Ze Frank — An Invocation for Beginnings

It’s all about getting started on a new project, and the roadblocks we tend to put in our own way, and the morning I watched it, I was just sitting down to start writing the first chapter of a new book, and I was terrified.

I was terrified for all the same reasons any author starting a new project is always terrified. For example, what if I worked hard and the end result still sucked? What if people said lots of mean things about it on GoodReads when it came out or, worse, what if no publisher would want to touch it and then they’d all get together at some kind of top-secret publishers meeting and decide that I am lame and to banish me from the entire industry for life, etc., etc? Don’t laugh! It could totally happen.

Considering the risks, it seemed safest not to start writing at all… but then, Ze Frank talked some sense into me. My favourite line from the whole video is this:

“Perfectionism may look good in his shiny shoes, but he’s a bit of an a**hole, and no one invites him to their pool parties.” – Ze Frank

HA! Too true! Why is it that so many of us feel this extreme, soul-crushing pressure to produce something perfect, or to BE someone perfect when NOBODY really likes perfection anyway?

I remember being a new mom and taking my daughter to a mommy and me group. We were all surviving on zero to three hours of sleep and had barely combed our hair in two months… except for this one mom who always managed to arrive wearing spit-up-free clothing, makeup and ACTUAL earrings. I disliked her right away. Not that it was her fault. It’s possible that she was an entirely decent person, but I just couldn’t get past those damned earrings. They made me feel so bad about myself!!

In a similar way, I feel most welcomed when I visit friends apartments and there are a few dust bunnies in the corners and dishes in the sink. I like old houses with creaky floors and weird, useless nooks and crannies. I SO admire people who learn a new language and then speak it, in public, getting their words all mixed up and their verbs all wrong. Again and again, I feel drawn to anyone who knows how to mess up, and fall flat on their face, and then get up and laugh at themselves and keep going.

And, weirdly enough, I’ve found over the years that the things I see in myself as the biggest imperfections are often the same things my friends admire most. I hate that I’m quiet and shy. (My friends sometimes call it ‘thoughtful and wise.’) I have two wonky teeth that are really crooked and really bug me. (When I said I was thinking about getting braces my best friend said she was going to miss my cute teeth.) I feel like I stress about money too much. (Other people say I’m smart to be frugal and ask for advice on RRSPs.)

Smiling at you with wonky teeth!

And so, I guess, all this is to say ‘Hey, thanks, Ze Frank.’ Because I started my new book after all and, yes, it is a total mess, as first drafts tend to (in fact NEED TO) be. And that’s okay. Because out of the mess, the story is emerging in its own imperfect way. And the fact that I’m busy writing again has filled me with optimism and made me smile, cute teeth and all.

WHY did it make my head almost explode? Well, the gist of this article was that young people publishing books was somehow a bad thing… because their parents were just humoring them, really, and there was no way their work could possibly be good enough to warrant publication… and having published a book would just make their heads swell up like balloons anyway, and really, they should leave publishing to the professionals.

Seriously? I mean, really? These kids… these 12-15 year olds… are sitting down and writing ENTIRE books, and this is the reaction they get? How mean! But, then again, I shouldn’t be so surprised. We live in a society where people seem to like to radiate meanness and find fault with things at every turn. It’s kind of a wonder anyone has the guts to be creative anymore. Which is why, whenever they do, it reminds me of this:

PLEASE do not squish this flower.

A brave and beautiful little flower, pushing itself up through a crack in the pavement, against all odds. Would you step on this flower? Please tell me you wouldn’t! Good. I didn’t think so… but some people would. From the New York Times article, I quote:

“What’s next?” asked the novelist Tom Robbins. “Kiddie architects, juvenile dentists, 11-year-old rocket scientists? Any parent who thinks that the crafting of engrossing, meaningful, publishable fiction requires less talent and experience than designing a house, extracting a wisdom tooth, or supervising a lunar probe is, frankly, delusional.”

First of all, I can tell you from experience that writing a book does NOT require the same skill level as supervising the landing a lunar probe. (Not that I’ve ever landed a lunar probe… but I have enough trouble parallel parking my car, so I’m pretty sure nobody would even let me try). And, if you ask me, that’s one of the greatest things about writing. Last time I checked, there was no lunar probe landing license required. Anybody–or, at least, anybody with basic literacy skills–can try their hand at it. And because anybody can try their hand at it, I truly believe that anybody can get good at it if they work hard enough and find their own unique way of telling a story.

But hey, why let kids enjoy the process of writing and experience a sense of success when we can tear them down instead? From the same article:

“Alan Rinzler, a publishing industry veteran who now works with writers as an editorial consultant, suggested that parents hire a professional editor like him to work with their child to tear a manuscript apart and help make it better. “That sort of puts a reality check on it,” he said.”

Sigh. Okay, now that my head is mostly finished exploding, let me say this: of course, writing and publishing are two very different things. One is very private, the other is very public. Would I have personally been ready for publication at age 12? God no!

When you put your work out there for the world to see, you open yourself up to all kinds of criticism and feedback you may not (even as an adult) be quite ready for. And from that perspective–and that perspective only–I can see why parents and kids should give some serious thought to the matter before self-publishing at such a young age.

But, that said, if someone (kid or adult) writes an ENTIRE book, and they are proud of it, and they want to share it, couldn’t we all agree to at least congratulate them on their efforts, and look forward to seeing how their writing will evolve in the years to come? Would it kill us to offer each other–and especially children–a little support?

Personally, I can’t see how the fact that these parents are investing in their children in this way, and demonstrating their pride in their work, is anything but beautiful and promising. Because without that kind of encouragement, there’s not much chance a seed can blossom into a big, beautiful flower, especially in a creative climate like ours.

And, given the right growing conditions, I, for one, can’t wait to see what these dedicated kids will be working on 5, 10 or even 20 years from now.

Mmmmmmmm. Donuts.

Back in the fall, I ran my first youth writing workshop series through the Toronto Public Library. Public speaking ISN’T my strong point and I was TERRIFIED… but, like many things that initially scare the b’jesus out of me, the experience ended up being pretty incredible.

It reminded me of riding a roller coaster, actually. As the days before each workshop ticked by, I’d walk around thinking “I’m going to barf. I can’t do this. I’m going to barf. I can’t do this.”

And then I’d get there, and we’d have a blast. And it was like, ‘WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

Then I’d come home on a huge high, ready to do it again… only to immediately forget how much fun it had been, and begin repeating my mantra about barfing the very next day.

But, in the end, I met some really special, incredibly talented kids, and it seems like they must have had at least a fraction as much fun as I did (hopefully minus the nerves), because the library has invited me back to do it again—-which I am very excited about, I think.

The workshop (which is called True Lies: Learning to Write Realistic Fiction) is set to begin April 4 and will run for 4 Wednesdays from 4:30-6:00. We’ll be working on short pieces of fiction that will ring true (even though they’ll be totally made up). Also, there are going to be donuts at the end. So, if you’re a young person 9 or older who lives near the Don Mills area of Toronto and likes to write, you should come! I promise not to barf on you.

You’ll find the details on the TPL site. Call in and register now, cause space is limited. Okay? Okay then! Here we go. WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Current office. Lovely, in its corner-of-the-room way... I'm NOT complaining.

But a girl can dream, right? Like, wouldn’t this make the perfect home office?

The Harbinger, by www.tumbleweedhouses.com

Inside view of Harbinger cottage.

Another view of the inside of the Harbinger house

Or what about this? Can you imagine the light pouring through those windows?

Canmore Cottage from www.summerwood.com

Or maybe even just this. 1,2,3… can we all please say ‘adorable’ on cue?

Hansel Cottage by Hugh Comstock

I think any one of these would fit nicely in our Toronto backyard which, really, is a fair size as these things go. I mean, as long as we didn’t feel the need to still have, say, a lawn. But, honestly, lawn-shmawn. So much mowing. Who has the time…. ESPECIALLY when they’re busy writing loads and loads of books in their brand new mini house? Not me. That’s for sure.

They were always showing terrible things on the news. Bombs went off. Kids got abducted. Murders happened all over the place and my mom never cried. So why was this news story any different?

As the years passed, my mother took me to candlelight vigils every Dec. 6 and I listened to the 14 names being read out. And every year the reality and the horror sunk in a little more. I was 17 the when I wrote these 14 poems as part of a creative writing assignment. I went to the library one weekend and read microfilms of the Ottawa Citizen from the days following the massacre. And when I read the details with my own eyes, from my now (mostly) mature point-of-view, I felt sick. I realized how terribly young these 14 women were, and how they were killed for no reason other than that they were women.

I still didn’t know much about them personally, but I decided to write each of them a poem that would not only help to record the terrible events of Dec. 6, but also reflect the fact that they were each unique women whose lives were cut much too short. Most years, on this day, these poems seem to turn up somewhere on the Internet, but I’ve never actually posted them myself until now.

14, As More Than Just a Number

For Genevieve Bergeron, 21
Because you bled one week of every month.
Because you wanted to build bridges and towers.
Because you weren’t at home dusting the den.
Because, for no reason.
Because “The gunman suffered a brutal upbringing”
Because the world has gone mad, gone sad.
Because you were there.

For Helene Colgan, 23
At 5:30, the paper says,
on Dec. 6
he began to roam the halls
hunting humans
with two ammunition belts
criss crossed on his chest;
a semi-automatic,
and a knife
and his eyes – cold
and his hand – steady
And in the paper they quote,
“It was just like Rambo.”
But what would you say, Helene,
if you could say?
Probably just
that it wasn’t fair;
that Rambo
only shot
the bad guys;
that your gunman
was shorter,
much scrawnier,
and no kind of hero.

For Nathalie Croteau, 23
When he spat:
“feminists,”
like a dirty taste
from his mouth
you were the only one who said ‘no’
You said, “We aren’t.
Not the kind who protest
in the streets.”
Probably your last words
Probably not quite true
Not the kind who protest in the streets
But in the classroom.
The kind who would challenge,
the kind who would speak up;
try to save thirteen women
and herself
when everyone else
had lost their words.
Brave Nathalie
in coffin #8.

For Barbara Daigneault, 22
Later, they talked about the men
and the guilt
He was smaller than me,
I could have jumped him.
Could have
Should have
Would have
Could have been the hero
Should have hit, kicked,
slugged him hard,
sprayed a fire extinguisher
in his eyes.
Would have, if only
I’d thought of it in time.
Could have bashed his teeth out
Should have thrown him through
the wall.

For Anne-Marie Edward, 21
21 is very young
only 17 + 4.
21 should be camping in the Gatineau
Backpacking, hitchhiking,
meeting the man of her dreams
21 drinks cold coffee and works
late into the morning, on drafts
of a paper
she really should have started
last month.

21 drives with her music
turned up loud
and worries where
she’s going
with this life of hers
and whether or not
she can pay off
the phone bill
21 thinks often of a house
in a quiet neighbourhood
and a wedding dress
with a nice head piece
or veil
not too fancy,
and not too soon,
but not so very far off either.

For Maud Haviernick, 31
(Quotes taken from the Ottawa Citizen)
“The man who killed 14 women on Wednesday had trouble relating to women and
couldn’t
keep a steady relationship.”
“No way,”
you might say.
“Well, then… it’s okay.
Was he beaten as a child?
In high school, was he wild?
Was he reckless? Was he tough?
Did he just need more love?
Or was he bullied? Did they taunt him?
Did they pants him?
Did they punch him?
Did his mother make him bad?
Was she absent? Was his dad?
And how is it no one saw it?
no one caught it?
no one thought it?”
“He had difficulties in expressing his need to love and be loved. He was a very
troubled
individual, who suffered a brutal upbringing.”
“No way,”
you might say,
“well then…
it’s okay.”

For Maryse Leclair, 23
It didn’t seem any different
when his alarm went off
at 6:30
like every morning
just like it does
every morning
And when your father
read the newspaper,
put on his uniform-
when he secured his gun
in the leather holster,
how was he to know
he would walk
through his daughter’s blood
towards her killer
lying shot through the head
in a third floor classroom?
All in a days work.
All in a days work.
All in a days work.
Not today.

For Anne-Marie Lemay, 27
You were just an Everywoman.
Nothing personal, Anne-Marie.
You were Everywoman
who turned her back,
Everywoman who wouldn’t let him
buy her a drink,
take her home,
take her in his arms.
Everywoman on the street
wearing a business suit
and heels
Each one he thought
was laughing at him.
If he’d known you were one woman
One woman who liked
to ride her bicycle in the spring,
who sometimes woke up
late at night
with cravings for sea food,
who wore red
Converse running shoes,
who liked to bake
and sometimes
liked to hike…
But it was nothing personal,
Anne-Marie

For Sonia Pelletier, 28
Your body was found underneath a cafeteria table,
trying to hide
just like you used to duck behind the sofa,
conceal yourself in the closet
with your feet in a pair of boots
and a jacket wrapped tight around you
Ready or not
here I come
like you used to hide your tooth brush
so when eight thirty came
and you wanted to stay up
you could waste time
searching,
then ask for a glass of water,
another kiss goodnight,
one last hug.
Exactly like they told you to do
in event of an earthquake.
“Sit in a doorway,”
they said,
“or under a table.
While the floor shakes
and the drywall cracks
around you
you should be safe there.”

For Michelle Richard, 21
Sort of like grade school picks
for baseball,
or a dance
with the boys on one side
and the girls
on the other.
And for awhile you thought
it was a joke,
some trickster;
some friend of someone’s
making an ass of himself
because it was the last
day before Christmas exams
and time
for some fun.

For Annie St-Arneault, 23
On Thursday night
they brought in
the maintenance crew
to paint over the bullet
holes;
repair the walls and
ceilings;
scrub away the
blood and bits.
And Friday morning,
were you to walk through,
you’d never guess.
You’d never even guess.

For Annie Turcotte, 21
Probably not how you imagined
your funeral
On an icy day with
3000 plus in attendance
And 14 hearses
gliding past
with white numbers on their sides
and all in a row
1 and 2, 3, 4
And a sunken-cheeked woman on the street corner
holding her daughter’s hand
and
5, 6,
7, 8
and the daughter not understanding
9, 10, 11,
and
12
13
14
saying to her mother,
‘Why are you crying,
if you didn’t even know them?’

For Barbara Marie Klueznick, 35
A three page letter,
dated, ‘Wednesday’
signed, ‘Marc’
meant to explain
meant to make it
make sense
and we could call him crazy,
and try to forgive
and we could call him ‘full of hate,’
and hate him right back
and we could fall to the ground
and cry ourselves to dehydration
and we could start a candlelight vigil
and we could be afraid
and we could learn self defence
and practice kicking a man in a marshmallow suit
and yelling the word ‘no’
We could, and we will
but it will never
bring you back

For Maryse Laganiere, 35
and the flags flew
at half mast
and the city was in shock,
and the country
and the men
were afraid
for their lovers
wives
daughters
and the streets
were a little quieter
while your family
and your sisters
looked everywhere
for why’s.

First of all:

Thing 9: Sleeping in

Last night my kids slept over at their great-aunt’s house, and I slept from 10:00 p.m. until 10:00 a.m. And that was maybe the best thing ever, because I very much needed to hide under the covers for just a little while.

Thing 10: The 10 Things

Honestly. Eesh. The past ten days have been something. Or other. Or something. There have been family health crises, major job losses, horrific dentist appointments, marathon barfing sessions and unreasonable deadlines coupled with cancelled daycare. (And that’s just my life. Don’t even get me started on all the stuff friends and family members seem to be going through lately.) But you know what? While a lot of it has seemed like a big sea of poo, I’ve also been feeling oddly afloat in it. Almost as if I were bobbing along on one of these.

When swimming in a poo sea, it helps to bring your giant yellow duck.

And I think I largely owe that general feeling of buoyancy to the 10 Things. It’s strange. When you go looking for things to appreciate, the things you have to appreciate multiply almost to the point where it gets ridiculous—-Like last night, when my husband and I finally had a night off from the kids, and we made it out to our favourite Thai restaurant, and we got a table within minutes, and we ordered all the best dishes… and then I took 5 bites and promptly ran to the bathroom and threw it all up… and as I was throwing it all up, I was thinking, God, I really love the song that’s playing on the radio right now! (It was Bruno Mars–Just the Way you Are. If you don’t know it, go listen to it right now and you’ll completely understand how NOTHING could possibly ruin it.)

Whether it’s an amazing song, a poem that makes you gasp a little, a cheerful kid-art bumblebee, an especially nice-smelling cat or the joy of pushing the button on the coffee maker every morning, there really is a whole lot of happy in the little things in life—-IF you can remember to look for it, which I hope I’ll continue to do.

And with that thought, I’m off to take a really hot shower and read a book (which could easily be Things 11 and 12 on my list). Night all.

Hello, Dear People of the Internet. Apologies for yesterday’s silence (if you even noticed it). Besides being an exercise in appreciation, part of my reason for doing the 10 things was to challenge myself to post for 10 days solid. But, yesterday, life had other plans.

Our childcare provider’s daughter came down with the barfing flu, so daycare was cancelled. Then a bunch of other unexpected things I won’t go into rained down from the sky and dictated that all-things-work were going to have to take a backseat anyway.

As a result, instead of writing or editing, I took my daughter to see a matinee of the Muppet Movie (which is hilarious, by the way) because this is the kind of thing self-employed people do when the going gets tough. Yeah. I know. It’s time to break out the tiny violin.

Woe! WOE is me!

Working for yourself is pretty great. No, scratch that. It’s REALLY great. The snacks are plentiful, the company is good (if you like cats), and instead of sitting in a tiny, airless cubicle, I have a window with a great view. (I’m ALWAYS the first to know when the neighbours are getting a UPS delivery.) I never have to ask anyone permission to go to a doctor’s appointment and nobody fires me if, on a slow day, I decide to just take a nap.

I love how I can fit my fiction writing in around my freelance work. And the variety of jobs I get is pretty cool, too. Yesterday alone, I wrote text for the back of a board game box, worked on a cancer prevention brochure and did some research for an article about the health and phys ed curriculum. Granted, I had to do it all after the kids were finally tucked into bed at the end of a long day… but, as far as I’m concerned, that’s a small price to pay for the freedom I have.

I’m getting over a nasty 24-hour stomach bug—one of those ones that wipes you out so thoroughly that the thought of climbing the stairs seems RIDICULOUS. Like, really, could there possibly be anything up there worth getting?

As a result, this morning I was tempted to say that I love NOTHING, except for maybe lightly buttered toast and room temperature water, and even that’s a stretch.

But then I looked up from the couch (where I’m flopped with my laptop) and saw that it’s snowing. And not only is it snowing, but it’s the FIRST snow, and I can’t deny that I love that. Snows 2 through 47+, freezing rain and that grey Toronto sludge the exact consistency of canned pea soup—-I have different feelings about… But the first dusting of flakes? Can anyone deny that’s pure magic?

I’d take a picture of it for you, but the camera’s in the basement, and getting it would involve stairs. So instead, I give you this, which I stole from a website:

Oh nature, you DO make pretty things.

Have a good day, everyone!

So this is maybe a little random, but have you ever picked up a cat when it’s just come in from the cold and buried your face in its fur? It smells amazing–provided it’s a clean cat, of course. It’s fresh, like snow, but musky, like cedar. Aside from mandarin organges, it’s maybe my all-time favourite smell.

Oh, Winter Cat, you do smell devine!

**Note** That isn’t my cat. Neither of my cats would put up with me dressing them in a fluffly cloak. Not even for a second. And I respect that.

I know I said I wasn’t going to post about consumer goods but I’m making an exception today because—-believe it or not—-you actually CAN purchase the smell of a cat in winter. (Honestly! What will they think of next, right?)

Winter Kitty Perfume Oil

It’s made by the For Strange Women perfumery shop on Etsy. Not to worry, though. No winter cats were harmed in the making of this fragrance.

Here’s how they describe it on the site:

“Winter Kitty is a 100% natural fragrance inspired by felines, fireplaces, and snowflakes. This blend is an artisan rendition of the sweet, slightly musky smell of a kitty who went for a winter walk around the neighborhood and came back with firewood smoke and brisk air lingering in his fur.”

I love it! And not only because the fact that it exists means I’m clearly not the only cat-sniffing weirdo out there. If you’re in the market for some perfume, I highly recommend it. Or, you know, you could just rub a cat vigorously with your wrists. Either way, it’s all good.

Someone should really open a children’s art gallery. And I don’t mean an art gallery filled with art adults made and think children should appreciate. I mean the real deal. Kid-art. Because kid-art is awesome.

"ROAR!" This tiger is made of awesome, and he agrees.

Although I’ll confess to sneaking most of the crafts my kids bring home into the recycling bin (Don’t judge me! I HAVE to. Otherwise we’d drown in glitter!) seeing the things they create makes me so happy.

Kids just have no inclination to take part in the ‘tortured artist’ routine so many of us go in for as adults. Hand them some paper, paint or crayons and—-without a shred of angst—-they’ll never fail to end up with something amazing and entirely all-their-own.

Here are just a few samples of happy things my 5-year-old daughter has drawn in her sketch book lately.

The gladdest bee in the land.

Behold! The rare three-legged one-humped camel.

Why, hello there, smug giraffe!

The contented, toothy beaver.

Nope. Not a walking jelly donut (although that was a good guess). It's a lion, silly!

All's well that ends with a rainbow.

Wishing you a colourful Monday!

- Anna