Morocco Images. January 2013
Memoir Prologue. January, 2013
This prologue keeps changing. This is the latest revision. At the moment, a colleague is reading it to critique it. Your comments are also welcome.
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Memoir: Restless
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Memoir: Restless
Prologue
This memoir started to emerge
after I discovered Uncle Billy’s manuscript in Banff, Alberta in 1992. While
I’d been told his story before, I remembered William McCardell only as our
maternal grandmother’s Uncle Billy, one of three railroad workers who had
discovered the hot springs at Banff. I
had been through the area once before with my then husband and two children and
we had seen a wax effigy of William McCardell in a museum on the main street. I
wanted to see this effigy again while at a writing studio at the Banff Centre
of the Arts some years later, but I couldn’t find it. Each day I questioned the
man in a local artifact shop in the centre of town and finally he suggested
there could be more information in the Whyte Museum of the Canadian Rockies.
Thus was
I led to a huge typewritten manuscript that contained accounts of the
adventures of this maternal ancestor. When I went back for dinner in the
cafeteria at the Banff Centre that day, I was almost jubilant. It was something
I wanted to tell everyone, even to shout it from a mountain top.
My
residence at Banff that spring was a significant point on a long journey. I
went there with a novel to work on which took almost twenty more years to write
and publish. In 1992 it had already been emerging for almost that long already.
I found useful critique and guidance, new colleagues and Uncle Billy’s
manuscript while at the writing studio. There was magic in those six weeks in
the mountains -- a solitary room for work, a cabin with a piano, long walks by
the Bow River and ongoing conversations in the halls, in the cafeteria and over
a pool table.
“Do
you think you’ll do anything with it?” was the most common question about my
discovery. Since we were all writers, it was not surprising that these new
colleagues thought I might write something.
What?
I had no idea.
As time
went on, I felt compelled to jot down thoughts about this manuscript and the
connections it had led me to ponder. Those early thoughts became the starting
point for this memoir, something I wrote because it felt as if I had to. I did so knowing that if there
were any value to it beyond my need to create some perspective on my own life,
it would only be apparent much later. What unfolded is largely a reflection of
another era, a way of life that has, in many ways, disappeared. How did I
become a feminist? How did I become a
published author? How did I, in other words, get from there to here? At each
juncture there were likely pivotal events as important as the discovery at
Banff. The beginnings in a northern mining camp where another language
surrounded us. A particular family and its roots and history. Something as
minute as arguments between siblings.
How I came to grow up in a northern mining
community was a result of a job my father found. A mechanical engineer, he
was hired by Sigma Mine to design the hoist and to oversee the technical
aspects of its operation. He
went to the golden valley because of gold, but I doubt he thought it would lead
to his first million. Or any million,
for that matter.
My
parents, Beryl Goettler and Geoff Cosser, were married in 1935 and their first
home was one of the company houses mine management had just built in northwestern
Quebec for their first employees. After I was born, my mother and father moved
into a larger mine house where they lived until all their children had left
home. Had
my father not developed a near fatal condition that required an ambulance to
transport him over 500 miles to Sunnybrook Hospital in Toronto in 1962, they
probably would have been there much longer.
The impact of this mining town, and others like it across the north in those days, was to create a tribe of northerners, something that remains in one’s blood for a lifetime. There is always an instant rapport as well as some common understandings when one meets someone else from that northern landscape. Yet other factors and themes are the basis of whatever myths sustained our family. Myths that are likely at the very root of what created the life trajectories of each of the three Cosser children, my two younger siblings and me. Likely everyone constructs such myths, creating narratives to make sense of our lives. We may know ourselves better if we can remember where we’re from and how we became the people we are now. In my family, each of us might have answered differently the question of how and why we’ve followed particular paths, yet there would be some commonalities drawn from the themes of the isolation of a mining camp in those days — the sound of the whistle at the mine as well as the blasting underground, the French language surrounding us, the family silver, the focus on reading, the English dictionary, the fireplace. Or could it have been mainly the experience of our father going off to war in 1942, shortly after his third child was born, that formed us? Was it his focus on overseas as well as on ancestors and family trees? Perhaps it was his alcoholism that seemed to be a consequence of that time overseas. Offset somewhat by our mother’s joy in good company, good food and dancing.
I knew early and only too well the impact of the alcoholism, the fear aroused when Dad’s footsteps were uneven as he staggered into the house, when his voice became loud and angry. But I was not aware of the importance of most of these other themes except as underlying refrains. And even underlying that was the gold. We knew so much more about it than we were even aware of knowing. For we children of the company houses all knew the price of it was $37 an ounce. We knew the miners went underground with their hard hats with lights on to find it, to that dark place where only men were allowed to go to hack and dig into the rock. Where they planted the dynamite that created the loud sounds we heard at intervals on surface. We knew that the rocks came up in the cage (elevator) in open rather small rail carts that ran on narrow tracks to the crusher. That the conveyor belt we could see from the highway that ran beside the fence around the mine took this crushed rock to the mill where it was put in large vats. The extract from the mill was then melted in a hot furnace, the liquid poured out in a yellow liquid stream into rectangular pans to create bars of solid gold. These were hidden away somewhere unbeknownst to us to conceal them from thieves. We knew these things, but we played our games blissfully unaware of the ongoing saga of gold and how it held all of us in its grip. We played, went to school and made friends who came and went when their fathers moved from one mine to another. We left it to the adults to concern themselves with the mine and the gold. Although my siblings and I knew that we weren’t allowed to use the only telephone, set down on a small table next to Dad’s easy chair, for more than a couple of minutes at a time because it was used to contact our father if an emergency occurred underground. Or when the mine manager wanted to reach him.
Some of the men did make their first million in the frontier era of the gold mines. Probably not by mining. More likely on the stock market or by prospecting, some by high-grading (stealing gold from underground). The high graders were men who brought bits of gold up at the end of a shift, hidden in their mouths, in their clothing, in their lunch buckets. It was called high grade because it was the most valuable. We heard whispers that there were ways of selling such loot through mob contacts in places as far away as Montreal, Buffalo and New York City. Like so many things children knew, this was something we overheard the adults talk about. We knew who was suspected of high-grading and who had put money into the stock of some penny mine that had gone into production and already created wealth for owners off in some city.
I was aware as I grew older that my father invested in some of the larger gold producers, but in reality he left the finances to my mother. His job was to draft and design and to go underground to check on the equipment. He knew how everything worked - the mill, the hoist, the underground cage. Oddly enough, this wealth of story surrounding our lives elicited only mild curiosity on my part at the time. Although as children we breathed in this atmosphere and were affected by it.
The impact of this mining town, and others like it across the north in those days, was to create a tribe of northerners, something that remains in one’s blood for a lifetime. There is always an instant rapport as well as some common understandings when one meets someone else from that northern landscape. Yet other factors and themes are the basis of whatever myths sustained our family. Myths that are likely at the very root of what created the life trajectories of each of the three Cosser children, my two younger siblings and me. Likely everyone constructs such myths, creating narratives to make sense of our lives. We may know ourselves better if we can remember where we’re from and how we became the people we are now. In my family, each of us might have answered differently the question of how and why we’ve followed particular paths, yet there would be some commonalities drawn from the themes of the isolation of a mining camp in those days — the sound of the whistle at the mine as well as the blasting underground, the French language surrounding us, the family silver, the focus on reading, the English dictionary, the fireplace. Or could it have been mainly the experience of our father going off to war in 1942, shortly after his third child was born, that formed us? Was it his focus on overseas as well as on ancestors and family trees? Perhaps it was his alcoholism that seemed to be a consequence of that time overseas. Offset somewhat by our mother’s joy in good company, good food and dancing.
I knew early and only too well the impact of the alcoholism, the fear aroused when Dad’s footsteps were uneven as he staggered into the house, when his voice became loud and angry. But I was not aware of the importance of most of these other themes except as underlying refrains. And even underlying that was the gold. We knew so much more about it than we were even aware of knowing. For we children of the company houses all knew the price of it was $37 an ounce. We knew the miners went underground with their hard hats with lights on to find it, to that dark place where only men were allowed to go to hack and dig into the rock. Where they planted the dynamite that created the loud sounds we heard at intervals on surface. We knew that the rocks came up in the cage (elevator) in open rather small rail carts that ran on narrow tracks to the crusher. That the conveyor belt we could see from the highway that ran beside the fence around the mine took this crushed rock to the mill where it was put in large vats. The extract from the mill was then melted in a hot furnace, the liquid poured out in a yellow liquid stream into rectangular pans to create bars of solid gold. These were hidden away somewhere unbeknownst to us to conceal them from thieves. We knew these things, but we played our games blissfully unaware of the ongoing saga of gold and how it held all of us in its grip. We played, went to school and made friends who came and went when their fathers moved from one mine to another. We left it to the adults to concern themselves with the mine and the gold. Although my siblings and I knew that we weren’t allowed to use the only telephone, set down on a small table next to Dad’s easy chair, for more than a couple of minutes at a time because it was used to contact our father if an emergency occurred underground. Or when the mine manager wanted to reach him.
Some of the men did make their first million in the frontier era of the gold mines. Probably not by mining. More likely on the stock market or by prospecting, some by high-grading (stealing gold from underground). The high graders were men who brought bits of gold up at the end of a shift, hidden in their mouths, in their clothing, in their lunch buckets. It was called high grade because it was the most valuable. We heard whispers that there were ways of selling such loot through mob contacts in places as far away as Montreal, Buffalo and New York City. Like so many things children knew, this was something we overheard the adults talk about. We knew who was suspected of high-grading and who had put money into the stock of some penny mine that had gone into production and already created wealth for owners off in some city.
I was aware as I grew older that my father invested in some of the larger gold producers, but in reality he left the finances to my mother. His job was to draft and design and to go underground to check on the equipment. He knew how everything worked - the mill, the hoist, the underground cage. Oddly enough, this wealth of story surrounding our lives elicited only mild curiosity on my part at the time. Although as children we breathed in this atmosphere and were affected by it.
Dad’s
stories about his family’s history with gold, his own father having traveled
first to South Africa from England because of it, possibly permeated slightly
deeper. As did his attempts to convey his fascination with genealogy. Even when
we were quite young, he showed us family trees and how to read the hallmarks on
silver. As I watched his fingers trace the squiggly lines connecting names
I was apparently descended from , I was amazed at his interest in these large
pieces of old yellowed and folded paper. Only long after he died, did I begin
to understand why such interest in one’s ancestry might be of value to me. I wished he was still around to hear about my
discovery at Banff.
As children, we were told about Uncle Billy’s discovery of the Banff Springs, something that seemed remote yet rather intriguing. Like gold, another mystery hidden away in the earth. And as I had sat reading from his manuscript, what had gradually struck me were the ways in which my family had a role in the creation of a country. From the discoveries of Uncle Billy in western Canada of the hot springs and, apparently, also of oil (along with someone called LaFayette) to the grandfather who worked in gold mines in South Africa before emigrating to the gold mines of northern Ontario. And to my father from there to the ones in northern Quebec. From the ancestor, also on my mother’s side, whom I learned about only after her death, who had come from France to settle on the banks of the St. Lawrence, who was the first settler in Canada. And as well of her Irish forebears who tilled the soil around Stratford somewhat later.
As children, we were told about Uncle Billy’s discovery of the Banff Springs, something that seemed remote yet rather intriguing. Like gold, another mystery hidden away in the earth. And as I had sat reading from his manuscript, what had gradually struck me were the ways in which my family had a role in the creation of a country. From the discoveries of Uncle Billy in western Canada of the hot springs and, apparently, also of oil (along with someone called LaFayette) to the grandfather who worked in gold mines in South Africa before emigrating to the gold mines of northern Ontario. And to my father from there to the ones in northern Quebec. From the ancestor, also on my mother’s side, whom I learned about only after her death, who had come from France to settle on the banks of the St. Lawrence, who was the first settler in Canada. And as well of her Irish forebears who tilled the soil around Stratford somewhat later.
It was
at Banff I suddenly saw these individual stories within a wider context and
wished I could have another session with my father. Never before had it
occurred to me how the strands of my family history were connected to this
larger narrative, something I didn’t recall that he’d tried to tell me. Nor had
he understood my lack of interest might have evaporated had I had any idea of
this broader picture. Or maybe it
wouldn’t have at that young age. How would I know? But I do know as I thumbed
through Uncle Billy’s manuscript in the Whyte Museum of the Canadian Rockies
that I was suddenly and unexpectedly reassured that my restlessness- the need
to question, to explore and travel, to be somewhat of a maverick - was not just personal, but a trait I shared
with my ancestors.
Welcome 2013!
All the excitement of a new year dawning. How will it be different? How will it be the same? I don't have to even imagine I will be moving in 2013, having accomplished that massive undertaking (after over 40 years in the same house) early in 2012. And I can't lose a brother again as I only had one. That was the saddest moment in 2012, to lose a sibling. But I have such good memories of him and his gentle nature. Memories that I share with others in the family... my sister and sister-in-law, etc.
In 2013, I look forward to hearing from the agent that she has found a publisher for my mystery novel, WHITE RIBBON. It's time for another published book, however that happens. What would be most desirable would be a trade and e-book by a trade publisher. There, it's out there. My wish for this book. It's a good read, I'm told, set in a downtown Toronto church with a cast of characters from varied backgrounds.
I also look forward to a bit of travel now that I don't have a house to look after and my foot surgery is behind me. Indeed, I'm walking a lot and dancing again. And will dance in the new year shortly. With that lovely thought, all the best to anyone who happens to read these meanderings, including family and friends and colleagues, written on the cusp of 2013. And a happy and healthy new year to us/you all.
And oh yes, I'm reading at LitLive in Hamilton next Sunday evening, January 6th 2013.
In 2013, I look forward to hearing from the agent that she has found a publisher for my mystery novel, WHITE RIBBON. It's time for another published book, however that happens. What would be most desirable would be a trade and e-book by a trade publisher. There, it's out there. My wish for this book. It's a good read, I'm told, set in a downtown Toronto church with a cast of characters from varied backgrounds.
I also look forward to a bit of travel now that I don't have a house to look after and my foot surgery is behind me. Indeed, I'm walking a lot and dancing again. And will dance in the new year shortly. With that lovely thought, all the best to anyone who happens to read these meanderings, including family and friends and colleagues, written on the cusp of 2013. And a happy and healthy new year to us/you all.
And oh yes, I'm reading at LitLive in Hamilton next Sunday evening, January 6th 2013.
Hamilton Reading. Lit Live. January 6, 2013
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What blog posts do you read?
Do you ever wonder what others read when they decide that a post on a blog interests them? With the wonder of statistics readily available for the blogger, I often indulge my curiosity and check. The all-time high so far on this blog is a photograph of an ibis. Recently the favourite was on how a writer wastes time. Perhaps the first appeals because of its beauty while the second makes others feel better. Either they waste more time than I do and feel some sense of satisfaction or they are not as lazy as yours truly and that makes some feel better. Just wondered!
Life of a Writer: #11. Prologue to a Mystery
After a reading at the Rowers' Pub Reading Series (November 5, 2012) in Toronto where I read the first chapter of the mystery I am working on, Todd Swift (who also read that evening) suggested I include a prologue before the first chapter. He thought I needed something to foreshadow the events that would occur after the first few chapters. Since I agreed with this suggestion, I proceeded to write a prologue (see below). A similar sequence occurs at some point into the mystery, except at that juncture the names of the characters are used. I also asked a colleague from my writing group (Moosemeat Writers Group) to look over the prologue (Isabel Matwawana) and make suggestions. Since her comments were all helpful, I looked over the areas she alluded to and edited further.
Todd Swift also felt the title (I had particularly asked for feedback on this from the audience at Rowers before I read), The White Ribbon, ought not to be used as such as there is a famous film of the same title. When he learned about the white ribbon campaign of men against violence against women, he suggested some variation. At the moment, I am calling it simply White Ribbon.
As you can see, feedback is valuable/invaluable to a writer. I appreciate any comments anyone might care to make!
White Ribbon
Prologue
Mid November
The coordinator for this particular Sunday at
a church in downtown Toronto had started to greet the people, but the service
had not yet begun. At the sound of a scream in the distance, she stopped and looked
around. Although they had started many
services with many kinds of distractions, she appeared unable to continue.
After
what seemed a long time, but was really only a few seconds, one of the
parishioners jumped up and started across the wooden floor. He was followed by
a woman, who was heavier and slower than he was. The minister was not far
behind. They headed toward a staircase down into the basement where there was a
washroom for women and, a little further along the corridor, one for men. Small
washrooms, each with two cubicles. Between them in the hall was a water
fountain. The stairs were of the same heavy wood that extended throughout the
church, but the floor in the basement was tiled. The sound had stopped, but
just as the male parishioner came down into the hall, a woman emerged from the
women’s washroom.
“On
the floor,” she said in a quavering voice. “Feet… sticking out.” She was
visibly shaken, her face contorted with horror at whatever she had seen.
Reading: November 5, 2012. Rowers' Pub Reading Series.
#10. Life of a Writer. No time to waste.
An interesting report, positive, from reader for my agent on my mystery, "Two Left Feet." The report points out strengths and also what might benefit from revision. So...no longer is there time to waste as the writer (yours truly) sinks her teeth into revising.
Some remarks lead to obvious solutions. An error can be corrected by doing a bit of research. Others require a lot of time and thought. How does one take someone's POV (point of view) out of a story/novel and yet have them visible and known through the eyes of others? Well, that's precisely it...through the eyes of others. Not so easy really. Thoughts can't be conveyed through others most of the time, unless there is something obvious occurring that suggests them.
At any rate, that is today's challenge. Likely next week's and next month's also. I will keep on working on it and possibly (probably) report back in further posts.
Did I say there is no time to waste not only because this revision takes up a great deal of time, but also because I have a finite life span. At an advanced age already, getting things out there now may lead to publication while I am still alive to enjoy that.
Some remarks lead to obvious solutions. An error can be corrected by doing a bit of research. Others require a lot of time and thought. How does one take someone's POV (point of view) out of a story/novel and yet have them visible and known through the eyes of others? Well, that's precisely it...through the eyes of others. Not so easy really. Thoughts can't be conveyed through others most of the time, unless there is something obvious occurring that suggests them.
At any rate, that is today's challenge. Likely next week's and next month's also. I will keep on working on it and possibly (probably) report back in further posts.
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| Luciana Ricciutelli (R), editor at Inanna, with two of her authors. Zoe Roy(L) and Mary Lou Dickinson (middle) at WOTS, Sept. 2012 |
#9. Life of a Writer. How to Waste Time.
If I ever wondered about something I am good at, now I have found that talent. I can waste time like no one else on this planet. Maybe it is a characteristic of writers. Or maybe it is when I am incubating ideas. This morning I went to No Frills to buy unsalted butter that was on sale. It was an extra trip since they were out of it when I arrived yesterday. After coming home and putting the butter in the refrigerator, I decided it was such a beautiful day that I must be outside. So I walked over to Avenue Road (Toronto) to see an exhibition of paintings at the Ingram Gallery. When I came home, I did a load of laundry and had lunch. Soon I will leave for the Bloor Cinema to see the 9th film of 10 at TIFF. (Artifact) .
The reality is that between my activities of this past week, including some wonderful films (Amour, Quartet, The Gatekeepers, etc.), I have done a lot of writing. I never really know when I am wasting time and when what I do is productive. It may be necessary to my ongoing existence. But it may also be a way of easing into what I intend to do on a manuscript.
What I am working on now is a memoir. The title: Restless. That captures the life of someone who wastes time as well as all the other examples of restlessness in my life. I think. In any case, I am going to have a section critiqued by my colleagues at my writing group, Moosemeat, in ten days or so. So I have been looking for an extract that seems to be ready for their close inspection. And every time I sit down at the computer, I do something to prepare the excerpt I will send out a week before this critique.
The reality is that between my activities of this past week, including some wonderful films (Amour, Quartet, The Gatekeepers, etc.), I have done a lot of writing. I never really know when I am wasting time and when what I do is productive. It may be necessary to my ongoing existence. But it may also be a way of easing into what I intend to do on a manuscript.
What I am working on now is a memoir. The title: Restless. That captures the life of someone who wastes time as well as all the other examples of restlessness in my life. I think. In any case, I am going to have a section critiqued by my colleagues at my writing group, Moosemeat, in ten days or so. So I have been looking for an extract that seems to be ready for their close inspection. And every time I sit down at the computer, I do something to prepare the excerpt I will send out a week before this critique.
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| View from my window this evening. |
Creative Risk with a Blank Book. 1990.
Blank Book
(1990)
Yet another blank book. Who gave it to me this time? To draw? To write?
That is the question. To take creative risks. My greatest risk may be to open
this book and mar a blank page, to change the pristine quality of it. I can do
as I please. Sky can appear overhead, visions of old women rocking in nursing
homes, drooling over teddy bears. Anything at all. The flashing numbers of
trades on the stock exchange I watched from the broker’s floor. The scallops I
ate for dinner afterwards. All of it part of the flow of one life that I cannot
seem to capture in a character or form to share with others. Today I do not
mind. I have filled a page!
Some books are never published.
Some books should never have been published.
BEWARE!
It’s odd to think of inhabiting a womb. The one I
inhabited had four occupants. One was born dead…
1/13/90
Dear Mikail Gorbachev,
abcdefghijklmnopqurstuvwxqz
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 l2 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
22 23 24 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 34 35
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz
#+X
36 37 38 39
40
41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53
Lithuania may be the downfall.
Or will you get a Nobel peace prize?
54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66
Nelson Mandela will soon be released
67 68 69 70. He is 71 now and has been
in prison in South Africa for 25 years.
Winnie has waited. 72 73 74 75 76
77 78 79 80 81 82 83 My mother is
83. She is paralyzed on one side after a
stroke. 84 85 86 87 88 89 90. It’s odd
to think my sister and I shared a womb.
91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99
Yours truly,
100
p.s. Blank books may turn out to be dangerous.
Labour Day. Toronto Island Escape. .
On the island, I continued reading a thick book on Africa (The Fate of Africa) for a course in the fall. Although had I discovered this book myself, I would have read it anyway. Well written and very informative. I also found a bench in shade on Algonquin Island where I could see bits of the air show taking place at the CNE (Canadian National Exhibition) today. And walked a bit.
So, fall is in the air and as well as continuing to write on various writing projects, short stories, the memoir, I will pick up my TI|FF tickets this week and go to my first of 10 films on Thursday.
Mysterious Woman.
I wonder about her mood as she is me. Me in the 1970s. So long ago, but part of the thread that runs through my life till now. Telling stories of that decade when I was a young wife and mother and then a young single mother soon to be divorced.
Those were difficult, but good years. So perhaps thoughtful.
#8. Life of a Writer. Memoir Excerpt.
Graham's death in 1992 when he is only in his late thirties happens just three months before I go to the Banff Centre of the Arts to work on a novel. Later it feels like the harbinger of all the deaths that follow that year, although unlike most of them it’s sudden and unexpected. Yet when I awaken to news of a plane crash on the island that morning in January, I wait to hear his name. On the ferry the previous afternoon on a rare winter trip to the island, I'd watched the small planes take off and land. And I'd thought of him then. Was he in one of those planes? I'd had shivers sensing that indeed he was.
A fellow volunteer at the Distress Centre a few years earlier, Graham and I went through training together. He was the 992nd volunteer at the centre in downtown Toronto; my number was 994. I’m not sure I ever knew his surname. To me he will always be Graham 992. He had piercing blue eyes, red hair and a luminous wit. Much younger than I, we were nonetheless compatible and he once invited me to his apartment for coffee and showed me his aquarium full of colourful tropical fish. The previous summer, he took another volunteer and me up in his small Piper aircraft. Liz’s number was somewhere in the early thousands.
We flew out over Lake Ontario and Niagara Falls, wing tipped so we could see the drama below. Liz sat in the front and threw up in a brown paper bag as the plane righted itself. Graham was a careful pilot. How he could crash on a clear day is beyond me. Did he want to?
In the month or so after his death, I write a poem - Flying - and take it to Banff where I show it to Don Coles, the resident poet, and later to another participant who is also a poet, Patricia Young, both of whom make helpful comments.
Flying (for Graham)
The day your plane crashes
I am walking along the boardwalk
beside the lake. It's the first time
I've been on the island since you
took Liz and me out over
Lake Ontario to Niagara Falls.
Liz sat in the front and threw up
in a bag as you tipped the wings
over the falls. Today I don't know
you're careening above me
in the sky. Even so, my thoughts
keep turning to you--how often we run into
each other despite
the size of this city--at the corner
of Yonge and College, on the subway,
on my way to yoga. I think of
your red hair that recedes slightly,
your piercing blue eyes, luminous wit.
I won't know till tomorrow morning
when I awaken to my clock radio
about the crash, that you're
the pilot. On the ferry
back to the city I
stand by the rail, watch
small aircraft
land and take off, land
and take
off.
Food for thought. On writing a memoir
The memoir mentioned in previous posts is what I am working on now. The first few chapters have been difficult as I attempt to capture my early years in a northern Quebec mining camp and some family history. Later on in the story, the words and images come more easily. But it is those early years that formed so much of my later journey. And as I realize what an urban creature I have become, I know nonetheless that the geography and camaraderie of that long ago childhood are never very far away from me.
What a treat it was to go north even a little way this summer and see the rocks on the sides of the highway as we approached a rustic retreat called the shack that my children visit every summer for part of their holiday. The rocks remind me of the further north I lived in for all the years I was growing up and inspire me to go on writing about that. Although now I have moved onto further chapters...that is the crucible in which my worldview was formed. I suppose everyone who attempts to write a memoir has to confront how both the inspiring and difficult moments of childhood impinge on us throughout our lives.
Morning on Toronto Island. Looking for inspiration!
Up early, quick trip to the ferry, across to Centre Island. Then a lovely walk toward Ward's Island along paths and the boardwalk. A muffin with these huge sunflowers beside the table, reading the morning paper. Not sure I found inspiration, but I did find the morning breeze blowing off the water, scads of kids in groups with leaders enjoying a beautiful day, tennis players cavorting on the courts, all this island just across the water from downtown has to offer harried and hot visitors who arrive all day by ferry and make their way back to the city when they are ready. For me, that didn't take long today. I came home and faced again the manuscript I am working on, one that was critiqued the other night at my writing group (Moosemeat). Dealing with the feedback always raises questions that when I deal with them improve on whatever work I am doing. The big challenge sometimes is to accept what is useful and reject what is not. In the end, each piece of work is the author's. Each ultimate decision belongs to that one person. Ah, the road of life, these analogies true of that as well.
#7. Life of a Writer. Galloping Along.
I have finished the mystery I'd been revising and submitted it to my agent at HSW Literary Agency. Am now working on a sequence of short stories and a memoir. It has taken a long time to find the narrative arc of the memoir, but I think I have it and the disparate chapters are starting to hang together. Seems so obvious that it would be my own journey as a writer. When I started to write this, I was at a different stage of that journey and saw others things as the predominant theme. Ancestors. Travel. The North. As it turns out, they are all very important to my journey and their presence is not diminished. Just that they are linked by a spiritual and artistic journey that is mine, undoubtedly shared in many ways with other artists/writers.
Keep posted! The writer's work continues. And I will be pleased if you decide to share some part of your own story in a comment!
Downtown Toronto. Outdoor Art and A Demonstation
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| I didn't get the artist's name |
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| Work of Mei Zi |
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| Save the children of Syria |
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| Save the children of Syria |
Walking downtown on Saturday, July 7, 2012 between plays at The Fringe. Art at Nathan Phillips Square, an annual outdoor show. Perhaps I will find something for my new condo, I thought, but came away only with a couple of ideas. It's a start. And I always enjoy seeing the range of work of the artists who show there.
Then walking back along Queen Street, passed the demonstration to Save the Children of Syria. Yes. So much happening in the world to protest, but what is happening in Syria defies all sense of social justice, human rights and democratic process. Would that the Assad regime will fall soon.
The Best of Summer in Ontario.
Flowers for my Birthday!
