighing, the seagull fetches another from the cruise ship.

“Jelly?”

“Sprinkle, m’lord.”

Poseidon takes a bite, mumbling contentedly.

A short, funny vignette that popped into my head last year. Glad I thought to write it down. Based on the Star Wars universe.

Senator Palpatine lounges in a white claw foot bath tub filled with bubbles. Darth Vader stands stiffly with his back to the tub, a white, fluffy towel draped over one arm and a sterling silver tray with a champagne glass in the other hand. Palpatine excitedly babbles on about his plans for the Death Spa, a revolutionary, mobile aesthetics service. Darth Vader silently rolls his eyes behind his mask. He thought being a Sith would be cool, but LAME. Seriously, when Palpatine talked about lasers, taking the universe by storm, making a killing, Vader had a totally different idea about his new job. Vader's own exfoliation had gone pretty badly, and he was very skeptical about the test of the new worldwide, laser treatment on Alderon. Palpatine wouldn't hear him out though, and Vader knew he was the one who would have to Force choke people if there was a failure. But there weren't too many other Sith jobs out there, he thought glumly. In fact, there are only two and his boss occupies the other one. Lost in thought Vader fails to detect spies in the corridor. Through the thick doors, they overhear the plans for the Death Spa, but mishear it as the "Death Star". And the rest is (movie) history.

Participating in online event: Journaling the Plague Year with Adam Lewis Schroeder and Alix Hawley.

I am going to write some of my responses to the prompts here. Maybe you want to use some of the prompts to journal your experiences too.

How are you feeling right now?
- unsettled
- like a new person, who is actually my old self
- like a branch, partially severed from the tree of the adult life I have grown. If I fall away, will a new tree grow?
- afraid everything will go back to the way it was pre-pandemic

Pick one thing relating to one of the above thoughts and write about it.

The further I get from the office, the commute and the faces of my colleagues, the further I get from the person I have become since I graduated and began contorting and carving off bits of myself to squeeze into my corporate suit of armour.

Pick out details, use the best three to write a short a paragraph.

Since being at home, parts I thought I'd lost to the carving knife have started to regrow. The lightness of my limbs, freed from the cold, hard steel, inspires movement. I seek out sensory experiences long repressed - the sting of the sun on my exposed forearms, the cool touch of a breeze on my neck.

Over the course of the next three months, I see a small shadow dancing and moving along with me. I recognize her as the girl I left behind so many years ago. She has bright eyes and a ready smile; she soaks up sensory experiences with her eyes closed and an expression of pure bliss.

Thanks to the organizers. It was a great session.

I am baking a refuge for you and for me.

The foundation is sweet butter, white flour, brown sugar, fresh eggs with golden centres, baking powder, spicy cinnamon and sea salt.

With my spatula, I pour and smooth the foundation into the pan. In the oven's heat, the batter will rise into a foamy cushion on which we will rest.

Next, I stack thinly sliced apples to form walls. Glistening with tart-sweet juices, they will be translucent enough to let the light in but sturdy enough to keep the storms out.

Then I pat the roof firmly into place, feeling the cool crumbs made of butter, oats, flour, sugar and cinnamon beneath my palms. I tuck each apple under this crumbly blanket where they will soften and sweeten with time and warmth.

I slide the pan into the oven and close the door. We read books to pass the time. The spicy-sweet smell filling the air transports us to a place of comfort and safety, where a cake, a book and a quiet moment with a loved one is enough to revive a weary body and soul.

When the cake is baked and cooled, we dive in with eager forks, filling our mouths and tummies. We know but do not say out loud that this is just a rest stop in a long trip through a rocky landscape. We enjoy this respite in smiling silence, gathering the strength for the next leg of our journey.

I swallowed too much fire and acid last week. Burned out my insides. Poisoned my soul. Everything hurt and I felt so tired.

This week taking it in small doses. Maybe I'll develop some sort of immunity. Maybe I'll come out stronger.

Strong enough to help.

Strong enough to fight.

I can still remember my mother's 40th birthday. My parents threw a huge party for family and friends, so large that the house couldn't hold all the well-wishers. Party-goers spilled out onto the lawn, standing in small groups or seated on folding lawn chairs. The BBQ and drinks didn't stop all night long.

I remember looking up at my mother at one point during the party. She glowed against the late afternoon sky - her hair full of sunlight, eyes sparkling blue, and smile beaming with joy. I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

I am now older than my mother was then. Since coming to terms with her illness and addiction, I been very conscious about choosing a healthier road. It isn't easy, having absorbed her high expectations for achievement and coping mechanisms for (perceived) failures and periods of difficulty. But I work hard. And sometimes, I think that I am safe, that I have escaped her path.

But then I remember her at 40 - 40 was just the beginning. Around that age, my mother returned to work full time. She had 5 children ranging from 4 to 15 and a husband who worked 24/7 as an editor and freelance journalist. She worked hard at work and at home. She had children with unaccommodated special needs in a world that blamed the child and their parents.

From this point until her retirement, she wore a taut smile and carefully coordinated outfits. Each morning, she curled, teased and sprayed her ash-blond hair into a stiff helmet. Her eyes were ice and her laugh was colder. She bit at us and my father until we disappeared into nothing. When the house wasn't LOUD, it was very quiet. We learned to creep around the house to escape her attention. When we weren't at school, work or a friend's house, we hid in our rooms.

I have to remember that this is still a possible outcome for me. She and I are not so different, and I am at the age when things started to go very badly wrong. So I can't be complacent. I must remain vigilant.

If you are interested in memoir, writing for healing, shadow work, or any other writing focused on exploring memory, I recommend the exercises in the book, Syllabus by Lynda Barry.

In particular, on pp.76-82 of Syllabus, she takes the reader through an exercise in remembering and writing about a specific experience. Because of the incremental nature of the exercise, I have found it easier to get into a memory and write about it. It is akin to getting into a swimming pool step by step.

One tip - she doesn't give a list of nouns to trigger memories. I googled sight words, nouns, for grade 1 and am working my way through the list. I didn't want already prominent memories to skew my writing.

One observation - exploring a memory triggered by a random noun may bring you to something unexpected. For example, I was writing about a caterpillar that terrified me when I was very small. However, the focus of the writing and memory turned towards my mother and how different she was in the garden, how she came alive in the garden.

If you have a good resource or try the above book, please share your experience!

An interesting article re: writing workshops for essential workers to help them write about their experience and observations on the front lines.

https://thebaffler.com/latest/meditations-in-an-emergency-crum

Meditations in an Emergency | Maddie Crum In workshops like those hosted by Mark Nowak and Teju Cole, worker writers make sense of a world reshaped by coronavirus.

The fourth of five children, I grew up in a house filled with people. Even though we were a reserved group, there was always some sort of noise - the hum of conversation in another room, the canned laughter and dialogue on the television, a cat scratching to be let in or out, a record playing on the stereo.

An introvert by nature, I spent a lot of time in my room reading, writing, drawing, painting and, sometimes, just daydreaming. Yet, I kept my door open even when I wanted to be physically alone. I even slept with it open, drifting off to the sound of my parents finishing up the dishes and getting ready for bed.

I grew to need that background noise. In high school, I studied best in the family room, with one ear tuned into my siblings' banter and whatever show was playing on the television. In university, I worked in the middle of the largest and noisiest cafeteria on campus. Even now, I always have some sort of ambient music playing in my office.

With physical distancing measures in place to control the spread of COVID-19, I don't miss going out to restaurants or bars, or large social events. But I do miss the sound of people, their physical presence. The emptiness of my house weighs heavily on me.

Migraines

He screws down the clamps on my shoulders, and tightens the vise at the base of my skull.

A white-hot steel band is pulled from the coals, shaped into a fiery crown and placed on my brow.

A blessed curse to be so decorated, lights glow and spark in mocking adulation.

I try to close my eyes only to find that they have become too big for their sockets.

My eyes fly open again when he strikes the chisel, driving its point into my skull. The ring of the hammer against the steel almost masks the dull crack of bone.

The world goes black. When I wake, the ghost of pain hovers just out of view. It whispers to me, reminding me it could happen again. It will happen again.

Write a poem, a story, a love letter, a secret message or even a menu, using trees.

https://mymodernmet.com/nyc-trees-font-katie-holten/?fbclid=IwAR1IemxlF46zhItngP5y00CFR8Z8Rwnc_SQuH_n_pJ-vOMBE5ka2ZyqDnfk

A great facilitator and session (I have done it twice!).

Introduction to Writing to Heal - an Online Workshop

Sunday, April 26, 2020 at 1:30 PM – 4:30

3 Hour Workshop *Price per ticket of $29.95 includes taxes and fees.

Expressive writing, also known as writing for wellness and therapeutic writing has revealed a new world to our host Katheen McNichol. “I’ve found that when I write about my personal experiences, goals and desires, I achieve a sense of peace and acceptance about life’s many challenges. I’ve also found that when I write for myself without listening to my inner critic or focusing on financial gain, the quality of my writing improves. But most importantly, expressive writing has taught me to be vulnerable. I’ve learned to reveal myself to myself, and ultimately, understand and appreciate who I really am.”

This is a virtual live workshop - You will be sent your link to this workshop via email approximately 2 hours prior to the start of the event. Please note that refunds will not be provided due to incompatible technology. Please check your technology prior to purchasing your ticket. There is a zoom test link available for your use in the workshop description.

Tickets by

eventbrite.ca/e/introduction-to-writing-to-heal-a-virtual-workshop-tickets-101909634460

facebook.com/dreamerswriting

I am blessed.
Sitting here in a comfortable home with a large, green yard, I have everything I need and I know that my family is well.
With an internet connection, I have unlimited access to conversation, education and entertainment.
I may be frustrated and I may be worried, but, overall, I feel blessed.
Watching live performances and lessons by musicians and other artists, I think about my motivations for creating and sharing.
Common themes - we create to transport, connect, touch, and teach.
When I was in the depths of my zombie-state as a hard-working professional, when I felt dead and unable to create, my daughter would ask for bedtime stories and I would bear down and build them with the last coughs from my back up generator. She never knew how hard this was, but she appreciated the stories nonetheless.
Art makes people feel seen, validated, and understood. And it helps them process, feel and understand.
Thanks to all those creating and sharing during these hard times, and all those agencies and sponsors making this possible.

Like many other artists I know, I have had a hard time creating anything in the past month or two.

It may seem counter-intuitive. After all, there is so much to process and express. And we are home more, so, theoretically, we have more time and space to create. Given that, why are we stuck?

Maybe there is too much to process. Maybe we don't know how to use this unexpected time at home. Maybe we don't know where to direct our energy, because things that seemed important before the pandemic, feel trivial or decadent now.

I don't know what the reason is...but many creative people feel stuck.

What have I heard or observed artists doing during this time?
- sharing their existing body of work with others over the internet
- teaching their craft over the internet
- doing small, simple projects that keep the creative energy flowing but aren't too emotionally or mentally demanding
- studying their craft and learning from others
- turning their creative efforts into making things that help people impacted by the pandemic

What have I heard from my friends who do not consider themselves creators?
- they feel absolutely privileged to hear daily concerts from professional musicians and see tours of art galleries and museums they would not otherwise have the chance to visit.
- they are thrilled to receive lessons from artists, writers and musicians, and to support those individuals in any way they can.
- they are excited to join with others who are dancing, drawing, painting, singing, writing...there is such joy in connection.
- they are happy to have the opportunity to share this with their children.

So, for what it is worth, my advice is to do what you can. All of it is appreciated. But don't beat yourself up for what you do or do not create. All of us are floundering in this upended world.

Take good care of yourself and your families.

I was fortunate to attend a memoir writing workshop with author and professor, Lamees Al Ethari. Among other resources, she recommended, Syllabus by Lynda Barry (https://www.drawnandquarterly.com/syllabus). I ordered the book that evening and was thrilled to see the package in my mailbox yesterday. I managed to resist opening the cover until after dinner, when I was appropriately pajama clad and had a cup of apple cinnamon tea in hand. I enjoyed what I've read so far, and the start I made on one of the exercises. Looking forward to getting back to it tonight!

Syllabus The award-winning author Lynda Barry is the creative force behind the genre-defying and bestselling work What It Is. She believes that anyone can be a writer and has set out to prove it. For the past decade, Barry has run a highly popular writing workshop for nonwriters called Writing the Unthinkabl...

Hurry up, Spring

I walked into my local dollar store the other day in search of materials for an art project. Uncertain of what I could use, I wandered up one aisle, down the other, row by row.

Turning down the seasonal aisle, the first thing that caught my eye was a child-sized gardening set hanging from a metal hook to my left. It immediately transported me in time and space to a place where the ground was soft and a green haze was just starting to creep over the trees and bushes.

I could see myself kneeling next to my son as we turned the black earth and cleared the weeds, making room for flowers to grow. Still wearing sweaters against the damp chill of early spring, we smiled and chattered under a cornflower sky. Birds twittered as they darted back and forth gathering materials for their nests.

For a moment, I was there. The jingle of the bell over the store's front entrance wrenched me back. Looking out over the the parking lot covered in ice and snow, I decided to buy the gardening set for my son. Perhaps, it will serve as a talisman to speed along the advent of spring.

For writers interested in creative non-fiction: https://www.creativenonfictioncollective.ca/ AND
https://ukings.ca/area-of-study/master-of-fine-arts-in-creative-nonfiction/?fbclid=IwAR13B7y6ilfqsFCx5iK55-vK6ZK8tA4h4JtkTrLBDU5JQl8d06bSrveuLsQ

CNFC - Creative Nonfiction Collective Society

Just discovered butterfliesrising.com. This is one of their beautiful pieces about people who bring light into our lives. Enjoy.

Put your Mask on First

"You're no use to them dead," the counselor says in a quiet, but firm voice.

I wasn't so sure, but I nod anyway.

"Have you ever been on an airplane?" She asks, trying to catch my eye.

I nod again, looking out the window.

"What do they say to do if the cabin air pressure drops?"

"Panic and run for the exit?" I ask with a weak smile still staring at the cold, grey landscape.

"Put your mask on first," she says. "You gotta take care of yourself, so you can take care of them."

This is hard to do. The should-of, must-of and got-to demons swirl around my head like a fire storm, boxing my ears with their wings and clawing at my eyes. Sometimes it gets to be so much that I curl up on the floor with my arms over my head. But I can still hear them shrieking about the files on fire at work, laundry and cleaning to be done at home, the fact that I never see my child, and my spouse is barely speaking to me.

But I do what the counselor says and start to carve out time for my health. Mostly, I go to the gym. I run until my head is empty and I lift weights until my body feels slow and heavy. Sometimes, if I am feeling particularly self-indulgent, I take a hot shower and then sit in the sauna with my eyes closed. On those days, my spouse's face is dark with disapproval when I get home for taking so much time. But I am willing to weather the storm clouds in the hopes that I will get at least a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Some nights it works and for that I am grateful.

I made it through those years and out the other side. The amazing restorative power of exercise was one of the most important lessons I took from that time period. That and the reminder to put my mask on first.

Who are the monsters?

I read, recently, that monsters are anything strange or against nature. They are sent to us by the gods to warn us of evil or a grave threat to social or moral order (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monster).

According to Nikita Gill, every monster was "once a human being with a soul that was as soft and light as silk," and that the human became a monster when that silk was stolen from their soul. (https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2215344/the-truth-about-monsters-nikita-gill/)

So if a monster is merely the messenger, if a monster is really a victim, then why do we hunt them? Why don't we try to find out why they were sent and who made them into monsters?

Maybe we are afraid to find out that the answer is us.

Monster - Wikipedia A monster is often a type of grotesque creature, whose appearance frightens and whose powers of destruction threaten the human world's social or moral order.

Origin Story - Part 2

My daughter has always had a hard time falling asleep. I lay beside her every night until she was at least seven years old, waiting for her eyes to close and her breath to grow slow and steady.

The routine was the same each night. We read book after book, until I insisted we turn out the light. Then she would tell me about her day, pepper me with questions, and press me for stories. Even on nights when I was particularly tired, I could usually come up with one story.

There were two types of stories. For the first type, my daughter gave me a long list of her favorite television characters and the name of a place she liked to visit. I was required to incorporate these into a story which included my daughter, our family, her friends and our tabby cat. I borrowed heavily from the story lines in the television shows she watched, so it wasn’t a particularly taxing or creative exercise. She seemed happy, though, and that is all that mattered.

The second set of stories was hatched and incubated in a part of my brain that I hadn’t used in years. While it was exciting to explore those newly created worlds with my daughter, it was also very challenging for me. There were days, especially when I felt mentally or emotionally drained by work or life or both, where the exercise was like trying to light a campfire in the rain. But the more I told her original stories, the more she wanted.

Origin Story - Part 1

My legs jutting out from beneath the broadsheet, I state with a frown of frustration and determination, "I want to read, mama." My mother removes the newspaper from my hands, wipes away the ink on my fingers, and gives me an alphabet book.

I study the book closely until the words are no longer collections of letters that need to be sounded out in order to make sense; instead, the words form pictures in my mind of the things they are meant to represent. The realization that my mind can perceive something that isn't physically present simply by reading a word feels like some strange and wonderful magic.

***

In the back sunroom, I sit, chubby legs crossed, on the rough, yellow-grey carpet. Orange HB wooden pencil grasped tightly in my fist, I follow my older sister's instructions on the proper shape and order of letters to form the words "mom" and "dad".

My sisters and I practice writing at the chalkboard in the kitchen and on scraps of paper we find around the house. It isn't long until I can write most of the words I can read.

Combining the ability to form letters with my fascination for the power of words to conjure images and feelings, I begin to write stories. I give these stories to people as gifts.

I signed up for a print-making class last night at ReFind Studio + Shop in Elora, Ontario. (I highly recommend a visit to both the shop and the town. I plan to go back as soon as I can.)

Before last night, I hadn't done any print-making since Grade 10. It was a fun group and a well-run class. I came away with a hand-carved rose stamp and some cards.

Cross-pollination of creative arts and being around other creative people keep my brain working and my motivation high. Is there anything you want to try (again)? Go for it!

Huddled in an old green bathrobe. Shivering, I contemplate the grey and sleeping garden.
The last red berries stripped from the blackened branches of the hawthorn bushes.
The somber trees resolute in their nakedness under the cold gaze of a pale sun.
And, then, a quick, bright movement catches my eye.
A bird dressed in brown silk darts out from under a bush.
She would just fill my palm. If only she would come closer.
I toss her some crumbs from my breakfast plate.
She hops away, watching me, and then back towards the crumbs.
Peck. Peck. She looks at me expectantly.
I toss a few more, nearer to my foot.
She hesitates; then hops closer.
I don’t know if it is trust or hunger, but I don’t care.
My palms anticipate cradling her soft warmth.
She hops closer still, so I make a hollow in the lap of my robe and spread a trail of crumbs up one pant leg.
I hold my breath.
Hop. Hop. Pause.
A clumsy grab with stiff hands sends her flapping.
Her wings stir the icy air.
She grows smaller, a black dot in a big white sky.