Random things

Becca tagged me to write six random things about myself. I get to tag six others when I'm done, so this sounds like fun.

Here are the rules:-

- Link to the person that tagged you
- Post the rules on your blog
- Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself
- Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs
- Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website

Food and texture
I can't eat food that has certain texture. Even if it tastes really good, my stomach turns at dim sum, dumplings, ravioli and other such comestibles.

Colour makes me happy
I love colour. Mediterranean blue, pumpkin orange, fuchsia, blue-based reds...

I can't stand having to do something
Drives me nuts. Even if it's a good thing. I want to do what I want when I want and hate that work gets in the way of this. This is why I so look forward to retirement. I'm willing to put up with a lot of grey and wrinkled skin to have freedom. This is also why I don't want pets. Once the kids are gone I'm ditching responsibility totally... or almost totally.

My daughter and I have found the key
It happened in an instant in late November. She spoke a simple truth and I listened... really listened... and we connected. For the first time. It feels so good to be this way. Completely life changing.

Becca
Becca is my best friend and lives on the other side of the universe and I miss her.

Jewelry
Show me something that sparkles and I'm a happy camper. It doesn't have to be expensive, I'm happy with semi-precious stones in silver. Size does matter; big is good.

Shopping
I'm not a shopper. I don't hang out in malls. I don't window shop. When I need stuff, I buy tons and then retreat. I do enjoy buying stuff for the house that makes me laugh like the metal sheep that sits out in my garden.

I am tagging:

Richard
Kristina
Stephen
Tena
Maya
Ami

Have fun!
Colleen

What a year!

It's been one hell of a year, hasn't it?

I've returned to the workforce following an 18-month sabbatical during which time I think I've learned how to write, have begun to understand my daughter which is one of the best things I could have hoped for, and my son is blossoming.

On the down side, I have fallen even farther away from my mother and sister than I had expected, and am still struggling with how to have a healthy relationship with someone who loves me. (Frankly, I can be such a bitch around him that I can't stand myself.)

The deal with my mom and sister occurred over Christmas. (Oh, how horribly predictable!) I knew the trip home would be difficult, but hadn't figured just how uncomfortable I'd feel there. Now, when I say home, what I mean is the town where my my mother and sister reside. It has never been my home, but theirs.

It was the first time I had seen my mother in almost three years due to a rift in our relationship. I'm not sure what I expected, but her decline into complete self-interest wasn't it. Not that she hasn't always been overly-involved with herself, but seeing how that tendency has played out with age was a shock. Unless she is talking about herself, during which time she is animated and mentally sharp, she stares off into space caught up in her own thoughts and completely disinterested in conversation going on around her. It was as though her metal acuity or personality could be turned off or on in an instant depending on the topic of conversation. Granted, she's not a young thing anymore and so can be forgiven the eccentricities, lags in memory, or other such things as come with great years. But she gets around so well for an new octogenarian that I hadn't anticipated this... what can I call it? Vacuity isn't really it as she's sharp as can be when she cares to be. Self-absorption is the only label I can summon.

She didn't bother to ask her grandchildren how they were, how our various flights or drives were, nothing. Zip. The only time she spoke was about herself. And she can do that for hours, literally.

It was weird.

Then I had a disagreement with my sister and discovered something new. (Why is it the new discoveries are always about the things which are so obvious?) She has always been wrapped up in a simmering rage that takes little to provoke. Those around her learn to walk gently and avoid her temper when possible. But this time I couldn't and told her how upset I was. She responded by attacking my character and name calling. Her version of a reasonable discussion, I suppose. I realize that her anger with me was warranted. I'm no saint. It was her approach that was unnecessary and, frankly, harmful to our relationship. Why had I never noticed her verbal punches before? Because I didn't want to. I've lived with a version of our relationship that made me happy. I wonder now whether this image actually exists.

So, when she was finished yelling, I walked away much saddened. Pat, my kids and I left the following morning making the fourteen-hour drive home by early evening.

It's good to be here.

And now the new year hearkens. I haven't a clue as to what it holds for us, but I do know that my focus is going to be on my immediate family and our relationships with each other -- listening to my daughter and helping her to trust me more, laughing with my son and helping him push beyond his limits, and yes, being a better mate (although this truly scares me.)

I wish a fulfilling, contentment-making year to all my friends, Becca, Stephen, Richard, Kristina, John, Peace Mama, MaryJoy, Carrie, Lisa, Martha, Erin (I love you tons,) members of my writing group, Gail (yes, we must get together for coffee soon,) Donna (great luck with the new book,) my students, and others not mentioned here. Please know that even when I drop out of sight for a bit, I am still thinking about you and wishing you well.

Lots of love,
Colleen

Safe and sound

The men have just pulled into my sister's driveway, safe and sound after a tense couple of hours travelling through a winter storm.

I'm so relieved they've arrived.

We almost thought they might get in before the storm hit, but about halfway between Quebec City and Montreal, Mother Nature unleashed her gale slowing traffic to 40 km/hr through Montreal and 60 km/hr thereafter.

Now I can relax and so can they.

Sis has some lovely homemde soup and lots of hugs waiting for them.

Now, back in N.S., we'll have to see how this storm plays out for my students' first news conference scheduled for the morning!

C

Christmas is on!

We're all going home for Christmas. It'll be the first time in 2.5 years that I've been back to Ontario and am really looking forward to having Christmas with my sister.

Yes, I enjoy having my kids and hubby and other friends and family around, but it's spending Christmas with my sister that's really special. We have our traditions, you see. Traditions that only she and I truly appreciate. Singing carols off key on Christmas Eve is one example. (And to be perfectly honest, I'm the onely one off key, she's better than me.)

My daughter flew to Ottawa on Wednesday to hang out with her friends for 10 days before the rest of us arrive. Pat and my son left 15 minutes ago with a car loaded with gifts. I am trying to visualize clear skies and roads for their trip despite the blizzard that's blowing in from the west.

That leaves me with 5 days to myself. Woohoo!

Okay, I have to buy two more small gifts, work each morning till noon, and make turkey dressing and cranberry sauce to bring with me when I fly out of here on Thursday, but that's it. That's it.

WOW.

I can't remember a time when I've had so little to be responsible for.

I think I'm going to head back to bed with a book. (Robertson Davies, World of Wonders, the final in his Deptford trilogy.)

Sigh.

How lovely.

Maybe I should call to see how the trip is progressing.

C

Catch Up

Whew! Things have been busy.

Thanks to everyone who has sent me a note or posted a comment. I appreciate knowing you've been thinking about me.

As you may know, I've recently returned to the world of paid work and have taken a job as an instructor at a local, private college where I teach the public relations course. It is an accelerated, advanced diploma program. I teach each day from 8 a.m. to noon. We are covering theory, writing and special events and will get to all the other required courses over the course of the year. Teaching ends at the end of August when the students will leave for their field placements after which, they will graduate.

As a class project, we are helping two local school teachers -- Jeff and Jenny -- who are leaving Canada in January to climb Mount Kilimanjaro as a way of raising awareness of the plight of a group of children at an orphanage in Kenya. The children have been moved from their village in East Pokot to Nakuru to avoid tribal warfare in the region. Drought has caused famine which has caused tribal skirmishes.

We are seeking corporate sponsorship and other funds (yes, feel free to donate!) to raise $15,000 to renovate the orphanage, develop sustainable, educational programs, and help fend off famine through "famine drops" -- bi-weekly food deliveries to more than 1,000 villagers.

Jeff and Jenny also need a laptop to bring to the orphanage to facilitate working there.

As part of our awareness- and fund- raising, we are also seeking in-kind donations -- products to auction off at a Valentine's Day auction on or about February 7.

We are hosting a news conference on December 17 and hope to have the technology to link with J&J when they reach the summit as another awareness-raising event.

If you're interested in finding out more, please visit their website at: www.climbing4kenya.com

Wow! That turned into a total pitch.

Back to the planned personal update...

After classes, I tutor my darling daughter who has her final provincial hair stylist exam mid-January.

Do I need to say that by the time I get home, I could pour my brain onto the floor like gravy over Christmas dinner?

Hence my inability to write either my blog or my actual manuscript.

But there are the holidays to prepare for, classes to prep, the Write for Rights campaign to launch (see my other blog for info about that) and other sundry items like staying on top of my son's homeschooling to take care of.

Whine, whine, whine. (Yes, I would like a little cheese with that.)

Ah, I hear the pitter-patter of my son's size 10 feet stumbling up the stairs. (He has promised to write a couple of letters in support of human rights for today's write-a-thon.)

I hope you are all doing well and take time over the holidays to do something to make the world a better place.

Love,
Colleen

Well, it has been a while, hasn't it?

This fall has been ridiculously busy and has had heartbreaking moments aplenty. The latter I'm not going to discuss except to say that the history of challenges around life with my daughter continue. I wrote a blog about it one day that stayed up for about three hours before I took it down. Somethings really are to personal to be shared. And then, of course, there is the issue of respecting her privacy.

On the busy front, I have begun my work with Amnesty International and spoke briefly about my role at the regional conference on Saturday. I'll post more on that at on my other blog.

I've found a job teaching public relations at a local college. It's an exciting, but scary prospect. Yesterday, I was provided with the books and curriculum and spent the evening feeling rather overwhelmed. Today is a better day. I begin on Nov. 12.

Then there is organizing homeschool activities for a teen group, being involved in my son's educational activities, helping to organize my mother's 80th birthday party, planning for Christmas, and just regular life.

I'm also writing content for an IT website which I had better get to right now.

I'll be glad when things settle a bit and I can get back to some writing. Real writing.

I wish you all the best in whatever endeavours are consuming you today!
Colleen

I'm back

How lovely to come back to your birthday greetings and well wishes for Pat's surgery. Thank you.

I've been away at Keji (Kejimkujik National Park) for the annual "Not-Back-to-School" camping trip and at the hospital with Pat who had arthroscopy on Friday. Yesterday was a veg day although my son and I caught a short play at the Fringe Festival in the afternoon. His play-writing teacher was directing This is a Play and it was hilarious. Daniel McIvor write the 30-minute play that treats audiences to the inner dialogue of the actors onstage: their petty criticisms of each other, their flubbed lines, their self-congratulations. It was quiet entertaining.

For now, I must get to work. I have a number of short stories to comment on for my writing group tomorrow.

I hope you are all well and have ordered your copies of Maya Reynolds' Bad Girl. (It's your opportunity to pay-it-forward because someday it'll be your book being released.) I read my copy on Thursday night and oh la la! it was most definitely spicy. The story literally races along from the first line and the tension builds to the frightening climax (no pun intended) when the plucky heroine... oh, I'm not going to spoil it for you... you'll have to read it yourself.

Congratulations to Maya on what I hope is the first of many successful novels.

Colleen

Barn dance

Three days till Bad Girl gets released... is this something we should worry about?

__________________________________________

We weathered the rain and drove to Ross Creek last night for the end-of-summer barn dance. Not since high school gym class -- back in the day when bloomers were required gym apparel -- have I promenaded or sashayed my partner. Not that I did much of it last night; it's harder than it looks and all that bouncing around provides quite a workout. Pat's arthritic knees weren't much of an excuse for me to avoid dancing because there were plenty of other people looking for partners, but after one set, that was it for me.

Not so my sixteen-year-old son. He was a dancing fool all night long. It's hard to believe this kid who just two months ago refused to go to a dance was on the floor square dancing. He even let his partner talk him into a waltz.

That's what the experience of going to camp this summer did for him. He pushed himself out of his comfort zone, got away from his parents, and learned that looking foolish isn't the worse thing in the world.

Next week, we're spending a couple of days in Keji Provincial Park on the "Not Back to School Camping Trip." He's never camped before and has a decided disinterest in the outdoors, but is now willing to give it a try.

How cool is that?

Colleen

What I love about homeschooling

Since I made a flippant, but disparaging remark about homeschoolers the other day, I thought I should set the record straight about where I stand on that issue -- I love homeschooling.

A year-and-a-half ago, my son convinced me to let him be homeschooled. He had always hated school and although he had done well, I had noticed that his enthusiasm for virtually everything had waned to nothing.

Once we moved to NS, things got worse. From a social perspective, he entered middle school and had difficulty making friends, spending most of his time alone. The kids didn't understand his humour, his vocabulary or his political commentary, although he kept the teachers in stitches. From an educational perspective, we found the school system to be uneven at best and the curriculum to be behind most other places in Canada.

I realize that I may be opening myself for a lot of criticism regarding that last remark, but the facts are the facts. I've spoken with adults who had been honour students at highschool who, when they attended university outside NS, needed remedial help in maths and sciences to keep afloat. I've spoken with a university admissions director who told me that the grades of NS students applying to universities outside the province are considered to be a full grade lower than their transcripts indicate. And then there are the national tests that rate NS students at the bottom of the provincial pack.

My son hated school so much that he'd create his own study plan then beg me to let him stay home for the week. He'd always be ahead of his class when he'd return to school. I finally gave in to the idea of homeschooling, although I had no idea what that meant and was terrified that I'd now be responsible for ensuring his future failure to get into university.

Have I ever learned a lot in the past eighteen months!

Now, I can't even figure out why we stick kids in highschool. I remember very little of what I learned there and hated the authoritarian approach. (You will take these classes. They will for XXX minutes. You will go here; you will go there.) I began thinking about how I have ever learned anything and, without exception, it has been either because I was interested in it or because I had to learn it to advance. I learned by reading and by talking with others. I remember embarrassingly little that was taught me by having me sit at a desk for 70 minutes bored out of my mind.

Despite what we are led to believe, you don't need a high school diploma to get into university; there are other ways of proving you belong there including providing a portfolio and writing an entrance exam. Students can also apply as non-degree students, get a few marks under their belts, then apply for full-time learning.

Taking out the rigid notion of high school really opens the possibilities for learning, doesn't it?

We have settled on a mix of school-at-home and unschooling in our methodology. My son is going into film studies and since the arts are so accessible in NS, he has many, many opportunities to learn. As one example, he's heading off to a two-week, film academy at the end of the month, he volunteers with the Filmmakers Co-op and the Film Festival, and has opportunities to volunteer on various productions. He will also be taking Intro to Psychology, Ethics II, Weather and American Cinema through a video-on-demand, teaching website -- all subjects he chose because he thinks they look interesting.

One year ago, he wouldn't choose subjects to study. That's right, by staying home and not dealing with the artificial environment at school, he's regaining his lost enthusiasm for learning. He has told me that when he began homeschooling, he didn't understand how to identify his learning options. "Teachers always told us what we'd learn." Now he participates quite willingly in selecting what he wants to focus on. That is a totally win-win situation to my way of thinking.

These are some of the things I love about homeschooling:

1) There is no peer pressure among the teens -- none.

2) The homeschooling kids I've met are open to various forms of dress, points-of-view and interests.

3) Kids have no fear of learning. This is so important. When asked: what if you need XXX to write an SAT? They shrug nonchalantly and say: That's okay. I'll learn it. And they do/will.

4) They have confidence in themselves. While studies show that girls loose their sense of self during four years of high school, this doesn't seem to be the case among homeschoolers.

5) My son is de-stressing (it took a whole year for this to happen) and learning to enjoy learning again.

So, flippancy aside, I'm glad we're a homeschooling family. I wish I had agreed to it earlier.

Colleen

Tall ships and the best musicians!

The Tall Ships are in town so I battled the crowds to take a look. I'm no photographer and am learning how to deal with bright sun, but have a look.

Here's a shot of The Bounty, the ship built in Lunenburg for the Movie: Mutiny on The Bounty. It models the original with an additional 30% of space to accommodate cameras. You've probably also see her in two of the three Pirates of the Caribbean movies. Sadly, there was a private party aboard, so I wasn't able to get a shot from the wharf.

The Providence was another impressive ship.

But the highlight of the day, for me, was listening to these women play. They huddled together in a corner, grubby and shy, sitting on their sleeping bags and speaking softly among themselves as they pulled instruments out of filthy, much-mended cases. They had travelled far and hard.

They played ancient bluegrass. I could hear the strains of the old ballads from Scotland, Ireland and England like I was there hundreds of years ago.

I could have listened for hours and hours. I wanted to bundle them up and take them home to offer showers and laundry facilities and a meal and somewhere to sleep. I wrote them a note indicating such, then realized the people I live with would be less-than-thrilled that I had made the offer without family consultation. So, I put the note back in my bag and, with regret, headed to my car.

I hope Halifax treats them well.

Colleen

Horns on my head

When you see me, you won't instantly notice the horns sprouting from my head or the tail I keep hidden in my pants, but they're there. They must be -- I'm from Ontario. To make matters worse, I'm from Toronto.

Yesterday, I was paying for my purchases at a grocery story when my son called to remind me we were completely out of sugar. I decided to return to the baking section and pick some up as I know how much he likes sugar in his tea.

As I selected my checkout lane to pay for my single item, an older woman with a cart swooped in ahead of me. I was rather taken aback, but thought that maybe she didn't realize why I was standing there.

I asked her very nicely if I might go ahead of her, me and my single item.

"Oh, sure," she said.

I proceeded with what I hoped was a winning smile and said: "Thank you."

"You'd never get ahead if you were in Ontario," she offered. "No, there you could have one thing and there be a whole line up ahead of you and they'd never think to let you in. No, sir. Not in Ontario. I tell you, I've been there and they wouldn't look at you."

My smile slipped. Do I tell her?

I decided not to. Neither did I point out that she had -- in effect -- cut me off, or that she didn't offer to let me in ahead of her, I had asked.

I wish I could say that this was a unique encounter, but, since moving here, I have had to listen to this sort of thing frequently.

It seems Ontario -- but which most Nova Scotians mean Toronto -- is modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah.

Two years ago, I found myself having to watch a video from the United Way showing a man down on his luck, living on the streets. I knew right away it would be a Bluenoser who had moved to (da da da dah) Toronto. I was right. As we all know, that could never happen to someone here.

When NS branded itself, it was all done in comparison to Ontario. How do I know this? I was at the meetings. "It doesn't take two hours to drive to work here." Neither does it anywhere in Ontario except Toronto. I had to listen to hours of negativity about Ontario.

Two summers ago, I ran into a couple of teens from Ontario who had landed a job selling magazines door-to-door. The bigotry they faced was something we wouldn't want our kids to have to handle. Taunts like: "Whats the matter? Can't your rich parents pay for your eduction?"
C'mon people.

First of all, Ontario is huge. One congested city does not a province make.

Are there wealthy people there? Sure there are. But Ontario also has two large areas (the entire north -- look at a map, it's big -- and the eastern area) that are economically depressed.

Will people talk to you there? Yes. Even in Toronto. I know, I've actually been there unlike many people who slag Torontonians from zero personal experience. It is a city. They do rush. But if you ask somebody something, they'll stop and take the time to help.

Crime? Halifax has the highest violent crime rate in Canada.

Beauty? Both provinces have beautiful vistas. Different, most definitely, but beautiful nonetheless.

Usually, when someone starts yammering away about Ontario, I try to hold back from rolling my eyes and attempt to enter a civil dialogue.

Yesterday, I just didn't have the heart.

It's times like these that I wish I'd never left home.

Colleen

Guys and cats and my partner Pat

I was awakened last night by the itch of a black fly bite. The warmth of my blankets generating the maddening urge to scratch until scratch I did. After leaving enough of my DNA on the bed sheets for a Law and Order crime scene (nothing like overwrought hyperbole with your Cornflakes) I grabbed pen and paper and this is the result.

-----------------------------

It has occurred to me that I am afraid of commitment. As someone who has always been with someone -- with the exception of one decade of celibacy, fodder for another day -- this didn't occur to me until recently. I have always thought that I wanted to be married, but this is not the case. Funny how the obvious can skip by without notice.

Just ask my partner.

We've been engaged for three years. He wanted to get married right away. I said I wanted an outdoor wedding and, since we had just purchased a house, landscaping would have to be done.

"Sometime next year," I said.

When friends and family asked for a date, I stammered so pitifully they've stopped asking.

Last year, my betrothed looked at me, stark realization upon his face and said: "We're no closer to getting married now than we were two years ago."

My shocked and insensitive response was: "You mean you think about that?"

This year, I've stopped wearing my engagement ring. The stone is a little loose. It's safer in the drawer.

I've tried marriage on twice. During the first fiasco, I would have dreams that my fingers were swelling and I had to fight to get the rings off them. In the morning, I'd wake up ringless, and the hunt to locate where I had thrown them would be on. The marriage lasted 11 months. The second for 18. Both were finished by the time I was 26 and I haven't done it since.

I remember one boyfriend who thought that public proposals were really cool. Say over the Videotron at a football game. "Tacky," I said. Truth be told, it wasn't so much the poor taste of such an act, but the idea of my deer-in-the-headlights reaction played for all to see that troubled me.

I've never done the proposal response well. And I've had lots of practice.

I think guys are like cats that way. If you don't like cats just visit someone who has them, the feline will spend the evening shedding on your lap. There could be 20 people in a room calling: "here, kitty, kitty." If I'm there, they don't stand a chance. I'll ignore it from a sincere lack of interest and won't be able to get that damn ball of insolence off me.

Like a guy with a ring.

Even when I was a little girl playing with my dolls, I had a boyfriend while my friends had husbands. (Their most notable choices where either Chip or Robbie from My Three Sons. Hardly a wonder, you might say, that I opted for singledom. And yes, I am that old.)

My father was appalled when my mother replied yes to my question: "Could I have a baby without getting married?"

Today, when I introduce my significant other, I refer to him as my partner, a term he hates. But I don't know what else to call him. "How about your fiance?" he asks. "That sounds so pretentious," I reply. However, since my partner has a gender-neutral name, my reference to him has caused a few to question my sexual inclination. I guess saying "my partner, Pat" will do that. I think this is funny. But I have an odd sense of humour, I've been told. I think people need to lighten up.

Maybe that should be a motto of some sort: Laugh more/Marry less.

I'm lucky my partner Pat is such a patient guy.

Colleen

Ode to drilling granite

Who doesn't like waking to the sound of a rock drill at 7 a.m.?

Developers are extending our road to build more houses, it's only 24 hours into the two-month drilling/blasting phase of road work and mama's getting cranky.

Nova Scotia is one huge rock. And not that flimsy limestone stuff either. This is igneous granite. The stuff of cooled magma. It can't be chipped away. It's gotta be blasted.

We were warned when we moved here that the road might be extended. We hoped we'd have a few years before that happened. No such luck.

The trees started to fall in early spring.

Then a man arrived to install seismographs and to videotape the interiors of our homes in the event of damage.

That should have told me something serious was afoot.

But I'm an optimist. I figured I had heard what blasting was all about when a house was built down the road last summer.

That, as it turns out, was vibratory foreplay.

The sirens began yesterday afternoon. Two of them. I ran to the window to see what was up. Nothing. Silence. And then, the explosion.

I can't tell you if it rattled anything in my house. I was too focused on trying to relocate my internal organs.

Since then, there's been non-stop noise. Drilling, rock removal. Whatever that machinery is.

The good news is that, although I miss seeing them, the deer are leaving my garden alone having moved away from the noise.

I wish I could do the same.

Colleen

Reteach the spirit

It's funny how for a non-religious person I have been so drawn to readings on faith and spirituality of late. Today, I read a book called The Passion of Reverend Nash by Rachel Basch. I enjoyed the oversized Reverend immensely. Her imperfections made her so human.

I wanted to share a short poem from the book, written by Galway Kinnell, St. Francis and the Sow.

The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don't flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as Saint Francis put his hand on the creased forehead
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow
began remembering all down her thick length,
from the earthen snout all the way
through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,
from the hard spininess spiked out fro the spine
down through the great broken heart
to the sheer blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them:
the long, perfect loveliness of the sow.


Doesn't that strike a chord? To reteach a thing its loveliness?

I think there are times when we need to remember who we are and just how lovely our being is.

That's what I wish for you today, that you remember your inner truth and take delight in your being.

Colleen

A piece of my childhood

While I gear up to edit, I scratched this down. It rough and isn't finished, but thought I'd share anyway...

My father left first; we would follow at the end of June. Follow on what would surely be an adventure to the Great White North. The Great White French North.

My parents spoke once a week when dad called from the rooming house he lived in while he waited for a home to become available for us. The long, white structure was more of a bunk house and was were all the men stayed while pre-fab homes were being hurriedly constructed. Blue collar, white collar. It didn't matter what your job was. It was the only accommodation in town. When dad called, my sister and I would say our hellos and I love you's and then turn the phone over to mother. I could hear her sexy whispers to him and their adult code words. I may not have understood the specifics, but the generalities were clear enough.

She must have been lonely without him for those months. Lonely, but something else too. Something my young self couldn't define.

My mother was a homebody. She had no girlfriends, no one to share her worries or stories with. She cooked and cleaned, sewed our clothes and read books. That was it. Her life in a nutshell. A small space, but it all would have fit there. I didn't notice anything strange about this, not being a close observer of the comings and goings of other mothers. As for mine, with the exception of a jaunt to the library or to pick up a treat at the bakery or sliced meat from the butcher, she stayed home. Even the weekly groceries were purchased under my father's watchful eye. He being the driver, she being the drivee.

What she did for company once my father left to start his new job was nothing. There were no ladies in for tea or bridge, no nights out to the cinema. Our small town didn't even have one of those. The local Anglican Church brought in family movies once a month. That's where I saw Ol' Yeller for the first time and cried my eyes out till they were dry. The first time I ever saw a real, feature movie at a real theatre with a balcony and plush, velour seats was Snow White on my eighth birthday. I can still recall how scared the wicked queen made me feel. Just thinking about her, even years later, could cause my heart to race...


Ah, the old days! And now on to real work...

Have a great writing day!
Colleen

Birthdays and making fudge

My son turns 16 today.

We celebrated the big event yesterday because he is unavailable tonight -- he'll be in a film critique workshop, one of his duties as a juror with Viewfinders, the youth version of the Atlantic Film Festival.

But back to the birthday.

He requested a simple pound cake and I decided to attempt a chocolate fudge frosting. Fudge. As in perfect boiling point, need a candy thermometer, precise timing, fudge.

I was seven the last time I attempted the candy. It's taken 40 years for me to try again.

Back then the celebration was my mother's birthday. She had been feeling rather depressed at the thought of another year passing without notice -- she being the organizer rather than the organizee of such things.

I determined to make that year different. I was going to make fudge.

Now, I'm not sure why my childish fancy opted for that over more traditional cake. Perhaps my insatiable sweet tooth was to blame. However, opt for it I did.

Some time later, after standing over a hot stove and stirring like a dervish, I was rewarded with a brown sludge coated in a thin film more reminiscent of plastic wrap than chocolate.

I don't recall if, at that point, I realized my efforts had failed. I don't remember if I had ever even seen or eaten real fudge in order to make the comparison. But what I do know is that I was determined to garnish the brown slop in the rectangular metal pan with the words: Happy Birthday, Mom and to set this off with little flowers along the edges.

By the time I was finished, the brown effluence was topped by light green puddles of icing sugar and water.

It has taken 40 years to recover.

And so, yesterday, I began the process once more forgetting that I needed a candy thermometer, that when the recipe calls for finely-shaved chocolate, it doesn't mean chocolate chips and that I still haven't the foggiest notion of how to determine the moment when the mixture "begins to lose its sheen."

According the The Joy of Cooking, fudge was created "by accident, like so many culinary successes."

I would like to point out that no accident in my kitchen has ever resulted in a culinary success although my attempts at culinary success have often ended in accidents.

As a matter of fact, six hours in my kitchen produced two overly-dry pound cakes, a rock hard chocolate confection that is, at best, something like taffy, and a pile of dirty dishes.

I'm going to buy a birthday cake today. Technically, it won't even be late.

Colleen

Happy First Day of Spring

Weather forecast: Snow changing to rain showers this morning. Snowfall amount 2 to 4 cm. Rainfall amount 2 to 4 mm. Fog patches early this afternoon. Wind south 30 km/h gusting to 50. High plus 5.

Actual weather: Heavy snow, gusting winds, poor visibility.

Time for the warm rhythms of the Gypsy Kings!

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As I progress down the writing path, one thing I am coming to appreciate is the lively interaction in this community. I began writing fulltime one year ago and kept my nose to the grindstone, beavering away without lifting my head up long enough to see what was happening in my new community. (My corporate work habits hadn't/haven't died yet.)

Now that I have taken time to begin looking about me, I am awed by your generosity and vibrancy. Wow!

I can spend hours reading your blogs about your experiences, about tips and techniques, about hope and encouragement. I'm starting to feel like I'm on the edge of something bigger and it's really exciting.

Thank you, everyone!

There's something about which I'd really like to talk with you about -- the struggle with self-doubt.

I sit here, at my desk -- piled with books, papers and CDs, cough drops and hand moisterizer -- gulping coffee like its the elixir of youth, and I write. Day after day this is what I do. And then I read what I've written and I rail at what I've put on the electronic page decrying it for the tripe it is.

Every once in a while, I like something I see there, but then I berate myself for having an inflated ego or not knowing my arse from my elbow.

Am I alone?

Do you struggle with this too?

If you do, or if you've arranged an intervention for someone who does, what does one do to overcome this? Or is this one of the many joys of being a writer? If it is the latter, then I am some writer, as folks in this part of the world would say. Some writer.

But balance would be nice. Don't you think? The ability for rational self-assessment.

I try to be calm. I try to meditate but can't shut my mind off. I light candles and play relaxation music until I begin to think that if I hear one more waterfall or bird chirp I'm going to go mad. Drinking at 8 a.m. is out of the question.

What do YOU do?

Colleen


BTW... I have moved all my posts from the IDEAS blog to this one I will see what I can do about moving the comments over later today. I'm sure there was some spiffy way to import the content, but I couldn't figure it out so it's been a manual process. (How do you spell tedious?)

Slow down, take a breath

So, Mercury's out of retrograde. Thank gods! That was a crappy week.

Now, about this writing shtick... We writers are truly neurotic, aren't we? Thinned skinned, over-analyzing every rejection letter that comes our way, wishing we had thesauri in our brains.

If you're anything like me, then you just need to calm down and take the time to learn our craft. (Did I just say that? "Craft?" Yikes!) After all, I've only been doing this for a year. Or it will be a year at the end of March. I've got a lot to learn.

But as my friend, Lynn, wrote to me yesterday: "You and slow go together like oil and vinegar."

Sigh. It is true. I want everything to happen yesterday. Like I'm running out of time. I wrote my first manuscript in a couple of months after starting it long ago and then sitting on it for years, not writing anything at all. By the time I got back to it, I wasn't into it. I had moved on to a different place in my head and my life and the content no longer felt real to me. But, I also felt that I had to finish it, for the achievement of completing something. I didn't want to move on to another story leaving one unfinished. (I had already done that a couple of times.)

However, by the time manuscript (MS) #1 was completed, I hated it. Couldn't wait to write the next one. Was snarky and irritable in my desire to move on. (Just ask those who live with me!) Then I pounded out MS #2 in 16 days. I think that's got to be some kind of record. Of course, I mean draft 1. Then came the rewrite, but I still think that 60-odd thousand words in 16 days is pretty impressive. No slacker am I! But, same thing as with MS #1, I couldn't wait to finish it and move on to the next story. But the concept had been swirling around in my head for so long that I had to get it onto paper before I could move on.

Yesterday, I finished the first draft of MS #3. And ya know what? I think I like it. There are moments in the book that I'm proud of -- and that's a rarity for me.

When I say "moments in the book" I mean those phrases or passages that strikes one as being authentic. For example, I get that sometimes from Stephen King. He is critically slammed all the time, and yet, there are moments in his writing when he captures a moment (usually when he is referring to something from childhood)that I read and say: "Yes, that's it. That's exactly how that felt for me back then."

Isn't that what we, as writers, want to achieve? To strike that chord? Make that connection? Speak someone's truth?

For me, there are a few bits and pieces of that in my current oeuvre (Aside: Isn't that a piece of pompous wordsmithing?) that I'm happy with. (Ah, and now the Canadian in me niggles and prods me to say something self-denigrating like: Oh, gee, well, it's not really that great. I mean, it's just mine...) Gotta love those neuroses.

But today, writers-in-arms, today begins the edit of MS #3! Do I hear trumpets? Is the sun rising, kissing the horizon as I speak this? (Actually, since this is NS, it's raining and grey, but I'll ignore that.)

Let's take a collective breath, appreciate the time we have to write, and move forward -- slowly, smelling the roses and all that.

Colleen

The depths of blackest despair

Last night, I received my first rejection letter from an agent. Not that I haven't had e-mailed rejections based on query letters, because I have. But an honest-to-goodness rejection letter from someone who actually read my manuscript. That's a different thing altogether and so, the hurt is deeper.

The letter was actually quite lovely -- or in comparison to what I imagine some can be like. It was not an impersonal form letter. It was a letter pointing out the strengths and weaknesses of the story, what I can do to sell it and wishing me luck and giving me encouragement to go on.

So, why do I feel so bad?

It's my damned insecurities telling me that I can't write, that I should give up, that I am a talentless twit! That I should to back to having a regular job and stop sucking up my retirement funds thereby risking an old age fuelled only by cat food (the cheap kind) and puddle water. Ah! I can't bear it.

But I hear chocolate beckoning so maybe the day will turn out alright after all.

C

Focus, girl. focus

Today's the day.

Sort of. Or perhaps I should say, it's a day of sorts.

The day the courier company delivers my manuscript to the desk of the reception person at the agent's office. (Or to the front stoop where some wandering person with an eye for literature could scoop it up and the world would lose the opportunity to make me famous.) So, when I say that today is the day, I mean that the the week-long journey to have a ship-by-ground courier package sent from Nova Scotia to New York is upon us. (The parcel should have arrived yesterday, but some guy named Lincoln had a birthday on Monday and messed up delivery dates. Thanks a bunch Mr. L.)

The manuscript could be read by the agent anytime over the next couple of weeks -- she has it exclusively for three from date of posting. THAT day will be THE day. But since I won't know when THAT day will occur, today is the SORT-OF day, based upon the delivery milestone being accomplished.

Today, I sit before the computer repeating the mantra provided to me by my wise, Reiki-practicing friend: "Abundance flows freely into my life from multiple venues." She has instructed me to say this any time I find myself deriding my lack of talent or expecting rejection. "Don't send out an order for bad things or they will happen," Reiki master (mistress?) is likely to say.

I'd like to take a moment to point out that the agent in question actually requested my manuscript based on a query letter sent to her the week previous. (I love her already.) I like to think of this as a step in the right direction as my first manuscript generated zero enthusiasm. I would also like to believe that if book two doesn't result in publication (Abundance flows freely into my life from multiple venues)book three will.

Of course, each time I say the mantra, my Virgo brain wonders about the grammatical correctness of using the term venue. Can abundance flow from a venue? Perhaps, but it sounds awkward. I would be happier to use the word sources. But making such a change causes me some concern. I wouldn't want to mess with a mantra. Who knows what kind of focus-testing has gone on resulting in the selection of just the right words. Maybe the cosmos likes venue. Who am I to argue with the cosmos?

While pondering universal connectedness, severe monkey brain has me in its grip as I jump from writing to researching, to reviewing a proposal from a business partner, to writing a grocery list to sending out e-mails to friends. I think I need to get away from this busy-ness. Perhaps I'll go and have a nice, warm bath, light a few candles, play some soothing music and repeat: Abundance flows freely into my life from multiple venues about 5,000 times. Think it will help?

Colleen