• * For one thing, I enjoy the flash of satisfaction I receive when I submit something -- submitting is act of faith, in a sense, because I believe in this piece so much that I'm willing to allow it the opportunity to "live" someplace beyond my hard drive. That feels good, so I perceive that I enjoy writing more.
• * Also, by focusing on submitting, over which I do have control, I blunt the the sting of rejection, which is something I don't control (beyond good research and doing good writing in the first place).
• * And because I have that goal to submit something every month, I have to keep writing and revising so that I have pieces (or pitches) to send.

I'm thrilled that my essay "Words" came second* in Room magazine's writing contest! It will be published in issue 36.2, due out in the summer of 2013.

For more about the contest and a full list of winners, click here.

I'm especially pleased that this essay received recognition and will be published, because it (also) relates to my mother's Alzheimer's disease.

I'm also excited that my essay will appear with this one, "Loving Benjamin," so brave and honest! I'm sure the rest of the issue will blow my socks off, too.

Thanks, Room, for sponsoring the contest every year and for all you do to support women's writing!

*Did you hear that? "Came second" is a Canadian construction, much like "I had to be there for 8 a.m." vs. "I had to be there at 8 a.m." Am I...morphing?

While I was gone last month, I caught up on a couple of podcasts. One in particular has had me thinking ever since.

CBC's Under the Influence is about advertising, marketing, business, communication, and even some history of those general topics. I like this program, and its predecessor The Age of Persuasion, because they help me, the fish, stop and think about the water I'm swimming around in.

I haven't listened beyond this episode, It's the Little Things, because I'm not done thinking about it yet.

Late in the show, host Terry O'Reilly quotes Isadore Sharp, the founder, chair, and CEO of the Four Seasons Hotel Chain: "We are only what we do, not what we say we are."

Of course we've all heard "show don't tell." Show the antagonist kicking the cat. In the movie Titanic, the bad guy grabs a kid so he can get near a lifeboat. (Not subtle, but what about that movie is?)

Still, I think it's true: we really *are* what we do.

In the past couple of months, I have heard no fewer than three people say things like
* "I'm really a people person."
* "I'm all about my family."
* "I'm just too giving -- I put others' needs before my own."
* "I'm the kind of person who calls it like he sees it."

Perhaps you will be shocked to learn that their behavior was actually very different. A "people person" who gossiped and goaded and picked fights with others; a "family" person indifferent to the family's needs but instead imposed her idea of right on them; a person who enjoying fingerpointing and blaming and generally Monday-morning-quarterbacking.

In real life, these kinds of people are tiresome to be around for long. In a book, I enjoy seeing a character whose self-analysis and behavior are at odds, with a couple of caveats: I enjoy it IF I believe the writer is doing it on purpose and IF the character's growth (ability to see and correct the disparity) is an integrated and important part of the story.

But that's just me. And as you know, I am really and truly the kind of person who only thinks of others, which is the only reason I listen to podcasts and read and think about things -- it's all for you, Internet.

Yeah, back to work.

I'm part of an informal group that's working through Julia Cameron's Walking in this World, or as I like to call it, Walk Like an Artist (because then I get to do the Bangles Egyptian hand). We are part of a private Facebook group and check in periodically. I'm not even sure we're on the same chapter -- which doesn't matter in our universe.

Every month, I show the photos I used in my family's calendar for this year. You can find previous photos and a link to the text they illustrate here.

I'm not a big fan of scary movies. I am a huge fan of wonder. Also awe. And I found three illustrations of those emotions for this month's calendar page.




And by the way, this last one? It's a bear. Playing with a garden hose, right out here on our septic field. She first stopped by the side door to the house, where she left a nose print. The door was locked, or else she might have had a close encounter of the sisterly kind with my own sister, who was working in room just inside the door.

Wonder. Awe. And also a little awww. Though not much. That's a bear, after all.

The seasons are changing. While I was gone, the trees shed their leaves. We don't have snow here, but it's chilly and grey and wet.

This time of year, I think back to the trees that fell in the spring and summer (and even into the fall), over the driveway, over the paths, in inconvenient places. I appreciate them in a new way because we're now burning them, as much for the cheerful crackle of the fire as the warmth it produces.

I've picked up a book I tried to read last year. Last year was the wrong time. Now it's the right time.

I'm pursuing opportunities, both creative and remunerative (and some that are both!), that weren't right for me before. I enjoy the challenges even as they also daunt the heck out of me.

I'm opening a (virtual) filing cabinet and re-imagining a few stories. Two years ago, I did all I could to get them to a certain point -- and I knew that point wasn't an effective point, one that told the story well. I appreciate them differently now, and I wonder what they have to teach me, now that I'm slightly different, a little new.

I'll start with the obvious: an election is looming in the U.S. I've already voted a backup ballot. If my regular ballot, which I have also completed, doesn't get there in time, I'm covered.

In other words: I'm done.

Being in the U.S. for a week gave me lots of opportunities to experience others' opinions. Most noticeably and loudly, opinions about political candidates and ballot initiatives.

But also opinions about
* window, aisle, or middle seat?
* near the off-duty pilot or in a row that might, if you're lucky, remain empty?
* red or white (customer service reps at Oregon wineries are such good sports)
* celery or no celery?

Celery? Really? Yes. I have met two people with a distinct dislike of celery. To me, this is a little like disliking water: maybe not the most exciting thing ever, but not much to object to, either. But everyone has different palates, different likes and dislikes, different buttons that are pushed by different things.

I used to have firm opinions about the best place to sit in airplanes, the must-have equipment while vacationing somewhere, the maximum price to pay for a twelve-hour stay in a motel room. But as I've aged, I've become more mellow. In some situations, striving to maintain or enforce a previous opinion of "optimal" or "limit" is a lot more energy than I am willing to expend.

However, I vote with more defined opinion than ever before. Increasingly, I believe in the importance of speaking up, even if I am the proverbial Democratic tree falling in the indifferent Republican forest of my  home state. I'd love for others to hear me -- but even if they don't, I hear me. I know I'm speaking my truth. And that's what counts.

Yes, writing is similar. While everyone wants accolades -- publications, awards, money, fans -- those may or may not come. I can't control that element of the work. But I can control the fact that I'm writing, day in and day out, I speak my truth to the page. And that counts for something.

So: speak up. Vote. Write.

For the last couple of weeks, I've been working primarily to others' deadlines. Nothing wrong with that, at all! I enjoy working for clients. I've even managed to get some of my own writing done, though of course not as much as I do when my clients are scrambling around at their end.

A side effect of working to others' deadlines is that I can start to feel...important. I may be working during a 25-minute break between meetings and pick up an email from a client who wants me to get something back to him about 30 minutes after my next meeting ends -- something that's do-able, but just, and only because I was actually available to pick up the email. I saved the day! Yay me!

It's sorta like being a business person in a movie. Only early in the movie, before the business person (Sarah Jessica Parker, Tom Cruise) learns to slow down and smell the roses and take care of their new love's kid.

Although I like the work and I don't mind at all being responsive, in large doses, the life isn't particularly good for me. I can feel myself getting addicted to the energy. Except that it's not good energy. It's energy like sticky over-toasted marshmallow energy. There's a rush, and a crash, and I get snappish during both. Not good. It's not clean. It leaves me feeling like the toasting fork after you pull the outer burnt sugar shell off and are looking at knobby bits of molten marshmallow contents. Blech.

Today, I'm embarking on a week of a different sort. I'll be with family. It will be great. Also exhausting and possibly sad and hilarious at different times. Yep, my relatives all have a performance gene, and I predict that it will be in evidence this weekend. Fortunately, I'm good at being audience.

But here's the best part: in between the clients and the family, I got to have a day. It's the best thing for clearing the cruft that's left on the toasting fork after you've attempted toasting marshmallows. In fact, that's exactly what it's like, except without the sticky residue, fire, and pointy implements.

My day consisted of taking a six-hour drive through beautiful countryside. The delays for road work didn't matter. The traffic hasn't bothered me either, knock wood, though I am taking a break to let the worst of city traffic die down before I reach my final destination for the evening. I drive at the speed I want. I stop when I want. I take the route I want. I sing in the car.

So, next time you wonder if you're getting a little too addicted to the adrenaline and find yourself whiny when suddenly your inbox gets quiet, I highly recommend driving. By yourself. And if you have a playlist full of Canadian content -- Holly Cole, Sophie Milman, Meaghan Smith, Jill Barber, and of course Molly  Johnson -- then you really are lucky. Maybe not quite as lucky as Molly Johnson's song, but close.

I've been a whirling dervish of activity in the past few weeks -- publicizing this, starting that, finishing the other (or "finishing," more accurately, because it might come back rejected), sending things out, receiving things, considering future things, scheduling things (and laughing ha ha ha because you have to laugh when you schedule), and generally verbing all over the place.

Today, I am experiencing a slight lull, during which I need to switch gears. I will walk in a moment, because that is the ultimate gear-switching activity for me. But another activity that I enjoy is thoroughly flossing and brushing my teeth and gums.

I didn't always feel this way about oral hygiene, as the shining cavities inside my mouth show. But ever since my hygienist suggested a gum brush, and I discovered the pleasure of sending it on a leisurely trip around, between, and among my teeth, I've been hooked.

This has nothing to do with the fact that I have a dental check-up scheduled for my birthday next month. (No, not on purpose: Because it was convenient for them, that's why.) I sincerely enjoy a minty-fresh mouth -- what daunting task isn't better faced with clean teeth? -- and taking time to do the flossing and brushing thoroughly makes a noticeable difference in the final results.

Which is also true of writing. I sent out something yesterday after a major revision. It has changed drastically since I first wrote the very beginnings of it, and I don't want to look up how long ago that was. Years. The story gets better with every revision, and each revision requires time. More time than I want to give it. Real time apart, when I am consumed by other writing and experiences. Time for a thorough, cold read; time for contemplation and rumination; and time for the open and careful revisions that show true (if tough) love. When I sent it out yesterday, I felt proud -- and I will still feel proud if it comes back to me with a "no, thanks."

Sure, I clean my teeth every day, just as I write something nearly every day. But some days, you know? It's a little different. There's the pure joy when you do something really well, with careful attention, and you know you have done it well.

It's well worth the time.

This year, I've been showing the photos I used in the calendar I create every year. You can find previous months and a link to the text they illustrate here.

As you can imagine, northwestern Ontario is lovely in September. I always have more photos to choose from than room to show them. This month, I used these.



Photos of places so familiar in summer, but now with signs of changing leaves and dying grasses, are extra special, rather like seeing someone you love with new eyes. I don't have kids, but I get the same feeling when I see photos of my parents when they were young -- far younger than I am now. "Oh,  the handsome fellow in his tux, the young girl in overalls posing hands-on-hips -- they are part of who you were, too!"

It's no accident that songs about September are often poignant. It's hard not to look at the sun and wish it would hang around on its summer schedule for a few more months -- and it's hard not to feel that sense of summer slipping away as a metaphor for life. 

But the other months of the year carry their own moments of beauty and inspiration, even if you do have to look for them a little more carefully. Or so I believe.

Fall is still a new year for a lot of us -- whether it's a religious holiday or just the tradition of starting school.

Notebooks, crayons (or colored pencils), sharpeners, erasers, glue (or glue sticks). New books, new ideas to write in them, new problems to puzzle over and (it is to be hoped) solve.

Along those lines, Quinn McDonald, a writer and creativity coach based in Arizona, recently wrote a post called Re-Packing Your Brain.

In it, she says, "Every time we start a new project, change our business, choose a new perception, we have to 're-pack our brain.'"

Wait...we choose our perceptions? And re-packing our brain around new perceptions can, in her words, give us a "new-found eagerness"?

I have written before about transcending my upbringing. I have also written about zentangles in the context of projects that don't go the way you think they will.

Recently, I've noticed another way in which zentangles help me (in the words of a former boyfriend, long ago) "get over my own bad self."

I draw zentangles for no reason. Just because. I do it to do it. I have no plans for them beyond the doing of them. It's PLAY.

Hear that? That noise you heard was transcendence, folks.

In my family of origin, we had activities and we took lessons. (We also had time for lazing around, dilly-dallying, reading, and dawdling, when we could escape our mother's watchful eye. Thank goodness for siblings.) As we got older, we were expected to become more serious about our activities. I swam competitively; I took music lessons. I was expected to practice these pursuits as regularly and conscientiously as I did homework (which was top priority in our home). Because if you're going to do something, you should do it as well as possible. Maybe get a scholarship. Maybe become a professional. Who knows where excellence can lead? So went the talk in my family.

All of which had some wonderful benefits. I swam competitively (with varying degrees of seriousness and success, but enough seriousness to do organized workouts several times a week) until I was 30, when I realized I was finished. As an adult, I played in some semi-professional groups -- even practicing voluntarily and enjoying it immensely.

But for all the benefits, pursuing creative activities seriously can also feel like pressure, not play. Although I enjoy writing, that's sure not why I do it. It's my life's work. Sometimes I don't enjoy the doing of it, but I always enjoy having done it. It's rewarding, not always fun. I welcome that -- it's the "un-fun" parts, the rejection, the revision, the "not-yet-ready-to-submit" versions that I learn from. I am serious about writing, in that I seek challenges to stretch my skills and I do it for a purpose.

And drawing is *not* my life's work. It's fun. It's play. It is, as my husband says, worth doing badly. The point is, in the doing of it, to do it. And I revel in it.

This year, I've been showing photos that I used in the calendar I make for my family every year. You can find the previous months, along with a link to the text that they illustrated this year, here.

August is the month I most closely associate with being here. We couldn't vacation before August -- my parents taught summer sessions; the competitive swimming season didn't go on hiatus until the end of July. August gave us a few short weeks of freedom before school started again, for all of us.

I try to keep these familial biorhythms in mind as I make this calendar every year. Sure, my siblings and I are all (ostensibly) adults and have been creating our own families and vacation traditions for decades. But I suspect that August  in Thunder Bay is a default setting for them -- it is for me.

And here's the view that I most closely associate with August. It's one of my default shots. I take about a bazillion pictures from this beach at all times of the year, every year, saying each time, "I can't believe I'm taking another picture at this same spot."


Even though I live here, I can still feel a frisson of "vacation!" when I see this view. Ahhhh.

Don't you love the English language?

One of my favo(u)rite aspects of summer is working outdoors. No, I don't take my computer outside -- I do (some) outdoor work in what is commonly known as "the real world."

I also go outdoors in winter, but it's more often related to play. My husband does the shoveling and snow-blowing. So when I'm out, it's to go skiing or sledding, to take pictures, or for some other recreative purpose. Like doing nothing.

The summer is different. Waaaay different.

In the summer, we maintain structures, mow grass, deal with trees. (In the winter, we clear downed trees off the driveway, but otherwise, they stay where they are until the snow melts, the sap runs, and we deal with them. Or not.) And by "maintaining structures," I mean -- well, a lot of things. Painting, cleaning, clearing, re-roofing, draining. Lots of verbs.

My point is that unless it's raining, there's always something "productive" to be done outdoors in the summer. And I always remember physical sensations that have faded during the indoor months.

This summer, we've been painting the outside of one of our camps (southern Ontario: cottage, Manitoba: cabin). I've become aware of a host of physical sensations I've forgotten in the ten years since the last paint job. For example: The hand holding the can of paint (even a small can) gets really tired and my thumb goes to sleep. I tend to hold my breath while painting. Painting is a way to do squats while accomplishing something. When I paint, I don't use all the strength in my arm (painting requires a surprising amount of finesse, even when you're coating a wall), so part of what makes me tired is the sensation of holding back. Et cetera.

Other tasks have other moments. You learn a lot about a stretch of grass while mowing it -- walking every inch of it, over and over again. Taking a shop-vac to the rafters of an attic built by your grandfather can connect you to your past in a whole new way -- if your shoulders hurt just from vacuuming, what must his have felt like from lifting and hammering? When I load fireplace lengths into a wheelbarrow to bring back to the splitter in the garage, I'm reminded how solid, how heavy wood is.

I want to remember these sensations when my life turns back inward, as it inevitably will, this winter. In a month or so, I'll re-enter a project in which people work outdoors. The physical fatigue that comes from sawing, splitting, and stacking wood is different from the fatigue of prepping for a class or analyzing story structure. If I can just remember that, really remember it, I have a better chance of getting it onto the page, where a reader can imagine it, too.

This year, I've been showing images from the 2012 calendar I make for my family for Christmas. A link to previous months (that also includes a link to the text I illustrated) is here.

When I put together a calendar, I start by making a folder in Picasa with candidate images. I try to mix winter and summer shots; I try to find pictures that are different from those available in commercial calendars. And of course, because my audience is my family, who experienced this place in the summer and have warm feelings for particular scenes and views, I include a fair number of those.

Sometimes I have text first; sometimes I find it later. I have a couple of candidates for 2013 already, but I'm always on the lookout.

After I have the file of images and the text, I set aside uninterrupted time to read the text while looking through the assembled photos -- usually at least double the number that I can possibly use -- to see what speaks.

When I got to July, I knew immediately the image I would use. The text: "...and we say, I am who I am because I have been there."

The image:


Knew. Immediately. I don't know what it is about this heron, but I saw it and thought, "Yes! That one!"

And because I'm the kind of person who can't let an experience just HAPPEN, without any PONDERING (after all, I am who I am because I have been here), I've wondered if there's a way to use that sense of recognition in writing. For example: if I look at pictures "as" a character, what could I learn about the character? Or the plot, for that matter?

Images: an under-utilized tool.

Last week I mentioned activities that don't show results until they do. Namely, rowing.

I've spent more time in a rowboat in the past couple of weeks than in the previous 12 months. Rowing is a lovely activity that engages body and spirit, while leaving the mind room to play. Ergo, I've had plenty of time to consider nautical metaphors.

Like: Ships are safe in a harbor, but that's not what ships are built for. Before your ship can come in, you have to send it out. Rowers are natural historians, because they always look at where they've been; canoers (or kayakers) are natural explorers, because they always look at where they're going.

But mostly I've been thinking about the point in a long project when I despair of ever seeing progress. In the boat, it's the spot when I'm rowing out toward an island in the bay (a convenient destination for the family since 1925), and suddenly I hit a hole in the space-time continuum and ... stop ... moving.

Oh, I'm still rowing. If I look down, I can see little whirlpools where I've put oars into the water and pulled the boat along for a few feet. I'm still making whirlpools in different spots, all of which head in the right direction. But nothing else changes visibly: not my island destination; not my embarkation point, back there on the beach; nothing on any horizon. It's a moment made for existential despair.

Until suddenly, as I keep rowing, things DO change. I get visibly closer to the island. The beach I left recedes. Eventually I arrive (though the island is now a bird sanctuary, so I don't get out of the boat). If I'm lucky, I see otters at play.

But if I stopped at that point of despair, I would never get there. As long as I keep rowing, I'm bound to get somewhere.

Which of course returns to writing -- specifically, my difficulty producing coherent large manuscripts. I'm taking a lesson from my rowing experience, though. I'm in the middle of the story. In some ways, I know what is going to happen, but mostly, my job is to keep showing up at the page and nudging the story along. If I stop writing, I'll never get to the island.

It's an imperfect metaphor -- for one thing, otters also come into our bay periodically -- but hey, it speaks to me now. Besides, a metaphor isn't supposed to be a perfect representation of a thing. It's an image of a thing that is somehow similar to a thing. And sometimes, to answer the question in the title of this post, it inspires thought.

Don't despair. It's only August. There's still plenty of time to make progress this summer. Find a metaphor and let it carry you out to where the otters play.

While I've been attending to visitors and taking a little vacation, I've also been taking some notes.

1. Mosquitoes just don't give up. How can I be more like a mosquito, except less annoying?

2. The beach never changes -- the big rocks at either end sit where they were in my grandmother's time here. But the beach is also different every day: a sunny morning feels different from a breezy, cloudy morning. The beach is different at 5 p.m. than at 10 a.m., especially if you've created artwork in the morning and a storm blows in. But the beach's essentials are unchanged. How does it do that?

3. So many activities don't seem to show results until they suddenly do. Like taking branches off trees, or pumping water up from the lake with the hand pump in the breezeway, or rowing across a broad expanse of lake, or even raking detritus off the beach. "You are what you do every day" and all that.

4. Going swimming is always worth the messing around it takes to get your suit, sunscreen, bug spray, towel, footwear, sunny spot, etc. Ditto rowing, with its oars, PFDs, WD-40, bug spray, sunscreen, shoes, cushions, and coffee. Ditto fire in the woodstove. Ditto life, I imagine.

Some of these ideas will appear later, packaged in more words, I'm sure. Hope you have had a relaxing, contemplative, restorative, exciting thrill of a mid-July.

And by "gone," I mean, of course, that I'm not gone. I'm here. Just not at my desk very much, because of having company.

Same goes for "fishin'": I don't fish, though I eat it (see "Kayaker" fish sandwich, below). I am, however, well-fillin'. Also stomach-fillin'.

Hope you are the same.

These days, I split my time between writing and working. Not "split 50/50" (or "split half in two," as the charming expression from the southern US goes) -- just split, as in divided, probably unequally. My schedule depends on the weather, because a lot of the work I'm doing is outdoor stuff.

Ah, the weather: unseasonably hot and humid. Suddenly the things I have to do outdoors (scrape, prime, and paint buildings, this summer) can't be scheduled into "afternoons, I'll paint." I look at the sky and feel the air. Is it both cool enough and dry enough this morning to paint? Is it too hot to be outdoors between 10:30 and 4? Is the wind shifting, thus dropping the temperature five degrees in ten minutes?

While I've been out and about (and inside staring at the sky), I've learned a couple of things. 

Hint #1. Write where it's physically comfortable. Or in my case recently, where it's cool. My office is in our walk-out basement. Working there is way less fun in February, when the sun doesn't shine in and things get nippy. However, on a hot July day, my office is mostly shaded by the deck, it's comfortable, it's tidy, and it doesn't smell of bug repellent. Basically, it's best place in the world, and I find myself heading downstairs for long stretches. As a result, I'm getting a lot of desk-type work, including some real writing, done. I also have a designated space upstairs, where it's warm -- too warm now, but pleasant on those February days when downstairs isn't as alluring. I didn't frequent it much last winter, and I didn't produce much new writing. Hmm. Coincidence?

Need further cogitation on this? Here's a story (third-hand, but useful) about how leaving a guitar sitting out in the living room increased the likelihood that its owner would actually play it every day. (By the way, Eric Barker's "Barking up the wrong tree" has fun, quick ideas and lists.) Practice the path of least resistance!

Hint #2. Use someone else's wheel. Sure, writing advice is everywhere (ahem). It's easy to get distracted by it, and troll around reading it instead of actually writing, but that's a post for a different day. At times, all that advice can be useful. When I face something related to writing that I can't quite figure out, for example. And I've found that good advice tends to find me when I need it.

Lately, as part of my planning extravaganza, I put some projects on hold until I complete the ones I have on the go. That means I have set aside ideas, notes, starts, drafts -- half-baked, fully cooked, and in between -- that I will return to. On one hand, distance is a wonderful thing. I think "time apart" is one of the best tools for revising something. On the other, it can be tough to return to and develop something originally concocted by a different version of yourself.

Enter Sarah Selecky, a writer with an excellent short story collection, newsletters, daily writing prompts, courses, and other tools. In one of her recent newsletters, she included a link to a few of her thoughts on story revision: Six ways to look at an abandoned story. One of my favo(u)rite parts of this advice is #5 -- "Expect that going back to an old story will feel weird at first." That reassurance removes a lot of my fear that "I'm not doing it right." Getting back into stories may not be easy, but finding it difficult isn't necessarily a sign to abandon the story. OK. Good to know.

There. Two things for you to ponder as you handle the heat. Just call me Heloise.

I recently made a plan for my creative writing life. No stranger to unsuccessful planning efforts, I have found this particular planning process to be extremely helpful, and I have been sharing the reasons. This is the third and final post in the series. Part 1 is here; Part 2 is here.

With a writing friend, I recently made a plan for my creative writing life. No stranger to unsuccessful planning efforts, I have found this particular planning process to be extremely helpful, and I have been sharing the reasons. This is Part 2. Part 1 is here.

• My personal life is pretty settled -- no foreseeable deaths, births, illness, or moves on the horizon. Granted, events like these often are hard to predict. But one of the perks of having lost one's parents, for example, is that you don't need a contingency plan for it anymore. So I'm taking advantage of the relative predictability of my personal life to get this big chunk of Meaningful Life on track.
• No one, including me, depends on my creative writing to generate income. I have other goals for income-producing writing; my husband and I have other sources of income. More money would always be nice, but this planning exercise simply isn't about money.  
• More years lie behind me than ahead. I often pretend I'm just halfway through my lifespan. When I'm honest about the arithmetic and life expectancies, I have to admit I'm past the halfway point. If I'm not going to get serious about this "creative writing" thing now, when will I? Five years from now, I don't want to say, "Geez, I wish I could get that novel done." Sure, whatever I produce from this plan might be horrible, but at least I will have given it a shot. I won't have to wonder. 
• I have enough experience writing fiction and creative nonfiction to know what elements of it I can do fairly easily, quickly, and well, and what elements of it receive a "need improvement" grade -- namely, plot. So I can focus on improving those "skill deficits" and incorporating them into my mix of tools. When I was less experienced, I didn't know what came easily, much less how to stretch myself into things that don't come so easily. 

In summary: limits, expectations, and timing. Relaxing my expectations around (a) creating a life-defining vision statement and  (b) expecting external acclaim and reward for creative writing let me focus on what's important to me: producing the writing. I'm able to set those limits and relax my expectations because of the timing of this planning exercise, both in terms of my personal life and my creative writing life. 

A writing friend and I just completed a brief planning process that addresses our respective creative writing lives. Here's the outline we used, along with some completely made-up examples:

• Vision statement: "In five years, I am...." [statement of your writing self in five years. Example: a writer of poetry and mystery novellas who is confident in my use of form and imagery.] 
• Goal statement: "In five years, I will have:" [bullet list of projects completed/underway. Example: completed four 20,000 word mystery novellas, completed a revision of my sestina-based collection "Lilacs and Lavender," drafted four other novellas, experimented with up to three writing schedules and committed to pursuing the most successful for a full year]
• Milestone statement for this year: "This year, I will:" [bullet list of projects to complete. Example: complete the draft of novella #2 and revise #1 and #2, use mind-mapping to generate 50 images relating geology and cosmology for further exploration, write an hour every weekday morning before the rest of the family wakes up. ]

• It doesn't include resolution-y elements of life: to meditate every day or work out or run a 10k or eat more kale.
• It doesn't address the writing I do as work or as a volunteer. Those activities may expand my tools, but they aren't directly related to the creative writing goals in this plan.
• It doesn't include activities that develop craft -- like attentive and analytical reading (some of which I will do anyway), targeted reading of craft books, or taking writing courses (formal or informal). I may revise this choice, but it is right for me, right now.

This limit was important because the other things in my life seem to get done. I shower and brush my teeth. I pay bills and taxes on time. I could always exercise more, eat better, spend more time with family, or volunteer more -- but I do those things at acceptable (to me) levels. I'm more ambitious for the creative writing I want to do. So, this plan looks only at creative writing. The closest my plan gets to addressing areas "other than creative writing" is in its submitting component and its writing practice component.

Writers get rejected. That's how it goes. Someone else is picked for a project. A different style of work is a better "fit" in some intangible way. Your work wasn't quite what they were looking for.

Recently, I've heard "no" again, after a spell of silence. I didn't enjoy it -- but I did enjoy hearing something.

My family upbringing trained me to say, "Well, that's a setback, but I can get back on track" -- and resume doing whatever I was doing, only more of it and for longer hours.

But not this time. Instead of powering through a blue period by pretending I didn't get rejected or otherwise relying on willpower, I'm reframing, which is a fancy-pants way of saying "looking at things from a new perspective."

Rejection is information. I can learn something from it. At the same time, I don't have to kill myself trying to figure out "what this means."

A rejection might tell me that

1. before I send to that journal or approach that client again, I should quickly check the most recent things they've published and what they're saying online. If a journal is open to submissions only on a particular theme, it is useful to find that out before submitting. If a client has just posted a white paper on Gigantic Software Company's Adoption of Our Software, they don't need another. It doesn't mean my work isn't good -- it might mean I should send or pitch elsewhere.

2. before I send the rejected piece (or idea) anywhere again, I should read it with careful eyes. Yes, again. Maybe I became so immersed in the world of that story or idea that I lost the connection to my target audience. (Also known as the "I know what I mean" syndrome.) Presumably the idea or story has been sitting for some time period (a couple of days, a couple of months) -- great! I've got new eyes; I'll use them.

3. before I even consider pitching the idea or submitting the piece elsewhere, I should revise. As in, a "real" revision. One that involves asking myself hard questions, like "What are you really trying to say?" or "Is this what you mean?" One that requires me to consider a whole different way of expressing this idea -- is it a full short story, flash (non)fiction, poem fragment, rant, essay, list of instructions, field guide, inventory, or something else? Although I'm usually pretty honest with myself about an idea or piece that isn't ready for submission, I am still guilty of the occasional "I'm sick of looking at this so I'm sending it anyway" submission.

So. Rejections provide information. Time to learn what I can -- and then move on.

It's not summer yet but you can see it from here. Even I have taken the faith-filled step of washing our winter hats, mittens, scarves, etc., figuring it's probably safe to put them away. And once the grass dries, it will need cutting -- a sure sign of summer.

Summer = vacation for those of us still on school calendars, whether mentally/emotionally or practically (by teaching, being in school, or having school-aged kids around the house).

But when you work for yourself, whether you have paying clients or just write for (soon-to-be-less-)imaginary (one hopes) readers, how do you know when it's time to quit? Not quit working -- just quit for the day, quit for the weekend, quit for the summer? Do you take work on vacation?

I recently went away for two weeks. "Recently" meaning "last month." I didn't take work -- a couple of things found me anyway, but I mostly punted them until I got home. It was refreshing.

On the daily level, I usually find it harder to determine when I'm "off work." Part of the joy of working from home is taking advantage of sunbreaks, of an invitation to go out in the canoe or watch the deer, of a really good book that's calling your name, of a two-hour lunch break. What's the benefit of working for yourself if you don't set your own schedule and allow that schedule to be flexible?

But what if that two-hour break means you feel compelled to work at night, either missing out on family time or sleep? Is that just the price you pay? When does flexibility become procrastination or general malingering? (And what a loaded word "malingering" is, so full of judgement.)

I love routine, which can work against me. Two weeks of a real vacation have re-set my routine buttons; NOT thinking about work has felt more the norm than it did before I left. It's been difficult to resume the fully productive life (though I still love those 25 minute sessions of suffering). I also don't want to resume the feeling of always possibly being "on duty."

No answers from me. But two smart writers, Seth Godin and Gretchen Rubin, have touched on this topic recently. Seth's advice, more or less, give or take: recognize that it's your choice to keep working or stop. (Also, and I'm sure this message was directed TO ME: Words with Friends can get outta hand as easily as routine email checks.) Gretchen's: set a quitting time, and then quit.

Hope your long May weekend is/was restful and inspiring! Welcome, summer.

A few weeks ago, I got some interesting feedback on a short story. The story is written from the point of view of a guy. (Although the character is male, I would not call him a man.) The woman who read the story -- someone I'd never met before -- said that she was sure it had been written by a guy.

In March 2010, I received a grant from the Ontario Arts Council to support the creation of a short story collection.

Since then, five of the ten works I proposed in the collection (and revised extensively, thanks to the $upport) have found homes.

• * "Iceberg," The Blind Hem www.theblindhem.com, May 4, 2012.
• * "Improvisation," chosen as part of the Liar, Liar project of Northern Mosaic, an integrated arts organization based in Thunder Bay.
• * "Walking Out," South Dakota Review 49.3 (Fall 2011). 
• * "MacDonald Variety," Prairie Fire 32.3 (Fall 2011).
• * "Thirty-Two Faces," 11th edition of Ten Stories High, the annual anthology of short fiction published by the Niagara Branch of the Canadian Authors Association.

My short story, "Iceberg," is featured at The Blind Hem today and throughout this weekend. You can find it here: http://www.theblindhem.com/1489/iceberg/

The Blind Hem is a site related to fashion. Let me repeat that, for those who have seen my extensive collection of jeans and t-shirts (and flipflops, though they are mostly for show up here) and may doubt the validity of that statement.*

Fashion. The clothing kind. Oh, here, I'll let them tell you:

Our mission is to portray fashion and personal style in an intelligent & honest way, through words and art. We believe in diversity, inclusivity, feminism and truth. Our features range from non-fiction to fiction to art and photography. We are interested in the different lenses through which personal style, feminism and society can be viewed – and we are interested in the stories behind the clothes.

Go there and read -- and although it would be great for you to read my story (and send your friends to read it, too), you should bookmark the site. Visit it early and often. They cover a LOT of interesting ground.

I've written before about time, and about how suffering for 25 minutes works for me. (Thanks, Gretchen Rubin of The Happiness Project.) It still works for me. Doing the taxes this year has been far less difficult (one country down, one to go). I maintain some knowledge of the complex financial tapestry that is my life, 25 minutes a week (Money Monday). I've worked through nearly all my photos and have a list the length of my arm of other projects to assign to a day.

Little bits of time add up. Recently, I noticed that process in reverse.

The other day, I used the last coffee filter in the package. (Yes, we use paper coffee filters. We're quirky geezers in some ways, and dadburnit, we like our paper coffee filters. Also our traditional 12-cup coffee makers.)

The last coffee filter: one of those moments I wasn't sure would ever occur, which is why I noticed it. We (I) go through a carton of milk in less than a week, so I'm always aware of the milk supply.* We buy coffee nearly every time we're in a grocery store, just because. But coffee filters?


The thing is, coffee filters come in bargain packages of 450. At one pot of coffee a day, that's more than a year's supply. (Ha, one pot a day! Good one!! But even at 2 pots a day, it's still eight months' worth of filters.) That's a lot of filters. It feels like a lot of filters when you're buying them, at least.

One added benefit of buying coffee filters in bulk is that they aren't, uh, bulky. The bargain package can fit into the awkward corner cupboard into which little else fits and which is conveniently  located above the coffee maker.

So in my mind, we had tons of filters. In spite of the central role coffee plays in my life, I hadn't really paid attention to the steady dwindling of our supply until there it was, gone.

So, because this is what I think about, I started thinking about characters, the frog boiling in a pot of water, the camel and the straw. What is it that makes a person decide to start (25 minutes) or stop (coffee filters)? And then -- how does that person show it? What actions does that person take that shows the different way of thinking?

I set a timer every day. Every morning, I reach for a coffee filter. I suppose that someday, I might do neither thing. What do my characters do? What do they do next? What do they do differently? What does it take to make them change?

Obviously, it's time for a cup of coffee. Except that I'm out of milk.

* People here sell/buy milk in bags instead of those plastic gallon jugs. They put these bags into a plastic poury-jug-thing and serve from that. Bags! Seven years here, and I still can't do it.

So here's the deal. I'm home from vacation in Tucson, which I enjoyed mightily. It was a well-filling experience.

But, as an adult with allegiances in two countries, I allocate the entire month of April to income tax. Actually, I pay someone else to do my Canadian taxes, which helps, but there's still a lot of paperwork to assemble. 

Plus, I have this "thing" about paying someone else to help me tell the US IRS that I don't, in fact, owe taxes, because I pay up here and the two countries have signed a treaty. Therefore, I do my own US taxes. Which mostly involves whining, since the paperwork is all assembled for the Canadian accountant. But it's still a project.

 All of which is a big over-explanation of why today is another picture day. Two pictures, actually -- taken the "Day of Two Sunrises."


Sunrises actually aren't straight "up" from a spot on the horizon (a factoid I didn't really understand till I lived here). In March, one day the sun rises from behind the far peninsula, where we see it briefly, and then passes behind the island, and then "rises" again from behind the island.

 So: two countries, two sets of income tax forms. But to compensate, two sunrises to look at on the calendar. Not a bad trade.

The specific day that's like a command: March 4th. Thank you, Peggy of Otowi Station Bookstore.

Here are the two shots I used for my family's calendar in March.



If you've only been here in the summer, it's hard to imagine scenes like this. Which is why I include so many winter shots.

As I mentioned last week, I'm vacationing. (Strange concept for a writer.) While I'm gone, I'm sharing photos from the calendar I create for my family every year.


I should mention that, being a word person, I often include words with these shots. In the past, I've used poems that were meaningful to my mother and grandmother, and excerpts from various other bits of writing that my mother left behind. This year, I used a quote for M. Scott Momaday, which you can read here. I divided the last three statements on the page among the twelve months of the year.

I live in a spot that's near and dear to me and my siblings, so every year their Christmas present from me is a calendar. The old-fashioned, paper kind. It's retro!

This month, I'm taking a bit of vacation and thought I'd share some of the calendar photos here in the meantime. (You can share, too -- just link to this, please.)


January's sunrise shot, taken in September, 2011.

In the mailbox yesterday:


That, my friends, is the cover of the South Dakota Review, issue 49.3, which contains my story "Walking Out."

South Dakota Review is going through what it calls "an ambitious transitional phase," so now would be a really good time to subscribe or submit!

Of course, you should read a sample issue before submitting. Why not this one?? On the "subscribe" page, you'll find that the "most current" issue is only $10. Less than the cost of a movie ticket, and many more hours of entertainment.

Thanks, South Dakota Review!